Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry stared dismally at the missives covering Ron’s coffee table and accepted the beer Ron offered. “Help me with this,” he said plaintively.

“You think I want in on that mess?” Ron asked, sitting down next to him and gesturing to the mail with his own bottle before taking a drink.

“I think you’ll get in on this mess because you’ll be seeing whoever moves in all the time,” Harry said grimly, picking up a small pile and shoving it at him. “I didn’t realise this many people needed a housemate.”

“Hermione!” Ron called out suddenly. Harry jumped, then took a swig of his beer to settle down, surprisingly edgy about this whole debacle. “Come in here and do the hard work for us!”

“No, do it yourself!” she yelled back from the kitchen over the sound of Ginny’s laughter.

“Wish Ginny would just move in,” Harry muttered. He sifted through the disorganized mess in front of him and picked one up at random.

“Grimmauld has too many nargles for Luna.” Ron’s knee nudged his, and Harry looked up to see him discard an opened reply. “Anyway, you and Gin drive each other crazy when you’re in close quarters for too long,” he added with a shudder.

Grimacing, Harry acknowledged the point. He and Ginny might still have tried to give things a go — despite everything else — if there was any way to live with someone without being reminded of their constant presence. Their temporary cohabitation a year after the war had not gone well, even after they’d decided to just be friends. You’re too similar Hermione’s voice reminded him in his head. You need a Ron. Someone who complements you.

“But you guys grew up in a Wizarding House,” Harry said. It was a pointless argument and they both knew it. “Kreacher says Grimmauld needs someone who did.”

“Someone who cares about that crap. Mum and Dad built the Burrow from scratch; all the magic that's in it is a result of spells, anyway; you need generations to start the kind of shit that goes on at your place. Sell it,” Ron advised flatly, eyes skimming another piece of mail. “It’s awful and you kn– Hey, this one sounds pretty good.” He handed it over.

“They have five cats?.” Harry tossed it aside. “Can you imagine what the House would do to one pet that got on its nerves?”

Sounding marginally more sympathetic, Ron leaned back against the sofa and unfolded more mail. “It’s not getting better?”

“It’s getting worse,” Harry said. “It locked me out of all the bathrooms last night. In the middle of the night, Ron” Harry said pointedly when Ron sniggered. “I had to piss in the garden. Paul kept staring, then complimented my dick. Then he threw a rock at me.”

Ron laughed harder and Harry elbowed him, trying not to smile. Though he wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about rooming with a married couple, he placed the response in the ‘possible’ pile — which consisted of only one other reply — and picked up a new one.

“You could always find a flat.” Ron’s laughter died abruptly at his own suggestion, voice turning somber. Harry looked at him, surprised. “I’m serious, Harry. You could come stay with me and Hermione while you look for your own place. Grimmauld...” He hesitated. “It’s not a happy place to be.”

“I know,” Harry said with a sigh. He rubbed a hand over his face. It wasn’t as if he’d never thought about it, especially since the only thing he’d managed to do to cheer up the place was get rid of that damned portrait of Walburga on the wall. “But– Sirius–”

“I know.” Ron pressed Harry’s knee again, sympathetic. “But you can’t spend your life trying to fix up a tomb to honour Sirius. Even he didn’t like it there.”

“No, but it meant something to him, or he wouldn’t have left it to me,” Harry said tiredly. He didn’t like saying it — it felt childish and petty — but, unlike Ron, he had so… so little to remember his family by. And Sirius, for as short a time as Harry had known him, had given him something. He couldn’t ignore it.

He looked down at a semi-decent response (could it be so bad to give up an extra room for a butterbeer home-brewery?) and set it in the possible pile that seemed determined not to grow. Ron remained silent, countenance worried. Harry shook his head. “If this doesn’t work, I’ll consider options, yeah? But in the meantime, stop stalling.”

Ron relaxed a bit; he rolled his eyes and grunted, opening up another letter. He snorted. “I like how half of these ask if they can take over the whole House for their hobbies. How’d you feel about making room for a BDSM dungeon?”

“Already have one,” Harry said absently, then grinned. “Do they mention if they’re single?”

Ron groaned. “Better not joke with them about that. Merlin knows what kind of housemate you'll attract when people find out they’re going to be yours.”

“Speaking of which, remind me to call Kingsley and get permission to use Memory Charms if any of the interviews go badly,” Harry said thoughtfully. He made a face and crumpled up a reply; no, he did not want to consider their creepy request about Kreacher’s services, thankyouverymuch. “I don’t think I’ll need to — if I ever make it to the interview stage, people have got to be better than this lot — but it can’t hurt to have them, right?”

People were not, in fact, better at the interview stage.

Out of the dozen people Harry had interviewed, he’d had to Obliviate five who’d seemed just normal enough to make it past the initial meeting to be invited to take a look around Grimmauld Place. Most of them had figured out his identity immediately upon learning the address — despite the heavily crafted glamours he wore — which had been problematic enough; two of them had followed his movements with such avidly bright gazes that he’d known he’d never feel comfortable showering if they lived there; one person had tried to nick a framed picture of him, Hermione, and Ron; another had yelled at Kreacher and told Harry with a lofty smile that that was “what house-elves liked.” And even those had been better than the last horrifying incident, when a witch of about forty — who had seemed almost normal, but for a vague, musty odour of mothballs, with the foreboding astringent tone of ammonia underneath — had confessed that she had been raised muggle, but would be willing to work off a break in the rent by other means. She’d then begun calmly removing her robes as if the matter had been settled. In retrospect, Harry felt a little bad about having panic-Stunned her, but gave a mental shrug; at least she wouldn’t remember it.

And these had been the candidates he’d been hopeful about.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his tired face; he only had two other possibles before going back to the drawing board. He stirred his tea idly and looked down at the response in his hand; the perfect, scrawling cursive fascinated him a little, but the content was less than completely forthcoming.

I am very interested in the room and was born and raised in a generational wizarding home. I believe we can come to terms to help one another. Please respond to Owl Box 144 to set up an appointment, and I shall make myself available.

Harry didn’t quite know if it was a good or bad thing that the applicant hadn’t included their name or age or a request to have a floating waterbed in his sitting room. It was just... void of context, which probably would have worried him more if not for Margaret the Aspiring Prostitute and the rest.

Antsy for this all to be over with, Harry went to check the time again and heard the tinkling sound of the charm over Fortescue’s door as someone entered. He looked up, mind going blank as Draco Malfoy came in. He looked... different than he had the last time Harry had seen him, just after the trials. Though still tall and skinny, he somehow now resembled the Malfoy Harry remembered before the war — healthy, skin having lost that yellowish pallor of someone who’d been in a containment cell for a month. And there was something else too, Harry thought, studying him, maybe an ease in his own skin; something Harry couldn't put his finger on. He’d cut his hair and wore it swept to the side and tousled now, Harry noted with some surprise.

It was a good look on him.

Hurriedly closing his mouth before he was caught gaping, Harry took a sip of tea for something to do. Malfoy’s unsettling grey eyes landed on him and he seemed to hesitate before striding over and taking a seat across from Harry at the small table he’d procured. Harry jerked, body going rigid and eyes rounding as he realised that Malfoy was here to see him.

After a too-long beat, he recovered and decided to brazen it out. “Hi, I’m–”

“Potter,” Malfoy said flatly.

“Shhhh!” Harry hissed, looking around. Reassured no one seemed to have overheard, he leaned back in his chair and examined Malfoy closely. “How’d you know it was me?”

Malfoy shrugged, adopting Harry’s posture. He picked up the menu with one hand and scanned it absently before setting it back down and taking a breath. “The picture in your advert,” he finally said.

“I didn’t put a picture of myself in the advert,” Harry said, confused.

“No, you put one of the sitting room at Grimmauld Place,” Malfoy said with a twitch of his lips. “Which had more than one of my relatives on the walls. The fact that your Glamour is shoddily done is just a bonus. You could have at least adjusted the style of your spectacles.”

Stumped for a response, Harry stared at him for a moment. “Oh. Then you’re really– him? The… applicant?”

Malfoy blinked at him slowly. “You can’t imagine you’ll get someone who is better equipped to train a Black family estate home.” He paused, that sly curl twitching his mouth again. Harry forced himself to look away. “Although I’ll admit to being surprised that you need help with anything.”

Harry flushed. “I have dozens and dozens of applicants, Malfoy,” he lied. “What makes you think I’d ever pick you?” He took another sip of his tea, eyeing Malfoy over the rim of his cup. Malfoy looked distressingly unbothered.

“Because whatever problem you’re having, I can help fix — and you know it,” he said, arching one brow. He looked down and picked off an invisible piece of lint from his pristine turquoise robes. “It should be fine. You testified for me; you obviously don’t hate me any longer.”

“Is that what you got from that?” Harry asked. Malfoy’s eyes darted up to his, flickering inscrutably before swerving away. Harry sighed. “Why would you even want to live with me?” he asked plaintively.

At that, Malfoy straightened a touch, narrow shoulders squaring. “I think it’d be obvious, P–”

“Mark,” Harry supplied quietly. Malfoy snorted.

“Mark.” Rolling his eyes, he leaned forward. “You must have some concept of what it’s like for someone with… someone who…” He cleared his throat. “For me. The last three years haven’t exactly been a game of pick-up Quidditch, socially speaking. But once it gets out that I’m housing with the Saviour of the Wizarding world…” He trailed off suggestively.

Harry smirked. “That’s it, then? You want to live with me because it’ll make you look good?” He shook his head, an absurd bubble of laughter caught in his throat. “You don’t have friends anymore, so you want to trade on the reputation of being one of mine? Once a Slytherin, always one, right Malfoy?”

Malfoy looked annoyed. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.” He sniffed. “And I have friends. Unfortunately, most of them are as unwelcome in many exclusive establishments as I am. We all–”

“Tried to kill me and/or trade me over to be killed?” Harry supplied, voice mild. He raised his eyebrows. Malfoy fell silent and a flush climbed above the high collar of his robes, in stark contrast to his creamy skin. Harry watched it with a sense of gleeful satisfaction; he’d not often gotten to see Malfoy so off-kilter he was without words.

“Made mistakes, I was going to say,” he muttered after a moment. He looked equal parts furious and embarrassed, and Harry decided to ease off a little — he didn’t actually want to provoke Malfoy into stalking away. At least not yet.

“How would people even know?” Harry asked. “That you were living with me, I mean. I tend to keep to myself, you know. I’ve got wards around Grimmauld that keep away reporters and photographers. And I certainly don’t give interviews, so how would people even find out?”

Malfoy paused, then grinned — wide and smug and surprising. “I would make sure they did,” he said simply.

“Hm,” Harry muttered noncommittally. He stirred his tea a few more times — it was getting cold — and felt Malfoy’s gaze on him, practically willing him to say yes. He hummed for another second and tapped his chin with his forefinger, just to be annoying, then finally looked back up. Malfoy’s lower lip was swollen and slightly pink, as though he’d just released it from between his teeth. Harry shrugged. “Do you want to see the House?”

“Well, I’m certainly not paying you to live here,” Malfoy said disdainfully after the tour as Kreacher brought them a fruit-and-cheese tray. He chose a fat grape from the offerings and popped it in his mouth, looking bored. “Thank you, Kreacher.” Kreacher bowed low, dignified but apparently too overcome to speak.

“You’re not interested, then?” Harry clarified after a pause. His heart sped up for no reason he could discern.

“I didn’t say that. My reasoning still applies,” Malfoy said slowly. “But, really, Potter, you should offer to pay me. Do you have any idea the amount of work that will go into organising the House? It’s gone to such seed over the last– what, two decades?”

Harry nodded.

“Yes, well.” Malfoy lifted his shoulders, negligently debonaire. He leaned against Harry’s sofa as if he owned it, and Harry tried not to grind his own teeth into dust. “What’s your main problem with it, anyway? It won’t adapt to wizarding space additions or allow for updates to the plumbing?” He looked around, the edge of a sneer caught on his face. “Won’t allow you to redecorate?”

“It, uh–” Harry frowned. “It locks me out of things. And, um, trips me sometimes.”

Uncrossing his legs, Malfoy blinked at him and sat back up. “But you’re its Master.”

“Apparently, it doesn’t think so,” Harry muttered, aggravated.

“It doesn’t have to, Potter, that’s the way things go. If Kreacher obeys you, the House he’s bound to must know it belongs to you, from the eaves to the foundation,” Malfoy said, still shocked.

“Right.” Harry relaxed a little. “Kreacher said it couldn’t really… hurt me, but that certain circumstances might dictate that it could express its displeasure with me in other ways. Only something about house-elf magic dictates that he’s not allowed to explain it to me.”

“The House is seeking attentions,” Kreacher said mysteriously. Harry and Draco ignored him when he didn’t go on.

“What ways?” Malfoy asked suspiciously.

Harry picked up a cracker to stall; he smeared it with a touch of seasoned cheese and ate it, chewing slowly. By the time he’d swallowed, Malfoy’s narrow look had faded into one of amusement. That was somehow worse.

“It, it–” Harry blew out a hard breath. “It locks me out of the bathrooms. The bannister shoots splinters sometimes when my hand is on it. The cupboards rearrange themselves so I can’t find anything, the floor tilts randomly and knocks me off centre, and I basically have to bother Kreacher any time I want something to eat, even if I’ve just bought groceries — they just vanish to who-knows-where. Only Kreacher is able to access them.”

“You haven’t taken control as Master yet,” Malfoy said thoughtfully. “Have you?”

Bewildered, Harry shook his head. “My name is on the deed, I have the keys, and Kreacher sees me as the heir to the property. What else am I supposed to do?”

Malfoy snorted. “Many things, Potter. You are... incredibly fortunate I’m even willing to live in this tomb for a year, let alone possibly longer.”

“A year?” Harry asked blankly. “Longer?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to have you toss me out when you’ve gotten what you want from me, am I?” Malfoy said smoothly. “So a month-to-month lease won’t do. A year should do, although I have plans to move again before then, so I’ll need the option to break the lease as soon as I’ve the need. Conditional, of course,” he added, anticipating Harry’s objection, “on having fulfilled my part of the agreement, as well.”

Stuck on the phrase what you want from me, it took Harry a moment to respond. “Fine, I guess. A year. Longer. Whatever. If you help me with Grimmauld.”

Malfoy’s eyes gleamed at him, and he nodded. “For room and board,” he said. “I’m not spending a knut on this place.”

“Hey, it seemed to like you just fine,” Harry said, only slightly put-out. The House had seemed to– to open up when Malfoy had stepped in with him, the rooms brightening infinitesimally. Even all of the bathrooms had remained unlocked so Harry could show them to him.

“It recognises the blood association.” Malfoy carded a hand through his hair; he sounded vaguely disconcerted by the prospect. Kreacher frowned; he opened his mouth, then promptly shut it. Harry started to ask why but was interrupted when Malfoy said, “So then we’re agreed? I can’t imagine you need the gold anyway — why is that even a part of the bargain?”

Still frowning, Kreacher Disapparated.

“Hermione’s idea,” Harry explained with a sigh. “To make sure that the applicants would be–” he grimaced, “–contributing members of society or something. She explained it better. But you’re right, I don’t care.”

“I have a pet,” Malfoy said abruptly.

Harry looked at him, startled. “I threw away a lot of applications from people with pets,” he said carefully. “I didn’t know what the House would do to it, if it got annoyed. I’m not sure if it would be smart. Is there anyone who can take care of it for you?”

“It’s mine,” Malfoy said, frowning. “I’ll take care of it. This is non-negotiable, Potter.”

Flustered at Malfoy’s fervent declaration toward his pet — he seemed so earnest; something Harry hadn’t been aware Malfoy could be — Harry narrowed his eyes. “Apparently you need me just as much as I need you,” he said. “Nothing isn’t up for negotiation. What is it, an owl?”

Malfoy pursed his lips. “Your House ‘likes me just fine’, you just said it. And it’s a magical tortoise, very well behaved. The House won't mind,” he added confidently.

“I’ve never heard of a magical turtle,” Harry said, thrown. “What does it do?”

“Nevermind. Yes or no?” Malfoy inched closer to the edge of the couch, as though ready to get up and walk out.

“Yes,” Harry sighed. He scraped his hair back from his face and adjusted his glasses, pinning Malfoy with a look. “But if something happens to it–”

“I’ll take responsibility.” Looking pleased, Malfoy spent a moment hovering over the snack tray, selecting things to put on his plate. He spread several crackers with the same cheese Harry had chosen, and added bits of melon and a few extra grapes. He already seemed completely at home, and Harry had to repress another sigh when Malfoy looked up and smirked. “About those negotiations…” He bit into a cracker, dusting off a stray crumb that fell onto his chest.

Immediately on guard, Harry sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “Free room and board,” he said, pointedly looking at Malfoy’s full plate, “And a pet, and a better reputation. What else could you possibly want me for?”

Malfoy coughed slightly; he thumped his chest with his fist to clear whatever had gone down the wrong way, his cheeks going bright pink as he reached for a glass of water and took a long gulp. Sucking in a deep breath when he was finished, he met Harry’s eyes again. He gestured to the French doors off the sitting room. “You have a garden.”

Harry nodded, brows knitting.

“And you have plenty of space,” Malfoy continued, looking — finally — strangely hesitant to go on.

“I do,” Harry agreed cautiously.

“I’ll need another room for potions,” Malfoy said. His jaw was tight, and he stared down at his plate, fingers stroking the porcelain rim of it. “And as you obviously have no use for them, I’d like to harvest some of the ingredients from the garden, and to be able to bring in my own.”

Harry chuckled, surprising them both. Malfoy looked offended, and Harry shook his head. “No, it’s just — you were literally the only applicant who hadn’t asked for extra space of their own…” Laughter fading, Harry grinned. “I was a little disappointed in you.”

“Might as well see what I can get out of you,” Malfoy said lightly, face relaxing. He tipped Harry a glance that felt almost — mischievous, and Harry blinked at him for a second. “Slytherin, after all.”

“Right.” Harry looked out to the garden thoughtfully. “You can’t hurt anything out there.”

“I wouldn’t,” Malfoy said quickly. He swallowed tensely.

“Then I don’t really care,” Harry admitted. “And you can take any of the bedrooms other than mine for potions… Or the basement, even, there’s good space down there.”

Nodding, Malfoy reached up and brushed back a stray lock of hair with his pinky. He seemed relieved for some reason. Harry wanted to ask why, but didn’t; things were going well, and he didn’t want to risk altering their comfortable level of antagonism into something darker.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said, strangely subdued. He ate another cracker almost listlessly, then cleared his throat. “About visitors...”

Harry made a face. “No parties or anything without me agreeing first.” He thought about it for a moment. “Or being really loud, really late.”

“What constitutes a party? A few friends coming over?” Malfoy asked. “And the ‘being loud, late;’ does that only pertain to parties?”

“What else could it — oh.” Harry flushed; one side of Malfoy’s mouth lifted. Suddenly uncomfortable for no reason he wanted to examine, Harry gave a nod that apparently didn’t look much like one — Malfoy stared at him, confused. Harry forced his head to bob. “Yeah, that’s, er, fine. Silencing charms up, though, if you’re, um, loud. And — if they’re strangers, you have to be… careful. I don’t want people coming over just to gawk at me,” Harry said quietly. “A few friends coming over should be fine.”

“Fair enough,” Malfoy said. He tilted his head to the side, looking closely at Harry. Harry shifted again, wondering what was so bloody fascinating; he ran his tongue over the front of his teeth to see if he could feel any stray food caught in them. “Anything you’d like from me?”

Harry swallowed. “I can’t think of anything offhand, no,” he said. “I mean... No Dark magic,” he said, wondering exactly how ‘over it,’ he was if he felt the need to say so. Malfoy snorted, waving a hand as though to say, obviously. “And no talking about me. Even when people find out we’re housing together, I expect you to be discreet about my personal life. If I see something in the papers about myself, I’ll know you put it there,” Harry added seriously. “And I’ll put something in the rental contract that says as much. A– a–”

“A binding non-disclosure agreement,” Malfoy supplied smoothly. “That’s better than fine; perfect, actually; I’ll admit I’d prefer conjecture over fact, considering. Although I wonder what you could possibly have been getting up to around here that’s interesting enough to merit a discussion with the press,” he said, glancing around again.

“And progress,” Harry added firmly. “On the House. If it doesn’t start responding better to me, you’re either out or you start paying rent; I don’t care if I don’t need your gold.”

“Wonderfully petty of you,” Malfoy said, arching an eyebrow in an admiring sort of a way.

Harry shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Malfoy said instantly. Harry looked at him, startled at the speed with which it had all been accomplished.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, eating and darting wary glances at each other. When Malfoy’s plate was empty, Harry set his own aside and ran his hands along the tops of his thighs to steady himself. He took a deep breath, determined to alleviate some of the tension; they’d be living together, after all. “So, uh, where have you been staying? I heard the Manor–” He broke off.

Malfoy’s face shuttered. “Was taken for reparations, yes,” he said after a pause. Not the best topic to have settled on then, Harry decided with a mental wince. Then Malfoy rotated his neck from side to side, his narrow chest expanding against his robes; his face cleared a little. “We have properties in France and Italy, of course — one in Japan — but I chose to stay here. Pansy and I– I’ve been staying with her,” he said stiffly. “And just so you’re aware, she is one of the friends I mentioned who will be visiting, so if you have any problems with that you should say so now.”

Harry held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I just wondered. I don’t care about Parkinson one way or another,” he said. His voice lowered of its own accord as he met Malfoy’s eyes. “It was just one of a lot of stupid things that a lot of stupid kids did during the war.”

The silence that met his statement was so profound, Harry could have sworn he heard his and Malfoy’s heartbeats, both. Malfoy examined him, obviously searching for some lingering resentment, or artifice. Honestly, Harry wished he still felt it sometimes, but he’d spent too much time by himself thinking about the events of the those last years at Hogwarts — and the events surrounding — to hold onto bitterness. If he could forgive, or at least try to understand Dumbledore, he could bloody well get off his high horse about Pansy Parkinson. And maybe even about Draco Malfoy.

Harry sighed, meeting Malfoy’s eyes again. He sat rigidly in his spot, no longer with the relaxed decadence of his earlier pose when he’d seemed ready to take on the mantle as Master of the House. His hands were loosely curled, long pale fingers folded under, and he was watching Harry closely.

“Really,” Harry said softly. “She’s– She’s welcome here, if you want her. As long as you two make sure to shut the fuck up after midnight.”

Malfoy huffed a surprised laugh, mouth curving into something genuinely amused — though at Harry’s sentiment or language, he couldn’t be sure. “Have big plans then, Potter?” Malfoy drawled.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Sleep, usually. But if Parkinson’s going to be spending the night… You said that thing about—”

“Fuck, no,” Malfoy said, inexplicably revolted for someone who’d just so strenuously defended his relationship with her.

“I thought– since you were living with her… Ginny and I went through the same thing before we broke up. Just needing to be away,” Harry offered, curious.

Malfoy was still shaking his head. “Ah yes, the Golden Couple,” he said with a wry twist to his lips. “I don’t generally believe the papers anymore, but I happen to see Lovegood from time to time, so I’ll extend my deepest sympathies to you. Apparently you’re still grieving over it, or so the Prophet says.”

“Completely,” Harry assured him, smirking. His eyes skimmed up the lean line of Malfoy, from the reflective shine on his supple, black shoes to the shoulders which were slightly broader than they’d been the last time Harry’d seen him. The difference in Malfoy that had eluded him before finally clicked: he was still lanky as ever but had somehow… filled out. His jaw had squared off a bit; his nose and chin were still pointy, but he looked like a man now. Harry drew his eyes up further and took in Malfoy’s face, which had gone strangely alert during Harry’s unconscious perusal of him. Their eyes locked for a long moment and Harry felt the spark of…something that he’d never thought to associate directly with Malfoy before. Malfoy seemed intrigued, bewildered, and just a tiny bit lost. Harry’s voice came out husky when he asked, “Why the no on Parkinson, then?”

The silence stretched out between them elastically; Harry felt the throb of his heart in every pulse point in his body; throat, wrists, ears… groin. Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobbed above the collar of his robes, his throat long and pale.

“Not my type,” he said inscrutably.

“Oh.” Harry desperately wanted to ask what Malfoy’s type was — he was starting to wonder if his own penchant for blond men might have a relevant basis — and the question was pressed against the back of his teeth, about to topple off his tongue clumsily when Kreacher appeared between them with a soft pop. Harry exhaled too loudly, relieved.

Because wouldn’t that be a fucking disaster.

“Hi, Kreacher,” Harry croaked out. Malfoy made a stifled sound of assent, a little Mmmhmm, of greeting toward Kreacher. Harry realised Malfoy’s gently curled fingers had balled up tight and he looked down at his own hands, which had rested lightly on his thighs before that strange moment. They were now gripping them, fingers sinking into the tense muscles beneath the denim of his jeans. Harry willed them to loosen and after a second, they did.

Kreacher cleared the tray and plates, then looked at Harry with a much softer scowl than he usually wore; it meant he approved of something. “Will Master Harry be having his guest over for dinner as well? Is he being Master Harry’s new–”

“Housemate, yeah. Just my new housemate,” Harry rushed out. He glanced at Malfoy again, who was staring at the wall behind Harry, eyes wide and unmoving, as if he didn’t know where to put them. A flush rode high on his cheekbones, but he’d obviously heard the question and Harry’s answer, because he gave a jerky little nod.

“I can’t stay; thank you Kreacher,” he said, voice uneven. “Potter, when will you have the tenancy agreement drawn up?”

“My solicitor can have it by this weekend,” Harry said, still talking too fast. “Or sooner if–”

“This weekend is fine,” Malfoy said. His gaze dropped from the wall and he stood abruptly, glancing at Harry for a fraction of a second before dipping his chin to look down at Kreacher. “Where’s the door? You haven’t been able to unlock it for him?”

Kreacher’s huge, rheumy eyes shone briefly at being addressed so. “No, sir, Master Malfoy, Kreacher is not being ables to unlock the door when it is not revealing itself to Master Harry yet,” he explained in the most incomprehensibly dour tone; it was at complete odds with the expression of near-rapture on his wizened face.

“What door?” Harry asked. He stood too, feeling at a sudden disadvantage, and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“It hasn’t even shown itself?” Malfoy asked with a sneer. He tsk’d under his breath. “Of course it hasn’t.”

“What door?” Harry demanded again, trying not to scowl. Malfoy finally looked back up at him, face haughty and composed as ever, and Harry wondered if he’d imagined what had happened – or had almost happened – or had seemed about to happen– or… Something.

“I’ll explain once I move in,” he said briefly, eyes glittering like a freshly sharpened blade. Harry’s jaw tightened.

“Fine,” he clipped out.

Malfoy hesitated, then stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “A wizard's agreement, then,” he said. His hand came up slowly, palm flat and fingers outstretched. Harry looked down at it, disoriented; he remembered a boy on a train, ten years prior. Remembered his own reaction to that hand.

Harry took it. Malfoy’s fingers curled around his hand, then gave it two brief, sterile pumps. His palm was warm and not entirely dry, but not unpleasantly damp either. Harry tightened his grip, letting Malfoy direct the handshake; he felt the tingle of Malfoy’s magic meet his own as the loose terms of a wizard’s agreement — Harry’s first — bound their hands and brightened them for a moment. Malfoy released Harry with a brisk nod.

“Do you need to use the Floo to go home?” Harry asked, taking a step back just as Malfoy did.

“Pansy doesn’t have one. I need to be somewhere, at any rate; it’s nearby,” Malfoy said absently. He rubbed at his jaw for a second, fingers lingering there thoughtfully. “Owl me the agreement once it’s drawn up.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. Malfoy gave him another stilted nod, then strode out of the sitting room without so much as a goodbye. Harry looked down at Kreacher, who seemed disappointed — damn him. “What door?”

Kreacher grimaced, tugging at his ear. “Even if Master is ordering Kreacher to explain, Kreacher cannot,” he said cagily. “Kreacher is being ordered not to iron his hands, so Kreacher is not knowing what to do for defying Master.”

Harry sighed. “I’ll let Malfoy explain it,” he said.

Kreacher nodded, fervently grateful, then disappeared with another quiet pop, just as Harry heard the front door open and close. The heavy drapes unbound themselves in front of the French doors, blocking out the sun, and the fire and lamps all went out at once.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, standing in inky darkness. “Well, fuck.”

“Tell me why again,” Ron stage-whispered as Goyle levitated a trunk down the hallway, “you’re letting your house be infested by Slytherins?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said wearily. He rolled his bottle of pumpkin juice between his palms, taking comfort from the cool weight of the glass. “Because I speak Parseltongue?”

“Hah.” Ron’s eyes widened upon Zabini’s entrance; Zabini guided another floating trunk with his wand. It made ominous broken-glass sounds with every sway in the air. “It’s such a b–”

“Don’t say it again,” Harry ordered, taking a drink. They’d been lounging in the sitting room for over an hour; so far Malfoy and his friends had brought in seventeen trunks. Harry had stopped feeling surprised after the first five; he’d even stopped feeling appalled after a dozen. Now it was a kind of numb, lingering awareness that his House was being taken over, and he’d been the lunatic who’d agreed to it.

“Fine, I won’t.” Ron paused. “But it is a bad idea, and you know it.”

“Oh, look. Eighteen,” Harry said flatly. Parkinson and Malfoy came in behind this one; it was large, outfitted in heavy brass buckles and locks, with thick leather straps holding it closed. It emitted the strong scent of herbs and spices — not altogether unpleasant, actually.

“We so appreciate your help,” Malfoy said snidely as they navigated down the hall toward the staircase. He was wearing a white button down and grey slacks. His sleeves were rolled up to mid-forearm, and Harry kept catching little glimpses of the stark black lines of his Mark. He didn’t know what to think, that Malfoy bared it so easily. “Yes, I think you and Weasley should rest for a bit; you’ve done a lot of work today.”

Harry didn’t move from his seat. “Not in the contract,” he pointed out, raising his voice slightly. Malfoy huffed and Parkinson shushed him, ticking an uneasy glance in Harry’s direction. Harry grinned at her, baring all of his teeth. He may have gotten past the war crap, but he was having too much fun rattling her to stop. He widened his thighs and affected a relaxed posture, holding his pumpkin juice between his thumb and forefinger and letting it dangle near his knee, then wandlessly Summoned a book from a nearby shelf with his free hand. Her face whitened and she said something to Malfoy under her breath. He shook his head at her, reaching up to wipe some sweat off his brow with his rolled sleeve; some dust streaked across it, and Harry took another drink of his juice.

“He’s just being a prick,” Malfoy said loudly. “He told me he’d like to have you over.”

“What?” Ron demanded, just as Harry snickered.

“That’s just Malfoy bending the truth to suit him,” Harry said lowly as Malfoy and Parkinson made their way up the stairs. “Like always. What do you want to bet they’ll reach thirty?”

“Trunks?” Ron asked. “They can’t have. Unless Malfoy packed up the whole of Malfoy Manor in them — those trunks are usually built in with massive extension charms. I bet most of them are empty and he’s just doing it to get under your skin, actually.”

“Five Galleons?”

“Fine.” Ron folded his arms and settled deeper into the sofa to watch their progress. Really, Harry wasn’t even sure where Malfoy was putting them all. Though he’d picked the second-largest bedroom on the second floor — just across from Harry’s — there was still no way he’d be able to store the trunks in there and have any expectation of getting around his own room unless he planned on using his broom from doorway to bed to loo. Harry was almost afraid to go upstairs and find out.

Zabini came down with Goyle a minute later. He hesitated in the archway of the sitting room. “Got any more?” he asked, jerking his chin at Harry’s juice.

Raising his eyebrows, Harry nodded. He called for Kreacher, who reappeared with the extra juice so fast it made Harry wonder again how elves could Apparate without Splinching themselves. Zabini nudged Goyle hard in the ribs, then ambled into the room, plucking up from the coffee table one of the forty or so juice bottles Kreacher had decided were necessary. Goyle’s hulking shape followed him slowly, and Zabini passed him a bottle. They took seats in the musty velvet armchairs across from the sofa, and all four of them stared at each other for a few moments.

“Nice place,” Zabini finally said, face bland. Goyle grunted what Harry thought was supposed to be an agreement.

“Thanks,” Harry said. “I love it.”

“It’s a shithole,” Zabini added.

“I know; Malfoy’s getting a fucking raw deal on this one,” Harry agreed immediately, cheerful at the prospect. “I basically just have to put up with him — which I did for years — and he’s got to make this place habitable for me. Think it’ll take him very long?”

Ron snorted, coming out of whatever associating-with-Slytherins coma he’d gone into. Zabini cracked a smile, dark eyes cataloguing the the ugly antique sconces on the walls, the faded, peeling wallpaper, and the cobwebs that Harry was pretty sure had been spelled to stay up in the corner. But Goyle outright laughed, his wide, intimidating face going astonishingly merry before he caught himself, his laugh slightly softer and higher-pitched than Harry would have guessed — if he’d thought for a single second that Goyle knew how to smile.

Harry and Ron looked at each other wordlessly, then turned back to him. “What?” Harry asked.

“Well, that was kind of funny,” Goyle said.

Harry shrugged. It hadn’t been that funny, but he supposed it was nice that Goyle knew what a joke was.

“Just,” Goyle continued, as if Harry had asked for clarification, “you know, the idea that you put up with him for years, ‘cause you didn’t. Not that he minds so much anymore; at least now he gets to–”

“Greg,” Zabini said.

“Right, sorry,” Goyle mumbled, subsiding.

At a loss, Harry opened his mouth to ask what that had meant — it wasn’t as if Malfoy had put up with him, either — but Malfoy and Parkinson chose that moment to come trudging down the stairs. They stopped, gaping from the archway. Then Malfoy sniffed, dragging his forearm over his forehead again, and came in, picking his own bottle of juice and popping it open. He stood there, long throat working silently as he drank it, then set down the empty bottle. “Would you like one, Pansy?”

“No thank you,” she said faintly from the hallway.

Harry looked at Malfoy; he was decidedly... messy. Unexpectedly dirty; that streak of grime still on his forehead, his white-blond hair mussed and out of place. His shirt clung to his lanky body lightly, probably from sweat, and it was harder than it should have been to stop staring, made worse by Ron’s face when Harry accidentally glanced in his direction. He hurriedly turned to stare at Goyle who — for the first time since Harry had met him — seemed the most neutral thing in the room.

“It’s fine, Parkinson,” Harry said, rolling his eyes at Malfoy’s glare. “Have some pumpkin juice.”

“I don’t like pumpkin juice,” she called.

“It’s imported from France,” Malfoy said.

There was a long silence, and then Parkinson came stomping into the room — as well as she could, wearing three inch heels. Her shoulders came back, red mouth flat and tight as she grabbed the bottle Malfoy offered. She opened it and started drinking, shooting Harry defiant looks the whole time, and Harry tamped down a laugh.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting me to do,” he said mildly.

“Kill her,” Zabini, Goyle, Malfoy and Ron all said at the same time.

“I am not,” she said, nostrils flaring. “I’m not afraid of him — of you, Potter.”

“Painfully,” Zabini added. “She thinks you can do wandless magic.”

“I can,” Harry said, biting back a grin.

“She thinks you’re sneakier than you let on,” Goyle put in.

“He is,” Ron said. Harry threw him an appreciative glance.

“And she certainly thinks you wouldn’t be punished if she were to vanish mysteriously,” Malfoy said drily, picking up another bottle. He sipped it more slowly, amused gaze travelling from Parkinson to Harry and back.

“That one’s probably true too,” Harry said.

“You’ve been threatening me all day,” Parkinson said.

“I haven’t said a word to you!” Harry objected. Which was technically true, though it didn’t really address what she’d said. Apparently she realised that, because she gave him a suspicious glance before tipping her bottle up to her mouth again.

“You didn’t need to,” she said resentfully. “If you’re still angry about that whole–”

“Trying to hand me over to–” Harry started, grinning again, but Malfoy cut him off.

“I literally didn’t think he’d get under anyone’s skin as badly as he did mine,” he drawled, tapping Parkinson on the shoulder and giving her a censorious look.

“And Malfoy’s going to be living here,” Harry said, gazing at her with wide-eyes. “I wonder what I’ll do to him.”

“Don’t think I haven’t warned him of exactly that,” she snapped. “And if we could live together any longer, don’t think I wouldn’t make sure he didn’t have to come here.”

Harry paused. “What do you mean, if you could–”

“More trunks,” Malfoy said. He looked at his friends. “Get off your lazy arses, and let’s just finish, already.”

Goyle nodded and stood, lumbering out without waiting for anyone.

“When I said I’d help, I didn’t think I was actually volunteering for physical labour,” Zabini grumbled, but stood up anyway, too. He stretched, raising his arms above his head and twisting from side to side. His shirt rode up and his low-slung jeans revealed a tempting strip of dark skin, and Harry took a moment to appreciate the V of his hipbones, covered in a fine layer of muscle.

Then Ron nudged him and Harry flushed guiltily; he took another sip of juice, hoping no one else had noticed his ogling, because the room had grown suspiciously quiet. He forced himself to look up; everyone was looking at him with vastly different expressions: Parkinson had an unholy gleam in her green eyes — she looked fascinated and way too delighted for Harry’s comfort; Zabini was smirking and seemed rather smug; and Malfoy… Harry blinked. Malfoy looked... furious.

He set his half-empty bottle of juice down with a definitive thunk. “Right, then,” he said flatly. “Back to work.” His face twisted into a sneer; from his height advantage of standing, he stared down his nose at Harry. “I don’t suppose you lot might lend a hand now that you’ve gotten in some good practice being completely fucking unhelpful?”

Harry pretended to think about it; he’d considered offering when Goyle and Zabini had sat down, but Malfoy’s tone grated on his nerves. “I don’t know. I still feel way too helpful for my own good. I probably should practice some more. Ron?”

“Yeah, not gonna happen,” Ron said.

Malfoy huffed, glaring at them in turn. He grabbed Pansy’s arm and hauled her out of the room, ignoring her little squawk of protest.

“Call me Blaise–” Zabini started, smiling at Harry slowly.

“Blaise!” Malfoy barked from out of Harry’s sightline. “Don’t get ideas; you’re wrong.”

Blaise shrugged and strolled out, “What? I wasn’t! I know full well how–” Harry heard him say from the hall before his voice faded. Harry sagged into his sofa and tipped Ron a look, then glanced away.

“I’d be more grossed out over you checking out Zabini,” Ron muttered quietly, “if you hadn’t been even worse about Malfoy. Really, Harry? Why him?”

“What?” Harry asked, trying to brazen it out.

“Oh, god,” Ron suddenly moaned, covering his face with both hands. “I wish this didn’t make as much sense as it does. I should have fucking known, shouldn’t I, when you told me you’d picked him to live here? ‘Mione’s going to give me that look.”

Irritated, Harry shook his head. “What?” he asked again, sharper.

“It’s a bad idea,” Ron said again rather than answering him. “He’s still… He is who he is, Harry. No matter what you might, uh.” He coughed, a flush spreading up his cheeks. “You know— think he looks like, or whatever. Seriously, go after Zabini before you think about doing anything with Malfoy.”

“I wouldn’t!” Harry lied, defensive. His ears grew scorchingly hot when Ron simply looked at him, almost sympathetically. Harry winced. “I really wouldn’t,” he said again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Just because I might find him attractive… I wouldn’t. He’s going to be living here — that wasn’t the reason I picked him, you know — and it would make things awkward. Besides, he’s maybe not even into men.”

“What do you mean, ‘maybe’?” Ron asked instantly, latching onto that with an intensity that left Harry wanting to kick himself for the way he revealed too much when he got flustered.

“I dunno. There was a– a second when I thought that maybe he was. But it doesn’t matter,” he insisted. “He’s Malfoy, Ron. I mean, he did write Hermione that letter apologising for calling her a Mudblood, and for what his aunt did, and he testified against the remaining Death Eaters, too, and I guess he talks to Luna some, so he can’t be all bad, but–”

“Stop it!” Ron said miserably, burying his face in his hands again. “I swear to Merlin, Harry, if you end up talking about him as much as you did in sixth year, I’ll hex your mouth shut.” He pulled his hands away and glowered down at his knees for a moment, then muttered, “I can’t believe you’re defending him. What about that guy Charlie set you up with?”

“I’m not defending Malfoy,” Harry said, disconcerted to realise that he had been. “I was just– trying to make the next... however long more bearable.” He lifted his chin and met Ron’s eyes. “And Robert was nice. Very nice,” he added, grinning and waggling his eyebrows. Ron snorted. “But he doesn’t live here, you know that. He was only in England for a couple of weeks.”

“Then go to Australia, or wherever he lives,” Ron said, with a sulky frown. “If it means getting you away from–”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Harry assured him. So what if he was attracted to Malfoy — and so what if it turned out that, against all odds, Malfoy might be attracted back? He’d obviously disliked the idea of anything between them enough to close himself off when they’d shared that oddly charged moment earlier in the week. And ever since then, he seemed to be doing his level best to remind Harry what an utter wanker he could be. But Ron didn’t look all that reassured, so Harry added, “Really. I’m just hoping neither of us ends up in the hospital.”

Face relaxing marginally, Ron sighed just as Goyle and Zabini — Blaise, Harry thought, admiring the width of his shoulders beneath his t-shirt — floated a trunk past them and up the staircase. He could hear Malfoy and Parkinson bickering in the background, and then they came into view as well, passing the room with a small series of cases, stacked tightly together.

“Do those count as one?” he wondered aloud. “Or as four?”

Ron opened his mouth to respond but clicked it shut when Harry’s Floo flared to life. Hermione stepped out, looking concerned as she dusted herself off, heading immediately over to Ron’s side. “Are you not done protecting Harry from Dark wizards yet?”

“I told you, I was just coming over here because Harry got a new batch of that fancy pumpkin juice,” Ron said, leaning into her when she sat down beside him. He sounded embarrassed, and Harry felt a rush of fondness toward him because of course protecting him was what Ron had meant to do when he’d suddenly mentioned listening to a repeat Canons game on the wireless today — which they hadn’t even turned on for a moment.

“Right,” Hermione said, tossing a half-grin Harry’s way. He returned it and leaned forward, snagging a bottle for her too.

“Want some fancy pumpkin juice?” Harry asked and she laughed. Ron flushed darker.

“Well, it sounds paranoid now,” he muttered under his breath just as Blaise and Goyle came back down the staircase, followed closely by Parkinson and Malfoy, who were breathing heavily.

“Merlin,” Hermione said, “why have the pair of you taken a break when they’re still moving in?”

Ron and Harry exchanged glances.

“We, uh–” Ron started, just as Harry said, “Well, you know–”

Her mouth drew down in a moue of disapproval. “Do you mean to say you’ve been watching them move in for over an hour and neither of you have lifted a finger to help?” she demanded. “Harry, I know Malfoy’s a– I know you two used to really– but... “ She sighed, brushing back her curls one-handed. “He’s going to be living here. Is that really the best way to start things off?”

“We didn’t want to get in anyone’s way?” Harry tried weakly. Ron nodded emphatically.

“Besides, it’s just mean to watch people do all the work without pitching in,” Hermione said, sounding put-out. Her elbow connected with Ron’s ribcage, and he gave a little “oof,” as she stood, smoothing down her t-shirt. “Which you both know,” she said pointedly, then walked out of the room.

Harry heard her soft voice greet someone and closed his eyes briefly, wondering how badly it would reflect on them if they just sat there and watched her, too. But Ron was already standing and sighing heavily, which didn’t bode well for his support system. It was one thing to have someone with him as he didn’t help Malfoy and his friends, but being the only one not to pitch in would look just plain bad.

“Come on,” Ron said wearily. “There’s probably only a few left.”

“Double or nothing it’s more than forty,” Harry muttered, getting up. Ron made a noise of disbelief but trailed after him.

There were forty-six.

Five hours later, Harry lay sprawled on his sofa, sore and dusty from head to feet. After Malfoy had grudgingly accepted his and Ron’s help — thanking Hermione more effusively than Harry really thought necessary — they’d made relatively short work of levitating the remaining trunks and furniture up the stairs, where the mystery of storage had been revealed. Apparently, Grimmauld Place had expanded Malfoy’s dressing room for each trunk; it had looked like a storage unit by the time they were done getting everything in. Malfoy had just looked at him disdainfully when Harry had asked about it and said, “That’s what the House ought to do, and it knows that I know it.”

“Then you’d better start teaching me,” Harry had snapped, unaccountably annoyed and more than a little convinced that Malfoy’s bedroom had gotten larger, as well.

Hermione had eased the tension by suggesting they organise — which no one but Malfoy had been interested in, but not one of them could find a way out of, either. But with every direction Malfoy gave on where and how the trunks should be organised, the House responded, shuffling around until there were units within units, small cubbies and larger shelving spaces on the back. They’d organised and reorganised until Malfoy was satisfied and everyone but Hermione was exhausted. And then they’d all collapsed in the sitting room, talking dully and drinking the massive amounts of butterbeer Kreacher had insisted on supplying everyone until Blaise and Goyle had said their goodbyes and Parkinson had reminded Malfoy that she wasn’t going to be taking care of his turtle for a single second.

That had spurred Malfoy into action — seemingly the only thing that could, at that point; he’d looked twice as knackered as anyone else, and no wonder really, loathe though Harry was to give him much credit in the “does physical labour” category. But he’d worked hard — Harry had seen it with his own eyes — and didn’t even spare the time to do much more than cast a swift cleaning charm over himself before walking out with Parkinson and grumbling under his breath about the uselessness of friends.

Harry let himself drift, feeling drowsy, the fire crackling merrily a few feet away. It had lit up of its own accord after Ron and Hermione had taken their leave. The House had had such a... welcoming feeling to it all day, warm and cosy, like a home should feel, and he considered falling asleep on the sofa, which suddenly felt massively more comfortable; the worn cushions softer, the cracked leather supple.

The sound of the front door opening caught his attention, and Harry blinked, wondering if he’d actually managed to doze for a few minutes. He nudged his glasses up higher from where they’d slid to the bridge of his nose and waited, but Malfoy didn’t come marching through immediately. Instead, the sound of creaking occurred, quietly at first and then louder, and the light from the streetlamp outside suddenly… got brighter. Widened. With disbelief, Harry realised that the House was expanding the door to strange proportions to let Malfoy in. He sat up, dust falling from his hair in a soft, silent puff when he shook his head in shock.

Because Malfoy didn’t have a turtle for a pet.

“That’s a–” Harry pointed, words failing him.

“Potter, meet Francis,” Malfoy said calmly, levitating the giant fucking tortoise in front of him. The thing was… unrealistically huge; it had to be at least a metre long, its dusty green-brown shell bulbous and overwhelming over its scaly legs and protruding head. It blinked docilely as Malfoy floated him into the sitting room and then carefully set him down in the middle of the rug. “My tortoise.”

