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A knock on Harry’s door startles him awake moments before the Basilisk’s unhinged jaw snaps shut around his petrificus totalis-locked body. He lifts his head from the desk and hears a dreadful tearing noise as the parchment paper stuck to his damp forehead rips in half. Harry had been using a jar of Kneazle claws as a paperweight, because the Windy Weather Potion he's been brewing has a habit of flaring up at inconvenient moments. He pulls the half of parchment from his forehead and drops it onto the desk, heart hammering as he sits back in his chair, combing shaky fingers through his unruly locks. He lets his eyes settle on the shelves that wrap around the edges of the oval shaped room, crammed with enough potions to drown an Erumpent. He begins reciting their names under his breath, which usually works to calm himself down. He's so used to the placement of the bottles, almost unchanged from Snape's virtually impenetrable organisation system, that at this point that he doesn’t need to read the labels. 

“Viribuserum. Coniunctis Lubricant. Wit-Sharpening Elixir- ”

The knock sounds again, more insistent, though the raps are evenly spaced out. Harry’s door has a glass panel in it, but the glass is enchanted to be opaque unless he recites a particular spell. He quickly decides, on this occasion, to forego this security measure out of politeness for making the person wait for him to pull himself together. 

He plucks his wand from the desk and casts a quick alohomora, then shouts “come in!”

The door pushes open, and in sweeps Headmistress McGonnogall, the tip of her plush green hat brushing the top of the doorway as she passes through it. She closes the door behind her; Harry appreciates her for that. 

“Headmistress,” Harry says, getting to his feet. Subconsciously, he feels his hands tugging at his robes, attempting to neaten himself for her approval. The office is messy, even a little dangerous what with the open ingredients bottles and jars on Harry’s desk, spilling flobberworms and mandrake tears over old books and papers. Not to mention the self-stirring mini-cauldron suspended above their heads. It’s a Polyjuice on the go, but as Harry is technically not supposed to brew anything so complex anywhere but his classroom, he’s hoping quite honestly that McGonogall will choose not to ask. “What can I do for you?”

She flicks her pointed gaze over his no doubt dishevelled, sleep-deprived appearance, pursing her lips. “Evening, Professor Potter. I’ve a favour to ask.”

Harry leans over his desk, choosing to turn his attention to the spilled flobberworms so that he won't have to meet her eye. Not that the flobberworms are being particularly helpful to this end, seeing as they would apparently much rather slime all over Harry's notes on Polyjuice Potion mutations and alterations. “Oh?”

It doesn't escape Harry's notice, even with the distraction of flobberworms and nightmare monster-snakes, that the Headmistress seems somewhat uncomfortable. It might be the foul scent of the simmering Polyjuice above, or perhaps a result of the general disorder of things in this small room, but her body language is peculiar and fidgety, shifting with a furtiveness that her uptight, imposing stature doesn’t usually allow. She also rarely visits him down here in his dungeon-based office, probably because of all the aforementioned mess-related horrors; if she wants to see him for any reason, it's more likely that Harry will receive an owl or enchanted paper plane to summon him to her office instead. 

Harry doesn’t mind that. It’s big and airy in the Headmistress’ tower. It’s familiar, secluded, and the fire is always on, maintaining a perfect cosy temperature no matter the weather. The portraits of past great professors are both amusing and comforting as they comment on the excessive sugar lumps he levitates into the tea McGonogall offers him, or the fact he scoffs three or four biscuits every time. 

“I shan’t mince words, Professor,” McGonogall says quickly. “There’s a matter I feel would be best suited to your specific skillset, and whilst I understand that your history might prevent you from agreeing with me immediately…” 

She keeps speaking, dancing around the subject in the exact way she said she wouldn’t, and Harry nods along, only half-listening as he shakes gooey worms from his fingers into the open jar. He feels a familiar tingle of foreboding beginning to gather in his fingertips as she continues, though he tries his best to keep a neutral, open expression. Headmistress McGonogall has requested her fair share of favours over the time Harry has taught as Potions Master at Hogwarts. He’s grown accustomed to her sporadic entreaties to provide extra tutoring for particular students with starry-eyed parents, or to make a strained-smile appearance at some school fundraising event or other. He knows McGonogall detests asking him, but he also knows that she would never dream of bringing it up if she didn’t seriously need his help. Besides, Harry is happy to do what he can to help keep Hogwarts afloat. 

After the war, the castle he’s thought of as home for so long was left scarred. Students and teachers alike pitched in in the weeks following Voldemort’s death to do major repairs on the worst affected parts, but most of the damage was less easy to fix. Entire rooms of rare artefacts were shattered or irreparably spell-damaged. Huge chunks of the library burned down; only the really valuable books tended to be fireproofed, so thousands were lost. The Forbidden Forest had so much Dark Magic flooding through it for so long that the teachers have virtually lost their alliance with it; now it’s completely unsafe for students to wander through on their own. There’s much more, as well. The castle feels weaker, less like the impenetrable fortress it once was. Harry can sense its sadness, its pain, radiating from the stone of its walls. 

Essentially, what Hogwarts needs is time and money. It will heal gradually, but its wounds are throbbing and palpable, visible in the scorch marks on the walls, the empty portrait frames, the static staircases. It breaks Harry’s heart to see the place so lacking in life the way he’d known it as a boy, so he’ll show his face when needs must, play the role he detests playing - the Martyred Hero, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived and Saved The World To Boot. If his stumbling speeches, forced grin and pathetic attempts at being charming can procure investments and interest, he’ll do it. 

For Hogwarts. 

“...so if you’d speak to him about the particulars of his project and see what must be done, I’d be most grateful-”

“Sorry, Headmistress,” Harry interrupts, zoning back in and realising he’s missed the punchline. “Could you repeat- who am I speaking with?” 

Two small pink spots appear on either of McGonogall’s cheeks. She lifts her chin high. “Mr Malfoy.” 

Harry gapes. “But he’s dead.” 

McGonogall blinks at him, and before she even says the words, Harry realises his mistake. The feeling of dread churns in his stomach, and a familiar, age old distaste begins souring his tongue.

“Mr Draco Malfoy,” McGonogall clarifies. 

Irritation, as sharp and poignant as it was back in his student days, whips through Harry at the sound of the name. His jaw clenches of its own accord. The spoon in the Polyjuice Potion stutters in its confusion over Harry’s change of mood. 

“Sorry, Headmistress, but why on Godric’s Green Earth would I do any such thing?” 

A lot changed after the war - alliances were broken, relationships formed where nobody would have dreamed they could, ties were severed, opinions recalibrated. But one thing that has not changed, in Harry's eyes, is Draco Malfoy. Still every bit as much of a spineless little worm as he ever was. In his wormy form, he'd crawled out from underneath the enormous rock of Ministry-led justice that landed on he and his family after the part they played in a horrendous war. Despite their guilt, typically the Malfoys managed to escape severe punishment for the most part, except for Lucius, who spent three years in Azkaban, after which he allegedly lost his mind and eventually died. Draco and Narcissa, though, were more or less let off with a warning after their trials. Lucky for them, one positive word from Harry Potter could have gotten Bellatrix herself out of Azkaban with a clean slate if she were still alive, and Harry had graciously decided to give a positive testimony of character for Draco Malfoy of all people. Not that he’d thanked Harry for this, nor had he even spoken to Harry since.

Narcissa did write. She sent an owl about a week after her trial. It read:

I will not forget what you did for my son. 

A life for a life. 

 N.M.

“As I said before,” McGonogall replies, a little more terse now at having to repeat herself, “Mr Malfoy has acquired a warrant to search the castle grounds for a particular botanical ingredient that grows naturally here. He’ll need to go into the forest, I’m to understand, and I will not allow that foolhardy young man to perish on school grounds after all that speculation over the competency of his teachers after he smuggled Death Eaters in here. The scandal would be disastrous, as you can imagine.”

Harry’s eyes are wide, unblinking. He must be getting this wrong. “You’re not saying… you want me to chaperone him around the forest to make sure he doesn’t get torn apart by angry trees?”

This is, by far, a different sort of favour to the ones he is used to McGonogall asking for. This is a stretch above a plea for him to shake hands and make smalltalk with some rich, Lordly investor. Perhaps McGonogall is joking? She knows all too well of Harry and Draco’s rivalry, she doled out enough detentions to them both, and deducted enough points from Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, that it must be as crystal clear in her mind as it is in Harry’s how they despise each other. He hopes that perhaps this is her odd, reserved way of pulling his leg, but given that Harry has never heard Minerva McGonogall utter so much as a knock knock joke in all of the time he’s known her, this seems unlikely. 

“I wish for you to accompany him into the forest, yes,” McGonogall confirms, flicking her wand to create a stoic clock face in the air. Twelve black Roman Numerals in a perfect circle. Two thin hands protruding from the centre. It reads quarter past six, Harry notices with mild surprise. He’s been asleep longer than he’d thought. “He’ll need assistance. He hasn’t been in the forest since… well. A long time.”

“But why me?!” Harry can’t help but let the exasperation seep into his voice. He feels on the verge of stamping his foot in protest. It’s as if he’s eleven years old again, being forced out into the cold, awful woods with Draco bloody Malfoy of all people. “Why not send Neville? I mean, Professor Longbottom. He’s the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, surely he’d be better at protecting Malfoy from any nefarious creatures than-”

“Harry Potter?" McGonogall finishes for him, one eyebrow arching. "The man who repeatedly fought and eventually killed the most evil Dark Wizard in all of Wizarding history?” 

Harry can’t help it, he rolls his eyes. Then, remembering who he is speaking with, he looks abashed. “I mean no disrespect Headmistress, but is there no way you could reconsider your choice of faculty for this task? I can’t bloody stand Malfoy, and he feels exactly the same about me, I’m sure. I think it would do more harm than good, me being there, honestly.” 

“Quite the opposite,” Mcgonogall replies primly, her mouth a set line. Harry has pissed her off with the eye rolling, he can tell. Damn it. “Mr Malfoy’s experiment is potions-related, according to his letter and Ministry forms. What’s more, I’m told you are particularly familiar with foraging for natural ingredients in the forest and grounds, Professor. What with your… acquaintance with Mr Malfoy as students, along with your abundant experience with battling the Dark Arts-”

“Including Malfoy,” Potter mutters, but McGonogall ignores him. 

“-I see no other person in the entire school better suited for the task.” 

Harry has to try really, really hard not to roll his eyes again. His jaw clenches harder; he thinks he can feel his teeth scrape together. “When’s he arriving?” 

“In approximately fifteen minutes,” McGonogall replies, then swishes her wand through the clock face, making it evaporate. 

Harry’s mouth falls open. “You mean I’m doing this now?” 

“I thought it prudent to get this over with as quickly as possible, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Harry shoves his hand back into his curls, suppressing a groan. “You know what, fine. Let’s just… yeah. Get it over with.” He’s grumbling now, he knows, deliberately avoiding McGonogall’s eye as he opens a desk drawer and begins rifling through it for his invisibility cloak. He knows it’s buried in there somewhere, beneath the piles of unmarked theory tests from yesterday’s exam; he tries to shield these from the Headmistress, probably quite unsuccessfully. “What’s he even looking for in the forest?” 

“You’ll be able to discuss the particulars with Mr Malfoy,” McGonogall says, her tone lighter now that she’s secured her plan. She moves towards the door again, robes rippling in their rich, dark colours as she goes. “I’ve asked him to wait by Hagrid’s cabin for you at six-thirty precisely. I’d advise you take a cloak, Professor. There’s quite a chill tonight.” 

With that, the headmistress nods at him, opens the door with a wave of her wand, then glides through it. She does, to her credit, remember to close and lock it behind her. 

*

Ten minutes later, Harry is beneath his invisibility cloak, marching across the field behind the castle, keeping a brisk pace because he’s running later than he’d like. Merlin knows that Malfoy would not hesitate in wringing him out to dry for tardiness. Even thinking about his trademark sneer, his "still unable to tell the time after years of schooling I see, Potter", his wand tap-tap-tapping against his obnoxious pocket watch, makes Harry want to slow down to a snail’s pace just to piss him off more. But his feet, for whatever reason, keep up their stride without faltering. His heart thrums, his stomach squeezes and contracts. It’s the same feeling he used to get before a Quidditch match, waiting with his teammates at the gate that opens out to the pitch, broom tightly clasped in one hand. 

Of course, that was a kind of terrified excitement. This is obviously nothing like that. This is encountering an old enemy. This is facing the bastard he never thought he’d have to face again. This is his mind racing with possibilities of how Malfoy could have planned this elaborate revenge scheme to hex him in the middle of the forest, possibly kill him even, and blame it on the sentient poisonous moss or whatever else has sprung to life in that cesspool of horrors. This is not exciting. Though he does feel more awake than he’s felt in some time.

He slips slightly on the wet grass and almost dislodges his cloak right as two sixth year Hufflepuffs walk along the path near him. He stays in his fallen crouch position, waiting until they’ve strolled by, talking animatedly about the Hufflepuff vs Gryffindor Quidditch match earlier. He’s holding his breath, praying they don’t notice the sliver of boot that’s now poking out from beneath the hem of the cloak. They don’t. 

He lets the air out of his lungs and stands again, vowing to take more care where he steps. He wishes he could cast lumos, but the light would give him away to any more passers-by, and he cannot deal with being seen right now. He’s got enough plaguing his mind without also having to stop every two minutes for a round of "ohmygoditsHarryPotter!" from a doe-eyed gaggle of students. Or worse, a teary "you knew my brother/sister/parent/friend who died fighting in the battle and I owe you my life". Those ones are particularly unbearable.

It’s bad enough when he’s teaching, although he’s more or less gained control of his current students; McGonogall made sure only to give him a few classes, all of them sixth year and up so that they’re a bit more in control of themselves than the excitable younger students. Harry will occasionally get the odd awed expression from a student he attempts to speak with one-on-one, or a note or gift left for him on his classroom desk, or very rarely, a shy request to come to some parent or guardian’s house for dinner. Harry always politely declines these invites, and tries to act as if the gifts are from random do-gooders, where possible. He’s never been interested in fame; it’s ironic, in a sense, that he’s had it in buckets since the age of eleven. It’s even worse now, since the war ended, because people truly believe he fulfilled a mystical prophecy and saved them all because he’s inherently special. As if Neville wouldn’t have stepped right up in his spot and swung the Sword of Gryffindor down on Voldemort’s neck if Harry had failed. Or Ron, even. Or Hermione, or Ginny, or Luna, or-

Harry slips again, right as he's approaching Hagrid's hut, and this time he doesn't manage to stop himself falling right onto his backside, landing on a tangle of pumpkin vines that luckily stop him from smearing his ass with mud, but dig their thorns painfully into the tender flesh of his behind even so. Just as he's beginning to rise up again, rubbing his sore bum and muttering some vague expletives, he senses movement, and goes rigid. A figure, shadowed by the wall of the hut, pushes off from where they have been leant against the wood, taking a graceful step forwards into the moonlight drizzling itself over the dewy pumpkin patch.

“I see you're still a club-footed buffoon post-puberty, Potter.” 

Harry takes a hasty step backwards from the figure, still on the verge of bolting from the scare, and pulls off his invisibility cloak. Malfoy stands there, drenched in pale, pearlescent light, his bored, cold expression glowing in the dips of his angular face. He doesn’t seem the least surprised to see Harry so suddenly appearing, despite the fact he’d been invisible up until seconds ago. Harry’s breath seems to get lost on its way up to his mouth from his lungs. His eyes rove, repeatedly, of their own accord, up and down Malfoy’s frame. 

He looks… different. Harry hadn’t considered the possibility that Malfoy would have grown up since he last saw him. He’d expected the skinny, gaunt teenager that lurked in dark corners of the castle, stalking him. The man in front of him is fuller, his shoulders broad, the straight seams of his crisp white shirt sleeves taut against his arms. He’s wearing a cloak of course, in dark Slytherin green - presumably a deliberate choice. If he shrugged it off however, his outfit would look almost Muggle-passing, though he’s striking enough that he’d draw definite looks even in Muggle streets. As he regards Harry’s flustered appearance, he tucks a long strand of glossy, white-blond hair behind one ear. 

Harry knows he is staring, but the difference between this man and the cowardly, snivelling cretin of a boy he once knew is startling. It’s almost unsettling, honestly, as Harry is sure he’d be captivated by such radiance if he didn’t know what an unbelievable twat Draco Malfoy is. He straightens up, shoving the cloak hastily into the satchel at his hip and dragging his eyes away kicking and screaming; despite the cold night air, he can feel warmth spreading through his body, which he tries to ignore. 

“Malfoy,” he grits out. “Shall we do this, then?” 

Malfoy arches an eyebrow. The tip of his wand is glowing faintly white at his side. “Didn’t think you’d be so keen.” 

“I’m not keen,” Harry scoffs. “Just don’t fancy being out here longer than necessary.” 

“In that case, do feel free to leave.”

Harry fixes Malfoy with a glare. “So you can stroll into the forest and get yourself killed?”

Malfoy’s shoulders stiffen, then forcibly relax again. “I’m not inept. I was once a student here too, if you recall. I have been in the forest before.” 

Harry shoves his glasses up his nose, then pinches the bridge with his thumb and forefinger to alleviate the squeeze of pain forming there. “As I remember it, you only narrowly avoided pissing your pants last time we were in there together.”

“That was not-!” Malfoy starts to say in a shrill voice, but quickly stops, gathering himself, and takes a deep breath. “I was eleven years old, Potter. I hardly think I can be blamed for my reaction considering we were sent alone, with virtually no defence training, into a place known affectionately as the Forbidden Forest. I have been in the forest many times since-”

“Ugh, can we just skip over this?” Harry snaps, the familiar hysteria of Malfoy-induced infuriation seizing him in a vice grip. “The bickering. We’re adults now, supposedly. It’s not as though I volunteered to escort you about. I’m doing McGonogall a favour.”

The edge of Malfoy’s mouth tilts up in a sneer. “How gracious of you, Saviour.” 

Something about the sarcastic final word snaps Harry’s resolve to swallow his anger; he’s about to gripe something back at Malfoy, but before he can, the door of Hagrid’s hut opens, and the half-giant himself steps out, a puzzled frown creasing his hairy face. 

“What’s all the ruckus? Oh! Harry, m’lad, how’re-” Hagrid stops short the moment his eyes land on Malfoy. 

Harry’s lungs tighten, suddenly caught in the tangle of tension that has coiled itself around Hagrid and Malfoy. Out of sight, his hand darts to his hip, resting over the pocket that conceals his wand. It’s habit, more than concern. In the past, tension has meant danger, possible fights, spells of the green variety flung through the air. It seems unlikely that Hagrid would be spelling any such horrors at his former student, no matter how much of a dick he is, but still. Never hurts to be cautious. Hagrid’s mouth is tight, lips clamped shut.

“Hagrid,” Harry begins carefully, “Malfoy is here on a brief visit to-”

“Hagrid,” Malfoy interrupts as if Harry hadn’t spoken. He slips his wand into the thin dragon-hide holster at his hip, and takes a few bold steps towards the door of the hut, where Hagrid stands. He nimbly hops over the trailing vine of a pumpkin Harry is sure he would have tripped over in his place. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is it now,” Hagrid replies, unmistakably cold. 

“I’ve only just arrived on the grounds, but I was meaning to seek you out before I take my leave,” Malfoy says, inexplicably. Harry stares at him, bemused, able only to see the back of his glossy white head, and the long cloak trailing over his back. “I owe you a sincere apology. One that is long overdue. My treatment of you during my school years was abhorrent and disrespectful, including my work ethic during your lessons, and my treatment of the creatures under your care. But more importantly, my actions during the war were shameful, and caused you personally a great deal of distress. I do not pretend I am able to speak for all of my family, but I want to express my profound regret and sorrow for the pain the Malfoy name has caused you, and for the near destruction of your beloved pet. Was it, and excuse me if I misremember… Birkbeak?” 

The frown lines on Hagrid’s face are softening into an expression of utter bewilderment. As it dawns on the large man that he’s been asked a question, he seems to regain some composure, glancing briefly at Harry as if to ask ‘what in fresh hell?’ . Harry just shrugs back at him, having no more clue as to Malfoy’s motivations. 

“Err… Buckbeak,” Hagrid corrects. 

“Yes, quite. I do not expect forgiveness. But I hope you acknowledge how sorry I am for everything.” 

Malfoy nods his head to Hagrid, then retreats slowly, making his way back around the pumpkin patch towards Harry. Hagrid stares after him, still obviously perplexed. Harry opens his mouth to ask what the fuck is happening, when Hagrid speaks. 

“Thanks, Malfoy,” he booms. “I do know it weren’t you, mostly. Folks can’t always help what they’re taught and who they’ve got around to look up to. S’a brave thing, forging your own path away from what ye were brought up with. I know it all too well. So, I forgive yer. Let that be the end of it.” 

Malfoy turns his head, discomfort written all over his face, and nods again in Hagrid’s direction. “So be it,” he replies. “Goodnight.”

Hagrid chuckles then, severing the taut strings of tension criss-crossing in the air between them. An unforeseen shade of uneasiness lingers on Harry’s skin, as if he’s intruded on a deeply private exchange. Not that Malfoy had seemed to care that he’d been within hearing range of it. 

“Always a charmer, Malfoy,” Hagrid calls. “Goodnight. You alright, Harry?” 

He sends a questioning look Harry’s way, but Harry can only shrug back again. “More or less. I’ll catch you up later." He inclines a head towards Malfoy. "Doing McGonogall a favour.”

Hagrid nods wisely. “Say no more. That woman don’t half put you through your duties. Be careful, won’t yer? The moon’s near full.”

Harry smiles and nods, then Hagrid retreats back into his hut with a small wave. The smile wanes on Harry’s face as soon as he’s out of sight, and he turns to face his doom. Malfoy is regarding him with a frown, which his far from unusual, if Harry remembers correctly. His wand is back out, glowing brighter now, and raised to chest height, splashing puddles of light across his sharp features. He no longer looks skeletal, as he had during the war, but his cheekbones are just as high and prominent, his nose just as straight, his chin just as pointed. The wandlight highlights these parts of him, giving him a birdlike look; he is dazzlingly beautiful, Harry realises, finally recognising the tug in his abdomen for what it is. The idea of Malfoy’s beauty almost makes him cross, as it feels like he’s undeserving of it. He’s not even just ordinarily attractive - it’s more of a creaturesque beauty, like the dark, black-eyed sirens Harry saw once in the Caribbean ocean, or the Veela in its natural form. Shivery, intoxicating beauty. The kind that leaves you stunned. 

That might explain why Harry feels currently unable to move under the fixed stare Malfoy is aiming his way. He stares back, trying to remember who this is, his long-term contempt, but it’s difficult, particularly as he just witnessed Malfoy give an undeniably heartfelt and sincere apology to one of Harry’s closest friends. 

“Your dark circles don’t instil a great deal of promise for your bodyguard capabilities,” Malfoy comments. “Are you up to this?” 

Harry sighs, reaches for his wand, his contempt flooding back in full force. “Just tell me what we’re hunting for.”

*

“So what was all that?” Harry asks, keeping his voice at a low murmur so as not to draw unwanted attention. 

It turns out that the flower Malfoy is looking for is one that Harry knows, and has even discovered before in these woods, once. Flos De Studium is a small, magenta flower that grows very infrequently, and even then only in sections of forests that have been flourishing for longer than one hundred years. Its pollen has properties that are similar to some muggle opiates, inducing a removed, inebriated state in wizards if ingested, and to top it off, a sense of unyielding devotion to the closest living being. It is mostly for this latter reason that the flower is illegal, Harry knows, and not often sought out due to the difficulty in obtaining it, and because the effects are strong, but last only minutes, unlike some other love potions on the market. When Harry brings up the illegality of the plant, Malfoy wordlessly shoves a Ministry warrant into Harry’s hand. By wandlight, tramping through the trees, Harry reads the words:

This document is to certify that one Draco Lucius Malfoy is permitted access to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and its surrounding grounds indefinitely in order to locate and harvest the floral plant  Flos De Studium . If successful in discovering the substance, Mr Malfoy is then granted use of the school classroom and equipment for his own private use until such a time as the Ministry deems his work to be complete. 

Signed, 

Horace Slughorn
Head of Potions Department        

Hermione Granger
Minister For Magic

“All of what?” Malfoy asks in a bored voice, though he must know what Harry is referring to. 

Harry grips his invisibility cloak a little harder; he’s keeping it handy, just in case they need to hide quickly for any reason. “With Hagrid.”

Malfoy pushes out a suffering sigh. “I recognise that in your eyes I am probably an unforgivably evil traitor, Potter, but despite the disapproval of the Chosen One hanging around me like a bad smell, I unfortunately still wish to alleviate at least a little of my guilt. And to make amends for my family’s treason, to what extent I am able.” 

Harry is quiet for a moment, processing. The ‘chosen one’ comment is annoying, but Harry is trying his hardest to think past it in order to process the rather unexpected confession hidden beneath Malfoy’s flippant tone. Their footsteps quietly crisp the fallen leaves covering the ground.  They should really be under the cloak this far into the forest, Harry thinks, but they’ve not encountered anything untoward so far, aside from the overwhelming, thick, swampy atmosphere of ‘no, bad, wrong, turn back, get out’ .

In a sense, the forest has been in a terrific bad mood since the war, and it pumps negative feelings out in vast quantities, like a teenager leaving their room as a tip so nobody dares push past the ‘STAY OUT’ sign on the door. The branches above their heads flutter in the wind, disgruntled, and a crow squawks indignantly in the distance. Aside from that however, the only sound is their breathing, and the fall of their footsteps. 

“I don’t think that,” Harry mutters, though he’s not sure whether it’s true.

Malfoy scoffs. “Do you actually know where we should be looking, or is your presence here completely useless?” 

“I think so,” Harry replies stiffly, looking around them. He’s having to stay extremely alert, as Malfoy is striding alongside him with the air of someone walking through Kings Cross station - entirely unbothered by his malevolent surroundings. “Last time I saw the patch, it was up by the brook- would you slow down!” 

He grabs Malfoy by the arm, attempting to stop him marching off, but Malfoy wrenches himself free, alarmed. “Don’t touch me!” he scolds, way, way too loud. 

He’s got his wand out before Harry can stop him, shooting a mild gust of repulsion at Harry, forcing him to stumble backwards. The echo of his cry bounces off the nearby trees, rippling into the silent air. There’s a lingering hum from Malfoy’s magic, reverberating in the stasis of this small clearing.  Harry senses the change in atmosphere as if it were an abruptly woken Erumpent. The pressing but dormant antipathy that has surrounded them since they entered the forest is mutating into tangible agitation. With one slash of his wand through the forest’s still air, Malfoy has torn through its tolerance of them; now it’s seething, its branches quivering with rage, sudden gusts of wind flapping their robes up around them. 

It’s trying to disturb something to go after them, Harry just knows it. The forest is trying to flush the bad things out of its bushes, the war-scarred creatures with no empathy left, the monsters that will track them down and rip them apart without a second thought. Harry shakes out his invisibility cloak in one swift movement, lunges at Malfoy and pushes him back against a thick tree trunk, slapping a hand over his mouth. With his other hand, he drapes a cloak around both of their bodies, feeling it stretch in size as it always does to accommodate whoever needs concealment. 

Malfoy squirms in protest at first, attempting to claw Harry’s hand off his mouth, to push him away, but Harry shushes and glares at him. Then suddenly he falls silent, stilling abruptly, his grey eyes fixed on something over Harry’s shoulder. His body is taut, unmistakably alarmed, possibly quivering even - though Harry’s not certain it’s not his own hand shaking. Harry doesn’t dare turn to look at what it is that Malfoy is seeing, but he knows it must be bad judging by the stiffness of Malfoy’s limbs, the naked fear in his expression. Instead, Harry watches Malfoy’s face, tracks the flickers of his darting pupils as he watches whatever has crept out of the shadows to find them. 

“Malfoy,” Harry whispers, but he doesn’t seem to hear. “It’s alright,” Harry tries. “It won’t see us. Just stay still. Malfoy, don’t move and it will leave.” Malfoy’s face shows no sign of recognising what Harry is saying. “Malfoy,” Harry says again, low and urgent now, terrified that the spiking adrenaline in Malfoy’s body will propel him into doing something reckless. He removes his hand from Malfoy’s mouth. A flicker of agony crosses his face. He’s breathing fast, lips parted. “Draco,” Harry says. 

Malfoy’s eyes flick to Harry’s, wide and stuck open. Harry holds his gaze, though he can feel his cheeks burn; this is too intimate, too bizarre. He can feel Malfoy’s breath ghosting over his lips, but he’s unable to move away. He can’t risk them being seen. Malfoy swallows, his Adams apple sinking and rising in the chamber of his long, pale throat. Harry finds himself watching it move. Draco is warm, Harry realises, focusing on the heat radiating off him, this close. Their chests aren’t quite touching, but they may as well be; Harry can feel him as if he were a thick cloak, or a nearby flame. 

“It’s… going,” Malfoy whispers. 

For a fleeting moment, Harry forgets what he means. Then the trample of the leaf-strewn ground behind him reminds him that they are not alone. He listens as the hooves - because that’s what they sound like - retreat, then fade altogether. He keeps the cloak over them for a minute longer, drowning in the excruciating, awkward closeness of their bodies, and trying not to spend the entire sixty seconds focusing on Malfoy’s damp, parted lips. Finally, Malfoy gestures wildly with his hands, a shooing motion, and Harry steps away. He lets the cloak fall, clasped at his side, and rakes a hand through his hair.

“No more bloody duelling spells,” Harry commands, scrunching the cloak into a bundle. “And keep your voice down, for Merlin’s sake.” 

“This place is… different,” Malfoy says, dazed. 

Malfoy’s hand is carding through his hair as well. Strands of it fall from their positions, fluttering around his haunted expression. Harry has a bizarre urge to tuck them back behind his ears. He shakes it off, annoyed with his own overtired brain for conjuring the thought. 

“It’s angry,” Harry says, “like the rest of us. At being used. Being hurt. Damaged.” 

“The… the forest is angry?” 

Harry nods, casting a quick spell around their immediate vicinity, one that should shake out any remaining enemies if they were lurking. “It’s a living entity,” Harry explains, eyes searching the shadows. “Like the castle. It was always pretty moody, not great about visitors, but people like Filch and Hagrid formed a kinship with it over time, kept it from doing too much harm. Now though…” 

Harry doesn’t bother explaining why things are different now. Malfoy doesn’t seem to need the explanation either, judging by the conflicted expression he wears. Harry can almost see the images that surely sprint through his mind. Voldemort and his huge army of dark, gnarled, malicious creatures, tearing pathways through the trees of this forest, burning branches and firing unforgivable curses in their wake. Murdering Harry in its midst, then taunting his memory, forcing Hagrid to carry what he thought was Harry’s corpse back through along the paths he’d once taken to feed Aragog, to play with Grawp, to walk Fang. 

Malfoy swallows again, then gives a sharp, final nod. “Right. Let’s hurry then, shall we?” 

They only need to walk a little further before they find it. Harry remembered correctly, the flowers do grow by the brook, beneath a copse of browning fir trees, their tiny pink heads gathered together in clusters. Malfoy draws his wand, crouching down. Harry squats beside him, not sure of protocol, but knowing that given the dangerous nature of the flowers, precaution is probably necessary. 

“They’re beautiful,” Harry whispers, stunned by the sight. 

The flowers gleam in the moonlight filtering through the trees. The edges of their petals glint silver, like they’re rimmed in chrome. 

“Mm,” Malfoy says noncommittally, then, “hold out your hands.” 

Harry looks at him. “What?” 

Malfoy rolls his eyes, then reaches over, hovering his wand above Harry’s left hand. Before he can enquire any further, Malfoy mutters some variation of a protego, pouring a thin white mist from the tip of his wand that settles like silk over Harry’s hand. It feels like a glove, the white, stretchy sort that doctors wear in Muggle hospital television shows.  Malfoy casts the same spell over both of his own hands in turn, then Harry holds out his right one. Malfoy rolls his eyes a bit more, but gives him another of the ‘gloves’. Once it’s done, he aims his wand at the flowers, slicing all of them from their stems in one flick, then draws out a green velvet pouch from his trouser pocket. He levitates the flowers carefully, then shoves the pouch into Harry’s hand. Harry holds the pouch open without being asked, and Malfoy lowers the flowers in until it’s full to the brim, one at a time. 

“Won’t they get crushed?” Harry asks, fingers gingerly gripping the pouch. 

“It’s charmed to retain its shape.” 

“Oh.” Harry draws the strings of the pouch and ties them neatly. 

“Marvellous,” Malfoy mutters, taking the pouch from him and standing. He brushes invisible dirt from his knees. “Time to leave before this place murders us.” 

Harry stands, slightly less elegantly than Malfoy, and nods. “Quite,” he says, trying and failing not to mimic Malfoy’s posh tone. 

*

Nothing else happens on their way out of the forest except that Harry gets kind of weirded out by how well Malfoy seems to know his way considering he supposedly hasn’t set foot in it in over ten years. He walks in front, navigating them around thicker sections of trees and even taking them on a shortcut Harry has never been on, across a makeshift wooden bridge over a ditch. When Harry asks him how he knows about it, Malfoy evades the question - “Isn’t it stranger that you, Professor at Hogwarts and supposed Chosen One, have not thought that there might be a simpler way of getting out of the forest that doesn’t mean you have to scramble down a steep hill before now?"

For the rest of the journey they are more or less silent, partly because all these mocking ‘chosen one’ and ‘saviour’ comments are getting more and more difficult to brush off. To stop himself starting an argument about it, Harry decides to just not say anything at all. Finally, the edge of the forest is visible, with the sprawling valley beyond it that leads up to the castle. Harry feels himself start to relax, his muscles easing of their tension. In his mind, he is already back in the warmth, able to drift off for an hour or so under the light of a few candles and the mildewy smell of Polyjuice brewing over his head. Malfoy’s wand is still glowing ahead of him, bobbing up and down as he walks. The night is richer now, the moonlight weak and distant above the trees. Harry keeps stumbling over rocks and vines due to the darkness and his poor vision, but Malfoy seems to be having no trouble at all. 

“Are you coming back up to the castle?” Harry asks.

“Yes. McGonogall has arranged a room for me to stay in while I do my work. I believe it’s in the Ravenclaw tower.” 

“Oh.” Harry hides a grimace. “That’s where my room is.” 

Malfoy glances behind him for a moment, reading Harry’s face. “Who’d have thought we would one day room together, eh Potter? If our housemates could see us now.” 

“I don’t actually sleep there much,” Harry says, glad of this truth. “Or at all, actually. I tend to stick to office naps, when I can.” 

Again, Malfoy throws a look over his shoulder. This time he’s frowning. “That explains the dark circles I suppose.” He turns to face the fields ahead as they emerge from the forest boundary, its unpleasant enmity falling away from them. “Office naps,” Malfoy mutters in a disapproving tone after a silent mull. “Really Potter, you hardly need to prove your worth to this institution by working yourself into an early grave. I imagine they’ll be erecting some kind of tawdry gold statue of you in the Gryffindor tower whether or not you manage to instil any useful potions knowledge into your gaggles of students.”

It’s just teasing, Harry knows, said with an obvious sneer. But it’s as if Malfoy has thrown a bucket of the icy water from the lake that sits far off to their right over his head. He should never have brought up the subject of his peculiar sleeping habits, because it's impossible to explain the real reason for them. That Harry's avoidance of his bed has nothing to do with his work ethic, but correlates instead to his wish to keep his debilitating, bone-chilling nightmares from waking his poor, unsuspecting neighbours from their slumber.  A memory pops out at him, of Neville, who sleeps in the room next door to his, with bags under his eyes at breakfast in the morning, assuring Harry that "i t’s alright mate, we all get nightmares these days"  even though Harry has never heard Neville make a peep, so how loud must Harry be screaming? 

Besides that, there’s the other deterrent from going up to his room at night, which is that he never likes walking through the Ravenclaw common room. It’s partly because it feels alien to him, as a Gryffindor, but also because if there are students in there, they either stare or pester him when he’s just trying to get to bed. The whole idea of bedtime has become something unpleasant, so Harry just tends to avoid it entirely. 

“I like my job,” Harry mumbles, though he wouldn’t have convinced a House Elf trained to take his words at face value.

“I’ll alert The Daily Prophet of the news,” Malfoy replies, drily. 

As they step across the dewy grass, moonlight splashes down, bright and liquid, glinting off the wet field, and reflecting atop Malfoy’s lustrous hair. Harry tries not to dwell on the fact that he’d internally described Malfoy’s hair as ‘lustrous’. It’s then that they both seem to realise that now they will both be heading back to the same location, so their time together is not yet up. Silently, they fall into step as they begin the ascent up the hill, past Hagrid’s hut, back towards the castle. 

“You haven’t told me what it is you’re planning on making with those,” Harry comments, gesturing to the pouch hanging from a belt loop at Malfoy’s hip, next to his fancy wand holster. 

“No,” Malfoy replies. “And I shan’t be.” 

He’s a head taller than Harry, has been for years, much to Harry’s chagrin. He has long, spidery legs that propel him forward in great, purposeful strides. Harry wouldn’t admit it of course, but he’s having a bit of trouble matching pace. It’s clear that Malfoy has had quite enough of Harry’s company, but that won’t make time go any faster. Harry’s determined not to come off as the dickhead in any recount of this short reunion, so he’s going to at least try and be civil to the git in the remaining time they have left. 

Also, there’s something niggling at him, some residual avid interest pulling at Harry, making him want to observe Malfoy closely, to ask deep, probing questions and draw the honest answers from him however he can. He remembers occasions, as a teenager, when he used to daydream about performing legilimens on Malfoy, about exploring the deep tunnelling caves of his shrouded mind and uncovering all his secrets. Of course, thinking back, this exercise would have likely been fruitless. 

Malfoy’s only secrets back then were his own fears - of the Dark Lord, his father, and of disappointing either one of them. If Harry had found other, smaller, personal secrets nestled in there - perhaps the name of the teddy bear he slept with at night, or a fierce, shameful crush on Pansy Parkinson - what would he have done with them? Even at sixteen Harry was against blackmail, although Malfoy would have been close to an exception. Perhaps Harry would have just liked to know these things, only for himself, so he could collect Malfoy fact-snippets like chocolate frog cards, and look them over when he was all alone, basking in the knowledge that he is the only one who can see him so intimately. 

He shakes the peculiar thought away, hauling himself back into the present. “I’m a Potions Professor, you know. An expert. I could help.”

“The term is Potions Master ,” Malfoy corrects with a scowl. Then he snorts. “Not that you’re worthy of any such title. Didn’t you almost fail Potions?” 

Harry feels himself bristling, the acidic words clawing their way up his throat before he can think better of them. “Yeah, well thanks to a few handy hints from your old Head of House’s textbook, I developed an aptitude for it.”

The sharp look Malfoy drills into him is like being spat on. “And what did he get for his trouble?” Malfoy spits. “Bloody dead so the Boy Who Lived could wander in without any qualifications and half-ass his job, then use his old office as a personal bed and breakfast.”

“Oh shut up, Malfoy,” Harry says tiredly, the words forming on his tongue like muscle memory. “I don’t want to listen to your misguided hero worship.” 

“He died for you, you ungrateful sod.”

“And I died for him!” Harry snaps back. “I died and chose to come back so he wouldn’t have sacrificed himself for nothing. Even though, might I add, your beloved Snape helped Dumbledore groom me for slaughter, knowing damn well it would end like it did. Don’t preach at me about his Sainthood. He turned it around in the end, but don’t act like I’m besmirching a pure, innocent man. He was a Death Eater, after all.” 

“So was I,” Malfoy hisses, hand going to his sleeve. 

Harry sucks in a breath, thinking Malfoy’s about to expose his Mark, but he seems to think better of it. Instead, Malfoy stops walking. They’ve reached the bottom of the steps up to the courtyard, beyond which lies the Entrance Hall. Harry turns away, mouth twisted in unease, and looks out across the Great Lake, inky and ominous as it always is, its surface barely dappled by the breeze. 

“I didn’t know…” Malfoy trails off, taking a long breath. “I was never aware that you actually…” 

Harry frowns, turning back towards him. “Died?” 

Malfoy nods, minutely. His eyes are unfocused, also fixed on the lake, as if watching for one of the mer-creatures to pierce the surface. “Mother said that you were only pretending.”

“I was, when she checked on me.” Harry shifts from foot to foot. He doesn’t want to be talking about this, really. But he supposes it was sort of inevitable, given his and Malfoy’s complicated past, still so raw between them given that they haven’t spoken in years. “Before that, though…” King’s Cross station, bleached white. Dumbledore sat on a bench beside him, smelling of Frankincense and Phoenix Ash, the way he had in life . The withered, wailing creature on the floor beneath their bench . Harry presses his lips together. “Yeah, I was dead.” 

Malfoy turns to him, fixing those silvery eyes on his. It’s an intense stare, loaded with a hundred things Harry can’t fully decipher. “And you chose to come back?”

Harry nods. 

“Why?” 

Harry wants to be self-righteous in the face of this cowardice. He wants to ask Malfoy how he could even pose such a question, when he’s well aware of the things Harry wouldn’t have been able to do if he’d let death take him. The state the wizarding world might be in right now, supposedly, if Harry hadn’t been around to prevent ultimate chaos. 

But he won’t let himself say any of this, because he remembers, too vividly, that it had been entirely seductive, to ask himself the same question on that platform. Why go back? He can still feel that urge tugging at his fingertips, to let it all slip away. To unload his sickening worries and crushing responsibilities onto those he’d left in the land of the living. It was beyond difficult, he remembers, to force himself to do the right thing. To turn his back on his parents, his paradise, that he could sense was just a short train ride away. 

Harry rips his eyes from Malfoy’s. “It was the right thing to do.”

Malfoy makes a huffing noise. “You were always pretty into that, I suppose.” 

Oddly, this makes Harry’s mouth twitch up in a smile. “Maybe it would’ve been good for me to be your friend, in that sense.”

“Are you insinuating that I was a bad influence as a schoolboy?”

There’s a hint of amusement in Malfoy’s voice too, if Harry’s not mistaken. This whole evening is a rollercoaster of peculiarities. 

“I think you thought of yourself that way,” Harry says, enjoying the light tease. “The bad boy. The rebel.”

“As I recall it was you that tended to get most of the detentions,” Malfoy points out. Begrudgingly, Harry nods in agreement. He’s about to say something more, in the hopes of elongating this brief, surreal moment of pleasant conversation - the first they have ever had, perhaps - but before he can, something closes off in Malfoy’s expression. A flicker of a frown crosses his radiant features, and he says: “I must retire. I’ve much to do tomorrow. Most grateful for your noble Saviour chivalry and what not.” He’s already hopping up the first few steps. “Goodnight, Potter.” 

The abrupt departure leaves Harry a little stunned. He stands at the bottom of the stairs, hands at his sides, staring after Malfoy. As the blond head of hair disappears quickly from view, his smile wavers, then leaves him entirely.

Chapter Text

A knock on Harry’s door once again startles him awake. This time it’s moments before Bellatrix Lestrange, on the hunt for blood, discovers his hiding spot in the cupboard under the stairs. He wakes with a jolt, sitting up abruptly in his chair, a rogue flobberworm inching madly away from him along the edge of the desk. He scoops the escapee into his clammy palm and casts a quick alohomora at the door before depositing him, shakily, back in his jar with the others. 

“Come in!” he shouts, standing from his seat in preparation for his follow-up conversation with Headmistress McGonogall. 

The door swings inwards, and in marches Draco Malfoy, cloak-less and in a Muggle-esque outfit similar to the one he’d been wearing yesterday, but this time the initials D.M. are embroidered on the small breast pocket of his white shirt in silver, curling font.  He’s clutching the dark green pouch Harry had seen him fill with rare, vaguely poisonous flowers last night. Harry’s greeting dies on his lips. 

“Morning, Potter,” Draco says, then tosses the pouch onto his cluttered desk. “I’ve reconsidered your offer, and I’ve decided to accept.” 

“Um... what offer was that?” Harry asks, dazed. 

Malfoy cuts an even more startling figure in the  daylight, not that there’s much of it in Harry’s office. There’s a single, moderately sized arched window behind where Harry sits, which doesn’t technically let natural light in, as his office is underground, but the magical alternative does a pretty stand up job, in his opinion. It filters through now, treacly and morning-like, slanting in at an angle to mimic the sun’s position and dribbling itself over the left half of the desk. The flobberworms writhe delightedly in their jar, happy of the warmth it brings. The edge of the faux- light is brushing the tips of Malfoy’s loafers; Harry finds his eyes linger there, wondering at the narrow points of the shoes, and what Malfoy’s toes must look like beneath that supple leather, all squished up to fit. 