Harry scrambled to standing. “What– What did you– that’s not a turtle!”

“I never said turtle, Potter,” Malfoy said. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out what looked to be a handful of small blossoms, then held his hand under the tortoise's mouth. It paused, then slowly reached its neck out, opening its mouth and taking the flowers from Malfoy, jaw working. Malfoy stroked its head with the tips of two fingers, an exasperatingly fond expression writ across his face. “I said tortoise. A Galápagos tortoise, to be specific. He won’t be any trouble.”

“Trouble?” Harry demanded. “Shouldn’t it… I don’t know, be on the Galápagos islands or something? How are you expecting to take care of it? How did you even get it? Goddamn it, Malfoy, if I’d known you were going to pull some kind of stunt like this–”

Malfoy flicked him an irritated glance. “It’s not a stunt. He’s my pet, and charms take care of his climate regulations just fine. We had him at the Manor. He’s been with my family for almost four generations. The peacocks were easy to find homes for — Merlin knows why, they had horrible temperaments — but no one had the experience to take care of Francis. I wasn’t going to just send him back to the islands, thank you, he’s domesticated — and magical, as well… Besides which, I’d never gotten to properly take care of him, growing up. My father preferred the elves to do all of it; I had to sneak off if I wanted to see him,” he said, voice going quiet even as he darted glittering, challenging eyes to gauge Harry. “And I’d always wanted to, so now he’s my pet,” he finished, giving its head another stroke with two fingers.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, releasing a small cloud of dust. He couldn’t pretend to be comfortable with that glimpse into the Malfoy family dynamics, but having had it, he couldn’t find a proper way to say no, of course we’re not keeping your completely unsuitable pet here. Instead, he said, “How is it magical?”

“Tortoise magic is very mysterious,” Malfoy said cryptically.

“Which means what?” Harry asked, staring down at the placid beast, which had stopped chewing and was beginning to investigate the rest of the room — albeit at an incredibly gradual pace, thick stubby legs barely pushing against the floor. “It’s not dangerous?”

“Of course not!” Malfoy sounded offended, and Harry looked up at him. His lip was curled in the beginnings of a sneer.

“Then what?”

“It’s none of your business,” Malfoy said vaguely, lifting his chin. He looked at the tortoise affectionately.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “He doesn’t do anything, does he?”

Malfoy’s cheeks reddened. “Of course he does. As I said, he’s mag–”

“Have you ever seen him do anything magical? Take post, for instance? Build wards? Fly?” Harry asked. “Hem your trousers?”

“My trousers are all tailored,” Malfoy snapped. “And he’s still not quite a hundred; plenty of time for him to reveal what his magical abilities are — if he chooses to; tortoises are very private. Not that it matters; he’s stipulated in the lease contract. He’s mine. He’ll stay here.”

“Malfoy!” Malfoy looked at him and Harry huffed out a sigh. “I thought he’d… stay with you. In a tank or some such thing. In your room.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter, he barely fit in through the front door; I’m not likely to get him up the stairs without major architectural restructuring on the part of the House, am I?” Malfoy scoffed, sounding as though Harry were the one being unreasonable. “And this way, he can have access to the garden; the French doors are wide enough to accommodate him, and as I said — he’s very well behaved, so.”

Harry pressed his fingertips to his eyelids behind his glasses. When he pulled them away, the tortoise was still there — and still taking far more space in his sitting room than a tortoise should. He’d stopped roaming, though, and looked up from the vantage point of Harry’s shins to Harry’s face, black eyes reflecting the light of the fire.

“Fine,” Harry said, mostly because he had no other recourse and this was likely an exhaustion-induced dream. “He’ll stay here. But he’s not magical.”

“Of course he’ll stay here,” Malfoy said. His shoulders came down a little and only then did Harry realise how stiff they’d been, how much tension Malfoy had been holding himself with. “And he is so.”

Flicking another irritated glance in Malfoy’s direction, Harry slowly lowered into a crouch and met the beady-bright gaze with his own. “Hi,” he said softly. He was... actually kind of neat. Harry wondered what his skin felt like. “Can I touch him?” he asked, not looking up; without waiting for permission, he stroked the dry, scaly skin on the top of his head. “I’m Harry. Nice to meet you, Frank.”

“It’s Francis” Malfoy snapped. Suddenly an elegantly long-fingered hand was under Harry’s nose, with a palmful of bright red blossoms. “Give him these; he likes them.”

“What are they?” Harry asked dubiously. He took the flowers, aware of the way the tips of his fingers raked over Malfoy’s palm. He reached them out and put them under Frank’s mouth, who finally broke his gaze and leaned down to eat.

“Flowers; what do they look like?” Malfoy asked.

Harry snorted. “Fine.” He looked up, not even startled to see that Malfoy’s face was soft — grey eyes warm on Frank as he chewed — when just a few years ago, Harry would have never believed that Malfoy could look at anything that way, let alone a strange, rare Muggle beast. “He’s nice.”

Malfoy sighed and folded his arms. “That’s what I’ve been telling you, Potter.”

“No, I’m fairly certain you left that part out.” Harry stood after giving Frank’s head another couple of gentle strokes. “You said he was well-behaved and magical and wouldn’t be any trouble — and I’m only convinced of the well-behaved part, so far. But he is nice, Malfoy.”

“Well, yes.” Looking as though he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands or body, Malfoy stood oddly still, arms dangling awkwardly at his sides. After a moment, he nodded again. “He’ll be fine here. But I’d better–”

“Oh, right,” Harry said after a beat. “Bed.”

“It’s been a long day,” Malfoy said.

“Um, yeah. I guess we could put off House-lessons until tomorrow,” Harry admitted; the drowsiness that had vanished upon Frank’s arrival hit in again, full-force. “It’s been well-mannered tonight. We’ll start tomorrow.”

“We’ll start when I can,” Malfoy corrected. He didn’t sound mean; just tired. “I’m otherwise occupied tomorrow.”

“Oh.” A little deflated, Harry nodded silently for a second. “Well then. I’ll… er… Be up in a second.”

Malfoy looked at him quite hard, eyes taking in Harry’s face, and Harry tried not to shift uncomfortably; his clothes were filthy and his hair felt more disastrous than usual. “Okay,” Malfoy said. “Then– Goodnight, Potter.”

“G’night,” Harry said awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets and sitting back down. “I’ll see you… I guess in the morning.”

With one final, searching look, Malfoy nodded, then swept out of the room. Harry heard the gentle tread of his feet on the stairs, and let his head fall to the back of the couch with a sense of incredulity and pending doom.

He’d done it. He was officially living with Malfoy.

Chapter Text

By Harry’s estimation, Malfoy was a fantastic roommate.

Mostly in that he was never around, or was holed up in the basement-turned-smelly-potions lab, and because the House was obviously so pleased with his mere presence that it had decided to give Harry a break. No more splinters in the bannister, no more missing food. The lights stayed on when Harry was reading in bed, that sort of thing. And Malfoy’s little threat — or warning, or request for permission, or whatever — to bring people over to shag hadn’t yet come into fruition. So although Harry wasn’t on edge about that happening, or anything, he appreciated being able to fall asleep at night without having to put up Silencing charms to muffle the sounds of what he imagined would be incredibly noisy sex that he wasn’t getting to have.

So it was fine. Better, even. Good — great.

Which was what he told Ron when he asked. And Hermione when she prodded. And even Blaise, when he’d stopped by once and gone down to the basement Harry was suddenly no longer allowed in, without even knocking before he opened the door and ambled down the stairs.

Basically, he could have a very quiet, well-behaved ghost in Grimmauld with him, for all he knew — one who left his shoes in the middle of the hallway, sure, and had a giant tortoise that occasionally didn’t make it outside before it went to the bathroom, and caused suspicious explosions to sound in the basement. But the trade-off was decent, at least.

He just hadn't realised how lonely Grimmauld Place could feel when there was another person living in it who avoided him all the time. But between his training sessions at the Ministry and his training sessions at Hogwarts, it wasn’t as if he had the energy to get to know Malfoy better — if he even wanted to, at all. Which was why Harry had no excuse for skiving off on his Ministry meetings one day three weeks after Malfoy moved in — he was pretty sure he was coming down with a cold, anyway — just to follow him into the garden so they could talk.

The garden was one of Harry’s favourite things about owning the House. It had been extended through wizarding space at some point — likely before Sirius had even been born — and had a high, charmed wall that prevented muggles from seeing it, which wrapped around the area of the property. When Harry had first moved in with Ginny, he loved that it had gone to seed, loved coming out and sitting on a stone bench and looking at the the flowers and hedges that had become knotty and snarled, like wild things things did when they figured out how to take over a space. He’d loved the hum of the bees in the summertime, and the cooling effect from the shade of the overlarge branches of the nearby Rowan tree. He hadn’t wanted to try to tame it; his whole life had felt like it had been about taming things. But then Ginny had gotten slashed by one of the Ferrum plants that had rooted and grown long, and Harry took the garden in hand the next day. He thought he’d regret it — having the garden become bland and domestic — but all it really did was open up the space so he could see the beauty that had been hidden under the mess he’d thought so calming.

He didn’t mind sharing it with Malfoy at all, really. In fact, it was sort of nice, now that he was too busy to spend much time out there, to have someone caring for the plants and enjoying it for what it was. Even if that someone didn’t realise that Harry was standing behind him for long minutes, waiting to be acknowledged like a tosser while Malfoy cut trimmings from a purply bush with spiky leaves.

“What’re those?”

Malfoy jumped, spinning; the shears in his hand went flying, narrowly missing Frank, who was apparently enjoying the weak spring sun while Malfoy worked.

“What the fu–” Malfoy clutched a hand to his chest — in a little-old-lady fashion, Harry thought with some amusement. He recovered quickly and glared at Harry, squinting a bit when the sun caught his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be off on your press-tour?”

“I’m the one who courts the press?” Harry asked pointedly. “Just how many people have you already told you live here?”

Malfoy raised his chin, eyes glittering. “Enough,” he said shortly. He went over to Frank to retrieve his shears, giving Frank an apologetic pat on his shell.

“There’ve been at least a dozen articles about it,” Harry said, far less exasperated than he was letting on. In truth, he was surprised by how little fuss had been made; most of the articles had been blurbs in the Society section, which he’d only known to look for because Ginny had mentioned it. The first one had been a full profile on their relationship, from their second year duel in Defence to Harry’s testimony at the trials, up to and including how the much-haunted Malfoy Manor had been taken for reparations, leading to Harry and Malfoy’s current living arrangements. Luna had done a much nicer piece in the Quibbler about how their star signs dictated the different ways they might decorate their respective rooms. But most mentions were simple: “the Malfoy heir — former Death Eater — was spotted entering his new home,” and the occasional conjecture about when Harry was going to kill him, which Harry was pretty okay with.

“Yes, but I’ve given no interviews. You haven’t done anything interesting enough,” Malfoy said coolly, then slanted him a sidelong smile. “Yet.”

Malfoy looked entirely too wicked for Harry’s mental comfort. Harry looked away, dropping his eyes to Frank, who appeared to be sleeping. Harry sat down on the small patch of grass next to him, criss-crossing his legs, and pet his head for a moment. When he looked back up, Malfoy was frowning, and Harry didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

“You didn’t tell me what you’re clipping,” Harry said at last, when Malfoy kept looking down at him like he disapproved of Harry’s presence.

“You didn’t tell me what you’re doing home,” Malfoy muttered, turning back to his trimmings. “You’re usually gone.”

“Yeah, well, you are too — you won't even set up a time to train the House with me — and I asked first, anyway.” Frank nudged his hand, which had stopped moving, so Harry resumed petting him. He sighed. “Where do you even go?”

“Where do you?”

“Christ, can we have a normal conversation?” Harry asked plaintively. “Is that why you’re out all the time and avoid me when you’re here? You were the one who said we could be civil.” At least, he was pretty sure Malfoy had said something like that.

“Sometimes civility is removing the temptation of all-out war,” Malfoy said with a small snort, back still turned.

Harry pursed his lips, irritated with the whole bloody mess — with Malfoy’s antisocial behaviour, his refusal to answer any questions, and the fact that he was wearing jeans that were streaked with soil and fitted perfectly across his arse. He’d topped them, incongruously, with a white dress-shirt — also dirt-streaked, and left untucked — that was rolled up at the forearms again like on the day he’d moved in. He looked messy and elegant all at once, and Harry didn’t like it one bit. He scratched under Frank’s chin idly for a moment, then offered, “I’m teaching, in the fall.”

Malfoy turned, just enough to glance at him. “At Hogwarts?”

“Yeah. Defence.”

“I thought you were supposed to be– that is, Pansy said that she’d read that you and Weasley were in Auror training. She’s afraid of what you could learn there,” he added, and Harry chuckled. Malfoy’s mouth twitched, and he slanted Harry another glance.

Encouraged, Harry nodded. “I am, technically. For a place that’s only had one decent Defence teacher in fifty years, McGonagall is making me jump through a lot of hoops to take the job she offered.” Frank opened his mouth and tried to chew on Harry’s finger. “Have any of Frank’s flowers?”

“It’s Francis,” Malfoy said huffily, but reached into a tiny, ceramic dish next to him and came out with a handful. He walked over and dropped them in Harry’s hand, barely looking at him, then went back to the purple bush.

“He likes the nickname,” Harry said, sure it was true. Frank blinked at him; up close and in the sunlight, his eyes were a dark amber colour, and they stared at him with sleepy approval. He took a couple of blossoms in his mouth and started chewing. “You’re good with him.”

Malfoy paused and began snipping the plant again. “I like having him.”

Harry smiled, not looking up. “You’re different.”

The sound of the shears halted, then resumed. “How so?” Malfoy said, excruciatingly polite.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think of you as the type to move your own boxes, or… clip your own ingredients, even,” Harry confessed.

“I like doing things on my own,” Malfoy said after a moment. “I just wasn’t aware of how good it could feel. I was taught… Well. I prefer not to have things done for me, anymore.”

Not knowing what to say to that — it was so far the most personal thing either of them had revealed to each other — Harry simply nodded and said, “Anyway, she wanted me to brush up on some of the basic stuff I might have missed–”

“Or had not much cause to use; you were rather busy, as I recall,” Malfoy said.

Harry stared up at him, inexplicably pleased. “Well, yeah. That too. But there are some advanced things that’ll help with seventh year classes and such, and– well, that’s where I go during the day. Sometimes Hogwarts, because there’s a ridiculous amount of paperwork and training and things to do before the fall.” He paused. “Now you.”

“Now me what?” Malfoy turned to face Harry, bewildered. “Now me go to Hogwarts? I’ve been, thanks.”

“No, I just– I told you something,” Harry said, irrationally amused when Malfoy’s confusion bled away to be replaced with that same shifty gaze that Harry’d been so annoyed by only minutes prior. “Now you tell me something else,” he amended. “That’s how civil conversations work.”

Malfoy stared at him for so long Harry wondered if he’d accidentally hexed his own mouth shut somehow. Then, abruptly, “The spiny parts of the purple leaves are good for indigestion. I think. I’m still working out a formula for them. But they have buds that are good for stomach ailments, and the whole leaf is sometimes used in a potion for someone who’s been internally Splinched, so it’s an educated guess.”

Disconcerted, Harry focused on rubbing Frank’s head for a minute. He was oddly curious about how often people were internally Splinched, but shook his head. “You– I thought the potions thing was just a hobby.”

“Well, I don’t make a living at it,” Malfoy said stiffly. He looped the cord of the small leather bag with his trimmings around his wrist.

“But that sounds... I don’t know. Professional. Like Snape,” he murmured.

“So?” Malfoy looked at him, eyes sparking.

“So… nothing.” Harry shrugged. “I just didn’t know you were really into... academics, I guess. I mean, I knew you were creative, knew you were smart–” He broke off, heat rising in his cheeks.

Malfoy continued looking at him for a moment, then suddenly lowered and mirrored Harry’s seated position. He laid one hand flat over Frank’s shell. Then, with only a trace of smugness in his smile, asked, “What finally made you recognise the obvious?”

Flustered, Harry fed a few more flowers to Frank before answering. “Just– I knew you got good marks in school, and…” He blew out a breath then met Malfoy’s eyes, because it was stupid to avoid it. “The Vanishing Cabinet. It took a lot of work to fix, and… creative problem solving, I guess.”

“I almost wasn’t able to,” Malfoy said quietly. He swallowed. “I wish I hadn’t.”

“Yeah, me too,” Harry admitted. He tried to soften it so it wouldn’t come out accusatory, relieved when Malfoy didn’t seem to take offence. “But still.”

“Still,” Malfoy agreed, with a lopsided tilt to his smile that made Harry’s heart speed up.

He cleared his throat. “So... yeah,” he mumbled, feeling like a twat. “That’s how I knew.”

“If not for Granger, I would have been first in class,” Malfoy said, just a touch resentfully. He smirked, then offered, “You’ve had to do some creative problem solving, yourself.”

Harry grinned. “I usually think of it as more reactionary than anything else, but yeah. I guess.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. An odd, twisting sensation filled Harry’s midsection; Malfoy’s pale cheeks were pink-tinged in the hazy sunlight, his eyes warmer than Harry had known his eyes could be. Their fingers were close; he could feel the disturbance of air against the tips of his, resting on the edge of Frank’s shell as Malfoy began to pet him. Harry wondered if he touched him, if Malfoy would feel as cool as he usually looked. Wondered if Malfoy would be receptive to it. All he had to do was extend his fingers a little, and they would brush, and then he would know…

“Juss kirrss him,” snarked Paul from behind a giant pot of Asphodel that Malfoy must’ve brought with him when he moved in. Harry jerked his hand away and glared.

“Shut up, Paul,” he hissed, ears burning. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He turned back to Malfoy, who blinked at him, lips parted slightly. “Sorry.”

Malfoy shook his head; his cheeks had gone from pink to red, and Harry didn’t know whether he should be intrigued or feel guilty. He hoped it wasn’t obvious what he’d been thinking, but if even Paul had noticed–

“Who,” Malfoy asked, craning his neck to look, “was that?”

Harry scratched the tip of his nose and gave an awkward laugh. “That’s, er, Paul. He sort of lives here. In the garden. I forgot to mention; I guess I assumed you would have seen him before. He doesn’t come out too much, though.”

Malfoy clambered to his feet, striding over to where Paul was hiding. Paul tried to streak away but Malfoy got there first, reaching down lightning-swift to haul him up by the arm and let him dangle while he turned to Harry incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell me you have a gnome infestation?” he demanded. “Do you have any idea how rare some of these plants are?”

“I don’t have an infestation.” Harry stood up too and walked over, sheepish. “I just have Paul. But I feed him plenty, he won’t hurt the plants.”

“You feed it?” Malfoy asked blankly. His eyes traveled from Harry to Paul and back, and he passed Paul over to Harry, a grimace on his face. Harry didn’t blame him; Paul refused to wear the clothes Harry’d bought, and his little potato-like body, overlarge head and flashingly sharp teeth didn’t make for the most pleasant image — not to mention the hair on his back and toes. “You— it’s your pet?”

“Of course not!” Harry looked at Paul and sighed, frowning. “His family kicked him out. He doesn’t like root plants, so he sort of got in the habit of hoarding worms and Every Flavour Beans, and they didn’t like that he wouldn’t share. He snuck into my bag one day at the Weasleys, then refused to leave when I found him. He doesn’t cause trouble,” he added, trying not to wince when Paul bit him. He gave the gnome a warning shake. “Stop it or I won’t keep you.”

“I’ll finmy way back,” Paul yammered, high pitched and growly. “You tan’t peep me away!”

“No, but I can stop buying you worms and candy,” Harry reminded him sharply. His forefinger was bleeding. Paul fell silent, glaring sullenly at both of them in turn.

Malfoy still seemed to be having trouble processing it. “You– You named it, and you feed it, and you let it live here and it’s not your pet?”

Said like that, it sounded valid, but Harry was pretty sure there was a flaw in the argument. Somewhere. He decided to figure out what it was, later. “No, he just stays here.”

“Like a pet would,” Malfoy dead-panned.

“Like a gnome would,” Harry said. Paul tried to bite him again and Harry switched hands.

“I can’t believe that you had a problem with Francis, a perfectly-behaved–”

“Not entirely housetrained,” Harry grumbled under his breath, needing something to complain about.

“–magical, actual pet–” Malfoy continued, undeterred.

“He’s not magical, and should probably be on a tropical island,” Harry said, though in truth he’d gotten rather fond of Frank in the last few weeks.

“–and yet you have that thing,” Malfoy finished, pointing at Paul, who was scratching his bare arse with ragged fingernails.

Harry blew out a breath. “Look, he has one gnome-hole, over in the corner, and he won’t bother the plants, okay?” He pinned Paul with a look. “Right?”

Paul shuddered in his grasp. “Plans,” he mumbled, face twisting. “No. Disgusting plans. Gerroff me now so you can kirrssss,” he added, puckering his lips into a loud, smacking noise. Malfoy made a high-pitched sound, and Harry glared down at Paul.

“I’ll spin you,” he threatened, though they both knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t have the heart for it — unlike Ron, who’d been bothered by gnomes since he was a kid, and laughed his arse off whenever Harry mentioned Paul.

Paul’s lips curled up in a decidedly evil smile. “The lasss time you brought a yellow-hair to the garden, you f–”

Harry sucked in a panicked breath and threw him.

Horrified with himself, he watched Paul sail through the air. He breathed a sigh of relief as Paul landed on his feet with a screechy laugh. Paul flipped him two fingers and yelled, “Fruckers!” before diving into his gnome-hole.

“He’s not usually like that,” Harry said helplessly, looking at Malfoy again. It was mostly true.

Malfoy seemed stunned. “I don’t care if Francis shits in the parlour every day, Potter; I’d better not hear another word of complaint about him, not if that thing is living here.”

“Fair enough,” Harry conceded, voice weak. He wiped his hands on his jeans — Paul’s preferred bathing method was standing out in the rain on occasion — and then shoved them in his pockets. He felt defensive and off-kilter, and he stared at Malfoy, not remotely sure what to do when Malfoy’s shock began to fade and he suddenly bent forward at the waist, dissolving into laughter.

“Oh S-S-Salazar,” he hooted, clutching his stomach. “That thing bites you and you buy it candy! Is there nothing you don’t save?”

Harry pulled one hand out of his pocket. It hadn’t stopped bleeding; he grabbed his wand from the back of his jeans and muttered a quick healing charm, wincing as the flesh sealed tight. “I just let him live here,” he insisted again, “and not even in the House!”

“I bet you offered!” Malfoy said, still chortling madly. Harry spent a highly important moment picking a piece of lint off his t-shirt, and Malfoy fell into a fresh round of laughter. He wiped his eyes with his knuckles, face flushed and open and amused. “I’m just glad it doesn’t have its own room, and that you haven’t outfitted it in a tailored wardrobe.”

Harry blushed, mind straying to the clothing Hermione had helped him pick out, then spelled to Paul’s approximate size. He decided not to mention it — even though in his opinion, a clothed gnome was better than a naked one.

Malfoy’s laughter finally died down, and he looked at Harry for a few moments, still grinning.

“Glad to have amused you,” Harry mumbled, surprised to find that he actually was.

“Yes, thanks for that.” Malfoy huffed again lightly — one little, almost-giggle. His eyes sparkled in the pale sunlight, and Harry sucked in a lungful of air, feeling suddenly light-headed. Malfoy cocked his head to the side, lips quirked. “So who’d you bring into the garden to do– what with, now?”

Harry’s heart lodged in his throat. “I, uh. You weren’t the first person I showed the House to.”

“That’s not what your pet made it sound like,” Malfoy said, gaze growing sharp. He studied Harry intently.

“I may have brought a date or two here before the House started acting up,” Harry said, rubbing at back of his neck, where his muscles had knotted. He looked past Malfoy’s shoulder.

“Blonds?” Malfoy asked suddenly. Harry’s eyes swerved to look at Malfoy’s face again. He was biting his lip, looking as though he wished he could bite off his tongue, and Harry slanted him a shaky smile.

“We’re going to talk about our sex lives, Malfoy?” he asked, trying for sardonic. It was a little hard when — well, when he was getting a little hard. “Really? That’s a thing we do?”

“You’re the one who followed me out to the garden today,” Malfoy said. “So we could talk as though we’re fr–” He cut himself off, pulling a face.

Harry swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. It was made worse by the way Malfoy’s face was closing up, all of that light shuttered by his practiced countenance of boredom.

“We could be,” Harry blurted on a rush of air. Which was the stupidest idea ever, really; they’d drive each other mental in days, maybe hours — and what the hell had he been thinking coming out here anyway just because Malfoy was avoiding him? He tried to remember that he wanted Malfoy to avoid him except for when they needed to interact to train the House; and now surely Malfoy was going to laugh, nastier this time, and Harry would want to pay him back for the train in sixth year, and it would ruin everything.

Only, Malfoy simply studied him a moment longer as Harry shifted from side to side. When he spoke, his voice was faint; thready. “I suppose. Though Pansy might kill me.”

“Not if I kill her first,” Harry joked, a shot of potent adrenaline flooding his system so hard he went momentarily dizzy. Malfoy snorted, the tension in his face bleeding away, and Harry flashed him a smile.

“We’ll likely kill each other,” Malfoy warned, echoing Harry’s thoughts.

“Not until you help me train the House.” Harry’s smile widened.

“Awfully opportunistic of you, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, his spine loosening in increments. His shoulders came down a notch.

“I almost Sorted Slytherin,” Harry told him. Malfoy laughed again.

“My wand is long enough; find someone else’s to pull.”

Harry’s brain shorted out as he tried to process that. “Don’t–” He gulped, a strange bubble of hysterical laughter caught in his chest. “Don’t pull your wand? Because it’s– l-long enough already?”

“It’s a Muggle phrase.” Malfoy looked at him uncertainly.

“Muggles don’t have wands, Malfoy. The phrase is pulling someone’s leg.” Harry snickered.

For a second, Malfoy looked lost for how to respond, then he leveled his eyes at Harry and jerked his chin up. “Well my legs are long enough, too.”

Too. He’d said too.

Harry blinked at him rapidly, pulse throbbing. “Got it,” he said, throat gone dry. “I won’t pull your legs or your...” Words failed him completely there, and they stared at each other in silence before Malfoy kind of shook his head, eyes narrow and dubious.

“Right,” he said after a beat. “Of course you won’t.”

“Anyway,” Harry said hastily, “this means you can stop avoiding me.”

“What makes you think I was?”

“Just, you know, the way you’re not often here and how, when you are, you’re either asleep or in the basement.” Harry hesitated. “Kreacher thinks you don’t like his dinner selection.”

“And this equals an avoidance of you?” Malfoy asked, back to sounding amused. “I’m busy, Potter. I have things to do with my days.”

“And those are?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I’ll try to make time to have dinner so your elf’s feelings aren’t hurt,” he said. He stepped to the side, breaking Harry’s gaze. “Francis is ready to go inside.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah.” Unsure what, exactly, they had agreed upon — it seemed like a lot, and yet nothing at all that Harry could pinpoint — Harry watched Malfoy levitate Frank in through the French doors, then glance at Harry once more before heading up the stairs to his room. Harry went into the parlour on slightly unsteady legs and sat down heavily on the sofa, staring at Frank and trying not to be bothered that Malfoy didn’t want to tell him what he did when he wasn’t at home.

From somewhere, he heard the insidious whisper, “You should have kissed him…”

“Shut up, Paul,” he yelled. He flicked his wand, and the French doors slammed shut.

Apparently, Malfoy’s idea of eating Kreacher’s dinners was to have Kreacher bring a plate down to the basement — or save one under a warming stasis to eat when he decided to come home late from wherever. If Harry was disappointed — which he emphatically was not — he had no real recourse anyway. He continued to take his dinners by himself, occasionally listening to Malfoy curse beyond the doorway to the basement.

But at least Malfoy was around more often; even venturing into the kitchen for a few minutes before he left most mornings, standing at the counter and eating thick slices of buttered toast while Harry sipped his coffee. They exchanged pleasantries and talked about Quidditch, or what potion Malfoy was working on, or Harry's training — conversations which became a shamefully bright spot in Harry's days. Malfoy had some surprisingly insightful theories on what was missing from first and second year studies, which Harry made notes of later and got most approved from McGonagall. And though the way Malfoy licked the butter off his fingers made Harry reevaluate his whole concept on what a good roommate was — because surely, they shouldn’t be allowed to do that — Harry was still left feeling more at ease about their arrangement than he had before.

At least, until Grimmauld Place began fighting him again.

It started so small that he discounted it the first time — the lights in his loo dimming and flickering while he took a shower, then the water running so cold that he lost the erection he’d been stroking. But the magical electricity and plumbing in the House were old, and the House had been so… accommodating in the last several weeks, it had been almost easy to ignore the reason Harry'd sought a housemate at all. Ever since Malfoy had moved in, Harry had become accustomed to the notable lack of loud creaking sounds as he was trying to fall asleep, and food he bought being found in the pantry when he looked. Harry reminded himself to hire a handi-wizard as he looked sadly down at his flaccid cock and dried himself off briskly.

The next week, it was his novels disappearing. Each night when he went to bed, Harry had a habit of dog-earing his page and setting his book in his nightstand drawer. When he found it missing the following night, he asked Kreacher, who insisted he hadn’t moved it while grumbling under his breath that the House would do…something if Harry didn’t… something else, obviously just as dire. But he refused to elaborate on his obscure mumbles when Harry asked so, as an experiment, Harry got another book out and set it in his drawer, and checked it the morning when he woke up. It, too, had vanished.

He scowled when Malfoy came traipsing into the kitchen an hour later, heading immediately over to the large pile of toast and cup of tea that Kreacher had taken to setting out for him.

“It’s taking my books,” Harry snapped. Malfoy cocked his hip against the counter and raised an eyebrow.

“You read books?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “The House! The House is taking my books.”

Malfoy blinked. He took a large bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully, chasing it with a gulp of tea, then licked a smear of butter off his forefinger. Harry’s frown darkened as his eyes slid over Malfoy’s emerald robes, high collared and elegant. Then Malfoy shrugged. “I haven’t seen it misbehave once. Are you sure you haven’t made the whole thing up?”

“That’s because it likes you,” Harry said, refusing to feel paranoid. “But it’s stolen two of my books now, and twice last week it ran the water cold while I was–” Harry glared at him. “–in the shower.”

Snorting softly, Malfoy took another bite. “Really? Your water pressure and heat have been spot on for me,” he said smugly once he’d swallowed. “Maybe it’s trying to inform you that the plumbing needs to be replaced. That would be a job for the Master of the House.”

“It does need to be replaced; that’s not the point,” Harry insisted. “You were supposed to help me fix it.”

“I have helped you, Potter.” He affected a lofty air. “Just having me here has helped you.”

“Right, but what happens if you leave?” Harry said, exasperated.

“We’ve got over ten months on the original rental agreement,” Malfoy said with a grin. Harry narrowed his eyes; he’d noticed Malfoy do that on more than one occasion — subtly change the subject until Harry couldn’t recall what they’d been talking about. And it was amusing, sometimes, but he was in the middle of a goddamned book.

“We need to start lessons,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “We have a Wizard’s agreement.”

Malfoy sighed. He polished off his toast, sucked on his fingers again, then brushed the crumbs off his chest. “Fine,” he said flatly. “I can help next Saturday.”

“That’s almost two weeks!” Harry shook his head and scoffed. “No way. I don’t want to risk losing training scrolls or something. Tonight.”

“This Saturday,” Malfoy countered. “I have a potion brewing that I’ll need to sit with for a few hours when I get home tonight. And tomorrow.” Harry opened his mouth to object, but Malfoy hummed a little and said, cautiously, “And I invited Blaise and Pansy and Greg over on Friday.”

Blinking, Harry pictured his House filled with a group of laughing Slytherins before he remembered. “Oh. I invited Ron and Hermione and Luna and Gin over then,” he said, thrown. “It’ll be like we’re having a– a– party, and I don't really do those.”

Malfoy lifted his shoulders. “So? As long as your lot agrees not to try to kill mine, it should be fine. I’d watch Weasley — both of them, actually; your ex-girlfriend has a nasty temper — but Greg won’t do anything aside from drink too much and get soppy, and Blaise and Pansy will inevitably disappear to shag or find other people to shag, so…”

“Ron and Hermione wouldn’t hurt any of them.” Harry sighed and removed his glasses to rub at his eyes. He replaced them and shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Well, Gin might, but Luna’s pretty good at keeping her calm.”

“Fine. You should pick up some extra Ogden’s.”

Harry quirked him a disbelieving smile. “I’m to fund your friends getting drunk so they can shag?”

“Room and board, Potter,” Malfoy reminded him.

“Pretty sure that’s not what that means,” Harry muttered, but made a mental note to pick up extra alcohol. “Why can’t I come down to the basement while you’re brewing? You could talk me through some stuff, then.”

“No, I need to focus when I’m working.”

“You let Blaise go down there,” Harry said, not remotely resentful at all.

“Blaise isn’t as distracting,” Malfoy said, then fell silent. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. “You crash into every room you enter, and never stop talking. Plus, he’s familiar with how to stay out of my way while I work.”

“Then after you’re done.”

“I sleep then.” Malfoy frowned at him, as though the thought of losing out on a bit of sleep was akin to losing a limb.

Harry sighed again, frustrated. He carded a hand through his hair. “If one more thing happens, I’ll do my best to make sure you never get any sleep again until this House is fully trained.”

Malfoy looked away, a smirk twitching around his mouth. “Was that supposed to be a threat?” he murmured, amused. “Until then, we’ll leave it at Saturday.” Harry blinked at him, flushing as he realised — had Malfoy just...? — and Malfoy headed to the foyer, grabbing his cloak off the hook. “Need to go.”

“Okay,” Harry said weakly. Malfoy nodded, pinned his cloak on, and left.

Harry looked at the empty hall Malfoy had just been occupying for a long minute before getting up to take a shower — hoping desperately that the water would stay hot.

Social activities — or even things that looked like social activities, in which defence wandwork or flying were not a part — were not really Harry’s forte. So he was pleased when Hermione volunteered to help set things up, mentally sending thanks to her parents for somehow raising the most generous, anal-retentive, hyper-organised, brilliant girl he knew.

He rethought that gratitude when she brought board games and an acoustic guitar.

“You know,” she said brightly, “for if anyone plays. We could have a sing-a-long!”

Harry barely controlled his panicked expression, sliding his eyes to Ron who looked apologetic. Hermione flounced past him, setting down the big stack of Muggle board games on the coffee table and the guitar just to the side of it, then looked around the room thoughtfully. She reached into her tiny leather bag and pulled out–

“Ron,” Harry croaked, “is that bunting?”

Ron winced. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “She’s only really been to my mum’s parties; never had much occasion to go to one since before Hogwarts, y’know?” He spread his hands helplessly. “At least she knows there’ll be alcohol, too. It’s not like she expects–”

“Harry, will Kreacher mind fixing cocoa later on in the evening?” Hermione asked absently, still flicking her wand at the bunting. Harry watched the streamers float into place and affix themselves to the corners of the parlour, hanging automatically in a moderately attractive drape that did absolutely nothing to make the room look more cheerful. In fact, Harry could have sworn he heard a growl from the House itself. “If not, I can. I brought some.”

Harry looked plaintively at Ron, who refused to meet his eyes, crouching instead to pet Frank for a minute. Frank accepted his attention with a sort of blasé air, as if he disapproved of all this nonsense but felt it would be impolite to drag himself away, and Harry felt a rush of gratitude towards him — at least he had one... thing on his side.

“Hermione,” Harry said loudly, “I don’t think… That is, this isn’t exactly a party. I don’t even know if Malfoy and the rest will stay downstairs. I thought we’d all just have some beer and turn on the wireless like we did at yours last time. I just thought it would be good to warn you that they were coming.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he took a tiny step back. “Did you or did you not ask how to go about hosting a bunch of Slytherins?”

He hadn’t, actually. As he recalled it, he’d said something more along the lines of I hope we don’t all start firing hexes at each other. But he nodded anyway. The corner of her mouth twitched up.

“And didn’t you say you’d appreciate my help?”

Well, that was at least true. Harry’s shoulders rounded and he nodded in defeat. “I’m just not sure that board games and cocoa are the way to go,” he mumbled.

“Nonsense,” she said cheerfully, just as Harry heard the front door unlock. “Everyone likes board games and cocoa.”

Malfoy and Parkinson came in then, followed closely by Blaise and Goyle. They all stopped short.

“Hi,” Malfoy finally said, horror-stricken eyes on the bright yellow-and-red and green-and-grey streamers hanging about the room. Harry cringed as Malfoy’s gaze sought his. Malfoy mouthed, “What?” and Harry shook his head, and returned a silent ”Hermione.”, relieved when understanding lit Malfoy’s face.

“Francis,” Goyle rumbled, walking heavily over to Frank and sitting down. Frank seemed far more receptive to him than he had to Ron — who looked a little offended. “Hey, there.”

”Gooood, yes…”

Harry looked around. The whisper had seemed to sound directly in his ear, and he spun a little. The room seemed a bit brighter, and his eyes flicked over each person in the small crowd gathered in his parlour. “Malfoy, can I see you in the kitchen for a second?”

“And miss out on Granger — or Weasley; really I’m not picky — playing the guitar?” Malfoy asked sardonically. “Not on your life.”

Harry strode toward him. Malfoy opened his mouth as if to say something scathing, but Harry simply latched an arm around his elbow and dragged him off toward to the kitchen, throwing a “S’cuse us!” behind him as they went.

He released Malfoy’s arm when they got there, and Malfoy shook it out, looking at him resentfully for a moment before mirth stole its place. “How old does she think we are?” he laughed, throwing his head back. Harry’s eyes were drawn to the arch of his throat, exposed and pale, but he looked away.

“Do magical Houses talk to their Masters?” he asked eagerly.

Malfoy’s smile faded; he looked at Harry like he were daft. “Talk?”

“The House just told me — I mean, I think… I think it likes having a lot of people over,” Harry fumbled out.

“Well, yes,” Malfoy said slowly, “they’re built to provide protection and comfort and joyous times to their Master… So it makes sense that years of disuse might bleed into its walls. That’s certainly an aspect we can consider.”

Harry waited expectantly. Malfoy shook his head.

“But I’ve never heard of a House talking — not Malfoy Manor, not any — so…” He tilted his head. “I suppose it’s possible that one of my ancestors charmed it to respond verbally?”

“Could you ask your mum, maybe?”

Malfoy’s mouth flattened. “My parents weren’t part of this,” he said, sounding suddenly stilted.

“Right, I know, just–”

“Yes, I mean,” Malfoy added loudly, cutting him off. “Of course I will. Yes. I’ll owl her tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Harry said with a relieved exhale. “Sorry. I know we’re starting tomorrow, but that was… weird, thinking the House was talking to me. It hasn’t done anything since Wednesday, so I thought it might be… I got a little excited, I guess.”

“Is that what excited looks like on you?” Malfoy snickered. “Pity.”

Harry caught his breath. He didn’t know what these little comments were playing at, and he was abruptly tired of trying to figure them out. Slowly — slowly enough that Malfoy had time to move away if he wanted — Harry reached out and touched the side of his neck. For a second, he let his fingers linger there, Malfoy’s soft skin under the pads of them, and when he looked back to Malfoy’s face, he saw his pupils had gone wide, though the kitchen lamps were bright around them.

“Are you flirting with me, Malfoy?”

“Of course not,” Malfoy huffed. But his eyes were sharp, and the bloom on his cheeks was spreading. “You’re not–”

“What?”

“We live together,” Malfoy said instead.

“True.” Harry leaned against the door jam of the kitchen. “So you’re just trying to unnerve me? With your little innuendos?”

“No, of course not,” Malfoy said, frowning. “What on earth could you possibly get unnerved about, anyway?”

Harry sucked in a breath. He rubbed the back of his neck; it felt hot against his palm. “Making fun of me, then?” he guessed quietly.

Malfoy cast him a withering look. “About what, Potter?”

“Because I’m gay,” Harry said, matter-of-fact. He watched Malfoy closely.

Malfoy cracked a laugh, sharp and loud. “You’re not.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

Harry blinked. “Then I should probably get pretty mad at the last bloke who put his–”

“Stop!” Malfoy shouted, looking wild-eyed and on the verge of panic.

“You really didn’t know?” Harry asked, trying to figure out a polite way to ask if Malfoy was, too. Just to satisfy his curiosity.

Sputtering, Malfoy backed away. He looked at everything in the room but Harry, eyes landing on the floor, the ceiling, the refrigerator and kitchen table. They caught there, narrowed into slits, and when he spoke, his lips somehow remained unmoving. His voice was cold. “I didn’t know.”

“Oh.” Harry pushed off the door jam. “Is it a problem?”

“Not for me,” Malfoy said, low like a snarl. When he finally looked up, his eyes glinted, shrewd and focused on Harry’s face. Harry cleared his throat, disconcerted. He couldn’t decide if Malfoy looked like he wanted to hex him or shag him — which, to be fair, was the usual state of things for them, from Harry’s perspective lately, anyway. Malfoy took a couple of steps closer to Harry, his long legs eating up the distance he’d put between them.

“Good,” Harry said, flustered. He could feel the stamp of a blush over his cheekbones, bright and hot, and wished he hadn’t opened his mouth about it at all. Also the usual state of things, from his perspective. Dammit.

“Why good?” Malfoy asked, lowering his voice a touch. “Did you want me to be flirting?”

“Would you flirt with me anyway?” Harry asked, heart beating fast. He swallowed. “We’re... us,” he added lamely.

And I’m a man, tripped on Harry’s tongue, pushing against the back of his teeth as though it were begging to be uttered. Malfoy licked his lips; just a darting flash of pink tongue. He opened his mouth.

The strains of a guitar playing wafted into the room, soft and twang-y. Malfoy’s face twisted in confusion, all of that fierce, fascinating light fading from his gaze. The sounds of laughter filtered in as well, not remotely quiet, and Harry wondered how long they’d been in the kitchen.

“Is that–?” Malfoy’s throat had turned a blotchy pink. Harry exhaled, feeling seven different types of foolish as Malfoy stalked past him with a narrow glance and went back into the parlour. Harry followed.

He drew to a halt at Malfoy’s side, pretty sure his expression was identical to the one Malfoy was sporting; a stunned kind of gape as he took in Parkinson, Ron, Hermione, Luna and Blaise on the floor surrounding the coffee table; Scrabble was set up between them, and Blaise was picking out his tiles with care, organising them. Ginny sat in front of Frank, whose chin had settled on her knee, his eyes closing in bliss as she stroked the scaly skin on the back of his extended neck, and Goyle was sitting on the sofa, strumming the guitar experimentally, brows furrowed in concentration as a surprisingly sweet melody was coaxed from its strings.

“It’s just like a magi-stringdrum,” Goyle said delightedly, noticing Harry and Malfoy. Harry questioningly nudged Malfoy’s shoulder with his own and Malfoy grunted as Goyle continued, “Only you have to work the music out with your fingers instead of your wand.”

“Goyle’s a musician?”

Malfoy slanted him a glance. “He plays nine different magical instruments.”

“That’s…” Harry tried to find a non-insulting way of saying, Surprisingly deep for someone who barely seemed to be able to string two words together in school. But it seemed he didn’t need to, because Malfoy shrugged.

“He never had a chance in Hogwarts to learn what he was good at.” His mouth turned down, almost tiredly, as he watched Goyle play. Then, vaguely defensive, “There are different types of smart.”

Harry’s heart clenched oddly; his stomach fluttered.

“You can’t use ‘cocks’!” Hermione shouted suddenly. Harry blanched and looked to the group around the coffee table. She was flushed and had a nearly-empty tumbler of amber liquid perched on the table in front of her.

Blaise snickered. “It’s dirty Scrabble; what’d you expect me to spell?”

“Did we agree that it was dirty Scrabble?” Ron mumbled, cheeks going red. He leaned forward abruptly and began rearranging his tiles.

“No,” Hermione huffed. “But if we had, he should at least use proper medical names for things!”

“How is that dirty?” Pansy asked, using the ‘s’ in Blaise’s word to spell out ‘suck.’

“Well, how is ‘suck’?” Hermione asked loudly. “Just because you can do dirty things with it doesn’t make it a dirty word!”

“You just don’t like losing,” Pansy said, smile wide and mischievous. She was sat cross-legged on the floor, and her tiny skirt rode up her thighs, flashing a strip of bright blue knickers. “You want us to use words like ‘cunnilingus’?”

Hermione frowned, thinking, and Harry sought Ron’s eyes. Ron looked amused and gave a small shrug.

“Oh, I enjoy cunnilingus,” Luna put in, smiling. She used the ‘c’ in ‘cock’ to spell out ‘cunt.’ “But I agree, it’s not the most arousing of words.”

“It’s just a mouthful, when you’re planning on having a mouthful,” Ginny joked from the corner with Frank. She, too, had a glass of whiskey, and took a long drink from it, eyes affectionate on Luna over the rim of the glass. Luna beamed at her.

“‘Mione, do you want to lose? We’re already behind on points,” Ron said, and Hermione straightened her shoulders, then flipped her hair.

“Certainly not!” she said, examining their tiles closely. “Oh, Ron, good! Thanks, Luna!” She used the ‘t’ in ‘cunt’ to spell out ‘twats.’

Harry edged into the room dubiously. Malfoy looked as if he was ready to pass out already, so Harry poured two drinks and levitated one over to him, then sat down next to Ginny as Malfoy took an uneasy seat on the sofa next to Goyle, who’d started to hum, low and soothingly.

“When did you guys get here? And how’d Hermione get drunk so fast?” he whispered to Ginny. Her mouth pulled up to one side and she tossed back the rest of her drink. Frank craned his neck to look at Harry with wise, beseeching eyes, and Harry automatically pulled out the blossoms he’d taken to carrying around in his pocket.

“We showed up just as you were hauling Malfoy into the kitchen. Parkinson made a comment about the alcohol going to waste when there were so many Gryffindors in the room, and Hermione took that as some kind of challenge,” Ginny explained under her breath, brushing her hair back from her face. She raised an eyebrow. “What were you and Malfoy talking about so long?”

“House stuff,” Harry said vaguely. Ginny snorted, brown eyes twinkling up at Harry, and Harry sighed. “And that I’m gay.”

“He asked you if you’re gay?” She blinked, diverted, just as Blaise crowed, “Rimming, for a triple word score!”

Harry’s eyes strayed to Malfoy, who was flushed and staring straight at him. After a tiny pause, his lips parted and one side ticked up. Harry’s body reacted to that smile of its own accord, cock lengthening a bit in his pants.

“Harry? Harry!”

Mortified, Harry dragged his eyes back to Ginny. “Rimming. I mean, what?”

Ginny looked at him and started laughing. She ticked a glance at Malfoy, then back. “Really, Harry?”

“What?” he hissed, under his breath. “You’ve got Luna over there extolling the virtues of cunnilingus!”

Smug, she waggled her eyebrows. “Well, yeah.”

Hermione shouted, “Thrust!”

Harry tried so hard; he really did, but Malfoy was like a magnet and Harry looked back at him, unable to help himself. He had leaned against the back of the sofa, one arm draped across the top of it, thighs spread slightly, and had an infuriating smile on his face as he caught Harry’s glance.

Harry took a long swallow of his drink, wiping his chin with the back of his wrist when some whiskey, in his haste, dribbled out the side of his mouth. He turned back to Ginny. “No,” he said unsteadily, forcing himself to focus on the burn of alcohol as it pooled in his stomach. “I just told him.”

“That you were gay? Merlin, why?”

“I don’t know,” Harry lied. “He’s been–”

“What?”

“Flirting, I think,” Harry admitted, voice low. “I don’t know. Things are weird. He’s not around a lot, but when he is, there are moments– only I can’t be sure he’s even interested. Or that I am. Not for more than a…”

“A quick shag?” she asked, just as quiet.

Harry nodded, grateful. Frank slowly scooted closer, his squat legs propelling him awkwardly forward, and dipped his snout into Harry’s open palm, which rested on his knee. Harry searched his pockets again and came up dry. “Sorry, mate,” he mumbled.

But then a small knot of red flowers was suddenly hovering in place in front of him. Harry snatched it out of the air, shoving it under Frank’s mouth and refusing to look back in Malfoy’s direction as Frank began parsing them out of his hand.

“Would it be so bad?” Harry asked. He felt equal parts relieved and appalled that he and Ginny would — or even could — talk about this stuff; he thought he should be more uncomfortable or something, bringing his confusing sexual desires for his ex-nemesis to her. But Gin just shook her head thoughtfully, a lock of flaming hair falling over her cheek again. He reached out and tweaked it away, and she smiled at him.

“I mean, I don’t like him,” she admitted. “He was a total arse to you — to all of us, really — back in school. But I don’t think he’s out to hurt you, right?”

“What about spunk?” Luna wondered aloud, and the whole table groaned. Harry’s face went hot, his midsection cold. His shoulders stiffened, and he could feel–

“He’s looking at me,” he muttered.

Ginny paused. “Yes.”

“No, he’s not out to hurt me,” Harry said.

“Anal!” Parkinson announced, and Harry heard Malfoy say, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Pans.”

Harry twitched, cock fattening further against his thigh. He realised that his fingers had closed into a fist, crushing Frank’s flowers. He pried his hand back open.

“But how much longer are you guys living together?” Ginny prodded after a moment.

“Is comeshot one word or two?” Ron asked from behind him. Harry scrubbed a hand over his face in misery as they began a debate over whether the word should be allowed, and its inherent meanings. Blaise insisted the proper term was ‘facial,’ while — dear Merlin — Hermione argued that it was one word, and that she would know because–

Harry twisted again; Ron looked humiliated, and oddly chuffed, Hermione’s eyes were bright with drink, and Blaise looked outraged as he lost the argument and the word was almost unanimously voted allowed. Luna and Parkinson were sitting far too close together. He didn’t look at Malfoy.

“Um, Gin?”

Ginny followed his eyes and she looked like she was tamping down on a bubble of laughter. “Luna’s a smart girl. ...You don’t want to know,” she assured him, eyes gleaming with an unholy light.

“Fuck.” Harry grimaced, willing the implication away. He shook his head and took another drink. “So what do I do?”

“How would I know, Harry?” she said, gently amused. “What do you want to do?”

“Hex my ears off, right about now,” he mumbled, seeking out Malfoy’s gaze as Blaise reluctantly said, “Snog.”

Malfoy looked back at him steadily and took a sip from his drink. He licked off a drop of whiskey from his lip.

Harry waved goodbye to Ron and Hermione as the flare of green from the Floo took them home. Somehow, the copious amounts of alcohol had led to Monopoly, and then to poker — not strip, thankfully, as Blaise had gleefully suggested — and finally to sipping cocoa as they’d watched the television blearily. Luna and Ginny left first, followed suspiciously closely by Parkinson, and Blaise shortly thereafter, who’d announced he wasn’t done for the night then spent twenty minutes debating which seedy club he thought he’d be able to pull at, grumbling about Parkinson’s departure.

Finally Hermione, half-asleep on Ron’s shoulder, had reached up to curl a hand behind Harry’s neck and pull him down to kiss his cheek. “It was a good party, right?”

“It wasn’t a party,” he insisted with a low laugh. She made a wounded noise, and Harry smiled into her fluffy curls. “But you did a great job.”

“Take me home and do one of those Scrabble things to me,” she said to Ron. Harry huffed, taking in the stupidly bright smile that lit across Ron’s face.

“If you’ll take a sobering potion first,” Ron said.

She smiled goofily up at him, then at Harry. “He’s so good. Isn’t he good? I like him. Do you like Malfoy? Or Draco. He said to call him Draco.”

“I, uh.” Harry looked at Ron, who gave him a one-armed shrug as if to say, Can’t help you here, Mate. “You should get some sleep.”

“I’m going to take a sobering potion,” she said, managing to sound prim even as she basically announced to him that she’d decided to shag Ron in a few minutes. He’d tried not to remember some of the words that had filled the board by the end of the game, and guided them firmly to the Floo.

Harry looked around, sighing. He considered leaving the mess — glasses and food strewn about, Hermione’s streamers and the scattered board games and cards no one had bothered to put back in their boxes properly — but wearily flicked his wand instead, levitating the dishes to the kitchen, reassembling the games and Vanishing the decorations. He opened the French doors and, almost as if he’d been waiting, Frank moved out of his inertia and began to make way for them. Harry floated him outside and set him down gently, then turned to stare at Goyle, whose head was resting on the back of the sofa, mouth hanging open. Malfoy was stretched across the other seats, his socked feet in Goyle’s lap, and they were both snoring quietly.

Harry wondered if you were able to take a photograph from a Pensieve memory.

He crouched at Goyle’s side. “Hey, Goyle.” He nudged his arm. “Goyle! ...Greg?”

Goyle’s — Greg’s — eyes fluttered open. “Wha–?”

“There are rooms upstairs if you need one,” Harry offered quietly. Goyle wasn’t such a bad bloke, when no one he respected was telling him to be. In fact, during the short discussions Harry’d had with him over the course of the evening, Harry wondered how he’d ever been — it was hard to reconcile his memories of Goyle the Hulking Cronie with the reality of Greg the Shy Musician. “Second floor.”

“Hmm’no,” Greg mumbled. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and yawned. “Sorry. Where’d everyone go?”

“It’s late; they went home.”

“Good party, Potter,” Greg rumbled, yawning louder this time. He gently lifted Malfoy’s feet off his lap and stood, stretching.

“It wasn’t a party,” Harry said, snorting.

“Little weird being surrounded by couples, though,” Greg said with a sigh. “Maybe invite more single people next time.”

“You want a set-up?” Harry asked, a smile pulling at his mouth.

“Oh, no,” Greg said. He scratched at the side of his neck, then blinked at Harry. “I don’t like people that way. But it’d be nice to have more people to talk to when everyone pairs off.”

“Oh. Okay,” Harry said, then stopped, caught. “Wait a minute, there were only two couples here.”

“You know what I mean.” He bashfully lifted his wide, meaty shoulders. “Blaise and Pansy usually pair off — ‘cept this time Luna decided to bring Pansy home with her and your ex–”

“No–” Harry said, cringing.

“Then there’s Hermione and Ron, o’course. Blaise counts, I guess, except he always wants to have sex, so he’s no fun come the end of the night,” Greg continued thoughtfully. “And then there’s you and Draco.”

Harry closed his eyes. “There isn’t a me and Draco.”

“There’s always been a you-and-Draco,” Greg said, tone so practical that Harry was hard-pressed not to believe him. “You couldn’t even wait for us to leave before you snogged him in the kitchen.”

“I did not sn–” Harry started to squawk, but Greg cuffed him on the shoulder with one huge hand and Harry wobbled to keep his balance.

“So more friendly-type people next time, yeah?” Greg said hopefully.

“Yeah,” Harry said heavily. He rubbed his shoulder.

“Cool. Be nice to Draco,” he said simply, perhaps just too in the habit of protecting Malfoy to give it up easily.

Harry nodded, processing that sluggishly. “I am. We’re– friends, now.”

“Yeah, he told me.” Greg shook his head and sighed. “He’s supposed to be the smart one, too,” he added enigmatically, then headed to the Floo and took a pinch of Floo powder, ducking his head to walk in. “See you later, Harry. Thanks for the cake.”

“Sure,” Harry said uncertainly. He watched Greg disappear and stood for a moment, dreading what he’d see when he turned around. It wouldn’t be wrong to leave Malfoy sleeping — perfectly comfortably — on the sofa. He could walk up the stairs with not a single glance in Malfoy’s direction. He was tired and drunk too, and why the hell was it up to him to take care of everyone else? It shouldn’t be. He should just go to bed and have done with it.

Sighing, he walked over to Malfoy, whose mouth was sagging open slightly. Harry crouched down and gripped his shoulder, shaking him lightly. “Malfoy,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

Malfoy mumbled something and rolled to his side, his fringe flopping over his forehead. He looked... younger, in his sleep. Not haughty, not cold, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. Harry realised with a start that he’d stopped thinking of Malfoy as cold weeks ago.

“Psst. Malfoy!” he said, louder, shaking his shoulder again. Then, thinking of Greg, he swallowed and said, “Draco, wake up.”

Draco stirred, one hand snapping out to circle Harry’s wrist; his long fingers curled tight around it, and his eyes opened. He looked so aware in that second that Harry was startled when Draco’s voice came out sleepy, and slurred from drink. “I like it when you call me Draco.”

“First time ever,” Harry pointed out inanely. Draco’s fingers were warm on his wrist; his thumb pressed tight over Harry’s pulse point, which fluttered fast.

“Sounded good,” Draco said, yawning. “Are we going to bed now?”

Harry coughed. “It’s, uh, time for bed now, yeah. Unless you want to stay here. That’s fine.”

“No, I’ll go up with you,” Draco murmured, eyes slipping shut again. He breathed quietly for a moment, then jerked when Harry pulled his wrist away.

“Okay, yeah.” Harry stood, and didn’t imagine the way Draco’s eyes slid up his body to his face with a sort of bleary fascination. “Do you need help up?”

Draco blinked again. “No, ‘m good.” He heaved himself up. “Did everyone leave?”

“Yeah; Greg just now.”

“Pans went to shag your girlfriend and Lovegood,” Draco mumbled, scraping his hair off his face. “Right?”

Harry groaned. “Don’t remind me. I’m trying to pretend that’s not happening right now.”

“Why? S’not like it matters to you… You’re–” He waved a hand, indicating something about Harry that Harry couldn’t figure out.

“All right, yeah,” Harry conceded. “I hope they have lots of orgasms, okay? Should we discuss what positions they’re using?”

Draco made a face. “Merlin, no. Sorry, I just. Fuck.” He ran a hand over his face again, then exhaled loudly. “I’m going to need a hangover cure.”

Harry extended a hand. “Come on; up you get.”

Draco fit his palm into Harry’s and let himself be hauled up. Their faces were incredibly close. “I wondered if you were gay,” Draco said, as slowly as Frank at his fastest.

“I’m not... sober. And you’re drunk,” Harry said, voice strained.

“More than a bit,” Draco agreed. “S’a bad idea.”

Harry rolled his shoulders and released Draco’s hand. “Yeah. Can you make it up the stairs?”

“Not saying I don’t want to, Potter. Do you top or bottom?”

Groaning, Harry took a step away, then another. “What are you doing?”

Draco waved that negligent hand again. “Drunk. You look decent.”

“Thanks,” Harry said faintly. “You should go to bed.”

“Alone?”

“Fuck, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. “Yes! Alone!”

“Okay.” Draco turned, swaying, and spotted Frank outside. He whistled, low, and Frank began his arduous trek back indoors. Draco turned to Harry, triumphant. “He comes when I call him.”

“Dogs do, too; doesn’t make them magical,” Harry said, caught somewhere between laughter and tears and climax. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re just as annoying as you were when we were twelve.” But even as Draco said it, he smiled; it was wide, and loose around the edges, and Draco’s gaze was hazy. He looked at Harry for a second longer, then walked unsteadily past him, his robes open and fluttering around him like a coat. He was wearing a dress shirt underneath, top buttons open to reveal the hollow of his throat. Harry wanted to lick it.

“That’s funny,” Harry mumbled, when he was sure Draco couldn’t hear anymore. “You’re not.”

He waited until he heard Draco at the top of the stairs, then helped Frank the rest of the way back into the House.

”You should mate with him,” came a whisper, mirroring Harry’s thoughts so perfectly that his knees went weak. He glared at the wall.

“Just because you like him doesn’t mean I have to,” he said furiously, under his breath. “I mean, I do. But you don’t know what things were like with us, and we live together, and he’s probably fucking with me, and he’s drunk and half off his nut. He doesn’t know what he’s offering.”

He waited for the House to respond, but it remained eerily silent. Harry pointed his wand at the French doors and slammed them shut, then stalked up the staircase to indulge in a frustrated wank.

Harry blinked his eyes open in the darkness of his room. The drapes were bound, and the moon was still visible in the sky beyond his window. He thought about casting a Tempus charm, but it didn’t really matter; he had to pee too badly, anyway.

Cursing himself for having consumed so much alcohol, he stumbled out of bed and over to the loo.

“Son of a bitch!” He rattled the knob a few more times, then Summoned his wand and cast at it, but the door remained stubbornly locked, even seeming to swell to stay in place. Glaring, Harry muttered, “I thought you liked the party.”

He made his way out to the hall, his bladder achingly urgent, and hobbled to the nearest bathroom — which was, of course, also locked. Fuming, he started to head downstairs — he’d just withhold candy from Paul for a couple of days if he started throwing rocks again — when he passed Draco’s door and hesitated. He tried the knob, dancing lightly in place, and when it turned for him, released it and pounded on the door in three frantic, warning knocks before entering.

In the darkness of the room, he barely saw Draco sit up in bed as he strode past him and bellowed, “This fucking House!” before letting himself into Draco’s — thankfully open — bathroom and slamming the door behind him, shoving his flannel bottoms down and groaning with relief.

Business taken care of and hands washed a couple of minutes later, Harry walked back into the bedroom. Draco had spelled on a low lamp and stood, heavy-lidded and swaying slightly, holding onto one of his bedposts. He was shirtless and wearing nothing but a low-slung set of deep green, cotton pyjama bottoms, the front of which tented slightly with what looked to be the remnants of a sleep boner. Or a new one, Harry couldn’t be sure; his own cock twitched with interest. He dragged his eyes up Draco’s pale, lean stomach, gaze lingering on the soft line of hair that trailed from his bellybutton down past the waistband of his pyjamas. He drew his eyes further up, taking in Draco’s nipples, his mostly smooth chest, marble-white and covered in rangy muscle and– and slashing silver scars, from just under his collarbone to the edge of each hip. There were five of them.

Harry swallowed and looked away.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Draco asked, yawning. He blinked, obviously still more than a little sozzled.

Harry frowned. “I had to piss. My bathrooms decided to lock me out again. And we’re not waiting for another fucking second before House lessons, Draco.”

Draco gave him a tiny, confused smile before seeming to realise what he was doing. He scowled instead. “It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

“I don’t care!” The room spun slightly, and Harry gave a lurching step to right himself. “Look, d’you have any sobering potion?”

“Nuh uh. Just hangover cure.” Draco sat back down on his bed. He rotated his neck right and left, then fell bonelessly sideways. “So, morning. I’ll take the morning off. I can do that, I live here.”

“What are you on about?” Harry demanded, staring at Draco as he buried the side of his face into his pillow. “Get up; I don’t want to come in here every time I have to pee!”

“Then don’t,” Draco mumbled, eyes closed. He kicked the blankets caught under his knees down, then slipped his feet under them, groping blindly to tug them up over his body. “Sleep here. I don’t fucking care, Potter. You’re the one who’s too–” he continued incoherently, voice dropping and trailing off into nothing.

“I’m not going to sleep on your floor!” Harry objected, outraged. The room wobbled around him again.

“Bed,” Draco said. He flopped over, revealing the sharp jut of his shoulder blades and the top of his back, attractively dipped in the centre and shadowed with the faint knobs of his spine. “You don’t have to worry I’ll molest you; you made it perfectly clear that you–” His voice drifted off again sleepily, his back rising with slow and steady breaths.

Harry glared at him — at Draco’s hair, stark and messy against the backdrop of his dark grey sheets, at the strangely vulnerable shape of the back of his neck, and the loose-limbed angles his arms were held — and headed unsteadily over to the bed to wake him up and tell him he was utterly daft. About which thing — sharing a bed, or what Harry might have unintentionally made clear, because both were equally stupid — Harry wasn’t sure.

But the bed, when Harry got over to it, looked… soft. Inviting. The threadcount of Draco's sheets was likely to be higher than Harry’s, who usually didn’t pay attention to that sort of thing. And the bed was certainly overlarge; Harry thought he must’ve expanded it after moving in, or something.

He rounded the bed to the opposite side and carefully lifted the covers before sliding in, making sure to maintain a healthy distance between himself and Draco, who’d started snoring quietly. The mattress felt soft as down and Harry’s muscles unclenched and relaxed all at once, the swooping room settling around him as he allowed his eyes to slide shut. He rolled, getting comfortable on his side, and inhaled a comforting salty-smoky-sweet smell against his pillow, like ocean air and mysterious potions and Molly’s kitchen when she baked. He buried his face against it, and fell asleep.

Harry was going to kill whoever was shaking him.

He opened his eyes, then immediately shut them again, the vise that was wrapped around his head tightening as the light filtered in.

“I saw that, Potter,” Malfoy snapped, sounding entirely unsympathetic. The hand prodding his shoulder pulled away, and then a thin, foul-smelling vial was shoved under his nose. Harry’s stomach roiled; he reached out and took the vial, braced himself, and downed it in one swallow. Nausea swept over him, fierce and overwhelming, and the pounding in his head intensified for a few miserable moments before both faded to manageable levels.

“Thanks,” Harry croaked, turning over. He sat up, startled to realise that he and Malfoy were both in bed together. Still.

Fuck.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “We didn’t shag,” he said flatly, but there was a hint of question to the statement. “I’d remember.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, then shut his mouth with a click when Malfoy’s blinking went into overdrive. “I mean, no, yeah, we didn’t. I had to–”

“Use my loo; I know. But I woke up and you were–” Malfoy faltered, gaze sliding away.

“I was what?” Harry asked, sure he didn’t want to know.

“In bed with me,” Malfoy finished.

“You told me to,” Harry said, irritated. He gripped the sheets in his fists, burying his hand in his lap to hopefully disguise his erection. Malfoy leaned back against the headboard of his bed, legs stretched out under him, doing nothing at all to disguise anything on his part, Harry noticed in his periphery. Harry resolutely didn’t look down. “I didn’t just invite myself, Malfoy.”

Malfoy jerked; he frowned darkly. “Last night, you called–” He shook his head and pressed his mouth into a tight line, rubbing a hand across his face, which still looked sleep-soft. He had a pillow-crease across one cheek. “I propositioned you.”

Harry swallowed. “You were drunk. And we’re... friends.”

“Well. Yes, I suppose.” He paused. “That’s why?”

“Why what?” Harry struggled to sit up more fully. He took a deep breath, wondering if this might just be one of the more bizarre, alcohol-induced dreams he’d ever had. He eyed Malfoy’s hand, absently stroking the inside of his forearm.

Malfoy glowered at him for a moment. “Nevermind, Potter. I’m just grateful that one of us – that you actually had the presence of mind for once to–”

“That’s why I said no,” Harry interrupted loudly. His chest felt tight, ribs constricting around his lungs. Malfoy gave him an unsure look and abruptly settled in the act of turning the climb out of bed. Then, lest Malfoy think it was a come-on, Harry added, “And we don’t– we live together. It’s a bad idea.”

He was sure it was. His cock might not, but it wasn’t in charge, no matter what kind of information it was trying to relay at the moment. With a sudden and irrepressible regret, he thought of Ginny last night, asking how long they’d be housemates for. Much too bloody long to start something only to have it grow awkward because Harry couldn’t keep it in his trousers. Stupid magical contract.

But then Malfoy’s eyes dropped; they lingered on Harry’s mouth for a long moment.

“It’s not so perverse, is it?” Malfoy asked, eyes gleaming.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. He cleared his throat, his torso angling closer, with a mind of its own. “Probably.”

“All right,” Malfoy murmured. “But I’m not going to be here forever, so do you care?”

“No,” wrenched forth from Harry’s lips before he could think about it; his voice broke in the middle the way it hadn’t since he was thirteen. “I mean–”

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy said, then closed the distance between them.

Malfoy’s mouth was soft, his lips slightly parted. His breath felt warm and moist against Harry’s skin before he slanted his mouth over Harry’s with a gentle, almost curious touch. Harry kissed him back automatically, lips seeking more contact, one hand coming up to touch Malfoy’s jaw and splay his fingers out over it. Malfoy’s knuckles brushed over Harry’s breastbone lightly, and if the kiss was– was sweeter than Harry had previously imagined it would be, it was no less exciting for all that. He heard a muffled groan and realised it was coming from his own throat as Malfoy slipped his tongue into Harry’s mouth and stroked Harry’s. He tasted of mint, like he’d dosed himself with a breath charm after taking the potion, and Harry shuddered suddenly, his cock jerking against the front of his bottoms and growing to full hardness. He reached to pull Malfoy closer, but Malfoy pulled away, panting shallowly.

“All right,” he said again. Breathless, lips tingling, Harry watched him narrowly. Malfoy glanced away.

“All right what?” Harry said, voice coming out husky. It irritated him; it was too telling, when Malfoy looked as cool and unflustered, as if they’d kissed every day for the last ten years, but for the tinge of pink spreading high and sharp over his cheekbones. “What did this–”

Mean, Harry wanted to demand. But the word wouldn’t come, and maybe the answer didn’t matter much, anyway.

“I’m not sure,” Malfoy admitted with a rough laugh. He idly stroked his hand over his stomach, looking thoughtful. Harry bunched his hands in his lap tighter and Malfoy unexpectedly reached out and slapped the top of his thigh. Harry started. “Come on, then.”

“Come on where?” Harry said, bewildered and aroused near to the point of anger.

“Come on and get out of my bed,” Malfoy said, his eyes somehow managing to make it sound like an invitation to strip down and stay in it. He got up, grabbing a dressing gown that had been tossed over the back of a wing chair, and shrugged it on. “We’re going to train your House.”

Harry looked at him and didn’t move. Malfoy raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Harry huffed. “I need a minute. To shower and such.”

“I don’t have all day, Po–” He stopped. Cleared his throat. It looked like he was trying not to laugh, and Harry glared at him, cursing his instinctive physical response and the fact that Malfoy seemed to have no issue displaying his — or climbing out of bed at a pivotal moment. “Of course. You should shower. I can smell the whiskey seeping from your pores from here. Go have a shower.”

Harry pursed his lips at the implicit challenge. He met Malfoy’s eyes and gave a mental shrug — because he’d be fucked if he’d let Malfoy stand there with that excessively smug expression writ across his naturally smug features — then tossed the blanket he was clutching away from himself. And... there it was, poking against his flannel bottoms like it was determined to say hello to the world. Harry stood up, controlling a wince when his cock tented out his bottoms further, and — with all of the nonchalance he could muster — walked past Malfoy.

“Thanks. That’ll give me time to wank, too. Best way to start the morning,” he added, grinning when Malfoy made a tiny, incoherent sound behind him. “I’ll see you downstairs in twenty.”

Chapter Text

“You said that before! It just doesn’t make sense,” Harry said, frustrated.

“It does if you’re a proper wizard,” Malfoy returned scathingly. “It’s as simple as it sounds, Potter —I don’t know how even you are having trouble grasping the concept.”

Harry wanted to get offended at that, but the fact was, he really couldn’t understand what Malfoy was on about. “Claiming” a House — his primary instruction over the last few days — felt like it should be easy. He had the keys; the wards were attuned to him. Kreacher obeyed him, though Harry was careful not to order him directly on much, if it wasn’t important. “Maybe I just need a better teacher.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you begged me to move in,” Malfoy said. He brought his hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing it gently in what Harry had come to recognise as a gesture of extreme annoyance.

“I didn’t beg you to move in!” Harry objected.

“That’s right, you begged anyone who reads the housing adverts in the Prophet” Malfoy took a deep breath and put both hands up. “All right. What about this is troubling you so much?”

Harry slouched on the sofa, mind wandering. He considered saying, The fact that all I can think about is kissing you, and you’re driving me mental. But that wasn’t the whole truth, and Malfoy was obviously determined not to talk about it, anyhow; every time Harry had tried the past few days, Malfoy shook his head and then did a– a thing to close the conversation. Harry couldn’t seem to process it, even after days of Malfoy’s new technique.

He was no virgin, but damned if he didn’t feel like one lately, as flustered and confused as he got in Malfoy’s presence.

When Malfoy made a little noise of impatience, Harry shook his head. “I’m thinking. ...I guess that it’s — when something belongs to you, you sort of belong to it, too. And I live here, and I’ve– I’ve checked all the boxes except for blood status. I own it, and I’m good to Kreacher, and I redid the garden and… I mean, it’s my home,” he fumbled out. “Or, I’m trying to make it be my home. It’s certainly not Hogwarts. The blasted House doesn’t want me in it, and I’ve already done what I can to do what you’re saying.”

Malfoy’s lips turned down at the corners. He sank into an armchair opposite the sofa. He sighed and set down his wand on a small table next to him that Harry was almost sure hadn’t been there moments prior. “It’s the same at Hogwarts. House magic, on a grander scale. The castle itself is sentient.”

“I know,” Harry said, not following. Hogwarts had always been a safe place for him; much, much safer and more comfortable than Grimmauld had ever been.

“Then maybe it has something to do with perspective,” Malfoy said, clearly speaking to himself. He thought for a moment, turning strangely hesitant. “You–” He brought a loose fist up to his mouth to cough against. “I had heard somewhere that you weren’t– that you didn’t like the Muggle house you were raised in.”

“I didn’t; no,” Harry said after a beat. He wondered how much he should actually reveal; how important it was for Malfoy to know. He’d long ago gotten over the deep sting of living with the Dursleys, but that didn’t make them pleasant to talk about. But after days of these lessons to discuss the House, Harry still hadn’t learned a thing. He shrugged uneasily. “They didn’t like magic. It was fairly miserable. I was made to act as a servant, mostly, and an unwelcome one, at that.”

It was the bare bones, but it seemed to confirm much more than that to Malfoy. Those tiny creases around the corner of his mouth grew more prominent, like he’d smelt a bad odour; the line of his jaw hardened. It occurred to Harry that Malfoy might know far more than what he’d been asking, and that he was… angry on his behalf.

“I see. Well.” Malfoy’s voice was tight, and he cleared it with another one of those irritating little coughs. Then, “So your first exposure to House magic was Hogwarts, and then you came here.”

“I’ve been to a lot of wizarding homes.” Harry thought. “The Weasleys–”

“Right, but I’m assuming the reason you needed me instead of Weasley was the generational magic,” Malfoy cut in. Harry gave a reluctant nod and Malfoy said, “Hogwarts has been trained for centuries to respond to the needs of its occupants. It’s the same for any House with generational magic, only this place has fallen into disuse. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to anyone, and the way you speak about it — I think just this morning you’ve called it ‘idiotic,’ and ‘blasted’ — can’t be endearing you to it. It wants to be claimed; that’s evident in how it responds to me. Frankly, Potter, I don’t know how not to comport myself the way one should within a magical home. I respect the magic within its walls and it, in turn, attends to my needs. But the disparity between how you viewed Hogwarts and how you view this place has got to have something to do with it. So we need to change your perception.”

“I don’t hate the House,” Harry said quickly. Malfoy looked at him with uncharacteristic patience, and Harry shrugged. “Okay. It hasn’t been the happiest place for me. It was Sirius’s, and I think of him a lot here — it wasn’t very happy for him, either, growing up — and Remus and I once had a fight here, and so many people who’ve stayed in it have died, and it has house elf heads that I can’t get down, and I was–” He paused.

“You were…?”

“I was scared, here,” Harry admitted lowly. “Ron and Hermione and I stayed here during the– during seventh year. For a while.”

“Okay,” Malfoy said slowly. He pinched the bridge of his nose again, then brought two fingers up to his forehead to massage there gently. “So your associations with this House might be preventing you from claiming it.”

“I have claimed it,” Harry said again, diverted. “What does it need? Verbal cues?” Sarcastically, he intoned, “Oh, Number 12, Grimmauld Place. I hereby claim--”

“You’re not helping,” Malfoy snapped. “I stayed home for this.”

Harry slouched down a little further. “Fine. What do I do.”

“Well, you could try speaking kindly to it.”

“I don’t notice you speaking to it.”

“I’ve never shown it such blatant disrespect,” Malfoy pointed out — fairly, the rat bastard. He sighed. “In small ways,” he urged. “Not now. Simply when you...notice you like something, or that it does something to accommodate you.”

“So never, then,” Harry mumbled, spinning his wand.

“That! Stop that! How can you expect it to think of itself as yours if you hate it?”

Harry blinked, looking at Malfoy for a long moment. The words, That’s how I think of you, popped into his head, unbidden, and he felt his face heat up. Which was only true because he and Malfoy had known each other for so long, he reasoned, looking away with a hard swallow. Because they’d been at odds for half their lives.

But he certainly no longer hated Malfoy; not at all, even.

He drew in a long breath. “Okay, so I need to be nicer to it and just...expect it to be nicer to me.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll try that, then,” Harry said, feeling vaguely idiotic. “Compliment it and bring it flowers and–” He shrugged. “Buy pretty furniture for it.”

“No wonder you’re single,” Malfoy said under his breath. Harry smiled, and Malfoy’s mouth twitched up to the side in response. “Although that’s not the worst idea, really, because– wait. You said you redid the garden?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, feeling unaccountably sheepish. “Back when Gin was living here. A plant got aggressive with her — I don’t suppose you noticed the scar she has on her collarbone, now — and I had to tame it a bit.”

“Well done,” Malfoy murmured, glancing out the French doors to where Frank lazed on the patio.

“Thanks.” Harry frowned.

“But the garden is an extension of the House,” Malfoy said. “Not directly a part of, perhaps, but related. And yet you’ve never had a problem out there?”

“No,” Harry said thoughtfully. “I’ve always… liked it there. It’s soothing. Nice, in the summers. Once I knew I had to clear out the overgrowth, it was almost as if…” His brow furrowed. “Almost as if it knew how I wanted it to look, and turned into that. It took remarkably little effort.”

Malfoy sat back, a look of such relief crossing his face that Harry realised Malfoy had been doubting Harry’s ties to the House, at all. He reached up, swiped a bit of his cornsilk fringe back, and exhaled. “Then you’ve just proved my point,” he drawled after a moment, face turning arrogant, as if he’d known exactly where he’d been leading them the whole time. “You liked it out there. It meant something to you, and so it responded to your wishes.”

“I guess,” Harry admitted uncertainly. He mulled it over for a moment, then gave a more definitive nod. “Yes. Hey, what’s the door you mentioned before you moved in? Something that’s supposed to reveal itself to me?”

“You don’t need to worry about that yet,” Malfoy said, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t understand. And the key won’t come until the door does.”

“I’m not worried, and I don’t care if I understand; this isn’t a request for information, it’s a ‘tell me or you’re out on your arse,’” Harry said.

Malfoy snorted. He shrugged, then said, “It’s a room that reveals itself to the Master of the House to absorb some of their magic.”

Harry blinked. “...I don’t understand.”

Malfoy cracked a laugh, quiet and low. “I’m shocked.”

“Shut it.” Harry thought for a moment, a smile playing with his mouth as he looked at Malfoy, lounging across from him. He was wearing those ridiculously perfect-fitting jeans again, and had topped them with a plain white t-shirt, of all things. But for all his casual attire, no one would ever be able to mistake him for anything other than part of the upper-class elite; it was aristocratic, they way he sat, the way he moved — lazy and refined and controlled all at once — and Harry wondered, uncomfortably, if that was how he always moved; he wondered if that was how Malfoy always looked. Wondered if, in bed, he might–

“Potter?”

Harry jerked his eyes up from where they’d been staring at Malfoy’s stomach through the thin material of his t-shirt. “Yeah. Yeah? What?”

“The House?” Malfoy reminded him, amused. He noticed the crinkles at the corners of his eyes again; such a soft, charming feature on someone who could be so sharp and angular. Dammit. He could still feel the press of–

“I was thinking,” Harry bit out. “So it absorbs the magic of the person who owns it?”

“Not all,” Malfoy said. “Of course not. But there is a difference between catering to guests and attending to the needs of the owner. The House will need to know you, and for that it will need to absorb some of your magic into its walls. Or at least that’s the way it was done, before. When wizarding homes were carefully crafted rather than spelled together from hay and sticks.”

Harry ticked him an annoyed glance; he was fairly certain that was in reference to the Burrow, but didn’t want to justify the comment by calling him on it.

Malfoy grinned back, unrepentant. Then his smile faltered. “I was due to…The room revealed itself to me at the Manor when I was thirteen. The key would have appeared on my birthday last year, had I been there.”

There was a lot Harry wanted to say to that. The melancholy in Malfoy’s face was almost painful to look at; Harry wanted to offer his condolences, wanted to ask if there was no way Malfoy would ever be able to gain control of the Manor again. Wanted to... comfort him, somehow. But the strain on Malfoy’s face faded to be replaced with a weary expression, as though he could read Harry’s concern clearly, so Harry looked down at his knees and asked, “Wouldn’t it still be your father’s? Or your mum’s? They’re both alive.”

Nodding, Malfoy propped his chin into his hand. “The Malfoy entailments dictate that the heir take control of the Manor at the age of twenty-one. My father would still have been considered its Master until his death, but a wizard’s magic comes into full fruition at that age.”

“I thought seventeen,” Harry said, confused.

“That’s simply legal adulthood for a wizard’s powers. The growth of magic is not like height, Potter. It doesn’t stop when you’re a teenager.”

“Oh.” Harry processed that for a second. “Well, I’m already twenty-one. And I was living here when I had my last birthday.”

“Did you have it here? Not, I should point out, that I think it matters.”

“No. The Weasleys’. I’ve actually never had so many people over as I did last weekend,” Harry said. “And the House liked that.”

“It likes being useful.”

“So, it’ll show a door, and then a key, and then absorb some magic,” Harry outlined. Malfoy nodded, bored. Harry arched his eyes, sceptical. “And then it’ll be mine?”

“Assuming you get that far,” Malfoy said.

“Well, what else can I do?” Harry asked plaintively, scowling a touch when Malfoy sighed again as though this wasn’t only the fourth bloody time he’d done what he’d agreed to do upon moving in several weeks ago. Malfoy added a grimace for good measure, and Harry wanted to snog that stupid grimace off his stupid, pointy face.

“There’s also a level of authority that comes with running a wizarding home,” Malfoy said, obviously barely refraining rolling his eyes. “And I’m fairly certain it might be embarrassed to look the way it does.”

“Hey, I’ve tried to redecorate. It doesn’t let me,” Harry said, defensive. Malfoy snorted.

“We’ll take it step by step then. Go on, tell the House it’s pretty.”

“Piss off,” Harry mumbled, trying not to smile.

“No, I mean it,” Malfoy insisted. “Perhaps not that. But find something nice to say about it. To me. Give some kind of a declaration that it may understand.”

Harry rolled his eyes, feeling stupid. “I appreciated the way the ceiling didn’t cave in and murder my friends when they were here,” he said.

“Potter,” Malfoy said warningly.

“Fine! Fine.” Harry huffed for a moment. “I was– I was scared here, yeah. But it kept us safe, for a while. And occasionally a fire will light up without me asking for one. And Kreacher isn’t so bad,” he added, warming to the subject. “And my room never gets too hot or cold; it’s why I like it — though I can’t say the same about the water when I shower,” he said pointedly, biting his lip when Malfoy shook his head. “I keep thinking it would look good with polished floors, if it let me do that,” he finished lamely, then looked at Malfoy hopefully.

Malfoy sat, head cocked to one side as though waiting for an answer. Harry listened intently too, thinking that perhaps the House would respond the way it had last night, but there was nothing.

“Well, that’s better than I hoped,” Malfoy said, resigned. “We’ll work on it later, shall we?”

“That’s it?” Harry said in disbelief. “I spent weeks and weeks waiting for you to hold up your side of the bargain, and all I’ve gotten are a few minutes here and there over the last few days. You were, if I remember correctly, supposed to stay home today and work on this with me.”

“I have; there’s nothing else I can do at this point, Potter. It’s something you’ll have to practice,” Malfoy said, lifting his shoulders in a helpless sort of way. Then his eyes hardened. “And I am keeping my side of the bargain; you won’t be able to–”

Harry frowned. “I’m not going to kick you out. Merlin, you’re tetchy; that was a joke. I just want more time with you.” He flushed. “To work on this. You need to make time to work on this.”

“I’m assigning you homework,” Malfoy said abruptly.

“Haha,” Harry deadpanned.

“Yes, I’m very droll,” Malfoy said.

“You’re just trying to slither out of more work,” Harry said, frowning.

“Potter, no one could accuse me of that, anymore.” Malfoy stared out the window at Frank for another moment, then sighed. “Anyway, as much as I enjoy getting things done on my own, I simply can’t do this for you. So, I want–”

“Fourteen inches on House Magic by Wednesday?” Harry guessed.

Malfoy gave in to what must have been an overwhelming temptation and finally rolled his eyes. “You need to engage with the House over the next couple of days. Try to keep it in the forefront of your mind; be aware of it as more than the place you sleep in and live. You need to…experience living here. Also, do you do magic in it?”

“Just basic things,” Harry said, bewildered. “Cleaning spells, levitation, Vanishing, conjuring.”

“Well, now might be a good time to pretend to be Harry Potter from third year.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Malfoy stood. He ran his hands down the cotton of his t-shirt as though to smooth it, though it looked as unrumpled as if he’d just used an Ironing charm. His hair fell, tousled and light, over his forehead. “It means it’s time for you to show off your skills.”

Harry’s hand clenched over his thigh. “My skills?” he said roughly.

Malfoy’s eyes flared, hot and bright, and Harry’s stomach pitched as Malfoy came closer to end the conversation the way he had nearly every day since they’d woken up in bed together.

He looked at Harry for a long moment, then leaned down — gaze still on him as though Harry were capable of moving away — and brushed his mouth, light, over Harry’s own. Harry stilled, one hand straying to the front of Malfoy’s shirt; he skimmed his knuckles down it, feeling the warmth of Malfoy underneath; feeling the way his stomach went tight. Malfoy stood again, lips ticking up to one side.

“Magic, Potter. Your magical skills.” Malfoy looked at him mildly, but his voice was rough. His eyes wandered from Harry’s face to his trainers and he suddenly chuckled. “You can show me the rest another time.”

“When?” Harry blurted after a beat. But Malfoy was already gone up the stairs. If not for the echo of Malfoy’s faint laughing lingering in the room, Harry would have thought he’d not been heard.

“Stop sending me bloody Patronuses!” Ron’s voice, exasperated and ghostly, issued from his silvery terrier, completely discordant from the way it gave a silent, friendly bark and wagged its tail, bouncing excitedly around Harry.

Harry frowned and re-issued his stag. It looked at him, majestic and patient, one hoof slightly raised. “Tell Ron I have to,” he said to it. Then, knowing it would infuriate him, added, “Malfoy said so.”

The stag bowed its head, looking down almost curiously at Ron’s terrier as it dissipated. Harry’s Patronus cantered away and disappeared.

He sat down on the couch and waited, grinning. “It’s just funny,” he confided in Frank, who was making the long trek over to him from two feet away. He Summoned a small pot of Malfoy’s flowers from a stasis jar on the mantel and opened it. He raised his eyebrows; there were now three different colours of flowers as well as something that looked like...cactus? Harry carefully picked the red ones out to feed to Frank until he asked Malfoy about the new additions. Frank looked up at him with understanding.

“Thank you for not getting irritated when Frank shits on the floor,” Harry murmured to the House. He still felt more than a little silly but he’d not been locked out of the loo in well over a week, and the lights had stayed on in every room he was in, so there was that. Plus, he found the more he paid the House these little compliments, the more he was actually able to believe them.

“It’s no wood off my wand,” Blaise remarked, “it’s your floor.”

Harry looked up to see Blaise standing in the archway of the parlour. “I was just– Did you knock?”

Blaise opened his mouth to respond, but Ron’s terrier came back and said, “I’m busy and I will legitimately unfriend you if you start telling me how it gets you off to let Malfoy order you around, mate. I’m not kidding — there are some things I don’t need to know.”

Mortified, Harry looked at Blaise, who raised his eyebrows and smirked as he walked into the room. “That’s not what I told him!”

“I am definitely not one to judge what you and Draco get off on,” Blaise said blandly. He sat down on the sofa and draped one leg over the other. Face burning, Harry refused to look at him, instead choosing to stare down at Frank, who seemed fascinated with Ron’s Patronus as it gave him a lick and disappeared. Harry fed Frank another flower.

“I don’t get off on that,” Harry said. It was probably true; he’d never tried it before. He finally glanced back up; Blaise flashed his teeth in a grin.

“And you expect me to believe that Draco doesn’t, either?” Blaise asked. He twitched his wand in the direction of Harry’s kitchen and Summoned a bottle of beer.

“Help yourself,” Harry murmured.

“Thanks, I will.” Blaise twisted off the cap cleanly and tilted the bottle up. “Want one?”

“I don’t know what Malfoy gets off on,” Harry said, ignoring the offer of his own beer as well as the sting that accompanied the truth of his statement.

“I know,” Blaise said, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“What does that mean?” Harry twisted and pinned Blaise with a look. “What are you doing here?”

“We were supposed to go out. Draco and me, I mean,” Blaise said. “He’s not here, I’m assuming.”

“When is he, ever?” Harry asked sardonically, though it wasn’t entirely fair. In the last two weeks, Malfoy had breakfast with him every morning and had given him small tips of instruction on how to deal with the House: do not apologise to Kreacher for asking for something; assume that what he needs will be where he needs it, but mention aloud that he is seeking whatever it is; touch something in the House with affectionate reverence on a regular basis (and that bit of instruction, issued in Malfoy’s posh tones, had sent Harry’s imagination into overdrive); keep casting more complicated magic within the walls; invite people over; et cetera, et cetera. Which was complicated enough in itself.

But worse than that, the snogging hadn’t stopped; in fact, it had only increased in both frequency and fervor. They didn’t talk about it much but for Harry’s fumbling attempts now and again to find out if they were possibly dating, or just headed in the direction of shagging. The last time they’d kissed, Malfoy had pressed Harry into the doorframe, rolling his body against Harry’s for nearly a full minute, his cock pressing insistently against Harry’s hip before he’d pulled away, pink and panting. Harry wanted to know, he did, but it was also bafflingly… nice to have something happen to him like this — slow and exploratory, without definitions — when Harry least expected it.

Except for the last few days, when Malfoy had started darting out every morning directly after breakfast and not coming home until Harry was in bed; not even to work on his potions. Harry tried to tell himself Malfoy wasn’t out having wild sex with someone who wasn’t him — not that they had decided on anything in one way or another, or had made any sort of commitment — but couldn’t quite convince himself. It made it difficult to think of anything else, even when having a bloody meeting with McGonagall, who thankfully required robes, even for teaching fellows– which hid a lot.

“He has a lot to do,” Blaise agreed.

“Yeah, but what is it?” Harry sighed and cast his Patronus again, telling it to ask Ron what he was so busy with at nine in the evening. He’d considered using his Cloak to follow Malfoy more than once, only to falter when he remembered sixth year.

“Business,” Blaise said, spreading his hands wide. “He takes care of the family businesses.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

“Poor Potter, is Draco ignoring you?” Blaise said, clucking his tongue. He scooted closer deliberately, arm resting over the back of the sofa. Harry felt Blaise’s forearm brush against his hair. “Are you finding yourself in need of some company?”

And bloody hell, Blaise smelled good. He also had a fair point; Harry had taken to wanking twice a day since that first kiss with Malfoy — pulling himself off in his morning shower, and before going to sleep with rough, increasingly frantic jerks. It probably had largely to do with the fact that he’d not had sex since well before Malfoy had moved in.

Unfortunately, he didn’t…want Blaise; not the same way he’d come to want Malfoy.

“Are you offering?” he asked lowly.

Blaise stilled, looking caught. “Potter–”

“It’s Harry,” he said smoothly, leaning closer. Why Malfoy and his friends still felt as though they could unnerve him was beyond Harry, but it was fun to fuck with them back; they never seemed to expect it.

“Right, yes.” Blaise’s dark eyes darted away. “But Draco--”

“Draco what?” Harry said. He put a hand on Blaise’s thigh; it rippled under his palm, tensing. “He isn’t here, as you pointed out.”

“Yes he is,” Malfoy said from the edge of the room. He sounded exhausted, but his expression was thunderous.

“Go away,” Harry told him, smirking. “Blaise was just offering up his arse to me.”

Malfoy’s expression eased. He walked over to a side chair and began to sit; it slid a few inches to catch him as he fell into it. “Blaise offers his arse up to everyone,” Malfoy said. He sighed; his robes were uncharacteristically rumpled.

“I don’t offer my arse,” Blaise said, resuming his former position. The glare he directed at Harry was respectful, at least.

“Why not?” Malfoy said, yawning. “It’s rather nice, as I remember.”

Harry frowned, then caught himself. “You two were--”

“Not like you two,” Blaise put in.

“We’re not!” Harry yelped automatically. He sought Malfoy’s eyes; a muscle in his jaw jumped, but he didn’t look away.

Ron’s terrier came back. “With Hermione,” it informed him in increasingly clipped tones, “about to do what you’ve been wanting to with Malfoy. So just go do it and leave me the fuck alone or I swear to Merlin, Harry!”

Harry stood, almost tripping over Frank in his haste. Malfoy sat up, the weariness gone from his face, while Blaise began to snicker. “You should have heard his last one,” Blaise said.

“Ron knows nothing,” Harry said.

“Ron knows more than he tells us,” Blaise said slyly.