“...what with your past ineptitude in the area, but then again you are the Potions Master, so one would assume you’ve picked up some sort of skill- Potter? Are you listening to me?” 

“Hm?” Harry lifts his gaze from Malfoy’s feet, flushing. “What? Oh, yes, you- um. You were saying…”

Malfoy lets out a withering sigh. “I’m accepting your offer to help me with my project. It’s an exceedingly delicate process, and I must reluctantly admit that despite my talent for potion-making, two sets of hands and eyes - albeit that one set of those eyes are virtually useless without enchanted varifocals - are better than me alone.” 

“So… you want me to help you brew a potion,” Harry says slowly, making sure he’s sieved out the meat of Malfoy’s rambling stew. 

“Merlin, Potter, I’d heard rumours of your superior intellect, but I had no idea you were so astute.” Malfoy looks heavenward briefly, then seats himself in the chair in front of Harry’s desk - more of an awkwardly large round table, really - and lets his long limbs splay about in a haphazard manner that seems unbefitting to his normally prim posture. “So, are you ready to begin?” 

“I, err, have a class,” Harry says, frowning. He’s not exactly sure why he’s not telling Malfoy to sod off right now, given that he’s being an enormous prat, but it might have something to do with the way his neck muscles strain as he looks left and right, taking in Harry’s messy, peculiar-smelling office space. “It’s at, um. It’s at ten.” 

Malfoy turns back to him, one eyebrow raised. “Well, I’d probably encourage you to get going then, given it’s ten-fifteen.” 

“What?! It’s not- oh Merlin’s fucking lederhosen-” Panic lurches into Harry’s chest. He pats his trousers, unable to feel the long line of his wand in either pocket. Fuck, fuck, fuck - Malfoy laughs. Harry looks at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Might I suggest investing in a time piece of your own before taking anyone’s word for it? Who doesn't keep a clock in their own office?” 

He pulls his wand out and conjures a gold, ticking clock face into the air between them, facing Harry. The first thing Harry notices is that it’s fancier, more detailed, and more beautiful, than the one McGonogall conjured yesterday. The second thing he notices is that it is not, in fact, ten-fifteen. It is nine-forty-five. Harry glares at Malfoy before resuming a less harried search for his wand. 

“You are easily wound up these days, aren’t you?” Malfoy jests, putting emphasis on the pun, then waves the clock face away. 

“Would you close the door?” Harry asks, tetchy in his response. He finds his wand at last; it had rolled beneath his chair, where he spots yet another flobberworm on the run down one of the legs. He sighs, capturing the runaway gently in his hands. “First years get curious if they see it ajar.” 

Malfoy snorts, but does as asked with a flick of his wand. “Desperate for a glimpse of their one true Saviour, are they?” 

“Would you cut that out?” Harry asks sharply, hands cupped around the fidgeting flobberworm. “I don’t ask for their fawning, you know.”

“Oh Salazar no, have I angered our beloved Hero? The one who prised us from the claws of He Who Must Not Be Named? The boy who must be revered for all of wizarding history, worshipped on the Sabbath-”

Calmly, Harry puts his worm back in its jar, then reaches for the one beside it, which is filled with mermaid scales. He opens it, then chucks the contents in Malfoy’s smug face. Malfoy closes his eyes as the hundreds of thin, dried scales flutter over him, mouth clamped shut so he doesn’t inhale one. When they’ve mostly drifted to settle over his scalp, shoulders and lap, Malfoy eyes peel open to slits, looking venomous. 

“What the bloody fuck do you think you’re-” 

“Sorry Malfoy, got to go! Class to teach, I’m afraid.” Harry smiles serenely at the sight of Malfoy shaking that glorious head of hair, releasing great, shimmering clouds of iridescent scales that scatter over the chair and the floor. “Good luck with your potion. I'm sure you'll be just fine on your own.”

With that, Harry picks up his textbooks and bolts for the door, hearing vague mutterings about some sort of deadly revenge from Malfoy in the background. It will be worth the scaley clean up later, he thinks, still smiling by the time he reaches the Potions classroom. 

*

When Harry gets back to his office, at around 12, Malfoy is long gone. To his abject surprise, there are no mermaid scales to be found anywhere. Harry frowns at the floor, crouching down to inspect under the table and the chair Malfoy had been sat in, but there’s nothing. Had he merely fantasised chucking the scales at the infuriating git? It’s as he stands to place his textbooks back on his desk that he notices the piece of parchment, sprouting lines of calligraphy, and watermarked with the Malfoy family crest, laid atop a jumble of half-marked tests. He sighs at it, pushing his glasses up his nose, and picks it up, already annoyed.

Potter, 

Forgive my teasing. You have the sensitivity
of a wilting flower and being near you again
appears to have brought out my proclivity
for plucking off petals. 

I would truly appreciate your assistance with
my project. If you are willing, please meet me
in the Potions Classroom at 8pm. (I have been
granted permission to use the room during night
hours so as not to disturb your teaching.)

Malfoy

Harry tosses the parchment back onto the mess pile with a sigh. It’s not exactly an apology on par with the one he heard Draco give Hagrid yesterday, but he supposes it’s better than nothing at all, which is what he’d expected. Plus, Malfoy had cleaned up the scales, which Harry just cannot picture him doing no matter how hard he tries. He might’ve gotten one of the Castle Elves to do the sweeping of course, but perhaps he conjured the broom? 

The bottom line is, Harry knows that he will end up in his Potions Classroom at 8pm this evening. He’s too good-natured to resist helping out an old… acquaintance, no matter how dire the experience is likely to be. To be fair to the man, Malfoy has shown a fair amount of contrition for his past actions in a very short span of time, which makes him mildly less detestable. Though he hasn’t apparently developed any fondness for Harry alongside his new-found conscience. 

Tired, irritable and strangely buzzed from the internal struggle his mind is going through around this whole Malfoy situation, Harry decides to head to the Great Hall for some lunch. He doesn’t normally go this early, usually waits until right before the doors close to snag a few sandwiches which he can eat alone in his office to avoid being stared at. But today he finds he wants some company. He wants to scan the long tables of students, as he had back in his school days, looking for familiar faces. His students will be in the crowds, and they’ve mostly become used to him at this point. He can look at them if he needs to avoid meeting the others’ adoring stares. 

The Great Hall is a part of Hogwarts that is more or less unchanged from when Harry knew it as an angsty teen. The candles still float in place of the ceiling, their warm, twinkling glow providing a cosy, soft atmosphere for the chattering students lining the long, food-laden tables decorated with their house flags. Harry walks in, a faint smile on his face as he treads in the footsteps of his younger self, eager to meet Ron and Hermione for their daily midday catch up, perhaps to discuss Malfoy’s latest scheme. 

He looks to the Gryffindor table now, half expecting to see their grinning faces, plump and rosy from youth. But they are of course not there, they are miles away, filed into their respective department rooms in the London Ministry of Magic building. Here, where they used to belong, dozens of kids sit oblivious in their places, just as bare-faced and sweet, but strangers to Harry in comparison. Of course, he is not a stranger to them, and they stare back at him, tapping each other not-so-subtly and pointing. He looks away, flushing, and walks smartly to the teachers table at the front of the room. McGonogall is there, in the centre, which is fairly unusual given that she usually works through lunch. She sips a cup of tea from a patterned teacup she must have brought from her office, reading the Daily Prophet, and nods at him over the top of it as he makes his way to his seat beside Neville. 

Neville is absolutely beside himself with excitement upon seeing Harry, and claps him hard on the back as he sits down. “Harry! Haven’t seen you in weeks, where’ve you been hiding?” 

“You saw me this morning, Neville,” Harry reminds him tiredly, reaching for a sandwich. “You stopped by my classroom to give me that blisterroot, remember?”

“Yeah, but not here,” Neville replies, gesturing to the candles overhead. “You never eat here. I miss our lunchtime chats. It’s like being sat at the Gryffindor table again!” 

“Sorry,” Harry says, giving him a weak smile as his teeth sink into soft, white bread. “I, uh, get a bit uncomfortable. Y’know,” Harry inclines his head towards the room in general, “with the staring.” 

Neville nods sympathetically, beginning to butter his baked potato. “They stare at me too. Not as much, of course. But I know a bit of how you feel.” 

Harry opens his sandwich to peer at the innards. Thick slabs of cheese. There’s ham in this. He picks it out, grimacing. 

“Y’know, not to nag or anything…” Neville says, mashing the butter into the potato with a fork. “But they get a lot less starey the more they get the chance to stare.” 

Harry takes another, ham-less, bite. “What?”

“They’re teenagers. Their attention spans are infinitesimal. If you’re always around, they get bored of gawping and gossiping about you. They move on to the next thing.”  

Memories of Gilderoy Lockhart filter into Harry’s mind as he chews, contemplating Neville’s words. Lockhart had certainly never suffered any wane of attention from his fans when he’d strutted about these halls. He’s about to tell Neville as much, when he notices a familiar shock of white-blond hair strolling through the open doors. Several conversations grind to a halt around the room, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Harry feels the sweet relief of being unseen in a public place. Everyone is too busy staring at Draco Malfoy. 

Malfoy walks tall, the stares and whispers gliding off his back as they were wisps of the Scottish moorland breeze. He seems not to even notice that he’s so swiftly become the centre of attention - and maybe he doesn’t. Harry’s never really thought about it before, but Malfoy must get his fair share of staring and pointing, and his wouldn’t be the adoring kind. Perhaps he’s grown used to it. Perhaps he is, in this respect, more resilient than Harry. More thick-skinned. 

Braver. 

“What in Merlin’s pyjamas is he doing here?” Neville asks, aghast, potato forgotten. 

Harry watches distractedly as Draco plucks a sandwich from the Slytherin table, along with a napkin, spins on his prominent heel, and marches swiftly out of the room. “Oh, he’s here on a project or something,” Harry says, going back to his lunch. “I’m helping him with it.” 

He doesn’t notice that Neville is staring at him until he’s polished off the last bite; as he’s swallowing his crusts, he turns to Neville, whose expression can only be described as ‘balking’. 

“What?”.

“You. And… Malfoy?” Neville shakes his head, as if he can’t fathom putting the two of their names in one sentence. “Working together?” 

One of Harry’s shoulders comes up in a small shrug. “It’s not my idea of a great time or anything. McGonogall asked me to help him. He’s here under some kind of Ministry business.” 

Neville frowns, turning back to poke at his potato. “He works for the Ministry now?”

“I think he’s a sort of… consultant,” Harry says, wrinkling his nose. Hermione did tell him about Malfoy’s change of profession once, in a rant about the Ministry’s lax rules for certain families that were willing to donate funding for the numerous post-war-rehabilitation schemes. But as much as he loves Hermione, Harry has learned to filter out fifty percent of her Ministry-related complaints, lest he take it all on with her and go loopy. He has no idea how the woman manages to stay on top of things like she does. He can’t even look at the Politics section of the Prophet, these days. He’ll have to ask Herm for a refresher about the Malfoy-Ministry thing, some time. “For Dark Arts related stuff, I think? I guess he’s probably got a wealth of information about all that.” 

“Information that he’s just willing to share with the Ministry all of a sudden?” Neville asks, disbelief peppering his words. 

Harry shrugs, once again thinking back to the apology Malfoy had given Hagrid. How honest it had seemed, how practiced and well-formed, like he’d been constructing it for some time. How he had said, quite firmly, that he did not expect forgiveness. 

“I think he’s had a change of perspective,” Harry says, then winces when Neville makes a loud noise of disgust. 

“Cor Harry, I know you like to see the best in people, but that’s a tough one to swallow,” he scoffs, angrily stabbing at his potato now, munching with ferocity. “He was always slimy, looking for the easiest ways to find power and success just like his Dad. I’m sure that’s all it is now - he’s run out of better ways to stay at the top of the ladder, what with his former gang disbanding and being locked up or dead, so he has to act all sorry and grovel for his crimes and offer to help however he can. That way he can keep his Manor and his finery and whatever else. Sickening, I tell you.” 

Harry fidgets in his seat, growing uneasy. Perhaps Neville is right. Malfoy has never shown any sign of atonement before now; why would he suddenly have changed his entire philosophy? It’s foolish, probably, to believe that he would be any different now to how he was at sixteen. His exterior appearance has altered quite significantly, which is probably what’s confusing Harry into believing that he’s grown out of his bigotry and hatefulness. 

He pushes his plate away, mulling over Neville’s words. 

*

Harry decides to wait until quarter past eight to show up at the Potions Classroom in order to let Malfoy wallow in uncertainty about whether he will show up at all, and perhaps drum up a little more guilt about the rude manner with which he’d spoken to Harry earlier in his office. Of course, Harry is an infuriatingly honest and generous person, not to mention terrible with time-keeping, so although he fully intends to wait fifteen minutes past their scheduled meeting time, he actually only makes it three minutes before he’s knocking on the door of his own classroom ( seriously? ) and waiting for Malfoy’s voice to let him know he can open it. 

“Enter!” 

Malfoy is leaning with both hands on a worktop, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, bent over a textbook. The position is bulging his arm muscles, making the fitted shirt cling. His hair has been gathered into a straggly bun, which might normally be enough of an oddity to capture Harry’s attention, but by far the most attention grabbing aspect of Malfoy’s current appearance is his left forearm, which is readily exposed to the stagnant dungeon air. 

When Harry doesn’t speak, Malfoy turns to look at him, the crease in his forehead still cutting a short, deep line between his brows. He follows Harry’s gaze before Harry has a chance to snap it away, to pretend he hadn’t been staring at the faded, static lines of dark ink embedded in Malfoy’s pale skin in the form of a skull and snake. Draco draws his hands off the table, standing up straight. Harry’s sure he’s about to be shouted at, judging from the wild, panicked look in Malfoy’s eyes, but instead Malfoy walks calmly towards him. Once they’re close enough to touch, he sticks his arm out into the space between them, exposing the Dark Mark fully for Harry to see. 

“Go ahead,” he says. “Drink it all in. Once we get past the obvious fact that yes, I do still have the permanent scar of my unfortunate teenage choices staining me forever, perhaps we can do some actual work.” 

For a reason Harry could honestly not explain to anyone, let alone Malfoy and least of all himself, his instinct is to lift a finger and press it to the Mark. So he does. His finger pushes softly against Malfoy’s flesh; the lines of the tattoo are raised. They are colder than the skin either side of it. The touch lasts maybe a second and a half before Malfoy rears backwards in horror, the closest Harry has seen him to stumbling yet. 

“What are you doing ?” he demands, quite rightly. 

Harry stares, finger still held aloft, turning slowly redder with each passing second. “Sorry. I-”

“If you’ve come here to taunt me for being a monster, you might as well just bloody leave, Potter. Do you think I don’t know how you feel when you look at-” he stops himself, ruddy cheeked and as worked up as he used to get during their worst school fights. This time, however, the scathing final retort doesn’t come. Instead, Malfoy, wrenches his sleeve down over the Mark and turns from Harry, back to the work bench. “I rescind my request for your assistance, Potter.” His voice is eerily steady, in contrast to how it had just seemed. “I am perfectly capable of doing this alone.” 

“Malfoy,” Harry says, his voice weak with guilt, “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t thinking, I’ve not seen… one of them up close, and I just… I’m impulsive and entitled. And dumb. Very, very dumb.”

Malfoy’s back stiffens, but he doesn’t reply. His eyes stay fixed on the open textbook before him, pupils darting left and right along what must be the same line of text. 

“But…” Harry tries, aching with regret that will swallow him whole if he leaves this room now, “I’m also pretty damn good at Potions. So if you can just forget that initial blunder, and try to put up with any further brainlessness as a result of my brash Gryffindor nature, we could probably get this done in no time.” 

Malfoy shuts the book with a ‘thwack’, making Harry wince. He straightens up, not looking at Harry, then walks to the row of hanging cauldrons. They hang above the arched window, through which a silvery light streams, glinting off their curved, black metal. Malfoy reaches up with his right arm, which is still exposed, his long, lithe body stretching out in the caught moonbeam. He plucks a large cauldron from its hook. He could have levitated it down, Harry thinks. But he’s kind of glad he didn’t. Malfoy is a spectacle to behold, and Harry is finding that he does not mind being the beholder. 

Back at the bench, Malfoy sets up the cauldron, shooting orange sparks from his wand to ignite a low flame beneath it. Harry waits, wondering if Malfoy’s silence is meant to be interpreted as a cold shoulder, and whether he should just leave. 

But then, Malfoy says, “we need an Amortentia base.”

Harry’s shoulders relax their tension. He removes his outer robe and places it on a nearby stool, mentally preparing for a brewing session. This is okay, he thinks, he knows this. He’s familiar with this. He brews potions every day. The only difference is the company. 

“I’ll get some from my office,” Harry says, already halfway across the classroom to the door, picturing the exact pink bottle on its exact shelf down the hall in the Potions Master office. 

He keeps the door to the office quadruple-locked with some heavy, complicated spellwork, because he knows from his own experiences throughout school that students will happily nick and try out any potions they can get their hands on. He starts mentally running through the spells to open the door, as he always does, so he doesn’t get one wrong and have to start again at the beginning. 

“No,” Malfoy says then, without looking up. Harry pauses. “We have to make it from scratch. Nothing pre-made.” 

“I only made the Amortentia myself a week or so ago. It’s fine, really.”

“Nevertheless,” Malfoy says firmly. He lifts his chin, fixes Harry with a hard stare. “I told you this potion is delicate, Potter. The slightest imbalance can ruin it completely, which is why it’s so rare. That and the Flos De Studium , of course.” 

Harry huffs, but drops it. Picking his battles might be wise if he and Malfoy are going to be spending long periods of time together. He wanders over to the bench, where he now notices Malfoy has arranged precise quantities of ingredients in small green ramekins. Harry doesn’t use ramekins in his classroom, meaning that Malfoy presumably brought his own ramekins just for this. ‘Cute’ might be the word Harry might use for anyone except Malfoy to describe this behaviour. 

“What is it that we’re brewing, again?” Harry asks for what must be the third time. 

Malfoy is quiet for such a long stretch that Harry almost gives up on receiving a reply. 

“It’s called Fatum Amare, ” he says eventually. He looks at Harry, gauging a reaction. Harry just stares blankly. “I’m guessing from your gormless expression that you’ve never heard of it,” Malfoy continues, picking up a ramekin filled with oyster pearls. He tips them into the cauldron, where they skitter over the hot metal base in a pleasing rush. “Which is probably because it’s almost unheard of these days. It’s extremely difficult to brew - many wizards have given up after years of repeated attempts. If done incorrectly, of course, one would have to wait another full ten lunar cycles before being able to harvest the Flos De Studium again, due to their sporadic growing pattern.”

“Sounds like more of a pain than it’s worth,” Harry comments, leaning both elbows on the workbench as Malfoy carefully adds his scant few sprigs of thistle, one by one. The twitch in the corner of his mouth makes Harry consider what he’s just said. “What… is it worth? If you manage to make it properly, I mean.” 

Malfoy’s hinted smile blossoms into a full, trademark smirk. He places the final thistle into the pot. “It’s difficult to say in modern currency, as Fatum Amare hasn’t been regularly sold in any legal exchange for hundreds of years. But I imagine some might say that due to the fluctuation of its price, which is typically based on the desperation of the buyer, that Fatum Amare is essentially priceless.” 

Harry’s emotions have always been clearly written on his face. Hermione used to tease him about it, say he’d never fare in ‘Poker’, some muggle card game based on the ability to lie about one’s good or bad fortune. Draco evidently sees Harry’s surprise, which is no doubt obvious in his expression, and he chuckles. 

“Quite,” Malfoy says with some satisfaction. “So I implore you to follow my exact instruction. That way we can both benefit from its eventual distribution.”

“But… what does it do ?”

Malfoy clears his throat, primly. “Classified. Pass me that lock of Siren’s hair.” 

*

An hour and a half later, their Amortentia , made to Malfoy’s extremely accurate specifications, is simmering gently atop a low white flame. It will need to be heated for another hour, so Malfoy sets a timer on another ephemeral gold clock face like the one he conjured earlier. Harry sits himself on one of the wooden stools, settling in for a long wait. 

“Who’s this for?” Harry asks, staring into the potion, which is currently alternating between baby blue and a peach colour. 

“That’s classified.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. He strongly suspects this is not the case, not for Harry Potter, at least, but he doesn’t press it. He folds his arms on the table, then rests his chin on them. Malfoy, seemingly at a loss, finishes clearing away the empty ramekins, and sits on a stool as well. His is on the next workbench over. 

“You should move away,” Malfoy says, eyeing Harry. “You know the effects it can have while it’s brewing.” 

Harry turns his face to look at Malfoy, cradling his own head in his arms. “S’okay. I always smell the same things.” 

“Oh,” Malfoy says, hands gripping the edges of his stool. Harry wants to giggle at his obvious discomfort. He shuts his eyes instead, feeling pleasantly sleepy. “Oh for Merlin’s sake,” he hears Malfoy muttering, “if I’d known your strange sleeping schedule means you’re barely able to keep your eyes open I’d have asked Longbottom for help instead.” 

Harry chuckles, opening one eye. “Neville would never do it. You’re stuck with me.” 

Something like guilt flashes across Malfoy’s face, but it’s gone in a second. “I could always have Slughorn or McGonogall force him.” 

“Ahh, just when I thought I’d lost the old Malfoy forever…” 

Malfoy snorts, and then a silence falls. Harry slips dangerously close to dreamland. 

“Do you smell… what’s her name? The Weasley girl?” 

Harry sighs, irritated, but doesn’t open his eyes. “You know her name, Draco.” 

There’s a long pause; Harry wonders if he might have fallen asleep. Then, Malfoy says, quietly, “Ginevra.” Another pause, and then, “Do you smell her, in the Amortentia fumes?” 

“I used to,” Harry admits, his heart constricting horribly. 

He remembers inhaling her floral, clean perfume as he leant over the cauldron in Slughorn’s class. Trying desperately to place it, knowing it was a warm scent, homely, reminding him of the Burrow and family and safety. He remembers it so well, but he doesn’t smell it anymore. 

“Oh,” Malfoy says, again. “A blow for the Weasley clan, I’m sure, but exultant news for the readers of Witch Weekly.” 

Harry opens his eyes, sitting up in order to throw a glare in Malfoy’s direction. “Ginny was great. She was perfect, even. But…” he grimaces. “I didn’t appreciate her enough. She was right to…”

There’s a weighty, horrifically awkward silence. 

“I was not, actually, aware that the, um, attracting scents could change over time,” Malfoy says, breaking the unbearable tension. “Depending on circumstance and whatnot.” 

Harry’s shoulders pull half-heartedly towards his ears. “I find that much of my existence is spent being a human guinea pig for these things.”

“Yes. Me too.” Before Harry can decipher the meaning behind this peculiar response, Malfoy is back with a follow up question: “So what do you smell now? If it’s… changed.” 

Harry shifts, not sure he’s comfortable with sharing something so… weird. With Malfoy, of all people. “Well… it’s just that one that’s changed. The other two smells have been constant.” 

“And they are…?” Malfoy prompts. 

Harry looks at him suspiciously. The quick responses suggest he’s enjoying this conversation a tad too much. But his face is blank, bored, devoid of any prominent emotion. 

“Warm treacle tart,” Harry says, feeling the words slip up his throat as if Malfoy were reeling in a fishing line snagged on his vocal chords. “And broomsticks. The new kind, freshly waxed. Like… when I’m flying, and I keep catching the scent of the oak on the breeze.” 

Malfoy’s expression is odd. He’s staring fixedly at the floor, his hands tucked beneath his legs on the stool. If Harry’s not mistaken, there’s a pale flush along his cheekbones. 

“Mahogany,” he mumbles. Harry barely hears him. “Not oak.” 

Harry smiles to himself. “Yeah, yeah. We both know you’re the Nimbus nerd out of the two of us.” He buries his face in the crook of his elbow.

“And… the last one?” Malfoy asks. 

Harry’s eyebrows knit together. “Hm?” 

“You said, a moment ago, that the third smell has altered. Since your breakup with Ms Weasley.” 

“Oh,” Harry says into his sleeve. 

He should sit up, it’s dangerously cosy in this position. He can feel the seductive tug of unconsciousness. He should stay awake and help Malfoy, since he said he would. He lifts his head a little, and takes a deep inhale through his nose, trying to pick out that elusive third flavour wafting from the bubbling potion. It drifts over gently, catching in his nostrils, the pleasant combination of scents easing his muscles, drawing the sweetest fantasies to the forefront of his mind. 

A warm summer day, a couple of weeks before school starts, and Harry is sprawled out on the grass in the garden of the burrow. There’s a slight, pleasant breeze, carrying the unmistakable scent of treacle tart, fresh from the oven, cooling on the kitchen windowsill. His eyes are closed, but he knows Ron and Hermione are somewhere nearby, sat together on the swing seat Mr Weasley painstakingly copied from a photograph he found in a Muggle gardening magazine.

Above him, Fred and George are swooping and diving through the air on their broomsticks, which they have just waxed, sat side-by-side on the porch as they fondly teased Ginny about the book she’s reading. Ginny still sits there now, propped against a pillar, Crookshanks dozing on her lap. Harry turns over, dreamily, and reaches a hand out for the body laid out beside him on the lawn. He doesn’t need to open his eyes, he knows who it is, just by the rise and fall of their chest, the steady thrum of their heartbeat beneath his palm. Harry takes a long, slow breath in, mouth parted, tasting hot, spicy liquorice dancing over his tongue. A chuckle ghosts across his ear, low and teasing, maybe mocking his blissed out expression. Harry just smiles, and feels a kiss brush his mouth; it tastes of aniseed. 

“Potter,” a voice says, but not from beside him. It seems far off, somewhere beyond the sun-drenched sky. “Potter, wake up.” 

Harry opens his eyes. He’s fallen asleep on the workbench of his Potions classroom, head in his arms. He lifts his head, blearily, and sees Malfoy stood in front of the cauldron. The flame has been extinguished, and the liquid is arcing up in an impressive fountain, pouring itself into a bottle under the guidance of Malfoy’s wand. 

“What’s…” He trails off, wiping a patch of drool from the corner of his mouth. “Eugh.” 

“Quite,” Malfoy mutters, just as the bottle fills to the brim. He corks it neatly, then turns to Harry. “The Amortentia is complete. We can start to brew the Fatum Amare tomorrow.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, blinking slowly. “Yeah. Okay. How long does this brewing process take?”

He’d half thought maybe they’d be able to get it done tonight, if they were really focused. Of course, he hadn’t factored in his apparent narcolepsy. 

“Two weeks, or thereabouts.” 

Harry balks. “Two weeks ?!” 

Malfoy arches an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“Well…” Harry tries to grasp for a reasonable excuse. But he’s already agreed to this. More than that, he’s all but thrown himself at Malfoy’s feet, promising to help so he can apologise for the touchy-tattoo incident. His shoulders slump. “I suppose not.” 

“Don’t worry, Potter,” Malfoy grumbles, tucking the Amortentia carefully into his pocket. “Once the potion is complete, you’ll be rid of me for good.” 

He starts towards the door, his expression hard. Harry wants to call after him, to say something that might soften his demeanour, leave them parting for the night on good terms. But he can think of nothing. 

“Goodnight,” he calls out, after a moment, but the door has already closed. 

*

Back in his office, Harry walks straight to the fireplace, reaches into his urn and pulls out a handful of floo powder. He chucks it in the fire, shouts Hermione and Ron’s address, then sticks his face in the grate. When he opens his eyes, Hermione is shrieking. 

“Christ’s sake, who in the bloody-” Ron leaps out of bed, the goblet of water from his bedside in his hand, ready to chuck it on the fire. He stops short when he catches sight of Harry, then lets out a groan. “Harry, mate, it’s two in the morning!” 

Back in their bed, covers clutched to her chest, breathing rapidly, Hermione glares, but casts a lumos nonetheless. “You scared me half to death, Harry!” she scolds. Ron collapses backwards, sitting on the edge of the mattress; a moment later, Hermione shuffles over to join him. “The fire just roared to life out of nowhere! How much floo did you chuck in?” 

“Sorry,” Harry says, wincing. “I guess I didn’t realise how late it was. I don’t have a clock in here.”

“You don’t have a clock in your room?” Ron asks. 

“Well no. But I’m in my office,” Harry says. 

Hermione sighs. “Go to bed, Harry. Sleep. That’s what normal people do when night falls.” 

“As if you two are normal,” Harry jokes, desperate to distract them from his extremely rude awakening. 

“Who says we were sleeping,” Ron quips, making Harry snort. Hermione promptly shoves him off the bed. Ron lands on his ass on the floor of their bedroom with a grunt. “Yeah, I deserved that.” 

“Mmhmm,” Hermione agrees, but lets him climb back up again. “Was there something urgent, Harry? I’ve got a thousand meetings to oversee tomorrow.” 

“Minister of Meetings, that’s what they should call you,” Ron mumbles sleepily, pressing a kiss to Hermione’s temple before clambering back into bed. “ I’m listening, mate. Only got paperwork waiting for me in the mornin’. Auror life isn’t as glam as they make it seem in school.” 

“Ha, um. Well, it’s not… urgent, but-” Harry pauses, catching Hermione’s tired but patient expression, her kind, exhausted eyes. “You know what, it’s fine. It can wait. I’m seeing you guys at the weekend, right? Muggle pub trip?” 

“Oh shoot,” Hermione says, tutting. “Ron, didn’t we tell the Petersons that we’d look over their House Elf custody case Saturday evening?” 

“Oh, that’s okay,” Harry says, pushing away the stab of disappointment in his gut. “If you’re busy…” 

“No, no!” Hermione says. “I’m sure we can fit it all in, I’ll talk to the Petersons on Saturday and maybe we can switch the pub trip to Sunday-” 

“Nah, you guys will have to be up early on Monday,” Harry interrupts, trying to remain cheerful. “Don’t worry, we can do it the next weekend.”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione says, sounding annoyed with herself. Harry feels a pang of sympathy; he knows how stressed she is, how full her plate is. He can’t bear to be the one piling more onto her. She’s doing so well, coping brilliantly despite the extra work that comes from being the Minister for Magic directly after the worst war in wizarding history. “I don’t mean to double book over you,” she says, “it’s just that it’s difficult to remember sometimes- not that, oh shoot, not that you’re not so, so important to me, of course-”

She’s cut off, thankfully, by an enormously loud snore coming from behind her. They both turn to Ron, startled by the ferocity of it, then turn back to one another. A second passes, then they both burst out laughing. It’s nice, even though it lasts less than a few seconds. Something noticeably eases between them, like they’re back in the Gryffindor common room, giggling over silly school gossip. 

“Imagine sleeping beside that,” Hermione says, still grinning, “and having to run a country the next morning.” 

“You’re a marvel,” Harry says, meaning every word. 

He smiles at her; she’s in the big, baggy ‘Frankie Says Relax’ t-shirt Harry bought her for her birthday. It’s a reference to their shared love of the muggle TV show Friends , which no other wizards they know really understand. She smiles back at him, her thick curls tumbling messily around her shoulders. 

“I’d best get back to sleep,” she says, though she sounds like she’s sad about it, which is nice. “I promise I won’t forget about next Saturday, okay? I’m quilling you in, for sure. And you can always call us, of course. Perhaps a little earlier in the evening might be better, but… well, might be good to get the practice in now, for when we have kids waking us up in the small hours.” 

The mention of future infants tightens muscles in Harry’s chest, as it always does when Hermione brings it up so casually, but he laughs his way through it, nodding as much as he can in the grate. “Sure. Night then, Herm. Ron’s unconscious body. Sorry I woke you.”

“Get some sleep, Harry. In a bed,” Hermione scolds, crawling back to her side of the bed. Ron’s snore is so loud that Harry’s sure he sees one of her curls fluttering. She pulls her pillow around her ears, groaning softly. “God knows one of us should.”

Harry chuckles, then leans away, pulling his face out of the fire. He sits back on his haunches, alone once more in his small, strange-smelling office. He looks to the door, contemplating following Hermione’s advice and making his way through the dark, eerie castle to his room in the Ravenclaw tower. He stands, intending to do what his friend says, but makes it only as far as his desk chair, which he then falls into, bone-weary, and closes his eyes. 

Chapter Text

The nightmare that wakes Harry before the sun has fully peeked over the horizon lingers just beneath his skin for hours. It had featured a charcoal sky, pressing strangely close to the ground beneath it, scarred with tendrils of black smoke that writhed like snakes. Dobby had been injured, weak and stumbling as Harry tried desperately to pull him along, to find somewhere on the barren landscape to hide, as he could feel the oncoming danger. He’d woken up sweating, Dobby’s name on the tip of his tongue. 

Harry is the first one into the Great Hall, and at first he doesn’t realise that he’s too early for breakfast. He sits in his usual chair at the teacher's table, exhausted, feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all, and watches the Castle Elves bring in huge amounts of food from the kitchens, laying everything out on the long tables. They do not speak to him, but one of them brings him a cup of rich, dark coffee, which Harry swallows in three long gulps. The Elf brings him another, this time with a magically refilling cafetière. 

Time slips by in bursts, spurred on by the caffeine spurting into Harry’s bloodstream, and soon enough the morning sunlight begins pouring, syrupy and thick, through the enormous arched windows that line the walls and either end of the hall. Students begin trickling through the doors in small groups, or sometimes alone, chatting quietly as they take their seats at their tables.  One group of three girls keep glancing in Harry’s direction, then whispering animatedly to each other. One of the girls - Harry doesn’t recognise her - waves shyly at him, then has her hand snatched down by her friend; they quickly dissolve into shrieks of laughter. He ignores them, sipping coffee and staring into the distance, Dobby’s large, glistening eyes still so lifelike in his mind. 

Just then, Neville and two other new Professors that Harry really should remember the names of, stroll through the doors, talking breezily as they walk the hall to the teacher’s table. Neville grins at Harry as he walks around to take his seat, then flops into the chair beside him. Up close, he scrutinises Harry’s appearance, the smile slipping away. 

“Mate, you don’t look good,” Neville says, concerned. “Are you feeling unwell?” 

“Just didn’t get much sleep,” Harry says, managing a smile. “It’s fine, coffee is helping.”

Neville doesn’t look convinced, but he reaches for a bagel anyway. Harry looks around him at the plates and bowls of food that have appeared on the table; how long has all of this been sitting here? To avoid seeming even more odd, Harry reaches blindly for the first breakfast item he sees - a banana - and puts it on the plate in front of him. 

“I was gonna ask you a favour actually,” Neville says, sounding apologetic. 

Everyone winces when they have to ask him something. Harry hates it; he’s more than happy to help out his friends. But all of them seem to feel terrible asking him, knowing that he’s already saved theirs and their loved ones’ lives. Except for Draco Malfoy, apparently. He seems to have no qualms about coercing Harry into doing things for him. 

“Sure,” Harry says, attempting to drain the last of his coffee but finding that the cup is already empty. “What do you need?” 

“You can say no,” Neville assures him. “I totally get it, it’s short notice and you might not feel up to it-”

“Nev,” Harry interrupts, “spit it out.”

Neville smiles weakly. “I’m doing a class on Patronuses next Thursday. I wondered if you might… be my special guest demonstrator. Everyone knows you’re the expert, so I thought… is it in insensitive to ask? It is, isn’t it? Sorry, I’ll do it without you, forget I said-”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Harry nods as enthusiastically as he can. “Really. No trouble at all. What time’s the class?”

Neville chews his lip, eyes roving over Harry’s expression. “Ten. But really Harry, if you change your mind-”

“I won’t,” Harry assures him. “A Patronus is something I’m actually decent at. Maybe I’ll even impart some actual knowledge for once in my teaching career.” He means it as a joke, but it just comes out self-deprecating and despondent. Neville gives him a sad look. “Just… maybe send me a reminder closer to the time.” Harry thinks for a moment, grimacing at the idea of sleeping straight through the class and disappointing his friend. “Maybe a few reminders actually. Mind’s a sieve recently.” 

“Yeah, no worries,” Neville says, buttering his bagel. “So, how are you feeling about the exam?” 

Harry’s eyes widen. “Hm?”

Neville turns to him; something about his expression tells Harry that he knew he’d forget. “The exam you’re giving your seventh years today? The mid-semester all-day brewing exam?”

Fuck . “Oh, right, right. Sorry,” Harry says, already scrambling out of his seat. “Um, yeah. Good! It’ll be… yeah. Do you have the time actually Nev?”

Neville gives him a sympathetic smile - the last of many over the past few minutes - then points to the clock tower visible out of the window to their left. Harry doesn’t have time to feel embarrassed that he should have known that was there. He peers out at it - he has just under half an hour before the exam is due to begin. He grabs a few napkins, wraps two fat Danish pastries in them, then garbles some vague goodbye at Neville before jogging to the hall doors. 

*

Harry races up to the Ravenclaw tower at lightning speed. He always used to be grateful for not being sorted into Ravenclaw purely because the thought of having to solve a goddamned riddle every time he wanted to relax in his own house’s quarters was a horrendous one. Luckily, the eagle-shaped knocker on Ravenclaw tower’s entrance door seems to have been briefed on Harry’s (mortifying, but in this case helpful) status of privilege, and lets him in on sight, no riddle-solving required. 

This saves him some time, but he’s still flying around his room in a panic, a toothbrush shoved in his mouth, clean socks halfway to his knees. He’d ideally like a shower or a bath, but he has no time for such luxuries, so he leaves his cleanliness down to some haphazard cleaning charms that will hopefully keep him from smelling too awful. He also downs a vial of Invigoration Draught ; a self-brewed batch from a recipe that he’d picked up from Hermione back in fourth year when studying for the trials in the Triwizard Tournament. 

He exits his room ten minutes later, the adrenaline that propels through him from being late having woken him up considerably, and barrels straight into Draco Malfoy, who is coming out of the door opposite his. 

“Shit, sorry-” Harry starts to say, then realises who he’s standing in front of. “Oh. Are you… is this your room?” 

Harry looks over Malfoy’s shoulder, a quick snatch of green and silver bedclothes visible before Malfoy pulls the door shut behind him. “Magnificent deduction powers, Potter.” He glances up and down Harry’s body, eyebrows knitted. “Why are you wearing your robes back to front?” 

Harry flushes, but doesn’t allow himself to follow Malfoy’s gaze out of sheer stubbornness. “Mind your own business.” 

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Fine.”

He slithers around Harry, who only now realises how far into Malfoy’s personal space he had been, practically pushing him up against his door. He steps backwards, watching Malfoy walk briskly towards the stairs, a file and quill floating behind him, scritching something Harry can’t read. 

He mutters something sour under his breath, then darts quickly back into his own room to re-adjust his appearance before heading down to conduct an exam he only barely remembers scheduling. 

*

At eight o’clock that evening, the last thing Harry feels like doing is going back into the classroom he’s been stuck in all day and brewing yet another potion with the man he has harboured a strong dislike for since childhood. The exam had gone fairly well in the sense that none of his students had blown anything up, or dissolved their cauldrons, or accidentally concocted an amoeba-like monster - all of which are examples of previous unintended results of Harry’s classes - but it had been a horribly arduous experience for both students and Professor alike. Harry couldn’t help but feel, despite the time he’s been putting in to his work, that his preparation and previous weeks of teaching had fallen short, as the students seemed not to have a firm grip on what they were doing, and required a lot of help. 

Harry resolved, in the aftermath, to draft up some better lesson plans so that his students would feel confident in their abilities when their NEWTs rolled around in June. For now however, he’s preoccupied with the other engagement he’s gotten himself wrapped up in. He’s sitting in his classroom, exhausted and irritable from a disappointing day, waiting for Malfoy to show up, when he remembers the Danish pastries he’d sneaked from breakfast this morning, and wants to cry. His hunger has reached stages of agony, and he hasn’t had a chance to escape to the Great Hall for any further nourishment since his half-eaten banana breakfast. He’s just biting into soft, flaky goodness (the pastries have been charmed with a preservation spell to keep them fresh and warm) when the door opens, and Malfoy walks in, followed by a bobbing train of new ingredients floating in the air behind him. 

Harry has already set out the cauldron they’d used yesterday on one of the workbenches. Malfoy makes a face at the pastry Harry is stuffing into his mouth, but otherwise ignores him, setting out his bottles and ramekins on the surface beside the cauldron. 

“Danish?” Harry offers, holding up the second ring of glazed deliciousness with a wry smile. He knows Malfoy would never touch a manhandled, hours old snack, especially not with his bare hands. “I brought spare.” 

Malfoy has a book open in his hands, but he wanders towards Harry without looking up, reaches out and takes the Danish from him, then sinks his teeth in. Harry’s so shocked that his smile half-lingers on his face. 

“Hm,” Malfoy says as he chews, turning the pastry over in his hand to inspect it. “Only mildly grotesque.” He flicks his eyes to Harry, running up and down his body. “Eat the rest, Potter. You look skeletal. And judging by yesterday evening’s impromptu nap, you need all the energy you can get.” 

He shoves the pastry back into Harry’s hand, then walks back to the cauldron. Harry stares at the Danish, at the perfect crescent bite-mark that’s been made in it; he can see the grooves of Malfoy’s straight, neat teeth. 

“But… you’ve bitten it,” Harry protests weakly, though his stomach still aches with hunger. He doesn’t care, in actuality, that Malfoy has taken a chunk out of the Danish. He’d probably still want the yummy, sweet dessert even if Malfoy had outright dribbled over it. 

Malfoy shoots him a scornful look. “If you’re that concerned about cooties, Potter, I suggest you stop hanging around the Weasel family.” 

“Ugh, don’t be a dick, Malfoy,” Harry growls, then tears off a chunk of pastry with his teeth, mostly to spite him. Malfoy just continues reading, flipping a page with complete nonchalance. “You have no reason to hate the Weasleys,” Harry continues; his hackles are up now. Malfoy has a real knack for zeroing in on his most sensitive areas. And for knowing to do it when Harry is fresh out of patience. “They might not be interested in a pureblood life of wealth and prejudice, but they’re my family, and they’re selfless and brave and loyal. So quit the trash talk, or I’m out of this.” 

He gestures at the cauldron, underneath which Malfoy is currently lighting a small flame. He waits, watching Malfoy retrieve the batch of Amortentia they made yesterday from inside his cloak, and pour it into the waiting cauldron. That done, Malfoy repockets the empty vial and turns his way, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Very well.” He turns away again, leaving Harry stunned. 

A flake of pastry falls from Harry’s mouth. “R-right. Glad we got that cleared up.” 

A painfully awkward silence follows, though Harry tries not to think of it as such. He finishes off the pastry, batting away rogue thoughts of can I taste Malfoy in between the syrupy bites? and eventually Malfoy closes the book, satisfied. 

“We need to add a drop of Lucidity every fifteen minutes for the next three consecutive hours,” Malfoy says with a confidence Harry privately suspects is mostly facade. “We stir once, counter-clockwise, with each addition, and the timing must be exact.” 

“ Lucidity ?” Harry asks, wiping his hands of crumbs. “I’ve got some I think, but not much-”

“I made some today,” Malfoy says, waving him away. He holds up a vial of sky-blue liquid for Harry’s inspection. The blue is a much clearer, unclouded colour than the Lucidity he usually makes. “McGonogall permitted me to use her office to brew, as you were conducting an exam in here.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. He finds this scenario difficult to picture. Malfoy and McGonogall, sharing close quarters as they each went about their work, gossiping about the recent outbreak of dragon pox, or the new Italian exchange witch in third year. “Okay, so… shall we take it in turns?” 

Malfoy nods distractedly. “Fine. I shall do the first addition. Set up a timer, perhaps?”

“How?” Harry asks dumbly, looking around for a clock he knows isn’t there. 

Malfoy sighs, sufferingly, then shoves the vial of Lucidity at him. “Fine, you add the first part. I’ll do the timer.”

Grumbling, Malfoy begins swishing his pretty, shimmering gold clock face back into the air above the cauldron, then winds the hands to certain points, reciting spells to instruct it to trill aloud at those times. Harry watches him for a moment, marvelling slightly at the intricate, masterful magic, then, chastised by a glare from Malfoy, uncorks the vial in his hand. 

“Ready when you are,” Harry mutters, holding it above the cauldron. 

The potion is currently a peach colour, bubbling softly. It still smells of treacle and liquorice, with a faint woody aroma behind it. Harry remembers his bizarre semi-dream from yesterday, when he’d fallen asleep directly after smelling the Amortentia . It had been so lovely there, in the grass beside the burrow, the love he felt for an unknown being beside him glowing in his gut.

“Okay, begin at precisely eight-fifteen. On three,” Malfoy says, looking at Harry for confirmation, wand in the air in front of the clock face. “One, two, three.”

Harry tips the potion, letting a drop of pure, watery blue fall into the cauldron. At once, it shimmers into a deep violet colour, and he and Malfoy take a practiced, swift step backwards, both obviously aware of potential fumes that are so often affecting to the mind of the potioneer. After a few seconds, Harry steps back over, picks up the handmade wooden spoon Malfoy has provided for the purpose, and stirs once, counter-clockwise. The clock has started ticking in accordance with Malfoy’s instruction, its slim, ornate hands inching towards the first fifteen-minute mark that glows on the 8:30 position. 

“One down,” Harry says, sinking to the floor beside the bench. 

Malfoy regards him with disapproval, then sinks to the floor himself. He runs a fingertip along the stone tile he’s sat on, bringing it to his eye. “Do the Castle Elves avoid this room when cleaning?” 

“Have you ever tried Lucidity ?” Harry ignores his question, twisting the vial of blue potion in front of his face. 

“Undiluted?” Malfoy asks with a scoff. “There are some things I’d rather remained clouded.” 

“I’ve never had it either,” Harry says, mind wandering as his eyes unfocus, seeing nothing but cerulean. “Well, the odd drop in an Invigorating Draught here and there, but…”

“What on earth would you need clarifying?” 

“All sorts,” Harry rebuffs, bristling. “My life isn’t exactly clear-cut. To me or anyone else.”

“No, I suppose not,” Malfoy agrees, a bit too readily. Harry thinks about snapping back at him, but he can’t summon the energy. He slumps against the side of the workbench, feeling his muscles wail and beg for sleep. He’s still got three hours yet before he can succumb. “There’s enough there,” Malfoy says unexpectedly. He gestures to the vial. “If you wanted to test it. We only need twelve drops.” 

“But it’s yours,” Harry says, confused. 

In what world would Malfoy ever donate a self-made potion of this obviously high calibre to him? 

Malfoy shrugs. “Consider it a token of my thanks for your assistance.” 

Harry blushes, caught out by the unexpected offer of generosity. He squints at the Lucidity , wondering what it could reveal if he dripped some onto his tongue. The idea is unsettling enough to halt him. 

“Would you take some too?” 

“No,” Malfoy answers, clipped. 

“Why not?” 

“I do appreciate your generosity in helping me, Potter, but I still would not trust you as far as I could throw you,” Malfoy says. He unhooks the silver snake cufflinks from the cuffs of his shirt as he talks, pocketing them, then rolling the sleeves up to his elbows in a practiced, precise manner. The skin of his arms is pale enough that Harry can see the thin, protruding blue veins worming up his wrists, into his elbows. He hesitates before rolling up his left shirt sleeve, but does it anyway, exposing the tattoo once again. Harry has to force himself not to stare. “I don’t fancy spewing some potion-induced epiphany out loud for you to take away to your merry band of Gryffindor alumni and snicker over.” 

The Lucidity suddenly seems far less appealing, after this hypothetical scenario has been posed. “Hmm,” Harry says. “You’ve got a point.” 

The timer goes off then, and Harry leaps to his feet, adding another drop of Lucidity , then using the wooden ladle to stir the potion once. When he’s done it, he sits back down, facing Malfoy, who is now sitting with one knee drawn up, an arm resting atop it, drawing green swirls in the air with the tip of his wand. 

“I don’t hate them, by the way.” 

Harry frowns, trying to swim back through his foggy brain and remember what they’d been talking about. “Who?”

“The Weasleys.” 

Malfoy is avoiding his eye. 

“Oh,” Harry says, sitting up straighter. “Well, good. Still not acceptable for you to talk shit about them, though. They lost just as much as anyone else in the war. Maybe more than most.” 

“Yes,” Malfoy murmurs, lowering his wand. The green swirls linger for a moment, then flicker and fade. “I suppose you’re right. Habit, I think.” 

Harry only just resists rolling his eyes. “Well, break it.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitches. “Yes, Professor.” 

A heat, wholly unexpected, and strong enough to catch his breath in his lungs, shoots through Harry’s body. As he gathers himself together, trying not to be too obvious about his peculiar reaction, Malfoy speaks, still not looking at him, thank Merlin. 

“I think the root of my family’s dislike for them was probably jealousy, in hindsight,” Malfoy says, apparently not letting up with the barrage of shocking revelations this evening. “We had more wealth and status than them, which gave us a sense of priority I suppose, but we had no real reason to think of them as lesser. They’re a pureblood family after all - albeit a strain that never thought of themselves as such.”

“I don’t buy that. What would the Malfoys have been jealous of the Weasleys for?” Harry asks, not bothering to hide the scorn in his voice.

“I haven’t ever visited the Weasley residence,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning down. “But I imagine one square foot contains a great deal more love than the entirety of the Malfoy Manor ever has.” 

The timer goes off then, startling them both. This time, Malfoy gets up, taking the vial from Harry’s proffered hand, and pours the next drop in. 

*

Eight rounds of dripping Lucidity into the potion - now dark purple - later, Harry is near ready to drop. He doesn’t see really, as yet, why Malfoy even needs him here. So far, the potion recipe has been annoyingly precise, but by no means unmanageable for one person to brew alone. He sighs, head clunking against the workbench beside him as Malfoy re-settles opposite him. 

“So, you’re working for the Ministry now?” Harry asks, mostly for something to say. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested in the answer however; Malfoy’s doing his utmost to remain elusive about his reasons for being back at Hogwarts, and Harry’s been trying to act unbothered. His interest in Draco Malfoy is, unfortunately however, still just as keen as it ever was. 

“I do some consulting work for the Department of Potions,” Malfoy replies, obviously choosing his words with care. 

Harry nods thoughtfully. “Do you like it?” 

From the way Malfoy’s face contorts, it’s clear that he’s not been asked this before. “I… suppose it’s fine.”

“But not what you’d choose, in an ideal world?” 

“Some of us don’t get that luxury,” Malfoy snaps, then takes a deep inhale, regulating his composure. “I enjoy potion making well enough to do it as a career. In that one way, I suppose, we are similar.” 

For a fleeting moment, Harry has no idea what Malfoy means. Then, he remembers where they are, and the fact that, madly, this is his classroom. He is the Potions Master of Hogwarts School of Witchraft and Wizardry, and this is, in fact, his life. 

“Yeah,” he says vaguely, “guess we are.” The silence that follows doesn’t seem as uncomfortable as some of their previous ones. “So, if you were able to choose-”

“Give it a rest, Potter.” 

“Just humour me,” Harry urges, sending a sloppy grin his way. “What would you do, if you could? If nothing was stopping you?”

A strand of hair falls across Malfoy’s face as he shakes his head side to side. “I don’t know. I like doing this well enough. I’m good at it. The potions department is run by Slughorn, who isn’t too awful to work under, once you look past his general buffoonery.” He tilts his head to one side, sighing. “I suppose if I could alter things slightly…” he hesitates, glancing at Harry as if expecting him to butt in. Harry just tries to look interested, and not like he’s seconds away from falling asleep. “I’d like to be able to travel outside of Britain.” He pauses again, eyeing Harry carefully, inspecting his face for a reaction. “There are... many places outside of the British Isles, largely unexplored for their magical properties, from which we could derive untold flora and fauna extracts to use in Potion-making.” He stops, eyes fixed on the window, through which the slopes of the mountains are just visible, a shade or two darker than the inky sky. “But anyway, this is a fruitless game to play. Reality prohibits fantasy.” 

“Such a Slytherin view,” Harry replies, half in jest. 

“Fine,” Malfoy scoffs, “your turn, Chosen One. What’s your dream career? And don’t try and tell me you’re currently living your truth by slinking back to school and squeezing some mediocre Veritaserum draughts out of a bunch of half-witted teenagers.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s strange that even though he can detect the obvious attempt at provocation, he doesn’t feel annoyed. “Honestly, after the war, I kind of felt like I’d… fulfilled my purpose.” He twirls the half-empty vial of Lucidity between his fingers, quite enjoying how the action seems to be putting Malfoy on edge. “I’m the definition of peaking in high school.” Harry grins, but Malfoy doesn’t return the smile. “I guess I just went back to what I knew. I’ve always liked Hogwarts. Liked helping people. Teaching here seemed to fit.” 

“The public were, as far as I recall, fairly surprised that the great Harry Potter didn’t become a superstar Auror,” Malfoy says, a splinter of intrigue just about detectable beneath his blasé tone. 

“Yes.” Harry fidgets, never enjoying the reminder that he’s a constant subject of speculation. “Are you a frequent purveyor of public gossip magazines, Malfoy?” 

Harry expects a biting response, but Malfoy just smirks, flicking the strand of hair out of his eye. “Unfortunately, Mother has a subscription to Witch Weekly, so I am, by proxy, tragically up to date with all of the Harry Potter news.” 

“Ugh,” Harry says. 

“Quite,” Malfoy replies, and then the timer goes off. 

*

The following day is Friday, and Harry finishes his last class at midday. A substitute comes in to teach the younger years, as part of a stipulation he added to his teaching contract when he first joined the Hogwarts staff. He just can’t deal with the young ones. The kids who have no personal attachment to the war and all that it represents. The kids that see Harry as a celebrity instead of a veteran. 

He’ll have to teach them eventually, of course. But he’d rather put that off for as long as possible. Now, he’s still caffeinated enough from breakfast to stave off a nap, so he makes an impulsive decision to go to the Ministry and try to catch either Ron or Hermione on their lunch break. 

He’s in the fireplace, shouting “Ministry of Magic!” and throwing floo powder at his feet before he can think himself out of the haphazard plan. He lands in one of the Ministry’s huge, ornate public fireplaces, and immediately wishes he’d paused for long enough to remember to bring his Invisibility Cloak. The moment he steps out into the marble lobby, the stares latch onto him like flies on syrup. It’s so much worse than the level of attention he receives in school - he hasn’t left Hogwarts grounds in so long that he’d actually forgotten how awful it is to roam through public spaces. 

He starts for the lifts, head down, but it only takes one meek little witch stepping forwards, chirping his name, before the crowds begin to form. He looks around helplessly for a clear path, and barrels through a gathering swarm of starry-eyed warlocks, all clutching at his robes, asking for photos and hugs and- oh God, there are tears on cheeks already- 

He makes it to the lift, squeezing in just before it closes on a crammed group of people. They shuffle grumpily to accommodate him, and he manages to jab his wand at the button labelled ‘Ministry Officials’. It’s right at the top, Harry knows. A long ride. He tries to shrink in on himself, but he can sense the people either side of him beginning to look him up and down. They always zero in on his forehead, trying to make out the faint scar. 

“Excuse me,” a witch with dark brown lipstick on asks, tapping him lightly with her cherry-red wand. “You’re not… him ?”

They’re all staring now, craning around each other to see his face. Harry gives out a weak, unspecific smile. “Just here on some personal business,” Harry says as tactfully as he can. 

“Oh my God,” the brown-lipped woman replies. “I just… I can’t believe it. You’re Harry Bloody Potter!”

Several intakes of breath around him. Harry tries for a laugh; it comes out wonky. “My middle name’s James actually.” 

“It’s an honour,” a cheery, balding wizard says from the other side of him, holding out his hand. 

The lift comes to a stop and the doors open, but nobody makes a move to get out. They all stick themselves to the sides of the lift in fact, leaving Harry enough space in the centre that he could whirl around, arms spread, if he chose. 

Polite as ever, Harry shakes the balding wizard’s hand. The poor bloke looks down at it, awestruck, when Harry releases him. “Blimey,” he says, wriggling his fingers, “I feel I should… express my thanks. On behalf of my family, y’know.” 

“Oh, that’s really not necessary-”

“And mine,” another wizard says, this one hook-nosed and dark. “My nephew, Franklin Vane, he was in your year at Hogwarts. A Hufflepuff. Lost him in the war, but he looked up to you-”

“My sister Clarice was kidnapped by Snatchers for being non-pure,” a small, mousey witch sniffles from behind him, “they wouldn’t release her, even when I produced her birth certificate. She’s still missing, but I know you did what you could…”

“I lost my grandfather-”

“My best friend-” 

“The toes on my left foot-”

Finally, finally , the lift doors ping open, and a blessed, bell-like voice sings out “Offices of Ministry Officials”. Harry bolts out of the door, turning on his heel to shout into the sealing lift: “your friends and family were all heroes! Excuse me, but I have to run.” 

It’s hardly one of his better sign-offs, but it will do. Thankfully, this floor is more or less deserted, aside from the gnarled Goblin at the end of the long hallway, who works as Hermione’s secretary, stationed at the desk outside her door. Harry walks along the corridor of closed office doors towards hers, reading them as he goes. ‘Foreign Magical Correspondent’, ‘Head of Magical Trials’, ‘Head of Muggle Affiliation’ ...

By the time Harry is standing before the Goblin, whose name is escaping him, he’s quite exhausted.  The caffeine from the pot of coffee he’d drained in his classroom this morning, courtesy of a sweet-talked Castle Elf, has worn off. He stands for at least a minute, staring at the imposing, redwood door in front of him, with a plaque reading ‘Minister for Magic’. He’s swaying slightly on his feet, waiting, but the Goblin does not look up. 

Harry clears his throat. “Um, I’m here to see the Minister?” 

The Goblin continues writing slowly on a piece of parchment. The long quill is scarlet, Phoenix-like. “Appointment?” 

“No, but-”

“The Minister cannot see you without an appointment.” 

“She’ll see me,” Harry argues, wishing the Goblin would just lift his head and see that it’s Harry Bloody Potter standing before him so that he doesn’t have to drop his own name like some sort of diva. “We’re friends.”

“Come back with an appointment,” the Goblin says, undeterred. 

“Oh for God’s- Hermione!” Harry shouts, not daring to step any further, knowing all too well how vicious Goblins can be if tested. He lifts his voice even louder; the Goblin looks up, incensed. “Hermione! Can you call off your guard! It’s me!” 

The door is wrenched open, revealing a fraught-looking Hermione, terrified by the noise. When she sees Harry she relaxes, but he still feels bad. She probably gets her fair share of troublemakers, attempting to barge in and begin kicking and screaming. Hermione’s generally well-liked by the liberal majority of Wizarding Britain, but there are still those that ferociously oppose her, as with any newly elected official. The purebloods that are not in Azkaban or worse, for example, despise her. Understandably, Hermione does not cope well with conflict and violent threats after the war. None of Harry’s friends really do. 

“Rookshaw, it’s okay,” Hermione says; Harry attempts to tattoo the name onto his brain so that he can sweet-talk the Goblin next time. Rookshaw, Rookshaw, Rookshaw . “It’s Harry, I know him. He can come in anytime, as long as I’m not in a meeting.” 

Rookshaw snarls. “ Harry does not have an appointment.” 

“It’s okay,” Hermione says again, signalling urgently for Harry to step into the office. “He’s an exception. Like Ron.” 

At the mention of Ron’s name, Rookshaw makes a noise of distaste. It’s obvious that his best friend has a similar difficulty getting in to see Hermione, despite their marriage certificate. Harry slips past the Goblin before any further protests can be made, and Hermione shuts the door behind him, both of them giggling quietly. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, back against the redwood, “it’s a daily struggle. But I daren’t replace him, he’s so scary that no one dares try and sneak past him. It’s helpful when I don’t particularly want to hash things out with some disgruntled Head of Department.” 

She pushes herself off the door, straightening her fitted red blazer as she walks back across the spacious office towards her desk. It’s cluttered, but not in the same way Harry’s is. Even Hermione’s mess is organised, somehow. She has stacks of papers on one side, which are magically piling higher with a steady stream of unfurling parchment scrolls floating in from a sort of shimmering letterbox cut into the air. 

The walls are lined with bookshelves, above which hang big, imposing portraits of former Ministers, all of whom stare down at Harry, unabashedly scrutinising him. There’s a fireplace in here too, which makes Harry’s heart sing in relief, as this presumably means there’s a floo exit, and he won’t need to fight his way back through the lobby. 

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” Hermione says, taking her seat in the high-backed, velvet cushioned Minister’s chair. She’s so slight that it should dwarf her, but somehow she fills the space, her hands resting on the arms, her legs uncrossed, her back straight. She looks right, sat there, like it’s the place she was always meant to be. On the lip of the desk, nearest Harry, is a gold, glinting nameplate reading ‘Hermione Jean Granger: Minister For Magic’. “Is this a friendly visit, or am I about to be very sorry I ever walked into your carriage on the Hogwarts Express looking for a toad?” 

Harry laughs, treading across her expensive-looking rug to sit in one of the armchairs opposite her. The large desk cuts between them, which feels a little odd, but he tries not to let it impose on him. This is Hermione, he reminds himself. He’s seen her waking up in a sleeping bag in a tent in the woods, hair every which way and drool on her chin. He’s also seen her spooning Ron on the floor of Grimmauld Place, which was equally jarring. 

“Mostly friendly,” he assures her, catching the eye of Cornelius Fudge to his left, whose rounded chin juts out in what Harry assumes is disapproval. “Er, but I did want to ask you something.” 

“Oh?” she asks just as an owl waddles through her open window, a letter in its beak. She takes it distractedly, but doesn’t open it. “What’s that?” 

She places the letter before her on the desk, her eyes occasionally darting back to it. Harry smiles at his dear friend’s polite character battling her equally strong urge to complete her work. 

“Do you have any snacks?” 

She laughs, sinking back into her chair. “Glad you asked, I’m famished. I often work straight through lunch. Is it lunch time? I’ve lost track.”

Harry shrugs. “Around lunch, I think.” 

She waves her wand, summoning an Elf that presumably works in some Ministry building kitchen. “Hello Gretha,” Hermione says, “would my friend and I be able to get a snack brought up? Some tea and coffee too, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

Gretha nods, unsubtly sending an awed glance Harry’s way before disapparating with a crack. It makes Hermione chuckle, and she reaches for the letter on her desk, her politeness having lost the battle. 

“I’m surprised you made it up here unscathed,” she comments, slicing the envelope seal with her wand. “Weren’t you mobbed in the lobby?” 

“Pretty much,” Harry answers. “S’getting very old, being the Chosen One post-puberty.” 

“Yes, yes, woe is you,” she mutters, frowning at the open letter in her hands. 

Harry smiles, relishing her unsympathetic response. He needs this. Normalcy. It’s no wonder celebrities lose their heads, when they’re treated like Gods every minute of the day. They should all be assigned Hermiones and Rons to keep their heads from inflating. And Malfoys too, come to think of it. Draco Malfoy definitely helps deflate any ego he has. 

“So, you came here to ask me if I had any snacks?” Hermione asks just as Gretha reappears. 

The Elf is laden with a tea tray, upon which is a tea pot, a coffee pot, four cups, a biscuit tin, a plate of sandwiches, a bowl of crackers and cheese, and a few apples. Gretha places the tray on the desk, and Harry lunges for a sandwich, only now realising how hungry he is. Hermione is not far behind him, though she goes for the cheese and crackers. 

“Would Sir Harry Potter like tea or coffee?” Gretha asks, her voice wobbling. 

“Oh, no please, that’s okay, I can-”

“No, no, it’s okay Harry,” Hermione says, spewing a few cracker crumbs over the letter on the desk in front of her. “She’s not a slave. She gets a full living wage, and has fixed working hours. It’s all very reasonable, isn’t that right, Gretha?”

“Yes, Minister,” Gretha replies with a bow of the head. Harry notices for the first time that Greta is wearing white chef uniform, complete with the little chef’s hat. “Gretha is able to spend time with her children. Thank you, Minister.”

“You’re more than welcome, Gretha.” She drops her voice to a kind whisper. “I’ll have tea, thank you. Harry- coffee?” He nods, and Hermione smiles as Gretha sets about pouring them with waves of her small hands. “It was the first new law I passed,” Hermione explains. “House Elf rights. The Hogwarts Elves are the same, they all get paid, work in shifts, et cetera.”

“I’m proud of you,” Harry tells her truthfully. Gretha bows at them both, drinks poured, and disapparates with another loud crack. Hermione sighs comfortably, relaxing again now that they’re alone. “To answer your question,” Harry says, pouring milk into his coffee, and Hermione’s tea, “there was something else I wanted to ask about.” 

“Shoot,” Hermione says, then checks a watch she had apparently forgotten she was wearing. “But make it a relatively quick shoot.” She gives him an apologetic glance. “Meetings, y’know?” 

She stuffs another cheese cracker into her mouth, washing it down with tea. Harry chews his lip, wondering how to phrase this. “It’s about… Draco Malfoy.” 

Hermione pauses, lips around the rim of her mug. Her eyes shine with amusement. “Sorry, have we travelled back to sixth year?” 

Harry rolls his eyes, then reaches for another sandwich. “Ha ha. I just… I never heard what happened to him. After the trial.” 

For whatever reason, the question doesn’t seem to particularly phase Hermione, and Harry is grateful. She shrugs, going for an apple. “Not a whole lot, I don’t think. He lives at the Manor with Narcissa still, although she’s hardly ever there according to Ron. She’s usually staying in their Cornwall beach house, or one of their other luxurious properties that ought to be stripped and sold.” 

Harry’s frown deepens with everything she’s saying. “Err, what? How would Ron know where Narcissa Malfoy is spending her days?” 

Hermione blinks, mouth open, about to bite into the shiny red apple in her hand. “He’s her assigned Parole Auror. Did you not know that?” 

“No,” Harry replies, feeling blighted. A sharp crunch sound as Hermione’s teeth break the apple’s flesh. “Is he Draco’s, too?” 

“No, no,” Hermione says around a mouthful, waving her hand in the air. “That’s…” she thinks, swallowing. “I can’t actually remember who his Auror is, off the top of my head, but it was decided - mostly by me - that Ron would have a conflict of interest.” 

“Yeah, that was probably a wise decision,” Harry agrees. “Um, but going back to Draco-” Hermione titters, her teeth sinking into the apple again. Harry just sends her a withering look. “Is he, um, working here? For the Ministry?” 

“How did you know that?” Hermione asks sharply, lowering the fruit. 

She’s shifted into authority-mode, and it’s as impressive as it is scary. Her tone is sharper, her expression suddenly devoid of any light-hearted joviality. She’s detected a note of something that doesn’t fit right, and Harry sees, suddenly, why she does so well in this ultimate leadership role. He also feels rather sorry for Ron, who must get in trouble with his wife more than most husbands might. 

“Well, you told me in passing once,” Harry reminds her, and she relaxes again, apple back to her lips. “But he’s also working on some kind of Ministry assignment at Hogwarts right now.” He lets the words tumble out in a rush, then takes a long drink of coffee. Hermione is staring, obviously seeking more information. Harry resists as long as he can stand it, but inevitably, he breaks. “I’m helping him. As a favour to McGonogall. He’s brewing this potion, a really rare one. It needs a special flower that only grows in the Forbidden Forest. I saw his Ministry forms, though, Herm. I checked it was legit. Horace Slughorn signed it. And, erm, you did, actually.” 

Hermione shakes her head, perplexed. “I… vaguely remember Slughorn pushing a form at me, blabbing about sending a freelance employee to Hogwarts for some reason. But I don’t remember him saying that it was Draco Malfoy. You think that might have given me reason to pause, especially knowing that you-” she breaks off. Harry tilts his head to one side, wishing she’d complete that sentence. “Anyway, I suppose it’s possible he sneaked that little detail under my nose. Sorry, Harry. If I’d been more on the ball I’d have obviously warned you-”

“Oh, no no,” Harry jumps in. “I’m not telling you off, Herm. I’m just… seeking information. Nothing more than curiosity.” 

Hermione takes a deep breath in. On her exhale, she chuckles, scrubbing at her tired eyes. “Gosh, history truly does repeat itself, doesn’t it?” She stares at Harry fondly. “Strange to think of the two of you, bickering in the Hogwarts Potions classroom again.” 

“That’s an unfortunately accurate description,” Harry says, grimacing. 

“Well, I don’t know a lot more than what you seem to know already, I’m afraid,” Hermione says in a rounding-up sort of voice. She begins levitating the cups and plates back onto the tea tray - a clear signal that it’s time Harry thought about leaving. “Draco is living in the Manor, I know that. He’s employed here as a Dark Arts Consultant and Freelance Potioneer. What else… he wears his hair in a ponytail sometimes?” 

“Yeah, I’ve clocked that,” Harry says, mouth twisting in uncertainty. He’s still not quite sure whether he likes Malfoy’s change of hairstyle, though he does keep having that weird urge to tuck the loose strands that fall out behind his ears. “Weird.” 

Hermione giggles like its a naughty secret. “I’ve heard he uses Sleekeasy’s now.”

“Come off it,” Harry laughs, though he’s not entirely sure Hermione is joking. “And… what about his parole? What are the conditions?”

“Oh, that I can answer,” Hermione says brightly, holding up a slender hand to tick things off on her fingers. “Associates of Ex-Death Eaters receive twenty years of weekly Parole visitation, random illegal substance testing, heavy limitation on use of Portkeys, monthly wand-cast record checks, and they must hold at least a part-time job to occupy their time.” 

She beams at Harry, pleased to have remembered everything. Harry smiles back, though it probably doesn’t seem very genuine. He had no idea that the punishment was so harsh for the Malfoy family outside of Lucius. Twenty years of weekly Parole visits, likely from an Auror who would hate their guts, must be tough to endure with a polite smile. And Merlin knows that Draco Malfoy has never been much good at polite smiles. 

“The Portkey thing, what’s that?” Harry asks. “He mentioned wanting to travel but not being able to. Is that…”

Hermione studies him for a moment, then her face softens. “He’s not allowed out of the country, Harry.”

“Until the twenty years is up?” 

Hermione shifts. “No. Ever.” 

“What?” Harry genuinely balks at this information. “But that’s…” 

“If he’s out of the country, he’s out of our jurisdiction,” Hermione says. “A lot of the Ex-Death Eater suspects fled Britain after the war. They’re out there right now, and we’re powerless to stop them from banding together again, creating a new army-” 

“But Draco isn’t going to do that!” Harry finds himself protesting. He thinks of the agonised expression on Draco’s face when Harry had stupidly touched his Dark Mark. There was no mistaking the abject shame for what it was. “He was a kid when the war was going on. He didn’t actually believe in Voldemort’s genocidal plan, not the way his father did anyway. He was manipulated into following orders, but now-”

“Harry,” Hermione interrupts, soft but unmistakably firm. “We can’t make exceptions. It’s a shame for Draco, you’re probably right. But he did do terrible things in the war, and he was part of a group that did worse. We have to hold him and the others accountable.” 

Harry huffs, but knows that he hasn’t the energy nor the necessary knowledge for any argument he throws back at Hermione Granger - Queen of the debate - to hold any weight. He can broach the topic with her at another time, when he’s gathered more ammunition - if he still feels inclined to once Draco Malfoy has worn his patience down over the course of two long weeks.  The silence stretches. Harry stands from his seat, disliking that he has to leave in this atmosphere of tension, but knowing he has no choice. Hermione will be swamped with meetings and memos the second he floo’s out of here. 

“What’s the potion?” Hermione asks, an edge of desperation in her voice as she flings an olive branch at him. 

Harry’s had such a pleasant time with her up until now that he accepts it gratefully, one hand on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. 

“It’s called Fatum Amare ,” he replies, shrugging. “I’d never heard of it, but apparently it’s quite-” 

The look of dismay on Hermione’s face stoppers his mouth. “Oh, gosh Harry,” she says in a rush of breath. “Be careful. Are you… is it just the two of you?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

She scoots her chair backwards, standing up. Her knee-length skirt, red to match her blazer, magically smooths of its creases, perfectly neat and smart as she walks, heading for a section of her bookshelves. She mutters to herself as she searches the spines, then plucks one out, turning towards him. He takes it from her as she approaches the fireplace, frowning down at the cover. 

‘Encyclopedia of Rare and Mythical Concoctions: Volume II, F - L’.

“I don’t really have time to explain why you need to proceed with caution,” Hermione tells him, “but promise me you’ll read up on it, okay? The brewing process in particular.”

“Are we in danger?” Harry asks, flipping the book over and wondering if he should tell Hermione that they’re already two days in, and whether she might reply with ‘oops, well, nice knowing you’ . 

“‘We’, is it?” Hermione asks, eyebrow cocking. Harry makes a strange sort of snorting noise instead of replying, and Hermione shakes her head. “You’re fine as long as you know what to look out for. Read this.” She taps the book with her wand. Harry nods, turning towards the fire, hand already reaching into the urn where she keeps her floo powder. “You know,” Hermione says, making him pause, one foot in the grate. There’s a tiny smirk on his friend’s face. “I used to think that maybe…” 

“What?” 

She giggles, a schoolgirl again for a brief second. “Maybe the reason you were so obsessed with Draco Malfoy was because you actually liked him.” She gives him a knowing look. “ Like -liked him.” 

Harry waits for the surge of nausea to rise into his throat, but it doesn’t come. He makes a retching noise anyway, sure that his mind is just sluggish from weariness. “Excuse me while I upchuck Gretha’s sandwiches onto your expensive rug.”

She grins. “You might not be saying that soon if you’re not careful. Read the book, Harry. I urge you.” 

She waves, shooing him away with a smile and a blown kiss, then turns back to her desk. Harry calls out “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Potions Office,” as clearly as he can, then chucks the floo powder at his feet. 

*

Harry stumbles through the following day in a bit of a haze. His sleep pattern is worse than ever, thanks to the nightmares that continue to plague him, keeping him from ever truly achieving rest. Thankfully it’s a Saturday, so he’s not hindering any students from learning, but he does zone out several times in his office, quill poised in the air, dripping an enormous puddle of red ink over a stack of student essays. 

He moves to the library after that in the hopes that a change of scenery will help, and a spontaneous last minute decision means that he carries the book Hermione lent him to a desk by the window near the Restricted Section, along with his piles of half-complete lesson plans and the rest of the un-stained, unmarked essays.  Once he’s slogged through a fair chunk of his work, he decides to take a break and open up the Encyclopedia of Rare and Mythical Concoctions. He finds the entry for Fatum Amare easily, as it’s right at the beginning. The section takes up a full page, although under the heading of ‘Recipe’ it simply says ‘unknown’. There’s an illustration of the Flos de Studium as well, the pink flowers dotted about in swirling, writhing watercolour between chunks of text. Harry scrubs his hands over his eyes, and starts to read. 

Fatum Amare  is a rare potion dating back to the fourteenth century. It is believed to have first been invented by Franziska Grindelwald, a witch particularly skilled in crafting potions and spells relating to romance, fate, foretelling, and the reveal of one’s desire. 

Harry’s eyebrows raise at the name ‘Grindelwald’, making a mental note to come back to that later. 

Although Fatum Amare became enormously popular in the years following its invention, it fell largely out of favour once Franziska Grindelwald ’s initial batch was exhausted, and she discovered that she would need to wait ten lunar cycles in order to harvest the elusive key ingredient, Flos de Studium . The flower is in itself known for its rarity and potent ‘love’ simulating effect when ingested. (For more information about Flos de Studium , see page 22.)

Fatum Amare differs from other ‘love’ potions in that, when consumed, it will not cause the drinker to experience emotions of ‘love’ further than those they already feel. The object of the potion is to reveal, rather than create, romantic attraction. It is a potion dedicated to unveiling one’s ‘soulmate’ - the person that perfectly complements one’s own personality, ambition, thought-pattern, sexual compatibility, et cetera. 

The potion is allegedly highly effective, however due to the rare ingredients and extremely difficult brewing process, Fatum Amare has not been available for legal purchase for hundreds of years. In the early 1800’s, a Scottish wizard named Finnigan Montgomery managed to brew a single batch of Fatum Amare , which he then sold for 15,000 galleons in the currency of the time. The buyer, Lydia C. Albright, drank the entirety of the potion and consequently drove herself to insanity upon realising that her alleged ‘soulmate’ was married to another. Ms Albright eventually murdered the man she believed she was fated to love, along with his family, including their two children. After the Ministry of Magic learned of the tragic story, a nation-wide warrant was issued for any further vials of Fatum Amare to be handed in and analysed by the Department of Potions, but none have since been found. 

The potion is, to this day, considered highly dangerous. Whilst not illegal, Fatum Amare is known to cause potential madness, suicidal tendencies, literal heartbreak, and untold pain for any witch or wizard that ingests it. The potion is also rumoured to be within the Mind Altering and/or Influencing category of Potion Brewing (more information about potions in this category can be found on page 111). 

Suggested side-effects of brewing the potion include: hallucinations, delusions, lucid dreams, involuntary truth-telling, an irrepressible desire for physical contact, nausea, Amortentia-like temporary feelings of devotion for nearby persons, feelings of intoxication, feelings of lust, feelings of avid hunger, and most dangerous of all, a strong urge to drink the potion itself. 

(List of side-effects are inferred from the brewing notes of Franziska Grindelwald and Finnigan Montgomery). 

Harry lifts his head, heart hammering. He reads the list of side effects again, then a third time, always stuttering over Amortentia-like feelings of devotion for nearby persons and feelings of lust. Is he seriously going to start throwing himself at Draco fucking Malfoy, trying to hump his leg or something? Or perhaps Draco Malfoy will start trying to hump his leg. He tries to figure out which would be worse, but can’t. 

Just then, a huge, old book thwacks down onto the desk beside him. Harry’s head snaps round, red-cheeked as though he’s been caught reading something pornographic. Draco Malfoy, the very man Harry has just been thinking about humping his leg, pours his long, graceful body into the chair beside him, looking rather too good in his casual attire than Harry can quite deal with at the moment. He’s trying not to look, but he’s pretty sure Malfoy is wearing black jeans. Jeans . 

“Potter,” Malfoy says by way of greeting, then opens the enormous book in front of him. It’s crammed with tiny lines of script; Harry’s eyes hurt just glancing at it, but Malfoy seems unperturbed. “Weighing up some young potioneers’ futures?” 

Harry stares at him blankly, still reeling from the onslaught of awful information he’s just crammed into his brain about the potion he and Malfoy are in the middle of making. Malfoy stares back at him, then inclines his head towards the stack of papers Harry still hasn’t finished marking. The movement makes two strands - two , for Merlin’s sake - of Malfoy’s hair fall from their places, bouncing off his high cheekbones before settling at his temples. 

“I know what the potion is for,” Harry blurts. 

A lot of the reason for his bluntness is to distract himself from reaching up and tucking those bits of hair behind Malfoy’s ears. He sits on his hands as an extra precaution. Malfoy looks up at him briefly, assessing, then drags his silver eyes back to the dull book. 

“Brilliant as ever, Potter. You’ve only had, what, three days to look it up for yourself?” 

Harry splutters. “You said it was classified!” 

“And I of course told you as much with total confidence that you would never dare to go behind my back and use your name and whatever brain cells you do possess to find out anyway.” 

His voice is dry and sarcastic, the same as ever, but Harry hasn’t the time to be mad about Malfoy being Malfoy. He’s too busy being mad that Malfoy has kept the severe threat they’re both under when brewing in that classroom entirely to himself. 

“Well, I did do that,” Harry snaps, though he clearly need not have pointed that out. “And I found out a fucking lot more than you were clearly ever going to share, despite-”

Malfoy closes his dreary book with a suffering sigh. “What on earth has got you so wound up, Potty? Are you sitting on a fizzing whizbee again?” 

“Look!” Harry says, shoving the Encyclopedia along the desk towards Malfoy, and jabbing a finger at the side-effects of Fatum Amare . “These are whilst brewing , Malfoy. Any one of these could have happened to either one of us, and you were just choosing to keep that to yourself!” 

Malfoy’s forehead is creased as he reads. The strands of white-blond hair are dangling in the air now, circling above the page as Malfoy’s head tips forwards to read closely. 

“These are just suggested side-effects,” he says, infuriatingly calm. “Like I said, Potter,” Malfoy says slowly, as if speaking to a half-wit. “This potion hasn’t been reliably written about by anyone, as it hasn’t been around for hundreds of years. These so-called side-effects are simply guesses. Estimations at best, taken from the ramblings of a Grindelwald ancestor,” Malfoy has the decency to grimace at the name, at least, “and this Montgomery fellow, who is almost certainly a charlatan, pretending he brewed the potion in order to ease the charge against a murderous madwoman.” 

Something about his breezy, nonplussed response knocks the wind out of Harry’s sails. His shoulders release their tension, and he pulls the book back towards him, chastened. He was going to further his argument by telling Malfoy that he’s pretty sure he’s already experiencing one or two of these side-effects, but now he holds his tongue. 

“Well, we need to be careful,” Harry insists, though he’s not even convincing himself very well. 

“Have you not been careful thus far?” 

“No, of course I have, but-” 

“Potter, if you lunge for me with puckered lips over the workbench, I’ll be sure to stupefy you into submission, alright?” 

Harry glares at him, but reluctantly acquiesces. “I get to do the same to you.” 

Malfoy smirks again. He reaches up and tucks one of the fallen strands behind his ear, then opens his book again. “Sure.” 

Harry tries to go back to his marking and lesson plans, but finds that having Malfoy beside him, breathing softly and being strangely quiet is keeping him from concentrating. He’s not used to passive silences with Malfoy. He’s used to loud arguments and fired spells and immediate, on-sight attacks. It’s not unpleasant, exactly, but it is distracting. 

He catches the eye of Madam Pince, who has harboured a private dislike for him ever since she discovered he stole a book from the Restricted Section in first year. She narrows her eyes at him now, levitating books onto shelves without looking. Harry sighs, then admits defeat. He turns to Malfoy and whispers, “see you later on.”

Malfoy waves him away with an irritated flap of his hand and Harry gets up, gathers his things, and heads back to his office. 

Chapter Text

Harry wakes up just before eight. He only knows the time because the loud ‘crack’ of a suddenly appearing Castle Elf is the thing that yanks him out of his nightmare - the Triwizard Trophy, filled with clear, watery poison that dissolves Harry’s gums and throat with each agonising sip - to gather empty coffee cups, and garbles the hour at him when he asks. He then sprints to the Potions Classroom, but ends up getting there before Malfoy has even arrived, somehow. Exhausted, he carefully levitates their cauldron down from where its hovering in the alcoves, encased in a bubble-charm of regulated conditions. He pops the bubble with a swift flick of his wand, and sets the cauldron up on their usual workbench. Just as he’s done this, Malfoy sweeps in, kicking the door closed behind him with his foot. Today, he carries a load of ingredients, a textbook, his own notes, and a large bottle of Firewhiskey. 

Harry raises his eyebrows at the bottle, which Malfoy promptly plonks down onto the workbench between them, along with everything else. He’s got a dab of ink on the corner of his lower lip; Harry zeroes in on it without meaning to, and Malfoy has to snap his fingers in front of Harry’s face to get him to pay attention. 

“Come along, you can’t be zoning out today,” Malfoy says, irritably. “This is a delicate part of the process. Do you need some Invigoration Draught?”

“No,” Harry tells him, hoping it’s true. “I’m fine. What do we have to do?” 

“We’re going to add some Firewhiskey over a high heat,” Malfoy says, unscrewing the cap of the bottle. “The alcohol should burn off, but the intoxication element should remain. After that, we’ll turn the heat down, leave it for a full eight hours. But we’ll have to come back after that. It’s crucial that we add the first two ounces of Flos de Studium at this stage-”

“Wait, wait, did you say we have to get up and come back here at…” Harry counts on his fingers. “... five in the morning ?” 

“Yes.” Malfoy looks around himself, bottle in hand. “I presume you have a set of measuring cups somewhere in this classroom?”

Kissing his chances of getting a decent sleep tonight goodbye, Harry slinks off to fetch a set of measuring cups from a glass cabinet near the front of the class. He brings them back to Malfoy, then sits on a stool, sulking, while Malfoy pours out one hundred millilitres of Firewhiskey. 

“Do you actually need me here?” Harry finds himself asking, grumpily. 

Malfoy screws the lid of the bottle back on. “I’m assuming you are not a natural early riser.”

“It’s just… what do you really need me to do? I’m basically only watching.”

“It will get more complicated in the later stages. Temperature regulations and precise incantations…” he trails off, lighting the flame under the cauldron, and turning the flame up until it is a vibrant orange and red. “If you’re really vexed, Potter, I can manage alone. You’re mostly here because this is, as you mentioned several times, an area you have expertise in. And you quite vehemently insisted you could be of help.” 

Harry shrinks down into the stool. He did say he would help. If that help is just watching to ensure Malfoy doesn’t slip up, that can’t be changed. “Yeah, sorry. I’m just tired and grumpy.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond, but he does run a marginally concerned gaze over Harry’s face before lifting the measure of Firewhiskey. He peers into the cauldron to ensure the potion is bubbling, then pours the Firewhiskey in. Immediately, a shock of bright lilac flames shoot upwards; Malfoy stumbles backwards, knocking over a nearby stool. Harry jumps up, heart in his throat, wand raised. The flames disappear in seconds, and Harry sprints around the workbench to Malfoy’s side. He resists the urge to grab ahold of him, to steady him, as Malfoy has twice reacted badly to Harry touching him. 

“Are you alright?” Harry asks, urgency flavouring his voice. 

Malfoy is breathing harder than usual, and his face is a bit pink, but he seems otherwise unscathed. “Yes, yes,” he says, tetchily, flapping Harry away. “Should have seen that coming, given the name of the drink.” 

Harry laughs - a mildly hysterical sound. “Here,” he says, grabbing the bottle and holding it out to Malfoy, who is now righting the knocked stool. “Take a sip. It’ll settle your nerves.” 

He’s half joking, but to his surprise Malfoy takes the bottle from him. He unscrews the cap and takes a polite sip, then hands it back. Harry puts it down, eyeing Malfoy warily. “There’s three more measures to go,” Malfoy says with a grimace. “You can do the next one.” 

*

At precisely four-fifty in the morning, a knock sounds on Harry’s door. He’s been expecting it, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less terrible. Sleep had been sort of there, stroking Harry’s forehead with a vague promise that she’d try to drag him under, but he’d still been very aware of his surroundings, as he had been since slipping into bed at just after nine. 

Getting to sleep in his own bed has been difficult for Harry for some time, mostly due to the anxiety of possibly waking up his neighbours with his bloodcurdling screams in the middle of the night. But Malfoy had insisted they get some sleep before coming back to the potion at five, and Harry couldn’t exactly say that he’d go back to his office to nap in his chair. So, he’d followed Malfoy up to the Ravenclaw tower, listened to him rave about how unfair it was that the eagle knocker didn’t ask Harry a riddle - “...the amount of bloody minutes of my life I have wasted over the past few days trying to piece together some nonsensical puzzle thought up by a gargoyle, and you just swan through like you’re Rowena Ravenclaw herself! I tell you it’s not right- ” - and ducked into his own room without so much as a “sleep tight”. 

Harry had lain awake for hours, not sure if he wanted to try and sleep or not, and at some point must have dozed into a semi-sleep. The knock on his door is, in one way, a relief, after that. He struggles out of bed and into some clothes, pulls on a hoodie, and opens the door. 

“Ready?” Malfoy asks, then drops his eyes to Harry’s chest. 

He looks as if he might comment on the hoodie, but seems to think better of it, then turns to head down the corridor. Malfoy is wearing soft, light grey jogging bottoms and a black cotton t-shirt. It’s bizarre to see him this way, but Harry is slowly growing used to his casual attire, which is still a stretch to call completely casual. The materials of his lounge clothes are expensive and well-made, probably even tailored to fit his unusually slim, tall frame just like the rest of his wardrobe.  

As he walks behind Malfoy through the castle, Harry studies the cling of the fabric as it wraps around Malfoy’s legs and back, seeming to have just the right amount of give to allow comfort, whilst still fitting him perfectly. Malfoy is all long lines and lean muscle; clothes fit him differently to Harry, who has a fair amount of muscular bulk to him nowadays - a result of the impromptu Professor-only Quidditch matches Neville often sets up, and sleepless nights spent running through the fields around the castle grounds, trying to tire himself out enough that he’ll actually sleep. 

The Potions Classroom is dark, so Malfoy conjures a load of candles, which he floats up into the air above them, and scatters on a few of the workbenches surrounding theirs. The cauldron is still simmering on its low flame, the sharp, ashen scent of the Firewhiskey filling the air around them, and with it that faint aroma of Harry’s trio of Amortentia smells. Liquorice hits him first, then the mahogany, then the treacle tart. He sighs in appreciation, inhaling it all, then takes his usual seat on the stool the other side of the workbench. Malfoy goes to the cupboard and pulls out a pestle and mortar. He places it in front of Harry, then chucks the green pouch he’d filled with flowers days before onto the table. 

“You were complaining that you had nothing to do,” Malfoy says, smiling serenely. “These need to be ground into a fine powder.” 