“I don’t tell him anything,” Harry stressed, face burning at the lie. “He was just joking.”

Malfoy sat back again, expression blank. “That Weasley is the only one having regular sex right now is appalling,” was all he said. Then, “Francis needs to go outside.”

Harry swallowed. Heart rattling hard, he tried to take advantage of the out Malfoy had given him and focus on anything else. “Frank needs to go outside,” he said in the quiet voice he’d been reserving for the House.

The French doors gusted open. Malfoy came to his feet

”Thank you,” came the soft whisper in Harry’s mind as they all stared, startled, out at the patio. Frank started inching toward it.

“Did you hear that?” Harry turned to Malfoy, who was staring at him with a wide smile on his face.

“Yes. Well done, Potter. You’ll have the elf-heads down in no time,” he said. He somehow managed to make it sound both sarcastic and like genuine praise, and something deep in Harry’s chest exploded with pride at Malfoy’s validation, at the approval in his eyes.

Unthinkingly, Harry caught him up, pressing an exuberant kiss to Malfoy’s startled mouth. Malfoy’s hands came up to rest on Harry’s hips, and even as Malfoy kissed him back, Harry couldn’t be sure if Malfoy was going to push him away. Flushing hotly, he pulled back before Malfoy could.

“Jesus,” he heard Blaise mutter, shifting where he sat. Harry refused to look over; it hadn’t occurred to him that their… whatever his arrangement was with Malfoy might need to remain private.

“You heard it?” Harry asked again, cocking his head to the side. He released his grip on Malfoy took a deep, unsteady breath. Beleatedly, he murmured, “Yes, thank you, too.”

“You’re welcome?” Malfoy said, blinking. His eyes had gone heavy-lidded, and he took a shaky step away.

“Heard what?” Blaise asked. “You told the House something and it did what it was supposed to.”

“The House talked to me,” Harry said, looking at Malfoy. One of Malfoy’s pale brows lifted.

“Again?”

“Again. Oh, dammit.” Harry took in Frank’s pause and the puddle spreading beneath him. Harry Vanished the mess, then levitated Frank the rest of the way outdoors before he went any further. He slanted a glance at Malfoy. “We’re fortunate he’s so magical, or he might do that every day.”

“You have a gnome,” Malfoy reminded him, lip curling with distaste. Blaise coughed a laugh. “Who is– Who is riding my tortoise!” he suddenly shouted with astonished fury. His eyes were murderous; he turned to Harry. “Take care of it or I. Will.”

Harry glanced over to see that Paul had, indeed, climbed onto Frank’s shell. He’d also looped a thin ribbon around his throat. His legs were splayed wide over Frank’s shell as though it were a saddle — Harry shuddered; that wasn’t a pleasing sight — and he was chortling as he tried to coax Frank along by kicking a heel against him. Without a backwards glance, Harry strode out to the garden.

“What the fuck, Paul?”

“Jusss making use of creature,” Paul said snidely, doing a crude approximation of a horseback riding that made him look like he was humping Frank. “Udly, udly creature.”

“He’s not ugly,” Harry growled, leaning down to pluck him up. Paul dodged to the side, putting up a dirty foot to kick out at Harry, and yipped at Frank to go faster. Frank blinked with customary indifference. “What has gotten into you?”

Paul glared at him. He released the ribbon around Frank’s throat, then hopped up to stand on the back of his shell. “Beans!” he demanded.

“I’m not giving you candy for acting like this!”

“Div me beans, frucker!” He held out his filthy hands expectantly.

“I put out beans for you yesterday, like every night. They were gone this morning, so I know you ate them,” Harry said warningly. “You’re not getting any tonight. Eat the worms.”

Paul suddenly leapt off of Frank with startling agility and bounced, catching himself on the front of Harry’s t-shirt. He climbed, raggedy nails digging into Harry’s clothes, until they were face-to-face. “Yellow-hair fruck you, you div me beans?”

“Jesus,” Harry gusted out, prying Paul away from his body. “No! You’re not getting them because you were rude to Frank. Be nice and you can have them tomorrow,” he added, trying very hard not to think of walking back into the House and dragging Malfoy to bed.

Sneering at him, Paul shook his head. “Yellow-hair don’t fruck. You smell of–” He spouted a series of noises that had no connection to any language Harry was aware of. But the crass jerking motion Paul made with his right hand spelled things out well enough. Harry tossed him gently and Paul’s ugly little face twisted. “He do it, too,” he announced. “Ottside, frucker.”

He then bounded away, disappearing hurriedly into the ground as though afraid Harry would come marching after him. Harry was half-tempted to, both to demand an apology for Frank, and an explanation for what Malfoy was or wasn’t doing outside.

Harry crouched down, scratching lightly over the top of Frank’s head. “Hey. Sorry about that; he has no manners.”

Frank opened his mouth in what looked like a yawn as Harry pet him. A chilly spring breeze ruffled past them, smelling somehow of both of damp earth and wet concrete, and carried with it the sound of voices from the House. Harry got up and walked closer to the doors, sticking to the shadows and wishing he had a set of Extendable Ears for the way the conversation drifted in and out.

“What were—thinking?” Malfoy demanded.

Blaise laughed. “You said you two weren’t –ing yet.”

“It’s none of your fucking bus– anyway,” Malfoy spat out. “What if — said yes?”

The sound of a snort. “The way he kiss– — don’t think — much of a problem,” Blaise said. “I was just trying to — things along.”

“Well —” Malfoy said, sounding sullen. “It’s not as if there’s anything really even — ...He doesn’t—”

Really even what? Harry wondered frantically. He didn’t what? But Malfoy and Blaise’s voices were drifting off into indecipherable murmurs, and Harry turned back to Frank.

“He likes me,” he announced, shoulders sagging when Frank looked back at him with a dubious expression. Harry sighed. “Yeah. I know. Ready to go inside?”

Harry levitated him carefully through the doors, setting him down in his preferred spot near the fire to rest from his exercise. The front door closed, and Malfoy entered the room a moment later.

“You’re not going out with Blaise?” Harry asked.

“Too tired tonight,” Malfoy said.

“From doing what?”

Malfoy took a step forward. He methodically unbuttoned his robes at the throat with one hand, working down the line of them until they were hanging open. He was wearing dark gray trousers and a matching waistcoat underneath, and as soon as his robes were open, he reached up to tug his pale grey tie loose, his eyes on Harry the whole time.

“You kissed me.”

“So?” Harry reluctantly drew his eyes up from the buttons being popped open on Malfoy’s waistcoat, perfectly tailored to hug his slender torso. He felt defensive and vaguely off-balance, Malfoy’s eyes steady on his face. With a jolt of shock, it occurred to him that he hadn’t yet; he’d been too confused by their changing dynamic to question it or even allow himself to pursue it. All of the kissing that had been done — though eagerly reciprocated by him — had been initiated by Malfoy.

Harry dragged in a breath and walked closer. He knocked Malfoy’s hand away from his waistcoat, and slipped the last button out of its buttonhole with his finger and thumb.

“What are we doing?” Harry asked.

Malfoy cracked a low, wild laugh. “I’m still not convinced this isn’t the longest, most frustrating wet dream I’ve ever had,” he said. He curled a hand around the back of Harry’s neck; his palm was warm and dry.

Harry shook his head, determined not to let Malfoy take control this time. He fisted a hand in the fabric of Malfoy’s dress shirt and tugged him forward, tilting his chin up slightly to catch Malfoy’s mouth with his own. Malfoy’s hand applied pressure, angling Harry’s head more, and then his tongue was licking hot into Harry’s mouth, his other hand tight on Harry’s waist.

Harry shivered, walking him backward to the armchair Malfoy usually sat in, then urging him silently down, rumbling an approving sound when Malfoy obeyed. His body was taut beneath Harry’s hands, chest rising and falling shallowly under the shirt Harry had caught in his grip, but he was also pliant, easing into the chair as Harry continued to kiss him as though well-practiced at not losing contact. Harry sucked at Malfoy’s lips, nipped at them gently, propping himself on one knee between Malfoy’s loosened thighs; he jerked slightly when the hand cupping his neck slid down, fingers dancing lightly to tug up his t-shirt and coming to a rest, fanned-out, over the warm skin at the small of his back. One finger dipped into the back of his jeans, and a moan broke free from Harry’s throat. He pulled away; Malfoy’s lips were spit-slicked and pink.

“I want you,” Harry said, stomach fluttering at the admission. His cock was so hard it ached. Just in case he wasn’t clear, he added, “I want to take you to bed, Malfoy.”

“I need to go to sleep,” Malfoy said, voice low. But he reached up and kissed Harry again, pulling him down on top of him. The angle wasn’t comfortable, perched with one knee on the chair between Malfoy’s legs, so Harry adjusted, sliding against him more fully and then — when Malfoy didn’t object — straddling him. It brought their cocks into contact, and Harry grinned against Malfoy’s mouth when he shuddered. “But what, hypothetically,” Malfoy asked breathlessly, breaking away for a moment, “would we do there?”

Harry’s muffled a groan as images assaulted him: Malfoy spread beneath him, pale and panting and covered in a sheen of sweat; Malfoy hovering above him, huffing hot puffs of air against Harry’s neck. Harry buried his head against Malfoy’s throat, his hips moving in a slow grind that made him gasp. Harry bit his lip, pausing, then resumed. He licked at the cords of Malfoy’s throat. “We could do whatever you like.”

“I like a lot of things, Potter,” Malfoy said on a rush of air. Both of his hands reached around Harry’s hips to cup his arse, long fingers biting into it as he guided Harry over him. He rutted upward against Harry. “I can do a lot of things.”

“Jesus, I’m going to come if you keep doing that,” Harry choked out. He caught the shell of Malfoy’s ear between his teeth and sucked on it.

Malfoy’s hands stilled, moving away from his arse to clamp over his hipbones and halt Harry. Harry closed his eyes.

“I’m going to kill you,” he muttered. “You were right; we’re never going to get out of this year alive.”

Mouth drawing down, Malfoy blinked at him. He looked uncertain and strangely vulnerable, and Harry sighed. He planted a hand on the back of the chair and heaved himself up and away, then rubbed a hand over his face, wishing it was Malfoy’s hand. And that his face was his own cock.

Fuck.

“Are you a virgin?” Harry finally asked softly. He didn’t think it was likely, but Malfoy’s odd skittishness made it seem as possible as anything. “Is that it?”

“No,” Malfoy said; it sounded like he was striving for an even tone, but Harry took savage satisfaction from the fact that Malfoy’s trousers were obscenely tented, from the fact that his voice was hoarse. “I’m not. I just–” He shook his head. “I want to.”

Harry backed away even further. He sat down gingerly on the coffee table and looked at Malfoy for a long moment, then inhaled deeply. His heart felt as if it were begging to be released, pounding as it was. “Then why–?”

“I don’t know, Potter,” Malfoy said, standing suddenly. He carded a hand through his hair and paced half the length of the room and back before turning and facing Harry again. More quietly, he repeated, “I don’t know.”

“Because I’d be upset if I found out this whole thing was you taking the piss with me,” Harry said, voice mild, though he watched Malfoy warily for his reaction.

“I want you, too,” Malfoy said. Harry’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he nodded encouragingly. But Malfoy just shook his head, looking as frustrated as Harry felt.

“Is it that we live together?”

“Merlin, no.” Malfoy’s laugh was semi-unhinged, which – for some reason Harry didn’t want to examine — was incredibly comforting. “I just– can’t, yet. Yet,” he said again, and that one word shot a lance of heat straight to Harry’s groin. He placed his palm against it with a stifled groan. When he looked back up, Malfoy’s eyes were zeroed in on it. He had stubble-burn around his mouth, on his neck, and Harry wanted to–

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Malfoy looked equal parts disbelieving and insulted.

Harry gave a pained chuckle. “I’m not… I mean, I’m not seeing anyone else. Are you?”

“No.” Malfoy swallowed. “But I’ll not be here for long. It’s not in my plans.”

Harry took a deep breath, not liking the sound of that; he’d never liked the sound of it, really, though he hadn’t realised that when Malfoy had first indicated his staying at Grimmauld was more transitory than permanent. But especially in the weeks that they’d been getting closer, Harry had felt it was leading up to something; he’d assumed it had meant the same thing to both of them.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Harry said after a long silence. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed; his lips pursed as he studied Harry, and Harry fought to keep the heat from rising in his face — he’d never been the best of liars. He cleared his throat and searched for a way to let Malfoy draw the conclusions he wanted. “Or it could. For as long as you’re here, I mean,” he added, trying to make it sound as simple as he could when his whole body wanted to weep.

After another moment, Malfoy gave a curt, noncommittal nod, and Harry let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Somehow, he’d fallen into… Into dating Malfoy. Had even offered himself up to it, though Malfoy hadn’t made any promises and was determined to make clear that it couldn’t last.

Harry fancied him.

The realisation was astonishing; astonishing, and a little appalling — Malfoy still grated on Harry’s last nerve, half the time — but Harry was surprisingly okay with it.

“If you want to wait until– whatever,” Harry said. “I just mean, I can wait.”

Suddenly the lamps lowered, flickering near-out. The fireplace crackled with heat, blazing bright, and shadows danced over the sharp angles of Malfoy’s face in the darkness. Two wall sconces holding candles lit up, and the room took on a decidedly seductive feel.

Harry blinked. “I’m not sure about the House, though…”

Malfoy took a halting step toward him; his hands fisted at his sides. “This fucking House,” he muttered. He walked closer and leaned down just as Harry lifted his chin.

“Don’t talk that way about my House,” he said, smiling, just before Malfoy kissed him again. The kiss went on and on, tongues and lips and teeth, the taste of mint soft and faded on Malfoy’s tongue as it plundered Harry’s mouth. Harry’s hands tightened on his thighs to keep from yanking Malfoy back down, to keep from undoing his flies with frantic fingers.

When Malfoy finally broke out of the kiss, his eyes were dark with confusion. “Fucking hell, Potter,” he said under his breath. He pressed a softer, lingering kiss to Harry’s swollen lips, then straightened away. With a final look, he turned and walked from the room, shoulders stiff.

Harry watched him go.

“Go after…”

Harry swallowed; he shook his head. “Not until– no.” He looked into the fireplace. “But thank you.”

He waited until he heard Malfoy’s door shut at the top of the stairs, then headed up. The water in his shower was perfect — hot but not scalding — and Harry shuddered as he stepped under the spray, allowing it to soak him and bleed the tension from his muscles. He grabbed the soap from the shelf and lathered his hand, then closed his eyes and leaned his back against the warm tile as his hand found his cock, beaded at the tip with precome. He began stroking himself, thinking of Malfoy’s long fingers, of the elegant arch of his spine and that goddamned cool taste of mint as they kissed. His balls drew up and he cupped them, hissing, pulling on his cock without haste, wanting to draw it out. He wanted it to feel the way it might when Malfoy finally relented, when things stopped being so confusing between them.

He fucked slowly into his fist for long minutes, exploring his body the way he hadn’t bothered to lately, touching himself in the places he liked with gentle fingers—stroking over his arshole, then moving up to tweak his nipples. His mind stayed on Malfoy, on his strange sense of loyalty and his surprisingly bawdy laugh, and even that look of furious vulnerability on his face after Harry kissed him; on all of the things that had always made him so fascinating, and it was this almost bleak thought that caused Harry to groan, working his hand fast over the shaft of his prick as it pulsed out his orgasm.

Ron had been right about why he’d picked Malfoy.

Godfuckingdammit.

Tired, Harry pried himself up from the wall. He finished showering, then stepped out of the shower. The tile beneath his feet was warm, and Harry looked down in surprise, then began to towel himself off briskly. He wrapped the towel around his hips and headed back into his bedroom.

He stared.

The floors, dingy and dark and scratched these last few years, no matter how many cleaning charms he cast at them or how many of Molly’s homemade solutions he applied, were suddenly like new; they shined with a high polish, the dark oak gleaming in the low light of his room. He took a tentative step into it, then another when the floor didn’t vanish beneath his feet.

“Kreacher?” he whispered.

Kreacher appeared with a small pop. “Yes, sir? Does you need tea?”

Harry shook his head. “My– my floor. Did you do that?”

Looking down at the hardwood, Kreacher thoughtfully curled his floppy ear around his finger. “No, Kreacher is not being ables to get the floors to shine,” he admitted in his low, creaky voice. “Kreacher is wanting to iron his hands for not being ables to tend to the House like a proper elf, but it is not letting me.”

“Then how–”

Kreacher perked up. “The House is being doings it, sir!” He sounded positively gleeful for someone over — Harry assumed — a thousand years old. Kreacher’s eyes brightened, and some of his many, many years seemed to melt away from his face. “The House is being pleased with you.”

“This is because I kissed Draco?” Harry asked. He didn’t like that one bit, for some reason.

“This is because you are being a good and distinguished wizard who is treatings his House like a good and kind House. The House is wanting to give you things, is wanting to be yours and—” Kreacher broke off, eyes going shifty. “Kreacher will be happy to be ables to clean again.”

Relieved, Harry gave him a nod. “I can help,” he said, eyeing the rich, saturated colour in the wood, the way the grain stood out, now that he could see it. The rest of his room looked painfully dull by comparison — his old bed, bought cheaply from a muggle furniture store when he and Ginny had moved in together, his tatty wardrobe in the corner with its years-old flaking paint that he’d gotten from a consignment store just because he'd needed one, the faded purple wallpaper, decorated in grey gargoyles. The floors played against everything else in high contrast, and Harry felt a surge of possessive pride over what he knew it could look like, someday.

If the House allowed it.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry said at last. “No, I won’t be needing tea, tonight.” Kreacher nodded, tugging at his tea towel, and made to leave. Impulsively, Harry said, “Wait.”

Kreacher looked at him curiously. Harry padded over to his wardrobe and pulled out a soft black pair of joggers, slipping them on under his towel before removing it. He went to the bed and sat down, putting his glasses back on, then sighed.

“Does Malfoy… Do you know where he goes every day?”

“No, Master Harry,” Kreacher said, blinking up at him. The lines around his mouth sagged heavily.

“Do you know what he does in the basement?”

Brightening, Kreacher nodded. “He eats Kreacher’s food I brings him, and mixes potions.”

“Does he…” Harry swallowed. “Does he ever have anyone here when I’m gone?”

“Mistress Pansy,” Kreacher said. “She is enjoying Master Harry’s room very much.”

Not expecting that, Harry looked at him. “What?”

“She is looking through yours room and saying that someone as boring as Master is not goings to be hurting Master Draco,” Kreacher offered, elaborating, “because you doesn’t have any whips and chains or fun things. And that you is not likely to murder her, after all.”

Harry snorted, taking that in. “Next time, tell her that I keep my whips and chains and ‘fun things,’ in the attic,” he said, making a mental note to fill a box with the most filthy sex toys he could find, along with, possibly, a list of ways to murder someone and get away with it. He bit his lip, wanting to probe more — Kreacher always knew what was going inside Grimmauld Place, at the very least, and Harry was vaguely ashamed of not having thought of asking him before — but guilt was seeping in, blanketing over his curiosity about all of the things Malfoy refused to discuss.

“Thanks, Kreacher.”

“Fun things is being important for a wizard,” Kreacher said, sounding oddly tentative. Harry looked at him sharply, but Kreacher lowered his head to avoid his eyes. “But important things is more important.”

Harry pursed his lips; he thought to ask what that meant, but the way Kreacher studiously didn’t look up at him indicated he wouldn’t get a straight answer anyway. “I’ll ask Malfoy what that means, okay?”

“Master Malfoy can answers many questions, but Grimmauld Place is not answering to Master Malfoy,” Kreacher said cryptically. “Grimmauld Place is seeking wanting Master Harry. Master Malfoy is only—” Kreacher stopped, sealing his lips closed. Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Alright,” he said slowly. They’d long gotten past the point of wailing — or grumbling furiously — while Kreacher punished himself for not obeying Harry’s indicated wishes in full, but Harry knew the urge still dwelled in Kreacher, so he left that bewildering statement alone, too. “I’m going to go to bed, now.”

Kreacher nodded again and Disapparated, and Harry crawled into bed. Down the hall, he could hear the faint sounds of Malfoy shuffling around in his room. Harry closed his eyes.

“Malfoy and I are snogging.”

Ginny blinked several times. “Well, come on then.” She moved her face out of the Floo and Harry took a pinch of powder and headed through it.

She was already in her kitchen, and he followed the sound of water and the tick, tick of the boiling charm start. He came in and sat down, letting his head thunk heavily against the tabletop. A few moments later, Ginny joined him, setting down a mug of tea and sitting across from him.

“I thought it would happen sooner,” she finally said. Harry lifted his head.

“It’s been happening for ever. Ever since the morning after the– when you all came over,” Harry said. He lifted the mug and held it in both hands, letting it warm them for a few seconds before taking a tentative sip.

“We should do that again,” Ginny said. She gave a wicked little smile, blowing on her own tea. “I had a lot of fun.”

Harry gave her a dirty look. “Could I talk to Luna instead?”

Ginny laughed. “She’s in the shower; she’ll be down soon. But you know she’s only going to offer to clean the Wrackspurts out of your aura with her crystals.” She took a sip of her tea, as well. Then, thoughtfully, “Not that yours probably couldn’t use it. I don’t know; I can’t see them the way Luna can.”

“You’re both mental; it’s no wonder you work so well together,” Harry grumbled. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes for a minute before replacing them.

“We don’t agree on everything; you know that, Harry.” Ginny snorted. “I’m perfectly aware that she’s as batty as she is darling. And she knows that I think so, too. We just…like each other. Even when we don’t, sometimes. We have fun together. She keeps me on my toes and I keep her grounded. And, of course, the sex—”

“Stop,” Harry cut in, holding up a hand. “Could we get back to my problem?”

“What makes you think I wasn’t talking about that?” She grinned at him, and he looked away, running her words through his head. When he looked back, she gave a little shrug. “And why is it such a problem?”

Harry opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by Parkinson breezing in. Her normally sleek bob of raven hair was wavy, as though she’d cast a drying charm on it but hadn’t bothered to style it yet. She was in a short black dress, but was holding her shoes in one hand — preposterous things with a multitude of tiny black straps and incredibly high heels — and had no makeup on.

“Really, Gin?” Harry said plaintively. Parkinson stopped; she glared at him for a moment then rolled her eyes and headed over to Ginny, nudging her chin up with one crooked knuckle.

“Next weekend?” she asked.

Ginny smiled, eyes sparkling and she slid them from Parkinson to Harry, then back. “I’ll check with Luna; she may be on shift at the shop all weekend.”

Parkinson nodded, then leaned down and kissed her.

“Hey,” Harry said, then again — louder — when the kiss went on and on. “Hey!”

Ginny finally pulled away with a soft chuckle. Her cheeks had gone rosy beneath her freckles; her mouth was swollen. “Don’t be mean to him, Pansy.”

“I would have kissed you goodbye regardless of his presence,” Parkinson said coolly, straightening. “It’s not my fault your cowardly ex is showing up at eight in the bloody morning.”

“Cowardly?” Harry echoed in disbelief. He’d been called a lot of things, but…

Parkinson balanced herself with one hand on Ginny’s shoulder, lifting each foot in turn to wiggle them into her shoes. She cast Harry a dark look.

“Indecisive? Craven? Impersonal and insulting?” she suggested. She pet Ginny’s hair back a bit, tucking it behind her ears before heading over to the counter and retrieving a bracelet and long necklace and putting them on. “More concerned with his reputation than he lets on?”

“Pansy,” Ginny said warningly, frowning. She looked as confused as Harry felt. “What are you talking about?”

“Yeah, Parkinson.” It perhaps wasn’t the best comeback, but Harry was momentarily blank for a better response. He wondered if the combination of Ginny and Luna had just managed to attract someone who happened to have be a blend of their weirder qualities: Ginny’s stubborn refusal to listen to reason when she got angry; Luna’s stubborn refusal to believe that reason even existed.

“It’s Pansy,” she said flatly, enunciating her own name. The bow of her lips drew down into a scowl. “It’s polite, when you associate socially with someone, to call them by their first name.”

“Fine. Pansy.” Harry drew back in his chair, staring at her.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s also polite to respond to invitations.”

“Invitations?”

“Especially when the person issuing them has very good reasons not to want you to know where she lives,” Pansy added.

“I’m not going to kill you!” Harry said, irritated. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, mumbled, “Probably.”

Pansy gave him a disappointingly unimpressed look and raised an eyebrow at Ginny, who smiled. “Is that what this is? Your birthday isn’t for eight months; Harry probably just didn’t realise that you expected a response owl right away.”

“A response owl to what?” Harry demanded, finally pushed beyond any semblance of composure.

“My birthday party,” Pansy said. Her dark lashes fluttered; her arms dropped to her sides. “Draco said I should invite you.”

“Well I didn’t get the invitation.” Irritably, Harry took another gulp of his tea, eyeing her. “Although Ginny’s right; I wouldn’t have known I was to respond immediately. Who sends out invitations for their birthday eight months in advance?”

“Purebloods do,” she snapped, colouring. Harry noticed with satisfaction that her blush wasn’t flattering; it spread over her cheeks and throat in dark pink blotches, making her look as though was she in the first stages of Spattergroit. “It usually takes that long to plan the party.”

“Well, fine, I’ll come,” he snapped back, annoyed and also pleased for some reason he couldn’t figure out.

“Of course you’ll be there. Hullo, Harry. Are you here for breakfast?” Luna said quietly, drifting in wearing a terry dressing gown. She patted Harry’s shoulder, then kissed Ginny’s cheek and went to stand next to Pansy. “Harry doesn’t like parties, but he always shows up when his friends have them. He’s also a very thoughtful gift giver.”

A mercenary glint appeared in Pansy’s eyes. “It’s also a custom to give three gifts for a witch’s twenty-second birthday,” she announced. “And one of them with gemstones.”

Ginny started laughing. “It is not!”

“You don’t know all the customs,” Luna pointed out seriously. “It may be.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I came here for a reason!”

“Oh?” Luna tilted her head and inspected him, her butter-yellow hair spilling in soft waves over her cheek and down past her shoulder. She stifled a lazy yawn with the back of her hand. “What reason?”

Trapped by his own tongue, Harry froze. He glanced at Pansy, who was staring at him interestedly, then back at Ginny, who lifted her shoulders, obviously determined to be no help at all.

“I’ll get you three presents and some jewelry for your birthday if you leave, Pansy,” Harry said. “Five. Five presents.”

Pansy looked at him a moment longer, then nodded, huffing a laugh under her breath. “Oh, I get it; this is about Draco.” She cast a considering look between Harry and Ginny, then slowly added, “And you’re talking to your friends. About him.”

Harry’s cheeks burned. “It’s not,” he said; a pointless denial, because she nodded again. “It’s something else.”

“Merlin, and I’ve been afraid of you?” she wondered aloud, derisively. Harry glowered at her. “Bring him to the party.”

“Won’t he be there?”

Pansy waved a hand, rolling her eyes. “Of course he’ll be there. He’s helping me plan it. But bring him,” she said, voice softening a little. “And ask him if he’ll come with you, soon. Before he finds a better date. Pureblood tradition, and all that.”

She dropped a kiss against Luna’s cheek and sauntered out, somehow managing not to wobble on the twigs that made up the heels of her shoes. Harry looked from Ginny to Luna as their Floo sounded with a loud whoosh.

Luna sighed, smiling gently. She sat down at the table and pried Ginny’s mug of tea away, taking a sip. “So what is it about Draco you need to talk about?” Her brow knitted. “Actually, let me Summon my crystals first; you’re surrounded by Wrackspurts. You’ll be able to identify the problem more clearly once they’re gone.”

Harry let his head fall to the table again with a soft groan. Ginny patted his hand.

It was almost noon by the time Harry got home, still reeking of the rose oil Luna had insisted on applying behind his ears and to his forehead. But at least she’d finally settled, listening carefully as Harry outlined his frustration with his current dynamic with Malfoy; unlike Ginny, her face didn’t even flicker when he said he was worried his cock might fall off from lack of use.

Although she had felt the need to point out that it wasn’t ‘lack of use,’ if he was using his own hand.

Still, it was worth it just to get it out in a way he never would be able to with Ron, who would never stop laughing long enough to give advice — or Hermione, who would never stop giving advice long enough to listen to him complain. In the end, she’d asked, “What are you so worried about, Harry? That he doesn’t like you? Draco isn’t the sort who would kiss someone if he didn’t want to, let alone on a regular basis. He’s said he wants to sleep with you, so he must just like taking things slow, until he’s more sure of someone.”

He didn’t exactly seem that sort to Harry, either, but he understood what she was trying to say — as much as he ever understood Luna, at least.

As the Floo wards chimed closed behind him, Harry glanced around; he was alone in the parlour but for Frank, who was sleeping half-propped on a giant, round pillow that Harry had transfigured from several old cushions he’d found in one of the rooms on the third floor. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, and the doors to the garden were closed. Curiously, he headed to the kitchen; Harry’d been due back two hours prior to discuss redecorating, now that the House seemed willing to allow changes, but he’d never received a response to his Patronus.

The kitchen was empty too, so he turned to make way for the stairs when he heard a resounding boom from the basement. A moment later, tendrils of pink and blue smoke drifted out from beneath the door. Harry yanked it open and headed down, taking two at a time.

“Malfoy?” Harry coughed, though the smoke felt more like fog sliding into his lungs than anything else, cool like damp air. It smelled sweet and smoky, smelled like parchment and ink and mint and flowers and the ocean. He pulled his wand and cast a spell, dissipating it even as it began to clear on its own. “Draco? Are you okay?”

Malfoy stood at a giant counter, glaring at Harry. He patted his hair down; it was streaked with pink and blue powder, and was standing out in every direction and he looked utterly absurd — he had splotches of pink and blue powder on his face, as well — and Harry couldn’t stop staring.

Because Malfoy — Draco — was wearing glasses.

“You wear specs,” Harry said, incredulity making his voice rise, turning it into a question. Malfoy coughed; he reached up to slip them off. But suddenly Harry was there, having no recollection of moving toward him, to still his hand. “Don’t.”

The colour in Malfoy’s cheeks deepened under the powder of whatever he’d been brewing. He let his hand fall away. When he spoke, his voice was grainy. “You’re not supposed to come down here.”

“I saw smoke,” Harry said. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. You never responded to my Patronus.”

“I wasn’t aware that one needed to respond to a cancellation to shop for and transfigure old furniture,” Malfoy said stiffly. He caught Harry’s eyes and grimaced. “Stop staring or I’ll take them off, and I can’t afford a headache right now.”

“I can’t,” Harry said, fascinated. Malfoy’s glasses were light, silver. They were more slender than Harry’s, a fashionable oval, and suited his face perfectly; he looked dignified and bookish in them. Harry swallowed. “You get headaches?”

Malfoy sighed; he turned back to the counter and began swishing his wand over it, spelling the diced potions ingredients back into their containers, and Vanishing the mess. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Is this a problem for you? That I made fun of you once for wearing them?”

“Once?” Harry asked, muffling a laugh.

“A figurative once. Once upon a time,” Malfoy said, blushing more fiercely. “Because if you’re going to return the favour, now would be the—”

“Come to Pansy’s party with me,” Harry said impulsively. Malfoy whipped around to face him, mouth dropping open. Harry shifted, suddenly feeling awkward. “If you want.”

“How did you find out about Pansy’s party?”

Ah. “I wasn’t supposed to?”

“It’s eight months away.”

“Right, you might not be here,” Harry said, uncomfortable with the reminder. He sighed, leaning back against the opposite counter. “I mean. Well, if you’re still here, would you want to go with me? Or other places, maybe. But definitely the party; I’d like to go with you.”

“I just– I didn’t think it was the type of activity you were interested in,” Malfoy said.

“It’s not,” Harry said honestly. “I never know what to do with myself at parties. As witnessed,” he added when Malfoy opened his mouth to comment. “But I’d, er, go to them. For my friends.”

“Friends,” Malfoy said flatly, nodding.

“Well, yeah. And Pansy said I could bring a date, so.” Harry watched him, taking in the sharp catch of Malfoy’s breath, the split second of shock that flitted over his features. “I know you’re already going, so if you think it’s dumb—”

“She’s invited Ginevra. And Luna. And the other two-thirds of your famous little club,” he said with a small sneer.

Harry nodded back, slowly. “So? They know about us.” He held his breath, and it seemed Malfoy did too. Malfoy’s eyes were like shadowed glass, reflecting the light from the lamps around them, faceted and huge behind his spectacles.

“Since when?”

“Since the day we first kissed, for Ron,” Harry said. “Probably the same day for Hermione. Ginny and Luna today, though neither of them seemed surprised. Then again, nothing surprises Luna.” He frowned. “I didn't mean it literally when I said Ron knows nothing.”

Malfoy stared at him for a long moment, then abruptly flicked his wand over a potion bubbling merrily in a cauldron behind him; it stilled. He caught Harry’s wrist in his hand and made for the stairs.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked when they reached the kitchen. Malfoy turned and headed toward the hallway, beginning up the next set of stairs.

“My room.”

Harry tripped slightly, then righted himself. “Why?”

“Yours is awful,” Malfoy said.

“I have nice floors.”

“And we can shag on your floors sometime,” Malfoy said, terse as he continued to drag Harry behind him, “but I prefer a bed. Or at least a sofa. Or some sort of surface that won’t kill our knees.”

“Shag?” Harry tripped again, his cock stiffening hopefully. “Now?”

“Call me Draco,” Malfoy ordered. “I liked when you did that.”

“I, yeah, sure, Draco,” Harry said, as confused as he was turned on. “Draco.”

They reached the landing of the second floor and Malfoy — Draco; fuck — turned suddenly. He pushed Harry to the wall and kissed him, hard and unrelenting, his tongue sliding into Harry’s mouth, the tip of his nose pressed against Harry’s cheek. Their glasses connected with a small clicking sound as Draco slanted his head further. Harry’s hands came up to rest on Draco’s hips, which rotated against his; Draco was already hard, his cock a thick press against Harry’s groin, as he moved.

“Draco,” Harry gasped when he pulled away. He had one hand firm on Harry’s waist, almost as if to keep in him place, and he fisted the other in Harry’s hair, tilted his head to the side to expose his throat. He ducked his head to bury his face against it, biting down over the cords of it roughly before sucking, gentler, at the abused skin. Harry’s brain caught up with the events, and he curled a leg around the back of Draco’s slightly bent knee, urging him closer and rolling his hips. “Fuck. Yes.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed in a mumble, still mouthing roughly at Harry’s throat. “You’ll fuck me.”

“I– Yeah.” Harry leaned his head further to the side, swamped with sensation as Draco followed the line of his throat up, to just under his jaw. He scraped his teeth, fingers digging into Harry’s waist. “Oh. You want me to–”

“I assume that’s okay?” Draco chuckled, breath warm against Harry’s skin. Harry shivered. He clasped Draco’s arse with both hands and pulled him flush. Draco obliged him, thrusting hard against Harry for a few, delicious moments.

“It’s, yes, it’s okay, yes,” Harry said, screwing his eyes shut. He released Draco’s arse and tangled his hands in his hair; it was as soft as it looked, the strands silky against his palms. He drew Draco close for another kiss, his foot coming down so he could spin them and take his turn pushing Draco into the wall. Draco shuddered; he made an approving noise into Harry’s mouth. “You’ll keep your glasses on,” Harry said.

“Bloody philistine,” Draco muttered. Harry pulled away, panting, and Draco grinned at him ferally. “You keep yours on, too.”

Their eyes locked for a moment; then, in unison, they turned, heading toward Draco's room. Harry felt blurry, urgent with need, his palm damp and hot in Draco's grip as Draco pulled him. He was so focused on the feel of it that he slammed into Draco's back when he pulled to an abrupt halt two feet from his bedroom.

“What?”

Draco stood stock still. He twitched his hand in Harry's, a silent prompt. Harry looked up.

At the end of the hallway, to the side of the staircase leading up, there was a brand new door.

Chapter Text

Harry had always wondered at the odd configuration of the hallway; it seemed as though space had been left in the wall next to the staircase to add another room, or at least a cupboard — which, of course, was something he had refused to consider putting in, even if the House would have let him. But now it made…sense, this door with its faint shimmer of magic floating over the dark wood, set into the heart of the House. It seemed out of place, its design far older than anything in the rest of the House and engraved with intricate scrolls around the edges that thinned out toward the centre, where an elaborate starburst was carved. In the middle of that was an emblem which contained a skull, three ravens, and a hand gripping a sword.

It seemed out of place, but also...not.

“Is that—” Harry asked, licking his lips. He could still taste Draco on them — that fine powder from his potion, which seemed scented with all of his favourite things. It was delicious; distracting.

“Yeah,” Draco said. His hand released Harry’s, and he cleared his throat. “Yes. That’s the crest of the House of Black.”

“The Noble and Most Ancient,” Harry agreed faintly. He eyed the hypnotic luminescence of the doorknob, curved and arching out from the edge of the door like the body of a snake; sinuous, detailed in thousands of tiny scales. “There’s no key.”

“Not yet,” Draco said.

“Good,” Harry said. Draco turned, a question on his face, and Harry caught his hand again. “I’m occupied right now, anyway.”

He tugged Draco closer and kissed him, walking him backwards into the open door of his room. Draco placed his hand on Harry’s chest, as though to push him away — but didn’t, Harry thought with the last working corner of his mind, as Draco kissed him back. He didn’t push Harry away, just rested his palm there, fingers light and splayed while Harry licked a smidge of powder away from just behind the hinge of his jaw.

“What is that?” he mumbled. “You taste amazing.”

“It’s — Ah! That’s good, do that — a mimicked formula for Amortentia,” Draco said breathlessly as Harry obeyed him and scraped his teeth over the spot again. Draco swiped a thumb over his own cheek. “It’s, umm, fuck. It’s for food.”

“Mmm. Why?” Harry pulled away from his neck and lifted Draco’s hand. He lowered his mouth over Draco’s thumb, sucking it in down to the knuckle and swirling his tongue around it; the powder tasted sweet now, but still had that undercurrent of mint to it. Draco’s pupils went huge and dark, watching him; he shuddered and tightened his hand on Harry’s chest to clench his shirt and drag him forward, pulling his thumb out of Harry’s mouth.

Draco kissed him; hard, filthy, demanding. “Why do you think, you twat? To make it taste better.”

They had gotten to the bed; the backs of Draco’s thighs halted their slow-drifting progress and Harry kissed him back, rough and eager, pushing Draco down and climbing atop him in one smooth motion. His hands grappled between them, searching for the button of Draco’s trousers, and Draco arched, moaning against him. Harry tore his mouth away.

“What if you like how it already tastes?” he asked, voice gone low and husky. He bit down on a clear bit of skin on Draco’s neck and sucked it between his teeth, working his tongue over the spot. Draco craned his neck sideways, chest rising and falling under Harry. Harry found the clasp of his trousers and slipped it open.

“Do you?” Draco’s thighs fell open beneath him and Harry straddled one, planting his hand on the mattress for balance as he continued to work Draco’s zip down. He was wearing black cotton boxers under them, completely unremarkable but for the fact that his cock had risen and was caught between the waistband and his stomach. Harry brushed his knuckles over it and kissed him again.

“Yeah,” he said, panting lightly. Draco groaned, soft, as Harry repeated the motion. His knuckles caught the sticky smear of precome and Harry gusted out a sharp exhale. Draco’s fringe fanned from it; pink-blue tinted hair flew up and powder coloured the air around his head for a moment. Harry laughed, mouth seeking Draco’s, cock rutting desperate into his long thigh. He heard the drop of shoes being kicked off as he peeled the waistband of Draco’s pants down to free his cock, but it snapped back into place and Draco grunted.

“Off, take them off,” he said lowly. His eyes burned with a strange silver light, and he slid his hands between them to help. Harry rolled to the side to tug Draco’s trousers and pants down — Draco lifted his hips — and then Draco was naked from the waist down, his cock bobbing out from the nest of golden curls at his groin. Harry’s mouth ran dry as he looked at it, his fingers skimming over the jut of Draco’s hipbone; he stroked them down, into the v where his hip met his pelvis, and threaded his fingers through Draco’s pubic hair, giving it a sharp tug. Draco’s cock jerked.

“I want— What do you like?” Harry asked. His voice sounded odd to his own ears, almost raw. He moved back over Draco’s pale, bare thigh and rolled his hips against it, seeking friction, then slipped his hand up to cover Draco’s cock. He laid it flat over the length, which was — he thought — longer than his own; the heel of his hand rested at the base, pressing it against Draco’s stomach, and the head peeked out, glistening, beyond Harry’s middle finger.

“Well, that’s a good start, Potter,” Draco said. He made a muffled sound, rocking up against Harry’s hand.

“See, you do it, too,” Harry mumbled, eyes on Draco’s face. Draco turned his head to the side, lip caught tight between his teeth. There was the bloom of a bruise, mottled and purple, on his throat where Harry had sucked at it.

“Harry,” Draco amended in rough, needy voice. “Fucking touch me.”

“I am,” Harry said, grinning. Draco blinked his eyes open and glared; he put his hand over Harry’s and angled it sideways, guiding it to curl around the length of his prick.

“From the way Paul talks, I thought you’d be better at this,” he said with a small hiss when Harry stroked his foreskin back. Draco’s cock was pink, flushed darker at the head, the skin velvety soft over the rigid shaft. Harry worked his hand over the foreskin, dragging it down and back to cover the swollen head in full, then retracting it, again and again. It gleamed damply, the collected pearl of fluid from the tip having been caught away.

“I’m okay at it,” Harry said, some strange combination of affection and desire tangled painfully in his chest as Draco made another one of those damned noises in the back of his throat, a small nngghh of pleasure.

“Just, oh, fuck. Just keep doing that.”

“What if I want to do something else?” Harry asked. Without waiting for a reply, he slid down between Draco’s legs and sucked Draco’s cock into his mouth.

Draco cried out, hand falling to Harry’s hair and gripping it brutally. Harry sucked at him, bobbing his head over the crown, tongue dipping into the leaking slit. His hands frantically tore at his own flies; he toed off his trainers. He grabbed his wand from his back pocket and set it down next to Draco’s hip. He pulled his mouth off and slanted it to the side, following it up the length, tongue swirling patterns against the underside of Draco’s cock and licking over the pulsing vein there. He groaned; the weight and shape of Draco’s prick was heady, but moreso the sounds Draco was making — greedy little grunts that issued from his throat as his hips bucked. Harry drew off him and Draco’s hand, tight in his hair, clenched again before loosening.

“Bastard,” he said. Harry grinned, crawling upward, replacing his mouth with his hand again.

“What does Paul say about me?” Harry asked. He started working the buttons of Draco’s shirt open, one handed.

“You’re a wanker,” Draco said breathlessly. He slipped his fingers into Harry’s jeans, already loose around his waist, and shoved at them and his pants, baring Harry’s arse to the cool air of the room. His cock, ruddy and harder than he remembered it ever having been, thumped against Draco’s hip, and he couldn’t resist thrusting against the taut skin there. He wiggled, working them down his thighs and kicking them gracelessly to the floor.

“Nice,” Harry snorted.

“No, he literally tells me you’re a wanker,” Draco said with a tight sort of amusement in his voice. He rolled them until they were on their sides, just as his shirt came open under Harry’s hands. “He tells me you wank all the time; he can smell it on you.”

“He told me you wank in the garden,” Harry said, then stilled, falling silent.

“I do not!” Draco objected, affronted. He slung a leg over Harry’s hip, rolling against him once before faltering. “What—” He broke off, and Harry dragged his eyes away from those scars, those fucking scars, that he’d managed to not dwell on over the last few weeks, to look at Draco’s face. He was biting his lip, eyes — so hot only moments ago — unreadable. Harry looked back.

“I didn’t know,” he said shakily, coasting the tip of his index finger over one. It was shiny and pale, the skin pulled tight, and scored a long streak down to the top of Draco’s hip. He wanted to apologise, but every other word he knew he should say crowded in his throat, blocking all of them. His erection flagged.

“No.” Draco’s voice was hard, implacable, and Harry glanced back up. He looked angry, furious really, his lips pressed tight and white around the edges, his eyes glinting as sharp as the blade of a knife. He rolled them further until he was on top, then rose to straddle Harry’s thighs, prying both sides of his shirt all the way open and yanking it off. He held out his left forearm, displaying the dark lines of his Mark. Harry looked at it helplessly, disgusted and aching, both.

“No,” Draco said again. His arm trembled slightly, but his voice didn’t waver. “Because before these,” he gestured to the scars etched across his torso, “came this. We can talk about it later.”

“Draco—”

“Do you want to fuck me?” Draco said, low and demanding. But he sounded...vulnerable, too. “Even with these? Even with this?”

“Draco, I—” Harry licked his lips, looking from one to the other — the scars Harry had given him, the scar he had chosen for himself — then back up to Draco’s expectant face. “Yes.”

Relief, sharp and potent, melted away the blaze of anger. Draco nodded, throat working, and looked away, down between them. His hand fell to Harry’s cock, long fingers stroking over it; it responded, plumping again after a moment. Draco grasped it, tightening his hand into a fist, and stroked it to full hardness. Harry touched him back, one hand sliding over the top of his thigh, palm rasping over the dusting of hair there. He placed the other over Draco’s cock, thumb stroking the slick beading at the tip around the crown, and Draco’s eyes flicked up to his face, evaluating it for a moment before looking back down between them. His teeth reappeared, worrying his lower lip.

“I do,” Harry said, feeling like it needed to be reiterated. He didn’t like Draco’s Mark, he didn’t like the scars, but he… he’d learned to like Draco, in the unlikeliest of ways. And Draco was right; they could talk about it later. “I want you.”

Draco’s pale lashes fluttered; he swooped down and pressed his mouth to Harry’s, tongue sweeping against the seam of Harry’s lips. Harry opened them, and it slid inside, licking against his own for long, dizzying minutes while Draco rocked on top of him. He bunched Harry’s t-shirt in his fist, rucking it up around his ribcage, and stroked down the flat of Harry’s stomach. Harry’s muscles tightened; he could feel the tingle of sensation skitter over his skin, like the slide of bubbles down his throat when he drank champagne. It was lush, decadent, how a single brush of Draco’s hands over the planes of Harry’s stomach seemed to make the world wobble around him.

Harry’s glasses had gotten foggy from all the kissing; Draco’s had too. With no small amount of regret, Harry reached up and removed Draco’s, tossing them aside without bothering to fold the legs. He took off his own, as well, ignoring Draco’s little frown.

“Another time,” he said. And it felt almost…dangerous to say that, after months of wanting Draco, and weeks of being on the verge of having him. It felt like he was tempting fate to admit that he expected to have this again; a far greater risk than letting Draco move in, or keep secrets, or kiss him without defining anything.

Draco wiggled on top of him expectantly, his stilled hand resuming its strokes over Harry’s prick; slow, steady. Harry grunted, arse tightening as he thrust into Draco’s hand; it was hot and calloused just the right amount for delicious friction. He dropped his hand to Draco’s erection once more, and Draco shook his head, rising up higher on his knees. He grabbed his own cock with his other hand and began wanking them in tandem. “Get me open,” he said. “Lube’s in my drawer.”

Harry blinked up at him, at the pale length of Draco’s body, his tightened nipples and his chest — narrow, but toned with the muscles of a flyer — and at the slide of his fists over each of them. He went lightheaded from lust.

Swallowing, Harry reached for his wand and wondered why the sodding hell he was so shaky; his heart felt like it had lodged in his throat. He Summoned the tube of lube from Draco’s nightstand, thumbing open the cap and squeezing out a liberal amount over his fingertips before dropping it off to the side. He slid his hand into the space Draco had created between the two of them; he paused to cup Draco’s balls and roll them in his palm. Draco closed his eyes and groaned, hands tightening.

“What do you like?” Harry asked again. He barely recognised his own voice. Draco’s balls felt soft and neat in his hand, the delicate, sensitive skin sliding gently. Harry gave them a tug.

“That. I like that,” Draco said. His gaze was smoke-dark, such a contradiction to his pale hair and skin, which had pinkened all over under the lingering remnants of powder. “Start me with two.”

“Fingers?” Harry asked, surprised — though he couldn’t say why.

Draco nodded, letting his eyes drift shut as he fucked into his own hand and worked Harry into a wreck of frustrated nerve-endings with the other. “Yeah,” he gasped out. “I wanked last night, it’ll be fine. I want two.”

“Jesus,” Harry groaned. He pulled his hand away and grabbed around Draco’s ribcage, slick fingers slipping for purchase, then flipped them back to their original position, rolling Draco onto his back. Draco made a small noise of surprise, and then his voice dropped into a purr, and Harry almost hated him again, with how much he wanted him. He allowed himself one more brief stroke of his cock into Draco’s hand, then knocked it away and propped himself to the side on his forearm, pressing Draco’s thighs open and sliding his fingers into the crevice of Draco’s arse.

“Mmm f-fuck.” Draco slanted out the leg not caught beneath Harry’s hip, crooking it at the knee and drawing it up a bit. The muscles of his arse cheeks bunched and flexed as Harry coasted his fingers between them, slickening him up. He found the furl of Draco’s hole; wrinkled and delicate against the pads of his fingers, and yes — Jesus, Harry was going to lose his mind — it felt slightly puffy; recently tended to. He let his forehead fall to the jut of Draco’s collarbone as he pressed two fingers in.

“You’re—” Tight, Harry wanted to say. Soft, hot. But like before, his voice was rendered useless beyond another cracked groan. He twisted the tips of his fingers just inside Draco’s arsehole; Draco jerked against him, so he did it again, thumb smoothing around the outside of his rim. “Feel good?”

“Yeah.” Draco panted, face tight, dots of sweat breaking out on his temples. “Fuck me with them.”

“How?” Harry asked, glancing down. His breath caught at the sight: Draco had stopped stroking himself in favour of encircling his flushed, pink prick with his forefinger and thumb, tight around the base to stave off his climax. Beneath that were his balls, resting against the inside of Harry’s wrist, and the cleft of his arse spread wide with Harry’s fingers pumping steadily deeper; he was already so wet from the lube, his inner muscles clenching and releasing around Harry’s fingers, the rim of his arse dragging on every slow slide. Harry’s throat grew tight. “Tell me, Draco.”

“Harder,” Draco said after a pause. “Deeper.” He lifted his head, wild-eyed, his face a mask of tension.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry said under his breath. He pushed his fingers deeper; spread them out as he dragged them back. Again and again, his mouth finding Draco’s, who growled into the kiss; his legs shifted restlessly, hips canting to angle against Harry’s fingers. Harry pulled out of the kiss and scraped his teeth over Draco’s jaw. He slid his fingers out to the rim and murmured, “Three?”

Draco shifted again, bucking up against him. He gave a wordless little whine, opening his legs impossibly wider and Harry almost came on the spot. Draco reached back down and clutched Harry’s wrist, his areshole fluttering around Harry’s fingertips. He gave a jerky little nod, his eyes squinched shut. Harry added another finger, and really it wasn’t so different; Draco’s arse was slippery, pliant. It contracted tight upon Harry’s reentry, but then softened around his fingers. Harry brushed his fingers over the soft swell of nerve clusters that made up Draco’s prostate, and Draco arched his throat. “Fucking hell. Yes. God, that’s good.”

It was Harry’s turn to growl; the sound burst out of him, loud and shocking. He plunged his fingers into Draco with almost clumsy enthusiasm, skimming them over his prostate with every drag as he hunched over. He bit his way down Draco’s throat and chest, seeking the pebbled bud of one nipple with his mouth. He bit at it, then licked, and Draco’s breath rushed out of him explosively; the fingers that were wrapped around his wrist squeezed, and Harry felt his bones grind together for a moment from the strength of Draco’s grip. Draco’s other hand fell to the back of his neck; his fingers bit into the tendons there as he gasped and writhed and muttered curses under his breath.

“Harry, Harry,” he said breathlessly. “I’m going to come.”

“Fuck. Yes. Okay, yeah,” Harry huffed out, the words stifled by Draco’s skin against them. He wanted to see, wanted to watch Draco come just from his fingers inside him, but the hand on his wrist clamped.

“Cock,” Draco said, when Harry looked up in confusion; his mind felt far away; he was too focused on the desire pulsing through him to make Draco come to process why he was being stopped from his goal. He blinked, and Draco shook his head impatiently. “Cock,” Draco said again, sounding irritated and turned on, and Jesus, had he always sounded like that when talking to Harry? His tone recalled memories of their fights back at Hogwarts, and Harry tried to understand it, but he’d apparently lost all cognitive ability because Draco barked out, “Cock!” a third time, and the hand that was gripping his neck pinched it to give him a little shake. “Put it in me, you idiot.”

Jerking back to himself, the command finally filtered in and promptly destroyed what was left of his brain. Harry pulled his fingers out — too quickly; Draco made a sound of complaint — and rolled atop him, slotting himself between Draco’s thighs. Draco nodded, curling one leg around Harry’s hip. Harry paused to sling his forearm under it, lifting it higher and planting his hand flat on the mattress for balance. His prick slid between Draco’s arse cheeks; they were slick with lube and Harry gave a little groan because it still wasn’t enough.

“More; I need more lube,” he said, coasting his cock between Draco’s buttocks. Draco groped for it with one hand; he opened it and slathered his palm in the stuff, then reached between them then gripped Harry’s cock, coating it silky. Harry pushed into Draco’s hand desperately, but then Draco was pulling away, slipping a hand over Harry’s hip to clench tight over his buttock and urge him forward. Harry thumbed his cock down into place, rubbing the head over Draco’s rim a few times. Draco hissed, twisting, and he rocked upward just as Harry pressed in, his cock sinking in an inch, then more and more until he was buried to the hilt.

“Wait, wait,” he said when Draco moaned and clenched. The walls of his arse were wet and tight and — fuck — hot, Harry had been riding the knife’s edge of his climax for too long already.

Draco’s eyes slit open; he smiled, wicked and sharp. “No,” he said, and did it again. He rolled his hips upward, hand finding his own cock.

Harry swore; he caught Draco’s mouth in a brutal kiss, biting and licking away that devastating smirk as he started fucking into Draco with long, fast strokes. Draco bit back at him in retaliation and Harry tasted the tang of blood, but couldn’t be sure if it was Draco’s or his — his mouth tingled with sensation, with the taste of Draco, with the slide of Draco’s tongue against his own. Harry made himself gentle the kiss, reminding himself distantly that they weren’t what they used to be; he felt drunk with it it all: the sounds Draco made as he fucked himself on Harry’s cock, the ruthless tightening of his muscles around it every time Harry bottomed out in him, the weight of Draco’s leg over his arm as he used Harry for leverage to chase after his orgasm.

“Harry,” Draco said through grit teeth. “Harder.”

And Harry didn’t know why, but that was unbearably hot -- the demand in Draco’s voice, the way he knew exactly what he wanted. Harry obeyed him unthinkingly, grinding his cock deep. He hiked Draco’s leg higher and rotated his hips on the hard instroke, and when Draco gave a low, sharp cry, he did it again.

“There?”

“Fuck. Yeah. There. More.” Draco’s hand flew over his prick between them, knuckles raking over the clenched muscles of Harry’s stomach as he wanked himself with mindless dedication. Harry repeated the motion, finding a satisfying rhythm, leaning down to kiss Draco as he pumped his hips and drove into him. Draco mumbled lower and then louder, his hand trapped between them but still moving fast and fervent. “I’m going to—”

“Fuck, yeah, I want to see.” Harry looked between the slide of the their bodies. Sweat prickled against the small of his back; his balls were drawn up and legs were quaking with burning effort, but it was worth it when Draco shuddered under him, his lip caught between white teeth, his face open and almost startled as he started to come, shooting pearly white streaks over their stomachs.

Harry grit his teeth at the way Draco’s arse spasmed around his cock, at the curl of his long body coming inward as though he could capture the feeling, the way his lanky muscles tightened all at once. He wanted to join Draco, wanted to come, but deeper than that there was a near-feverish desire to keep fucking him, to stay inside and so Harry let Draco’s leg slide off his arm. He felt so good under Harry, his hand going slack between them, his body going lax. He blinked up at Harry, eyes dark and sated.

“Harry—”

“No,” Harry gritted out, “not yet.” He pumped his hips, staring down at Draco, whose face was relaxed and open. He brought his free hand up to Harry’s waist and simply rested it there, his chest still heaving lightly, all of his skin flushed; he was all sharp angles and edges, but there was a softness to him like this, and Harry wanted to keep that look, to keep him — he didn’t want Draco to go. Possessiveness welled up in him, fierce and frightening at the thought, his eyes catching on the way Draco’s shoulders jolted back and forth over the duvet as Harry continued to plough into him. His cock throbbed, and he was so— he was so fucking close, but— “No,” he said again, more to himself than Draco, and if he sounded like he was begging, he couldn’t bring himself to care, the tension pooling in his groin.

Then, just when he thought he had reduced Draco to a boneless, quivering, Draco-shaped mass beneath him, the hand still gripping his arse skated inward. Slick fingers slid between Harry’s flexing buttocks, and the tip of one long index finger brushed over Harry’s hole. Draco’s voice was low, urgent. “Do you like that?”

The rub of Draco’s fingers against his rim sent little shocks of pleasure snaking through him. In some distant corner of his mind, he knew it was too much, that he wouldn’t be able to hold on — was already past that point — but he nodded anyway. His voice was raspy. “Yeah. I, uhhnn Draco. Yeah, I want—”

Draco licked his lips, his hips starting to move in time again with Harry’s juddering, erratic thrusts. He pressed his finger into Harry, pushing past the tight ring of muscles, straight down the the knuckle with no further warning. Harry keened, loud and harsh. The stretch of it burned a bit — he hadn’t bottomed in a while — but Draco wiggled his finger even deeper somehow, and unerringly found Harry’s prostate, pressing firm as he dragged his finger over it with quick thrusts of his hand. Harry moaned, his balls tightening, his cock growing impossibly hard. He climaxed, the waves crashing over him, his body trembling as he froze in place, hips jerking weakly. His cock pulsed; his vision went dark around the edges. He felt the warm splash of his come in Draco, slickening his own prick anew, and he dropped his head, too overwhelmed by Draco’s body around his, by Draco’s sure, pumping finger inside him, to do anything but ride out a pleasure so fierce it almost hurt.

He came down from it slowly, breathing in hard gasps, sweat matting his hair and trickling down his temple. He sagged over Draco heavily, and Draco grunted but it didn’t sound like a complaint at all. He pulled his hand away and slid it up the line of Harry’s back, gentle and thoughtless as Harry drifted and breathed, wondering when, exactly, he’d started to fall in love with Draco Malfoy.

“Your gnome is watching us.”

Draco’s voice in his ear, low and strange, woke Harry from his doze. He stretched, fitting his back against Draco’s chest. Draco’s cock was warm and soft against his buttocks; he rotated his hips and blinked his eyes open. The light in the room had the faded dim of sunset; a deep orange glow of sunlight from the window spilled over the polished wood floors. “How long have we been asleep?

“Your gnome Harry.”

“He’s not my...”

Harry twisted to look at him. Draco’s face was frozen, his head drawn back slightly. He looked appalled and not a little weirded out, his eyes unblinking as he looked beyond Harry. Harry turned back around and followed his gaze to see Paul, clinging to the window ledge and grinning maniacally.

“Paul, you bloody pervert,” Harry said loudly. The bedcovers, hopelessly twisted, had been kicked lower on their bodies to uncover them down to their knees. Harry tugged them up. “Go away!”

Paul cackled gleefully. “You div me beans now!”

“What?” Draco said faintly behind him.

“You did not orchestrate this!” Harry glared at Paul, who only grinned wider. He obviously wasn’t using the small, charmed toothbrush Harry had given him. Harry shuddered.

“You tan tum ott to darden,” Paul yelled. He looked positively insane. “I eat beans an you tan fruck.”

“Jesus,” Draco muttered. “Where’s my wand?.”

Harry fumbled and found his own after a moment, hidden amongst the blankets. He passed it over and Draco pointed it at his window, murmuring; the drapes dutifully slid shut. Harry rolled over with a grimace, ready to apologise, but Draco’s expression had melted into one of shock.

“What?” Harry touched his jaw. “What is it?”

Draco blinked and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, looking down. He handed Harry’s wand back. “Thanks.”

Harry looked down too; he palmed the length of holly, feeling the lingering, warm traces of Draco’s magic pulsing through it. “You’re welcome,” he said hoarsely, barely able to believe that he’d just done that. Draco watched him uncertainly, and Harry flashed a crooked smile. “We have complementary magic. It’s why—”

“Why my wand worked so well for you. Yes.” Draco pinched the bridge of his nose; Harry frowned, finally understanding the gesture for what it really was. He Summoned both of their glasses and handed Draco his pair. Draco took them, unfolding the legs and slipping them on a little sheepishly.

“You’ve been living here for months and walking around without your glasses when you need them,” he said. “Why?”

“I don’t always need them.” Draco pushed them up a higher; the narrow, silver frames flashed a little in the dimming light.

“You buy eye charms?”

“Yes,” Draco said, a little too quickly. “I’m just out right now.”

Harry’s brow knit, but Draco looked back at him mulishly, his chin tucked in a tick, so he let it go. But the silence that fell in the wake of Draco’s obvious lie — and Harry couldn’t figure out why someone would lie about something like eye charms — was awkward, and vaguely confrontative. He shifted a little, pulling the blanket up higher around his hips, suddenly starkly aware of the way they’d woken up, tangled and pressed together, and the distance between them now.

“I guess we should talk?”

Draco sighed. He scooted back a little more. “If we must.”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it with a click. Blankly, he asked, “About what?”

“I don’t know,” Draco drawled, blinking several times. He looked just as startled as Harry felt, and just as lost for their next step. “Quidditch?”

“What?” Harry laughed, louder when Draco grinned and joined in. It felt like a balloon expanding in Harry’s chest, filling him up with lightness as they grinned at each other helplessly; he thought of the times he’d laughed like this in his life before, with Ron or Hermione or Ginny, and the sheer wonder of it — of being able to laugh with Draco, naked in bed, still wanting him — caused him to dissolve into near-hysteric giggles. He didn’t even know what they were laughing about, really, except that it felt so good to see Draco look at him, bright and amused and open, that he wished they’d never stop.

They did, eventually, the sound fading like the light from the window. Still, they continued to smile, looking at each other. Then Draco reached out, whip-fast, and pulled Harry toward him, kissing him deep. Harry groaned, hands coming up under Draco’s arms to press against his shoulders and pull him closer. He swiveled, sliding them down and rolling them until his chest was draped over Draco’s, their kiss unbroken. Finally, he pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, breathless. The words that wouldn’t come before now poured out in rush. “I didn’t know what the spell would do, back then. I didn’t mean to hurt you, not like that, except you were—” Harry grimaced. Draco’s lips were swollen and his neck was covered in stubble burn; his hair was messy and soft under Harry’s hand. He stared up at Harry, wide-eyed and silent, his lips parted. Harry sucked in a breath and continued. “And I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you, back then. That I was so obsessed with being right about you that I never bothered to find out if I could do something to change things. Maybe I could have—”

“Potter, stop,” Draco said. He shook his head, laughing again — though the sound shared no components with the giddy laughter from a few minutes prior, rough and disbelieving as it was. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

“What?”

Draco’s arms slipped from around his shoulders; his hands settled at Harry’s waist. “You’re apologising to me.”

“Finally,” Harry said earnestly, frowning when Draco glowered at him.

“Potter, I tried to Crucio you.”

“I know, but I—”

“Walked in on me crying? Followed me around because you guessed — correctly, I might add — that I was a Death Eater?” Draco asked archly. He tilted his head sideways on the pillow, looking at Harry thoughtfully. “Could have stopped me from becoming one in the first place?”

Harry flushed.

“Stop being such a bloody hero; I really hate that about you and if you ever try to do it with me again, it’ll be too soon. I took the Mark. I took it, Harry. He was in my home, but it was a choice I made. Stop being so responsible for everyone else,” Draco said.

“You were a kid; you were influenced to do certain things.”

“Are you going to try to convince me that you weren’t?” Draco asked, snorting. “That you just thought one day upon turning eleven, ‘I think I’ll dedicate the next several years to finding and killing the Darkest Wizard in history?’” He paused, but when Harry didn’t respond said, “I live a different life than I used to, yes. I like being in… I like being in control of my own destiny in a way I didn’t use to be. But outside influences or no, I wasn’t forced into making bad decisions back then.”

“That doesn’t make what I did okay,” Harry said.

“No, but it balances it, a bit. If it helps, the scars don’t bother me anymore; neither does the Mark. It reminds me to look at every side of things, reminds me of how bad things can get when you make the wrong choices,” Draco said with a sigh. “And the scars are a good reminder to think before I do something stupid in haste.” For all the irritation on his face, the kiss he gave Harry when he lifted his head was soft. “Which I did.”

“About this?” Harry followed his mouth, unable not to, and kissed him again. He broke away. “Us? Is that why we finally—”

“Well, you are often stupid and hasty; that’s true enough.” Draco snorted. Harry pinched his hip in retaliation. “I wasn’t ready.”

“You’ve said that.”

“Well, I meant it,” Draco said, annoyed. There was something…else; something that Draco was avoiding, but even as Harry had the thought, he became aware of another detail, pressing insistently against his hip.

“Feels like you’re ready now,” Harry said, voice going low. He grinned. “...So is it an apology kink, or a truth telling kink, or—?”

“Bugger off,” Draco said. But his mouth twitched around the corners, and then he was dragging Harry down for another kiss. Harry lent himself over to it eagerly — to Draco’s lips and mouth and wandering hands, which couldn’t seem to decide if they wanted to yank at his hair or cup his arse.

Harry smiled wider against Draco’s mouth, then pulled away and flipped him over. He fit his front to Draco’s back, rutting his thickening erection against the swell of Draco’s arse cheek. “D’you really want me to? Bugger off?”

Draco groaned and reached behind himself to grasp Harry’s cock.

Harry took that as a firm no.

“I can’t believe Malfoy talked you into hosting another whole party,” Ron said gleefully.

“It’s not a party,” Harry said automatically. It really wasn’t, but his gaze drifted to Dean — who he’d remembered to invite as a “friendly person,” as Seamus was on a work assignment in Japan — talking animatedly to Greg, then to Ginny and Luna, who were carefully levitating a pile of bulky trunks with faded leather and rusting locks to get better access to the table beneath. “And I was… distracted, when he brought it up,” Harry admitted, biting back a grin and studiously looking away.

Ron held up his beer and raised his eyebrows. “Alcohol. Friends. Non-friend not-enemies, or what-have-you. Goyle brought a guitar. And you and Malfoy keep giving each other looks the way you did at the last one,” he pointed out.

“Not like we did at the last one,” Harry said under his breath. His eyes flicked to Draco, who was arguing with Blaise about which pieces to set aside. He had that haughty sneer on his face that Harry used to want to knock off with a closed fist.

Now he could think of better ways.

“Harry!” Ron nudged him. “Merlin. Don’t do that, please.”

“What?” Harry said, dragging his eyes back. Ron’s mouth twisted to the side; he rolled his eyes.

“Stare at Malfoy like he’s— like you’re—” He waved his beer bottle, unwilling to finish.

“But we are,” Harry said, snorting. Ron groaned, and Harry grinned at him, Summoning his own beer from the small table furnished with refreshments that Kreacher had set out. He twisted the cap off, swiping his forehead against the shoulder of his t-shirt.

“I didn’t need that confirmed,” Ron said, face caught in a half-cringe.

“Too bad,” Harry said cheerfully. “Now stop being lazy or I’ll confirm all sorts of other things you’re not interested in.”

Ron looked like wanted to either laugh or sock him, so Harry was relieved when he settled on a discomfited glare and wandered off amongst the stacks of furniture in the attic to find Hermione. Harry looked down at the seat of an odd, backless couch-thing they’d uncovered; it was swathed in pale green silk upholstery, but was so grimy from dust, it had taken several charms to clean it enough to see that much. It also looked decidedly delicate, with wooden legs that curved out from the body of the seat in an arch to the floor. Harry perched against the side of a sturdy-looking desk instead, and continued with the gentle cleaning charms Draco had taught him.

He’d been up to the attic before, on several occasions. But it wasn’t until Draco insisted on exploring what other changes the House might have given Harry when acquiescing the door to him that he’d ever really seen what was in it. Previously, whenever he climbed the narrow set of stairs, it had been to store something he didn’t really want to have to look at — Walburga was covered in the corner, her insults thankfully muffled by two blankets and three Silencing charms — and all he’d been able to see in the darkened room was a riot of broken furniture, crumbling boxes and other things that looked as though they should have been binned years ago. He’d been meaning to sort through it eventually, to see if any of Sirius’s things had been stored, but hadn’t had the fortitude.

Draco had crowed upon entry, smug and delighted to see that whatever apparent disillusionment charms Grimmauld Place had blanketed the room in had been released. Harry had wanted to be more excited about the House’s softening toward him, he really had. But as Draco scrambled over from one piece of furniture to another, exclaiming over how finely-wrought it was, all while wearing nothing but his own sheet wrapped around his hips, Harry’d been unable to pay much attention until Draco caught the look on his face and stalked up to him to press him against the wall and wank both of of them in one fist, his mouth hungry on Harry’s the whole time.

Sometime in there, Harry had agreed to invite everyone over for a “gathering” to help find the best pieces to redecorate the House with. Or at least, he thought so. The sheer amount of orgasms he’d had in the last week might have had something to do with how forgetful he’d become. Draco was still gone a lot — oftentimes not coming back until late, and usually up and ready before Harry was in the mornings these days — but whenever they were in the same room together, it was like sheer magnetic force drew their clothes off and their bodies together.

In fact, this was the longest amount of time they’d gone fully clothed. And despite the other people around, Harry was still half tempted to—

“You owe me five presents,” Pansy said. Harry jerked his eyes away from Draco’s arse and looked at her. Her lips were curled in a decidedly self-satisfied smile. “But I won’t refuse more.”

“For what?” Harry asked, snorting. “I’m not responsible for any of Ginny’s orgasms anymore; I’m certainly not giving you extra gifts for bestowing them on her. Or Luna.”

Pansy grinned. “That part I do for free, when we’re all in the mood. I mean for Draco.”

Harry slanted her a glance, amused. “Like a trade?”

“Well.” She sniffed, arching a brow. “Of course, I’m not giving up all access. But I did help you,” she said.

“How? By telling me about your party?”

She looked annoyed and Harry bit back a smile. “Are you really as oblivious as everyone always says? Because I’d always thought it was a bit of a cover, but if they’ve been right this whole time…”

Harry sighed. He nudged her wrist and indicated a faded, dirt covered mirror with what looked to be silver gilding. “Honestly? Sometimes. Sometimes not,” he allowed.

Pansy smirked; she began casting over the mirror, slowly cleaning off the marks of age and disuse, her nose wrinkling while she worked. “Ten presents.”

“You’ll get the five I promised,” Harry said flatly.

“Expensive ones.”

“Aren’t you rich?” Harry joked. “Can’t you buy everything you want for yourself?”

Face paling, Pansy’s wand arm dropped. She shot him a furious glare. “Is this one of those times, or are you deliberately being an arse?”

“What?” Harry blinked, unable to figure out how she’d gone from almost friendly to vibrating with anger. “I’ll get you expensive gifts; Jesus. I was kidding. What’s the big deal?”

She shook her head, her pale complexion going pink. “Nevermind. Nevermind,” she said. “Just be grateful I’m not revoking your invitation — which is only for Draco’s sake.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open as she tossed her hair and flounced off, heading over to Draco. She leaned in, mouth moving quickly as she interrupted his discussion with Blaise, and — at Draco’s stilted nod and his uneasy glance in Harry’s direction — headed down the stairs. Harry wondered if he should go after her, or at least ask Draco what that was about, but it seemed like Draco was deliberately not looking up at him again. Frowning, Harry left off the restoration of the furniture and wound through the narrow aisles toward Luna and Ginny.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Pansy just got really upset with me.”

“Pansy doesn’t like you very much yet,” Luna said blithely. Ginny looked up and nodded, then resumed trying to levitate several boxes at once without toppling the stack so she could uncover a set of matching table chairs. “She still thinks you’re potentially a lot darker than you seem, and are highly insensitive, as well. Plus, she doesn’t like how long it took you to invite Draco out.”

Flummoxed at the wealth of information in those few sentences — although he’d been aware that Pansy wasn’t his biggest fan — Harry paused for a moment. “Okay. Um. No, this was about her birthday presents. I made a joke about how she could buy them for herself?”

“Oh, but she can’t,” Luna said, brow knitting. “You must have hurt her feelings.”

Harry reared back. “Why can’t she? The Parkinson’s are rich.”

“Not anymore,” Luna said softly. She touched Harry’s wrist. “Her father wasn’t a Death Eater, but he funded them. Reparations took everything.”

“But she always looks so—”

“Well, they didn’t take her sense of style,” Luna said, giving him a tiny frown that felt like a slap — any kind of disapproval from Luna felt that way. “Or her wardrobe. Or her sexual enthusiasm.”

Harry shot a weak smile at her. He swallowed “Right. Sorry, no. I just didn’t know. I mean, I knew they’d had to give reparations. Draco’s family had to give up the Manor, because Voldemort lived there, even— I just didn’t know it had gotten bad.” He worried his lip between his teeth. “Should I say something? Apologise?”

“Your apologies are very heartfelt, Harry,” Luna said, but it felt more like a no than anything else.

“Well, what if I—”

“I need to go,” Draco said behind him. Harry frowned; he gave Luna’s shoulder a thank you squeeze, and turned.

“What? Why?” Harry asked, following Draco as he started to walk back through the aisles. They stopped near the stairway. “I think I put my foot in it with Parkinson,” he said.

Draco nodded. “That’s what she said.”

“I didn’t know things for her were...hard,” Harry said lamely.

“They’re not.” Draco’s shoulders stiffened. “They’re not what they used to be, but she’s a survivor.”

“No, I mean. You don’t need to defend her,” Harry said, feeling bad. A funny knot rose up in his chest; he tried to ignore it, but the tightness on Draco’s face made him suck in a deep breath and ask, “Or is it— Is that why you’re busy all the time? You need to work on keeping your family businesses afloat? Because they took a lot from you, too?”

The cords of Draco’s neck stood out for a moment; silence fell, thick and charged. Then, “I will admit that our vaults took a hit, and that I need to spend more time working with our investments in their various ventures and building our liquid income, yes. But it’s nothing I’m not adept at.”

“Of course. Sorry,” Harry said; his smile felt crooked on his face and he smoothed it out. Financials stuff was never a fun topic and Draco looked tense enough to hex him. “I need to get her five presents she’ll really like,” he said. Draco frowned. “Not because of— I’d already promised. But I’m pants at jewlery. Maybe you could…?”

“It’s fine. Yes, I know what kind of overly-gaudy trinkets Pansy likes.” Draco sighed, then ran a hand through his hair. “Anyhow, I need to leave to attend to something...pertaining to the... But Blaise has a keen eye; he’ll help you find good pieces.”

“Not much of it matches.”

“They’re from different eras, but I don’t think the House will mind,” Draco said, finally smiling at him. “And I don’t think you’d be able to tolerate a House filled with nothing but antique furniture. We’ll find pieces to mix and supplement from stores — good ones, Potter; the House will want to look nice — that suit your tastes. This is just to give you options. And because a lot of this furniture is too perfect not to be used,” he added.

“Thanks,” Harry said, touched. He hesitated. “What time will you be back?”

Draco eyed him; he smirked. “Should I wake you?”

“That late?” Harry complained quietly. “It’s a Saturday.”

“Can’t be helped,” Draco murmured, giving him a heated look. “You could always wait up.”

Harry snickered. “Because it’d matter?”

“Not in the least.” Draco raised his eyebrows in tacit promise and started to draw away. Harry caught him by the arm and pulled him closer. “Harry.”

“What, you’re bashful now?” Harry asked, kissing him. Draco’s lips were unyielding for a moment, but he softened; he kissed Harry back slowly, then with more fervor. He pulled Harry tight against him, sinking his tongue into his mouth. Harry groaned, nudging his hips into Draco’s. Panting, Draco ripped his mouth away and Harry stared at the way his face had pinked up. “Do you have to leave this second?”

Draco swore under his breath; he rolled his hips as well, then flipped two fingers at Blaise, who whistled. Harry looked up to see Dean and Goyle staring at them; of the two, only Dean looked a little surprised, but they were both smiling.

“Go back to what you were doing,” Harry told them, smiling back when they laughed and turned away. He looked at Draco and lowered his voice. “We could head down to my room for a few…”

“I really have to go,” Draco said, jaw tight. Sometime during their kiss, he’d slipped his fingers into the back of Harry’s jeans and now he pulled them out as though it pained him to do so.

“Fine.” Harry started to release him, then remembered what else Luna had said. “Hey, would you like to go out sometime? I mean— actually out? Do something away from the House?”

Draco slipped from his grasp. “I like what we do in the House,” he said, cheeks pink. Harry grinned and reached for him again, but Draco shook his head. “Maybe sometime,” he said lightly. “I’m busy, these days.”

He tossed a hand up in a hurried wave, then practically sprinted down the stairs. Harry stared after him, mouth drawing down for a long moment, before turning around and getting back to work.

Harry surveyed the backless sofa Draco put in the place where his couch had been. “People aren’t going to sit there,” he said.

“They will if it’s the only seating available,” Draco said with a small huff. “It’s a Regency sofa.”

“I don’t care what kind of sofa it thinks it is. I’m not going to sit there,” Harry said. “You can’t lean against it; it doesn’t look useful at all.”

“You’ll need to learn to control your posture at some point, Harry.” Draco sniffed, then shrugged. He flicked his wand until the stool-sofa-tiny bed thing skidded lightly across the room, settling against the empty wall beside the fireplace. “Better?”

“I’ll think about it.” Harry chuckled. “I don’t even know why it matters, how the place looks. But it does.”

“Of course it does,” Draco said in indulgent way. “You want it to look nice, now that it cares what you think. It’s your home.”

Harry nodded, considering that. Since the door had revealed itself to him, everything had felt more… accommodating. Warm, nicer. The rooms began to open up, revealing details they’d never shown before like the crown moulding around the ceilings and floorboards; the House allowed Harry to spell off the disturbing wallpaper; even the spiderwebs had been removed. Everything looked bright and clean and cheerful in the way Harry had always thought it could look, before the House had started resisting him. He said as much.

“Yes,” Draco agreed thoughtfully. “The work’s not done, though.”

“You don’t think I’ll get the key before we paint the walls and such?” Harry asked. He looked at a polished oak secretary desk. “This should go in the den,” he decided.

“The library,” Draco said. “It’s an accent piece.” He started Transfiguring the drapes into different styles and colours.

“The den,” Harry insisted. “I go in there more often, and I like it. I can use it for things.”

Draco glanced at him, the one side of his mouth curved up. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m not… not enjoying it,” Harry said, his face warming. His parlour was mostly barren; they’d gotten rid of a great deal of the furniture that had been bought around the sixties — which, Draco assured him, hadn’t been the finest time in wizarding design for furniture, and thank goodness there was an explanation for its ugliness — and had so far only filled the dining room, kitchen and Harry’s bedroom with refurbished items from the attic. “It helps that you’re doing it with me,” he admitted after a moment.

“Part of the bargain,” Draco said. His face flickered as though he smelled a bad odour.

“Speaking of which.” Harry left off examining the landscape paintings they’d found hidden, wrapped in dusty canvases, in one corner of the attic; only one of them was wizarding art, depicting a bright field of multi-coloured poppies that waved as though from a breeze. The rest were muggle, and unmoving — which was probably why they had been secreted away — but they were beautiful nonetheless, portraying the English countryside in different seasons and small, vine-covered cottages.

“What about it?” Draco asked.

“Well, I thought about that bit about the papers,” Harry said cautiously. Draco’s eyes caught his before swerving away.

“What of it? People know I live here,” he said, smirking. “I’m photographed every day, now. There was even a small mention of me the other day that didn’t refer to the Death Eater thing. I’d say that’s progress.”

“The Death Eater ‘thing’?” Harry echoed wryly. Draco rolled his eyes. “It is, I suppose. Anyhow, I was thinking, if you wanted, we could be seen together. Shopping for Pansy or… out to dinner or something.”

Inexplicably, Draco frowned at him. “That wasn’t part of the agreement,” he said, low and serious. He took a deep breath and Summoned a pair of gold candelabras with tiny naked toddlers at the base.

“I already said no to those.”

“But—”

“No,” Harry said with emphasis. Draco glared at him half-heartedly, then sent them back to the hallway. “And who cares?”

“I care,” Draco said.

Surprised, Harry looked at him. “Wasn’t that— Isn’t that partly—”

“I can do it on my own, Potter,” Draco said. “I don’t need you escorting me places to show the world I’m worthy of a second chance.”

”He lies. He needs,” came a small, sibilant whisper from the House. Harry skirted around Frank, who was lounging in the middle of the bare floor, and stroked a hand over the mantel in thanks on his way to Draco. He touched the back of Draco’s neck; it was tense under Harry’s hand.

“I know.” Harry rubbed his fingers into the tight muscle and Draco hedged, allowing himself to be pulled closer. “I didn’t mean it like that. Although...you are, you know. Worthy of a second chance.”

“You’re just saying that because you want to get over me again,” Draco said. But his gaze was smoky and encouraging and sly. Harry laughed quietly, leaning in to kiss Draco’s throat; he dragged his tongue against the curve of it.

“I’m not,” Harry said. He hesitated for a second. “I’d like to do whatever might make it easier for you to… Be here.”

“Not your place,” Draco said lightly after a momentary pause, tilting his chin back to allow Harry to lick over his clavicle. “And are you saying you don’t want to fuck me right now?”

“No,” Harry said, chuckling quietly. “You’re a right arse, but my cock is pretty hard.”

Draco snorted, but his hands strayed to Harry’s flies; he began to undo them nimbly, then unceremoniously stuffed one hand into Harry’s pants. “That it is,” he murmured, using one hand to bare Harry down to his thighs.

Harry’s hips jerked into Draco’s loosely curled hand; he tugged Draco’s trousers open, then yanked them down around his hips. Draco hissed a little as the waistband of his pants caught on his lengthening prick, but he arched into Harry nonetheless, breath hot and moist against Harry’s shoulder as he mouthed over it through Harry’s t-shirt. Harry reached between them, circling their cocks in one hand and stroking over them tight but, after a moment, Draco knocked his hand away and twisted around, canting his arse against Harry’s cock. He reached back and grasped Harry’s hip, pulling him flush. Harry let his eyes flutter closed, his body taking up the instinctive rut.

“Come on,” Draco said after a moment, voice low and promising. Harry nodded; his forehead had fallen to the bend of Draco’s neck. He followed Draco’s leave as they stumbled, still pressed together. He whined when Draco drew away, but Draco cast a hungry look over his shoulder and bent over the curving arm of the Regency sofa. His knees were bent, legs pressed together; his pants and trousers sagged between his thighs. He looked awkward and uncomfortable, and so fucking hot Harry thought he might die.

Harry stepped up behind him, one hand palming the swell of his arse. Draco made a little, encouraging sound. “Lube,” Harry said, panting, even as he pressed his cock into the crevice between Draco’s buttocks.

“Fucking conjure some,” Draco snarled, snaking one hand beneath him. His shoulder began to work quickly and Harry gave a helpless thrust. He pulled away with a groan and quickly retrieved his wand from his pocket, then conjured some lube into the palm of his hand. It was thin, slippery like oil, and he covered his cock with it, then slathered some between Draco’s cheeks and pressed back into place, slipping one hand around Draco to curl around Draco’s prick.

Draco moaned; he didn’t bother questioning why Harry wasn’t fingering him open, why Harry wasn’t fucking him, and thank bloody Merlin for that, too — Harry was already so close, his eyes fastened on the frantic movements of Draco’s shoulder, that he thought he’d likely come if he took the time to loosen Draco up first. Instead, Harry groaned with relief when Draco tightened his buttocks around the length of his cock. He held onto Draco’s hip to steady himself and began stroking between them with smooth thrusts of his hips. The head of his cock caught against Draco’s hole on each upslide, then again when he pulled back.

“Yeah,” Draco said, wheezing hoarsely. “Like that, Potter.”

Harry choked, his eyes on the crown of his prick as it slipped between Draco’s clenched cheeks; the head poked out near the small of Draco’s back, and his hand gripped Draco’s prick harder. Then Draco stuttered out a groan. “I’m. I’m going to— I’m coming,” he gasped. The muscles of his back flexed under his dress shirt and Harry flipped up the tails to reveal them, to watch them move as Draco went still and tense beneath him. Harry cried out Draco’s name, feeling the twitch and flutter of Draco’s arsehole against the slide of his cock as Draco came, and then he was coming too, splashing the small of Draco’s back with long ropes of pearly fluid.

They stood together like that until their shuddering eased, and then Harry pried himself away. He grimaced, casting a quick cleaning charm over each of them when Draco shot him an expectant arched eyebrow. They restored their clothes, and sat down, heavily, on the sofa, leaning against the wall behind them. To Harry’s surprise, it didn’t collapse at their combined weight; even the cushions felt like new, plump and soft beneath them.

“Okay,” Harry said, still feeling slightly unsteady. He dropped a hand to Draco’s thigh and stroked it through the wool of his trousers. Draco shot him a lazy smile. “Okay, we’ll keep the sofa.”

“The House will like it,” Draco said indulgently, jumping a little when Kreacher entered the room with an armful of odd little golden trinkets.

“The House is likings the attentions,” Kreacher grumbled. He glared a little at Draco, and Draco slanted Harry a confused glance. Harry shrugged as Kreacher continued, “It is responding to Master Harry.”

“Of course it is,” Draco said frowning.

“It wants Master Harry to be happy.”

“Uh, Kreacher?” Harry watched Kreacher compare a trinket with his arms with Harry’s newly refinished mantel; he stroked his hand against the wood and Transfigured the gold cup he was holding into a snarling lion. Kreacher shook his head. “Are you upset with Draco about something?”

“Master Draco is making Master Harry happy,” Kreacher said simply. Harry flushed when Draco blinked at him with interest.

“Well. Er, yeah.”

“The House is wanting to make Master Harry happy.”

“It is,” Harry said, baffled. Draco copied Harry’s shrug from a moment before when Harry looked at him and mouthed what?

Kreacher sniffed, Transfiguring the piece again— this time, into a stag. He nodded approvingly. “Master Harry is needing more than Master Draco can gives him.”

“Hey!” Harry said when Draco’s mouth dropped open.

Kreacher looked over guiltily. He placed a tiny golden dog statue on the mantle. “For Grimmauld Place, Kreacher is meaning.”

“Kreacher,” Harry said, irritated, “if you’re not going to tell me, would you kindly shut up about it?”

Ears drooping, Kreacher gave a sour sigh and nodded shortly. He Disapparated, and Harry turned to Draco, still sitting in stunned silence.

“What do you think he meant?”

“I’ve no idea,” Draco said, shrugging. He didn’t seem too bothered, and Harry almost didn’t continue, except…

“I like what you, uh, give me,” Harry said under his breath. Draco darted him a glance; he looked strangely embarrassed.

“Yes, well. May as well take advantage while I’m here,” he said, voice coming out stilted.

“Right,” Harry said dully, looking around the House they were making into a home together. “While you’re here.”

“I just don’t understand it,” Hermione said for the third time. “Draco would be much better at this. He’s your boyfriend, right? Shouldn’t he be doing this with you?”

Harry sighed. He caught her hand to drag her with him as they wound around a counter display, then gave it a squeeze before releasing it.

“He’s busy,” Harry said, feeling a tension headache begin to form behind his eyes. He slipped his fingers under his glasses to press them against his eyelids. “And I’m not sure what he is. You didn’t have to come.”

“You asked for my help,” she said simply. She paused at a rack of tweed jackets, fingering the material lightly; she twitched the tag up, her face going chalky as she read the price.

“Ginny and Luna were busy too,” Harry said. He probably could have done it on his own, but after the incident a few weeks prior in the attic, Pansy had been remarkably cool toward him whenever she’d visited Draco, and he felt bad. He wanted to make a better impression. Only his damned possible-boyfriend kept finding reasons not to come with him. In fact, he realised as he watched Hermione bite her lip, he and Draco had never left Grimmauld Place together. Not even once.

“Harry, you don’t really spend this much on gifts,” Hermione said, quietly horrified. Her hand strayed up to touch the lustrous pearl studs in her ears that he’d gotten her for her last birthday.

“Of course not,” he lied. “But I could if I wanted, and I promised her. I owe her one, and it’s her birthday anyhow.”

“It’s seven months away,” Hermione mumbled. She gave him a doubtful look, still rubbing her earring. “Harry—”

“I got those at a normal jewelry store,” Harry said. “Not at Selfridges, all right?” He didn’t think she needed to know how much they cost, but the reassurance seemed to ease her mind.

“Well,” she said, finally lowering her hand, “you’ve already gotten her some shoes and a personalised set of daydreams, which I happen to know were expensive—”

“George gave me a deal,” Harry defended.

“—don’t you think clothing and jewelry are a bit intimate for someone you barely like?” Hermione continued, undeterred. She paused, brow furrowing. “And I’m relatively sure when you’re sleeping with someone exclusively, they’re your boyfriend.”

“We haven’t defined things,” Harry said shortly.

“You mean he hasn’t.”

“He won’t let me,” Harry said, quiet and resentful. Hermione’s brow knitted; she touched his hand and Harry drew away, thinking. “He… doesn’t want to associate with me, maybe. I’m not sure. And he keeps insisting that he’s going somewhere, but won’t say where.”

“He’s leaving?”

“And I don’t hate Pansy,” Harry said, ignoring her last. He slanted a look to her. “Did you know how hard her family was hit financially?”

“Well, not specifics,” Hermione said, eyeing a long, pink, summery dress for a moment. It didn’t seem like the thing she normally wore — it had tiny flowers on it, and straps instead of sleeves — but he could picture her fluffy hair draped over her bare shoulders, and Ron would probably lose his mind. Harry made a mental note for September. Hermione looked away from the dress and caught his gaze. “But yes; it was in the papers the year after the Battle. Her father fled out of country, like Draco’s.”

“Draco’s parents live in France.” Harry dropped the flouncy hem of a glittering black skirt. “They weren’t at risk of being arrested.”

“No, but they had no— prospects, I guess,” Hermione said, frowning. “And the Manor had been taken. You really haven’t discussed this with Draco?”

Harry flushed, biting his lip. “We talk about a lot of things,” he said, feeling defensive and uncomfortable. But it was true; amidst sex and the arguing that always eventually led to sex, they would talk about all sorts of things: sports and their friends and even a little about their own history. Draco let him down to the basement as he’d worked on potions, and had strong opinions on Harry’s training as a professor, and his teaching plan. Once, Harry’d even woken up from a bad dream in Draco’s arms.

Draco just didn’t talk to him about this.

“I see,” Hermione said. She bit her lip and fell silent, then took a deep breath and forced a smile. “So what do you want to get here?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, latching onto the topic change. “What do you think she’d look good in?”

“It’s horribly sexist that you brought me.” Hermione’s smile was fond, for all the censure in her tone. “Rather than Ron.”

“Ron would have suggested a Canons t-shirt, and you know it,” Harry mumbled, inspecting another skirt — leather this time. He looked at it thoughtfully.

“Well, why do they have to be so—” Hermione pursed her lips, considering. “You never get generic gifts; everything always seems… just right.”

“Better to spend too much time on a gift than have someone feel like you don’t care about them,” Harry said. The skirt was six hundred pounds, and he tried to work out the exchange rate into Galleons in his head.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said softly.

He looked at her and smiled. “It’s been a long time since toothpicks,” he assured her. “It’s just a thing I like to do.”

She touched her earlobe again, then burst forward to give him a swift hug. Harry patted her back affectionately, pretending not to notice that her eyes were glistening when she pulled away. “Then you should,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’ve not been much help, have I? I’ll help now; I’m sorry. That skirt would look great on her.”

“I think I’m getting it,” Harry decided, lifting the hanger. “What size do you think she—”

He broke off, going still. Hermione touched his sleeve, but Harry couldn’t make himself look at her. After a moment, he felt her shift, and he knew the exact moment she saw Draco, bending low to offer a lounging customer a porcelain saucer and teacup. The navy robes he’d left the House in hours earlier were nowhere to be seen; instead, he was wearing a sharp, three-piece charcoal suit. He flashed a smile to the customer, then unfolded his long body from its modified bow and drew himself up, freezing as he spotted Harry.

“Oh,” Hermione said.

Chapter Text

When the front door finally opened and closed, it was long past nightfall. Harry looked up from his place on the sofa, hearing nothing but the rustle of fabric come from the entryway, and low, hesitant breathing. He looked back down at Frank, who had shifted at the noise, eyes blinking open from his drowse. Just for something to do, Harry took a few flowers from the pot on the sofa cushion next to him and set them in front of Frank, who didn’t move to eat them.