Harry smiles back, too tired to argue, and glad to have something to occupy him. He unties the pouch and shakes some of the flowers into the mortar. Malfoy watches him, holding a hand up when he’s emptied enough of the flowers, and Harry sets to work grinding them with the pestle.

“What are you gonna do while I’m powdering these up, then?” Harry asks around a yawn. 

Malfoy is setting up a second, smaller cauldron atop another low flame. He keeps flicking glances at Harry, his expression pinched and unreadable, at least for Harry’s tired brain to decipher. 

“I’m brewing Veritaserum,” Malfoy replies. Harry opens his mouth, about to remind him about the need to let Veritaserum mature for a full lunar cycle, but Malfoy gets there first. “I have left the Eyebright herb out in direct moonlight for a month. It’s ready for use.”

Harry nods, impressed with the initiative. He yawns again, still pestling. They settle into an easy silence, broken only by the grind of Harry’s pestle against stone and flower parts, and the soft bubbling of the two cauldrons. 

“What does it mean,” Malfoy asks, aiming that same funny expression Harry’s way, “‘she got off the plane’? Who got off the plane?” 

Harry stops grinding, realising with creeping amusement that Malfoy is referring to his hoodie. He chuckles, looking down at the picture on the front of his chest. 

“It’s a reference to a Muggle television show.” 

He expects Malfoy to sniff at the concept of a wizard repping Muggle media, but he just continues staring, obviously curious. 

“Ross and Rachel,” Harry elaborates, pointing to their faces on his hoodie. “They’re this on again off again couple throughout all ten seasons. But you’re expected to root for them to eventually get together, really. In the last episode, there’s this whole cliché drama where Rachel almost flies to Paris and leaves Ross for good, but realises at the last second, when she’s already on the plane, that she wants to stay make it work.” Harry badly wants to giggle at Malfoy’s face, at the frown of concentration that’s formed as he tries to follow the storyline. “So Ross is at home, agonising, like ‘did she get off the plane, did she get off the plane?’ ...” 

Harry trails off, gesturing to his hoodie again. Malfoy nods, understanding. “She got off the plane.” 

He resumes making his Veritaserum, apparently satisfied with the conclusion of this story. Harry laughs again, in a gust of exhaled air, and goes back to grinding. “Guess some people don’t need soulmate potion to know who they’re meant to be with, eh?”

Malfoy makes a derisive noise. “Don’t tell me you actually believe in this nonsense, Potter.” 

Harry stops pestling again, mouth open. “Are you saying you don’t? When you’re putting all this effort into a literal soulmate revealing potion?” 

“It’s not for me , is it?” Malfoy says with a scoff. “This is a Ministry assigned project. I’m being paid for this, you know.” 

“But… this is, like, ancient magic,” Harry says, picking up one of the flowers between his thumb and forefinger. “Real, pure stuff. Cuts to the core.” 

“How could you possibly determine how effective something is based on its age? Christ, you sound like my father,” Malfoy gripes. 

Anger shoots like venom into Harry’s blood, but he channels it back into pestling, sure that Malfoy feels far worse about what he just said. Sure enough, when Harry regains enough composure to look up at him, he’s turned an interesting shade of grey. His eyes track over Harry’s face, gauging his reaction. 

“I didn’t mean…” Malfoy sighs; his obvious frustration with his outburst is enough to melt the frost that has hardened around Harry’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. My father’s actions are… incomparable. You are not like him. Salazar knows if anyone in this room is like him-”

“Don’t say that,” Harry interjects, rolling his eyes at the theatrics. “You know you aren’t your father, Draco. You share his name, his blinding white hair, a tattoo, and his posh-knob accent, but that’s where the similarities end.” 

Draco doesn’t speak. Harry can sense him looking, can feel his eyes, like silver rock pools, skimming over his face. He doesn’t envy Malfoy’s view, either. He looks a fright, he’s sure, with his unruly hair, his probable stubble, his faded Friends hoodie mismatched with tartan pyjama bottoms. But Malfoy keeps staring. Eventually, Harry can’t stand being the object of such undivided scrutiny. He puts down the pestle, forcing his eyes up to meet Malfoy’s. 

“You’ve grown up,” Harry reminds him. “You’re not a kid, hiding in his shadow anymore. You’re your own person, and I’ve seen it constantly reflected in everything you do since you came back here.”

Malfoy swallows, his pupils oddly large. “Yes, well.” He clears his throat, tearing his gaze away, back to the small cauldron in front of him. “I’m glad the Saviour himself believes me to be properly atoning for my transgressions.” 

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry says tiredly, though there’s no acidity to his voice. He reaches for the half empty bottle of Firewhiskey and unscrews the cap. “I’m having some of this.” 

*

An hour later and the first lot of Harry’s powdered Flos de Studium has been added to the potion. The Veritaserum is nearly ready too; the timer Malfoy has cast will alert them when it is time to add it to the main cauldron. Harry peers into the cloudy, simmering liquid in the smaller cauldron that will gradually become crystal clear, almost indistinguishable from water in both taste and appearance, making it all too easy to slip into someone’s drink without them noticing. A highly illegal practice, of course. 

“Have you ever had Veritaserum?” Harry asks, conversationally. 

Behind him, Malfoy drops a ramekin to the worktop. It does that odd wobble, circling around on its base rim faster and faster until it ceases altogether. They both watch it come slowly to a halt, then Harry looks up. Malfoy doesn’t normally drop things. From the shocked, queasy expression he wears now, Harry is certain that he’s misspoken. 

And then it hits him. 

Merlin, but he’s a fool. 

“Oh, crap,” Harry says, cringing. “I forgot- sorry. Yeah, of course you have.” 

They haven’t broached the subject of the Malfoy family trials yet, but Harry was kind of expecting it to come up at some point. All three Malfoys had been questioned under Veritaserum during their arrest, a somewhat barbaric practice in Harry’s opinion, but one that had been unanimously decided upon by the entire council except for he and Hermione, so it was out of his hands. Malfoy is sat on Harry’s desk, legs crossed, the Firewhiskey open beside him. They’ve both been taking the occasional sip, mostly in an unspoken attempt to transmute their tiredness into tipsiness. They can afford to be a bit less on the ball now that the majority of this session’s work is complete. 

“Not something I generally care to remember,” Malfoy mutters after a while, then lifts the bottle to his lips. 

“What’s it like?” 

Malfoy shoots him a sharp look, but it doesn’t seem to be an angry one. “You’ve never had it?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Umbridge tried to feed it to me once, but it was a dupe. Just water, I think actually.” 

“Hm,” Malfoy says, reaching up to tug the band securing his ponytail out of his hair. 

The release of his blond, silken locks is mesmerising. They fall straight down, no kink in their strands, pouring over his shoulders and neck. He cards a hand through them, pushing the strays from his face, then settles back to lie down on the desk. The whole performance has Harry in a semi-trance; he puts his inability to look away down to one of those pesky side-effects of brewing Fatum Amare that he's read about. He’s thankful, in a sense, that he doesn’t seem to be suffering with anything worse than a developing obsession with Malfoy’s  hair. 

“It’s unpleasant,” Malfoy replies to Harry’s question. “Having no control of what you’re able to verbally impart. You can resist, to an extent, but Aurors are particularly skilled at asking the sorts of probing questions that get you to spew everything.” 

Harry grimaces, trying not to imagine it, but finding that his mind travels there anyway. He’d seen Draco briefly in his holding cell in the dungeons of the Ministry, back when Harry had been part of the council during the post-war trials. Draco had dressed himself in an immaculate, sombre black suit with a waistcoat and velvet cloak, knowing he was to be arrested. It made the sight of him, sat in his barren brick cell, even sadder. 

He imagines Ron, or one of the other Aurors, all of whom loathe the Malfoys with a passion, taking Malfoy by the chin and pouring the potion down his throat. The council tended to look the other way when it came to over-zealous manhandling in those Death Eater interrogations. Harry feels a clawing sensation in his chest. He shouldn’t have let his own anger cloud his morality like the others did. He regrets it, seeing Malfoy’s obvious trauma written so clearly on his beautiful face. 

Harry’s breath catches, replaying his last thought. Beautiful? 

He pushes off the workbench and walks swiftly away from the potion, sure that the fumes are muddling his mind. It means he’s a lot closer to Malfoy, but that can’t be helped. At least he’s within reach of the Firewhiskey now. 

“How about we play a game?” Harry blurts, reaching out and snagging the Firewhiskey before he gets too bogged down in thought. “While we wait. A kind of truth game, but this time without all the horror and non-consent.” 

“A game ?” Malfoy repeats, voice dripping with disdain. 

“Yeah.” Harry takes a swig of Firewhiskey that’s possibly a bit too generous. “It’s called Truth or Dare.” 

Malfoy snorts. “I suppose this is a Muggle game.” 

“Do you want to play or not?” 

Malfoy’s sigh is loud and irritating. “It truly baffles me that your large cranium harbours both the ability to defeat the darkest evil the wizarding world has ever faced, and also a toddler-like inability to go more than half an hour without requiring stimulation.” 

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Harry says, shoving the bottle at him, which Malfoy takes, lazily. “So? Truth or Dare?”

Malfoy turns his head slowly, the bottle of Firewhiskey dangling off the desk in his hand, already a devilish glint in his eye. “Dare.” 

“Fuck,” Harry says, then shakes himself. “Um, I’ve- just, I didn’t think you’d- hang on.” He casts a helpless look around the room, searching for inspiration. He gives up quickly, eyes pulled back to Malfoy, sprawled out on his desk like a full meal, shirt rucked and hair falling over the edge. Desperate with what is fast turning into something horrifyingly close to desire, Harry scrambles through his memories for something truly off-putting. The one that springs to mind is his usual go-to whenever he gets a bit too excited in an inappropriate setting. “A tail,” Harry says quickly, picturing Dudley Dursley tearing around the room with a curly pink spring jutting out of his rear-end. “Conjure yourself a tail.” 

Malfoy sits up, glowering. He takes a drink of Firewhiskey. “You are truly loathsome, you know.” 

He plucks his wand from its holster, and aims the tip - a tad sloppily, Harry notices - at his behind. In moments, a long, scaled, iridescent tail snakes out from beneath his untucked shirt, coiling itself over one shoulder. The tip is a brightly burning green flame. 

“A dragon’s tail,” Harry breathes, not able to hide his awe. Trust Malfoy to pick a creature with such an impressive-looking addendum. “That’s… wow.” 

“I do believe it’s your turn,” Malfoy says with a satisfied smirk. He passes the bottle over, the tail flicking in Harry’s direction. “Truth, Potter, or Dare?” 

“Um,” Harry says, eyes fixed on the tail, warily. “D-dare, I guess.” 

He can’t exactly pick Truth, now that he’s forced Malfoy to do this. Malfoy makes a ‘hmm’ noise, leaning back on his hands. His tail flicks left and right behind him; Harry’s eyes move with it, entranced. Malfoy fingers the pouch of leftover Flos de Studium , attached at his hip again. He pulls it free, then chucks the pouch to Harry. 

“Eat one.” 

“Erm, what?” 

Harry drops the pouch to the workbench beside him like it’s a hot coal. Malfoy’s smirk spreads into an unsettling, but alarmingly attractive, grin. “Just a petal.”

“But I’ll- I’ll try and throw myself at you!” 

Malfoy arches an eyebrow. “Like I said earlier,” he purrs, tail curling in on itself. “In the event that you find your willpower overcome by a teensy flower petal, I’ll be sure to defend myself against your boorish advances.” Harry stares and stares, trying desperately to find some hint of jest in his face, but cannot. Malfoy’s tail flicks toward him again. “Chop chop.” 

Harry picks up the pouch, unsurely. The effects of the flower are said to only last minutes at a time, and a single petal would surely take even less time to find its exit from Harry’s system. Perhaps he could, in fact, prove Malfoy wrong and resist the effects, even. He’s able to block legilimens these days, so surely a tiny flower like this would be nothing in comparison. He bites his lip, considering, hating every inch of his being for ever suggesting this dumb game. The Firewhiskey and exhaustion are not, apparently a good mix with whatever fumes are pumping out of the brewing Fatum Amare. 

He sighs, then tips a single flower out of the velvet pouch, ignoring Malfoy’s smug face. Even his tail seems to dance in a taunting fashion. “Fine,” Harry says, plucking off what looks to be the smallest petal, “but you’d better be ready, Malfoy.” 

He doesn’t clarify what the other man need be ready for , only prays it’s obvious. If Malfoy doesn’t intercept him in time, he could be fully piled in Malfoy’s lap seconds from now. The thought does odd things to his legs, like someone is raking their fingernails down the insides of his thighs. He ignores it, privately telling the Fatum Amare to fuck off. 

“I’ve got my wits firmly about me,” Malfoy assures him, smiling in perfect amusement. His tail is flicking fast now, left and right, like an excitable, scaly dog. 

Harry sighs heavily, sends out a quick prayer for this to be over very, very quickly, and places the petal onto his tongue. He swallows it without tasting, then screws his eyes shut. 

The feeling swells like a cresting tsunami, rushing through every vein, seeping into the darkest corners of his heart. He can feel the heat of a person tantalisingly close by, can hear their heart, can taste their sweat, their energy, misting through the air towards him. His eyes fly open, and he’s on his feet in moments, reaching out for the person, for the most inhumanly stunning creature he’s ever laid eyes on, for the angel, the siren, the love of his goddamned life -

“ Stupefy ,” Malfoy says calmly, wand pointed at Harry’s chest. 

*

When Harry’s eyes open, he is on the floor of his Potions Classroom, and a familiar trill is sounding from a few paces away. 

“ Desisto ,” Malfoy mutters; Harry tilts his head back just in time to see an upside-down Draco Malfoy, back turned to Harry, flick his wand at the shimmering clock face above the large cauldron. His tail is gone, Harry realises in the next moment, sitting up. He blinks, pushes his glasses up his nose, and gets to his feet. “Had to stupefy you,” Malfoy explains without turning around. “You’ve been unconscious for around three minutes. I expect the effects of the flower have worn off, but I suppose we’ll find out depending on whether you try to snog me before I reach the end of this sentence.” 

Harry tries very hard not to move in any way that might be considered an attempt to ‘snog’ Malfoy. His head feels heavier than normal; it’s a struggle to keep it up. There’s a cotton-like texture to his tongue as well, which doesn’t seem to fit in his mouth as well as it once did. Malfoy finishes pouring the Veritaserum into the Fatum Amare mixture, then turns to Harry. His expression tells Harry that whatever happened directly after he’d ingested the flower (Harry is having trouble remembering exactly what) has sobered Malfoy rather significantly. He runs his eyes up and down Harry’s frame, assessing. 

“Well, that seems to have done the trick,” Malfoy says, then casts a cleaning charm on the now empty cauldron in his hands. 

“That was horrible,” Harry croaks, running a hand through his hair. “I want revenge.” 

“Oh,” Malfoy says, sending him a confused glance. “You still… want to play your silly game?” 

Harry shrugs. “Depends. Is there more delightful waiting around?” 

Malfoy shifts from foot to foot, clearly hesitant. “Yes. We have another hour to kill.” 

“Then I’m up for another round,” Harry affirms, already running through the various potions he has in his store room that he could have Malfoy ingest on his next turn. “Truth or Dare?” he asks, hopping up onto a stool, then sending Malfoy a grin. 

Malfoy looks at him, long and hard. His hair has been scraped back into a ponytail again, and he’s neatened his clothing somewhat. The pouch of Flos de Studium is once again hanging at his hip. He looks… harried, in a sense, as if the unexpected reaction of the Flos de Studium had shaken him up. Harry’s about to tell him it’s okay if he’d rather call it quits for now, but then Malfoy nods, chin jerking down once. 

“Truth.” 

“Damn it,” Harry mutters. 

Malfoy titters. “Seems neither option I pick suits you.”

“Shh, I’m thinking.” Harry frowns, looking down at his tartan knees. He’d had a question in mind when he’d brought up the game, he’s sure, but his brain, foggy from being stupefied and addled with various substances, can’t dredge up what it was. At a loss, he thinks of a small thing that had niggled at him when trying to get to sleep a few hours ago. “What do you smell, in the Amortentia?” 

Malfoy shakes his head quickly, once left, once right. “I pick Dare.”

Harry’s eyes widen. He’d actually thought that was a pretty tame question. Something he could maybe draw out of Malfoy at any point, if he thought it would be interesting enough to try.

“No way,” Harry says, catching the thread of something he senses will be juicy. “No changing now, you have to tell me.” 

“No,” Malfoy says simply. 

“It can’t be that bad,” Harry wheedles. “I told you mine!” 

“Yes, which was probably rather foolish of you, considering I have spent most of our time together in the past attempting to humiliate and belittle you.” 

Harry glares. “We’ve been through this. Times have moved on, et cetera.” 

“I’ll tell you why I don’t believe in soulmates instead, if you like,” Malfoy suggests, folding his arms across his chest. 

It makes Harry pause. That might be interesting… but no. It’s only a distraction, a typical Slytherin sleight-of-hand to trick Harry into letting the Amortentia thing go. He doesn’t budge. 

“No deal. Hover your beak over that cauldron and tell me what you smell, Malfoy.” 

Their eyes lock, Malfoy clearly grasping for a way around the inevitable. It’s confusing to see him get worked up over such a tiny thing. After all, Malfoy could just lie. He’s not under Veritaserum now. He could make up some random smells, let Harry tease him for a bit, and then brush it off. But he looks so damned uncomfortable. It’s almost enough to get Harry to back down. Almost. 

“I’ll tell you one,” Malfoy says, eyes pleading. 

“Two,” Harry haggles. “I told you two. And one that I used to smell.” 

Malfoy sighs, pushing his sleeves up. “Fine,” he mutters. “But the information you are about to receive is not to leave this room, and I don’t want to discuss it ever again, are we clear?” 

Suddenly incredibly excited, Harry nods. A grin splits his lips apart, making Malfoy roll his eyes. 

“The first is… coffee.” 

Harry waits for a more detailed description, but this appears to be the extent of it. The word seemed to stick on Malfoy’s tongue as he tried to speak it, so perhaps he’s physically incapable of saying more. It’s a disappointing answer, to say the least. It could relate to practically every adult Harry has ever met. 

“O-kay…” Harry says, making a ‘go on’ gesture with his hand. 

A look of relief flashes, for an instant, over Malfoy’s face. “The second… listen, Potter, this potion is really not proven to be scientifically accurate-”

“Will you spit it out? You’re acting like I’m asking you to break the Statute of Secrecy-”

“Sleekeasy’s,” Malfoy blurts, cheeks very pink all of a sudden. “The hair potion. Obviously.” 

“That’s it?” Harry asks, baffled by Malfoy’s reluctance. “The goop that you can buy in every wizard or witch grooming parlour in Britain?” 

Malfoy nods curtly, averting his eyes. “Can we move on now?” 

“Uh, I guess so, sure,” Harry says, mind still boggling. 

Why on earth was Malfoy so defensive about those two, really startlingly ordinary scents? They’re so generic that Harry suspects even the world’s most brilliant Auror would be hard-pressed to work out who they described. Perhaps it’s the third smell, the one he kept to himself, that truly reveals Malfoy’s object of affection. 

“Truth or Dare, then.” 

“Truth,” Harry says distractedly, having made up his mind to match Malfoy’s answer a while ago. 

“What happened between you and Ginny Weasley?” 

Harry blinks in surprise. “You sure are interested in talking about the Weasleys.” 

“Answer the question, Potty,” Malfoy says, smiling sweetly. 

Harry sighs, tucking his legs beneath him on the stool. “Well, um. She was really cool. And sweet, and kind, and strong. Very strong. The war messed everyone up, but she was a tough shoulder for a lot of people to cry on.” Harry grimaces, mind travelling back to a dark, dark time. “Unfortunately, I was most often the one soaking her shoulder.” 

“It didn’t seem that way,” Malfoy interjects, then adjusts the bluntness of his tone to a gentler one. “In the media, afterwards. All the public appearances you made. The ‘we must move ahead into a brighter future’ speeches. It seemed like you were doing incredibly well, actually. Considering.” 

“Fortunately I had a good support system to catch me in their arms when I fell over weeping pathetically backstage after those appearances,” Harry says in a low, hard voice. “I killed a wizard over fifty years my senior, when I was only just old enough to legally order a shot of Firewhiskey. I was a kid. I’d had to endure torture and a long, horrendous battle with the person who murdered my parents. I’d had to lead an army, many of whom were also just kids. Many of whom died. I was a fucking mess, Malfoy. And Ginny took the brunt of it.” 

The silence that ensues is pregnant with a million unspoken things. Harry doesn’t know where these urges to spill his guts to Malfoy keep coming from, though the brewing Fatum Amare is high on his list of suspects. 

“And she dumped you for that?” Malfoy’s question is a hiss. 

“What? No, of course she didn’t-” Harry sighs, evidently not up to explaining this as best he could if it were a more reasonable hour. “She was fantastic. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done without her. Ron and Hermione had each other. Without Ginny I’d have had no one.” 

It occurs to Harry, as he says these words, that Draco Malfoy, who suffered just as terribly as Harry, or anyone else in the war, had no one to help him through the grief and trauma that followed. As far as Harry is aware, Draco had no version of Ginny in his life. Perhaps he’s stronger than Harry, perhaps he didn’t cry himself to sleep for months after the final battle, perhaps he didn’t need the same time and love and gentle coaxing back into reality that Ginny gave to him. But it’s just as likely that Draco did need those things, desperately, and never received them. 

“I don’t understand,” Malfoy says, sounding frustrated. “If you still think the sun shines out of the Weasley girl’s derriere , then why are you not with her?” 

With a reserve of patience Harry did not know he possessed, he chooses to ignore Malfoy’s distasteful phrasing. “Because she obviously deserved better than a broken apart man who could barely get out of bed, let alone begin a life with her.” 

“So she was willing to stick around until you got over your trauma, but you refused her? Potter, I despair over your martyrdom-”

“I wasn’t in love with her,” Harry blurts, wishing Malfoy would just shut up already. “Alright? I- I thought I was. It seemed like it was heading that way, but she’s like my little sister. I basically grew up with her. It felt… strange. I loved her so much, but I didn’t feel- well. It was a confusing time, for all sorts of reasons, but I could tell that that thought wasn’t about to change.” 

“Ah,” Malfoy says, nodding like he’s finally scraped away to expose the root. “Well, that’s a shame. But if that’s the case then you inevitably made the right decision. A lack of sexual attraction will only eat away at a relationship over time-”

“Oh my God!” Harry cries, shrilly, ears pink. “Stop talking.” 

Malfoy smirks, but it dissipates quickly. “I had a similar, uh, experience. So I know how that feels.”

“With Pansy Parkinson?” 

Malfoy splutters hard, eyes going wide. “What on earth- Pansy Parkinson ?! Potter, please explain-”

“You took her to the Yule Ball, didn’t you?” Harry points out, bristling at Malfoy’s scorn. “People said it was ‘cause you and her were already arranged to be married or something. Some pureblood passage of rites.” 

Malfoy places his head neatly into his hands for a moment. When he emerges, his face is pink, but he seems to have gathered himself. “It’s called the Sacred Twenty-Eight. And yes, in fourth year, Pansy and I were spending a decent amount of time together, so our parents put forth our potential future union to the rest of the twenty-six families, who all deemed it a good match.” 

Malfoy clears his throat, catching and holding Harry’s eye. 

“When Pansy and I found out about this of course,” he continues, teeth clenched, “we made sure to mention at each of our next family dinners that our bond had formed over the discovery of each other’s rampant homosexuality. And that more or less put an end to the marriage talk.” 

With that bombshell, Malfoy hops down off the desk, snatches the Firewhiskey, and takes a long pull. Harry stares after him, entirely gobsmacked. “You’re… oh.” 

“Honestly Potter,” Malfoy rasps out, wincing as the Firewhiskey burns his throat no doubt, “I have no idea how you didn’t hear about this. Once the Daily Prophet caught wind of my sordid, salacious gay lifestyle, they ran with the story for weeks.” 

Harry shakes his head, bemused. “I didn’t hear.” 

“Glad I could keep you informed,” Draco snips. 

He’s obviously embarrassed, so Harry makes the tactful decision not to push it any further, even though he’s positively burning with follow up questions. How did he find out? Has he dated a man? Publicly? 

Thankfully, then, the timer goes off, and the two of them let out breaths of relief. This has been a long, strange night. There’s much to process, and sleep to catch up on. Malfoy swirls his wand in the air, muddying the clock face until it dissolves into nothing. He extinguishes the flame beneath the cauldron, setting up the vacuum bubble around it again. 

“I shall see you this evening then, Potter,” Malfoy mumbles, then heads swiftly for the door, leaving Harry to levitate the cauldron towards the ceiling again, and clear up their mess. 

*

Another three days pass of tedious, repetitive brewing sessions. Since Sunday-night-slash-early-morning, Draco has been noticeably reserved. There’s no further talk of Firewhiskey or Muggle games; Harry doesn’t dare suggest either one, as judging by Malfoy’s stony glares and reluctance to speak unless really necessary, he would not be met with anything kinder than a stinging spell. They work mostly in silence, Malfoy tending to use the waiting around stretches to read through a library shelf’s worth of ancient, dull textbooks and making careful, precise notes, then making alterations to his secret recipe. Harry tries to do some work as well, but inevitably finds it too difficult to focus, as the potion’s fumes swim into his brain, sticking his eyes and thoughts to Malfoy like he’s a delicious, fragrant, scintillating magnet. 

On Thursday night, Harry is crushing up some more of the Flos de Studium , having been wordlessly handed the pouch along with the pestle and mortar, when Malfoy says the first thing he’s spoken aloud in over an hour. 

“It’s nearly finished.”

Harry spins around to face him. He’s wearing proper robes today, along with the dark green cloak he’d worn on that first night, when they’d trekked into the forest and almost been eaten alive by something they awoke there. 

“I thought you said it would take two weeks-”

“As I have said several times,” Malfoy interrupts in an irritated voice, “all notes and instructions for the brewing of this potion are only estimations. It appears my calculations were a touch grandiose.” 

He continues scribbling something on a floating piece of parchment, legs crossed beneath him on a workbench. A white candle flickers by his side. 

“Oh right,” Harry says, feeling strangely disappointed. “Well, these are ready to go.” 

He points to the powdered flowers. He doesn’t know why the news that these tedious late-night sessions are finally ending is even remotely upsetting. Once it’s over, Malfoy will pack up and leave, and Harry won’t need to see him or speak to him or endure these maddening, insistent urges to look at him, or touch him, or learn how his mind works, or find out about his scars, or help him to brew, or blurt out the things he keeps private from everyone else- 

Oh. Oh no.

Harry drops the pestle, and it rolls away from him across the workbench.

The potion bubbles beside him, a plum colour today, occasionally glittering as it sloshes about in the cauldron. Harry stares into its midst as a slow, creeping dread works its way through each nook of his trembling body. 

He feels a waft of warm breath on his neck, and shudders. “Hmm,” Malfoy says from beside him. “Yes, that seems to be the right colour and consistency. Add the flowers.” 

Harry would, he really would. But his mind is snagged on a revelation, and he can’t swat it away. His eyes won’t leave Malfoy’s face. He’s close. Close enough to touch, and Harry really, really wants to touch. 

“Potter,” Malfoy says, wary, “add the flowers.” 

Harry gulps. Malfoy’s eyes widen, almost imperceptibly. “I have to… sorry.” Harry is stammering, his face reddening at an alarming rate. “I have to go.” 

He doesn’t let another second of time slip by. He bolts for the door, brushing Malfoy’s shoulder and cringing as their bodies touch, even for that single half moment. He thinks he hears Draco suck in a breath as well, but it would only be one of horror or disgust, as it has been every time Harry has touched him. He wrenches the door open and leaves the classroom, closing the door behind him. Then he runs. 

Chapter Text

“Sherbet lemon,” Harry pants, surprised that the gargoyle understands him, given that he’s almost hyperventilating. 

It turns though, grind of stone on stone, revealing the winding staircase. As soon as he’s sure he won’t be crushed, he sprints onto it, racing up to the very top, where a door in the wall reads ‘Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’. He knocks thrice, then opens it without waiting for a response, hoping at the last moment that McGonogall won’t be in her pantaloons. 

“Professor Potter,” McGonogall says, surprised, already rising from her desk chair. “What’s the matter?” 

The fearful concern in her voice makes Harry pause to take stock of his appearance. She’s on high alert still, probably always will be, and Harry Potter bursting into her office like a crazed loon, breathing hard, sweating profusely, is not going to help. 

“Sorry,” he pants, heading as calmly as he can for one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just… I needed a place to hide.” 

She regards him warily as he flops into the chair, finally able to breathe. The fire roars in the grate, blinding in its brightness, so Harry lets his eyes glaze and watches the flames dance in the reflection of his spectacles. 

“Is this about Mr Malfoy?” McGonogall asks. “I was under the impression that your project was going reasonably well.” 

Harry swallows, having to struggle to push images of Malfoy, so close and yet so distant, right out of his mind. “Do you know anything about Fatum Amare, Headmistress?” 

She sucks in a breath, which says a lot more than a verbal response. Harry closes his eyes. Why, oh why, did he ever entangle himself in this scheme? Why did he not object when Malfoy coerced him into helping? Harry knew, on some level, that Malfoy was manipulating him, that he was using Harry’s weakness - his desperate desire to help those in need - to pull him into doing this stupid, dangerous experiment. But he'd just let himself be taken in. Was this thing, this insistent tug on his heartstrings whenever Malfoy is nearby, present even then? Has he unknowingly been doe-eyed for the wanker right from the start? Since childhood, even? 

“I’m a damned fool, Headmistress.” 

“Oh, Potter," she says, voice quivering. "Did you drink Fatum Amare?” McGonogall walks out from behind her desk, her long robes brushing along the floor, making it appear as if she is gliding towards him. When she reaches the fireplace, her hands clasp in front of her, lips pursed. 

“No." Harry blinks up at her, marvelling at her frown of motherly concern. It's remarkable how easily her mask of stony, uncrackable Professor has slipped, revealing the warm, soft woman Harry has glimpsed over the years, weak for Harry's naivety, his misguided forays into trouble, his inclinations for laying down in front of open doorways and letting total strangers trample over him, wiping their muddy boots on his back. "No, it’s not that. But…” 

“Perhaps you feel you don’t need to,” McGonogall finishes for him. Her relief is evident, but she doesn't draw attention to it. 

Harry cringes, bringing his finger to his mouth in order to gnaw on the nail. “I don’t know. I was blaming everything I was feeling on the potion addling my thoughts but…” 

Kindly, McGonogall doesn’t press him to continue. “Potter, might I suggest you consult with your former Headmaster about this particular matter?” 

Harry laughs bitterly. Perhaps McGonogall does make jokes, after all. “Love to, Headmistress. Got that resurrection stone handy?” 

She aims an unamused look towards him before taking a step towards the fireplace, above which hangs the largest portrait in the room, in a huge gilt frame. It’s currently empty except for a simple red armchair, and an end table beside it, upon which sits a glass bowl of what look like Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. 

Harry sits up wearily, just as McGonogall clears her throat and says in a polite tone, “Professor Dumbledore, are you there?”

“Aren’t portraits just virtual shadows of the original person?” Harry asks, a bit irritated that McGonogall seems to think a painting is going to be able to help his crisis. “He won’t remember a specific potion-”

“Albus Dumbledore left behind a wealth of memories,” McGonogall interrupts, gesturing to the Pensieve on the far wall, beside which is an immense cabinet of tiny vials, each holding a wisp of curling, gossamer blue. “All of which were transferred to his portrait at the time the painting was done. This ‘shadow’, as you call it, holds a vast amount of his likeness. It is perfectly plausible that, amongst the knowledge transferred to Albus' image, lies the very snippet of something that will ease your mind.” 

Just then, Dumbledore strolls into frame from the left, his glasses fallen to the tip of his nose, his nightcap on. “Minerva," he greets, voice thick with tiredness. "Is anything the matter?” 

“Professor,” McGonogall says with a nod, “sorry to have woken you. Mr Potter would like a word with you, if you’ll indulge him.” 

“Harry, dear boy,” Dumbledore says with a warm smile, turning to look at him. “You seem exhausted. Are you well?” 

“Quite well, thanks Professor,” Harry replies, smiling through the melancholy that swells up, as it always does hearing Dumbledore’s soft, soothing timbre. 

“Nonsense,” McGonogall scolds. “He’s a nervous wreck, Albus. Please talk some sense into him. I’m going to get a cup of tea from the kitchen. I shall be back in ten minutes and then I wish to go to bed. Is that clear, Professors?” 

Dumbledore chuckles. “I shall see to it that Harry is shortly off to bed as well, Headmistress.” 

McGonogall smiles at Dumbledore, nodding once before sweeping towards the door. When they’re alone, Harry looks up at Dumbledore from his armchair, watching the two-dimensional replica of his old mentor take a seat as well. 

“What’s been troubling you, Harry?” 

“Where to start,” Harry says, wishing he’d thought to ask McGonogall for a cup of tea as well. Not that she’s actually getting tea, in all likelihood, as she could just have summoned a Castle Elf to bring it to her right here. “I’m not sleeping. I have PTSD from the war. I’m not sure I actually like Potions or teaching, I can’t go out in public without everyone gawping and crying on me,” Harry takes a deep breath in, reminding himself that this is only a portrait and Dumbledore will never actually know anything about this, “and a week ago Draco Malfoy waltzed back into my life, convinced me to brew some Fatum Amare with him, and now after a lot of late-night, intimate brewing sessions I’m about ninety-five percent sure I’m in love with him and always have been.” 

There’s a silence. Harry’s head is bowed, his cheeks stinging with how heated they’ve become. Then, there’s a soft tinkling. He looks up cautiously, and sees Dumbledore’s hand swirling through the bowl of sweets at his side, lower lip jutted in concentration as he searches for the one he wants. 

“I took Fatum Amare, once,” he says matter-of-factly, then lifts an orange bean in front of his nose to inspect it. 

Harry gapes. “You did?” 

Dumbledore pops the bean into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Gellert Grindelwald and I, age fifteen, drank some together.” 

“Circe." Harry's fingers pluck at a loose thread in the arm of his chair. "Um. Who... was your soulmate?”

Dumbledore picks out a green bean this time, scrutinises it for a moment, then places it back in the bowl. He looks over his glasses at Harry, a small smile twitching on his mouth. “He was. Gellert.”

Harry blushes hard. “Oh.”

“It came as quite the shock to both of us,” Dumbledore says, chuckling to himself as he remembers. “But especially to him, I think. He wouldn’t speak to me for weeks afterwards. Couldn’t understand how the potion had revealed such a thing. We were just friends until then, you see.” 

“What did you do?” Harry asks, suddenly rapt.

He’s seen photographs of Grindelwald in History of Magic classes back in the day. He’d been blond and severe. Dark eyes, hooded stare. Unnervingly handsome. Pulled to the dark side with promises of power. Harry suddenly feels a great rush of sympathy for young, fifteen-year-old Albus Dumbledore, smacked with the realisation that his friendship might be something far more confusing. 

“I made the bold decision to confront him, I seem to remember,” Dumbledore says, eyebrows raised as if he can barely fathom such a choice now. “He was angry at first, but I knew him well. Knew his anger and spite was only to conceal a deep insecurity. I knew the potion would not be mistaken, so in a way, our fate was sealed for us. No use in fighting it, and that’s what I told him.” 

“So it’s true, then. You and he were together?”

“For a time,” Dumbleore replies, his eyes distant, a smile playing on his thin lips. “When we were young, and untouchable.” He sighs, fingers dipping into the beans again. “It couldn’t last, of course.”

“But, surely if you were soulmates-”

“Soulmate is a loaded word, Harry,” Dumbledore tells him, having turned sombre. He looks straight out of the centre of the frame, over his glasses, right at Harry. “It means different things to different people. The potion is powerful, yes. It knows better than we ever can who is most fitted to love us. But that does not mean they will love you, nor that you will love them.” 

Harry groans, removing his glasses in order to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m too tired for this.” 

Dumbledore laughs, cheery again. “Best get to bed then, my boy. Your Headmistress will be back soon, and I find it’s best not to cross her if you can help it.” 

A laugh slips from Harry’s throat then too, unexpectedly. “You’re right there, Professor.” He rolls his shoulders, then sits up, cricking his neck from side to side. “I’ll see if I can get some sleep.” 

Even as he says the words, he’s grimacing. 

*

A loud, insistent ribbeting disrupts Hagrid’s spiel about the benefits of dried Firebugs versus live ones when feeding Nifflers. Harry puts down his oversized mug of peppermint tea, looking around the hut for the source of the noise. 

“S’that a cricket?” Hagrid asks, just as confused. In his bed in the corner, Fang lifts his dopey head, sensing something amiss. 

“Sounds more like a-” Harry breaks off, some distant bell ringing in the back of his mind. 

He rises from his rocking chair and heads for the door of the hut, opening it just a crack. Early morning light spills onto the wooden floor, reminding Harry of the hour. Just beyond the threshold, on Hagrid’s flagstone doorstep, sits a squat, pulsating toad. 

“Hello Trevor,” Harry says, crouching down to view the familiar troublemaker. “What’re you- oh. Oh crap!” 

He scoops up the toad, internally pummelling his own sieve of a brain. 

“Everything alright?” Hagrid asks, struggling to his feet from the armchair he’s sat in. 

“Yes, sorry Hagrid,” Harry garbles, reaching for his satchel and downing the dregs of his tea. “I’ve totally forgotten I told Neville I’d help out with his class this morning. He must’ve sent Trevor here to get me, I’m such a numpty. Do you have the time, by any chance?”

“You need a watch, lad,” Hagrid says, shaking his head. A stray flobberworm falls from his thick, bushy mane as he does so, landing on the floor, where it promptly begins scooting towards a crack in the floorboards. Hagrid pulls up his shirt sleeve to reveal a watch with a thick leather strap. “Nine forty-two.”

“Brilliant, I’ll make it if I hurry. Sorry to dash. Thanks for the tea!” 

Hagrid shoots him a look of fond exasperation, and Harry bolts out of the door, hurrying up the hill towards the castle with a toad croaking softly under his arm. He hasn’t time to don his Invisibility Cloak, so he gets a fair amount of stares, but he’s moving too quickly to be stopped, thankfully. He stops for a brief moment in his office on the way to the Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom, rooting in his desk drawer for a vial of Invigoration Draught. He downs it all, then shakes his limbs as the familiar whoosh of adrenaline spikes through him, perking him up considerably. He can’t afford to be sleepy if he’s going to be demonstrating a difficult and focus-required spell such as the Patronus. 

He grabs Trevor again and makes for Neville’s classroom, managing to arrive five minutes before it’s due to begin, which is better than expected. The desks have all been levitated high into the air and the chairs are pushed back against the walls to create space in the middle of the room. Harry makes a beeline for Neville, stood with his back turned in front of his desk, and shoves Trevor into his hands. He tries to give his good friend a reassuring grin. 

“Made it!” 

A little stunned, Neville shoots a glance over Harry’s body. “Yep! Did you… bring your wand?”

“C’mon, I’m not that scatter-brained yet,” Harry says, though he surreptitiously checks his pocket to be sure. He’s safe - the wand is there. “So, what’s the plan-”

The door creaks open, and Harry fixes his teacher-smile in place, only to be met with the omnipresent creased brow that seems permanently fixed above Draco Malfoy’s misty grey eyes. Malfoy takes a single step into the classroom, looking to Neville for reassurance. 

“Professor Longbottom,” he says, “am I too early?” 

“For what?” Harry blurts, cheeks already aflame. What is he doing here?

Malfoy switches his cool gaze onto Harry. “Professor Potter,” he acknowledges. 

“Hey, Draco, no you’re fine,” Neville says with a wave of his hand. Harry stares at him, dumbfounded. “Have a seat anywhere.” 

“ Draco ?” Harry hisses to Neville under his breath once Malfoy has selected a chair on the far side of the room. “Have I missed something? I thought you hated him.”

“Actually yeah you did,” Neville says with a shrug. “He came to see me a couple of days ago and apologised out of the blue. He seemed really sincere, actually. Made a long speech about former actions and familial coercion and how he didn’t expect me to forgive him for anything he did during the war.” Neville shoots a glance over his shoulder at Malfoy, who is currently flipping through a spare Defence Spells textbook. “We had a proper chat about it all over a cup of tea, really dug deep. In the end I thought, well, he’s obviously trying to make amends and turn things around. Who am I to stop him from doing that?” 

Harry nods absently, eyes sticking to the occasional way Malfoy flicks a strand of hair away from his face with the tip of his wand. “Right,” Harry mutters. “So, what, he’s helping with the lesson as well?” 

Neville laughs, as if Harry is kidding. Harry stares back blankly, and Neville lifts an eyebrow. “Uh, no, Harry. Draco can’t cast a Patronus. You didn’t know that?”

“How would I know that?”

Neville shrugs, and just then the classroom door opens, letting the first of the students spill through. Neville lifts his hand and waves at them - something Harry never does - then turns back to Harry. “You two always seemed to know everything about the other, is all. I guess I assumed.”

Something about this offhanded comment sits weirdly in Harry’s stomach, but he tries to shrug it off, turning to face his students. They’re younger than the kids Harry teaches, so they all stare, gobsmacked, when they catch sight of him. Then the sight of Malfoy sat at the edge of the classroom, not paying them a lick of attention, makes them do a double take. As the class fills up and the students sit down, Harry can’t help but notice that the two seats either side of Malfoy are left empty. 

“Right, morning everyone,” Neville booms in an authoritative voice that Harry has never heard before. “As you all know, the past few classes we’ve been learning about Dementors and the most effective repellent charm for them, the Patronus. Today, you will be attempting to cast your own Patronuses, something I know you are all very excited about, and that you’ve definitely done all your prep work for, right?” 

A chorus of amused yes’s rumbles around the room. The students’ excitement is palpable in the air; they squirm in their seats, eager to begin. Harry almost smiles at the sight of them so keen to see what form their charms could take. Only Malfoy remains coolly unimpressed, though he does politely close his book and look to Neville.

“Fortunately for us all, we have one of the most talented wizards in the world at practicing the Patronus charm here on the Hogwarts teaching staff,” Neville continues; Harry’s cheeks warm. He can’t help looking at Malfoy, who says nothing, but does lift his eyebrow. “He has kindly agreed to perform a demonstration for you all today, after which he’ll be around to help you out when you try it for yourselves.”

Harry aims a tight smile at the general sea of faces. “Hi everyone. Thanks for the introduction, Professor Longbottom.”

“He's so dreamy up close...” 

Harry’s cheeks instantly redden. It’s a girl that spoke, a ginger-haired, giggly thing sitting about four seats from Malfoy. Her friends are laughing with her, hands over their mouths. Malfoy is sending the three of them a withering look that Harry actually kind of appreciates, under the circumstances. 

“Um, a-anyway,” Harry stammers. “Let’s get into the demonstration.” He steps into the middle of the room, skin burning from the multiple eyes that are stuck to every inch of him. “As Professor Longbottom will have taught you, the casting of a Patronus charm requires you to hold a memory in your mind, one that is extremely happy for you. It can’t be a funny joke you heard, or a picnic in the park with your mates. It has to be so joyful, so exultant, that it consumes you.” 

Again, Harry glances at Malfoy, who now wears an expression of discomfort. Harry aches to smooth the creases from his frown, to goad him into saying something rude or sarcastic just so that he’ll seem more like himself. He doesn’t know why Malfoy has never been able to cast a Patronus before, but if he were to guess the reason, it would be that Malfoy doesn’t likely have a wealth of memories that would be effective enough to choose from. Just the idea of this is terrible, like an ache radiating in the centre of Harry’s chest, but he soldiers on, not wanting these hawk-eyed students to catch anything amiss. 

“Show us,” calls a Hufflepuff boy with dark skin and large, awestruck eyes. 

“Err, yes,” Harry says, hesitating. "I'll just..."

But as Harry reaches for his go-to memory, he realises he hasn’t actually given a Patronus charm any thought for a long time. Wand poised in the air, he considers his usual memory of the first kiss he ever had with Ginny Weasley - the kiss that had held such promise of long, permanent, reciprocated true love - but for obvious reasons he doubts that will work any longer. Before that, he’d used the memory of learning he’d be leaving the Dursleys’ toxic household to go to Hogwarts. But that memory seems so distant now that it has also lost its potency. He scans the classroom, thinking hard, put on the spot by the need to decide quickly. The last few years of his life parade past him, giving him snippets of vaguely enjoyable moments: adopting Kai, his new brown owl. Hermione and Ron’s wedding day. Receiving a medal of courage for his actions in the war. But none of them shine with that special glint that Harry knows a Patronus-worthy memory needs. 