A minute passed, then another. Finally, he heard the soft tread of Draco’s shoes clip against the floorboards as he first went into the darkened kitchen, then headed toward the dining room. The house had seemed to realise how Harry was feeling upon his entry, because none of the lamps had come on when night had begun to fall; only a low fire had been lit. He’d sat on the new Chesterfield sofa he’d picked from the exclusive catalogue Draco had given him — tan and wide and homey, with round, tufted arms decorated with brass buttons — and waited, falling asleep once for a few minutes, and only getting up to use the loo. Frank, too, had seemed to understand that something was wrong; he hadn’t moved from Harry’s feet in the hours since Harry’d come home.

“You’re awake,” Draco said stiffly from the archway of the parlour.

Harry looked at him; he tilted his glass to drain the last drops of his drink. “Yeah. I waited up for you. You can’t have been working this whole time,” he said pointedly.

Draco edged into the room. The firelight caught the angles of his narrow face with moving shadows. He sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, frowning. “I was, as a matter of fact.”

“You left the house at eight this morning. It’s after… What time is it?”

“Eleven.” Draco flicked his wand and Summoned his own glass, and the crystal decanter of whisky from the highboard in the corner. He poured himself a drink, darting glances at Harry, then levitated the bottle back before taking a sip. “I was at my second job.”

“Two jobs,” Harry said numbly as he processed it.

“There’s nothing wrong with having a job,” Draco said, jerking his chin up. “Or two. Or three, which I did before I moved in here.”

“What did you do?”

“Not what a lot of people in the war had to do,” Draco said. His hands were shaking slightly; he took another swallow of his drink and wiped away a trickle of liquid that spilled from the corner of his mouth to his chin. “I worked in the food-service industry. Muggle, of course; right after the war ended, no one was willing to hire someone with a Dark Mark. And–” His lips quirked humorlessly, “in a vintage clothing shop. Neither of those jobs lasted long, because I was still learning about technology. But before Pansy’s parents fled, I had some talks with their house-elf about… About food preparation and service. So the next job I got was waitstaff at a restaurant.” He gave a negligent shrug. “The pay was decent; it kept me off the streets. Pansy and Greg and I shared a flat, but it wasn’t... easy, that first year.”

Harry stared at him, mouth dry. “Off the streets?”

“Mm.” Draco gave him an even look and crossed one leg over the other, settling back into the sofa cushions. “They’d taken the Manor; where was I supposed to sleep?”

“What about your parents? Their properties in France?” Harry asked.

Draco smirked. “My mother insisted that to follow my father would decrease my opportunities in life. She thought a clean break from him — at least publicly — would be best for me. She was right, of course. Anyhow, our estate in France is slowly closing them out; that’s the funny thing about house magic. When you draw from the original property to charm subsequent homes, and the original property stops belonging to you…” He shrugged again. “They’ll have another two or three years; plenty of time if no one buys the Manor before then; something I’m doing my best to assure won’t happen.”

“How? And plenty of time for what?”

“For me to come into my vault,” Draco explained, suddenly vicious. He gulped the rest of his drink in one go, eyes fierce and bright even in the dimness of the room. “The Ministry couldn’t take that — entailments not yet inherited were not ‘subject to fines’, though they did try. I’ll have enough to buy back the Manor, enough to restore it for them, enough to–” He broke off, staring broodingly into the fire for a moment before addressing Harry’s other question. “I have my ways.”

“I could—” Harry looked away, throat working. “I could help. Make sure it doesn’t get bought.”

“I don’t need your help,” Draco said, voice so tight Harry sighed.

“Why keep it a secret, though?” Harry asked, feeling the hurt and mistrust coil in behind his breastbone again.

“And have you feel sorry for me?” Draco asked, cracking a sharp laugh. “You? Why should I have? I just needed a place to live after Pansy’s landlord discovered Francis. You and I struck a bargain. I certainly didn’t know that we’d– that we’d be–” He faltered, avoiding Harry’s eyes.

Harry looked away, his jaw working. The resentment in Draco’s tone, the way his eyes flashed… Harry wanted to yell that they weren’t at Hogwarts anymore, and if he could get past their shared history, then Draco should bloody well be able to as well. After all, Harry’d been the wronged party for most of their relationship, and all Draco had to do was— Harry swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat like bile; he felt sick at the reminder of what they used to be to one another, and furious that Draco was bringing it up.

“Right, but we are,” Harry said with a low growl. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. “For a while now, and… And more, even before that. You’ve been keeping secrets from me for months, refusing to tell me about where you went, making me think you were trying to keep your family businesses afloat. You lied.”

“And you’re shocked by that?” Draco burst out furiously. “Or just shocked that I work in the Muggle world, that I serve people?” he said with a sneer. “That a Malfoy would ever. Believe me, I was shocked, too. But when a Ministry official, upon searching for work, makes it clear that you’re only likely to make money on your knees, you learn exactly how far your pride extends, and how to get over your ideals of what service really is. I would have thought you’d at least be glad I wasn’t Obliviating Muggles and stealing their purses, for Merlin’s sake.”

Harry blinked rapidly, anger muted by the implication. His voice was hoarse. “You didn’t– You never had to–”

“No.” Draco snorted; he rolled his eyes. But then the derisiveness in his face faded and his voice took on a cautious note. “I thought about it. Pansy almost did. That was when I got my third job. Answering telephones.”

“It’s not a bad thing, working,” Harry said with a sudden ache, echoing Draco’s earlier statement. “I just don’t understand why you’d lie. I could have helped. Maybe being seen together–”

“That wasn’t our deal, Potter,” Draco said. His lips pursed and he dragged a hand through his hair. “You’ve done enough saving. Especially of me. It was... equitable, what we agreed to when I moved in. People would know that I lived here, that we’d let bygones be, and my reputation would perhaps begin to restore itself enough that I had a chance at the potions apprenticeship I want. And I would help you, in return. I know you like to indulge in your hero complex, but I don’t need it,” he said. “I don’t want it. Everything else between us was… incidental.”

Harry scrubbed a tired hand over his face. “I’m not accusing you of whoring yourself out to me,” he mumbled into his palm. “Or even using me.”

“But I am using you, that’s the point. We agreed to it,” Draco said with heavy calm. “Before I moved in; I could use you and you could use me. But I didn’t want your help beyond that. Room and board, and a chance for me to breathe and not worry about getting kicked out. A place where Francis would be safe. Being able to help Pansy and my parents more.”

“What are you doing now?” Harry asked, plucking the question out of the host of them crowding his brain.

“Personal shopping. I also work,” Draco said, with a faint, ironic smile, “at a t-shirt shop.”

T-shirts. Harry nodded and looked down at his knees for a moment. He took a deep breath. “A potions apprenticeship? It’s not just a hobby?”

Draco snorted. “No. I wouldn’t spend nearly so much time on a hobby; I barely get enough sleep as it is — less, since we started shagging.” He tilted his chin up again, as if daring Harry to challenge him. “I’m going to get my Potions Mastery. There’s a Master in Russia who said he’d be willing to take me on for the right price, especially if I managed to repair my reputation.”

“Aren’t apprenticeships supposed to be… I don’t know, free?” Harry fumbled out. “You work for them, and they teach you? Some of them even pay a wage.” He swallowed, thinking of Draco having to move to Russia to attain something he wanted. Thinking of Draco so far away, at all.

With a short, unfunny laugh, Draco gestured to his left forearm. “Only for some people. I’ve been sending him a portion of my wages for a year.”

“What about Slughorn?”

“The man who has done all he can to distance himself from Slytherin House in the wake of the war?” Draco asked dryly, mouth tilting up and the corner. Harry wanted to kiss it, flush with… with startled affection at discovering this side of him, something he’d never once thought to expect. Something that made such perfect sense, he felt a surge of shame at having never allowed himself to think about the whys of Draco’s closely-held secrets, at never having considered pride to be something someone could use to better themselves. He held himself still, fingers gripping his thighs to keep himself from moving as Draco continued. “No. He turned me down, and quite soundly, too. Borrowed an owl to mail me his refusal, and asked me not to contact him again.”

Harry scowled. “He’s always been an arsehole.”

“Well.” Draco nodded after a moment; he drummed his fingers against his knee thoughtfully. “He’s no Severus.”

“Snape was an arsehole, too,” Harry said unthinkingly. Draco huffed a soft laugh, and Harry chanced a glance at him. His shoulders had gone spiky from tension when he talked about working, but they were coming down now.

Sighing, Harry let his hand stray to Draco’s, covering his nervous fingers. Draco stilled, looking at him. “I wish you’d told me.”

“I wish for a lot of things,” Draco muttered. “I’m not one of your pet projects.”

“I don’t have all that many projects,” Harry pointed out. He smiled wryly. “And just a gnome for a pet.”

Draco’s hand flipped under Harry’s until they were palm to palm. His fingers curled around the backs of Harry’s hand, and Harry looked at the tapered length of them, thinking of how nimble Draco was when dicing potions ingredients. His hand was warm and dry against Harry’s own, and this — holding hands — somehow felt a thousand times more intimate than anything they’d done together so far.

“It’s an awful pet to have,” Draco said under his breath. But the gaze he flashed to Harry was warm.

“Yeah, he is,” Harry admitted, scratching his jaw idly. He contemplated leaving the conversation there, but so much had already gone unsaid because he’d wanted to live in his comfortable bubble, because he hadn’t pressed, so– “That’s why you have trouble finding the time to help me train the house or go shopping with me, fine. But when I invite you out because I actually want to go out with you, because we’re…” He gestured vaguely, not sure how to finish the sentence; not sure how Draco would finish it.

“And what are we?” Draco asked with surprising directness.

“Well, dating,” Harry said after a brief pause. “At least, I thought we were. I thought that’s what we said.”

“Going to my best friend’s party isn’t exactly the same as taking an ex-Death Eater out to dinner,” Draco said drily. “I was just glad you’d stopped hiding it from your friends.”

Exasperated, Harry squeezed Draco’s hand until he winced and glared. “I already said I was never hiding it! Is that why you wouldn’t sleep with me?”

“I’m not a secret. No matter the reason,” Draco hedged. He sniffed. “I… found myself uncomfortable with the idea of starting an arrangement like that with you, knowing I’d be leaving.”

“But then you… stopped being uncomfortable?” Harry asked, snorting.

“You asked me to Pansy’s party, even knowing I may be gone; may have to travel back for it,” Draco said, looking down at their hands. “You didn’t care that your friends knew, even though I’d be leaving; even though we can’t be more than—”

“No, I didn’t.” Harry frowned. “What do you think? Hermione says we’re already... more.”

“Oh, does she?” Draco said, sneering a bit. He hesitated, sneer fading into a frown. “I don’t know that we can be; I’m here until fall, Harry, if I manage to get the spot. I think I will.” He paused, something unreadable in his face. “It’s not that I don’t—” He broke off, looking away.

Harry could see Draco's pulse fluttering in his throat, the stain of pink spreading over his cheeks. Regret bloomed in Harry’s chest — a sharp ache, swift and startling. He nodded and forced a smile, tired down to his bones from the dull disappointment flickering through him at the way Draco’s face closed off against him, so different than the laughing softness they shared in bed. Harry took a deep breath; if it was going to end between them, it didn’t have to end now.

“I told her I didn’t know either, but that you were pretty good at sucking my cock,” he made himself say against the clench of unpleasant reality.

Draco gurgled a burst of shocked laughter, sliding his eyes to gauge Harry’s face, looking relieved. He shook his head, lips curling up. “Pretty good?”

With one quick movement, his hand slid out of Harry’s and he twisted off the couch, settling on his knees between Harry’s legs. Harry sucked in a sharp breath as Draco’s hands popped open the button of his flies, then unzipped his jeans. He hooked his index fingers into the waistband of Harry’s boxers, sliding them from side to side, knuckles brushing lightly over Harry’s skin, and lowered his head, mouthing at the bulge of Harry’s growing erection, slanting a wicked glance upward when Harry groaned softly. He tugged gently on Harry’s pants and Harry obliged him, lifting his hips so Draco could pull them down with his jeans to his knees. He licked his lips, one hand circling Harry’s prick, the other finding his balls to cup and scrape his fingertips against them.

“I don’t know if I should give you one, now that I know what you really think of them,” Draco murmured. Harry gasped in response, hips bucking into Draco’s loose fist as Draco glided his foreskin back to expose the head of his cock, even as it fattened to full hardness at Draco’s touch.

“No, you definitely should,” Harry said, staring down heatedly at him, voice uneven. “At least show me why I’m wrong.”

Draco smirked, sly and smug. He flicked his tongue out over the slit of Harry’s cock, licking away the moisture that had gathered there, then huffed a hot breath against it. Harry wriggled, hands digging into the couch cushions. He gave a nudge upward with his hips in silent entreaty.

“The person who tries to explain why someone is wrong is a fool,” Draco said. He turned his head and bit at the soft skin of Harry’s inner thigh. The hand cupping Harry’s balls gave them a little tug, then a slow, thoughtful roll. Harry’s cock jerked, pleasure spiking through it as Draco continued to work him with a light, teasing touch.

“I know, yeah,” Harry agreed fervently. “You give fantastic blowjobs. Amazing ones. Best I’ve ever had.”

“Is that so?” Draco smiled, and Harry thought he was in for a bout of prolonged torture, but then he added, “As long as you appreciate them,” and lowered his mouth over Harry’s cock in one long, smooth slide of hot and wet.

Harry groaned, his hand falling to Draco’s shoulder, his head falling to the back of the sofa. He rocked his hips up in time with Draco’s bobbing head, little zings of heat traveling from his cock and balls to his spine and extremities. But then Draco removed his mouth and murmured something under his breath; he released Harry’s balls to slide his hand further down, fingers parting Harry’s cheeks. Harry held his breath; he scooted forward on the sofa, nodding without looking up, and felt Draco’s cool, lubricated fingers rub against his rim. “Uhh, um. Yeah,” he ground out. So often lately, he didn’t even realise exactly what he was in the mood for until Draco started in on him. “That’s, uh, fuck.” Harry dug his fingers into the starched fabric of Draco’s shirt, twisting it in his grip.

“Thought so,” Draco said, sounding smug again. The hand on his cock grew tighter, squeezing gently and twisting when Draco stroked over the head, even as he pressed the tips of two fingers inside of Harry, who widened his thighs to accommodate him more fully. He braced himself for them to go deep, but Draco kept them where they were, barely inside of Harry’s hole, twisting them slowly. It wasn’t enough and, because of that, was too much, all at once. He moved his hand over Harry’s cock with long, elegant strokes. “Just look at you,” he murmured, fingers smoothing Harry’s foreskin back.

“You’re right,” Harry said inanely, just for a reason to agree with him, with anything, at the moment. His climax rose up in him, inexorable as the tide, Draco’s fingers and gripping hand lighting all of his most sensitive nerve endings on fire. “You’re right. I’m ah! going to come.”

Draco hummed softly; he finally pushed his fingers in another inch, then dragged them back out to the tips, spreading them wide. “Sure, Harry,” he said softly. “Where?”

Harry whined, pumping up into Draco’s steady, gripping fist, “Your– Your–”

“My what? Face? Mouth?” Draco snickered, and Merlin, even that was hot, the way he got off on driving Harry mad.

Harry nodded, his throat working hard. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely, not really caring.

“You want me to pick then?” Draco tsk-ed. He dragged his fist down to the base of Harry’s cock and gave a series of tiny clenches around it. Harry’s head lolled to the side, his stomach and shoulders tightening. Then Draco lowered his mouth again just as he thrust his fingers several times in succession, pressing directly against Harry’s prostate. Harry moaned loudly, his prick jumping and throbbing out his release into Draco’s mouth; he felt Draco’s throat move against the head of his cock, swallowing, swallowing, even as he continued to finger Harry’s arse with the single-mindedness he seemed to apply to every aspect of his life.

Harry sagged when the cresting pleasure ebbed, relaxing into the softness of the sofa, the world coming back to him in bits and pieces. He blinked when Draco drew off him; looked up when Draco removed his fingers. Draco levered himself up; he’d already undone his own trousers and stood in front of Harry, head tilted back as he looked down at him, glasses smudged. His eyes were focused on Harry’s softening prick as he wanked himself in long, fast pulls.

Swallowing hard, Harry forced himself out of his replete inertia long enough to kick his shoes, trousers and pants all the way off. He scooted down even more, arse hanging off the edge of the sofa.

“Come on,” he said to Draco, flushing when Draco’s hand paused on himself, when his pale brow knit in confusion before he tightened his fist and resumed.

“Just hold fucking still,” Draco said, jaw bunching. His eyes were dark. “I’m going to come on you.”

Harry’s cock gave a feeble jerk and his heart fluttered; he felt in danger of swallowing it. He widened his thighs again. He took a deep breath. “Draco. Come on,” he said pointedly. Draco faltered completely and stared at him in disbelief.

“We haven’t yet,” he said breathlessly. But even as the words left his mouth, he was lowering to his knees again, upright this time. He cast another look at Harry’s face, as if to check for the veracity of the invitation, the head of his cock coasting over the crease of Harry’s arse. Harry nodded, little shocks of his climax still sweeping his system; he saw Draco’s Adam’s apple bob, then Draco planted a hand on his thigh, spreading it wider. Harry lifted his foot and propped his heel on the edge of the sofa, and Draco let out a loud, shaky exhale. He thumbed Harry’s arse cheek open, pressing the head of his cock against Harry’s swollen rim. “Potter…”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, pleased and tired. He closed his eyes for a moment when Draco pushed forward, the head of his cock popping in with no more warning. He sighed out a long, steady breath, bearing down against the fullness of Draco’s prick. He hadn’t bottomed in well over a year; it wasn’t even his thing, really, and he couldn’t say why he was so intent on having Draco inside him, but–

He groaned against the stinging burn of it as Draco continued deeper, pulling out fractionally each time before thrusting forward a bit more. If Draco hadn’t gotten him so wet and loose with his fingers, Harry knew it would downright hurt. As it was, the discomfort was easily compartmentalised in favour of focusing on the bloom of warmth in his chest at the small, huffing grunts Draco was making, at how he couldn’t seem to stop touching Harry. One of his hands was tight on Harry’s thigh, the other stroked against Harry’s stomach under his t-shirt, petting him proprietarily. He finally bottomed out, the bones of his pelvis and crisp pubic hair flush with Harry’s arse, and Harry made himself take another deep breath, forcing himself to relax and adjust as Draco paused.

Yes, mate with him, came a soft sigh around Harry. It sounded like the house, but so much like his own heart as well, he couldn’t be sure. Is good.

Harry looked at Draco from under his eyelashes. His face was tight, pink; he had a gleam of sweat on his brow, and the cords of his neck stood out. When he spoke, his voice was light and thready. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry said huskily. He wiggled his hips and Draco exhaled explosively, rocking his body forward. Harry grunted, his arse jolting back; he lifted his other leg and propped his ankle on Draco’s shoulder, taking vague note of how that changed the angle of penetration and the sensations zinging through him. Draco cursed under his breath, fingers clenching against Harry’s abdomen, and set up a quick, snapping rhythm with his hips as Harry watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, a small smile on his face he couldn’t get rid of.

“Do it, Draco,” Harry urged, surprised to find the words come out drunkenly slurred. He couldn’t come again yet, but Draco’s cock stretching him wide — spearing into him like that and skimming over his prostate on every rough, eager thrust forward — caused a ripples of pleasure to score through him. Recent orgasm or no, he felt his cock begin to twitch and weakly fill out in response.

“H-Harry,” Draco stuttered out. His hips juddered frantically; his eyes were wide and grey as he stared at Harry’s face, pupils dilated with adrenaline. He lifted his hand from Harry’s thigh to come up and grip his shin, swearing almost continuously now, words interspersed with a jagged moan that didn’t seem to have a start or finish point. He plunged into Harry again and again, and that Harry was almost too sensitive didn’t matter because it was Draco inside him, Draco taking him, and it felt so goddamned good all he could do was moan back in response. His hand covered his half-hard cock and he let his eyes drift shut as Draco fucked into him frantically. Then Draco let go of a low, wordless exclamation — his body went rigid and Harry felt Draco’s prick, hard and jerking, as it pulsed out his orgasm inside of him.

Draco lowered Harry’s leg from his shoulder and draped himself over Harry’s chest when it was over, still shuddering lightly and mouthing thoughtless kisses against Harry’s collarbone and throat, then lifting his head to kiss Harry’s mouth with a smile of such open pleasure that all of the simple, unthinking… joy Harry had felt, only moments prior, became sharp-edged with renewed fear. He kissed Draco back, trying to temper the sudden anticipation of loss he felt. Neither of them had made any promises going into this; he knew that. He did.

Draco gave a low, rich laugh, pulling away from Harry with a small nip to his upper lip. He pried himself up, giving a warm, wicked glance to Harry’s cock, lying half-hard against his groin and peeking out from under his palm. “Can you, again?”

Harry licked his lips. “If you’ll give me a minute,” he said, heart pounding desperately. He made himself smile. “And maybe a shower?”

Easing out of him with a small grimace, Draco nodded. He slanted Harry a look as he stood, grabbing his wand from the sofa and cast a cursory cleaning charm over the both of them, then pulling up his trousers so they sagged, open, at his hips. He held out his hand and Harry let himself be pulled up. He winced at the twinge in his arse; he’d forgotten that part of bottoming. His gaze caught on Frank, staring up at them unblinkingly, and he frowned. “Frank got an eyeful.” He snorted. “Good thing he’s not magical, or I’d be more embarrassed.”

“Francis,” Draco said. “And he’s obviously just more gentlemanly than the gnome. He’s magical enough to know he ought to close his eyes, aren’t you, Francis?”

Frank stared up at them, jaw working as slow as treacle; he’d finally started eating the flowers Harry’d left on the floor. Harry chuckled.

“I believe I was promised a shower,” Harry said, abandoning Frank’s placid gaze for Draco’s heated one.

“Yes, and I can think of a few things we can do while the water warms,” Draco said suggestively, ducking his head to scrape his teeth over Harry’s jaw. Harry shivered, inhaling against Draco’s throat, that spicy, strange combination of smoky potions and mint. He thought about a time — distant, but in the foreseeable future — when he wouldn’t be able to smell that again. Unable to help himself, he sifted a hand through Draco’s sweaty, pale hair; it felt like silk between his fingers. Draco arched an eyebrow at him, curious and amused, and tugged on Harry’s hand.

Harry nodded, and let himself be led.

“Merlin, Harry.” Ron stopped, stunned, hands automatically dusting floo powder off himself. He looked around, eyes wide. “Did the house open that door-thing yet?”

Harry grinned at him crookedly, setting his scroll aside and pushing his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose. “Not yet,” he said, sweeping a glance over the room as well. It was the first time Ron had been back since he helped find items from the attic, and Harry was pleased with the obvious shock on Ron’s face as his eyes catalogued the gleaming floors, the patterned rug spread across the middle, the new and refinished furniture in place. Ron’s gaze slid to the walls, painted now in a warm off-white, and the bookshelf Draco had bought on his own — a gift, he’d insisted, his tone annoyed when Harry had tried to thank him, as though acknowledging that he’d done something nice (with no thought of repayment, though he could little afford it) was terribly insulting. “But if I ever complain about Draco living here, remind me what he’s done to the House, okay?”

“Or what the House has done for him,” Ron said drily.

Harry rolled his eyes, pulling a face. The more Grimmauld Place felt like home to him, the less he appreciated the the way the House had obviously preferred Draco from the start. It was a well-earned respect, Harry knew, the sheer ease with which Draco and Grimmauld Place seemed to communicate left Harry feeling on the outskirts. Still, he couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he looked around again — because preferences or not, the House did look good, and was starting to feel like home.

“Want to see the rest?”

Ron nodded absently. He crouched to give Frank’s head a pat. “What else have you done?”

“Here, let’s let him out first,” Harry said. The doors opened with no instruction, and Ron raised his brows, impressed. Harry gave him a rueful smile as he levitated Frank out to the garden. He and Ron followed, sitting on the stone bench by a leafy, potted bush which was budding small pink flowers that smelled strangely of seaweed. The air was warm, mild, late spring breezes keeping the temperature from getting unpleasant. “Pretty much everything, really. Draco doesn’t know what the House is waiting for. We’ve done the dining room, all of the bedrooms — even Sirius’s,” he said, smile fading. “I kept it… his, but it needed to be cleaned, needed to be cleared. We had Luna do that; Draco said it couldn’t hurt, so she came over with her crystals and did each room. It was mostly spell-work, anyhow.” He shrugged. “Also, I have a second kitchen I didn’t know about in the basement.”

“What for? Doesn’t Malfoy do his potions down there?”

Harry frowned, giving a clipped nod. “Kreacher says the house is preparing for large events, like the kind that used to be thrown. It’s made room off the basement’s main space.”

“Suppose we’d better have a few galas here,” Ron said with a small snort. His brow knitted, voice becoming cautious. “You haven’t owled, not since you and Hermione–”

“Sorry.” Harry sighed, scuffing his toe against the polished stone of the patio. He watched Frank, sluggishly making his way onto the patch of grass, for a long moment. “Yeah.”

Ron was silent for a beat. “So Malfoy works at a posh Muggle store?”

“And a t-shirt shop,” Harry said. Ron’s eyes widened and Harry grimaced, giving him a rundown of what he’d learned about Draco in the last several days. “He puts some money aside for his parents, gives some to Pansy for letting him store some of his trunks in her flat — apparently, they do contain everything from Malfoy Manor, just Shrunken — and sends some of it to the Potion’s Master willing to take him on, saving the rest for when he’s in Russia.”

“I see,” Ron said evenly. “How long is it for?”

“Four years,” Harry got out. Paul peeked out of his gnome hole and looked around; they watched him as he zipped in a long, bouncing run over to the bowl of Every Flavour Beans and worms Harry had set out for him that morning and buried his face in it, snarling and drooling while he ate. Ron cringed and looked back at Harry.

“That’s mad.” It came out practically, unequivocally, as though Harry had planned to argue.

“I don’t disagree.”

“Because you’re…” Ron seemed to struggle for a second, then spread his hands and sighed heavily. “You two are in love.”

“We’re not,” Harry said.

“Harry,” Ron said with massive amounts of irony.

“He’s not,” Harry muttered. Ron stilled, then cuffed Harry on the back of the shoulder so hard Harry jolted forward with a small oof.

“I think Malfoy might be worse off than you,” Ron said. “Think he always might have been.”

“Yeah?” Harry looked over to see Paul pissing on the Azaleas. He finished and jumped into the bed of pink flowers that had just started blooming, smelling one and then, seeming intrigued, smelling another and another. “What gives you that idea? If he’d be willing to go.”

“Well, think about it,” Ron said. “You said he didn’t want to use you ‘cept in the ways you both agreed on before he moved in. He doesn’t want to attach his name too closely to yours, which no offense, might hurt your reputation. But he came to live here anyway. I– Well, I wondered about that at the time. Why here. Why you.”

“Free room and board so he could quit his third job and work on his potions proofs. And I don’t give a bloody rat’s arse about my reputation,” Harry said, tired. He thought of the whispered explanations Draco had given in the last week when they were drowsy in bed, now that he had no secrets left. Thought of the soft touches and smiles as their bodies rippled post-climax, as they lazed together and talked. Draco seemed to like being able to tell him things now, completely unaware that half of what he said twisted an invisible blade in Harry’s belly even as the ribbons of a deeper intimacy wound around them, his earnest hopes for the future almost drowning out the angry inclination Harry had to insist that he stay every time Draco spoke of them. “Draco’s got three new formulas to submit to the wizard who’s going to train him. He’s been focusing on food potions. I guess during that first year after the war, they had to save money a lot and what they could afford didn’t taste the best or, alternatively, wasn’t very nutritious.”

“That wasn’t the only reason, mate,” Ron said quietly. He nudged Harry’s knee with his own and left it there; Harry could feel the comforting warmth of him even though the thick denim of their jeans. “Have you even asked if he wants to stay?”

“I wouldn’t ask him to give it up for me,” Harry said. “How would that be fair? He doesn’t even want to date me publicly.”

“He doesn’t want to, or he won’t? Or can’t, if he’s leaving?”

Harry stopped, struck by that. “He hasn’t said he wouldn’t want to leave,” he said slowly. “But he did try Slughorn and a few other Potion Masters in Britain, and even France, first.”

Ron nudged him again. “See?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Harry said, unsure if he would. How was he supposed to ask if Draco wanted something more serious, when he’d made it clear he didn’t think they could have that?

Then again, how was he supposed to not see Draco for four years — or longer?

“I’ll talk to him,” he said again, more firmly. Ron slapped him on the leg the leg encouragingly, managing somehow to mostly disguise his revolted expression. Harry snorted. “You’re not a bad friend.”

“I,” Ron said heavily, “am the best friend. Seriously, mate, he doesn’t even like the Canons.”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, but did you hear their game against Pudd-U on Sunday? They got trounced.”

“Traitor,” Ron groused. He launched into a defense of the Canons, citing the injuries of the various players — omitting, of course, that most of their injuries came from them toppling off their brooms, mid-flight — and then complained about their new coach who had only taken the team over three years back, as if that accounted for their fifty-year losing streak. Harry listened to him ramble for a while, leaning back on his palms as the early summer sun soaked into his skin, warm and comforting.

“What?” he asked when Ron finally said his name.

“I’ve got to go,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “But it’s nice to know you listen to me.”

Harry sat up with an abashed grin. “Sorry. I drifted. What about the house-tour?”

“Another time; George wants to test something on me at the shop today and I just remembered I need to take some fortifying intestinal potions first,” he said with a wry twist to his mouth. He stood; hesitated. “Talk to Malfoy.”

“I will,” Harry promised lowly. “Thanks.”

Ron nodded and dipped his head, then turned and strode into the house. Harry sat for another minute, watching Frank sleep. He started when Paul hopped up onto the bench beside him, uncharacteristically quiet.

“You okay there?” Harry asked after a moment.

Paul blinked up at him. His eyes were wide and slightly glazed. “Is ott in the darden,” he mumbled, his nubby fingers laced together.

Harry’s brow knit. “We’re in the garden, yeah.”

“Is in hoss now.”

“...No, we’re still in the garden,” Harry said, perplexed.

“Frucker libs in hoss. Frucker tums to darden only to see yellow-hair,” Paul said. He gave a heavy sigh. “No etstra beans. Not taltin.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open.

“I still talk to you!” he said, even as he realised that wasn’t, exactly true. Though most of their ‘talks’ had been Harry muttering to himself about the house or his training while occasionally tossing extra candy at Paul to see how often he could catch it in his mouth, gone were the days when Harry had been lonely enough to do that on a regular basis. He swallowed, eyeing Paul’s downcast expression. “I’m...sorry. I didn’t know you were feeling…”

“Udly creature libs in hoss.” Paul sniffed, glaring at Frank.

“I offered to let you live inside, and he’s not ugly,” Harry said. He winced, thinking of Draco, then said, “You still could, if you wanted. If you promised not to make a mess or break anything.”

“No, Pole is an ottsides gnome,” Paul said, sounding gloomy. “But creature is creature, should be ottside too.”

Harry’s mouth quirked. “Are you missing me, or Frank?”

“Frucker no even fruck his yellow-hair in darden,” Paul said, and Harry closed his eyes, a smile tugging at his mouth. He pulled his wand and Summoned the jar of Every Flavour Beans he kept in the kitchen.

“Hey, why don’t you go to the grass; I can toss you a couple of beans, alright? You can show off for me,” he added gently.

Paul looked up at him, the dejected countenance to his face not fading one whit. He finally nodded, then scooted off the bench, hitting the ground hard. His knees started to crumple; he righted himself and took a step, but wobbled precariously. Harry leaned forward, one hand straying to the air behind Paul’s back. “Paul?”

“Frucker says, says,” Paul slurred out. He turned to look at Harry, and his bulbous eyes rolled back. He toppled into Harry’s outstretched hand, his breath rattling in his small lungs.

Harry stood up, panicked, eyes flitting around the garden. When no immediate cause or solution came to him, he cupped Paul in both hands, closed his eyes, and Apparated to the basement.

Draco paused in the act of siphoning some sort of glowing film off of a pearlescent potion that had started bubbling. “Harry? What–” He narrowed his eyes, looking at Harry over the rims of his glasses. “What is that doing down here?”

“He’s– sick. I don’t know,” Harry blurted, extending his hands. Draco’s eyes widened. “He just started rambling to me about, about being lonely, then passed out.”

“Paul?” Draco said, taking Paul from Harry’s hands. He waved his wand at his potions distractedly, then Vanished some diced ingredients resting on a flat portion of his workbench and placed Paul there. He tapped Paul’s face and said his name again; when there was no response, he glanced urgently at Harry. “He was confiding in you?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, shifting anxiously. Paul seemed so– so small, lying there limp on Draco’s table. His chest rose and fell too fast, his expressive face in unnerving repose. “He was complaining about not having me come into the garden, and then he just fell.”

“That’s not likely,” Draco said under his breath. A retort caught on the tip of Harry’s tongue when Draco shook his head. “Gnomes aren’t known for being emotionally demonstrative, or even understanding what emotions are,” he explained. He thought for a moment. “Was he messing about with any of my plants?”

“No,” Harry said. He sucked in a breath. “But he kept smelling the new ones that just started blooming, the pink ones in the beds by the corner.”

“Shit.” Abruptly, Draco turned and headed to his cabinet. He parsed through several bottles, pulling out two small vials, held between the fingers of one hand.

“Shit? Why?” Harry tapped on Paul’s cheek with his forefinger; he didn’t even flinch.

“Those are Papaver somniferum,” Draco explained shortly. He gave Harry a look. “Opium poppies. They emit an odour that appeals to magical rodents. It didn’t even occur to me that–”

“He’s not a rodent!” Harry said.

“No, of course not,” Draco said gently in return, which somehow only managed to amplify the fear Harry felt. Draco popped the cap of one vial, then pinched Paul’s jaw. Paul’s mouth opened, and Draco drizzled a small amount of a swirling grey fluid into it, massaging Paul’s throat with the pad of one finger. He looked at Harry again when Paul coughed a little then started swallowing.

“This is just a gnome cure-all,” he said quietly, though Harry had made no sound of objection. He opened the other vial, filled to the brim with a powerful-smelling white powder. He poured a tiny amount into his palm, then took a pinch and pushed into Paul’s mouth as well. “This should counteract whatever he might have inhaled. But Harry, gnomes bodies are far more internally fragile than you might think. You should be prepared for this to not wo–”

Paul sat up, eyes going wide. He cursed, loud and growling, arms flailing wide as he scrambled into a standing position, and accidentally knocked over an iron cauldron resting on the ledge of the table. Harry watched as it fell, sighing with relief when it clanged, hard and empty, against the stone floor. He looked back at Paul, who was panting heavily, teeth bared.

“Are you okay?” Harry reached out to check, to make sure. Paul snapped at him with his teeth.

“Dirty frucker brin me into hoss!” he said, looking disgusted.

“You were–”

“Pole is an ottsides gnome,” Paul howled. “Frucker tannot peep me in hoss!” He bolted, streaking up the stairs with the speed of a Snitch determined not to be caught.

Stunned, Harry and Draco watched him go. The silence that fell was heavy.

“He says thank you,” Harry said.

Draco started to laugh. He wiped the heel of his palm over his forehead, the tension in his face easing.

“I’m mad about you,” Harry said thoughtlessly.

Laughter fading just as quickly as Paul had escaped, Draco looked at Harry for a long moment, surprise writ across his features. His lips curled up to one side. “You’re welcome,” he said.

“I mean it,” Harry said.

“I know,” Draco said after a brief pause; a flush rode high on his cheeks. “I’m not… un-fond of you.”

Harry smiled, sidling closer. His hands lit gently on Draco’s hips; he caught Draco’s gaze with his own. “You keep a gnome cure-all.”

Draco sniffed. “I keep one for tortoises, too. And I happen to have one for dogs in my cabinet, though neither of us has one.”

“You keep a gnome cure-all for Paul,” Harry said. Draco looked away stubbornly. Harry took a breath. “Russia is only a long-distance Portkey away,” he said.

Eyes flashing back to him, Draco seemed to hold his breath. “It is.” He paused. “You’ll be at Hogwarts full time, and I’ll be training.”

“We could work it out,” Harry said. His hands slid around, fingers linking together over the small of Draco’s back. “I’m just saying, perhaps we could...see, if you wanted.” Harry hesitated. “If it matters, I do.”

Draco looked at him for a long moment, then surged forward to kiss him. His hands came up to twist in Harry’s hair, his mouth soft and questing against Harry’s own, his body a lanky press of weight. Harry stumbled a little as the kiss deepened, his tailbone knocking into the opposite counter. Draco rumbled a laugh against him, one hand sliding from Harry’s hair to slip under the neck of his t-shirt. He pulled away.

“Is that a yes?” Harry asked, hopefully delighted.

Draco licked his lips. “It’s a…’thank you for the offer.’ It’s a ‘we’ll see,’ Potter.”

“You don’t want to go,” Harry said. Draco looked at him, suddenly wary. Harry tightened his hands around Draco’s back to keep him in place. “You don’t.”

“I’ll do what I need to do,” Draco said. “I’ve always been that way.”

Harry released him, the ache of resentment — like a lonely echo — pooling in his stomach. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm; he could still feel Draco’s cool fingers, like the imprint from a ghost, there. They looked at each other and the warm promise of the kiss faded into an uncertain future.

“I know,” Harry said.

Harry looked up from his crouch to see Professor Whipple approaching. He patted June on the shoulder. “Go ahead and join Herbert,” he said. “I want you guys to practice together, okay?”

She nodded, big eyes wide, before turning and darting off. He stood. “Hi, Professor. Where else would you like me today?”

Professor Whipple raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, sorry.” Harry smiled uncomfortably. “Lulu.”

“If you want to be a teacher, Harry,” she said kindly, “you’re going to have to start thinking of us as your peers.”

“I know. Yes.” He straightened his shoulders. “What can I do for you?”

“The Headmistress would like to see you.”

“I’ve already done my training for the morning,” he said, confused. He pocketed his wand, then groaned. “More scrollwork?”

“It’s likely,” she said, a smile creasing her ancient face. Harry was to take over for her come fall — Professor Whipple had retired some twenty years ago, but had once been a “close enough friend” of McGonagall’s, that she’d taken the position until Harry had the qualifications to fill it — and he already regretted her absence. “One of the portraits just told me. So. Before lunch, please.”

Harry nodded, and waved to the group of second-year students practicing their trip jinxes, then strode through the corridors of Hogwarts up to the Headmistress’s office. The gargoyles had long ago — since just after the Battle — apparently decided that Harry was allowed anywhere within the castle and began to open at his approach. He hastily said, “Firewhisky,” anyway; McGonagall had frowned so deeply the last time she’d seen them let him in without a password, Harry had been afraid the gargoyles would crack in half.

She looked up when he entered her office; furled and spread scrolls lay in an organised mess over her desk, and she set down her quill, nodding to the chair across from it. Harry lowered himself into it, trying not to wince at the look on her face as she stared at him with a marked lack of amusement.

“Paperwork?” he tried.

McGonagall’s eyebrows rose; she looked at him over her spectacles and pursed her lips. “Why don’t you tell me, Potter?” she said flatly.

“Um.” Harry swallowed. “I was late the other day…”

“Closer.”

Harry sighed. “I didn’t get into any of the employee scrolls,” he said, voice careful and even. “I was just curious about official requirements for working here.”

“You think my requirements for hiring you are too rigorous?” McGonagall’s voice went up on the end, either incredulous or offended, and Harry hastily decided he didn’t want to be the one who made her either of those things.

“No, it wasn’t about me,” he said. He reached up, shoving his glasses to prop them at his hairline so he could rub his eyes for a moment and get his bearings. He replaced them and looked up at her. “You mentioned that Slughorn isn’t going to be here for longer than a couple of years.”

McGonagall blinked. She sat back slightly in her chair. “Yes?”

“I may… know someone who could fill the position,” Harry said. “I know you probably already have your eye on several candidates, but this person is…good,” he told her earnestly, leaning forward. “Good enough to take over for Slughorn immediately, if you wanted.”

“Then why, Potter, not just bring this up with me during your morning training sessions?” she asked archly. “Never let it be said that I’d overlook suggestions from my staff, if they’re good ones.”

Harry’s chest swelled at that. He smiled, face growing warm, and caught the small crinkle of an answering smile next to her mouth before she managed to smooth out her face into one of stern disapproval again.

“He’s not… He doesn’t have his Potions Mastery yet,” Harry said, hedging.

“There are ways around that,” she said. “If he’s indeed as good at you said — something I would need to verify — he could study under Professor Slughorn until–”

“Professor Slughorn won’t take him,” Harry blurted; he scowled at her, then dropped his eyes to the scarred, polished wood of her massive desk.

“Potter, have you tried to arrange employment behind my–”

“No!” Harry shook his head, rattled. He looked back up at her. “No. This person contacted Slughorn privately, searching for a Master to apprentice under. Slughorn chose not to be associated with him.”

“I see. And who, may I ask, is ‘this person’?”

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry said, holding his breath.

“I see,” she said again after a momentary pause. She exhaled, long and slow, through slightly flared nostrils. “Mr. Malfoy did receive O’s on his Advanced Potions, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy Newts,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Which are the requirements to attain an apprenticeship for a Potion’s Mastery. And he’d been forced to take them the summer after… Well. I found it particularly impressive, after a...challenging year.”

Harry gave a sigh of relief. He nodded. “You know he’s– we’re housemates,” he said. She nodded. “In the past few months, I’ve been able to see how...dedicated he is. I don’t know if he’d want to make a permanent life as a teacher, honestly, but I think he’d appreciate being able to have a place to learn again, and I know he has a lot of thoughts about how to teach — really, at least a third of the ideas for my lesson plans have come from him — and he’s also a hard worker, way harder than I knew back in–” Harry broke off when McGonagall raised her eyebrows, her gaze steady on his face.

“Harry,” she said, her brogue going gentle. He flinched. “I cannot hire a teacher simply because — astonishing as it may be — you’ve found yourself emotionally involved with them.”

“It’s not why you should hire him,” Harry said lowly. He looked down at a thread coming loose from his robes, staring at it until his heart no longer quite felt like it was about to rocket out of his throat. “Really, it’s not. He really is as good as I say. He’d be an asset to Hogwarts. And you can’t imagine what it’s like for him, Minerva,” he added. Her eyes widened fractionally, but she gave a small go ahead nod for him to continue. Harry took a breath. “He’s making payments toward an apprenticeship in Russia. And he has to give over his own formulas to the Master training him as part of his fee. And he shouldn’t have to, but with his Dark Mark… I know people might object, but I thought… Hogwarts has always been — should always be — the place where we can come to… be safe.”

“Of all the…” she muttered, a sudden flush darkening her cheekbones. Her eyes glinted at him, hard as river stones, and Harry’s shoulders sagged, his spine going loose with disappointment. “Those apprenticeships are usually given by swindlers. If Professor Slughorn won’t train him, one of the portraits would be happy to,” she said, throwing a severe look over her shoulder at them when several of them groaned out objections in unison.

Harry sat back up and looked at frame with the canvas as black as pitch. “Snape?”

“Unfortunately, Professor Snape is unlikely to help — he’s rarely in his portrait these days, although I could speak to him when and if he does make an appearence,” she said, sounding annoyed, “but… Headmaster Fronsac? Would you be willing?” she asked, turning again to glare challengingly at him.

He winced, long grey beard quivering. “Of course, Headmistress. But perhaps Headmistress Derwent might be a better choice? She has dual degrees in Potions and Healing; she may be able to extend his education further.”

“Very good suggestion,” McGonagall said crisply. “Both of you, I think.”

“Yes, Headmistress,” they said in glum unison.

“Utterly lazy,” McGonagall said, irritated, under her breath. Harry wanted to point out that, as they were dead, perhaps it was okay that they wanted to be retired, but–

“Thank you,” he said, instead.

“This is not a yes, Potter,” she warned. “I will need to check his abilities, as I’ve said, and will require an extensive interview process with him, as well.”

“I understand,” Harry said quickly.

“And I’ll not be making the offer, either,” she said. “Mr. Malfoy shall be responsible for coming to me with his application.”

“Yes, of course,” Harry said, nodding fervently.

“And if all went well and he were to actually obtain a job here, you would need to understand that none of the ridiculous,” she enunciated archly, “mischief that you two involved yourself in when you were students, would be acceptable. At the first unregulated duel, you would both be quite out on your unemployed bottoms.”

Harry raised his eyebrows and tried to look serious. “Yes, I know,” he said gravely.

McGonagall shot him a suspicious, knowing look. “Then you’ll also be aware that any other type of mischief not appropriate for a child’s eyes would be held to the same standard.”

“Er, yeah,” Harry said after clearing his throat. He blushed, raising his eyes innocently to the ceiling. “Nothing like… that, or, um, either of those things, in public. Or at all. Except. I mean–”

She snorted. “That’s quite enough, Potter.” She picked up her quill again and bent back over her parchments, then looked up after a moment, seeming surprised he was still there. “Well? Finish your day and let Mr. Malfoy know about the potential interview. Have him owl me with his availability for a first interview.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly. “You may go.”

Grinning, Harry went.

Harry stepped out of the Floo and quickly removed his robes, tossing them over the arm of the sofa. He kicked off his shoes and began to remove his t-shirt, only to pause when the low sound of laughter reached his ears. Curious, he levitated his shoes over to the small shelf the house had allowed him to install near the front door and padded on socked feet out to the garden.

“Draco?”

Draco looked up from where he was sitting with Pansy, Blaise, Greg and Luna. “You’re late,” he said flatly.

“You’re, ah, early,” Harry pointed out, smiling in confusion. He went over to the blanket they’d spread out on the grass and nodded to everyone as he lowered himself down next to Draco in a cross-legged position. He leaned over and kissed him; Draco flushed, and Harry smiled. “I thought you were working until late.”

“Mmm. I’m coming down with something; they sent me home because I was sneezing, and that’s not the most dignified front to present to customers of a certain quality. I’ve already taken some Pepper-Up,” he added when Harry reached up to touch his forehead; he didn’t move away from the touch, though, and that felt somehow significant; Harry’s stomach fluttered pleasantly, and he leaned in to brush another kiss against the corner of Draco’s mouth.

“Please stop,” Pansy said.

“Let them,” Greg said quietly, glancing up for a second. In his hands was a small metallic box with a series of strings and holes. He fiddled with it for a moment, tapping it in various places with his wand until it started emitting a sweet melody of high, hollow notes. He set it in the middle of the blanket, next to a basket. “Draco’s happy.”

Harry looked at Greg for a second, smiling his thanks as the unexpected warmth from the domesticity of the moment — Draco and Harry surrounded by friends, in their garden — hit Harry with the force of a Bludger to the temple. They were allowed to be close like this, and Harry suddenly realised why he never minded anymore that Draco’s friends came over so often; because, despite what Draco claimed, they were… a couple, in front of the people who loved them, Draco sitting beside him like a confirmed boyfriend. And, like Greg had said — Draco seemed happy.

“I am not,” Draco said, scowling. Harry snorted, and Draco cast him a mischievous smile, then straightened snootily; a rather amazing feat for someone lazing back on his hands, wearing grey joggers and a t-shirt. “It’s simply pointless to argue with Potter when he wants to do something.”

“Hypocrite,” Harry said, chuckling. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Luna came over to let Francis out and found me here, so she retrieved Pansy, who called Blaise and Greg, because they somehow decided that this,” Draco said, gesturing to the picnic in a bored way, “would a good idea if I wasn’t working. I suggested a Quidditch game, but only Blaise was interested, and none of the good clubs are open yet.”

“You would have gone to a club without me?” Harry asked, feigning hurt. He thought it was feigned, anyhow.

“And have you grind on me in public?” Draco asked archly. Harry swallowed, meeting his eyes, and Draco’s cheeks darkened fetchingly.

“Really. Stop,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t be that way,” Luna told her sweetly. “You love grinding in public.”

Pansy flushed but looked at Luna from under her lashes, a startlingly sweet look crossing her face before she remembered to modify it into something bland.

Blaise snorted and uncapped his bottle of pumpkin juice. “She does at that.”

“She’s lovely in that way, isn’t she?” Luna said, reaching out to drag her fingertips over Frank, who was lounging beside her. He closed his eyes in apparent bliss. “In a lot of ways, actually.”

“Okay, I think everyone should stop,” Harry said emphatically. Draco nudged him with his shoulder and grinned. Harry helped himself to one of the sandwiches in the basket and a bottle of juice. He took a couple of bites and then said, “This is odd.”

“What?” Greg asked. He stretched his legs out in front of himself and mimicked Draco’s position, settling back on his hands and tilting his face toward the sun. “The food? I thought it was good.”

“No, it is.” Harry smiled at him and Greg grinned, open and warm. “I just meant… This. All of us,” he said, feeling ridiculous. Harry thought to try to explain further, but to his surprise Pansy nodded before he could.

“Picnics; life; adulthood,” she said, slanting an exasperatedly fond look at Luna, who smiled complacently. “You and Draco.”

“Hey,” Harry and Draco said together, then snorted in unison. Blaise exaggerated a grimace.

“It’s important to enjoy little things,” Luna said. Frank blinked up at her as though he agreed, then turned his head to search for flowers from the fingers stroking his jaw. “It’s important to understand the sorts of things that really matter.”

“Those are the little things?” Draco said with a dubious eyebrow raise. He leaned into Harry a little, and Harry’s breath caught in his chest. Pulse throbbing in his throat, he casually slipped an arm around Draco’s waist, exhaling quietly when Draco didn’t move.

“They’re all little things,” Luna said. “After all, little things make up the big things, don’t they?”

A wrinkle appeared between Draco’s eyes. “What about the things that are big on their own?” he asked, sounding merely curious to her answer.

“Even those,” Luna said. “Like you and Harry.”

Harry felt his cheeks warm as four sets of eyes suddenly landed on them. He waited for Draco to object, to say that it was nothing that would last, but when he simply nodded, Harry did too, something hot and possessive and good flaring in his chest, a sense of home he’d not allowed himself to feel. He wondered idly if it was the house, the company, or... just Draco.

Silence fell but for the strains of Greg’s music box, which switched into a more upbeat number after a few moments. Harry polished off his sandwich then gestured to Paul, who was peeking out of his gnome-hole; ever since Paul’s mishap, both Harry and Draco had made the effort to spend time with him. He pulled his wand from his jeans and Summoned the Every-Flavour Beans. “Paul, c’mere!”

Paul looked at him suspiciously, squat little body going tense with longing when the jar of beans flew into Harry’s hand. Pansy was gaping and even Greg looked a little shocked at Paul’s presence, but everyone else looked back and forth between Paul and Harry expectantly.

“Want to watch me be really adult?” Harry asked with a grin, opening the jar. He pulled out a small handful of beans. “Paul!!”
“Pole dissant do for frucker!” Paul peeped out of sheer contrariness. “Div me beans!”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like this,” Harry said matter-of-factly. To make a point he tossed a bean into the air and caught it in his mouth, managing not to wince; it was artichoke. Paul whinged; Harry grinned at him. “You can come hang out with us. Draco might even let you sit on Frank if you’re nice.”

“I will not!” Draco said, affronted, before pausing. “Unless Francis doesn’t mind.”

“He’s a tortoise,” Blaise said under his breath. Harry controlled a snicker as Paul slid forward.

“Pole tatches beans and frucker divs me creature,” Paul decided aloud.

“I never thought I’d admire a gnome,” Pansy said, then shrugged lightly when Harry huffed at her. “What? He’s not the cleanest little beast, but he goes after what he wants,” she said with a peal of laughter. Her eyes glittered at him, and she had that same sly curl to her lip that he’d seen so often on Draco’s face; Harry thought they must give lessons on it in Slytherin House. “I’ve always heard pets take after their owners, so…”

“Sit on, not keep,” Harry said to Paul with dignity, ignoring Pansy and the way Draco pretended his laugh was a cough. “Come on, try it from the wall.” When Paul continued to stand there and scowl at him, not budging, Harry pulled his ace: attention. “Go on. Everyone wants to see what you can do.”

Paul stared at him for a second, then turned in a flash and scampered for the high stone wall, climbing up it with surprising agility. At the top, he turned back around and flashed all his sharp, crooked, dirty teeth in a grin that was as disturbing as it was charming. “Pole to jump!” he announced.

“Yeah, okay. On the count of three?” Harry weighed the bean between his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the distance and winding his arm back, then counted down.

Paul jumped, opening his mouth wide. Harry threw the bean.

“I thought,” Draco panted, turning on him and pulling him into a kiss as soon as Blaise disappeared through the Floo, “that they’d decided to move in.”

“Just need one wizarding housemate,” Harry said, kissing him back. “And you’re the one that invited them.”

“Not Weasley and Granger; they crashed,” Draco said into his mouth, hands already peeling Harry’s shirt up and off.

“I sent them a Patronus while you were in the loo,” Harry corrected, mouthing along the bend of Draco’s neck. Draco shuddered, canting his hips into Harry. They worked their way up the stairs and to Harry’s room, wrapped around each other, stumbling every few steps.

“You didn’t have to turn it into a party,” Draco said, complaint as clear in his voice as arousal. His fingers popped the button on Harry’s jeans, then dragged the zipper down with teasing slowness. “Don’t you know by now that that sort of thing makes people want to stay?”

“As long as you do,” Harry said, diving in for another kiss. He wriggled out of his jeans and kicked them aside, then slipped a finger under the elastic of Draco’s waistband, tugging on his joggers gently. Draco laughed and shoved Harry, sending him toppling onto the mattress, then climbing atop him, long legs stretched out over Harry’s, hands flat on either side of Harry’s head. He widened his legs into a straddle, pressing his knees into the bed as he thrust lightly against Harry, then harder. “Just. Fuck, yeah.” Harry gulped. “Stay,” he said.

“Where do you think I’m going?” Draco asked, voice going low and smoky. He gave his hips another pump. “Out to watch your gnome catch beans in his mouth while performing a triple somersault in pursuit of riding my tortoise?”

They both paused.

“I’d never imagined a sentence like that could exist,” Harry said, dragging Draco’s head down for another kiss.

“You’ve always had the ability to make me say things I’ll regret,” Draco said with a breathless laugh, resuming the slow grind of his hips into Harry’s.

“You had fun today,” Harry said. He wiggled his fingers under Draco’s waistband again, plucking at it and sliding them down further until the crevice of his arse was bared. Draco grinned, his chest rising and falling against Harry’s own.

“Never said I didn’t.”

“You’ll miss me if you leave,” Harry murmured, catching Draco’s earlobe in his teeth. He released it, licking over where he’d bitten, then scraped his teeth down Draco’s jaw, over his throat; he dipped his tongue into the hollow of it and felt the vibration of Draco’s low moan as the rocking of his hips sped up for a moment.

“Never said I wouldn’t,” he panted.

Hooking a tight arm around Draco’s back, Harry rolled them so he was on top, nipping at the flexing muscle of Draco’s shoulder before hunching over to work his way lower down Draco’s chest, sucking one tightened nipple between his teeth and flicking his tongue over it. He glanced up; Draco stared down at him, eyes hot and needy.

“So stay then,” Harry said.

“I… Potter,” Draco gasped out when Harry applied his teeth again. He arched his hips up and Harry sucked in a sharp breath as Draco’s erection, thick and enticing, skimmed against his own through the thin layers of fabric covering them. Draco’s hands came up to rest against Harry’s biceps; his fingers curled. “I — maybe I won’t even get the spot,” he said raggedly.

Harry stilled and looked up. Draco’s eyes were dark, the grey a thin ring around pupils blown wide. He touched Harry’s jaw with persistent fingers and Harry lifted to settle fully over Draco again, sliding their bodies together. Draco’s hand cupped the back of his neck and he pulled Harry down into an eager kiss, his tongue rubbing against Harry’s, one leg coming up to wrap around Harry’s hip. Harry wrenched his mouth away, sucking in a deep breath.

“What do you mean?”

“I, ah!” Draco bared his throat in an arch, the heel resting on Harry’s tailbone pressing them closer together. Harry’s toes flexed; instinctively, he thrust against Draco again, and again when Draco groaned. He pried his head back up on the pillow, cheeks flushed blotchy, all of his fine, perfect hair a gorgeous mess from Harry’s hand having been sunk in it. “Merlin, like that.”

“Draco,” Harry said, even as he obeyed, canting his hips forward and dragging them back, “what did you mean? You’d be okay with not getting the spot? Because–”

It was impressive, the way Draco managed to look aggravated and unbearably aroused at the same time. One of Draco’s hands slid down, stroking urgently over the muscles of Harry’s back, which twitched in response. He slid his fingers into the back of Harry’s pants the way Harry had done with Draco’s joggers and shoved them down around his hips. Harry lifted up just long enough to let his cock spring free between them, the head of his prick catching for a moment on the elastic before thumping against Draco’s bare stomach and leaving a streak of sticky damp.

“You really feel like talking now?” Draco asked, protest clear in his tone. But his eyes had that crinkle next to them, and Harry pressed another fervent kiss to his mouth, reaching between them to massage Draco’s prick, straining against his joggers.

“Just, fuck.” Harry panted into his ear as Draco squirmed under him. “If you’re thinking about–”

“I have a job,” Draco said. He sucked at Harry’s neck with light kisses. “Two. I get my inheritance in a year. And– we–”

“Yeah, we–” Harry agreed. He lifted up again minutely when Draco nudged his hips away and moaned when Draco shoved his joggers down to his thighs with one quick, sure hand. And then they were skin to skin, and Harry was quite ready to be done talking, until–

“It doesn’t have to be more than a hobby, anyway,” Draco said before reaching toward him for another kiss. Harry paused, frowning against Draco’s mouth.

“W- Draco. You’re going to be a Potion’s Master,” he said. Draco hummed noncommittally, and Harry’s frown deepened; though he knew he should feel like celebrating, Draco’s sudden change of heart made him uneasy. He’d wanted to wait, to find the right time to broach the subject of Hogwarts, but... “I was going to tell you, but everyone was here when I got home. All you have to do is apply to Hogwarts. I talked to McGonagall.”

“Okay,” Draco said, then blinked and stilled under him. The heat in his face bled away, transforming into a look of bewildered scepticism. “About what?”

“About you,” Harry said. He drew back further when Draco stared at him. “I just told her that you need some additional training; Slughorn wants to retire — frankly, she wants him to. She said she’d interview you for the position; they have some portraits that can train you for your certification.”

“You did what?” The incredulous whisper issuing from Draco’s barely moving lips — a far cry from the relief Harry had thought he would see — froze Harry in place. He skimmed the pad of his thumb over Draco’s exposed collarbone in question; Draco flinched, pushing Harry off of him and sitting up. His bare back was pale and tense in the moonlight coming through the window. He stood, pulling his joggers up around his hips again with short, jerky movements.

“I– I–” Harry sat up too, his erection wilting rapidly at the banked fury on Draco’s face. “It’s not guaranteed or anything. It’s just an interview,” he said. “Why are you–”

“What are you going to tell me next?” Draco said with a sneer, suddenly more Malfoy than Harry had seen since before he’d moved in. Before the war, even. “You bought back Malfoy Manor for me, too?”

Swallowing, Harry stood. He slipped his pants back up and walked cautiously over to Draco, who stared at him in coldly, as though smelling something foul. He turned and stalked over to the window just before Harry reached him, shoulders rigid and hands fisted at his sides.

“I didn’t,” Harry said. “Of course not.”

“I’ll bet you thought about it,” Draco said flatly.

“I…” Harry fell silent and Draco barked an angry laugh.

“Do you just never listen, Potter?” Draco asked, scathing, as he carded a hand through his hair. He turned around to face Harry, a muscle in his cheek jumping, and Harry thought about having kissed that spot, only moments before.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” he said finally. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t… You have to get the job on your own, you know?”

Draco’s lip curled. “Of course you did nothing wrong. You’re the Chosen One. What does it matter that your Death Eater of a boyfriend made a specific request of you? With my history, I obviously don’t have the right to make decisions for myself, do I?”

Flummoxed, Harry stared at him. He sucked his upper lip between his teeth for a moment, mind caught on the unthinking way Draco had referred to himself as Harry’s boyfriend. It felt like progress — or would, if not for the look on Draco’s face.

“Since when are we allowed to call each other that?” Harry asked. “You’ve made it seem like…”

“You made me reconsider things,” Draco snapped. “Until now, when you’ve just proven you don’t think me capable of doing anything on my own.”

“That’s not what I think,” Harry said.

“Then what do you think?” Draco asked with a cutting twist to his mouth. “That because we’re shagging you’re allowed to ignore the fact that I told you I was going to do this on my own? Without your help?” He smiled meanly. “You can be everyone else’s Saviour, Potter, but you won’t be mine. I thought I’d made that clear.”

“I, no, you did,” Harry said helplessly. He shook his head, abruptly frustrated, and approached Draco, who was holding himself so taut, he trembled visibly. His already pale face looked washed of all colour. “I wasn’t saving you. You don’t even want to go.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I wanted to go. What I did want — what I made clear I wanted — was for you to never fucking save me again,” Draco said. He moved to shove past Harry and Harry caught his elbow, holding him in place. “I’m not your fucking pet.”

“Don’t go. Let’s talk about this,” Harry said, low and urgent.

Draco pulled at his arm, tight in Harry’s clasp. “Perhaps we could have done that before you charged off to be the hero again. Just become a bloody Auror, Harry. You’re obviously addicted to the thrill.”

“I am not,” Harry said, tugging him closer. Their faces were close; he could feel Draco’s breath, hot, against his cheek. “I just wanted to–”

“To help,” Draco said through his teeth. “I know. I’ve needed so much help from you, haven't I? It’s almost as if you miss it.”

“Why won’t you let me? I could,” Harry said, trying to control the waves of indignation threatening to overwhelm him. “I could help you, if only you—”

“Ask?” Draco slanted a dismissive gaze to the hand still on his arm. “Tell you I need you? Go on, keep showing me how little you know me.”

“I wanted to keep you with me!” Harry burst out. “I was doing it for me, can’t you understand that?”

“In a multitude of ways, I gather,” Draco said, brow arching cruelly as he glanced down the length of Harry’s body. He sniffed. “Well, at least we both wanted that.”

“Stop it,” Harry said. “This wasn’t supposed to have gone this way.”

Draco looked at him for a moment, then started laughing. Nothing like the soft, warm laughter Harry had come to know over breakfast, or the affectionate, heated laughter that made his stomach flutter as they rolled around in bed. It was a sharp sound, like glass breaking in his throat. Then his laughter died, as quickly as it started, and his expression shifted into one of disdain.

“No, I’ve no doubt of that,” Draco said. “Let go of me.”

Harry dropped his hand. “I wanted to… keep you here. Give you an opportunity to stay, if you wanted,” he said quietly. Draco stared at him impassively; Harry’s eyes slid to the window, just over Draco’s shoulder. He swallowed. “I’m in love with you.”

There was a long silence; at length, Harry chanced another look at Draco’s face. It was still unreadable, still cold. “I know. But you said you were willing to see me on my terms. Funny, that’s the whole reason I’d decided it might be a good idea to–” He cleared his throat. “I told you I didn’t want your help,” he said again, though it seemed as though he were speaking more to himself than Harry.

“And I didn’t give you any, really. No press, no… no favours. I was still playing by your rules,” Harry said, distaste turning his tone sour. “This was just me checking to see if McGonagall had a... I wasn’t trying to–”

“At least I don’t pretend my selfish decisions weren’t deliberate choices I made,” Draco said. He sighed, some of the curbed anger bleeding from his expression. He looked suddenly weary. “I’ll sleep in my room tonight; I need to think things over. Excuse me.”

“You’re in love with me, too,” Harry said, clenching his jaw.

Draco skirted around him to head to the door; the knob refused to turn under his hand until he gave a low growl; it loosened and the corner of Draco’s mouth quirked up in a humourless smile.

He glanced back at Harry. “So?” he asked, and then was gone.

Chapter Text

Harry dragged himself out of bed, grabbing his glasses and blinking blearily. Late into the night, he’d heard Draco shuffling around in his room across the hall, as if he couldn’t sleep either, until silence finally fell. Harry’d lain in bed, willing himself not to get up and go after him, to respect Draco’s wishes and give him some space. He’d pulled out some training scrolls and stared sightlessly at them for a while until the sky began to grow pink, and then fell into an uneasy sleep until his wand had vibrated his alarm.

He hesitated for a moment, looking at his door before stumbling to the loo.

The door wouldn’t open.

Harry rattled the doorknob, then again in disbelief, and again in swiftly rising fury. “You are my bloody House,” he hissed under his breath. The lights dimmed momentarily around him, flickering in their sconces as if trying to tell him something. Harry growled. “Open the fucking door.”

The knob turned.

Glowering, Harry gave a nod, then quickly took care of business. Feeling marginally more awake he headed out, casting a doubtful glance in the direction of Draco’s door before padding downstairs, barefoot. He levitated Frank outside, then went to the kitchen and accepted the coffee Kreacher had already brewed for him, sitting impatiently at the kitchen table, one leg crossed over the other so he could jiggle his foot while he waited to hear Draco come down the stairs.

One cup of coffee became two, then three. Harry stared at the archway with its restored oak moulding in consternation, equal parts dismayed and irritated over the whole mess.

Maybe it was selfish and thoughtless of him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t right to want to ensure that Draco had the opportunities he should have, Harry thought, wincing as he burned his tongue on a too-quick swallow. And maybe he should have talked to Draco about it first, too, but he’d known Draco would just refuse his help again, so there would have been no point — especially if McGonagall hadn’t been amenable to the idea. It really hadn’t been about the thrill of the save.

Only…

Harry sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Draco’s reaction the previous night forced him to examine his own expectation of what Draco’s reaction should have been. Harry’d been expecting… Pleasure. Relief.

But under that, he’d.. Well, he’d known, hadn’t he? That Draco would be displeased. Because despite what Draco had accused him of, Harry did listen. He’d just no longer cared, if it meant he could keep Draco by his side.

Pulling his wand and shaking his head, Harry cast a Patronus. The stag looked at him with extreme patience, and Harry told him, “Go to Draco’s room; he’s going to be late for work.”

The stag lowered its head and galloped from the kitchen in a display of ghostly, glowing blue. It returned after a moment to stare at him unblinkingly.

“He’s not in his room?” Harry sat up a little straighter. “Well, go through the House and find him.” He addressed Draco directly through it. “You have work; I won’t make you talk to me if you don’t want, but you’re going to be late.”

When it returned a few minutes later — still corporeal, still patient — Harry’s heart began to pound. “Kreacher!”

Kreacher appeared with a crack. He was ringing his hands, Harry noticed with a sense of overwhelming trepidation.

“Is.” He licked his lips, his throat having gone suddenly dry. “Is Draco here?”

“No; Master Draco is having left early this morning,” Kreacher blurted out, low and croaky, looking relieved at finally being able to say it. “He is taking many of his things.”

Harry swore, standing. He took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to knock before shoving Draco’s door open, going dizzy with shock and the raw pain that scraped against his insides as he stared in, only to see the bed stripped of its sheets. Draco’s wardrobe stood empty as well, one door dangling open dejectedly; his dresser was missing Draco’s random scattering of items — Galleon purse, a framed photograph of his parents, his mother-of-pearl handled comb, inlaid with charms for smooth hair. Harry went over to the dressing room, flicking his wand to turn on the overhead lamp.

“Oh,” he breathed, swamped with relief when he saw Draco’s trunks, still stacked neatly and tucked into their places. Then he narrowed his eyes and started counting.

Two trunks were missing.

On shaking legs, Harry went back over to Draco’s bed. His stomach roiled, as though he’d swallowed Paul, who was trying to gnaw his way back out. He tried to tell himself that Draco had left most of the Manor, had left Frank, and so of course he’d come back. But—

“He loves me,” he said into the empty stillness, heart jittering painfully against his ribcage. Harry put a hand flat over it to still it. It was true; Draco had even obliquely admitted it last night. He loved Harry.

And he still left.

Harry held his wand aloft and tried to cast his Patronus. On the fourth attempt, it materialised.

“Tell—” He swallowed. “Find Draco Malfoy and tell him I’m sorry. Ask him to come back.”

Several minutes later, he felt the cooling of his wand that indicated the charm had accomplished its task and faded. He waited for a reply, Draco’s scent — spicy and masculine — still lingering in the air. Bowing under the force of his pain when no response was forthcoming, Harry cast his Patronus again and sent it to Hogwarts, letting McGonagall know he wouldn’t be able to come in for the day. He got up, balancing himself with one hand on the bedpost before heading back out to the hallway.

It shuddered around him, the windows rattling and the walls seeming to flex inward, then back out. Harry brandished his wand and looked around; he stilled. “Kreacher,” he called again.

Kreacher Apparated to his side anxiously.

“Master Harry,” he said wonderingly, as though Harry should be happy, gaze following Harry’s. “Grimmauld Place is giving Master the key.”

“Yes.” Harry stared at it, glowing gold and bright in the faded keyhole. It was old-fashioned, a slender rod with a swirling flat disk at the end. One twist, and Grimmauld Place — finally ready — would really belong to him. “Why?”

“Master is feeling all of the feelings of joy and loss and in betweens,” Kreacher croaked reverently, watching Harry. “Master has given his heart over to Grimmauld Place and has claimed it, and has let it see his pain. His magic has traveled from the attic to the basement and touched the fibres of its foundation.” He paused. Then, regretfully, “Kreacher is wanting to explains, but Kreacher belongs to Master and to Grimmauld Place. Kreacher is not being able to disobey one Master in favour of the other until one is both.”

“That’s okay, Kreacher,” Harry said, still looking at the key, the door. He felt it like the pull of a magnet, like the deep urge of Accio, Summoning him forth. The House wanted to be claimed; Draco had said so.

“Is Master Harry going to be opening it?” Kreacher said, sounding as happy as he ever sounded, despite his lined, sagging features and dour disposition.

Harry stared for another minute more. His fingers itched to touch the key.

“No,” he said, and headed to get dressed.

Delivered to Owl Box 144:

Draco,

Please talk to me. Where are you? I went by Selfridge’s and they’d said you quit. Frank Francis misses you, and you left most of the Manor. Does that mean you’re coming back?

Harry

*

Draco,

I’m really sorry. I didn’t I ignored what you said because I wanted to. You’re right. I thought I could fix things for you, but I should have respected you and told you how much I wanted you to stay. I’m okay with visiting you in Russia even though McGonagall says those instructors are scams — I’ll visit you wherever you go. Just… Write back.

Harry

*

Draco,

I’m here if you want to talk. I wasn’t lying when I said I loved you.

Harry

*

Delivered to Owl Box 2837:

Returned Post: Owl Box 144 has been closed

“He’s either blocking our Patronuses or is too far for them to reach him,” Blaise said. “You really cocked up this time, Potter. Guess it was your turn.”

“I know,” Harry said irritably, ready to curse his own Floo into caving in over Blaise’s long form standing inside. The walls rumbled slightly, responding to Harry’s unspoken desire for destruction, and Harry shook his head hastily to remind the House not to take action.

Blaise looked around curiously, eyes dark and wary. “House troubles?” he smirked.

“Not as much,” Harry said, glaring at him. “Weren’t you leaving?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be back to remind you what an utter bastard you are tomorrow,” Blaise said with a flippancy that in no way hid the underlying anger in his tone. Harry thought about getting into another argument — he wanted to lash out — but held his tongue when Greg patted him gently on the shoulder as Blaise disappeared in an extravagant puff of green.

“Don’t listen to him, Harry. Draco didn’t talk to Blaise for almost a year after—” He cut himself off, guilt flashing in his eyes.

“After what?” Harry asked sharply.

Greg gusted out a large sigh and sat down. “After Blaise offered to help him. All of us, really. His family wasn’t involved in the war at all, so his vaults weren’t affected like ours were, and he tried to give Draco gold. They had a massive row about it.”

Harry suddenly sagged, sitting down next to Greg. “His bloody pride.”

“It’s why he won’t let you take him out, you know.”

Head coming up, Harry looked at him, brow knitting. “I thought he was protecting me or something.”

“No.” Greg smiled faintly. “He’s not that nice a person. He just doesn’t want people thinking that you’re pulling strings for him. That any of his success is because of you. His father… Well, that’s what his father did, you know. It made Draco think that’s what he had to do to succeed. But he works pretty hard now.”

“And then I go and pull bloody strings for him,” Harry said with a groan, closing his eyes. “Goddamn it.”

“Well, you are nice,” Greg said. “You’ve got more practice at it.”

“It’s been five days,” Harry said miserably. The couch moulded around him comfortingly, and Harry let himself sink into it, pressing his bare feet into the slowly warming hardwood under them. The lights flickered, lowering a touch in a bid, Harry was sure, to encourage him to sleep — something he hadn’t done properly in days.

“He’ll be back soon, I’m sure.” Greg stood, patting his pockets, then pulled something out. “Here. It’s—” He frowned a little, holding it out. “It’s something Draco made in sixth year. So we could all know if everyone else was alright. That was his.”

“A necklace?” Harry looked at it carefully; the chain was long, the fine gold gilt on it flaking away to reveal an aged silvery metal underneath. But dangling from it was a pendant, a dark green stone that emitted a hypnotic light from deep within when Harry stared at it closely.

“The glow would be gone if he was— well, you know. Hurt, maybe. Or worse. So he’s fine. It went red once in sixth year, and a bunch of times in seventh, but… It never went out, and right now it’s good,” Greg explained. He stood there awkwardly, letting Harry inspect the piece in silence. “You can keep it.”

“I… Thanks,” Harry said softly, turning it over in his hand. It felt cool, but seemed to vibrate in response to his touch.

“Okay. I’ll talk to Blaise. You'll need to work it out with,” Greg said.

“Is that possible?" Harry asked. Greg’s laugh was soft and shy, like he was still unused to making the sound. He swooped down to give Frank’s head a gentle pat, then ducked into the Floo with a small wave.

Harry nodded his goodbye, then relaxed deeper into the sofa when the fire flared to life. He looked at the pendant in his hand, glowing with the pulse of life.

“Kreacher,” Harry called suddenly. Kreacher appeared with a loud crack, already wringing his hands. Harry sighed, wondering how intolerable he’d been in the last few days. “Sorry. I just… Is there a way that elf-magic can locate Draco?”

Kreacher looked down at his toes, loosening his hands to twist them in his tea towel. “Not if Master Draco is knowings that Kreacher is tryings to find him,” he creaked out. “Not if he is not wantings to be found like that.”

“I thought elves could—” Harry waved a hand, unsure how to finish the sentence.

“Master Harry should be letting Grimmauld Place comfort him; he should open the lock” Kreacher said of a sudden, as earnest as Harry had ever seen him. “Grimmauld Place has been waiting for Master Harry to want it.”

“Want it?” Harry asked. “What do you think this has all been about?”

Kreacher’s mouth worked; he looked confused and tired. “All Kreacher knows to be sayings is that Grimmauld Place will make Master Harry happy, if he lets it.”

“I want Draco back,” Harry said flatly. “Can it get that for me?”

“Maybes,” Kreacher said, sounding uncertain. His eyes slid away. “It has always done what it cans to unify with the wizard it wants to love.”

Harry reached out and patted Kreacher on the shoulder, abruptly tired, himself. “It’s okay,” he said wearily. “I don’t expect,” Harry gave him a faint smile, “magic.”

Blinking, Kreacher gave a short bow and Disapparated. Harry clutched the locket in his fist and looked at the beautiful home around him, that suddenly no longer felt like one.

“Harry.” Ginny sighed, then gently removed the half-filled tumbler of bourbon from his hand with a grimace. “You fucked up, but that’s no reason to punish yourself. You hate bourbon.”

“I’m out of whiskey,” Harry said, glaring at her balefully from his prone position on the couch. “I wanted a drink.”

“No,” she corrected, “you wanted to feel sorry for yourself.” She took a tiny sip, then set the glass aside. “You haven’t even had any, have you?”

“Of course not, I hate bourbon.”

Ginny bubbled a small, sympathetic laugh, then nudged his shoulder. Glancing at her, he scooted down further on the sofa and heaved himself into a sitting-up position. She patted her lap lazily; Harry quirked a tired grin at her and laid back down, the back of his head resting against the tops of her shorts-covered thighs. Ginny extended her thumb and forefinger over his forehead, massaging slow circles on the inner edges of his temples.

“Is it your turn, then?” he asked with a quiet sigh. “Ron and Hermione just left. I wasn’t aware I was in need of watching.”

“You’re never aware that you’re in need of watching.”

“That feels good,” Harry mumbled as her fingernails scritched at his skin.

“Don’t get used to it,” she warned when he groaned.

“Merlin, no,” Harry said, snorting. “You’d kill anyone who expected you to rub their head.”

“Not Luna,” Ginny said.

“Luna’s probably always surprised and delighted when you decide to do it. Even if you’d done it every night for a week.”

“True.” Ginny grinned at him fondly. She dipped her head, watching herself as she traced his scar, a long lock of her flaming hair falling over her cheek. She glanced at him through it after a few moments. “Do you ever think about why we didn’t work out?”

“Because we both prefer people of our own gender?” he asked. Ginny swatted him on the shoulder.

“If we hadn’t,” she amended. Then, with a wicked little grin, “And you know perfectly well that I like both.”

“You prefer women.”

“I prefer Luna,” Ginny said, stressing it pointedly. She wrinkled her nose. “And Pansy, possibly. She’s too wily to pin down.”

“You guys are so weird,” Harry mumbled, running a hand over his face.

“Don’t call something weird just because you don’t understand it,” she said with another smart little whack to his shoulder. “You hate it when people do that to you.”

“I meant the Pansy thing in general,” Harry said, huffing a laugh.

“Yeah, well. I could say the same of the Draco thing.” Ginny sniffed, then scraped her small, slender fingers through his hair. “Anyhow, do you?”

“Think about why we didn’t work out?”

“Yes.”

“Not really,” Harry said, bracing himself for her to hit him again. When she didn’t, he peeked at her through slitted eyes, then relaxed marginally. “Hermione says it’s because we’re too much alike.”

Ginny made a noncommittal sound. “Maybe. But I think it’s more that the…” She paused, wrinkling her nose as she searched for the right word, “ways we’re alike don’t suit each other. And, I think. Well, we were kids. We were a- a replacement for something, in your case, and a fantasy of something, in mine.”

Harry sighed, reaching up to still her hand in his hair. It wasn’t as though that hadn’t occurred to him — they’d even both alluded to it once, during an ugly fight — but neither of them had ever stated it so bluntly before. “What’s your point, Gin?”

“We gave up on each other because we weren’t right for each other,” she said simply.

“That doesn’t exactly help me,” he told her with a weary smile. “It would have been over if just one of us had decided it was, you know that. And Draco has.”

“Has he, though?”

“He moved out to get away from me, Gin.” Harry sat up, turning to face her. “He has no resources — he quit his job to get away from me. He hasn’t contacted his friends, or come back for Frank, and he closed his bloody owl box!” he finished on a half-yell, viciously running a hand through his hair. “That seems as if he’s done. And I know I fucked up, but that he won’t even talk to me is—”

“Unfair?”

Harry nodded miserably, wondering if it were true. Wondering how well he’d listened when Draco had tried to talk to him.

“Do you want to know what I think?” Ginny asked after a moment.

“Does it matter if I don’t?”

“Not really.” She grinned.

“Then go ahead,” Harry said, rolling his eyes.

“I think you fucked up, but he did too.” Harry blinked; Ginny shrugged. “You need to push him again. You walk on bloody eggshells around each other, thinking it’s going to fall apart.”

“We do not; I push him!”

“I’ve seen it. You wanted each other and you got each other, and you’re… you’re frequently shits to each other, but there’s more to you. You’re holding something back and so is he,” Ginny said flatly, talking over him.

“Are you suggesting we duel?” Harry asked, irritated. He tried to place the hot rise of pressure behind his breastbone and thought about all of the times he’d wanted to demand to know what was going on between them, to tell Draco how furious he was that he was still keeping secrets, still lying, how many times he’d wanted to take the bastard out to dinner, even — only to be turned down.

“Merlin, Harry, trust you to think up the most extreme solution.” Ginny shook her head at him, as though he were daft. “I’m suggesting you fight for him. And then stop fucking avoiding everything you’re both too scared to say to each other.”

“I told him I loved him,” Harry said tersely; the words stung — as badly as they had when Draco had acknowledged them, as though they were nothing more than rain sliding off Impervius.

“Do you ever confront him about the things that make you unhappy?” she persisted calmly.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Harry opened his mouth to respond when the Floo flared to life. Pansy stepped through, dusting nonexistent powder off her black jeans. She stopped when she saw him. “Oh. You.”

“This is my House!” Harry said. He looked at Ginny, who seemed pleased.

“Are you coming back?” she asked Ginny, ignoring him outright. “You said you wouldn’t be long.”

“He was drinking himself into a coma when I got here,” Ginny said. “I had to stay.”

Pansy ticked a glance to him, then snorted. “Liar.”

“He misses Draco.”

“So? Don’t piss off the Slytherin you’re sleeping with,” Pansy said. She sniffed, raising a pointed eyebrow at Ginny. “It’s good advice for anyone.”

“Have you heard from him?” Harry interrupted their flirting in a low tone, the words coming out without prior forethought.

“He can fend for himself,” Pansy said, the maliciousness of her tone doing nothing to hide her worry. “He doesn’t need you, Potter.”

“Yes, he does!” In a burst of shocking adrenaline, all of the frustration the previous week reaching a boiling point, Harry stood and stalked over to her. Her eyes widened, a darker green than his own, shot through with little amber flecks, but she jutted her chin out at him. “He does need me. Just because he hates it doesn’t make it not true. And I would hate it too, I get it — I’ve saved him when we were kids, and it hurts his pride, and I get it, Pansy, okay? I overstepped by trying to do it again. But I can help him and so why the fuck shouldn’t I, if I love him? He helps me! Why can’t I do whatever I can to get him to stay?”

Pansy stared at him, her face gone starkly white against the glossy raven hair brushing her cheek. Her mouth worked silently, lips trembling, and with a start Harry remembered that there was a time — only a few months ago — when she’d genuinely thought he had it in him to kill her. Remembered that there was a time when he’d thought it funny.

Harry spun away from her and stalked over to the doors that led out to the garden. “I’m sorry,” he said curtly, looking out at Paul, who had fallen asleep under a blooming Flutterby bush.

He heard Pansy’s and Ginny’s voices murmur something, and then the whoosh of the Floo, and after another moment, Pansy spoke. “I thought you pitied him. Like me. I thought that’s why he left. It seems like it’s the only reason he would.”

Harry turned, heard thudding heavily. “The only time I’ve ever pitied Draco was during the Battle — and just before. What is there about him to pity now? And I’ve...” He snorted. “I’ve never pitied you.”

Pansy blinked. “Not even when everyone was so mad at me for saying that stupid thing about—?”

Barking an incredulous laugh, Harry shook his head. “No,” he said sardonically. “You had that coming.”

“They were really rude.”

“You tried to hand me over to Voldemort,” Harry said.

“Yes, to save everyone,” Pansy snapped back self-righteously. Harry laughed again, and her cheeks coloured slightly. “Which was… naive of me, I admit. But they still could have shown some gratitude.”

“You’re a piece of work,” Harry said, trying to decide if that was something he should admire. From her tiny, pleased shrug, she seemed to decide to take it as a compliment anyway. “I’m worried about him. He really hasn’t contacted you?”

“We know how to close ranks,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “We’ve had to get particularly good at it in recent years, as you can probably imagine. ...But no. I’m worried, too, Potter. I’ve—” She scowled. “I’ve loved him a lot longer than you have.”

“Would Greg or Blaise know?”

“Not if I didn’t.”

“And you’d tell me the truth?”

Pansy paused for so long, Harry thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then, grudgingly, “Might even stop telling him he’s being stupid about you.”

It was likely the biggest concession he would get from her, but Harry decided to be grateful for it nonetheless. He nodded, throat tight, and when he spoke his voice was thick. “How do you think he is?”

She hitched one shoulder up, her smile turning wry. “He’s Draco,” she said simply, and Harry didn’t know exactly what she meant by that, but it sounded so… true, his knees went watery. He’s Draco.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely as they stood there looking at each other. “He is.”

Pansy sighed; she ran a hand through her hair. “Ginny and Luna and I are having dinner.”

“Oh. Yeah. Let me know if you…”

“I will,” she said, pursing her lips. She gave an abstract wave, unused to gesturing to Harry in such a manner, then went to the Floo and stepped into it with no further goodbyes.

Harry walked over to the sofa again and sat back down; the fireplace, empty now of visitors, lit up. It wasn’t cold outside — or in; since the key had appeared, Grimmauld Place seemed to be working overtime to attend to Harry’s creature comforts — but he found the crackle of it soothing. He stretched out a leg and propped his foot on the edge of Frank’s shell, just for the contact.

“What are we going to do?” he asked Frank quietly.

“Heir will return,” came the familiar whisper back. Harry jerked, pulling his wand to spell the lights brighter.

“...House?” he said tentatively, feeling daft and hopeful all at once.

“Houses do not talk, do not know to talk. Houses belong to others. Do sometimes take ownership of what loves them, but do not have souls that make them free to belong to self. You see, when you age.”

Harry swallowed hard, throat gone sandpapery. His eyes fell to Frank.

“Frank?” he asked. “Did you— Can you… talk?”

Frank looked at him, calm and wise, and Harry slid off the sofa, scooting over to his side. He touched Frank’s forehead, rough like calloused leather under his fingers. Frank closed his eyes, and Harry took a deep breath.

“Talks to Human. Human does not listen, even when human hears,” Frank said, the sound slipping sweet into Harry’s ear, like some long-forgotten music.

“I’ve been accused of that,” Harry said with another sigh. “Wait. Then... “ Harry closed his eyes, embarrassment swamping him. “All those times… That was you? Not the House?”

“Houses do not talk,” Frank said again.

Harry nodded blankly, stroking the wrinkled skin on the back of Frank’s neck. “So… Am I speaking Parseltongue?”

“What is?” Frank blinked serenely up at him, extending his head a little to allow for more of Harry’s scratching. “Flowers?”

“A… A snake language. Reptile language?” Harry guessed. He pointed his wand pointed to the mantle. “Accio Frank’s flowers.” The small silver pot containing Frank’s flowers flew into his palm; he opened it and fed a blossom to Frank, who chewed thoughtfully.

“Human speaks human language,” Frank said after a moment. “Human is very magical to understand tortoise language.”

“No, it’s just…” Harry hesitated, not sure how to explain. He settled on, “I used to be able to speak it. I didn’t realise I could still communicate at all. How can you understand me?”

“Tortoise has magic as well,” Frank said simply. “Tortoise understands many things too foreign for humans.”

Harry closed his eyes again, smiling wryly. “Of course you have magic.” He fed Frank another flower. “Do you talk to Paul?”

“Gnome is nuisance creature but with good heart. Does not understand Tortoise, but home will bring together. Tortoise is glad for home. Home was small before,” Frank said, with a dignified sort of distaste. “Female you does not feed blossoms. Tortoise does not like to hide.”

“Female me— oh. Yeah, no, Pansy isn’t the female me.” Heart twisting, Harry shook his head slowly. “And, that’s not— Draco’s going to take you to a new home; I think. Find you a good new place.”

“Heir is stubborn,” Frank said. “Heir does not leave.”

“He’s been gone for days,” Harry said, the ache he’d been trying to ignore twisting fresh behind his breastbone.

“Human is Heir’s mate; Heir needs him and no other. Heir will return.”

“Did he tell you that?” Harry asked. He wondered how best to explain relationship dynamics to a tortoise. “He...ran away.”

“He follows and yearns for life more than lived,” Frank said, voice grave. “Heir does not need to tell. Heir returns to mate’s side. It is the way of such things.”

Harry sat back on his heels, throat working convulsively. He took off his glasses and pressed his fingertips to his eyes as the room shuddered around him to commiserate with the force of his longing. “Thank you,” he said.

“Yes.” Frank turned his attention to the blossoms for a minute.

“Do you know when… Do you know where…”

Frank blinked up at him languidly. “Tortoise does not know to answer unasked questions.”

Snorting, Harry scratched the underside of Frank’s chin. “Why haven’t you spoken like this to me before?”

“Human did not listen,” Frank said again. “It is a thing humans do. Hands are good.

“You like that?” Harry asked, deepening the scratch. Frank’s jaw worked slowly as he chewed another flower, tilting his head to the side.

“It is good.”

“I just wish I could know he was safe,” Harry murmured.

“Human knows. Jewel says,” Frank said, the cadence of his words getting slower.

“Without Jewel, Human would know. Hearts are such. Human and Heir are mates. Belong to one another the way House belongs to Human, the way Tortoise belongs to Heir. Love that is given freely is its own Bond.”

“Bond?” Harry whispered, looking down at him. Frank blinked once more, then shut his eyes, his shell lifting and settling subtly as he breathed in his sleep.

Harry levered himself up after a moment. He looked around at the House he’d inherited, the place he’d once hated that Draco had managed to turn into his home. He thought about the lessons of “respect” and “authority”; thought about the loneliness that had pressed upon him in the darkest of nights when he’d had no one but Paul for company after Ginny had gone. It was dark, then, and dour, but...now… Now, it was warm, and filled with beautiful things that he and Draco had chosen together; now, Grimmauld Place loved him, and he loved it back.

“It’s because of Draco, isn’t it?” he said out loud. “That I was able to appreciate you at all.”

There was no answer, but Harry felt a burning tug in his fingertips; a plea, from the House, asking him to open the door.

“I can’t,” he said regretfully, watching the fire flicker at him; even that seemed beseeching. “I want to. I will. But not without—”

“Potter? Who are you talking to?”

Harry jerked around. Draco stood at the edge of the room, unpinning his cloak at the throat, his glasses highlighting the sharp contours of his face. He looked disheveled and wry and tired and fucking there, and Harry crossed the room in four long strides to get to him. He smelled of fresh air, of the soft, muted scent of ink and potions smoke, and he tasted like mint when Harry kissed him, pushing Draco bodily into the wall of the foyer, Draco’s hands coming up to grip Harry’s ribs.

“Where,” Harry demanded with a low growl when he pulled away, “have you been?”

Draco opened his mouth to answer, but Harry kissed him again instead, wrestling his cloak the rest of the way off and popping his buttons out of their buttonholes, tugging Draco’s shirt from his trousers. Draco gave himself up to it for a minute, allowing the onslaught of Harry’s kiss, his wandering hands, before wrenching his head back with a thunk against the wall. “You complete tosser,” he said, then buried his fingers in Harry’s hair and yanked him into another kiss.

“You fucking left,” Harry choked out after a moment, mouthing his way down Draco’s throat with hard, biting kisses. Draco groaned; he wedged a thigh between Harry’s legs and Harry groaned too, flooded with turbulent emotions: wrath and relief, lust and love and sorrow. He couldn’t stop touching Draco, could no longer shove away his need to own him and be owned by him, the way he’d wanted for so long. And that Draco was kissing him back — touching him back, Harry could touch him; Draco was there — made everything rise in Harry at once, powerful and overwhelming, blurring all of his senses.

“I went to Russia,” he said on a low gasp when Harry reached the spot above his collarbone that made him keen. Harry nipped it, then sucked it hard between his teeth. Draco’s leg began to move, and Harry started riding it, undulating his hips to give friction to where Draco’s erection was pressing persistently against his pelvic bone.

“Goddamn you,” Harry said. He ripped his glasses off, then Draco’s for good measure, tossing them onto the small table where his undeliverable letters sat before kissing him again. “Why didn’t you fucking tell me? I would have gone with you.”

Draco panted, arching into him. “Stop fucking trying to save me,” he said, hands sliding under Harry’s t-shirt to scrape blunt fingernails down his back. Harry shuddered at the jolt of pleasure-pain, at the almost-violent squirm of Draco’s body against his, and he wanted to pull back, wanted to unfasten their flies, wanted to take Draco apart, but couldn’t stop thrusting against Draco’s lean, muscled thigh.

“No” Harry managed breathlessly. The sheer honesty of the word burned, and felt like so much like the release his body was working toward, he expanded on it. “No, I can’t; I don’t want to. I don’t want to stop saving you, stop trying to make me. Need me, goddamn it.”

“I fucking hate you,” Draco said with a low hiss, teeth grazing Harry’s jaw. His hips moved frantically, cock rubbing against Harry’s hip through their clothes, his exposed stomach tensed and rippling.

“Hate me when I visit you in Russia,” Harry said into Draco’s mouth, shivering when Draco slid his tongue in, then viciously sucked on Harry’s lower lip before cupping Harry’s arse cheeks through his jeans and juddering into him. And oh, god, oh god, Draco felt so good — the claw and fight of him, the savage way he gripped Harry’s hair and buttocks — familiar and new all at once.

“I’ll hate you when we’re both living in Scotland,” Draco said, ragged and resentful, voice cutting, and Harry came on a rush, pleasure unspooling hotly in his groin, his body curling inwards, trapping Draco against the wall. His cock jerked again and again, dampening the inside of his pants with sticky release.

“You fucking bastard,” Harry said on a hard groan, hips still working, fingers bruisingly tight against Draco’s hips.