Then he catches Malfoy’s eye, gazing back at him curiously, probably wondering what the hold up is. In an instant, he’s back in his Potions Classroom, tired and bored, but fascinated by every move the other man in there with him is making. He feels a surge of want shimmering through him, smells liquorice and treacle and mahogany. Across from him now, a strand of Malfoy’s hair falls from behind his ear, brushing his sharp cheek. Without thinking about it, Harry focuses on the image that presents itself in the next second. It’s not a memory, but Professor Lupin always said it didn’t have to be, not if the imagination was powerful enough. He points his wand out in front of him, closes his eyes and pictures pushing that single blond wisp behind Draco Malfoy’s ear. 

“ Expecto Patronum !” he shouts, voice clear and loud. 

The magic shoots through his body, consuming and wild as it always is, but Harry is used to the shock of it, and holds steady. He can feel the energy exploding out of his wand, and opens his eyes to see the galloping stag breathe into life amongst tendrils of bright, blinding blue. There’s a hush, and then everyone begins rapidly applauding. Everyone except Malfoy, who only stares after the stag, wide-eyed in a way that Harry has never seen him. He watches it canter around the circle, its hooves making no sound as they hit the stone floor. 

“Fantastic, Professor!” Neville cries enthusiastically, walking over to pat Harry on the back. “As ever, you leave the room breathless with your skill. We’re all very lucky to have him here class, so use your time with him over the next hour wisely. Okay, get to your feet and find a space…”

Harry tunes out, heart lurching into his throat when he spots his stag. It has made its way over to where Malfoy is still sat. Its head is tilted, curious, as it stares fixedly at the blond wizard, inching closer with each passing second. Malfoy is rigid, utterly dumbstruck as he stares the stag right back in the eyes. Harry can practically hear Malfoy’s heart racing. The animal’s snout is almost close enough to nuzzle into Malfoy’s shoulder, which Harry is ninety percent sure it would, if he left it to its own devices.

“ Finite Incantartum ,” Harry mutters, swishing his wand at the stag. 

It disappears in a puff, leaving an alarmed Malfoy in its wake, who lifts his gaze to Harry’s at once. There’s no mistaking the horror in expression. Harry has to bite back an apology for the stupid spell so obviously demonstrating his desires. Perhaps, if he's lucky, Malfoy will be too disturbed to bring it up, and might pretend it never happened. 

“Okay everyone, now hold those memories in your mind,” Neville is calling. 

Harry drags his eyes from Malfoy’s, gulping down his shame, and goes to help. 

*

“Oh,” Harry says, closing the Potions Classroom door behind himself. “Am I late?” 

“No,” Malfoy says without turning around. “Though I do suggest investing in a clock of some sort. You seem to have no concept of time, most days.” 

“I prefer to live in the moment,” Harry jokes, though even he thinks it’s not funny. He swallows, still nervous despite the pep talk he’d given himself on the way here tonight. He removes his cloak and puts it on a nearby stool, trying to cool down. The air is muggy and warm in here tonight, a result of the unusually sunny day, and the fierce flame already crackling beneath the cauldron; Malfoy has rolled up his shirt sleeves again, his own cloak nowhere to be seen. “What are you up to?” 

Harry walks carefully up to the bench, acutely aware that the last time he and Malfoy were alone together, he’d fled the room without explanation. He has no idea whether Malfoy worked out the reason behind Harry’s sudden freak out, and would prefer not to ask him, honestly. He’ll have to bring it up at some point or other, if only to test that Malfoy isn’t about to report his mental instability to McGonogall or his superiors at the Ministry. 

“I have added the last of the gold dust,” Malfoy says, fiddling with a long metal rod with a complicated-looking wooden measuring meter on top. “Now I’m setting up a thermometer in order to ensure the temperature does not exceed eighty-five degrees.” 

Harry nods, watching for a minute or two as Malfoy continues to twist knobs and tighten screws on the thermometer. “You left in the middle of my Patronus lesson,” Harry comments, as casually as he can considering how spectacularly un-casual Malfoy’s swift post-stag-nuzzling exit had been. “Am I that bad of a teacher?” 

Malfoy lifts his eyes to Harry’s for the first time since he arrived, then fixes them quickly back on the thermometer. “You were perfectly adequate. I only wanted to see the demonstration. I had no interest in participating in a workshop with twenty children sending their irritating spirit animals flying through the air.” 

“Hm,” Harry says. 

Malfoy looks up, glowering. “What?”

“Well,” Harry says, shrugging, “I just thought you might be interested in learning to cast one. I thought that was why you were there.” 

Malfoy places the thermometer into the cauldron, lips pressing together. “Did Longbottom tell you?” 

“That you can’t cast a Patronus?” Harry waits for a response, but Malfoy just focuses on dimming the flame beneath the cauldron. “Yeah, but… don’t be embarrassed or anything like that. Loads of witches and wizards can’t do it, you know. It’s a complicated spell, and we were never formally taught it when we were in school-”

“Would you teach me?” 

The question is so out of the blue that Harry has to replay it in his head to be sure he’s not dreaming. “Uh, really?”

Malfoy lowers the ferocity of the flame until the thermometer reads eighty-five. Then he lifts his eyes to Harry and nods. 

Blushing for a reason he refuses to speculate on, Harry nods back at him. “S-sure.” He watches as Malfoy takes a few steps into the centre of the classroom, his wand clasped tightly in his hand, then turns back to Harry, waiting. “Now?” 

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “When else?” 

Dumbly, Harry walks over to join him, his fingertips already tingling with nerves over the enormity of the favour he’s just agreed to do for Draco Malfoy. Again. He swallows hard, eyes roving over the man. He looks ethereal, bathed in the moonlight pouring through the window at his back. 

“So, um, is it the- the memory you struggle with-” 

“No,” Malfoy replies curtly. “I have a memory I can use.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, blinking in obvious surprise. 

“Yes, yes, monsters have happy memories too. Shocking isn’t it.” 

“That’s not what I-”

“My stance, Potter,” Malfoy interrupts, terse now. “Is it correct?” 

Harry runs his eyes up and down Malfoy’s body again, then another time, greedy from the given opportunity. He reaches out without thinking, meaning to move Malfoy’s arm forwards a bit, but he draws backwards, not letting Harry’s fingers land. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, shaking his head. “I forgot you don't like being touched. Move your arm a bit this way.” 

He demonstrates, ignoring the curious stare Malfoy sends him in response. With a bit of adjusting, Malfoy’s stance looks near perfect, and Harry nods in approval. 

“That’s great. So, this memory,” he takes a deep breath, remembering the volts of electricity that the simple idea of tucking Draco’s hair behind his ear had pierced through Harry, and the ferocity with which they’d expelled the Patronus. He swallows again. “It needs to be the only thing filling your mind. Let it radiate through you, right to your fingertips. No distractions.”

“Will you watch the thermometer?” Malfoy asks through gritted teeth; he’s concentrating, Harry realises, eyes fixed ahead of him. 

“Yes,” Harry lies. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Malfoy possibly casting his first ever Patronus if he wanted to. “You know the incantation?”

“I’m not entirely foolish, Potter,” Malfoy replies; the surly remark makes Harry smirk. 

“Okay, then give it a whirl.” 

Malfoy takes a deep breath, then points his wand forwards and says, “ Expecto Patronum .” 

A rush of swirling, blue and white magic spurts from the end of his wand. Malfoy sucks in a breath, startled by the sight of it, but manages to hold steady as the energy courses through him. He glances at Harry, eyes round and concerned, but Harry just smiles back reassuringly. In truth, his heart is sinking. He’s seen a Patronus like this before, from the wands of Remus Lupin and Neville Longbottom.  

“Where… where is it?” Malfoy asks, confused. “The animal. My…” 

He trails off; Harry feels his heart splinter at the deflating hope in his voice. “Um, it looks like your Patronus is non-corporeal.” 

Malfoy lowers his wand, pouring the rivers of cobalt magic across the floor, where it swirls around both of their ankles, prickling and sparkling, like static electricity. “Non-corporeal,” he repeats. “Why would that be?” 

Harry winces. “Generally, this happens when a wizard doesn’t entirely want to reveal the corporeal version of his Patronus. If they’re afraid of what it might be, for example. Even if you aren’t consciously afraid of it, your magic will always know-”

“You’re insinuating I’m scared of my own spell, Potter?” 

“No, but perhaps of seeing the representation of your- your soul, I guess.” 

“Why?” Malfoy demands, then swishes his wand angrily, wordlessly switching off the tap of magic that had been spilling out. “Because it might take the form of an enormous Basilisk ? Or perhaps it would take the shape of an adder, like my father, is that what I’m ‘afraid’ of?” 

“Merlin, Malfoy, I don’t know. I’m just telling you what I do know, alright? I studied this when I learned to cast it.” Harry removes his glasses with a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Neville is perfectly happy to admit that he’s shit-scared of seeing any physical manifestations of his battered, tortured soul, and I actually think it’s perfectly reasonable, considering what he’s been through. Just as it’s perfectly reasonable for you to be reluctant about it. Not everything is a personal attack on you and your past decisions, you know.” 

With that, Harry replaces his glasses, then spins on his heel, stalking back over to the workbench to check on the thermometer. It hasn’t moved a millimeter. After a while, Harry senses Malfoy, who is oddly silent in the wake of Harry’s outburst, sidling back over as well. 

“I apologise,” Malfoy says primly, then reaches to check the thermometer more closely. He squints at it, leaning forwards, and Harry watches his long blond lashes flutter. “I asked you for help, and I’m being ungrateful.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry replies under his breath, very aware that that wasn’t really a thank you. 

They lapse into silence for a while. Malfoy begins making neat temperature recordings on a scroll of parchment. “That was the closest I’ve ever come to properly casting one,” Malfoy admits. 

“It wasn’t close,” Harry says, irritated, “you did it. Non-corporeal Patronuses work just as effectively as the animal ones. Just means you can’t use it to communicate like some wizards do. But it’d work a treat if you’re ever attacked by a Dementor or a Lethifold.” 

Malfoy straightens up, looking pink. “Oh. Well, in that case…” 

An amused smile creeps onto Harry's face. “Yes?” 

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitches. “Thank you.” 

Harry's smile blossoms into a full blown grin. “You’re welcome.” 

Malfoy turns away then, going back to his notes. Harry watches him for a while, a warm, treacly feeling beginning to gurgle happily in his tummy. Then, he opens his mouth and a drop of it leaks out. 

“D’you want to come to the pub with Hermione, Ron and me on Saturday?” 

The smile slips off Malfoy’s face so fast it’s as if Harry picked up the cauldron and poured its contents over his head. “You are joking?” 

“Apparently not,” Harry says, just as surprised by his sudden offer. 

Malfoy fixes him with a suspicious eye. “I highly doubt that would be an enjoyable evening for anyone involved, so I will respectfully decline.” 

“But do you want to come?” Harry asks.

“Do you… want me to come?” Malfoy asks, matching Harry’s tone. 

Their eyes lock, and for a stolen moment everything else seems to fall away. They drift in a black, empty void for a few timeless seconds, with nothing but each other to look at. Then Harry shrugs, his desperation to prevent Malfoy from seeing how pathetically smitten he is becoming forcing him to play it cool. 

“It’s up to you,” he mumbles, taking a seat on a stool. “Just thought I’d ask.” 

*

On Saturday, Harry is in his room getting ready to go out, when there comes a knock on his door. He’s just pulling his jacket sleeves over his arms as he opens it; on the other side is Draco Malfoy. For a moment, the surreality of his frequent appearance is jarring enough that Harry forgets to speak. 

“Hello,” Draco says awkwardly. He shoots a quick, measured glance over Harry’s Muggle attire, no doubt mentally deducting several hard-earned respect points. 

“Have you changed your mind?” Harry asks, running his own gaze over Malfoy’s informal, but very non-Muggle outfit. “Because we’re going to a Muggle pub. I get recognised too much at wizard pubs-”

“No, I am still not joining you,” Malfoy interrupts, as if the idea is absurd. “I came to ask if you were skipping out on our brewing session tonight. Safe to presume you are.” 

“Oh, um, yeah,” Harry says guiltily. He’d totally blanked that his pub trip would mean he couldn’t brew with Malfoy as usual. “Sorry. Are you- do you need-”

Malfoy waves a hand through the air between them. “Not at all. I can cope for a night without your inane chatter and forced Muggle games.” 

“Don’t be so sure,” Harry says with a grin. “Bet you’ll miss me when I’m gone.” 

Malfoy arches an eyebrow. “Doubtful, but I suppose we’ll see.” 

He turns to go then, but Harry calls his name, heart skipping a beat as the words surge up into his throat. “Just in case you decide, after you’re done faffing about with the potion, that you do fancy a drink with us, we’re going to The Blind Beggar in Whitechapel.”

Malfoy opens his mouth as if to respond with some ‘save your breath’ comment, but closes it again before the words come out. He nods, once, then turns away, heading for the stairs. 

*

“Unbelievable!” Ron cries for the tenth time. “And neither one of you buggers so much as told me! Draco bloody Malfoy! Back at school with you, harrassing you into helping him brew up some illegal vat of who-knows-what!”

“Do calm down, dear,” Hermione sighs into her glass of wine. “Perhaps Harry wanted to save up the gossip to tell us in person. Which he hasn’t been able to do for some time, given that we keep blowing him off.”

“Yeah, well,” Ron says, deflating a little as the guilt-trip hits home. “That’d be fine except he already told you, Herm.” 

“Spur of the moment Ministry visit though,” Harry assures Ron. “Would’ve stopped by the Auror Department if I didn’t run the risk of being torn to shreds by the hoards.”

Ron nods in reluctant understanding, but sighs, downing the dregs of his beer. “Still. Can’t believe you’ve lasted this long with the wanker without venting to anyone. Has he hexed you yet?” 

“Actually yeah,” Harry says, noticing Hermione stiffening in her seat. He laughs, feeling pleasantly languid and at ease from the copious alcohol they’ve already consumed. He loves these evenings, where it’s just the three of them again, chatting and laughing and playing weird Muggle board games. It’s these moments where he feels totally relaxed, even his perpetual exhaustion retreating to a manageable distance. But they’re over too soon, and spaced too far apart due to the demands of all of their hectic lives. Even tonight is rushing by in a pleasant but liquor-hazed blur. Harry’s had four pints already, and Ron’s matching him drink for drink. Hermione’s drinking wine, so Harry’s not sure how many she’s on, but judging by the flush on her cheeks, it’s a fair amount. “He stupefied me,” Harry continues, sipping sharp, tangy beer, “but I had it coming.” 

“Hope you hexed him back,” Ron snorts, but Harry is already back in the moment, dizzy from stupefecation, the sharp taste of a strange flower on his tongue, the heat of wanting to touch Malfoy so badly it was agonising. 

“I invited him here tonight,” Harry mentions, swallowing the last of his beer. He looks across the table at his two best friends; they both wear hilariously identical expressions of horror. “Calm down, I doubt he’ll come. Besides, he’s really not that bad anymore,” Harry insists, laughing at their faces still, which have paled considerably, their eyes unfocusing. “Still an irritating git, obviously, but without all the underlying racism and stuff.” 

“A charming character reference, thank you Potter,” a familiar, plummy voice says from behind him. Harry turns, the tips of his ears pink, to see Draco squeezing his way past three burly, scowling men, all of whom eye Draco’s half-hearted attempt at a Muggle outfit with obvious disdain - grey checked trousers with a perfect, sharp crease down the front of each leg, teamed with a navy Ralph Lauren polo jumper; he looks like he stepped out a background of a Made In Chelsea scene. “Good evening all,” Draco says once he’s standing at the end of the table. “Granger,” Draco nods at Hermione, then looks to Ron. “Weasley.” 

“Draco,” Harry breathes, utterly astounded to see him here. “I didn’t think…” Harry meets his eye, sensing, beneath Draco’s usual coolness, a silent plea for help. Ron and Hermione haven’t so much as greeted him, look more like they’re seconds from glassing him, actually. “Here,” Harry says, shifting along the bench he’s sat on, “sit down.” 

Draco darts a quick look towards the door, possibly considering a hasty retreat, but eventually takes the offered seat beside Harry, his knee jiggling beneath the table where only Harry can see. The silence that spreads over their pint glass littered table is agonising. 

“So,” Draco says, clearing his throat. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Yes!” Harry squeaks; he could kiss Draco for the chosen topic. But then, he would kiss him for all sorts of reasons nowadays. Thinks about it often, even. All those various reasons, rolling around in his head as he tries to chase sleep. “Ron and Hermione are married. Wild, right?”

“Would’ve invited you o’course,” Ron grates out, nothing but venom coating his words, “but on account of the fact that my family, my wife and I collectively hate you and everything you stand for, we thought best not.” 

Draco winces, almost imperceptibly, but doesn’t shy away from the jibe. “Ah, yes, well that would certainly have made my inevitable wedding drunken dancefloor shuffle a tad awkward.” 

It’s a joke, Harry realises, quite impressed with Draco’s ability to attempt humour right now. He wants to press his leg against Malfoy’s, to reassure him, but not only would that be incredibly weird, Malfoy would probably shoot out of his seat to avoid being touched. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says, her voice unmistakably strained, “are you two, um, friends now?” 

“Merlin, no,” Malfoy answers before Harry can make up his mind about that. “Potter invited me here tonight out of what I assume is pity, or perhaps a noble, Saviour-esque attempt to build bridges. I only came because I thought it might be an opportunity to extend my apology to you both.” 

Oh blimey, Harry thinks, reaching for his beer and finding to his dismay that he’s drunk it all. Another apology. First Hagrid, then Neville, now Ron and Hermione too. He can’t help but wonder where on earth his apology is, considering he’s been the specific target of Malfoy’s cruelty more than anyone else on the planet. But perhaps that particular apology is one that even this new, reformed version of Draco Malfoy cannot muster. If that’s the case, then Harry will let it go; he’s half sure he’s in love with the git anyway, so it’s kind of a moot point. 

“...and for all the atrocities you suffered through whilst imprisoned in my home.” Malfoy clears his throat, meeting the two stunned sets of eyes across from him. “I am truly, deeply regretful about how everything unfolded. I do not expect any sort of forgiveness from either one of you, obviously. But I wanted you to know that I am sorry, and I am doing my best to strive to be a better person, and to repent for the abhorrent actions made by my family, myself included. I shall leave you to your evening now, but please allow me to buy you a round of drinks in celebration of your recent nuptials.”

“Err,” Ron says unsurely, looking to Hermione for help. “I dunno if…”

Hermione shrugs, clearly at as much of a loss. “I’m having a chardonnay?” she says to Malfoy, the end of the sentence going up as if its a question.

Draco’s shoulders release all of their tension in a sudden whoosh. A strand of hair falls from his ponytail, and Harry has to chew his thumb to stop himself reaching out for it. 

“And for you, Ronald?” Draco asks.

“London Pale,” he says, turning to Harry, radiating pure astonishment. “Harry too.”

“Obviously,” Draco mutters, then gets to his feet, eyes darting about as he searches for a way through the crowds to the bar. 

“Draco,” Hermione says, reaching out to place a hand on his wrist. Harry winces, waiting for the inevitable freak out that will follow, but Draco barely seems to notice she’s touched him at all. “Join us. When you get back. If you like.” 

Ron’s shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t verbally object to Hermione’s offer, which is something. Draco meets her stare for a while, then nods, giving her an almost-smile, and heads off to the bar. Hermione’s hand retreats to finger the stem of her empty wine glass. Harry stares at it, perplexed. 

“Well, that was…” Hermione starts to say. 

“Bloody mental!” Ron finishes, drawing a hysterical giggle from Hermione’s mouth. “Can’t believe it. The wanker’s only gone and done a complete one-eighty on his Malfoy pureblood ideology.” 

“Is this your doing, Harry?” Hermione asks, still sniggering. “What have you done to that man? Is this new Malfoy a result of some creepy bonding sessions over candlelight and a pot of bubbling Fatum Amare?” 

“Not me, no,” Harry says, hands up. “He’s been like this since he got back to Hogwarts. Apologised to Hagrid literally minutes after I first laid eyes on him again.” 

“Goodness,” Hermione says, turning to share her disbelief with Ron, “well good for him, I suppose.”

“You said he’s still a dick though, right?” Ron asks Harry desperately. “I don’t think I can deal with it if he’s suddenly become an angel. I need to hate that ferret-faced fucker at least a little bit. For my own sanity, y’know?”  

“Oh God yeah,” Harry assures his best friend. “Absolute wanker. We’ve spent ninety percent of the brewing sessions in a spat.”

“And... the other ten percent?” Hermione asks, all innocence. She’s smirking about something, but aims it into her empty wine glass, and doesn’t quite meet his eye. 

*

It turns out that Draco is a fan of the Holyhead Harpies, a team that Ron lives and breathes for now that Ginny is their chaser. They get into such an in-depth discussion about team tactics that even Harry feels lost, and ends up hysterically giggling over their geeking out with Hermione. They also attempt a round of a board game called ‘Settlers of Catan’, which Draco immediately becomes enamoured with, probably because of the cunning, profit-minded nature one needs to possess in order to succeed. Harry, Ron and Hermione mostly find Draco’s failed attempts to hold back his competitive nature hilarious, and are too drunk to play properly anyway, so when Harry cheats for the third time, resulting in Draco ranting for three minutes non-stop about game ethics and fair play, Harry’s stomach actually aches from how hard he’s laughing. 

Eventually even Draco can’t hold back his grin, though he grumbles as he puts the game away still, and then, somehow, it’s eleven o’clock and the last orders bell is ringing. They all look at each other in that surprised ‘how did that happen?’ sort of way, and reluctantly begin downing the last of their drinks. On the pavement outside, Hermione is propping up a very floppy Ron, looking rather peed off at his drunken pawing and sloppy attempts at kissing her cheek. Draco is making friends with a suspicious looking cat that has wandered along, knelt down beside it and cooing in an adorable and rare display of his softer nature. Harry laughs gaily at them all, that warm, comfortable pulse still going strong in his belly; he leans back against the cool brick of the pub wall, breathing in London air, and staring up at the blank, starless sky. 

“Same time next week?” he slurs, smiling dopily. He’s including Malfoy in the offer, and he hopes that’s clear to everyone. 

Hermione grimaces at him, looking apologetic. “Sorry Harry, I don’t think we can do next week. It’s my parents’ anniversary weekend, they’ve invited Ron and I to go to Wales with them. Ron’s keen because he can catch a Harpies game.”

“Oh,” Harry says, smile slipping. The warmth in his gut is receding little by little. It feels much colder out here than he remembers it being a moment ago. Malfoy looks up at him, hand paused in its way along the cat’s fur, making it nudge him impatiently with its head. “Yeah, of course. Okay, well, I’ll see you both soon, I’m sure.” 

“You and Draco could still go,” Hermione suggests, giving him a meaningful look that goes entirely over Harry’s head. He squints at her, trying to decipher it. He fails. 

Ron grumbles something into Hermione’s ear that makes her go a bit pink, but Harry barely notices, because he’s looking at Malfoy, their eyes snagged on each other. He’s forgotten the cat now. There’s something else in those silvery eyes, something desperate, and Harry wants to grasp hold of it, like plucking a salmon from a pool of water, lay it out flat on the ground and work out what it is. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry whispers, though he’s almost certain nobody hears him. 

“Okay, I need to get this one home,” Hermione says, pushing Ron’s puckered lips away with her hand, despite the fact she’s still holding most of his weight on her shoulder. “You’re going back to Grimmauld, aren’t you? Don’t try and apparate back to school. You’ll splinch yourself silly.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, immediately pinkening. He hadn’t thought of that. “Well, Draco’s here, so…” 

“Well, can’t he stay with you?” Hermione asks, impatiently. Her easygoing, friendly persona has now dissolved into her mother-mode, ensuring that everyone is safe before she exits. “Blimey Harry, there’s enough room.” 

Draco turns back to the cat, so Harry can’t see what he thinks of the idea. The cat has wandered slightly too far out of Draco’s reach, obviously annoyed at the lack of attention, so Draco stands up and dithers on the edge of the pavement, one hand in his pocket. 

“Anyway,” Hermione says, when Harry doesn’t answer, “if I don’t get Ron into bed in the next twenty minutes I’ll be dragging his unconscious body through the streets of London, so…”

“Yeah, no worries, I’ll see you soon,” Harry says, leaning into give her a hug. 

He pats Ron on the shoulder, receiving a groaned goodbye for his trouble, which makes Harry chuckle again. Hermione turns, hesitant, towards Draco.

“It was, um, nice to see you again, Draco,” she says. 

He smiles at her, rosy-cheeked and taut with nerves, then leans in and places a light, chaste kiss on her cheek. “Pleasure, as always, Mrs Weasley.” 

“She kept ‘er name,” Ron slurs, drawing back from Hermione’s shoulder to rest a hand on Draco’s shoulder. Again, Harry stares, perplexed, as Draco once again doesn’t recoil from the unexpected touch. “Oi, alright, Malfoy, y’were less of a dick th’normal t’night. But Herm-” he pauses, belching softly; Draco wrinkles his nose, but to his credit doesn’t move. “Herm’s th’Minister o’Magic. And she’s mine. And Harry’s Harry. But he’s a li’l bit mine too, so be nice to 'im. So, y’just. Yeah.” 

He turns, burying his face back into Hermione’s shoulder. Draco nods seriously, catching Harry’s eye. “Quite so, Ronald.” Hermione snorts with laughter. “Until next time,” Draco says with a half smile, then steps back to let Hermione drag Ron off down the street, her hand raised in farewell as they stumble along. 

“So,” Harry says, once he and Draco are alone once more on the pavement. Draco toes the tarmac with the tip of his shiny brown shoe. “Do you wanna… stay at mine? I mean, Hermione’s right, we probably shouldn’t apparate back, and Grimmauld’s not far…” 

Draco turns to Harry and takes a deep breath. There’s that lingering, shimmering fish of a secret, squirming in the deep reservoirs of his eyes, but Harry’s mind is clumsy and slow from the alcohol. He has no hope of catching hold of it, has no clue what it could mean. The streetlights are buttering Draco’s hair with deep, dandelion-yellow. He’s half in shadow, his body swaying like a birch tree. And God, he is a Siren, tugging insistently at every string of Harry’s taut, knotted desires. 

“Yes,” he says, voice thick and strange. “Yes, I will stay with you tonight.” 

*

They take a bus - the regular, non-magic kind - to Islington. Draco steps on, already eyeing the dirty windows and floor with distaste, when Harry realises he won’t have a method of payment. The bus driver, thankfully, seems to wearied to notice that Harry taps his contactless card and then mimics the beeping noise with his own mouth as if Draco had done the same. Draco notices of course, and laughs, shrilly, but Harry just ushers him - without touching - into a seat. 

“Muggle transport is… interesting,” Draco comments, nudging a littered crisp packet with his shoe. “Is all the grime an intentional decorative effort?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t get all poncy and superior on me. Muggles do the best they can without magic. They have to clean everything by hand, you know.” 

Across the aisle, a fraught-looking woman with short, greying hair eyes them warily. She draws her purse nearer to herself, despite Harry’s attempted reassuring smile. 

“Hmmph,” Draco says, turning to watch London gliding by. It’s Saturday night, and only half eleven, so the streets are teeming with people. It’s mostly clumps of drunk girls in skin-tight dresses, and their counterpart lads with loose white shirts and grubby trainers whom the girls will likely end up snogging in a dark corner later on. “So, you believe in soulmates.” 

The question knocks Harry’s reeling mind into a further tailspin. “Err. I guess I’ve never really thought about it.” Draco turns, ablaze, to look at him. “But yeah,” Harry says, breath catching as he tries to exhale it. “I think maybe I do.” 

“Ginevra,” he says, inexplicably. 

Harry blinks. “N-no. I told you, she… we didn’t work out.”

“Then who is your soulmate, Harry Potter?” Draco asks, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

Harry doesn’t answer for a while. He gets the distinct sensation that he’s treading through a minefield, one which Draco has the blueprints for, and he does not. What does Draco expect him to say? Could it be that he suspects Harry’s affection for him has grown? He’s been trying hard to conceal it, to cut short the stares, to keep his hands to himself like Draco wants, but maybe he’s more transparent than he believes. Maybe he’s been laying his soul bare this entire time, from the moment the first ingredient hit the bottom of the cauldron almost two weeks ago. 

“I… suppose to find that out, I’d need to sip some Fatum Amare,” Harry replies, voice crackly and hoarse. 

Everything about Draco’s intense, naked expression darkens. His sharpness becomes more prominent, his open gaze mutating into a glare. “No you don’t,” he growls. Harry actually leans away from him, startled by the sudden hostility radiating off Draco in waves. “Only fools and masochists would willingly imbibe that potion Potter, do you understand me?” 

Unsettled, Harry huffs a laugh. “I was only kidding.”

“Good,” Draco snaps, then gestures to the LED sign that has lit up at the front of the bus. It reads ‘Islington High Street’. “We’re here.” 

He waits, steaming, for Harry to extricate himself from their seat, not wanting to clamber over him. Then he squeezes past Harry, almost falling into another person’s lap in order to avoid brushing him even a little, and storms out of the folding doors. 

Chapter Text

“You, uh, want another drink?” Harry asks, mostly to dispel the excruciating silence that has draped itself over the two of them. 

They’re stood in the doorway of Harry’s nicest guest room, which once belonged to Regulus Black, and has only since been used very briefly by Teddy Lupin, who stayed here with Andromeda Tonks for a stint a few years ago whilst they looked for a new place to live. The room is dusty and crammed with mismatched furniture, half of it dating back to the days when Harry’s godfather was younger than he is now. Now he offers it to Draco Malfoy, Sirius’ estranged second cousin; life does leave a complicated web of connections to tether everyone together. Draco takes it all in, lips tightly pressed together, maybe thinking something similar, maybe thinking nothing of the kind. He turns to Harry, ruffled and still tense from their bickering back on the bus. 

“Yes, alright,” he says quickly, and Harry nods, leads him back downstairs to the living room on the second floor. 

They walk past sleeping portraits of Black family members, thankfully none of which wake up, as they would surely have a plethora of comments about the visitor Harry has brought in tonight. They don’t speak on the descent, though Harry feels hyper aware of Draco behind him, wonders desperately what he must think of this place, probably unchanged since he saw it as a child, if he ever did. They emerge on the landing, and Harry has to fight to get the door to the living room open. The wood of the frame is so aged now that it’s sagging, not fitting the door properly. He shoves it open eventually, helped with a lubrication charm muttered under his breath, and leads Draco into the room. 

“Sit anywhere,” Harry says, gesturing at the two sofas facing one another by the fireplace. “I’ll just call Kreacher.” 

At the mere mention of his name, the House Elf appears, startling Harry, but not seeming to phase Draco in the slightest. He wanders over to the onyx grand piano on the other side of the room, and Harry finds it difficult to focus on Kreacher’s lecture about late arrivals and unexpected drop-ins when he hasn’t had adequate time to prepare. 

“Yes, um, sorry Kreacher,” Harry says, trying to hide his tipsiness from his voice. Judging by Kreacher’s scowl, he is not particularly successful. “Next time I’ll… call ahead.” Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watches Draco perch on the piano stool and lift the lid to reveal the ancient, yellowing keys. “Now that we’re here though, would you mind getting us some… err…” 

“Firewhiskey, please,” Draco says, pressing a key, only to procure a discordant noise that has all three of them wincing. Draco turns to look over his shoulder. “Good to see you again, Kreacher.” 

Kreacher’s eyes bulge, his mouth opening wide. “Master Malfoy! Kreacher did not realise it was you… of course I will get that for you right away, Sir.” He bows, then turns reluctantly back to Harry, all reverence slipping from his wrinkled face. “And for Master Harry?” 

“Firewhisky’s fine,” Harry says, trying a smile. “Thanks-”

Kreacher disapparates with a huff, making Draco laugh. The sound of the light, breathy chuckle has Harry spinning to look at him, surprised. Draco is facing the keys again, hands splayed out across several of them, as if he yearns to play, but knows the sound will be terrible. Harry’s never had it tuned in all the time he’s owned this place, and he suspects the same is true of Sirius. 

Summoning the knowledge from some deep recess inside of him, probably a result of Hermione’s influence way back when, Harry lifts his wand and casts a spell at the piano, tightening the strings and regulating the hammers. Draco lifts his hand off, sensing the magic working its way through the instrument, and after a moment, settles his fingers back in place. He plays, cautiously at first, and then, upon hearing that the piano is now acceptably tuned, he sinks into it, producing a melody so rich and colourful that Harry’s chest grows tight. 

“You’re wonderful at that,” Harry says without really thinking. Draco stutters over the keys, then stops altogether. “Oh,” Harry says, wistfully. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I’m out of practice,” Draco says, closing the lid. He avoids Harry’s eye. Just then, Kreacher pops back into the room, brandishing two tumblers with un-melting ice in the bottom, and a bottle of Firewhiskey that Harry didn’t know he had. It looks dusty, as if it has been sat in a cupboard for a long time. “Thank you, Kreacher.” 

“Kreacher apologises for the state of the house, Master Malfoy,” Kreacher says as he hands over the glasses. “Kreacher tries to keep things clean and tidy but Master Harry does not always remember to top up the household budget for food and supplies-”

“That will be all, thank you Kreacher,” Harry says tiredly, prising the bottle from his twig fingers. “Would you please make up the bed in the guest room on the top floor, and after that you can go to bed. We won’t need you again tonight.” 

Kreacher smiles toothily, falsely. “Of course, Master Harry. Goodnight to both of you.”

He nods to Draco, then disapparates, perhaps a little louder than is completely necessary. When Harry turns to pour the liquor into Malfoy’s empty glass, he notices the other man is smiling again. 

“Oh shut up,” Harry mutters. “He hates everyone.”

“Everyone?” 

Harry deliberately sloshes some Firewhiskey onto Malfoy’s hand, which he then quickly regrets doing when Draco lifts it to his mouth and licks it off. 

“Let’s sit,” Harry says quickly, cheeks scalding. 

He takes a place on the sofa facing towards the window. Draco waits a moment, then joins him, sitting on the sofa opposite. The dark leather is cracked, exposing the cream stuffing beneath. Why has Harry never noticed how rundown this place is getting? 

“You could live here,” Draco points out, looking around him with obvious interest. “It could be very nice, if you did it up. Threw out all the awful Black heirlooms purchased with blood money.”

Harry snorts. “I could, yeah. But my home is Hogwarts.”

“Not sure I’d call that vortex of unpleasant memories and drafty architecture a home,” Malfoy says scornfully. “Especially as you aren’t even comfortable enough there to fall asleep in your own bed.” 

“That’s…” Harry frowns. He hasn’t thought of the cause of his sleepless anxiety to be Hogwarts itself. It makes no sense; Hogwarts has always been his safety blanket. The place he’d go to escape his woes, not to bathe in them. “Whatever. This place certainly isn’t home.” 

“Not if you keep it looking like a pigsty,” Draco agrees, taking his first long sip of Firewhiskey. 

Harry just shrugs and sips his drink, the conversation eliciting a strange, squeezy sensation in his stomach. It’s already so bizarre just having Draco here, on his sofa, drinking his Firewhiskey like they’re old friends. But Draco had said, hadn’t he, in the pub, that they aren’t friends. So, what is this? Why did he accept Harry’s invitation to stay here tonight? He’s nowhere near as drunk as Harry is, he could probably have made it back to Scotland unsplinched. But he didn’t, and he’s here, gazing at Harry over the rim of his tumbler, one long, spidery leg propped neatly on the other, speculating over Harry’s choice, or non-choice, of decor. 

“Why don’t you believe in soulmates?” Harry blurts. 

If Draco is surprised by the question, he hides it well. Perhaps he’s been waiting for Harry to ask him. He sighs, reaching up to tug the band from his hair. It falls, watery and silken, to his shoulders. The band rolls down his slender hand to cling to his bony wrist.

“Because,” he begins slowly, then sucks some Firewhiskey between his teeth, swallowing with a wince, “as a child, I made a foolish decision. To drink a sip of potion from my father’s cabinet, in which he kept his prized collection of rare magical substances.”

It takes Harry a moment, in the wake of Malfoy’s stilted confession, to understand the implication of what he’s just said, but then it hits him, and his blood seems to thin in his veins. His fingers loosen around the glass, and he nearly drops it. 

“Fatum Amare?” he whispers, eyes wide. 

Draco sighs, switching his legs so that they cross the other way. He drains the last of his drink, then reaches for the bottle that Harry has placed on the coffee table between them, refilling it. 

“Why do you think I volunteered to brew this hideously complicated thing?” 

Well, for a start, Harry’s ninety percent certain that Draco said he was assigned to this project, not that he volunteered for it. But he can’t remember well enough to be sure. The past two weeks have been a blur of overtiredness, punctured with the occasional unwelcome epiphany - none of his memories could be plucked out and used reliably in a court of law.  

“So you’ve- fuck .” Harry says, the information refusing to seep into his skin. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to unravel the importance of this new knowledge, given their circumstances. Draco must know, then, what the potion does. How it feels, how it tastes- and most importantly, he must know who his soulmate is, the key that will unlock his icy heart, and oh God does Harry want to absolutely grind that person’s bones into dust -

“Please stop silently freaking out, Potter,” Malfoy says, rolling his eyes. He holds out the bottle, looking pointedly at Harry’s glass. “I can confirm, having tested it personally, that the potion is fraudulent. It brings about only an elevated sense of hyper-attraction for a random person, along with steep, paralysing emotional and physical torment whenever they are nearby.” 

Harry lets Draco refill his glass, then downs half of it, wincing as it scalds his throat. He wipes his mouth, knee jittering, feeling as though the room has started to career violently this way and that - a ferris wheel caught in a storm. 

“What… exactly... does it feel like?” Harry asks, plucking one of the million questions swirling through his muddled brain at random. 

It’s the wrong question. Draco scowls at him.

“Curious? For Merlin’s sake, Harry, what more must I say to warn you off the stuff? It’s horrific. Cloyingly sweet as it goes down, then quickly potent enough to obliterate every thought from your brain except ‘desire’. As a ten-year-old, it was incredibly traumatic. I had barely grasped the concept of romance, having only witnessed my parents’ affectionless relationship. I had no idea what the searing agony roiling inside me so suddenly meant. There was no object to direct it toward that I knew of, and it just hurt , day and night, like knives jutting out of me, forcing me to weep into my pillow for hours on end. My parents thought it was chronic anxiety, called Healers out and had me assessed. Obviously they could never figure out what was wrong, and I was loathe to tell anyone what I had done. In the end, I learned to tamp it down, to keep it quiet and dormant by sheer will, though it took an age to master that trick.” He grimaces, taking a long drink. “And then. School.” 

Harry frowns, sat ramrod straight now, clinging on to every word that falls from Draco’s lips. “School?” he repeats, perplexed. Then it dawns on him. “Oh. That’s where you found out who …” he trails off, mind stumbling ahead of himself, trying to picture a tiny version of the man before him, drowning in his Slytherin robes, spotting some handsome, Quidditch-playing, older wizard in his common room or at his table in the Great Hall, and having all those buried feelings he’d taught himself to repress come bubbling to the surface. A whip of white hot jealousy stings against Harry’s skin. He grips his glass a little tighter. “Did you… tell him?”

Draco sends him a funny look. “No.”

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, shaking his head. “Guess that would’ve been a pretty weird thing to bring up.” They both sip, minds on separate things. A face pops into Harry’s mind, and he can’t stop his tongue from asking, “Was it Blaise?” 

Draco snorts. “I know your respect for me doesn’t run terribly deep, Potter, but really? Blaise Zabini? The man who would shag a goat if someone strapped some lingerie on it?”

“Well, you did say you don’t have a choice about who it is,” Harry says defensively, pushing a rather terrifying image of Blaise Zabini cornering a goat in stockings out of his drunk mind. “I have to say, Draco, I don’t understand why, having actually undergone the effects of a literal soulmate potion, you don’t believe in them. Maybe you weren’t happy about who it is, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Draco just gives Harry a withering look. “You really don’t have the slightest idea of what you’re talking about.” 

“Actually, I spoke with someone else who’d taken it,” Harry argues, a little smugly. “Fatum Amare. And he said-”

“ What ?” Draco asks, his voice a hiss. He sits up straight. “Whom?”

Harry hesitates. Dumbledore probably told him in confidence. “Just… someone. An old friend.” Draco makes a ‘pssht’ sound, sitting back again. Crunchy leather squeaks against designer starch. “I did!” Harry insists. “He said it was a shock, but in the end he knew the potion was right. That he and his close friend were in love, deep down, but they’d never thought to explore-”

“I think, perhaps,” Draco says tersely, getting to his feet. He plucks the glass from Harry’s fingers. “It is time to draw this evening to a close.” 

Harry tries to protest - he has half a glass of Firewhiskey left. And they’re in the middle of the most interesting conversation Harry has had in weeks. Maybe years. He wants to grab Draco’s arm, to pull him back down onto the sofa and squeeze every last drop of information out of him about his soulmate, but he’d been so careful not to brush Harry’s fingers as he took the glass, reminding him that he hates Harry’s touch.

Only Harry’s touch and nobody else’s, apparently. 

Harry falls back against the brittle leather cushion, sulking. His eyes flutter closed as he lets out a long sigh. “You’re really not gonna tell me who it is?” 

When Draco speaks, he sounds far away, like he’s all the way across the room. Possibly further. Drifting off into the stratosphere. “You don’t want to know.” 

The first few soft notes of a tinkling piano melody begin, and Harry sighs a different sigh, one born of satisfaction, of comfort and joy knowing that the scraps of furniture in his worn, blistered old house are finally being touched again, being loved. When Harry opens his eyes, it’s to a pyjama-clad Kreacher tugging his sleeve, muttering something cross about Harry needing to sleep in his own bed, not on the sofa. Harry looks to the piano, to where he’d heard Draco playing such a sweet song, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

*

Harry is drowning. He should never have dived into the pool of water, should have known that it was a trick, set by Voldemort, to prevent his Horcrux from ever being taken from its hiding place. Now the ice has frosted over the surface, thick and unyielding to Harry’s attempts to batter it from beneath. It’s no use, he can’t build any momentum to his blows because the water is slowing his movements. The paralysing, unbearable cold is stiffening his limbs; soon he will freeze, his rigid body floating to the bottom of the pool to lie cold and hard and lifeless, just like the sword clutched in his hand-

“Harry!” someone is shouting from the other side of the ice. His heart surges, he pounds against the ice harder, his lungs screaming from the need to draw breath. “Harry! Wake up!” 

Wake up? 

Suddenly, Harry’s eyes snap open; he is drenched from the icy pool, it covers his chest and neck. He’s gasping, panting, coughing up the water from his lungs- 

Slowly, his surroundings start to dribble into view. The dark, ornate twist of a four poster bedframe. The stoic wardrobe in the corner, like a hunched, squat figure. The writing desk supporting its spindly, curved legs against the wall below the large window, where the moonlight trickles through. Draco knelt on his bed.

Draco knelt on his bed . 

He’s not wearing his lounge clothes, nor the Muggle-ish outfit Harry remembers from the pub. He’s not wearing much at all, in fact, only black boxer briefs that contrast starkly with his pale thighs, and the shirt he had on beneath his jumper, unbuttoned around the collar, revealing a triangle of milky, pearlescent skin. Harry reaches for him and he forgets, perhaps doesn’t want to remember, that Draco doesn’t like to be touched. Doesn’t like Harry touching him. Draco hisses, falling backwards until he’s sat, legs scrambling in his haste to retreat. Harry blinks, shakes himself, tries to calm down, to tell his broken brain that he’s not in danger. As his breathing regulates, he swims through the haze of thought seeping through his head, trying to make sense of things. 

He’s in Grimmauld Place. It’s the middle of the night. Draco is here… why is Draco here? He remembers beer, lots of beer. Hermione and Ron- their pub night. Draco arrived, later. They played a board game. He came back with Harry on a Muggle bus, stayed in the room next door-

Oh. 

“Shit,” Harry says, when he can speak again. He lifts a shaky hand and combs it through his sodden hair. It occurs to him now that the reason he is wet is not from diving into an icy pool in the woods, but from his own nightmare-fever sweat. Lovely. And Draco is here to witness his madness as well, how excellent. “Sorry,” Harry says, unable to look him in the eye. “I was… uh, nightmare. I woke you.”

“Yes,” Draco says softly; his voice holds no hint of annoyance. 