Draco’s body stiffened and plastered itself further against Harry and he grunted low and fast, “I’m coming, fuck, Harry,” even as Harry felt the throb of Draco’s cock through layers of denim and wool. Harry kissed him through it, then pressed a hot cheek against Draco’s sweaty neck when Draco went lax against the wall. They stood against each other for a minute, then Draco nudged him away; he had a scowl on his face.

“I’m the bastard?”

“You left,” Harry said, feeling his own face twist with remembered fury.

“I went to Russia!”

“I know! You said!” Harry shot back, pushing off the wall behind Draco. He yanked his wand out and cast a cleaning spell over each of them, wincing at the force of it; he felt like he’d accidentally taken off a layer of skin, and judging by the way Draco’s glower deepened, it wasn’t the most pleasant experience for him, either, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to care. “What you didn’t say was ‘I’m going to leave for Russia,’ before you packed up your room and left. Do you know how worried everyone’s been?”

“What do you mean, ‘I didn’t say’?”

Harry stared at him, dumbfounded. “You… You didn’t tell anyone.”

“I told Kreacher.”

Blinking rapidly, Harry shook his head to dislodge the words. He turned and barked out Kreacher’s name, glaring at Kreacher when he appeared. Kreacher’s eyes widened upon seeing Draco; he bowed low, his long, drooping nose nearly scraping the floor.

“Master Draco has returned,” he said.

“Yes,” Draco said, confusion plain. “Why didn’t you tell Harry where I was going?”

Kreacher’s gaze darted to Harry from his obsequious position. “Kreacher is not needing to obey Master Draco,” he hedged.

“Kreacher!” Harry fisted his hands to restrain himself from throttling his own house-elf.

“Master Harry is needing a push,” Kreacher babbled out of nowhere, rheumy eyes filling with tears. He sniffed wetly, his hands twisting his ears around them. “Master Harry is needing to share his pain with the House so it would respond; then he is needing to make the House his home by communing with it. Kreacher is taking care of Master as is a house-elf’s duty and wont.”

“Goddamnit,” Harry roared. He raked a hand through his hair, staring down at Kreacher furiously. Without looking away, he asked Draco, “I can’t kill him, can I?”

“Well you could, but he doesn’t have a wand for you to Disarm, so any rebounding curse would be decidedly unimpressive,” Draco said with a small snort. Harry whipped his head around to glare at Draco again; Draco gave him a tiny, smug smile and Harry turned back to Kreacher.

“Go tell Ginny that he’s here; she’ll get it to everyone else,” he said through clenched teeth. “Tell her we don’t want to be bothered.”

Kreacher bowed even lower and Disapparated.

“I assure you, you bother me plenty,” Draco said.

“You,” Harry said, whirling on him. He snapped a hand around Draco’s bony wrist, and dragged him toward the stairs. “Shut up.”

“What did I do?” Draco asked. “I told Kreacher!”

“You didn’t tell me,” Harry said, agitated as they reached the landing of the second floor. The tug in his fingers bloomed hot but he ignored it, choosing instead to hustle Draco into his room. “You took your sheets. The bloody picture of your parents,” he said.

Draco furrowed his brow. “My sheets needed cleaning and I take that photo everywhere.”

“Two trunks?” Harry demanded, stripping off his t-shirt and undoing his flies. Draco’s eyes widened and he stripped off his shirt, discarding it hurriedly, then reaching for the fastenings of his own trousers as he toed off his shoes.

“I didn’t know how long I would be gone, or what resources I would need,” Draco said, his breath starting to come light and fast as Harry shoved his jeans and pants down, then kicked them to the side. He slipped his own clothes off; he was halfway to hard again already, and Harry licked his lips, one hand straying to his rapidly-swelling erection. “So soon,” Draco murmured, eyes on Harry’s cock.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Harry said, then pushed him onto the bed, taking Draco’s mouth in a hard, possessive kiss.

Later, they laid together, wheezing in time with each other. Harry’s whole body hurt, from the bite marks Draco had decided to imprint upon his flank, to his overstimulated prick, to the oozing scratches on his hips and thighs where Draco had reached back and clutched at him again as Harry had rutted into him mindlessly, muttering, “Mine, damn you,” until Draco came with a loud, angry sob. Draco looked no less worse for wear, with stubble burn and purpling love-bites over his throat, between his thighs, and a splendidly red hand-print over the starkly pale curve of one arse cheek. He looked utterly wrung out, completely debauched, and Harry felt his cock — unbelievably — twitch against his thigh.

“Scotland?” Harry said at length, once his heartbeat had slowed enough to allow for real speech.

Draco rolled over, lifting his head and blinking heavily. His lips were swollen. “I take it you haven’t spoken to the Headmistress in the last few days?”

“I’ve been busy looking for you,” Harry said, rising onto one elbow with a grunt.

“I went to her that morning and submitted my CV,” Draco said. His upper lip curled up. “My employment is pending a thorough interview and review of my history, as well as examples of my potions ability in the form of a moderated retaking of my practical Potion’s Newts. Then I went to Russia to get back the gold I’ve already paid into that—” He broke off, jaw tight.

“And did you get it back?”

“He said he would retrieve it for me, then Disapparated. But I tracked him down,” Draco said with a small sniff.

“Why?” Harry asked lowly, the question finally tearing from his throat. It encompassed all of the why’s he’d wondered at over the last few months, all of the moments of desperate need and uncertainty, and he thought for a moment by the snide curl of Draco’s lip that he’d discount the question or refuse to answer it at all; he shoved a pillow under his head and rested his cheek upon it, inhaling deeply, face going distant and thoughtful. Harry coasted a hand down the long expanse of Draco’s back, index and middle fingers resting for a moment in the dimples at the small of it before moving lower to slip between his relaxed buttocks. Draco clenched them lightly in response; he was slick there from lube and spunk, and his hole was puffy and soft against the pad of Harry’s fingertips. He pressed two fingers just inside, and Draco sucked in a choppy breath.

“I c-couldn’t let you get too close, if I was leaving,” Draco stuttered out, shifting a little. His legs fell open slightly. “And then you got too close anyhow — because you’re you, Potter, and you’re not you if you’re not obliterating all sense of decency and boundaries — and… and…” He blinked, pale eyelashes fluttering as he struggled to compose himself. “Could you not?”

“It’d be difficult,” Harry said, pushing his fingers a touch deeper, down to the first knuckle. He twisted them and Draco made a small sound of combined pique and impatience.

“I didn’t talk to Blaise for a year when he offered to give me gold,” Draco said. The flush that was beginning to die on his cheeks bloomed fresh.

“I know. Greg told me.” Harry paused, moving his fingers gently through the slick of his own come, fascinated by the way Draco’s inner muscles fluttered around them. “You should have.”

“Why wasn’t it enough that I told you I didn’t want your help?” Draco asked, peevish. He lifted his hips fractionally before dropping them.

“Because I’m me,” Harry said with a sigh. Draco rolled his eyes. “Then why go to McGonagall?”

“Because you hadn’t asked, and I’m not, ah!” Draco licked his lips. “I’m smart enough to utilise opportunities that come my way.”

“So that’s how I help you?” Harry asked, sinking his fingers deeper, searchingly. Draco scowled at him disapprovingly, even as his hips started to jerk slightly. “I just don’t ask if it’s okay? I thought that’s why you’d got so angry.”

“That’s not alright, Harry,” Draco said. His knuckles clutched the pillow beneath his head, turning yellow-white as he fought to maintain some semblance of control. “I’m angry because you discounted me; you behaved, oh, god, as though you’d be willing to— to—”

“I was,” Harry said. His cock had barely roused, thickening only slightly, but Draco rutted against the mattress as though he was fully hard again. “I am. I meant that. I wrote you letters.”

“I didn’t get any owls.”

“Your owlbox,” Harry murmured, leaning forward to kiss Draco’s flexing shoulder as he continued to finger him steadily, pumping his fingers inward before dragging them out, Draco’s rim twitching around them.

“I closed that months ago, and oh, fuck, do it.”

“Keep talking,” Harry said insistently. He pulled his fingers out to the tips and pressed a third alongside them, slipping them in smoothly all at once down to the knuckles of his hand. Draco jerked, his breath coming fast, his biceps bunching, slender and defined. “Tell me you’re in love with me.”

“I hate you,” Draco groaned as Harry located his prostate. “I hate you as much as I love you.”

Harry shuddered, scooting closer. He bent his head to kiss Draco’s mouth, already open and gasping out shivery breaths. “Finally, you prick.”

“I wasn’t going to take anything from you,” Draco said. “I still won’t.” He cried out, frustrated, when Harry’s hand stilled. “Not— not like that. I need to d-do it on my own. No more—”

“Rescuing?” Harry asked, resuming the skim of his fingers over Draco’s prostate.

“Damnit. If I gave you the House — and satisfied my own… my… once I knew you were… I had thought about…” Draco’s toes curled, his thighs tense and quaking, his words on the cusp of nonsense. “I wanted you, when we were teenagers.”

Pleased, Harry rewarded him for the confession with a direct, firm press over the swollen bundle of nerves he’d been teasing. Draco’s back dipped, his spine flexing inward, his eyes falling shut. He gave a hedonistic moan, hips jerking frantically.

“Are you going to come again?” Harry asked, mouth close to Draco’s ear.

“Bastard,” Draco got out. He rose up, fucking his arse on Harry’s fingers. Harry saw Draco’s erection jut forth from his groin, thick and dark pink and bouncing as he worked his hips back, and then Draco climaxed, small dribbles of come dripping onto the already-messy sheets. He dropped down against them bonelessly, one eye peeking open to glare at Harry as Harry withdrew his fingers. He continued as though there hadn’t been a pause, voice grainy, “When I moved in, I didn’t know your preferences might align with mine. And then— when we started, I was leaving. I had planned to; you were only in it for a spot of fun, anyhow.”

“Very practical of you. And wrong. I never once gave you that idea and you know it.”

“Fuck you; you didn’t tell me otherwise until— until you said that you were—”

“Mad about you. I remember. Impractical of me,” Harry said, swallowing a strange swell of giddiness..

“And things changed,” Draco said, yawning. “That still doesn’t give you the right to make decisions on my behalf.”

“I didn’t,” Harry said in apology. “I just sought out another option for you.”

“And if it was anyone but the current Headmistress, I might not have followed up on it.” At Harry’s look, Draco smiled wryly. “I’ve never known her to be someone particularly intimidated by or in awe of you.”

“Something you have in common.”

Draco hesitated. “I don’t want people to know about us, yet,” he said.

Harry’s gut tightened, but he took a deep breath and kept his voice mild. “Why not?”

“They’ll attribute me working there to you, to us,” Draco said sourly.

“But—”

“No buts, Harry.”

“Fine.” Harry sighed, and Draco shifted, grimacing. Harry grappled around for his wand, finally finding it near the foot of the bed, and cast a gentle Scourgify over them both; he was starting to get itchy, anyhow. He cleared his throat, then settled on his back, staring up at his bed hangings. “I want something, too.”

“...Am I supposed to guess?” Draco asked snidely after a moment.

“Stop pushing me away,” Harry said. “Let me… I don’t know. Help in ways I can. It’s who I am, and you know it.”

“It’d be simpler if you could curb the impulse,” Draco pointed out with a yawn.

“Apparently I can’t,” Harry said, irritated. “And I don’t want to, either. And I shouldn’t have to.”

Draco hesitated for a long moment. His hand came up to rest on Harry’s groin, fingers threading through the curling black pubic hair. He gave it a thoughtful tug. “No favours that I don’t want,” he said.

“I’m supposed to know what those are?”

“You will if you ask me.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine. Then I really can’t buy back the Manor, I suppose?”

Snickering, Draco shook his head, pulling sharper on the hair in his grasp. Harry’s grin turned into a wince; he took Draco’s hand and placed it elsewhere. Draco resumed touching him, fondling his prick absently instead. “No. But I might include you in my own plans to get it back.”

“I’ll take it,” Harry said instantly.

“I just wish we’d gotten further with Grimmauld Place,” Draco said with another, louder yawn. “We’re to leave for Scotland in a month.”

“Oh.” Sheepish, Harry rubbed his fingers together with his thumb; he could feel the sting in them, the pull. “We, uh, did, actually. The key appeared. Kreacher — whatever he did worked, I guess.”

Draco’s eyes popped open, all remnants of exhaustion fleeing his face. “And you claimed it?”

“Not—” Harry cleared his throat; he met Draco’s gaze. “I didn’t want to, without you here.”

Exasperated, Draco levered himself up, hopping off the bed in one graceful movement. Harry blinked, startled when Draco grabbed his wand from where it had fallen to the floor and brandished it at Harry, nudging Harry’s chin higher with the tip of it. “All that time spent, all our work, and you haven’t—”

“Our work,” Harry said pointedly. Draco faltered, and Harry lowered his voice, his face growing warm. “I didn’t want to, without you here,” he said again.

Draco stared at him; his face remained expressionless, but his eyes softened, warmed. “Come on, then,” he said. “I’d like to see.”

Harry got up, Summoning his pants from where they were wedged under his bedside stand and slipping them on as Draco put on his own. They trudged into the hall and Harry felt it again, that same fierce pull of longing from Grimmauld Place to belong to someone again, fully and finally, after so long. Only, as he stared at the door, it seemed as though the House knew it was time; the throb of his fingertips grew became hot and steady, and Harry wondered if when he touched the key whether his fingerprints might brand the gleaming metal.

“Can you come with me?” he whispered to Draco. From his periphery, he saw Draco shake his head.

“No.”

“I feel like you should; you deserve to, after—”

“One day,” Draco said quietly, “I’ll get the Manor back. And you’ll be there; you’ll watch as I walk through the door just like I’m going to watch right now as you do.”

Harry swallowed and stepped forward. The bow of the key between his fingers and thumb flared bright and hot as he touched it; it twisted before Harry had moved his fingers, the creak of the door as it unlatched and opened inward, loud and beseeching. The inside of the room looked hollow, a dark and bottomless pit of velvety black, a sharp contrast to the warmth Harry felt issuing from it, like gusts of summer wind. Harry glanced back at Draco; he nodded, the high arch of his brow knitted, eyes narrow and sharp. Harry turned back and took a deep breath; he stepped in.

“Oh,” he said. Then, “Oh,” again, long and loud as the magic swept over him in shallow waves, pulsing out from his hand to extend through his midsection and the rest of his limbs. Harry felt alight from it, from that sense of right and home, the way he did in Molly’s kitchen, the way he did always had at Hogwarts on Christmas morning. The way he had when Draco had shown up hours earlier, kissing him back with furious promise. The room brightened in increments, an ache to Harry’s eyes until the images rose, first of a wizard with calloused, lined hands spelling stones into the foundation, then of a wedding in a room that looked to be a grand ballroom. One by one, almost too swift to see, the memories of the House poured into Harry’s mind: children born and raised; murders plotted; cold silences and noisy lovemaking; anger and joy and pride through the centuries bleeding into him to force him into understanding. He swayed when Sirius appeared, first a boy seeking the approval of his parents, then a young man rebelling against his own pain that he wasn’t good enough, and finally an adult with ghostly shadows in the depths of his eyes, chased away only when he looked at Harry, who he loved — loved — with a proprietary satisfaction, as though Harry were his own. Harry reached out a hand as if he could hold onto the image — the two of them, smiling at each other in the midst of an Order meeting, when he was all of fifteen years old — but it faded like the rest of them, uncompromisingly fast.

The magic swirled around him, growing hotter, and the hand Harry had lifted found its way to the wall; he propped himself up against it, palm flat, and tried to keep his knees from buckling at the lightning force of power washing through him. He felt a surge of possessiveness well up inside him, overwhelming, burning, and he choked against it, his tongue gone thick and his throat tight. It was the House, he realised in the faint recesses of his mind that could still process something other than the onslaught of thought and sensation whipping through him. Grimmauld Place was giving itself over, but it was… it was taking something, too, forcibly wrenching Harry’s magic from him to stamp itself with, from the skeleton of the building to the glass in the frames. He heard a heavy whooshing sound roar through his ears, through his mind, and Harry saw another flashing image as the heat spiked again; Draco, lined eyes laughing into his in the future, settled comfortably at his side. And he understood, for the first time, that Grimmauld Place responded to Draco so easily — had always done so — as an extension of Harry’s needs, as something else that could bind Harry to it; the House had seen, long before Harry could, that Draco represented the promise of family and future. The promise of Home, as he’d always wanted.

Harry gasped and felt the magic slip into his lungs, imprinting his soft tissues and bones, coaxing his very molecules into response with the impact of its need to own, and to be owned. Then the knife’s edge of pain blurred into pleasure, a sense of being held; the room cooled as suddenly as it had become overhot, and the tracks of moisture on Harry’s cheeks chilled him. He sucked in noisy, broken breaths, the distant sound of his name being called with increasing panic forcing his head up and around.

Draco stood, grasping the doorframe, face stark. “—rry! Harry!”

“I’m okay,” Harry said hoarsely, then again to reassure himself he was. “I’m okay. Come in.”

“It won’t let me,” Draco said with such offense that Harry let loose a dizzy laugh.

“It will now; come on.” Harry turned, still steadying himself against the wall, until he was facing Draco. Draco took one hesitant step in then another, more confident step, filling up the rest of the space in the tiny room. He shivered.

“It feels like you in here.”

Harry laughed again, half-drunk with the new awareness his body and mind were flush with. “What does that mean?”

Draco caught his lower lip between his teeth for a second, looking around at the barren white walls, darkwood floor. “I can’t see where the light is coming from,” he murmured curiously. “But it’s— warm, and. And fascinating.”

“And you’re questioning it?” Harry wobbled a little; he raised his mouth an inch to kiss Draco, whose lips moved against his automatically before he pulled away.

“No.” Draco tched under his breath, cheeks a dark splash of pink. “I’m explaining how it feels like you in here.” He straightened, one hand coming up to fan out over Harry’s jaw as he inspected him closely, his voice turning clipped. “What happened?”

“You didn’t see?” Harry asked, unaccountably touched by Draco’s description.

“No, it stayed dark until you told me you were okay.”

“Oh.” Harry leaned his jaw into Draco’s hand, eyelids heavy. He opened his mouth but the words, when he searched for them, weren’t there; he couldn’t figure out a way to describe that his life’s blood and magic were inexorably tied to a place, now, that would crumble at his feet before allowing harm to come to him — to either of them, as Grimmauld Place had shown him in those last images that it understood perfectly Draco’s place in Harry’s life and home and heart. “You’ll see, someday.”

Draco’s mouth thinned for a second, and Harry thought he would press but he simply nodded, sifting his fingers through Harry’s hair. “I expect I will. You look as though you’re about to fall over.”

The weakness in Harry’s legs tripled at Draco’s words; he nodded weakly, his adrenaline crashing all at once. “Take me to bed.”

Draco snorted. “You’re certainly not in any shape for that again,” he said, and Harry laughed. Draco’s mouth drew down. “Let me Summon some new sheets, and I’ll get you—”

“No need,” Harry said. He leaned heavily onto Draco, staggering out of the room; the door clicked shut behind him and he glanced back; the key was still bright in the lock, a thin strip of pulsing, living light shining from beneath the door jam. He’d have to tell Frank he was wrong about the House not having a soul, about it not being able to speak; it had just spoken to Harry, after all.

They made their way to Harry’s room, and Draco’s eyebrows rose to see that Harry was right; his bed linens were clean and made up, the lamps muted comfortably. Clumsily, Harry tugged the bedcovers down and climbed in; Draco pursed his lips but followed, settling on his side, his chest pressed up against Harry’s back and one hand flat over his breastbone. They were silent for a time, and then Harry said, “It’s like us, you know.”

Draco stirred behind him, the hand he had pressed to Harry’s chest curling slightly. “What’s that?”

“The House,” Harry explained, sleepy and sated. “The way it… taunted me, hated me and blamed me.”

“Thank you,” Draco said drily.

“And I did the same. But… we wanted something from each other. We were important to each other, right? And we didn’t know how.”

“Your point, Potter?” Draco said, quiet and affectionate in his ear.

“Remember when I said that when something belongs to you, you belong to it?” Harry asked. He felt a slow, cautious nod against his shoulder. Harry sighed. “Like that,” he said, then as an afterthought added, “you insufferable wanker. Next time, tell me if you’re going to leave, okay?”

“Okay,” Draco said, his voice strangely tight. His hand slid down over Harry’s stomach, fingertips resting on Harry’s opposite hip. “Everyone was looking for me, you said?”

“Everyone. Greg even gave me a pendant. Something you made in—”

“Sixth year; I remember.” Draco didn’t bother to hide the amusement in his tone. “You thought me dead?”

“No one knew. Even Ron was concerned.” Harry yawned again, smiling a little at Draco’s snort. “S’okay, though. The Human and the Heir are mates, I guess.”

“Uhm. What exactly did that room do to you?” Draco bent over Harry’s shoulder and Harry turned to look at him; Draco’s face was conflicted, bewilderment combined with the willingness to be let in on the joke. Harry opened his mouth to explain about Frank.

And then closed it.

What Draco didn’t know wouldn’t kill him, he reasoned.

“You’ll see someday,” he said. “Now let’s go to sleep.”

Draco settled again, the mattress shifting, his lithe form pressed against Harry.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Harry said.

“I am, too,” Draco returned, sounding surprised. “Though I never would have expected this to be it.”

Harry smiled to himself. Home could be a confusing concept; that much, he knew for sure.

Chapter Text

“It’s going to be mad.”

“Nonsense.” Draco divested of his robes as quickly as possible, padding over to their shared wardrobe in nothing but his pants to dither for a moment before pulling out an inky black three-piece suit. He slanted a look at Harry, the corner of his mouth coming up slyly. “But we are going to be late, and that’ll make Pansy angry. I’d prefer to stay on her good side, after all.”

Harry swallowed a couple of times, watching Draco’s bottom flex beneath the the form-fitting cut of his boxer-briefs, before conceding the point. “Fine,” he said sullenly.

Draco hmmphed under his breath, but he wore a smile. He levitated a pair of charcoal pinstripe trousers and a burgundy button down over to Harry as he got dressed. “Just think,” he said, voice silky as he began to get dressed, “how happy it’ll be if we wait until we’re there...”

Which was sort of weird, but mostly right. Harry gave up his sulk and started getting dressed, too. “I don’t even know how I got roped into this.”

“You were the only one with a Wizarding House,” Draco said simply. He poked his tongue into the side of his cheek as he pointed his wand at his polished shoes to tie the laces. Then, “For now, at least.”

“That still doesn’t explain why I said yes,” Harry complained.

“Because Grimmauld Place likes it.”

Flushing, Harry finished putting his own shoes on, then Summoned their trunks. “I’ll be glad for the break, anyway.”

“Me too,” Draco said with a sigh. He looked into his trunk, nodded, then frowned and strode over to the cabinet where they kept their flower seeds. “Forgot this. If you’d like to talk about someone whom we shouldn’t make mad, it’s almost certainly Dancer.”

“I’ve got a whole bag in my trunk,” Harry said, rolling his eyes.

Looking sheepish, Draco tucked in the remainder of the seeds into his own trunk, then spelled them through the Floo. He carefully lifted Dancer’s cage by its wide, golden handle, then gave Harry an expectant glance. “Ready?”

Harry gazed around their shared Professor’s quarters. They already looked a little barren, a little lackluster, as if the castle was preparing for their extended absence over the holidays even though Draco still had his robes thrown casually over their small loveseat, and Harry still had a teacup with a half-inch of cold tea left in it on his nightstand. There were pictures on the mantle of the two of them, of their respective families and friends — and if anyone had ever told Harry that he’d willingly have a picture of the Malfoy family resting on his mantle, he’d have hustled them to the mental healing wing of St. Mungo’s without delay — and Harry's half-graded classroom scrolls and Draco's training potions proofs cluttered together over their two-sided desk in the small, joint office off the living space… All of it spoke to home, and it was.

Only, for the first time, Harry had another place to which he could apply that word, and it was his and Draco’s, alone.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “You first.”

Draco gave him a dark look, frowning as though he knew what would be waiting. Which he probably did, Harry thought as he watched Draco disappear, gulped and stepped forward with a pinch of Floo powder. Of course Draco knew what would be waiting; he was used to these things. Harry… wasn’t.

He didn’t throw parties.

He threw down the powder and popped out of the Floo in the dining room, only to be assaulted with Pansy’s half-hysterical voice, railing on Draco for the late hour. Harry checked the clock on the mantle and grimaced; they were ten minutes behind.

“...don’t care about them; they get to have you all year — well, most — and you’re not even spending Christmas with me—”

“You’ll be visiting your father!” Draco cut in, annoyed.

“That hardly matters!” Pansy continued her rant, but it was obvious she was winding down, because her voice kept falling from shrill notes before she resumed. Harry sidled over to where Luna was standing idly, one knee crooked, the her foot propped flat against the wall as she leaned against it. Harry bent to kiss her cheek and she beamed at him.

“You look pretty,” he said. “Where’s Gin? And how long has she been like that?”

“All day,” Luna said blithely. “Since last night, really. She was so nervous, she didn’t feel like making love; not even when Ginny went d—”

“That’s okay,” Harry said, holding up a hand. Luna smiled.

“And you look very nice, too. Ginny’s been trying to get Kreacher to prepare things, but Grimmauld hasn’t been listening for some reason.” She leaned closer, her smile kind as she flicked a glance to Pansy. “She’s invited a lot of people, is the thing.”

“Of course she has,” Harry said, sighing. And of course Grimmauld wasn’t cooperating. He ran an appreciative hand over the cherry wainscoting, smiling when he felt the wood warm under his hands, felt the ripple of returned regard. The room fluttered around him, then abruptly creaked loudly as it widened, the dining room table smoothly shortening and sliding across to rest against the far wall. The dining room chairs spread out in a blink of conjuration, multiplying and Transfiguring with ease, transferred to the edges of the room as the rug that normally rested under the dining room table rolled up and disappeared with a small bloop.

“Potter!” Pansy abruptly stopped talking to Draco, tossing shoulder-length hair back to reveal equally long, sparkly earrings that matched her silver dress. To Harry’s only-partly-appalled astonishment, she threw herself into his arms. “Finally!”

“I get yelled at,” Draco said dryly, “and he gets hugged.”

“Things have changed since the war; I’ve been trying to tell you,” Harry said over her shoulder, patting her awkwardly. She finally pulled away and scowled; Harry ticked another glance to Draco. “But not that much.”

“People will be here soon! There are always a few people without the ounce of social graces required to understand they should show up at least fifteen minutes late,” she said. “Where have you been? And why did you bring that?” she added, pointing to Dancer. Dancer squeaked, lounging back on her tiny pillow-bed and flashing wickedly sharp teeth in a feral sort of pout that had Harry wincing.

“That’s Dancer,” Harry said. He tamped down a grin at Draco’s soft expression, and the sudden concern on his face as he fiddled with the latch on her huge gold cage. “She’s Dr— our new pet.”

“Fairies don’t really enjoy being thought of as pets,” Luna said in her thoughtful way.

“She has a malformed wing,” Harry murmured. “Not the best flyer, so not very welcome in her coven.”

“Well, that’s just lovely of Draco, then.” Luna smiled at him, bright and approving. Draco looked up wryly, then rebent to the task of opening Dancer’s cage.

“If she bites anyone, I’ll be angry,” Pansy said. “I’ve been waiting for ages. Can you fix it now?”

Harry snorted. “What did you think I was doing?” He held out a hand. “Let me look over the list again?” Pansy huffed a sigh, waved her wand, and slapped the conjured bit of parchment into his hand. Harry studied it for a moment, then nodded. “Alright, go check with Kreacher and Ginny about the food; I’ll take care of this.”

Pansy looked ready to object, but Luna wrapped a persuasive arm around her waist and, after a moment, Pansy yielded to her gentle tugging and followed her out of the dining room. She cast a nervous, helpless look over her shoulder as she was guided firmly out.

Draco walked over to his side, Dancer perched lightly on his shoulder, looking around curiously. Draco tilted his glasses down a notch, then glanced at the list and snickered. “Why did you agree to this?”

“Because my boyfriend is a menace who withheld sex,” Harry mumbled, shoving his own glasses higher on the bridge of his nose “until I said his spoiled best friend could use my House to host her birthday party when she’d invited too many people for her flat to hold.”

“Oh, that,” Draco said smugly. As if he hadn’t practically sobbed in relief two days later, hands scrabbling behind himself into Harry’s hair as Harry diligently rimmed him open. “Well.”

Dancer made a tiny, musical sound, the note high and questioning. Her oversized violet wings fluttered, and her tiny face twisted with concentration. Draco turned his head, eyes softening. “Yes, you can go look around.”

He jostled his shoulder a little to help her with her take-off and finally she rose, clearing a few inches and then a few more into the air, wobbling only slightly as she began flying in circles around the room. Her shining blue hair streaked behind her as she began to fly faster in her excitement, and she lowered to hover in place, making a series of rapid sing-songy notes that Draco listened to thoughtfully.

“Francis? He should be in the parlour. Be nice.” Draco pointed across the foyer and Dancer fluttered her long gold lashes at him with a pleased smile before darting out of the room unevenly.

“Shall I, then?” Harry said, when he had Draco’s attention again.

“I’ll stop you if you make a mistake.”

Harry gave him a faint smile, then closed his eyes. He felt the shift of the floor beneath his feet, smooth and steady, a transfer of materials from the rest of the House, changing the wood into marble. Then the soft whoosh, like the way the air fit to shape around a new person in the room when they entered, only it was just more room being added as Harry focused on the pulsing knot of magic inside him reserved for communion with his home. The house borrowed from the attic to extend the room, and all four of the guest rooms on the third floor shrank as well, to accommodate the dimensions of the ballroom as Pansy had requested. Harry placed a hand on the wall again, trailing his fingers over the wood, a steady hum of delight at being useful, being found precious under his fingertips. The texture of the walls shimmered a bit, then smoothed out again; when Harry opened his eyes, the room had quadrupled in size, and the walls had turned a bright, glare-white. He glanced at Draco and raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

“Not bad,” Draco said, obviously trying not to look too impressed. Harry smirked, and Draco looked around. “There’s more, though.”

“I know.” Harry checked the list again, grinning. “Let’s get to work, then.”

“You. You did this,” Ron said for the fifth time in disbelief. He took a long sip from a fizzy silver drink, then brought a fist up to tap his chest as he coughed and emitted a faint blue mist. “It’s… more elaborate than I thought was your, uh, style..”

Elaborate was a good word for it, perhaps, and also an overstatement. The House had charmed the ballroom to the rafters with decorations — sparkling silver and gold and white bubbles floated through the air, popping intermittently to rain a shower of glitter down over whoever was beneath them; there were buffet tables filled with hors-d'oeuvres along one wall, and a long bar against another where guests could tap their drink choice with their wand to refill their glasses or champagne flutes. On the other side of the room, near the set of four glass doors that had popped into existence leading to an outside terrace, there was a set of bewitched instruments that switched the music at regular intervals, playing everything from The Weird Sisters to The Dragon Riders, to Celestina Warbeck. But for all of the people taking advantage of the dance floor, people were also lounging idly on squashy chairs in the corners — some Glamoured for comfort and appeal, taken from his attic, some Transfigured from Harry’s dining room set — or clustering together in small groups to talk and laugh quietly. It was extravagant in the extreme, but also… cosy and simple and warm, despite the painstaking set-up, and the table stacked nearly to the ceiling with brightly wrapped gifts.

“Yes, I. I did this,” Harry said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Well, it’s not a witches coming-out, at least,” Ron said with a sigh.

“When have you ever been to one of those?” Harry asked.

Ron shrugged. “Was dragged to a couple when I was a kid; cousins and the like. They’re,” he grimaced, “more… posh. This isn’t too bad.”

“Which doesn’t explain why the two of you are hiding in the corner,” Hermione said, slipping an arm around Ron’s waist as she joined them.

“Good vantage point,” Harry said.

“For what, may I ask?” She took Ron’s drink from him and sipped it, eyes widening as she coughed out her own blue smoke. “What’s in this?”

“It’s called Mermaid’s tail, so it’s anyone’s guess,” Harry said, laughing when she paled. “Relax, Kreacher made it.”

“If I find out actual Mermaid’s tail went into it…” Hermione gave him a warning look before taking another thoughtful sip. Her eyes brightened a bit.
“It's good,” she admitted. Ron nudged her with his elbow and she grinned suddenly in such a way that put Harry immediately on guard. “So!”

“So, what?” Harry asked cautiously.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard any of the rumours flying about the Ministry.”

Wary, Harry stiffened. He adopted a bored face. “Why would I? Draco and I have been at Hogwarts. ...For months. We seldom get a break.”

“Mmhmm.” Hermione took a longer drink, amused gaze on him over the rim of the glass. “Well then you’ll be happy to hear that the sale of Malfoy Manor fell through. Again.”

Harry coughed. “Well, sure. You know how much Draco wants to buy it back come summer. What happened this time?”

“Oh.” Hermione hummed noncommittally. “The gates wouldn’t allow entrance; they kept sending out stinging hexes, and some of the vines growing around them tried to attack the prospective buyers who were coming to inspect the property again. Funny how no one was actually hurt.”

“Don’t forget the ghosts,” Ron said with a little smile.

“Right, the ghosts!” Hermione’s grin widened. “Apparently there was a veritable army of them, marching toward the gates to ward off the buyers, much like Inferi.”

“How strange,” Harry, biting his lip.

“Isn’t it, though?”

“Yes.” It was, as a matter of fact. He and Draco had not remotely planned for the conjured ghosts to look like Inferi. “But fortunate, I suppose. Draco will know how to handle them, once he gets the lands back.”

Hermione hummed again, exchanging a pleased look with Ron, allowing Harry to fall silent. He let his eyes wander, then settle on Draco as Blaise led him out to the middle of the dancefloor. He watched them for a few seconds: their perfect postures and gorgeously contrasting skin tones; Draco’s shoulders held wide, one hand at Blaise’s hip and the other in Blaise’s grip. It was elegant and fluid, and Harry wanted to keep watching except…

“Excuse me,” he said. He Vanished his glass, then headed out to the dancefloor, tapping Blaise expectantly on the shoulder. “May I?”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Isn’t the whole point of him dancing with me to—”

“Yes, but that’s done,” Harry said. Both Blaise and Draco raised their eyebrows. Then Blaise relinquished Draco, and Harry stepped into his place.

“That’s done?” Draco said, smoothly taking the lead. Harry tried not to stumble; it wasn’t too hard — not with Draco’s hand at the small of his back, and the rasp of Draco’s thighs against his own. He concentrated on that. “I didn’t realise we had agreed to that.”

“We agree to a lot more,” Harry said, as the buzz of whispers grew around them. He caught a quick twirling glimpse of Pansy’s outraged face — probably for stealing her thunder — and smiled. “I only help you when you ask me to, now. It’s not about that; no one thinks you’re working at Hogwarts because of me; no one suspects that the Manor hasn’t been sold because of our… activities.”

Such as sneaking out of Hogwarts via Floo every time someone who had the interest and Galleons to buy Malfoy Manor went to view it. Coming up with elaborate plans to scare them off, then enacting them from under Harry’s Cloak and Disillusionment charms. The Malfoy property practically sang with delight whenever Draco stepped onto it, still more than willing to let him call from the magic in the earth to stay connected to him, despite the progression of detachment that happened when the ownership of a magical property was transferred or taken away.

Draco smirked. “Some people do.”

“People who know us,” Harry allowed. “But it was your idea, and I’m just along for the ride, mostly.”

“You do your fair share,” Draco murmured, looking at his mouth.

“Right, so I want my fair share,” Harry said.

“Which is?”

“This,” Harry said, lifting his chin a touch to kiss Draco. He heard the sharp inhalation of surrounding party-goers, and though the press was emphatically not allowed — Grimmauld would never grant them access, anyhow, aware as it was of Harry’s preferences and thoughts on most journalists — he saw the flash of a camera and knew that the picture would make it to the Prophet by the following morning. There was no going back now; their shared living quarters at Hogwarts finally up for public consumption, the media frenzy begun. And Harry couldn’t care less — not if he got to have this.

Though just as aware of the risks, Draco’s mouth moved gently against Harry’s, the palm on Harry’s back pulling him closer, his tongue coaxing Harry’s mouth open. Their dance became more of a sway in place, and when Draco finally lifted his head away, it was with slickened lips and dilated pupils.

“Trade again, then?” he asked in a low voice. Harry cracked a husky laugh and clutched Draco tighter; Draco’s hand was warm and sure in his own, his movements economic and graceful as they resumed dancing.

“It’s what we’re good at,” Harry said. He grazed his thumb over Draco’s lower lip, and felt Draco shudder against him.

“Who would have guessed?” Draco asked sardonically, then swept him into the rest of the dance.

“Alright,” Harry asked, slipping into the shadows with Draco tucked against his side, “how long can a pureblood party last?”

Draco skirted the wide square of light spilling out over the patio with him. “Until sunup, generally,” he said. “Unless it’s a house party, in which case several days is standard.”

The garden was icy and white with mid-December snow — cold enough to deter any party-goers from venturing outdoors beyond the conjured terrace — but it warmed by several degrees for Harry, some of the snow melting off the tightly closed buds of flowers, the grass turning bright green and shiny with water. A gust of heat hit them both, and Draco moaned appreciatively.

“I will have Grimmauld expel everyone out on their sorry arses if they try to sleep here,” Harry said with no little amount of tipsy vehemence.

“Relax, it’s only three.”

“Right, it’s three.” Harry made a gesture that caused Draco to snort as they made their way deeper into the garden. “Aren’t you getting…”

“Come here.” Draco said, laughing quietly; he pulled Harry close and kissed him, then kissed him again, until the garden started swooping around them. Harry wound his arms around Draco’s shoulders.

“Kirrssssing!” Paul griped out, popping out of his gnome-hole.

Harry broke away with a groan. “Could you give us a few minutes, Paul?”

“A few minutes?” Draco asked, looking a touch offended. Harry snickered.

“No say herrro,” Paul said snippily, climbing out anyway. “Juss for kirrssing in the darden is home!”

“Hello,” Harry said obediently.

Draco chuckled, his forehead falling to Harry’s shoulder. He started mouthing at Harry’s throat. “Hello, Paul,” he echoed, the words muffled against Harry’s skin.

“I— can’t,” Harry said, canting his hips so his erection met with Draco’s through their trousers. “Not while he’s watching.”

“He’s watched us plenty of times,” Draco said. He nipped the curve of Harry’s neck, his hands finding Harry’s belt to undo it. Harry let his head fall back.

“Not when I knew about it,” he gasped out as Draco worked his flies open and fit a hand inside of his pants. His own hands automatically strayed between them, fumbling with Draco’s trousers too. Draco jerked with a quiet groan when Harry tugged them down around his hips, curling a loose fist around Draco’s cock.

“He’s a voyeuristic little shit,” Draco said with a sly smile, his eyes dark and knowing on Harry’s face. After a second, Draco dropped his gaze and shivered as he watched them stroke each other. Harry did too, turning them slightly to shield Paul’s view from the most explicit of it when he glanced up and saw Paul sitting, cross-legged, and watching them while he munched on a handful of Every-Flavoured Beans. “You always know about it.”

“Fuck, fuck, whatever, I need—,” Harry said, nodding against Draco’s shoulder. Draco pulled his foreskin back with nimble fingers, his thumb stroking over the sensitive vein on the underside of Harry’s cock, and Harry gritted his teeth against the sensation, working his hand faster over Draco’s erection and adding a twist to his wrist over the glans when he stroked up. His voice was tight and breathy. “Okay, yes. Like, uhh, like that. That’s good.”

“Oh, I know,” Draco said, kissing him on the neck again, open mouthed and wet. He gave a low, wicked laugh, the pads of his fingers swiping away a bit of the slick precome gathering at the slit of Harry’s prick and swirling it over the head before gripping him hard and tugging. His free hand — awkwardly angled because Harry’s trousers and pants still sat high on his hips, only baring the necessary bits — drifted lower to cup Harry’s balls, which were already drawing tighter against his body. Harry redoubled his efforts with tiny grunt, Draco’s cock hot and heavy in his fist, dribbling steady amounts of precome whenever Harry manoeuvered his grip over the head. He pulled with long, tight strokes, gasping into Draco when their mouths met almost by accident, and the snapping cold weather and warmth of the charms, the firmness of Draco’s hand over his cock, all felt overwhelming, blinding in its goodness, its dizzying flood of familiarity. Draco moaned again as he came, cock pulsing out long ropes of semen to splatter against Harry’s wrist and lowered trousers, and Harry blinked his eyes open as he felt it. Over Draco’s shuddering shoulder, he saw the sudden bloom of the flowers, still beaded with the melting crystals of snow — Azaleas and Dragonshead and Delphiniums and Marigolds, a riot of colour in the stark of the garden; yellows and reds and violet — and Harry came hard too, curling his fingers around the back of Draco’s neck to pull him into a messy kiss as the pleasure crested, his cock throbbing hotly under Draco’s talented fingers.

Finally they drew away, carefully turning so their backs were to Paul as they spelled the mess clean. The chill of winter had completely slipped away, leaving the garden balmy — Draco had been right, Grimmauld Place was pleased they were home.

Everything tucked away and zipped, Harry sighed. He gave Draco another kiss, then turned to Paul, who was still sitting in the same spot, only now lounging backward, hands planted in the softened earth.

“Sorry, Paul.”

“Cocks!”

“Yeah. Erm, sorry,” Harry said again, sheepish.

“Pole like it warm in darden. More cocks.”

“We’re not going to fondle each other to change the seasons for you,” Draco said, exasperated. Harry slanted him a glance and Draco flushed a little. “At least my pet has manners,” he said, nodding to Frank.

Harry blanched. “When did he get out here?”

“I don’t know. Kreacher must have brought him out,” Draco said with a shrug just as Frank said, “Is very good, the spilling of seed in a garden, between Mates.” Draco crouched and petted his head, crooning at him under his breath and Harry closed his eyes in horror.

“He shouldn’t be watching us.”

“But it’s okay for your gnome to?” Draco asked. He pulled a handful of semi-crushed blossoms from his pocket.

“Is a delight to watch. Is very successful mating,” Frank said, stretching his neck to retrieve the flowers from Draco’s palm.

“Paul is… He doesn’t understand. And he looks in our window anyway; it’s like you said, he’s a voyeuristic little shit.”

A high, musical note sounded; both Harry and Draco turned to see Dancer fluttering her wings, sitting daintily on the stone bench. She started jabbering to Draco excitedly, and Draco ticked Harry a look. “Apparently she is, too. She complimented my technique.” His mouth twisted ruefully as she continued to sing. “And if she decides to come back to Hogwarts with us, I can safely say her cage will be covered in perpetuity.”

Harry laughed painfully, incredulous. “What do we— Is it us?”

“You, most likely,” Draco said, as though he hadn’t adopted two out of their three inappropriate pets. Then he paused, a line appearing over the bridge of his nose. “What did you mean, Paul doesn’t understand?”

“Er, just that he doesn’t,” Harry said. “Come on, let’s go inside before it cools down again.”

Draco stood, eyes narrowing as he looked down at Frank, then back up to Harry, then back down again. “Why would you — you, who insists Francis isn’t… Why would you be worried that he… Wait a minute. You’ve Disillusioned us in the parlour the last several weekends we’ve come home. ...Before that, even.”

“I have not,” Harry said hastily, backing away. Draco’s eyes were lighting up with an unholy glee that was sure to have Harry regretting having slipped; Draco was bad enough when he was right about the bloody crossword puzzle.

“He is!” Draco crowed triumphantly. Dancer flew in a graceless wobble over to him and landed on his forearm, tugging at the jacket of his suit; he pet her distractedly, but didn’t look down, too focused on Harry. “Isn’t he? He’s magical! I knew it!”

“He is not!!” Harry yelped. Frank turned his head and gave Harry what looked to be the magical-tortoise version of rolling his eyes, then began the arduous task of turning around to head back inside. Harry winced. “Alright, he is.”

“You,” Draco said, prowling up to him purposefully and backing Harry into the parlour; the lamps flickered and brightened, the fire flaring to life in the cold hearth, “are going to pay for this.”

“Any way you like,” Harry said, breathless as Draco crowded him. Dancer climbed up Draco’s forearm to his shoulder, then hopped up onto his head. Draco reached up to let her climb into his palm, then gently settled her on the mantle.

“Mmm. Yes.” Draco looked at him thoughtfully. “It’s a good thing we have plenty of time.”

“Good thing,” Harry echoed, eyes falling to Draco’s upturned lips.

“You’ll explain after the party is over.”

“I promise,” Harry said, chancing another kiss. To his surprise, Draco didn’t bite him in retribution, instead kissing him back slowly. “We should get back to it.”

“You’re just trying to put off punishment,” Draco said, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Not when you say ‘punishment’ like that, I’m not,” Harry said, laughing as they walked back into the ballroom, palm to palm.

The music had gotten mellower throughout the night, and was now almost lazy under Greg’s deft hands as he fiddled with the charmed instruments while chatting amiably to Daphne Greengrass. Harry caught sight of Ron and Hermione on the dance floor, Hermione’s head tucked under Ron’s chin, both of their eyes closed. Further into the cluster of dancers was a barefoot Pansy, swaying with Ginny and resting her cheek against Ginny’s flaming hair, and across the room Luna sat talking seriously to a tired, bemused Blaise. And it was perfect; even amongst fifty other dancing Slytherins (and the odd Ravenclaw or Gryffindor), Harry felt an untempered happiness spill through him as he looked at them all, feeling the warm press of Draco’s body next to his, the sure grip of his palm against Harry’s own. He finally dragged his eyes away from his friends and looked at Draco, who was gazing at him in an affectionate, unguarded way that Harry seldom got to see out of bed.

“It’s good to be home,” Draco said, like he understood. Which, of course, he did.

Grimmauld Place shivered in welcome again, a tingling blush of love that kissed the the tiny hairs on the back of Harry’s neck over being called home, and Harry thought about the word for a moment, about its inherent definitions. He remembered a time when home was just a miserable place to sleep that gave him a necessary thread of blood protection, remembered when he was welcomed for the first time into the warmth of the Weasley household. He thought of Hogwarts, which would always be home, and it occurred to him that home was no more or less than he wanted it to be, and that he’d found it — an unlikely, unexpected, perfect fit — in the man who looked at him now with a softness that was foreign to his nature, just because he felt at home with Harry, too. Harry reached out with his free hand and touched the wall of Grimmauld Place; the texture of it rippled lightly, as though it knew what Harry was thinking. Harry thanked it, silently, for having known all along what kind of home Harry had needed.

“Draco…” Harry pulled Draco close; Draco slipped firm hands around Harry’s hips and gave him a questioning look. Harry smiled. “I couldn’t have said it better, myself.”