He sounds pained, in fact. Harry looks over at him. His hand is raised in mid-air, as if he were going to reach out and place it on Harry’s damp skin. Just the thought is enough to knock the air from Harry’s lungs again; he tries to picture the sensation of Draco’s thin, cool fingers against him. It’s too much to contemplate, so he falls back against his pillows, which are also damp. 

Harry's tiredness washes back over him now that the wave of adrenaline has crested and swept back out into his sea of anxiety. “I should have put you in one of the downstairs rooms.” 

Why didn’t he? Harry wonders, even though he knows, really, what the answer must be. His drunk brain, with its inhibitions stripped back, must have sought to place Draco nearby, just a wall away. 

“Have you seen a Healer about this, Harry?” Draco asks, sounding unusually soft. 

Harry shakes his head on the pillow. “What could they do? I have nightmares, not a broken leg. I’m messed up from years of being forced into child soldiering. Think I got off pretty well considering the fates of some of our classmates.” 

Yet again, Draco’s reply is halted, and when it comes, it’s nothing like what Harry expected him to say. “What were you dreaming of?” 

The next impulse Harry has is a strange one. He imagines saying ‘you’. Like he was a normal guy with a functioning brain, and Draco was just another normal guy who, yeah, Harry found pretty intolerable half of the time, but was still beautiful and funny and occasionally magnificent. He imagines what Draco might say back, if that were the case, if he’d recoil and splutter and ask what on earth Harry meant. But then Harry might inch closer, he might tell Draco how pretty he looks with the starlight illuminating half his face, making one eye glint with the most beguiling silver. And Draco might just give in to it, might allow Harry’s touch this time if only out of curiosity, and then they could lie down side by side, in the top room of Harry’s dusty old town house, and pretend they were meant to be this way. 

Instead, of course, Harry says, “drowning.” 

Draco nods, letting the word fold into his mind. He looks away, towards the desk and the window beyond it. “I’ll let you alone now,” he says eventually. “If you’re alright.” 

“Why won’t you let me touch you?” Harry asks. He must still be drunk. 

Draco’s eyes fall closed. He gets to his feet, stands beside the bed, and meets Harry’s eyes one more time. “Goodnight,” he says, constricted, then hurries out of the room. 

*

Harry spends the majority of his Sunday morning in bed, drifting in and out of unconsciousness. Kreacher is there at times, handing Harry cups of his vile homemade hangover potion, or a cold flannel for his forehead. In truth, Harry’s hangover is actually perfectly manageable, but each time he thinks about getting up and facing Draco after the humiliation of him having to wake Harry from a nightmare, he buries his face in his pillow again. 

Not only that, but there’s the pathetic little ‘why won’t you let me touch you?’ that had slipped out, which makes things so much worse. Why had he asked such a moronic question? It’s not as if he doesn’t have any idea of the reason why Draco is repulsed by the feel of Harry’s clumsy hands on him. He’s spent a good portion of his life reminding Harry of how much he detests him, after all. Eventually, however, Harry does force himself up, already cringing as he makes his way down to the kitchen in search of some coffee. The kitchen is empty, mercifully, so Harry heads for the kettle; the moment his hand touches the handle, Kreacher pops into sight beside him.

“Kreacher will make Master Harry his drink,” Kreacher says, flapping his hands at Harry. “Sit, sit.” 

Too exhausted to argue, Harry goes and flops himself down at the long wooden table, eyes darting to the door every few seconds. “Better make some for Draco, too.”

“Master Draco does not drink coffee,” Kreacher says as he levitates cups into the air. “Master Draco has requested a liquorice tea.” 

Something about this information is peculiar. Harry frowns, sorting through his muddled thoughts, trying to pick out the reason why. Before he can settle on anything, Draco walks into the room, his navy jumper draped over one arm, clothes crisp and free of creases, despite the fact Harry knows he slept in that shirt he’s wearing. He makes a mental note to learn some ironing charms, as his own clothes are quite obviously yesterday’s. 

“Good morning,” Draco announces, the softness Harry remembers from last night having left his voice entirely. 

Harry blushes at the mere sight of him. Luckily Kreacher distracts them both by handing out steaming mugs. “Morning,” Harry mumbles in response. Draco dithers for a moment, tea in hand, then slides into the edge of the bench on the other side of the table, hands wrapping around the mug. Eyes unfocused and heavy with fatigue, Harry stares at the brown, translucent liquid inside of Draco’s mug, still perplexed. There’s a pleasant, saccharine, familiar smell drifting into his nostrils. “Didn't you say that coffee was one of the things you smelled in Amortentia? And you don’t even drink it?” 

Kreacher gasps, clapping hands over his ears, and disapparates so fast he drops a teaspoon, sending it clattering to the floor. Harry blinks in surprise. Apparently House Elves consider Amortentia-talk unseemly - who knew? He turns back to Draco, who is, he notes, a rather interesting shade of tomato. 

“For God’s- we’ve just woken up-” he sighs, eyes fluttering skyward. “For Merlin’s- alright. The scents one recognises in Amortentia fumes relate to the object of their affection, Potter.  Not necessarily one's personal preferences. As Potions Master, you really should know that. I personally do not care for coffee, but…” 

“But… your soulmate does.” 

“I’m not getting into that with you again.”

Harry sighs too, reluctantly letting the matter drop for now. He sips his coffee tentatively, finding that, somewhat surprisingly, Kreacher hasn’t spat in it. It’s actually been made to his perfect liking. He senses that Draco is watching him, warily, his full attention on Harry, but he hasn’t the energy to ask him what the problem is. He just drinks the rich, flavoursome brew in small, tentative sips, until it’s all gone, and he feels slightly more human. 

*

That night, Sunday, Harry is sat with Draco in the Potions Classroom yet again, except tonight he is painfully aware that this may in fact be the final time. Draco is muttering under his breath, something he only does when he’s deeply focused on his work, Harry has noticed. This means, Harry has also noticed, that he is able to stare at Draco as much as he likes, as he is usually too distracted to notice. 

“...let sit in the dawn light for fifty minutes, stirring thrice when the cock crows…” 

Harry smiles to himself, chin in his hand as he leans on the workbench. Oddly enough, he’s going to miss this. It will be good, of course, to return to normality once Draco leaves, but he has begun to look forward to these evenings of slow, methodic tedium. Draco is pretty to observe, and though sometimes annoying, occasionally interesting to talk to. He’s blunt and unapologetic where Harry’s other friends tend to lean towards skittering around him like he’s a live grenade. 

It’s going to be dull, spending his evenings alone again, holed up in his office marking papers and avoiding the rest of the school. He straightens up in his stool, looks into the cauldron, which Draco has taken off of the flame. It is now a shimmering violet, occasionally dappled with a pewter blue. He inhales, deeply, wanting to remember the exact combination of smells that wisp from the mixture of Fatum Amare, and how they correspond so exactly to his preferences. 

“Kind of a waste,” Harry says wistfully. He touches the rim of the cauldron, and Draco idly bats his hand away with the tip of his wand, not looking up. 

“What are you blathering on about,” Draco mutters, still focused on the parchment in mid-air. 

“You’re just gonna do tests on it and stuff, right?” Harry asks. “You and the rest of the Potions Department.”

Draco lifts his eyes briefly to Harry’s. “As opposed to what? Selling it on the black market?” 

“You could dole it out to deserving people,” Harry suggests. “Lonely witches and wizards who feel like they have no one.” 

Draco sighs. He pushes two strands of hair out of his face. “We’ve been through this. The potion does not always bring glad tidings, even if it were reliable - which I am seeking to prove it is not.”

“What do you mean?”

“It could, for instance, reveal that the person who ingested it has a so-called soulmate who is deceased, or married, or an Azkaban-sealed mass-murderer,” Draco explains, as if he were talking to a Niffler. “Are any of those possibilities better than not knowing - just as every other person does not know - who they are supposedly 'destined' to be with? At least in ignorance these lonely witches and wizards you speak of can still be hopeful that they are not doomed in all their romantic endeavours.”

Draco goes back to his parchment, satisfied that he has made his case; Harry takes a moment to chew on what has just been said. It had seemed… oddly specific. 

“Is that what happened to you, then?” Harry asks carefully, trying to keep his voice, light, conversational, like he doesn’t really care. He picks up a spare quill and twiddles it to and fro between his fingers, mostly so he can avoid Draco’s eye. “Are you ‘doomed in romantic endeavours’, because you know your soulmate is… some kind of undesirable?” 

Calmly, but with a palpable build up of held back energy, Draco puts down his own parchment and quill. “Irrelevant,” he says in a near-whisper. “For someone such as myself, romance is always doomed.” 

“Someone such as yourself,” Harry repeats. “A blond?” 

Draco snorts, and Harry feels a traitorous ripple of pride at having coaxed a near-laugh out of him. “A war criminal,” Draco corrects, and the feeling dissolves into angst. “A callous, unfeeling, racially bigoted coward whose mistakes as a sixteen year old will forever marr his skin and his soul.” 

Harry’s mouth falls open. Surely he is just being facetious. “You’re not those things,” Harry says as firmly as he can. “Not anymore. You deserve affection or love or whatever just as much as the next wizard. You must know that.”

Draco sighs, heavier, harder than his usual affected gusts of air. He reaches for the parchment again, his favourite way of squirrelling out of any difficult conversation topics, but Harry is too quick, snatching it away. 

“Harry,” Draco warns. He holds out his hand; it’s trembling slightly. “Don’t do this. We’re almost done here. Let’s not leave this room forever on worse terms than we entered it.” 

Harry hesitates, a vein in his temple throbbing with how fast he’s having to think of the next step. Draco is right, they’ve made progress as a pair. Halting, arduous progress, but a good, healing catharsis nonetheless. Harry shouldn’t fall into the familiar trap of fighting with Malfoy again, especially now that they’re so close to the end of their time together. 

Draco gestures again with his hand, holding it out for the parchment. “Hand it back to me.”

“Tell me something first,” Harry says, mostly buying for time, “what’s the third thing you smell?” 

Draco snatches his hand away. “Oh for Merlin’s sake, won’t you ever let this go? It means nothing -”

“If it means nothing, then tell me,” Harry challenges. 

His heart is behaving strangely, like it’s attempting to leap forwards through the layers of bone and muscle and skin to present itself, bleeding and pumping erratically, to Draco on the desk between them. 

Draco hesitates, obviously debating. Then, his shoulders draw up, his cheeks flushing with that hint of dusty rose that Harry has come to associate with his rare bouts of honesty. Funny, he thinks as Draco’s mouth opens to speak, how Harry has grown so used to Draco’s mannerisms in such a short span of time. 

“Lightning,” Draco says. He clears his throat, then reaches out and plucks the parchment from Harry’s hand. “Can we please now return to the final stages-”

“ Lightning ?” Harry says, nose wrinkling. “Does that even have a smell?” 

“Obviously, yes,” Draco says, already back to frowning at the parchment. “Metallic. Hot. Jarring.” 

Disappointed by this, Harry sits back down into his stool, slumping over the desk again in defeat. He’d been so sure that this third smell would be the answer to everything. The key that would expose the truth behind Draco’s enigmatic diversion tactics whenever the subject of his soulmate is brought up. But if anything, this third response, peculiar and unlikely as it is, only makes things even more unclear. 

He watches Draco a bit longer, trying to suss out something more behind this revelation. Metallic, hot, jarring . Not an easy scent to imagine, based on the bizarre adjectives Draco chose. The rose colour is still resting atop Draco’s cheeks, indicating that he still feels embarrassed about admitting something so personal. But why? He’s a scientist, for all intensive purposes. He must be more than used to clinically separating human emotion and thought and want from a potion’s manipulating effects. Besides which, he doesn’t even believe in soulmates, so why would it even matter whether he told Harry what he smelled? 

The other two scents he’s told Harry about were so bland that Harry cannot, for the life of him, work out why on earth Draco would even care about Harry knowing. Coffee and Sleekeasy’s . How boring. Especially for someone like Draco. Perhaps that’s the reason he’s embarrassed about them. Perhaps he wanted Harry to ponder what he smelled, to imagine it was the ash of Dragon’s fire, or Acromantula venom, rather than a hot drink and someone’s hair gel. 

“Y’know, my grandfather invented Sleekeasy’s,” Harry says, more as a vague afterthought than anything else. 

“I know.” 

This is not what Harry expected Draco to say. When he sits up to look at Draco, he’s gone a paler shade of white than he usually is, which makes him almost translucent. Harry sits up straighter. 

“You know?” 

Draco swallows. Clears his throat. “Y-yes. My… he and my grandfather were acquaintances, I believe.” 

“That’s… odd,” Harry says. There are fragments of a puzzle here, snippets of caught admissions and slipped information that bounce around this classroom in Draco’s voice, but Harry’s brain is being slow, as ever, about fitting together the pieces. “Aren’t your family all… exclusive about who they hobnob with?”

It’s a question that he doesn’t really care about the answer to. More pressing is the notion that, somehow, Draco’s knowledge that Harry’s grandfather invented the hair potion translated into him smelling the stuff in Amortentia, and by proxy, the Fatum Amare. Draco is mid-ramble, answering Harry’s question when his heart lurches to the right; a stray, absurd, but somehow irrepressable thought knocks him, suddenly, out of orbit.

 “...the leniency of the Sacred Twenty-Eight’s bylaws-”

“Is it me?” 

Harry’s heart, as ever, is years ahead of his mind. He balks at his own question, bringing a hand to his lips as if he could stuff the question back in. Draco has stopped speaking; his lips are parted, and he looks scared - actually scared - for the first time Harry can remember in… Merlin. Ten years. A good twenty seconds passes; Harry begins to feel the back of his neck heating. Expressions are flickering across Draco’s face in fractured pulses, never settling long enough for Harry to decipher them. He must be horrified, that’s the explanation that makes sense- perhaps trying to construct some tactful way of phrasing that he would rather choke on Kneazle furballs than even consider the idea that Harry, of all people, might be-

“Bravo, Potter,” Draco says eventually, his voice thin and strained. He turns back to the parchment, cheeks rouged again, much more deeply now. “You might want to reconsider applying for the Auror role that every Daily Prophet writer decided you would be so excellent for. Though perhaps not, actually, as I doubt Robards would be too pleased about an Auror inclined to passing out at random hours of the day-” 

“Would you just shut up a second,” Harry squeaks, rising to his feet. His stool tips over backwards, and neither of them move to levitate it before it crashes, noisily, to the floor. Draco’s eyes fix on the stool, suddenly stock-still. “You are telling me…” Harry reiterates, voice dragging over each word at half-speed. “That all of this time… every second you’ve known me…”

“It’s not real,” Draco hisses, eyes snapping up: molten metal. His flush is mutating, different to any sort Harry has ever seen. It mottles his skin, unlike the soft caress of his usual blush, which stands out enough against his pale complexion. This one makes angry red splotches appear on his jawline and what can be seen of his neck; the marks look like budding roses, flowering in quick bursts. Harry imagines the colouring spreading across his chest as well, perhaps further, towards his stomach and hips. “It’s a fucking potion, you imbecile, and an unregulated one at that. There is simply no proof that the effects have any correlation with soulmates-”

With considerable force, Harry rips the parchment from Malfoy, scrunches it up in his hands and hurls it at his ignorant, stubborn, infuriating face. “What the fuck!” he screeches, anger seething through his body. He picks up one of the dumb little green ramekins and hurls that at him too. Draco casts a protego , just in time, but this only boils Harry's fury even more. “Are you some kind of monster?! You tormented me for years , you bastard!” 

Enraged in equal measure, Draco picks the balled parchment off the floor and chucks it right back at Harry, catching him in the left cheek. “I was a child! My entire family loathed you for your contempt of pureblood ideology, for picking kinship with the Weasleys over us. I saw you that first day outside the Great Hall and I knew, instantly , that I was fucked. For whatever reason, the damned potion had selected you, of all people - and a boy , might I add, as if that would earn me any favours - to force me to fixate on. I was furious. I couldn’t bear it, and especially after you so publicly refused my extended hand of friendship.” 

“Stop using the excuse that you were too young to behave like a decent human being, Malfoy,” Harry rebutts through gritted teeth. “You could’ve-”

“What?” Draco challenges, two, three strands of ice blond bouncing around his face. “Please, enlighten me, o Saviour mine. What wouldst thou have done, in my place?” 

He waits, breathing heavily, for a response. Of course, Harry has none to give. He tries to imagine it, but the mere foundation of such a fantasy would require hours of building in his mind. He’s spent so long believing it to be ancient, blood-and-bone deep hatred between them from the start, dating back to the petty divides between their ancestors. Not this. Not secret, burning, painful longing from across classrooms. Not a deep desire for something forbidden, bullied into Malfoy’s deepest recesses by his own self-loathing. The idea is so wildly out of Harry’s realm of possibility that he has to sit down, but realises too late that his stool has fallen, and stumbles backwards until his lower back whacks against the desk behind him. 

“You could’ve told me,” Harry suggests lamely, speaking through the intense, bruising throb that suddenly makes itself known in his coccyx. 

At this, Draco sneers, then angrily levitates the cauldron over to the window. “Oh yes,” he mutters, acidic and bitter, “during one of our legendary duels perhaps? When we were attempting to maim each other in the bathroom? Or later, when you were stealing my wand and escaping from my house, where my father and deranged aunt were keeping you prisoner?” 

Harry’s shaking his head, eyes shut to try and block out the pain and stabilise his reeling mind. “I might’ve understood better if you’d-”

“Oh, do shut off the ever-flowing tap of compassion, Potter,” Draco snaps, making Harry’s eyes open. He’s now waving his wand erratically through the air, sending jars and ramekins whirling into neat clusters and stacks, which then veer clumsily into a bag at Draco’s feet, obviously enlarged on the inside. “You hated me, and make no mistake, I hated you also. No matter what mind-altering substances might have been attempting to muddle my feelings towards you.” 

Harry is silent, thinking. Draco isn’t wrong. Harry did hate him, back then. Or, not hate , perhaps, but he would certainly have been fine with Draco transferring schools, or… actually no. He wouldn’t have liked that, as then he would have had to find something else to spend all of his time thinking about, talking about, speculating upon. Draco was a huge and formative part of Harry’s pre-adult life, even if at the time he felt more like a destructive force. Draco gave him a much-needed outlet for his competitive nature. Draco gave him a mirror of what his life might have been like had he chosen differently upon first entering the magical world. Draco gave him his first hobby, his first real obsession, and probably - upon reflection - his first buried crush. 

As these thoughts whirl, carefree and unbidden by sense, through his brain, Harry becomes vaguely aware of Draco moving determinedly in the near distance. His eyes refocus through his smudged glasses, and he sees that Draco has donned his cloak, his bag tucked under one arm. He’s leaving, Harry realises, heart stuttering. 

“Where are you going?” he demands, pushing off from the desk despite the ache in his back. 

“That is no longer a concern of yours,” Draco tells him, tying the ribbons of his cloak more tightly. “I doubt I need to ask, given that you’re no doubt held in a vice grip by your own Gryffindor conscience, but I would really rather not let the general public know that I am ill-fated to blindly lust after Harry fucking Potter for all of my days unless I manage to use this batch of the potion to somehow wrangle a cure-”

“Draco,” Harry says, though it comes out as a croak. His voice had retreated into his voice box as soon as the word ‘lust’ left Draco’s lips. 

“As I said, the potion is all but complete, it just has to marinate in the dawn light, after which point I shall collect it, bottle it, and then shall be transporting it directly to the Ministry-”

“Draco,” Harry says again, louder this time. 

All his voice seems to do, however, is cause a couple more of those rosebud flushes to appear on Draco’s jaw. Another of the strands of his hair falls from behind his ear. The sight of it almost buckles Harry’s knees. 

“Your help has been appreciated, Potter, I will ensure you are compensated-”

“Draco!” Harry yells, stomping toward him. 

He’s sure his own cheeks are red now, but he has no idea whether it’s the heat of the classroom, or embarrassment siphoned from Draco’s, or the red hot anger that still flows through his veins. Draco backs up fast, his hip catching the corner of the workbench in his haste to steer clear of Harry’s path. At least he’s shut up, Harry can’t help but think, even though he now has no idea what to do with the man, having backed him up against a surface. He stops, eyes flitting across Draco’s face. His forehead is uncharacteristically glistening. The tip of that fallen strand of hair sticks to his cheek. 

“Let’s go out,” he says, at length. 

“Out,” Draco repeats, as if the notion of anything outside of this classroom is absurd. 

Harry inches closer, chasing the taste of liquorice on his words. He has been a fool not to see this in all the time they’ve known one another. This connection. This want, disguised as dislike. Draco’s pupils are dilating, pushing the rims of silver outwards until all that’s left is a thin ring around two black holes. 

“Out, yes. Together.”

Draco’s eyes dart to Harry’s mouth so fast that Harry could have missed it if he’d chosen that moment to blink. But he didn’t. “Are you suggesting… are you asking to date me?” 

“Steady on,” Harry mutters, and he feels his own mouth twitching even in this surreal, unbearably tense bubble, “just the one date for now.” 

Draco makes a sort of spluttery noise, but as he can’t really move without touching Harry in some way, he’s forced to remain in place, his face cycling through magenta, crimson, and then a kind of ghostly pale, until he has formed a response. 

“You really, really do not want to date me, Harry.”

“Let me decide that for myself.” 

Draco’s mouth forms a tight, straight line. Harry knows this because he is staring at it. 

Harry whispers, without meaning to. “Say yes.”

His mind clears, and all that shines in front of him is the tantalising, hypnotising suggestion of leaning forwards just a little bit more, of pressing his mouth to Draco’s. Just the thought sends fireworks ricocheting through him, fizzing at the tips of his fingers, scorching down his spine. He doesn’t realise he’s already leaning in until Draco escapes, darting around him, their arms brushing. He hisses, Harry doesn’t miss that, but the roses have climbed down his throat now, crawling into the open placket of his shirt, towards his heaving chest, and he doesn’t bolt for the door. 

“Fine,” he cries out, seeming hysterical. “Fine. But after that, after we’ve moronically tried to force this incomprehensible, erroneous accusation of a damned soul-bond, you will listen to me, do you understand, Potter? You might be a die-hard romantic, but I am a realist. A scientist. And as the guinea pig for this particular experiment, I am certain of its- its unreliability. I will test the theory, if only to assure you that it is entirely pointless, but after that…” 

Harry waits, one eyebrow raised. He knows Draco is pontificating, trying to throw up every warning sign to get Harry to back off, but it’s all bolstering and nerves. The truth of Draco’s emotions are, for once, plain as day. They are written all over his tomato-splotched face. He wants this. He wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything, perhaps. Has wanted Harry to ask him for a drink, to almost kiss him in an empty classroom, since they were teenagers. And whilst this is baffling, perplexing, absolutely wild - it’s also the truth. So Harry waits for him to finish the sentence, but of course - he doesn’t. 

“After that, yes, Malfoy I will do absolutely anything you say,” Harry finishes for him. He doesn’t bother to filter the suggestive tone from his voice. 

*

The moment Harry is alone in his office, his door firmly locked, the crushing weight of what he’s done piles on top of him in such a tremendous load that he actually has to brace himself on the lip of the desk. He had managed, before Draco had swiftly left the classroom, to pin him down for Tuesday night at eight, the Potions Classroom as the meeting place, the location of the date to be confirmed. 

Just contemplating it is giving Harry heart palpitations. How on earth is this going to go? Will he and Malfoy end up firing curses at each other over tankards of Hog’s Head Brew? Will they end up locked in a passionate kiss up against the Potions Classroom wall before they’ve even left? The possible outcomes of an event have never been so unpredictable, Harry’s sure. He’s almost tempted to run up to Professor Trelawney and beg her for a cuppa, swiftly followed by a discussion of whatever obscure tea dregs are left in his cup, but since she is a temperamental soul and Harry’s fortunes have never boded well, he decides quickly against it. 

To prevent himself from spiralling into a full blown anxiety attack, he grabs his Invisibility Cloak from the drawer in his desk just in case, heads for his fireplace and Floo’s directly to Ron and Hermione’s house. He emerges in their dining room, where they keep the secondary fireplace, the one that isn’t constantly being used for Hermione’s Ministry firecalls, and that only a select few people know about. 

“Hello?” Harry calls out from inside the grate. The dining room is empty, but there are plates with remnants of a meal and empty wine glasses still on the table. Soft, subtle classical music is playing from the self-turning gramophone in the corner. “Herm? Ron? Are you here?” 

It occurs to Harry, a second too late, that he might be calling extremely late again. He hasn’t thought to check the time, being wide awake as he is, and winces at the idea of waking his two dear, patient friends again on a Sunday night. But then there’s the unmistakable sound of footsteps descending the stairs, along with muffled voices. Harry has no time to think about retreating in quiet guilt before Hermione enters the room in a pale purple dressing gown, her hair madly sticking up around her head, cheeks flushed. 

She locks her eyes on him, and immediately they go wide. “Harry! Are you alright?” 

Before he can answer, Ron pads in behind her, shirtless, but wearing pyjama bottoms - a Holyhead Harpies pair. He looks a bit pissed off, Harry notes. He glances around the room and notices a grandfather clock in the corner. The time reads 10:08. That’s not… terrible. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, stepping out of the grate into the bricked area around the fireplace. “I should’ve called first. I’m, um. Having a bit of a personal crisis?”

“Oh,” Hermione says, deflating. 

She exchanges a look with Ron, several looks actually, and the situation dawns on Harry then, smacking him around the face like a wet fish. The wine, the romantic music, both of them in bed at a relatively reasonable hour, then emerging dishevelled and annoyed… He blushes, he can feel it, and it’s mortifying. He looks down at his floo dusted shoes. 

“Unngh, alright, alright,” Ron mutters, bowing to Hermione’s pointed, silent words. 

He slinks out of the room towards the kitchen, managing to throw Harry a nod of greeting, which is more than he really deserves, under the circumstances. Hermione is smoothing down her fly-away hairs with her hands, plastering on her mumsy, sympathetic smile. 

“Why don’t you come into the living room, Harry?” she says sweetly, tightening the cord of her robe. “Ron’s just making some tea.” 

“Do you have anything stronger?” Harry asks, following her through. 

Once Hermione has sent a paper aeroplane message through to Ron to mix some alcoholic drinks for them all (Ron and Hermione are an Elf-free household, on account of her stance against the whole Elf servitude thing) she takes a seat in the plush, pristine white armchair. Harry falls unceremoniously on the end of the long sofa nearest her, grabs one of the nice, velvety blue cushions and cradles it to his chest. 

“So,” Hermione says, leaning forwards. “What’s the trouble? Have you… done something rash?” 

He looks at her, trying to work out what she’s thinking. “I don’t… know.” 

“Oh, Merlin Harry. Did you drink some?” 

He frowns, trying to follow her train of thought. His vision seems blurred by wisps of white-blond hair. “Drink what?” 

“The Fatum Amare,” she says in a low voice, leaning further towards him. “I warned you not to, Harry, I gave you that book-”

“No! No, I didn’t drink it,” Harry interrupts, raising a hand to stop her chastising. He would be a bit more irritated that everyone seems to jump to the conclusion that he’s incapable of resisting guzzling the unregulated potion down without a second thought, but then, Hermione and McGonogall know him pretty well. He can’t exactly blame them for assuming he’d be an impulsive idiot. “But, uh,” Harry takes a breath, “Draco did.” 

Hermione’s eyes bulge. 

Just then, Harry notices Ron shuffling into the room, three tumblers of something clear in his hands. “Malfoy did what?” he asks, handing one of the glasses out to Harry and clinking his own against it. He hands the other one to Hermione, who takes an immediate gulp. “Taken up a love of ladling soup in Muggle homeless shelters now, has he? Or maybe begun nursing sick Kneazle kittens back to health with his bare hands?” 

Ron’s derisive snort, so often associated with Draco Malfoy, follows his sarcastic inquiries. He sips his drink, then seems to realise that Hermione and Harry are not laughing. Instead, they both cringe into their own glasses. 

“No,” Harry says, then takes a sip. It burns, but not the way Firewhiskey does, pleasant, fragrant and warm - it’s a thin, bitter burn, reminding Harry of Muggle alcohol. In fact, he’s pretty sure this is straight up Muggle gin. He places the glass down for a moment. “Malfoy drank some Fatum Amare when he was a kid. He told me.” 

“That’s the fancy love potion you two’re brewing?” Ron clarifies, and Hermione huffs, rolling her eyes. 

“Honestly, how many times have I told you about it now?” 

“Yeah, but in my defence, before I knew Harry was involved, I was only half-listening to you prattle on about some love potion I’d never heard of,” Ron says, at which Hermione purses her lips, drawing her robe even tighter. Something tells Harry that whatever he may have walked in on will not be resuming tonight. Ron seems to know this too, judging by the resigned, wounded little look that passes over his face. He turns back to Harry, sighing. “So, Malfoy drank some weird potion ages ago. And?”

“ And the potion reveals your soulmate,” Hermione snaps. “It alerts you when they’re near, makes you ache almost unbearably when they’re not. It’s quite horrific actually, by the sounds of things.”

Ron frowns. “S’that why he always looks kinda constipated?” 

Harry laughs darkly, despite everything. “I’d imagine so, yeah. He said it’s, uh, like knives. Or was at first, before he knew what was going on. Think it gets more manageable over time, but yeesh.” Harry picks up his drink again, feeling the blood drain from his face as he imagines Draco curled in on himself in his fancy four poster bed at the Manor, trying to clamp his mouth shut as agony roared through him, and not even understanding why. He drinks some gin. “He was only ten.” 

Ron looks pretty undisturbed by all of this information, but Hermione shakes her head in a semblance of pity. “Did he… tell you who it was? His soulmate?” 

She already knows, Harry thinks, meeting her eye. It’s obvious in her wince, the way she hides her mouth behind her glass. He nods anyway, drinks another sip. “Did you know he’s gay?” 

“What?!” Ron cries, spilling a drop of gin, just as Hermione says, “of course.” 

They turn to one another, perplexed. “Well, it’s in all the papers constantly, Ron.” 

“I don’t bloody read the Prophet , do I?” 

“You’ve seriously managed to avoid the constant Ministry gossip about Draco’s dalliances with all manner of wizards?” Hermione asks, seeming to be genuinely surprised. “It’s all anyone ever prattles on about on the top floor. Last year, when he was allegedly holed up with that French Bureaucrat somewhere in Yorkshire - Merlin, I thought I’d go mad listening to everyone inserting their moronic opinions about it.” She contorts her face into a pinched, haughty expression: “‘ He’s going to ruin our chances of settling things with the Ministère de la Magie Français’,” she says in a high, East London accent, mimicry astoundingly accurate for the types of gossipy witches that Harry has known to frequent the Ministry's administration sectors, ‘I doubt he realises he’s a representative of our country to the French wizards’, ‘Does his mother not have any say in his outrageous behaviour? ’, et cetera.”

Harry stares at her, utterly dumbfounded. Draco Malfoy? In a secret romantic getaway with some foreign French bachelor? His sordid adventures the talk of the town? 

“I hadn’t heard either.” 

Hermione fixes her startled glare on Harry this time. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be that surprised given that neither one of you seem to emerge from your respective offices.” She shakes her head again, and Ron and Harry exchange shrugs. “Anyway, yes, I know he is gay. So it’s safe to assume then that his soulmate is, erm, male?” 

“That’s generally how it works, Herm,” Ron jokes, chuckling. She glares at him, but it’s softer now, accepting the tease. “So, who’s the unfortunate bugger caught in Malfoy’s cross hairs then?” 

Harry takes another gulp of gin. It’s got a vague, botanical aftertaste, but it’s still more or less vile. “Erm, me.” 

Ron’s bark of laughter is delayed by about three seconds. “Merlin, you really had me for a sec there.” 

Hermione places her hand on Ron’s knee. She catches his eye, shaking her head gently to and fro until Ron’s smile begins to fade. Harry just stares into his drink, fingers drumming nervously on his thigh. 

“No,” Ron says, all humour gone from his voice. “Oh, mate . I’m so sorry.” 

With considerable effort, Harry lifts his head to look at his best friend. “Actually, erm. I don’t- it’s not something I… entirely… loathe.” 

Hermione chokes on her gin, just enough to cough delicately twice in her hand. “Before you say anything, Ron-”

“ What ?!” Ron slams his drink on the table with such force that the vase of flowers in the middle (another clue to their evening prior to Harry’s arrival, probably - God, he’d have made a shit Auror) rattles. “Please tell me I’ve got the wrong end of the stick here - are you telling me you’re- you’re considering Draco Malfoy as a- a-”

“Partner?” Hermione suggests. “Potential lover?”

Harry places his head into his hands, groaning. 

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Ron announces, though he doesn’t move an inch. “Harry, mate, you’re not yourself. Herm said the fumes of that potion can make you all gooey, right? That’s obviously what’s happened here. Let’s get you a love potion antidote, stay here.”

“Wait, Ron, perhaps we should just listen-” 

Harry lifts his head out of his hands just in time to see Ron sprint from the room, almost colliding with the doorframe in his haste. Hermione sighs, then slumps into the chair she’s sat in, sipping more gin. 

“Sorry. You must’ve known he’d overreact.” 

“You seem remarkably nonplussed about this development,” Harry notes, and she gives him a wry smile. 

“I believe I told you I predicted this all along,” she says, lifting her glass. 

“I don’t bloody see how,” Harry says, still dumbed, though the alcohol is admittedly helping, “I hadn’t the slightest clue until… well, the last week or so.” 

“Sometimes one must draw back the curtain on a different window to shed light on these things,” Hermione says wisely, exhibiting that Minister-esque side of her bright, controlled personality that is particularly impressive, even when she’s sat here in her dressing gown and slippers. “Things that have sat for so long in the shadows.” 

Chapter Text

Later, when Ron’s given him two helpings of the two different varieties of love potion antidote they have in the cupboard, Harry is sat across from Ron, who has his head of bright ginger curls in his hands. 

“This can’t be happening,” he says into his palms. Hermione is rubbing his back sympathetically. “It’s fucking Malfoy.” 

“I know,” Harry says, almost grimacing himself. “Believe me, I’d be doing exactly what you’re doing if you’d said this would happen to me even two weeks ago.”

Ron lifts his head. “I don’t understand. Okay, so he’s not a fucking purebloods-only, hippogriff-murdering Death Eater anymore, but Merlin is he a wanker.”

“Sure,” Harry allows, rolling his glass between his hands. “He pisses me off to the point where I could literally walk him off a bridge maybe seventy percent of the time.” 

“And the other thirty percent?” Hermione prompts, gently. 

Ron visibly braces himself for Harry’s reply. 

Harry decides it’s best for Ron’s health if he’s blunt about the situation. He shrugs. “Kinda wanna shag him.” 

“Oh God,” Ron says, eyes fluttering closed. 

He does look a little green now. Harry wonders about summoning some kind of receptacle in case he does vomit, but he catches Hermione’s eye, and she’s holding back a laugh. It spurs him on.  

“I’m assuming it’s a little more than that,” Hermione chastises, amusedly. “But come on Ron, this isn’t entirely out of the blue. Don’t you remember how obsessed Harry always was with Draco, even back in school? I used to say that they would end up passionately making out one day after a heated duel, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I used to laugh my head off! I thought you were joking, Herm! I wasn’t for the life of me actually thinking they’d…” he flaps a hand in the air, queasily. “Y’know.”

“We haven’t, by the way,” Harry drops in to the conversation. 

Ron looks mildly relieved. Hermione clears her throat, a little pink. “So, what has happened? How have you left things, after it was revealed you’re his soulmate?” 

“Bloody hell,” Ron mutters. 

“Um, well,” Harry starts, shifting in his seat. It’s difficult to remember exactly what did happen, given that the moment he realised the truth, he’d instantly careered into a panic-stricken shutdown of his senses. “I was pretty angry with him. For treating me like crap all those years to cover up his secret thing for me. I threw something at his head.” 

“Small mercies,” Ron says, and Harry manages a weak smile. 

“Okay…” Hermione says, making a ‘go on’ gesture with her hand. “And then?” 

“Well then he got all huffy and tried to storm out,” Harry says, picturing Draco’s wand slashing through the air, making ingredients and containers fly. “So I stopped him.”

“How?” Hermione presses, quite literally on the edge of her seat. She shrinks back when the invasiveness of her question makes Harry raise an eyebrow. “Sorry, just… can’t imagine it. We all know he’s pretty volatile when he’s cornered like that. I’m surprised you could stop him.”

“Yeah, well… he’s got this weird thing about me touching him. It’s like he gets scared of it.” Harry shrugs, polishing off his drink. Ron does the same, then reaches for Hermione’s. She lets him take the tumbler from her fingers, too engrossed in what Harry is saying to care. “I’ve noticed him being jumpy about it before, so I just backed him up against a table, made sure he couldn’t get past me to the door without touching me until we talked about it.” 

“Bloody hell,” Ron says again, gulping more gin down. Hermione’s pinkness has deepened, giving her a pleasing, rosy tint. 

“Interesting,” she says, reaching for a spare quill on the coffee table. She accio ’s a piece of parchment under her breath. “Have you been taking notes of his behaviour? I’ve never heard of Fatum Amare giving a reaction to physical touch, but then again very little is known-”

“Have I been studying Draco like a lab rat?” Harry asks, incredulous. “Blimey, Hermione I only found out he’d even taken the potion on Saturday night. Excuse me for not immediately performing a series of tests on him.” 

The quill and parchment fall, lifeless, settling on the table. Hermione is bristling, but she looks chagrined. “No need to jump down my throat,” she mutters, “I was only wondering.” 

“Can we just get to the real issue here,” Ron cries suddenly. He puts his empty glass down on the table, fixing Harry with a grim look. “What the bloody fuck are you gonna do about all this, Harry?”

Harry hesitates, his breathing seeming to stutter as it works its way out of his lungs. He looks guiltily at Ron. “I’m gonna take him on a date.” 

*

The following day, Tuesday, is the most difficult work day that Harry has ever faced. For one thing, Harry spends a good chunk of the morning decently hungover from drinking gin well into the night with Ron, who’d needed copious amounts of consoling after Harry unleashed a bombshell on him that his best-friendship seemingly could only barely withstand. Hermione, it’s worth noting, had gone to bed at midnight, a little worried about Harry’s stability of mind, but apparently not freaking out that he’s decided to wine and dine Draco Malfoy somewhat out of the blue. She also did not seem particularly concerned about Ron, just rolled her eyes at his theatrics and told him to ‘come to bed when he was done sulking’. 

Apart from this, Harry had barely slept a wink due to nerves and overthinking, spending his night tossing and turning in a drunken haze in Hermione and Ron’s spare bedroom until he gave up on sleep and snuck out before the sun rose. He hadn’t felt brave enough to try sleeping at Hogwarts in case Draco was still there, in the room opposite his. He stays anxious and alert all day, dreading the thought that he might run into Draco packing up his things, or on his way to the Great Hall for a final sandwich before he leaves for good. 

As it happens, he doesn’t see Draco at all. He hears Neville chatting to Professor Sprout about him in the greenhouse when he stops by to collect the Fire Seeds for his upcoming class on the Fire-Breathing Potion. It’s so bizarre to hear Draco’s name mentioned so casually on either one of their lips that Harry has to pause outside in the mandrake patch to listen. 

“...Malfoy actually seems pretty knowledgeable about different types of magical flowers, ” Neville says, obviously impressed. “We talked a lot about it. He mentioned his ‘partiality to liquorice root’, so I gave him some of mine. I grow it in my garden at home.” 

“Liquorice root!”  Sprout exclaims with distinct amusement in her voice. “I was thinking of sending a small token of appreciation for his kind footnote about Hogwarts’ magically fertile grounds in the publication of his project. Perhaps a few cuts of liquorice might be just the thing...” 

Ears quite literally burning a deep pink, Harry bustles into the greenhouse to snatch up the bag of seeds Neville has already gathered for him, and mutters vague hello’s to the pair before dashing out again. 

Time seems both to drag and to remain hideously still depending on Harry’s oscillation between dread and nervous excitement. Having no means of accurately telling the time immediately to hand, and not particularly wanting to cast a clock face into the air that will look so poor in comparison to Draco’s, Harry is, embarrassingly, ready to leave by six o’clock. He’s decided to wear a dark green, thin jumper over a t-shirt, and dark jeans - the nice pair that Ginny made him purchase from a Wizard tailor back when they were dating, that fit themselves magically to his legs and ass. Ginny had been downright gleeful when she saw him in them, and if he remembers correctly, they didn’t stay on him for long. 

He also takes a black robe, as Draco will undoubtedly be in one, and Harry doesn’t want him to feel as though he should have dressed more Muggle-passing. He doesn’t even know where he’s taking Draco, really, though he has a vague, somewhat mad idea. In case things swerve in this direction, Harry stuffs a blanket, a huge bottle of Firewhiskey he coaxed from the paws of the Castle Elves with a bit of unfair ‘Chosen One’ guilt-tripping, and a few other bits into a satchel, then sits on the edge of his bed, at a loss for what to do until eight. 

After a few minutes of dithering, chewing the skin of his thumb and trying not to project ahead to inevitable disaster, Harry decides to go down to the Great Hall and have something to eat. He and Draco might not get the chance to have any food, after all. It’s more than likely that they will have murdered each other before they get as far as deciding on a restaurant. 

Unfortunately, Neville is there. “Harry!” he cries, rosy-cheeked and jovial from the chalice of wine in front of him. The professors are not encouraged to drink around students, but there are no strict rules about it, so Harry follows Neville’s lead, aims his wand at his own goblet, and casts vinomenti . 

“Hi,” Harry manages after a first, deep gulp. It’s a touch vinegary, not his best work, but it will do. 

“You’re looking special,” says the man beside Neville - a man Harry should know the name of. He’s a peppy, young new Charms Professor, and Harry actually likes him because he makes a real effort to treat Harry just like anyone else. “Got a hot date?” 

Unfortunately, his question still makes Harry choke on his mouthful of wine. Neville thumps him wildly on the back, which makes it a lot worse. “Thanks, Nev- ah! Okay, I’m fine. Cheers.” He takes a deep breath, focusing on the alcohol working its way down his throat, through his bloodstream, easing his nerves. “Um. Kind of, I suppose.”

“You do?!” Neville asks, ecstatic. “Mate, that’s fantastic!” 

“Mmm.” Harry’s fingers tap against the rim of his goblet. “How’s the Patronus stuff going?” 

Neville grins, obviously tipsy enough to ignore the obvious subject change. “Brilliant! They loved seeing you cast. It was so impressive! Made me think I might try again.”

“You should,” Harry says, giving his friend an encouraging smile. “ Patronuses aren’t something to fear, in my opinion. The worst you’ll get is, I don’t know, a beetle or something. But apparently there’s talk of the tiny ones being the most powerful.”

“Yeah, well, just ask Christian,” Neville says, waving his hand at the man next to him. Relieved to be reminded of his name, Harry turns his attention to Christian, prepared to give him his full attention to make up for having forgotten it. 

“My P atronus is a field mouse,” Christian says around a sheepish smile. “Diddy little thing, but you should see her against a Dementor . Once I was flying up in the castle turrets, not long after the war, and I ran into one still lurking around. My little mouse leapt through the air, teeth bared. Utterly vicious she was! Couldn’t believe it.” 

Harry laughs, glad of this distracting conversation. They get into a bit of discussion about flying, to which Neville can only contribute that he’s never swinging his leg over a broom handle again after the first time. It turns out that Christian is a pretty good beater, and played in his secondary school Quidditch team for years. Harry drinks his wine - just the one glass, he’s nervous but not fucking stupid - and laughs at Neville’s recount of that first flying lesson with Madam Hooch. As the familiar itch of wanting the wind in his hair and the smell of freshly waxed mahogany in his nostrils begins prickling beneath his skin, the budding idea Harry had had about where to take Draco begins to grow roots in Harry’s mind. He glances out of the Great Hall windows at the clock tower; he still has enough time, just. 

*

Draco is three minutes late to arrive at the Potions Classroom, which is just enough time for Harry to cycle through all five stages of grief after convincing himself that Draco is not coming. He’s accepted it, is about to leave and hole up in his room in a ball of shame, when the door opens with a bang, and Draco swans in, his velvet green robe fluttering behind him. It’s much more luxurious than Harry’s robe, making him appear far more intimidating than usual. 

“Now, listen,” Draco declares, chin jutted out, fixing Harry with a measured stare, “I’ve been thinking about all this nonsense, and I am certain you will agree that what was proposed last night in a moment of reckless abandon does not seem as appealing in the stark light of today. I know you are insufferably conscious of offending anyone who crosses your path, but rest assured that a retraction of your offer to ‘date’ me will not be a grudge I hold against you. In fact, I think it far wiser that we continue on as we have been-”

“With you hopelessly pining over me from afar, you mean?” Harry interrupts. A smile has broken out on his mouth as Draco speaks. It’s unexpectedly endearing, listening to his nerve-born, rambling assurance that Harry can back out now. Draco’s eyes narrow, but it only makes Harry smile wider. “Come on, chicken. We agreed on a date, so let’s do a date.”

Drunk with a confidence that seems to be half wine and half Draco’s nervous, stuttery inability to hold his eye for longer than a second, Harry makes for the door, pushing his satchel round so that it bumps against his hip beneath his cloak. He doesn’t need to turn and check Draco is following him; he hears the tap of his pointed shoes on the stone floor a few seconds later. 

*

Harry walks them out into the grounds through the kitchens; he’s pre-arranged it with the Elves, who grumble at them under their breath, but do let them squeeze through the self-washing pots flying through the air. The two of them duck and swerve under clouds of steam and stray shoots of colourful spells that light hobs and puff up loaves of fresh bread in seconds. 

“There had better be a good reason for you humidifying my hair,” Draco mutters, but follows closely at Harry’s back. 

It occurs to Harry as they swerve through the hoards of hurrying elves, that Draco has likely never been behind the scenes in a kitchen like this. The urge to reach through the steam behind him and take hold of Draco’s hand is compelling, but he resists it. Eventually, they make it to the back door, outside of which is the walled-off bin-area, encased in a smell-sealing bubble charm.  For obvious reasons, Harry makes sure they walk quickly through this section. The cool night air kisses their skin, delicious after the intense heat of the kitchens. At the edge of the field leading down to the Quidditch pitch, Harry turns to Draco, who is fussing with his hair, trying to rake it back into a ponytail, though several strands break for freedom as he tries. 

“Your hair’s fine,” Harry says, laughing. “Leave it alone.” 

At his side, his fingers twitch, desperate as always to reach up and fix it himself. Draco tuts, but reluctantly drops his hands, leaving his hair in the messy ponytail. “‘ Fine ’,” Draco repeats, scornfully, “just how one hopes to look on such an occasion.” 

One goblet of wine ago, such a comment might have been enough to knock Harry off his feet. As it is however, he only chuckles, eyes darting to the stars above for a moment. “Draco,” he sighs, shaking his head, “you always look incredible.” 

Draco slips on the wet grass; Harry almost reaches out to steady him, but Draco is already batting a hand in the air, declaring that he’s perfectly alright. Harry just laughs, which makes him huff. 

“Am I ever to be told where you’re taking me?” 

“It’s a surprise,” Harry replies, enjoying the way Draco’s mouth folds into a responding grimace. 

“Congratulations, you have actually managed to lower my expectations of this evening’s outcome,” he mutters, but follows Harry towards the floodlit pitch ahead of them nonetheless. “I must insist that I’m able to imbibe alcohol of some sort at a certain point, Potter. Getting through this sober is not something I wish to attempt.”

Ignoring the implication that ‘this’ - the date - is something Draco is fully expecting to suffer through, Harry turns, walking backwards so that he can face Draco. He opens the flap of his satchel, holding his eye, and pulls out the tip of the bottle of Firewhiskey he stuffed in there earlier. Draco raises his eyebrows, loose strands of hair fluttering in the breeze. As the floodlights drifting overhead, like rectangular clouds, pour their intense, yellow light over Draco’s figure, he becomes suddenly ethereal, his white skin almost glowing. 

“Oh,” he says, still moving towards Harry, following him towards the changing rooms, “I suppose I assumed we’d be going to a pub or something. Somewhere…” 

“Public?” Harry smiles, shakes his head. “A great idea if you fancy being on the front page of Witch Weekly as my unexpected new beau.” 

Draco humphs. “Could’ve gone somewhere Muggle.” 

“C’mon,” Harry goads, laughing fully now, “you hate Muggle pubs. Trust me on this. I know what you’ll like.” He hesitates. “I know you.”

“Perhaps if you were a stranger, we would not be in this mess.” 

Harry laughs, suddenly bubbly and light with the surreality of this moment, the two of them on the deserted pitch - their old battle ground - warmed by the floating lights overhead, the whole rectangle of fake grass caught in a swatch of milky yellow. Harry throws his arms out, spins in a circle. When he lets out a whoop, it tumbles from his mouth in a silvery stream, like a Dragon’s snore. 

“Salazar,” Draco mutters, coming to a standstill to watch him, “what on earth have I let myself in for?” 

He doesn’t move though, so Harry just flashes him a grin, then beckons him towards the hut that stores the Quidditch training equipment. It’s bolted, but not with a lock more complicated than a second year could figure out how to break. Harry springs the bolt free, reaches inside and draws out two of the stubby, worn broomsticks. The rope securing the bristles is fraying on one of them, and there’s an obvious splinter in the handle of the other, but they’re in decent-ish condition apart from that. Harry holds them up to Draco, shrugging. 

“Would you prefer a slightly lopsided flight, or one where you’ll probably end up picking splinters from your palms?”

Instead of choosing, Draco hands him an incredulous stare. “Sorry, we’re flying to this mystery destination?” 

“Problem?” Harry decides to make the choice himself, and takes the splintered broom. 

He holds the other out until Draco snatches it from him, eyeing the thing with obvious distaste. “I’m not exactly dressed for it,” Draco grumbles. 

Harry looks him up and down, taking in the tight, fitted slacks, the glossy, pointed boots, the pristine black dress shirt without a single crease. He notices, with mild amusement, that as his eyes rove over Draco’s body, a flush deepens on Draco’s exposed throat. It’s only this that prompts Harry to realise that Draco’s shirt has three of its buttons undone. Usually he allows no more than two, and even then only when they’ve been brewing for hours, and the heat becomes stifling. Harry raises an eyebrow at the sight of this extra, exposed triangle of skin. It’s cold out here. Not stifling in the slightest. 

“Would you stop gawping at my inappropriate attire and lead the way,” Draco snaps, climbing carefully onto his broom and testing its levitation abilities with a small kick off the ground. 

It rises, shakily, but Draco holds firm - still an excellent flyer, Harry notes with something like pride. “Can’t help it,” Harry says, slinging a leg over his own broom and stomping the ground, pushing himself into the air. “You’re pretty.” 

The broom is definitely no Nimbus 2000 - its acceleration is trifling in comparison - but it works, and as soon as the breeze skims Harry’s bare cheeks, he grins, relaxing into his flying position, and pulls up towards the clouds. He waits, hovering just above the floodlights, for Draco to join him. He weaves his way upwards far more cautiously, swinging left and right to compensate for the lack of control caused by the lopsided tail of his broom. A less capable wizard might have struggled, but Draco makes it look easy, graceful even. He joins Harry in a minute or so, white knuckles betraying the reality of his struggle to maintain a balance. 

“ Pretty ?” he spits once he’s floating beside Harry, tone scalding, cheeks a hot pink. 

Harry just grins in response. “Come on,” he says, then swings a 180, pointing his broom towards the peaks of the mountains a few miles away. “Slowpoke.” 

He zooms forwards then, not turning to see whether Draco is following, because he knows, somehow, that he will be. 

*

It’s been a long time since Harry made the trip up here, but thankfully the spark of doubt that it’s as good as he remembers is extinguished almost immediately once he clears the copse of oak trees that he uses to mark the spot. The air is thin up this high, making breaths laboured, so Harry hasn’t shouted to Draco in some time, but he can hear the break of his broom’s tip through the wind behind him. Besides, the view below them is breathtaking enough - the castle, atop its hill, proud and magnificent, shedding generous light on the endless acres of blue-grey tinted fields, the enormous crescent shaped expanse of the forest. 

Harry steers himself gently down, easing carefully over the rim of the farthest oak tree, into a hidden clearing that he knows is there, right at the very edge of the mountain’s Southern peak. He discovered this place entirely by accident, distracted by a mother hippogriff some hundred feet below, taking her fawn up for its first fly. Watching them in delight, Harry had collided with the very oak tree that his feet now skim the branches of, and tumbled straight off his broom into the clearing, nearly rolling off the edge of the cliff face. When he’d righted himself, fixed his broom and found his glasses, his breath, or what was left of it, had left his stinging lungs in a great whoosh.  

Beside him, minutes after a second pair of feet touch the mossy, slightly damp earth, Harry hears a similar, awestruck exhale. He turns, eyes already alight with anticipation, to see Draco’s stunned expression, eyes fixed on the view ahead of them. 

“Merlin’s balls,” he breathes, dropping the crappy broom to the floor. He takes a step towards the edge, then another, until the tips of his shiny loafers are almost protruding over it. “I’ve never seen anything like- I can see the ocean, Harry. The ocean!” 

Harry chuckles, aiming his wand at a low branch of the oak tree. At the sound of it snapping after Harry’s Bombarda Minima, Draco whirls around, his cloak fluttering behind him. Harry breaks the branch, now fallen to the floor, into kindling, then ushers it all into a pile, and casts Incendio . A breeze has picked up, so it takes a few more tries for the flames to catch; luckily, Draco seems to get the idea, and sweeps a thick weather protection spell over the clearing, the shield it creates shimmering in a dome over their heads. Harry shoots him a grateful smile, and the fire slowly crackles into fierce, wood-consuming flames. 

From his satchel, Harry digs out the blanket he’d taken from his bed, knitted by Molly Weasley in a classic Weasley red, and spreads it across the rotted acorns, crispy oak leaves and dry, cracked earth. He pulls out the pillows he’d spelled with Dimminuendo , and restores them to their normal size atop the blanket. He can sense Draco staring as he sets up this small den, and his cheeks begin to warm, so he doesn’t meet Draco’s eye. This is all starting to look a bit suspicious, now that Harry’s here, actually in the moment, and he cannot bear to know whether Draco is thinking that he’s-

“Are you planning to deflower me up here, Potter?”

Harry drops the bottle of Firewhiskey as he pulls it free of the satchel. Mercifully, it lands on one of the pillows, safe. He shoots Draco a glare. “Would you prefer to sit on the hard ground?” 

Draco only smirks, the bastard. He does sit though, eventually, settling back against two of the pillows, not seeming to mind that one of them has the Gryffindor shield embroidered into the front panel. Soon enough, after weaving a quick Protego and Muffliato into the bubble Draco has already drawn around them - just in case any hikers or particularly lucky Harry Potter fanclub members are out for a wander nearby - Harry eases himself into the space beside him.  Tension somewhat broken by Draco’s cheeky question, they chat about the location, about how Harry clumsily happened upon it, and he even manages to coax a laugh out of Draco, if a small, nervous one. It’s incredibly obvious that Draco is on edge, his whole body rigid with tension, so Harry takes pity on him and uncorks the Firewhiskey. 

“Are we to swig it from the bottle like peasants?” Draco asks, but holds his hand out for it eagerly nonetheless. Harry reaches into the satchel, now laid near-empty at the corner of the blanket, and pulls out two small silver cups. He hands one to Draco, eyebrow arched. “Ah,” Draco says, retreating back into himself, “aren’t you prepared.”

“Unusually so,” Harry comments, wondering why that is; he expects to wait for Draco to pour himself some Firewhiskey first, but he beckons Harry’s cup towards him, pouring at least four fingers in before moving to his own. “Oh. Thanks.” 

They clink their cups together and each take a long drink. “Merlin, this is odd.” 

“The whiskey?” 

“Yes, that’s the only bizarre part of tonight,” Draco replies dryly, looking straight into the flames ahead of them. To Draco’s right is the cliff edge, and beyond it, the Scottish highlands, stretching towards the thin strip of faint, glowing light - all that’s left of the retreating day. Harry sees, in the loosening of Draco’s limbs, the slow sinking of his back into the pillows, how the alcohol melts the tension from his muscles. “How in the world is this occurring?” he mutters, though Harry doubts he expects a reply. 

Harry takes another drink, then toes off the heel of his shoe. A damp has seeped into the back of his sock, so he angles it towards the fire, letting the heat burrow into the wet patch. “I drank some,” Harry says, forcing the words from his throat. Draco turns his head, frowning. “Of the Fatum Amare ,” Harry clarifies, then drinks another gulp. 

He feels, rather than sees, how Draco stiffens beside him, how he shoots upright, scrabbling for his wand. “Tell me you’re fucking joking.” 

Harry winces, then turns to look at him, at the flames flickering in the reflection of his eyes. He’d known it would be bad. He shrugs. “Sorry.”

Draco’s mouth falls open. He shoves the cup in his hand down on the ground, not looking. Somehow it doesn’t spill a drop. “Sorry?!” he seethes, getting to his knees. “You’re sorry? You blithering, pea-brained, reckless moron, Potter!” 

Before Harry can react, a sharp, visceral sting whips across his right side. Draco’s wand smokes slightly from the force of the propulsion. “Ow!” Harry squawks, placing his own cup down. Draco just squares his jaw, hits him with the spell again. “Ow! Bloody hell, Malfoy - cut it out!” 

“Shan’t!” he cries, then fires three more Stinging curses at various parts of Harry’s body, until Harry manages to find his own wand in his pocket and cast a disarming charm. Now wandless, Draco looks as if he’s about to pounce on Harry and begin beating him with his bare fists, but seems to resist, somehow. “I cannot believe you would just flippantly disregard every fucking word I have said. Every warning I gave you, all for nothing! I told you how painful this bloody curse is, Potter. Why, why would you subject yourself to torment, knowing that it is entirely incurable, that it affects every instant you endure henceforth in this world-”

“Well, don’t you wanna know who it is?” Harry interrupts, teeth gritted as he rubs the sore, still faintly stinging flesh of his shin and arms. “My soulmate?”

Draco takes a breath in, as if he’s about to retort, but lets it out again. Sulky and brooding, he grabs his cup, leans back into his cushions, and shakes his head sharply. “You know how I feel about all that shite, Potter. You’ve brought a hideous curse upon yourself, congratulations. But being who you are, I doubt you’ll have my bad luck with whoever the potion has decided you must lust endlessly after. Announce it via Rita Skeeter’s next exclusive interview. I’m sure whoever it is will throw herself at your feet.” 

Harry’s nose twitches. The smoke from the fire is blowing straight up, as the wind is kept out by the bubble charm, yet still Harry feels as though it's prickling at his eyeballs. “You can’t seriously think it’s a girl, Draco.” 

There’s no reply, so Harry lets out a laboured sigh, reaching for the bottle of Firewhiskey. He can feel Draco’s eyes on him as he refills their cups, but he doesn’t say anything further. If the bastard is going to insist on playing dumb, Harry won’t make a fool of himself by rising to it. 

“How did you even steal any?” Draco asks, bringing the cup to his mouth. He presses the rim to the soft, peach flesh of his lower lip; Harry stares, unable to look away. “I was there the whole time.” 

Harry hesitates before replying. “Last night,” he says, lacing his words with the appropriate level of guilt. “I went to Hermione and Ron’s after… you left. Got silly drunk. Stumbled back at dawn, remembered what you said about the potion being done around then, so I went to see if you’d come to collect it yet. But you weren’t there, and it was. I levitated it down just to look, really. Just so I could see the fruit of our labours. But it smelled so crazy good, y’know? And I was tipsy, and tired, and I wanted to prove you wrong. So I got a spoon and tasted it.” 

“A spoon ?” Draco repeats, scandalised. “A fucking spoon, Potter? What was it made of? Wood? Metal? You could have tainted the whole potion, I told you how precarious the balance of ingredients is, and you go and stick a piece of your unsanitary classroom cutlery in it?” 

Harry shakes his head, astounded. “Is that really what bothers you most about-”

“Of course not!” Draco near shrieks; if the muffliato needed testing, that would have proven it held. Harry’s ears ring slightly from being so close to the exclamation. “What bothers me is your utter disregard for my professional and personal experience, alongside your apparent flippancy towards your own mental, emotional and physical wellbeing!”

“Why do you care if I’m pining after- after anyone?” Harry asks, feeling his hackles flare. The flames of the fire crack and soar upwards, picking up on the tensing atmosphere. “It’s not like it makes any difference-”

“Are you thick, Potter?” Draco demands, sneering. “I’m assuming you must have at least a rudimentary understanding of how potions affect the human body or they wouldn’t let you do your job. Although, considering you’re The Chosen One, perhaps the ordinary rules don't apply-”

“Get to the point, Malfoy.”

Draco huffs out some air through his nose, like the dragon he’s named after. “The potion links me to you.” His cheeks are aflame; his fingers are tight, shaky around the cup in his hand. “I am, inextricably, horrifically, in tune with you, you giant git . I feel it all. I suffer as you suffer. If you pine, I pine.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he breathes. He looks down, into the amber, occasionally sparking liquid filling his cup halfway to the brim. “I- I didn’t realise.”

“No, that much is evident.” Draco takes two large gulps of whiskey, then screws his eyes shut against the burn. “Though, I must say, I can’t feel a great deal of pain radiating off of you at the moment. Is that some sort of Hero-level stamina that us regular folk are unable to comprehend?” 

“Would you shut up a minute?” Harry asks distractedly; the area between his eyebrows is starting to throb. 

He removes his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose, which usually helps. Perhaps, he thinks as the squeeze of his fingers alleviates some of the ache, this is, as Draco said from the start, an absolutely shit idea. What on earth is he doing, trying to date Draco Malfoy of all people? What would the rest of the world think of him? Does his being here, up a mountain, with a former Death Eater mean he’s a traitor to everything he ever fought for? When he opens his eyes, Draco is no longer lounging back against the pillows. Instead, he’s scooted forwards, right up close to the fire, and is staring broodingly into the bright white centre. There’s a weary, resigned expression masking the beautiful, open features that Harry has coaxed out over the past couple of weeks. 

Another ache starts up, this time in the centre of his chest, at letting such a sight slip needlessly through his fingers. All because Draco knows far too well how to wind him up to his most aggravated snapping point. Harry scoots down the blanket towards him. Draco doesn’t turn, but his mouth changes shape, as if in acknowledgement. 

“I knew before,” Harry says after a long, unbroken staring match with the fire. “Before the potion came anywhere near my tongue. I worked it out, that day when I bolted out of the classroom. D’you remember?” 

Again, Draco is silent, but Harry didn’t truly expect an answer. He ploughs on, blowing on the hot, fiery Gryffindor blood that’s so quick to boil, refusing to let it ruin this before it’s even had a chance to begin. 

“I was convinced, at first, that it was all the potion fumes, fucking with my head. ‘Cos I couldn’t stop staring at you. And all these thoughts kept jumping on me out of nowhere. Has anyone ever slept next to him beneath his Slytherin bedclothes? Would his kisses match his temperament? Has anyone ever identified the exact silver of his eyes? Mental, stalkery stuff.” 

Harry glances across at Draco, who seems to be having trouble keeping himself still. He’s almost squirming, eyes frantically scattering from the trees, to the billowing smoke, to his own hands, to the flickering flames. Still, Harry continues. 

“But then I started thinking about when these thoughts appeared, and it was never confined to the classroom. In fact, mostly I got them when I was away from you, because being near you is too… I dunno, intense. I have to be in the moment, when you’re there, or it’s like I’m wasting it.” Harry sighs, stretching his legs out in front of them, until his socked toes - now free of their shoes - become hot and tingly. “So I realised, like, oh fuck, it’s not the potion, it’s just me. I fancy bloody Draco Malfoy, and the Fatum Amare is just slapping me round the face like: ‘Hello? Idiot boy? How the fuck did you not realise that talking your friends’ ears off near-constantly about someone and obsessively tracking their every movement on a map is not a sign of having a wee crush? ’. It’s pumping out all these fumes to clue me in, y’know, literally filling the air with liquorice root and the exact way the air used to smell when I was bouncing on the balls of my feet waiting to race you for the snitch. Anyway, my point is, I didn’t need the potion, Draco. I knew. I just drank it because I knew you wouldn't believe me. You don't believe in soulmates at all. So I wanted to have a way to convince you.”

A minute or so after Harry finally stops rambling, Draco lifts a shaky hand holding the cup to his lips. He drinks long and slow, Adam's apple sinking and rising in a hypnotic way. When he’s done, he wipes the excess moisture from his lips with a frankly indecent, uncharacteristically course gesture. 

“When you aided me with casting my Patronus …” he croaks, still not looking away from the flame. 

It’s a wonder that his vision hasn’t started to blur. Some magical rich-person’s optical enhancement spell, probably. 

“I knew then, yeah.” 

Draco downs the last of his whiskey, then nods curtly, placing the cup to one side. “You’re a good teacher, Harry,” he says unexpectedly, voice soft. “Not that that means you should be one.” 

Valiantly, Harry decides to brush past this latter comment for now, as he senses it’s a diversion tactic, and Draco is way too good at those. “I’m good at Patronuses .” He shrugs. “Potions as well, I guess.” 

Finally, Draco’s eyes drag from the fire to look at him. His pupils have swallowed up nearly all of the silver whirlpools around them. “You are. I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

“The potion or the Patronus ?” 

Draco hesitates. “Both.” 

“Want to know what memory I used?” Harry blurts, heart stuttering over the implication of Draco’s sincerity. His gaze is too raw, it’s unnerving, and it’s exciting. Harry’s fingers dig into his thigh, trying to keep himself calm and not lurch forwards, capsize this precarious ship. “For my Patronus . In Neville’s class.” 

Draco’s eyebrows draw towards each other, but the effect is not as severe as it is normally. There’s an ease to the muscles of his face, a shallowing of his frown lines, which are invisible in his neutral expression anyway. 

“You used something different to what you normally use?” 

Harry nods. “The memory I used to use… well. It doesn’t work for me anymore.” 

“Oh.” Draco watches Harry take a sip he doesn’t really want. “What did you replace it with?” 

It’s the type of invasive question Harry knows Draco is only letting slip because the whiskey has loosened his tongue. He’s glad of it, whatever the reason. It betrays just how badly Draco wants to know what’s inside Harry’s head; it suits him just fine, because he longs to let Draco inside, to give him the top to bottom tour. 

“Professor Lupin always told me it didn’t have to be a memory,” Harry says, leaning back onto his elbows instinctually - mentioning his old Professor’s name always prompts him to look for the moon. “If the fantasy was strong enough.” 

“Fantasy,” Draco repeats. 

He’s reclined too, propped onto his side to stare at Harry in that raw, naked way that Harry can’t quite believe he gets to have fixed on him. Harry just nods, still searching the skies. It’s cloudy tonight, and the smoke obliterates a lot of their view, so the moon isn’t clearly visible. 

“You get these… strands of hair,” Harry says eventually, wincing because he can barely believe he’s saying this aloud. This shameful desire. He turns his head with a lopsided grin, gesturing either side of Draco’s vermillion-balmed face, where the loose ends, long since fallen from his ponytail, hang tantalisingly. “All the time. They fall out so often, and you just let them hang there, getting in your eyes, tickling your cheeks.” Harry shakes his head in mock exasperation, still smiling. “All I’ve wanted to do, ever since it first happened, is just…” he pulls his hand back towards his own ear, miming tucking something behind it. Then he drains the rest of his cup, cheeks warm, and not from the fire. 

“Are you saying…” Draco says, hesitantly, “that you conjured a magnificent, wholly masterful stag Patronus , unrivalled by any other I’ve seen, by thinking about…” Draco makes a strained, disbelieving huff. “Grooming me?” 

Harry barks a laugh, head tipping back. “I guess.”

“Harry…” Draco’s voice has gone strange. It sounds like he’s speaking from below the surface of a pond. 

Harry turns again, looking right at him. His head is bent forwards; the two strands of hair are dangling. Harry reaches out. Draco senses the movement at once, flinching away from the oncoming touch. Harry’s hand pauses in mid-air, green eyes locked to silver. 

“Can I?” he whispers. 

Chapter Text

Draco says nothing. He says nothing for so long that Harry very nearly retracts his hand, nearly apologises, nearly suggests they give up and go home. But then Draco’s head moves, chin jerking down ever so slightly, and Harry hears a breath being sucked through clamped teeth. 

Harry does it slowly, as if his hand is moving through treacle. It’s partly because he’s sensitive to Draco’s reluctance, to the way his shoulders are taut and drawn towards his ears, but it’s also because he so desperately wants to remember this moment. When he’d imagined it, he didn’t think about the way Draco would smell - of oaky ash and smoke from the fire. He didn’t think about how Draco’s eyes would flick across his face, wild and skittish as Harry’s hand moves toward him. He didn’t consider that Draco’s short, shallow breaths might ghost across his mouth, unmoved by breeze because there isn’t any, no noise except the crackling fire, no sensation but the heat submerging their bodies in a warm, fire-fragrant pool. 

When his fingertips first brush Draco’s hair, it feels like a wisp of silk. Tickly and ephemeral. A fallen feather from an angel’s wing. He persists, fingers grazing Draco’s candy-pink cheek, and all of a sudden Draco shudders, eyes going wide, his mouth slackening. Harry hungrily drinks his expression down, fingers still tracing across his skin, pushing the flick of hair back, until he gets a little braver, and wraps it around the delicate shell of his ear. 

It’s done, and Harry's about to draw away, but Draco is quick, and grabs hold of his hand, keeping him there. He pushes his hot cheek into Harry’s palm, eyes fluttering closed, and nuzzles in, like a cat, or a Kneazle. Harry lets him, wouldn’t move his hand if he could, not that Draco’s hard grip would allow him to. A few seconds pass, Harry’s breath caught in his chest as he watches Draco rub his cheeks, his nose, his fine eyebrow hair, against his hand. Then he feels lips snag on skin, the drag of that moist, plush mouth, and he sucks in a breath of his own.  Draco kisses him there, at the top of his palm, over and over, his mouth moving to press against his wrist, then up to each fingertip, to the joins in between. Whole body hot and sparkling, Harry scoots closer, moving towards Draco’s frantically moving body, and whispers his name, quietly. Draco’s head turns, and there are hot tears in both of his eyes. 

He grabs for Harry, resolve long ago broken, his hands moving - strange, is this the place he’s always wanted to touch? - to the back of Harry’s neck. He pulls himself in closer, until his chest presses against Harry’s, until he can entwine their legs, kicking off his shiny shoes and shuffling to slot them together how he wants. He buries his face deep in the crook of Harry’s neck, his gasping breaths coming thick and wet against the exposed skin there; Harry’s eyes flutter at the feel of it. He smooths hands over Draco’s back, pulls him closer. 

And then Draco’s face pulls back, two tears having spilled onto his magenta cheeks, and he takes a moment - just a moment - to trace his gaze over Harry’s face, up close. Then Harry kisses him, because it’s surely what he wants, and he doesn’t have any patience left. Draco makes an agonised noise, one that sounds as if it’s been bottled up for years. He doesn’t kiss back, can’t seem to do so, so Harry just pushes their lips together, chasing him when he pulls backwards, breathless, to do it again. He can taste the liquorice. He can actually taste it. 

“Harry,” Draco whines, voice devoid of much sound, “Harry, are- are you okay?”

Harry pulls back out of confusion. “Y-yes, why?”

Their faces are too close to focus, so Draco’s eyes flick between Harry’s, a crease forming between his brows. “You must be… it’s overwhelming at first. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since you drank the…” he trails off, the crease burrowing further into his skin. Harry feels his fingers loosening on the sleeve of his jumper. 

“Oh! Yeah, um, no it’s actually… not that bad, I-”

Sharp and indignant. That’s how Harry would describe the shove Draco aims at the centre of his chest. “You bloody- you didn’t drink a drop of it, did you?” 

Harry hesitates, cringing.

“Look, before you get angry-”

“Get off me,” Draco says, attempting to wriggle out from under him. “You lying cock , Potter. Must you seek to humiliate me on every level? I mean really-”

“Draco, wait!” Harry cries out, getting desperate. Out of options, he lunges forwards, clumsy from the whiskey still, and pins Draco to the floor by his bony shoulders. The glare he gets in return is practically enough to eviscerate him, but he holds firm. “You have a right to be angry, I know. I did lie, and I’m sorry. I didn’t really drink any Fatum Amare .”

“Wanker,” Draco mutters, though he seems to be struggling to concentrate on his anger, judging by the deepening, bruise-like splotches forming across his pale throat. 

“But it doesn’t matter,” Harry continues, rushing to get the words out, “because I know.” 

“What are you on about?” 

“I know you’re it,” Harry says, removing his hands, because Draco has stopped struggling. He’s still sat atop Draco’s thighs, but he sees the flicker of loss on Draco’s features nonetheless, so he rests a casual hand on his thigh, hoping it will help alleviate the yearning. “I’m your soulmate, you’re mine.” Instantly, Draco’s eyes roll back into his head, but Harry perseveres. “Yeah, you could argue that the universe has paired us together for some kind of twisted joke, but actually, if you think about it, it all makes a lot of sense.” 

“Is that right?” Draco asks, on edge. “Potter, would you get off me, it’s rather difficult to converse when you’re astride-”

Harry leans down and kisses him again. Draco manages about three seconds of resistance, and then he’s locking his hands around the back of Harry’s skull, pulling him tightly in. Draco is all long lines and hard, taut muscle. It should make him bony and angular, but as Harry sinks onto him, all he feels is heat, and softness, and utter give. He seems to want Harry to cover every inch of him, for their chests to rest against each other, breathing synced - Harry in, Draco out. For their legs to coil up like vines. 

Draco’s hands flutter against peculiar places on Harry’s body, alighting nerves in areas that he didn’t know were remotely sensitive. The base of his neck, right above the first knob of his spine. The whorl of his ear. The pulsepoint on his left wrist. It’s a kind of hunger, Harry thinks, letting Draco draw his tongue into his mouth. A hunger that dictates Draco’s every movement, bypassing his conscious thought. He’s desperate; Harry doubts Draco could let go of him at all unless he really had to. 

So, Harry takes hold of Draco by the wrists, gently, but firmly, prising them off him in order to place kisses on each, right below the stiff cuffs of his black shirt. Draco whines softly in protest, but falls still, passive to Harry’s clear intent, and stares up from the blanket he’s laid on, to watch. One by one, Harry unbuckles the silver snake cufflinks. He drops another kiss to Draco’s knuckles, then turns his attention to the collar of his shirt. The first three buttons are undone, but Harry’s eager fingers make short work of the fourth, and then the fifth.  By the time he gets it that far open, it’s evident that Draco’s heart is racing. He brings his hand up, trembling, and places it over Harry’s.

“Now Harry,” he says, scratchy and rough, “don’t get all emotional, alright? It was a long time ago. Not to mention, deserved.” 

“What’re you-” Harry starts to say, but his fingers have not stopped slipping the buttons through their holes, and all too soon it becomes apparent what Draco is referring to. “Oh.”

Almost of their own volition, Harry’s fingers trace the most prominent of the iridescent scars criss-crossing over Draco’s chest. The worst, the thickest, is tender still, the tissue nubile and oddly smooth, dipping inwards when Harry presses against it. This one begins at Draco’s right collarbone, and cuts diagonally across his entire torso, finishing somewhere Harry can’t see, beneath the belt of his trousers. Or maybe even further. There are more, dozens maybe, all perfectly straight, as if someone has slashed him repeatedly. Which, Harry supposes, in a sense, someone has. All at once. 

“Dra…” Even the first syllable of his name leaves Harry’s mouth choked, so he swallows hard, trying to keep himself together. 

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Draco says, though he looks worried, “I told you not to fuss.” 

He’s got his hand on Harry’s wrist still, fingertips loosely pressed to Harry’s fluttering pulse. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, splaying his palm across the plane of Draco’s stomach, as if he’s trying to cover the wounds. 

“Like I said,” Draco says, dismissively, “deserved.” 

“You were just scared,” Harry says, shaking his head. 

“And you weren’t?” Draco reaches out, grabs a handful of his jumper in one fist, then drags Harry towards him. Their noses brush. “I don’t blame you,” he says, low and full of intent, “not even a little.”

“But-”

“Please,” Draco interrupts, his voice teetering, breaking, “please don’t. Just kiss me, I- I can’t bear you touching me this way if you don’t-”

Harry leans in, dragged inward by the desperation in Draco’s voice; he goes for the slope of his throat, letting his tongue lave over the pink blossoms of flushed skin that grow there. Draco gasps, clutches at him, pulls at Harry’s clothes. 

“Take this off,” he begs, tugging at Harry’s jumper. His fingers are frantic, shaking. Harry leans back to help him, lifting it from the hem and pulling it off, along with the t-shirt underneath, in one swift movement. His chest is bare now, and Draco’s eyes glue to the exposed skin at once; in the deep, amber light of the fire, it will be harder to see Harry’s own scars and blemishes, probably. Not that Draco seems to notice any of those, judging by the way he reaches out, smooths his hands across Harry’s chest. “You’re just as I thought…” he says, quiet, pained. “More than I thought.” 

Coiled creatures begin twisting and writhing in Harry’s chest, around his heart. He leans down to kiss Draco again, mostly because he can’t think of any other way to respond. Draco opens up to him readily, too eager to have truly felt as casual in the face of his want as he’s been pretending. He’s so warm, so unusually warm, that Harry imagines the touch of their skin is alighting sparks beneath Draco’s skin, setting him aglow.  It’s incredible, kissing Draco, just feeling the slide of their mouths, the stick of their skin, but Harry’s body is wanting, urging for more, and he finds his hands roaming into uncharted waters, playing with the waistband of Draco’s trousers, his belt. Draco pushes his hips into the touch, lets out a tiny whimper, so Harry tugs the buckle free, pulls the zipper, slips his hand inside. 

“Oh,” Draco says in a rush of breath. He digs his fingers into Harry’s shoulders. 

“Um. Okay?” Harry asks, catching himself, hand going still in the gap of Draco’s open fly. 

“Stupid question,” Draco gasps, then reaches down, pushes Harry’s hand further into his trousers, until Harry’s palm is flattened against the bulge of his erection. “Merlin. Fuck.”

Entranced by the reaction this scarcest of touches seems to be having on Draco, Harry squeezes, presses, drawing whimpers and moans from the man beneath him like he were pressing keys on a piano.  Draco’s shirt is entirely open, but it still hangs from his shoulders, splaying out on the blanket like a short cloak. Harry removes his hand at once, deciding in an impulse of selfish need, that getting Draco’s clothes off is a priority above all others. Draco makes a noise of agony when Harry leans away from him, so Harry fumbles for his hand, locks their fingers together, and sets to work. It takes some problem-solving, getting Draco’s shirt off him without their skin losing contact, but despite Harry’s mind being lost in the mists of disbelief, lust, want - he manages it. 

Next are Draco’s trousers, which are easier to tug down his thighs; Draco attempts to help, but seems to be slipping beneath the surface of whatever ocean of overwhelming sensation he’s trying to keep afloat in. His hands don’t seem to work as normal, his breathing is erratic, his eyes glistening. Once the trousers are off, Harry leans back over him, pushes another strand of hair behind his ear. 

“What does it feel like?” he asks, curious as he trails a finger through the valley between Draco’s pectoral muscles. “When I touch you?” 

In response, Draco’s eyes just squeeze shut, and he shakes his head, unable to verbalise an answer. Taking pity on him, Harry drops his mouth to the biggest scar on Draco’s chest and trails his lips down it, letting it guide him over the plains of Draco’s stomach, then over the jut of his hipbone, until he’s reached the hem of Draco’s underwear. 

“It’s so strange,” Harry murmurs, tracing the elastic band of Draco’s tight boxer briefs. 

“S-strange?” Draco manages. 

“I think I always wanted this, in a way,” Harry says, only realising as the words form, just how true they are. “You’ve always captivated me. When we were younger, I had a constant urge to touch you, to catch hold of you, but I never understood where it came from.” 

As Harry’s lips push against the soft skin below Draco’s tummy, he hears a long, trembling intake of breath. “A desire to h-hex me, probably.” 

Harry laughs lightly, the breath wafting over the front of Draco’s underwear, making his hips twitch. “Maybe,” Harry says, then hooks his fingers into the elastic and pulls, eyes wide in anticipation. “Or maybe not.”

Draco’s hips do their best to lift, to help Harry remove the boxer briefs. But ultimately, Draco is weak, lacking control, and Harry has to hold them up. He manages, thankfully, and then Draco is naked, utterly, totally, the blond hair covering his shapely legs giving them a glossy sheen in the firelight. The shadows of the flames dance over his long, lithe body. His cock is full and thick, swollen with the lust of a man who needed release hours ago, though they’ve only been at this for less than fifteen minutes, Harry would guess. 

Harry sinks down, settling onto his stomach between the open V of Draco’s long legs, and runs his palms up Draco’s thighs, takes hold of the length of him in one fist. Draco makes a noise like the air has been punched from his lungs. Perhaps it’s the feel of skin-on-skin in this most intimate place, but whatever the reason, he doubles over himself, half curling into a ball on his side. So Harry presses a hand down, gentle and firm against his hip, holding him to the blanket, and takes Draco into his mouth. 

“Harry,” Draco moans, instantly, from the back of his throat, “H-Harry. It’s so much, I can’t-”

He listens, intently, as the sentence breaks in Draco’s mouth, right as Harry sinks down over him for a second time, his stretched lips meeting the circle of his fist. He’s never known, in the past, whether he was even above average at this - all he can boast is that he’s had no complaints - but now, Draco writhes beneath him, quakes and shudders, pulls at the root of Harry’s hair with the fingers he’s wound into it.  His cock tastes heavenly, like salty, treacly taffy. Like liquorice left to stew in a warm mug of tea. Harry could stay right here, eyes closed, head bobbing, tasting Eden, forever. But it’s been less than a minute, Harry would guess, and Draco is making enough noise to convince anyone that Harry had been at it for fifty times as long. 

“Harry,” he says again, whining, broken, “st-stop, I’m going to come, I can’t-” 

His voice sounds thick, like he’s speaking through tears. Harry doesn’t listen to a word; he wants, sorely, to know what it feels like to have Draco come in his mouth. He feels the craving wrap around his legs, his wrists, his throat: to know what Draco tastes like, in a way that few people do, and to store the information in his deep, Draco-well of obsession. So he moves faster, letting the tip of his tongue drag up the underside of Draco’s smooth, pulsing cock, until he does come, thick and sudden, his moan pouring out of him like he’s delirious. He jack-knifes forwards, bowed over Harry’s head, arms cradling around the back of his skull as Harry sucks down every droplet.  When Harry pulls off, Draco’s face is haggard, wet with tears; Harry’s kiss is so forceful that it pushes him backwards, until he’s on his back again, the pillows and blanket breaking his fall. 

“Oh, God,” Draco whispers as Harry kisses away the tears marking his face, “oh, God, oh, God, oh God.” 

They kiss, lazily, sloppily, while Draco recovers, while he finds movement in his hands again, brings them to stroke lightly up and down Harry’s back. After a while, Harry pulls back to look at him, propped on one elbow; Draco’s skin is less pallid now, and he wears a familiar post-orgasm bliss on his lovely features.

Harry smiles, warm and full. “Okay there?” 

“Oh no, you’re insufferably smug already.” 

The way Draco’s hand rests lightly atop Harry’s heart takes some of the acidity out of the comment. 

Harry's smile widens into a grin. “Think I have reason to be.”

“It’s the potion, you know,” Draco says, defensively, “making me all…” he flaps a hand in the air. 

“You mean you don’t normally come in thirty seconds?” 

Draco hits him in the shoulder, quite hard. “It was not thirty seconds you unspeakable prat-” 

Harry dodges another blow, then kisses Draco, insistently, until he relents, falling back against the Gryffindor pillow behind him, his hand coming up to cradle Harry’s jaw. Their mouths open, tongues exploring, until it gets to a point where Harry can’t stand the build up of heat in his groin, and he pushes his hips forwards, grinding himself into Draco’s thigh. It might hurt a bit - he’s still wearing jeans, and Draco’s skin is bare - but Draco just groans, hands flying to Harry’s ass, urging him to grind forwards again. 

It’s not the most dignified way to get off, Harry is aware, but he’s also completely lost the ability to think anywhere near that rationally, so he just ruts, unashamedly, against Draco’s leg, the pulses of relief and pleasure spurring him onwards until Draco, breathless and wanton, says into his ear: “Harry, you have to fuck me. Please.” 

A strangled noise escapes with Harry’s next breath. His cock throbs painfully, pushing with insistence at the zipper of his jeans. “God, Draco,” Harry says, lifting his head so that their eyes can meet, “are you sure… maybe we should wait-”

“For what ,” Draco asks, irritably. He’s reaching for Harry’s jeans button, his fluttering fingers not doing a very good job of getting it open. “This is torture, Potter. Torture. You cannot give me this much,” Draco’s hands pause to slide across Harry’s chest, over his arms, then back up to linger, briefly, either side of his face, “and nothing more. I will expire, right here, starved. I need you,” he says, urgent, hands back at Harry’s fly. “I need you inside of me. I’d beg, but I don’t think I’ve the coherence of mind-”

“Jesus, fuck,” Harry interrupts, passing a hand over his burning face. He had no inkling that Draco would be so… open about these things. He seems to have no filter on that plush, irresistible mouth. “Um, y-yeah, okay. I’ll. If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

Draco makes an exasperated noise, finally yanking down Harry’s zipper. “Of course it’s what I want,” he mutters as he tugs at Harry’s waistband, “wouldn’t have made such a bloody fuss otherwise, would I?” 

Harry helps him remove the jeans, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at Draco’s eagerness, and at his frustration over that eagerness, which he would so obviously rather Harry couldn’t see. Once Harry’s trousers are removed, Draco dives for the underwear, but Harry wrestles him back to the blanket, a wicked smile forming on his mouth. 

“Hey, I’ve got this,” Harry says, pinning Draco’s wrists either side of his head, “just relax and let me do the work, yeah?”

“I’ll do no such-”

Harry kisses him, which is truly becoming his favourite method of shutting Draco the fuck up. “No choice, I’m afraid,” Harry murmurs into the millimetre of space between their lips. “Unless you want me to change my mind…”

“Oh, you bastard,” Draco groans, but stops struggling at once against Harry’s hold. 

As Harry draws back from his mouth, he captures Draco’s lower lips between his teeth. “You really want me to fuck you, don't you?” 

A patch of roses blossom along the base of Draco’s throat; Harry drops his head to follow them with his tongue. Draco’s arms wrap around him, locking across his shoulders, his breathing going strange and erratic. 

“Yes,” he squeaks, one bare leg winding around Harry’s. “Please. I- I haven’t been able to think about anything else. For so long.” 

A groan slips off Harry’s tongue. “Fuck. You think about it?” 

Draco tries to do his characteristic snort of derision, but it comes out as a desperate mewl. “All the- fuck. All the time. Every night.”

“ Every night ?” 

“Harry,” Draco says, desperate, “please. Please stop teasing me. I’m going to combust.” 

Harry laughs, wild with the surreality of it all, but kisses Draco deeply anyway, letting their lips numb and drag before he slides his hand down Draco’s body, the other reaching for his wand. He casts lubrico , a spell that Seamus had once taught Harry’s entire Gryffindor dormitory in seventh year as a 'wanking cheat code', only half joking. At once, the fingers of Harry’s right hand are slippery with an oily, odourless substance. He wraps them around Draco’s twitching cock, stroking once, twice, before inching down, past the taut purse of his balls, then pushing into the crevice beyond. 

Draco has a hand quivering against his own lips, perhaps to obscure the noises he’s making from Harry, though it hardly works. The muffliato obscures the sounds of nature that might otherwise permeate the air, making Draco’s moans and curses the only audible thing, which whilst Harry does not object to, is making it harder than usual to focus. Blocking out the sounds as best he can, Harry presses his fingertips, glossy and slippery with the lubricant, against the puckering of skin when he feels it; at the same time Draco’s fingers push into his own mouth to bite at them. 

Harry throws the wand aside to draw Draco’s hand out from between his teeth. “I wanna hear you,” Harry intones, pulling Draco’s hand to his own mouth, so he can have a turn at tasting the pads of his fingers. They’re warm and wet, just like the inside of Draco’s body as his fingers breach the entrance. “How does that feel?”

Draco bats at his neck, so weakly he might as well be petting him, but it’s clear that the question embarrasses him even so. Harry only laughs, sucking once on Draco’s fingers before drawing them away, settling down between Draco’s legs so he can do this properly. 

“I shall die, at this rate, before you get inside me,” Draco gasps out, just as Harry’s whole finger slides into him, right up to the base knuckle. “Was this your plan all along? Kill me slowly, peel away each layer of sanity and patience until- ah! Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

Harry has added a second finger to join the first, mostly because Draco’s impatience is equal parts grating and motivating. He scissors slowly, eyes trained on the very spot where the bronze skin of his fingers is swallowed up by the near-white of Draco’s; even in the warm wash of firelight, the contrast is ethereal, magical.  Draco’s breathing is ragged, but he’s stopped spewing that litany of curse words that Harry has dearly loved hearing, so he crooks his fingers, pushes them deeper, in a crescent shape, and holds his breath. Draco doesn’t disappoint; his right hand lunges out, maybe reaching for Harry, but instead grasping the very edge of the fire, where the boldest of the flames leap and spark. Harry grabs his hand, pulls it away, as Draco can’t seem to feel the dangerous heat brushing his skin. 

“Ha-arry,” he moans, fingernails digging crescents of their own into the spaces between Harry’s fingers. “God, please hurry up. I can’t bear it. I’m going to perish, up the side of Mount-bloody-nowhere-”

‘Merlin, you’re a drama queen,” Harry scolds, laughing, then adds a third finger. “Do you want to explain to Slughorn why you’re returning to work with a limp?” 

Draco kicks him with his knee, catching Harry’s upper arm. “If mentioning that codfish is your idea of dirty talk, I must say you have truly lowered my scant expectations of- ah! Oh, fucking Godric -” 

He comes, again, his entire body spasming with it. Harry can’t help himself, he lurches forward, lapping up the milky substance as it pours, in rivulets, from Draco’s cock. He tastes just as delicious the second time; Harry has to stop himself from making obscene slurping noises as he swallows it down.

“Okay, okay,” Draco pants, face partially buried in the cushion, his hands pushing Harry’s face, weakly, away. “I take it back- oh, Merlin. Fuck. That was...” he lifts his head, hair mussed, confused. “Why have you stopped?”

He looks radiant, and for a wild moment Harry is unable to make sense of the world, and how he came to be here, with such a deity, naked and knuckle deep inside him, still able to taste the tang of his pleasure on his own tongue. 

“Harry,” Draco says, voice husky, eyes dark, dilated, “don’t you dare stop now. You said you’d fuck me. You said .”

It’s honestly baffling that Draco seems to think Harry could possibly go back on his word at this stage, given that he’s so horny, so utterly driven by the desperate need to push himself into Draco, that he would rather throw himself into the fire than stop. Instead, he simply nods, jerkily, and snatches his glasses off his face before thrusting three fingers deep. Draco’s head tips backwards, until his throat is a pale arc towards the litter of faint stars. Harry is finger-fucking Draco in earnest now, there’s no other way to describe the rhythmic plunge and retraction of his digits, aiming for Draco’s sweet spot, going hard because he knows he’ll go harder when he fucks Draco for real. 

Draco whimpers, broken and agonised, curling in on himself again, then reaches out blindly for Harry, fingers straying close to the fire again; Harry grabs his hand, slots their fingers together. It’s time. Are you ready? he asks, then realises he’s not speaking the words aloud, is too overwhelmed by the task in front of him, which will obliterate his consciousness at the first point he edges through the tunnel ahead. He takes some deep, shaky breaths as he casts another lubrication spell into his palm, then uses the slippery oil to slick up his own cock. Draco watches him, flames dancing in the whites of his burning eyes, as they lock onto Harry’s across the expanse of his long body. 

“I should-” Harry mutters, but his tongue is too thick for the words to properly form. Instead, he tries his hardest to focus, to swim through the haze of lust that Draco’s stare is encasing him in, and waves his wand through the air in between them, muttering " protego salutem" , his only known sexual protection spell. 

When Draco’s desperate, agonised whine pours out, Harry gives in, arms bracketing either side of his head, his groin pressed to Draco’s exposed buttocks. He uses a hand to guide himself to the right place, and as the tip of his cock nudges into the divot, he groans. 

“Hurry up ,” Draco urges through gritted teeth, “you are the slowest, most infuriating wanker I have ever-” 

Harry pushes his hips forwards, and Draco’s hands skitter down the surface of his arms; he doesn’t seem to have the dexterity to grasp hold. His thighs quake, Harry can feel them either side of his hips, and then he lifts a leg, rests his heel on the small of Harry’s back. Pressing into Draco feels at first like attempting to squeeze a lemon through a straw. The tight hole does not seem conducive to Harry’s size, which he has never been ashamed to admit it on the larger end of the scale (at least in comparison to those he’d compared it with in the Gryffindor Quidditch team showers). 

But then, in a sudden release of tension, possibly as Draco reaches some sort of mental incapacity to control his own reflexes, Harry slides all the way into him, swallowed up whole as if Draco’s body was made of quicksand. It’s delicious, utterly magnificent; as the warm, tight walls of Draco’s muscle close around the sensitive flesh of his cock, shadows creep across his vision, swirling with stardust, blinding him. Rockets and meteors plummet across the blanket of ebony in front of him, and all Harry can feel is the brush of Draco’s hands against his upper arms. All he can hear is the pleading, the begging, that falls from his mouth. 

“Harry,” he says, perhaps for the fifth or sixth time, “please move, please please please -”

Pulled from the void by the serrated edge in Draco’s voice, Harry shifts, his hips drawing backwards, dragging against soft, taut muscle. As Draco’s fingernails rake over his back, Harry can feel layers of his skin breaking. There will be long, red, obvious marks. Easily faded with D ittany solution, but he won’t do that. He wants them there, wants his shirt to brush over the wounds, so he can remember this.  Chasing the incredible bolt of visceral bliss that shot through every one of his limbs when he moved, Harry thrusts forwards, back into that slick, tight heat, and Draco’s back arches, and he comes at third time, thin white fluid spilling over them both. 

Mildly alarmed by the sudden ferocity of the reaction, Harry stills. “Are you-”

“Don’t stop,” Draco commands, breathily, scrabbling for Harry, one arm crooked around his neck, drawing him closer. “K-keep- keep moving, please.”

So, Harry does. Draco has come three times already so he feels as though he’s earned the right, after such an excruciating, drawn out session of doting almost entirely on him, to be a little selfish. He drives himself forwards, hips slicing through the still air, burying himself in that sensational tunnel inside Draco’s gorgeous body, listening to his moans and sobs, the way his voice shakes and crackles around Harry’s name. 

It takes no time at all before the waves of pleasure crest and break, churning through him in great surges until he’s too weak to keep a rhythm; his hips stutter, he falls to his forearms, either side of Draco’s head, as deep inside Draco as he can press himself, because the sound of Draco’s moans, born from the feel of the head of Harry’s cock nestled firm against his prostate, are like a symphony. 

He feels his release pumping out of him, slickening the way as he tries for a final few thrusts before drawing out, peppering kiss after kiss over Draco’s tear-stained cheeks, jaw, throat, until there are long, shaking hands pushing his face away. He rolls to his side, their skin peeling apart as he moves, but Draco doesn’t let him absent his touch entirely. He keeps an arm wound around Harry’s, a hand protectively on his hip. Minutes pass, or maybe hours - Harry is no good with time. They lie side by side on the blanket, now damp and sticky from their own juices and the lubricant Harry had excessively conjured, and stare, gathering breath and mind and ownership of their own bodies. 

“So… was that. Um. Was that good, or-”

“Shut up,” Draco says tiredly, then rolls into Harry, lifting the dead weight of his arm and burrowing beneath it, his nose flattened against Harry’s side. “You know, Harry. You know.” 

Harry smiles, just a little at first, and then wider as Draco sighs against him, breath misting across the skin covering his ribcage, warm and sweet. His arm tightens around Draco’s back, holding him close. 

*

“Did you ever think about telling me?” 

An hour has passed, or thereabouts. It’s long enough, at any rate, for their taut, sex-charged muscles to have eased, and for Draco to have stopped trembling. Harry has transfigured - rather impressively, he thinks - a thin, linen sheet out of one of the cushions, which is now draped over the two of them. It’s a cool blue colour, almost white; Draco looks ethereal beneath it, Seraphic, as if he could drift away any moment. He’s propped up on one elbow, facing Harry, but staring into the fire. 

His hair is tucked firmly behind his ears. 

“No, of course not,” Draco answers. Harry nods, not sure why he even asked. But then, Draco frowns, says, “Well. Once, actually. But not in my right mind.” 

Harry doesn’t bother to hide the eager look that he snaps towards Draco. Their hands are tangled together in the sheet, half out of sight. Their feet, too, are touching, though Draco initially complained about this - “ get your meaty hooves away from me, you’ve had your bare feet scrabbling about in the dirt all evening -” - but had eventually relented. Now, the edges of their feet rub against one another like fond cats, warmed through the sheet by the fire. 

“When?” 

Draco sighs, pulling his eyes from the fire to look Harry in the eye. “Is it important?” 

Harry pulls one shoulder towards his ear. “No. But I’d like to know.” 

Draco’s responding expression is conflicted. He looks at first as if he’s about to say no, and possibly spit out some sort of insult, but then something tweaks him, and he sighs again, longer and louder, his fingers twitching in Harry’s. 

“At the Yule Ball,” he mutters, then sinks down onto his back. He does not let go of Harry’s hand. 

“The Yule Ball ?” Harry repeats, balking. “What- but-”

“Yes,” Draco says tightly. 

Sated and still partly glowing from what appeared to be three-maybe-four earth-quaking, bone-deep orgasms, Draco has sunk into an easy, languid state that Harry has never seen him in before; but for a moment it shrinks away, and Harry finds it near unbearable. To try and retrieve it, he shuffles closer, brushes the flop of hair from Draco’s forehead and drops a kiss there.  It works at once, Draco’s pinched face smooths and droops, his eyebrows decreasing, a faint, almost unnoticeable smile on his mouth. 

“Tell me,” Harry mutters against his head. 

There’s a pause, Draco’s eyes meeting his. His pupils are so wide that the silver is nearly gone entirely. “I hated her,” Draco says, swallowing like it’s a secret. “Chang.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, dumbly. 

“I saw how you stared at her,” Draco continues, eyes defocusing. Harry keeps brushing his fingers in a slow, regular pattern over the smooth, slightly damp hair pushed back from Draco’s forehead, hoping to gently encourage him to continue. “In class. Across the Great Hall. From your broom, peering into the Ravenclaw stand. You’ve never been one for subtlety.” 

He huffs a sort of laugh, but Harry suspects it’s not born of amusement. 

“I knew you wanted to be with her, at the ball,” Draco says, a shade of bitterness still flavouring his words, even now. “The Patil girl was never anything more than a stand-in.”

Harry’s mouth twists, but he doesn’t try to correct Draco. The accusation is probably correct, in all honesty, though Harry would have referred to Parvati as a friend, at least. 

“I knew the ball would be Hell,” Draco sighs, frowning, “you were already to be the centre of attention. I’d be forced to watch you twirling clumsily around a dancefloor with the other champions, but on top of that I’d have to watch how you’d search the room for her at every turn, how you’d long for her, how I’d feel the pain of not having her seeping out of you.” Draco shudders. “Un-fucking-bearable, I tell you.”

“God, Draco, I’d no idea-”

“Spare me the pity, Potter, I made it through.” Draco pauses, eyebrows knitting together, as if the retort slipped out without his notice. 

Harry’s mouth twitches. It appears that Draco has not been irreparably damaged by this experience, whatever it was. “Sorry. Go on.”

“So,” Draco says, loftily, “as a preventative measure, I decided to get drunk.” He pauses, eyes flicking to Harry’s, as if to check his reaction. Harry tries his best to remain neutral. “With Pansy,” he adds, still watching Harry’s face. 

“You rebel,” Harry says, suppressing a laugh. Draco just screws his eyes shut. 

“A terrible plan,” Draco says. “We had a flask of Blaise’s moonshine between us, which he brewed behind the greenhouses for the whole of fourth year. Made an absolute fortune selling to the Durmstrang lot, I tell you. Lethal stuff, but it was like chardonnay to those yoiks. Anyway. Pansy and I decided it would be prudent to drink the stuff in order to get through a hideous evening. We were, almost instantly, too drunk to so much as stumble onto the dancefloor.” 

Harry’s nose wrinkles; he tries to picture how Draco had looked that night, in his sharp suit and waistcoat, hair slicked and pristine, but he can barely remember. Back then, his world had been Cho, and the tight knot of unfairness and jealousy in his stomach as he’d watched her twirling across the marble floor with Cedric. Of course Ron had only exacerbated his feelings, bitter and jealous as he too had been, watching Hermione with Viktor. Also there had been the imminent, terrifying sense of closing in danger as the trials loomed closer, making a frivolous ball rather low down on his list of priorities. 

“So, what happened?” Harry asks, curious to hear how Draco’s version of that strange night had gone, stumbling about with Pansy Parkinson, while Harry sat miserably on the periphery of the dancefloor with a sour-faced Parvati. 

“You don’t remember?” 

Harry turns to look him in the eye; their faces are close, noses almost brushing. Harry’s glasses are no longer on his face, so Draco’s edges are smoothed, his frown lines shallow and near unnoticeable. 

“Not very well.”

“I envy you. Spared the near catastrophic screeches of my drunk brain. Had things gone a little differently, you might have remembered our altercation that night all too well." 

Harry prods him in the ribs, wanting to hear the rest. 

“Ow. Fine. I got plastered, and Pansy was only a bad influence. She always loved to stir things, so when I drunkenly confessed my hatred for Cho, she convinced me- no. She encouraged my existing desire to ‘teach her a lesson’.” 

Vaguely, a recollection begins to stir in the hazy cluster of Yule Ball memories Harry never bothers to unearth, awful as that night had been for him. “You went up to her,” he remembers, frowning. 

Malfoy, belligerent and sloppy, knocking something out of Cho’s hand….

“Mmm.” Draco shifts, shoulders stiffening. Harry pulls him closer, trying to be reassuring - this doesn’t matter , he wants to say. It was all so long ago. So far away from this, what’s happening now . “I believe my master plan was to spill her drink on her.” 

“Ohhh, I remember now.” Harry’s eyes unfocus, the flames prancing at the edge of his blurred vision. “I was mad at you.” 

“Yes,” Draco says, clipped. “Very.” 

“I came up to you.”

“Stormed over to me, guns blazing.” 

“I shouted.”

“You were very upset with me, yes.” 

“I called you a bully!” Harry exclaims, marvelling at the idea of it now. He remembers the snatched moment in a sudden whoosh of clarity - the tight, starchy new-ness of his robes. The glinting, twinkling chandelier lights overhead. Cho’s distraught face as she attempted to cast moisture-gleaning charms at her sodden dress. Cedric’s momentary absence. The opportunity to step in and be the hero for her. Draco’s twisted, sneering face, holding Harry’s eye. The fury coursing through Harry’s whole body, the way he longed to reach for his wand and hex Malfoy for what he’d done. “You called me pathetic.” 

The word rings in his ears as if Draco has only just spoken it aloud. He’d felt a whip of mortification stripe across him as Draco had said it then, because Cho had been listening, along with a huge crowd of onlookers. Pathetic seemed such a cruel word, when Harry had been nothing but pathetic for eleven years - destitute, weedy, scrawny, orphaned - and had reinvented himself at school as someone moderately confident, someone with a hold on his morals and conscience, someone with a purpose, someone destined for greatness. Draco had always known just what to say to wound him right where he was weakest - even, apparently, when he was completely wasted. 

“Did I?” Draco says, blasé, which dredges up just a smidge of that old rivalry-anger again. Draco must feel it, in the way Harry’s grip hardens perhaps, or maybe in the crease that forms between his brows, because he softens, slides a hand up Harry’s chest. “I had no more clue what I was saying then than I do now, I assure you.”

“I don’t get it,” Harry says, unable to keep the sliver of crossness out of his voice. “How does this relate to you telling me you... y’know?”

“I just have this vague memory,” Draco says, slowly, “you were shouting, and wringing me out to dry, as usual. I thought you might curse me, actually, for ruining your beloved’s night. I was glaring at you as best I could - though there were three of you swirling in front of me as I recall - and I just had this sudden, overwhelming urge. To step forwards, over the cliff I’d been teetering on for so long. To just give in to the massive, roiling want that I had tried to ignore forever. To shout the truth at you, or kiss you even, just to see what the hell you would do .” 

Harry stares at him, head angled slightly down to see Draco’s whole, fire-lit face. The confession sends a rush of thrill up his arms, manifesting as goosebumps over his skin. That such a thing had even passed through Draco’s mind, at a time when Harry could not have comprehended it. What the fuck would he have done, if Draco had given in to that drunken urge? 

“I’d have punched you,” Harry says, after mulling it over for a half-second. “Most likely.” 

Draco’s laugh barks out of him, and he buries his face, briefly, in Harry’s side. “Yes,” he agrees, muffled before he turns back to the open air. “Yes, I suspected that would probably be the case.” 

“So, did you just gather your senses, or-”

“Oh, Merlin no. McGonogall was bustling over, I believe, to interrupt our quarrel. And Granger, I think, was pulling you away before I had the chance to do anything reckless.” 

“Blimey,” Harry says, head shaking. 

He remembers Hermione’s hand tugging at him, leading him away, crossly lecturing him on picking fights with Malfoy when he was a Triwizard champion, representing the school. Him replying that he’d never wanted to be a bloody champion, and Malfoy deserved it anyway, so what was the big deal? He’d never glimpsed, back then, just how close he’d come - a second or two of difference, maybe - to having his world so violently rocked, it might have changed every damn moment since. 

“Quite,” Draco says. There’s a thick, slow quality to his voice. Harry recognises it. 

“Are you falling asleep on me?” 

“Don’t be absurd,” Draco mutters, but his eyes are closed. His forehead is resting level with Harry’s nipple. 

“Hang on, let me pull this up-” Harry reaches out with the arm not encircling Draco, and manages to grasp the edge of the sheet covering their bodies, pulling it over them. Draco whines and makes noises of complaint, but shuffles into the new arrangement happily enough. The way he wriggles around, settling himself in Harry’s embrace and the cover, reminds Harry of a Kneazle kitten, or a baby dragon perhaps, getting comfy in their nest. “I’ve never seen you sleepy before,” Harry says, smiling as he tucks a strand of hair behind Draco’s ear. “Kinda cute.” 

Draco says nothing, but he does bite Harry, right on the side of his nipple, and smirks when Harry cries out in pain.

*

When Harry wakes up, his eyes are not sore, his limbs are not leaden, and a sizzle of energy, youthful and spritely, is radiating through his body. It’s such an unusual state to awaken in that he momentarily doesn’t notice the bumps and jagged edges digging into his back from beneath him, nor the coolness of the air, which has given his olive skin a patina of goosebumps. He stretches, enjoying the pull on his rested muscles, and fumbles for his glasses.  As his fingers meet the dry, crumbled, unmistakable texture of earth, he sits up, remembering where he is - atop a mountain, laid on a blanket beside a dwindling fire, with… he turns, looking to the space of blanket beside him. His lack of glasses mean that it’s a blurry space, but even so, he can tell that Draco Malfoy is not filling it. 

“Draco,” he mumbles, squinting around the immediate vicinity. 

“Good morning,” a familiar voice says. 

This blindness-business is getting tiresome, so Harry redoubles his efforts to hunt for his glasses, and finds them at last, tossed carelessly into the folds of the linen sheet covering his modesty. He slips them on, and locates Draco at once, perched at the edge of the mountainside a short way away, loosely clothed, his shirt half open, trousers and sleeves rolled up, shoes unlaced. He’s staring out at the magnificent view, which Harry almost understands - because it is utterly enchanting - except that Draco should be here beside him, basking in the afterglow of all that passed between them last night. 

When Draco doesn’t turn immediately to look at him, Harry’s heart picks up speed. “Morning,” he manages. “How… are you feeling? Want me to conjure some Hangover Cure?” 

At this, Draco does turn his head, smirking. “Gosh, aren’t you gracious with the aftercare.” 

Harry’s cheeks warm; he runs a hand through his hair - he can feel how it sticks up at all angles - and tries for a sheepish smile. 

“I’m quite well, thank you.” Draco’s long legs branch out, lifting him to his feet. He dusts some non-existent dirt from the seat of his trousers and rolls down the cuffs, flicks his wand at his laces, which tie themselves into neat bows. “We should probably get going.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, struggling to sit up properly, “couldn’t we just, um, hang out for a bit?”

Draco raises an eyebrow at him. From his position, stood a few feet away, he looks rather imposing. The vulnerability shimmering around him last night has more or less dissipated, and seeing him now, bathed in the cool morning, clothed and stunning as he always is, it’s hard to believe that Harry had done all that he did to Draco yesterday evening. Had him shuddering and whimpering, sprawled across this very blanket. He has to drag his eyes away, lest he become a stuttering mess at the memory. 

“You are aware that it’s Wednesday today?” Draco asks.

“So?” 

“Harry, you are a Professor at Hogwarts. I presume that means you have to teach children now and then?” 

“Oh!” Harry starts, lurching with unpleasant suddenness back into reality. He looks around him for his clothes, which seem to be scattered in a variety of directions. “Crap. Is it- are we late?”

“It’s eight-fifteen,” Draco says, calmly. “ Aguamenti ,” he mutters, pointing his wand at the fire. A thin stream of water spurts from his wand, silencing the last of the embers with a hiss. “We should have plenty of time to get back to our respective places of work.” 

As Harry struggles into items of clothing beneath the sheet, he sneaks looks at Draco, who is firing spells everywhere: breaking up what’s left of the firewood, scattering the ash, clearing the spot and healing the patch of scorched earth beneath. There’s no question that he seems remarkably composed, considering that after last night, in Harry’s mind, everything is forever altered. He’s not paying much attention to Harry at all, in fact, which is odd. Perhaps it is a symptom of his embarrassment at having let Harry so freely access his most raw, vulnerable parts, both emotionally and physically. Or perhaps... this is what regret looks like on Draco Malfoy. 

Once he’s pulled trousers on, Harry throws off the sheet and stands up, finding his shoes and shoving them on. Trepidatious, he approaches Draco, who takes the smallest step back, but does turn to face him, at least. 

“You’re not coming back to Hogwarts, then?” 

Draco swallows; a small movement, but Harry catches it. Holds it close. “I have to get back to the Ministry. The potion… we’re still running tests.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, nodding. “Of course.” There’s a pause. Draco clears his throat. “So, when can I see you again?” 

For a reason Harry can’t fathom, surprise flashes over Draco’s face. “Um. I- I don’t…”

“I guess you’ll be busy all week, if Slughorn’s got you working the Fatum Amare thing,” Harry says, mulling, “what about Friday?”

Draco says nothing at first, eyes narrowing as he regards Harry. “You want to see me again?” 

For a second or two, Harry is too bewildered by the question to respond to it. “Uh. Yes?” There’s a pause; Draco only stares. “Of course I do,” Harry says. Still, Draco doesn’t respond. “What, did you think this was over now?”

“Hardly an absurd conclusion to draw.”

“But- everything we talked about-”

“Yes, well. We were rather caught up in the moment. I wouldn’t blame you if-” 

“If I decided to cut and run?” Harry asks, annoyance brewing in his stomach. “I’m not gonna just fuck you and then-”

“Fine!” Draco cries, shrilly. “I understand. You’re a noble, considerate Hero that would never dream of something as tawdry as a one night stand-”

“That’s not-!” Harry exclaims, but cuts himself off before the sentence can form. He removes his glasses in order to pinch the bridge of his nose, where a dull ache is starting. His hangover is starting to make itself known. “We broke through some barriers last night, Draco. We spoke about this, and what it means. I’m not going to let you trivialise it. I want to see you again because I like you, and I want to spend more time with you. So we’ll pick this up on Friday, and we can hash it out then. Sound good?” 

Draco rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, faintly. “Alright.”

“Meet me at school again? Potions classroom?” 

“Fine.”

“Can I touch you?” 

Draco balks, eyes landing on Harry’s. “What?” 

Harry takes a step closer towards him. “Now. Before you go. Can I?”

There’s a wild, skittish look in Draco’s eyes, as if he’s poised to flee. But he holds firm, jaw clenching, shoulders squared. He nods, minutely, steeling himself. Harry can’t help but laugh softly at his soldier-esque reaction before reaching out and tracing his fingers along the steep cut of Draco’s jaw. He shudders at the first touch, going weak and swaying forwards, until he’s close enough to kiss. So Harry does, hand slipping round to the curve at the back of Draco’s skull, pulling him gently, but firmly, until their lips collide. It’s messy, Draco hungry and searching, until he pulls sharply backward, tearing himself away before it gets anywhere near to the point of enough. Harry frowns, but Draco has already spun away from him.

“Are you-”

“I’m fine,” Draco barks, though he sounds frantic. “Just give me a- a moment.” 

He bends forward, bracing one hand on his thigh, eyes squeezed shut. Alarmed, Harry steps towards him, but doesn’t dare touch again, as it might make things even worse. 

“Are you in pain?” 

“Yes,” Draco replies, straightening up again. He looks weary, but not injured. “Only moderate. I’ll live.” 

For a moment, Harry is too much at a loss to speak. His heart is still racing, though Draco’s breeziness is giving it reason to slow. Then, because he simply cannot help it, he asks, for the second time: “What does it feel like? When I touch you?” 

“Good Lord, Harry,” Draco says tetchily, combing a hand through his hair. Two strands fall loose, as they always do. “What do you suppose it feels like?” 

“I don’t… know. Not for sure.” Harry’s forehead creases, his glasses slipping a short way down his nose. “I mean, most of the time you rear back from me in horror. But, then, last night…” Harry can feel his cheeks tinging with pink. “You, um. Didn’t.” 

“No,” Draco affirms. “I didn’t.” 

“So, is it bad then? Painful? Or…”

“ Or .” 

At the sight of Harry’s exasperated face, Draco relents, eyes flicking skyward. 

“Oh, for Merlin’s- It feels… well. Good.” He’s blushing now, the blood pooling in his face far quicker than it ever does in Harry’s. “Very good. Like… I don’t know. An excruciating and perplexing puzzle solved at last. A potion completed after a long, arduous brew. It feels like how I imagined it would feel, touching you, before I ever did, but - oh - a good fifty-billion times worse. It’s consuming, and wrecking, and the whole bloody world falls away. I suppose it’s fairly good news that I needn’t conceal my reaction from you any more, but that doesn’t make any of it less mortifying. Or potent.”

“So, is it like, um,” Harry stammers over the way to phrase this, “an- an orgasm?” 

Draco shifts, arms folding across his chest. “No, not exactly. Not unless we’re,” he flaps a hand towards where the blanket had been, “you know. It’s not always a sexual thing. It feels, I don’t know, deeper, perhaps. Weightier. But powerful, nonetheless. Exhilarating. Wonderful. Terrible.”

“Terrible?” 

“It’s never been something I wished you, or anyone else, to know about,” Draco says, cross. “So yes, I’ve lived in fear of your touch for a long time. And the anxiety it brought into my life, about being found out, was terrible.” 

“Oh.” Harry swallows. “And… just now?” 

“Oh, I pulled away too quickly,” Draco says airily, like he’s become an expert on the how’s and why’s of this largely unknown potion and its effects. Perhaps he has; Harry must have touched him at some point, over the years they’ve known one another - even if it was a violent touch - and he’d never had the slightest inkling that Draco felt a tsunami of bliss or whatever. “Could feel myself getting carried away, and we need to leave. If I extricate myself slowly, then it’s manageable, but all at once and it winds me, sends a lance of pain through me. Only lasts a few seconds, mind.”

“Right.” Awash with this new information, so boggling to the mind, Harry isn’t sure what the best way to respond is. He goes with, “so don’t pull away so fast next time, you dunce.” 

Draco gives him a withering stare, but there’s a tinge of amusement behind it. “Are we done prying into the depths of my hideous attachment to you?”

“Not sure,” Harry says, a smile breaking out on his lips, “might need to test the parameters again, come here-” 

“Don’t you dare,” Draco warns, taking a hasty step back from Harry’s advance towards him. He pulls out his wand, levelling it at Harry’s face, alarmed. “I’m leaving now. Stay back.” 

Harry laughs heartily as Draco finds his broken broomstick, leant up against a tree, and hooks his leg over it. He keeps his wand pointed at Harry, a frightened rabbit, with access to a plethora of hexing spells. 

“Friday at eight,” Harry calls as Draco kicks shakily off from the ground. “Potions classroom again?” 

“Yes, yes,” Draco calls back, tetchily; he seems to have forgotten just how temperamental the broom is, and his brow furrows in concentration as he attempts to keep it steady. “See you then.” 

“Bye,” Harry says, a bit quieter, around a grin. 

Draco holds his eye for a moment, the glimmer of a responding smile caught in the corner of his mouth as he hovers just above Harry’s head. He shakes his head at Harry, loose hair fluttering, then lifts his hand in a wave before shooting upwards, jerky at first, then swift and elegant, gliding over the top of the oak trees and out of sight. 

Chapter Text

For the whole of Wednesday, Harry is in an ecstatic mood. He feels energised, light on his feet, and his students definitely notice, judging by the wariness with which they observe him. Embarrassingly, they’re obviously used to his sluggish movements, his monotonous drawl as he sets out the instructions for brewing, the bland explanations whenever they ask a question. 

Today, he is firing on all cylinders, peppy and encouraging, skipping across the classroom when hands raise, shooting smiles and finger guns left and right. By the end of his first lesson, his students are unnerved, but carry a modicum of this energy as well, gleaned from their mad teacher. A buzz of alert chatter resounds through the classroom as they file out, weighed down with the eight chapters of reading Harry has set them as homework. 

At lunchtime, Harry doesn’t hesitate in heading for the Great Hall, where he finds Neville and Christian in their usual places. He chats with them about Quidditch, and the latest crop of Nightshade that Neville has been growing, and the various potion-uses for it. By the time lunch ends, Neville is pulling him aside and asking if he’s alright, which is embarrassing, but understandable, as Harry has said more aloud to Neville in this one hour than he has in weeks, probably. 

“I’m feeling good, Nev,” Harry assures him, grinning inanely, “things are looking up, I think.”

Neville’s responding smile is warm and gleaming. “That’s fantastic, Harry. Really glad for you. Does this new lease on life have anything to do with your mystery-date last night?” 

Crap . Harry’s smile falters - he’d hoped that Neville had forgotten. “Err… early days, yet,” Harry says tactfully, beginning to back away. “We’ll see! Gotta run, my seventh years will be loitering outside the door.”

Neville waves after him, so obviously brimming with follow-up questions that Harry is going to have to duck and swerve to avoid him in the halls for the next few days until he can find a way to throw Neville off the scent. 

In the evening, deeply buried beneath unmarked papers in his office (though his mind is firmly plunging itself back into the memory of being deeply buried in Draco, listening to him groan and take deep, trembling breaths), an owl lands on ledge of his window. It taps its beak politely against the glass, the strong breeze roaring outside twitching its auburn feathers. A scroll of parchment is clasped in its right claw.  Harry swivels on his chair to open the window; the owl hops straight in with a powerful gust of wind, scattering papers across the floor. Harry wrestles the window closed again, and turns just in time to see the owl swoop down and gobble up a stray flobberworm crawling along the floor. 

“Ooft,” Harry says, wincing, “sorry little guy. I told you to stay in your jar.”

He reaches out and unties the scroll from the owl’s foot, giving it a tentative stroke. You can never tell, with unfamiliar owls, whether they’ll allow such things. This one is a stranger to Harry, small and tawny, with misted, milky eyes. It seems content enough to let Harry stroke it, at least, though it doesn’t burrow its head into his hand the way Hedwig used to.  The scroll unfurls into a square piece of parchment, with a watermark Harry immediately recognises; the sight of the Malfoy crest immediately brings a smile to his face. How bizarre it feels, to receive a burst of endorphins from a design that once brought him only loathing and unease. He leans back in his chair, one hand absently stroking the downy tufts atop the owl’s head, and settles himself to read. 

Dear Potter, 

You distracted me last night, and I forgot to give this to you. 

Consider it a gift, as thanks for helping me with the potion, and
for a surprisingly tolerable evening. 

Sincerely, 

D. Malfoy

P.S. I have, in a daze, spilled three vials of (non-toxic) potion on
myself today. I blame you entirely. 

As far as Draco Malfoy messages go, this is practically a gushing love letter. Harry reads it twice, then sets it down, smiling to himself, then picks it up again and reads it a third time. His thumb swipes over the signature, and he turns to the owl, who is giving him an unmistakably judgemental look. 

“Oh, be quiet,” Harry tells it, “I’m a sap. You eat flobberworms. Now, have you got this gift for me or what?” 

He offers his hand to the owl, who hops onto it obediently, and brings the small creature up to his face for inspection. It seems that a small vial has been secured beneath its wing, barely as big as his little finger, and not much wider. He extends the wing carefully, maintaining eye contact with the owl in the hope of being non-threatening. He’d really rather not be pecked.

The owl actually allows Harry to remove the vial fairly easily, thank goodness. He sets it back on the desk, where it waddles up to the jar of flobberworms and peers inside, tapping at the glass with its beak. Harry tuts at it, but as he’s fairly sure the owl cannot pry off the lid, he decides to just turn a blind eye. The vial has something written on it in curly black calligraphy. Harry has to angle it towards the window, where the bleak light of the dwindling day is still coming in. 

(Very Potent) Dreamless Sleep

Take one drop in a cup of herbal tea
before bed. Do not exceed dose, or you
will slip into a coma. 

Potter, I’m serious. Don’t. 

A smile tugs at the corners of Harry’s mouth. The thoughtfulness behind this present is heartwarming. A little ball of glow is radiating in his chest. He tries to imagine Draco, hair damp from bending over a cauldron, carefully inking instructions onto the vial, his mouth set in a line as he underlines and emphasises, knowing Harry’s reckless attitude could likely endanger him in this instance. How odd that Draco knows him so well, at this point. How touching. 

It’s too bad, in a sense, that Harry feels so well-rested today. He can only imagine that his lack of nightmares last night was due to the fact that his… activities… with Draco had worn him out so totally, that he had sunk into unconsciousness at once. He still doesn’t feel the crippling weight of tiredness that he usually carries on his back all day until around this time, when he’ll drop into a fitful sleep in his chair, awoken by an eventual nightmare. But even so, the idea of a guaranteed night of rest is tempting, more than that really, it’s too good to be true. 

Harry calls for a Castle Elf without thinking about it a moment longer. When the grizzly creature appears, wringing its wizened hands, Harry asks for a cup of peppermint tea with a dash of liquorice root in it ( sap, sap, sap ) and sets about searching for a spare piece of parchment to write Draco back. The owl is still at his desk, tip-tapping its beak on the flobberworm jar, and darting glances at him in a way that suggests it’s been told to wait for a response. So Harry plucks a quill from the pot and does just that. 

Malfoy,

Don’t imagine that you are the only
one plagued with vivid, replaying
memories of our fireside campout.
Perhaps this potion will allow some
relief. Not that I want them to stop.

Greatly, hugely appreciated. Are you
actually a soppy git? Interesting.

Harry

P.S. On Friday I’ll take you somewhere less

weird. 

*

The days pass, and Harry swans through them in a happy, bubbly daze, buoyed along in Dreamless Sleep through nightmare-free waters. The scintillating prospect of seeing Draco again sparkles on the horizon, of bickering and dancing around the intensity of the thing that’s brewing between them. On Friday morning, he wakes with a flutter in his stomach that doesn’t go away all day.  His classes swerve around him, seventh year students more or less at a stage where they can get on with their independent projects without much more than the occasional request for guidance. For the first time, Harry wishes for a set of younger, more ignorant students, if only to distract him from the squirming, writhing larvae in his stomach that will presumably soon burst into a flight of butterflies. 

So that he doesn’t do something lame and stupid like owl Draco a gooey ‘ can’t wait to see you!! xoxo ’ in his lunch break, Harry decides to go and see Hagrid. He’s been dropping by less frequently since Draco spun back into his life, and every time he thinks about it, a pang of guilt zings through him.  He’s halfway across the grounds towards Hagrid’s hut when he realises he hasn’t got his Invisibility Cloak with him. He stops in the middle of the damp grass, heart skipping a beat as he scans the vicinity for potential worshippers. There are a few students milling around, a big group headed for the Quidditch pitch, their exercise kits slung in bags over their shoulders, ready for a flying lesson. A few more are treading water in the shallows of the lake, their classmates shivering in towels and breathing bubble charms on the jetty, watching. 

Two Ravenclaw girls and a Gryffindor boy walk past him on the path, and Harry freezes; the boy catches his eye, shyly giving him a smile. The girls only glance for a little longer than normal, too engrossed in their conversation. Then they walk on. Harry looks down at himself, just in case he’s forgotten that he’s wearing the cloak, or a disguise perhaps. But no, he’s just himself, in his regular teaching robes, and these kids had done nothing but look.  He walks on, mildly disturbed, and as he nears Hagrid’s he hears Neville’s words echoing in his mind: ‘...they get a lot less starey the more they get the chance to stare.’ Perhaps that’s true. Harry has been more… around lately. He’s been dining in the Great Hall at every meal for days, giving plenty of opportunities for staring; have these kids simply gotten tired of his face? It certainly didn’t take long, if so. Why on Earth did he not listen to Neville years ago? 

Hagrid opens the door wearing his apron. In the gust of the door swinging outwards, a strong fug of charred T igerroot is released. The smell is one that Harry could pick out anywhere - not only is it pungent and distinctive, but it’s Hagrid’s favourite snack, so he’s had to endure the scent many times. 

“Hey, Hagrid,” Harry says, eyes already beginning to water. “Busy?” 

“Hell-o there, lad!” Hagrid exclaims, stepping back and almost tripping over Fang, spread across the floor right behind him. “Come in! Sorry about the smell, eh? Cookin’ up a week’s worth ahead o’time.” 

“Yeah, no- no problem,” Harry says, taking in a final, deep lungful of fresh air before stepping through the door. Breath held, he casts a subtle, wordless nose-blocking spell at his own nose when Hagrid’s back is turned; at once, the airways at the back of his nostrils swell, obliterating any ability to inhale that way, but it’s worth it. “So, how’ve you been?” 

“Not bad, not bad,” Hagrid replies, bustling around to switch off the stove and clear some debris off the table and chairs. “Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on. I’ve just been filling out those application forms, mostly. Ministry don’t half love their forms. All I wanna do is give those baby Erklings a home, but you’d think I was adopting a few Erumpents the way they make out.” 

Harry chuckles, settling back into his chair; the familiarity of the setting, and the silly, sweet topic of conversation is just what he needs. He reaches out for Fang, intending to give the poor dog a stroke, and is instead bitten by a Niffler hiding under his chair. Yep, Harry thinks, rubbing his hand and tucking away his loose valuables, he’s missed this. 

*

It’s ten-fifty-eight when Harry finally gives up waiting. He’s been sat in his classroom for nearly three hours. Many people would have given up after one. Even more would have given up after two. Harry is just too good-natured, is the trouble. He’s an optimist, always seeing the good in people. But Draco Malfoy has never been brimming with goodness. 

*

For several reasons, Harry decides it would be best to wait until Monday before making any rash decisions. Although he spends most of Friday and Saturday night trying to work out why Draco had not turned up, he still doesn’t really know. He tried owling, of course, several times, until it became painfully obvious that all he was doing was losing perfectly good owls to wait at Malfoy Manor for a man who would not respond. He also, once, on Saturday evening, tried firecalling the Manor, but was met with such a terrifying flame-spectre guarding the main grate, that boomed and demanded to know what he wanted and why, that Harry just yanked his head from the fireplace, giving up. 

So, for lack of a better plan, he spends the weekend catching up, and getting far ahead of himself, with work. He doesn’t take any more of the sleeping potion, but he’s too worked up to sleep much anyway, so the entire two days sort of blur past him. Neville stops by at some point on Sunday, worried and pinched, telling Harry that it’s not normal to avoid real daylight down in the dungeons for thirty-six hours straight.  Harry merely chuckles, bats his concerns out of the air, and offers him some Invigoration Draught , which Neville refuses. He does leave some tasty borsch though, which Harry devours in under ten minutes once he leaves, realising he hasn’t thought about sustenance in some time. 

At around midnight on Sunday, Harry makes the decision to owl Hermione, and cash in a favour that he's been holding onto ever since he let her coerce him into taking her place on a Ministry foreign affairs trip to Turkey with Slughorn and Kingsley. The two officials had been surprised but pleased to have Harry as their trump card when making a case for international relations to the Turkish Magical Government; Harry had grinned and shook hands and solemnly recounted his perspective of the Battle of Hogwarts to a board room of starry eyed people, and it had worked. So well, in fact, that Slughorn and Kingsley insisted on a hideously long and loutish celebratory tour of the local Shisha bars. Harry still can't look at the hookahs displayed in the off-licences in Islington without grimacing. 

Hermione agreed, upon his return, that she did, indeed, owe him one for saving her from that. 

Finally, it’s Monday, and Harry has a semblance of a plan. He’s seething, beneath the hurt and embarrassment of being stood up, and has only forced himself to wait this long in order to finalise the best strategy to handle this precarious situation. If he'd allowed his usual impulsive behaviour to overtake his senses, he'd inevitably have gone blundering straight up to a skittish Malfoy and hanging him out to dry, which would probably make things even worse. It’s been awful, truly, swallowing down the urge to confront the asshole, but he’s managed it. 

Now it’s time, at last, to act. 

His first class today isn’t until two, so he has all morning, and some of the afternoon, to straighten out this mess. He showers and dresses in his room, having made himself sleep there last night under the protection of a hundred muffliato charms. He even summons a gust of hot air to blow out his unruly hair, and digs out an ancient pot of Sleekeasy’s to tame it. Nothing to do with Draco having said he likes the smell, of course. Presentable at last, he heads down to his office and steps straight into the fireplace. The fine, crumbling floo powder in his hand, Harry tosses it at his feet and says, “Ministry of Magic, Auror Department”. His voice is steady and calm. He’s grim-faced, shoulders stiff, mind unusually blank. He’s letting himself think no further ahead than the task directly in front of him. When he steps out again, he bumps straight into a passing Auror witch, and her cup of coffee spills straight down the front of his shirt. “Ow, ow, ow-” Harry exclaims, pinching the material and holding it away from his burning skin. 

“Oh gosh, I am so sorry!” the witch garbles, though she looks a bit peed off. Harry imagines that coffee breaks are hard to come by in this department, judging by Ron’s hectic schedule. “I didn’t think we were expecting anyone up here until- holy crickets. Harry Potter!” 

“I’ve got this, Maskell,” Ron’s voice interrupts; Harry has never been gladder to hear it. His friend swaggers into the conversation, a hand resting between Harry’s shoulder blades, gently but firmly steering him away from the gawping Maskell. “Go make yourself another coffee.”

Harry lets Ron lead him through the maze of cubicles and desks that make up this department, plucking glumly at his sodden shirt. He doesn’t know any cleaning charms that will get this stain out. They pass by the desks of many Aurors sat miserably slogging through piles of paperwork, earning themselves several double takes. Ron is unfazed, simply nodding at his co-workers as their eyes meet, murmuring their names in acknowledgement, but never letting Harry linger long enough in their eye-line to grow uncomfortable.  At last, they reach Ron’s desk, which Harry has seen only a handful of times. It looks remarkably tidier than he remembers. Ron nods proudly, like Harry had voiced this thought aloud, and sits on the clear space in the centre of it, beside the small stack of papers. 

“I’m top of the class at the moment,” Ron says, grinning. “Shacklebolt keeps track of who’s ahead with their paperwork. If you’re in the lead three days running, you get a free voucher for the canteen.” 

Harry snorts, taking a seat in Ron’s chair. “Never been prouder of you, mate.” 

“Cheers. So what’s the deal with strolling in like a pigeon amongst the cats without letting me know? Lucky I was over by the fireplace when you came in. Could’ve been a bloodbath.” 

“Yeah. Uh, guess I didn’t really think about it,” Harry admits. Then, “would’ve thought the Aurors would be a bit cooler about hiding their undying gratitude for me or whatever.” 

“Some are.” Ron shrugs. “Shacklebolt, Finnigan, Parvarti. Even Goyle. But they all know you. To the rest you’re like this reclusive myth.” He waggles his fingers in the air, showgirl style. “A fairytale hero.”

Harry grimaces, glad of the makeshift floating dividers around Ron’s desk that block him from sight from the rest of the room. The coffee on his shirt has rapidly cooled, and is now a wet, disgusting pressure burrowing into the centre of his chest. He decides to get straight into it, if only to speed up his exit from this suddenly oppressive room of what he now realises are potential psycho-fans, just like in every other public place. 

“I need a favour.” 

“Ohhh,” Ron says with a mocking eye roll, “I see how it is. Not just a surprise visit to your old buddy. It’s all take take take, isn’t it, with you?”

Harry laughs, glad of Ron’s relaxed attitude right now. It will help with what he’s about to ask. “Um, it’s about Draco.”

Ron’s smile falters, but he puffs it up again, bravely. Harry makes a mental note to reward Ron’s incredible friendship ethic, as this is straying into the realm of above and beyond for him. Hermione must have been scolding him for his freak out the other day, lecturing him perhaps on how he needs to handle Harry’s crisis better. 

“Not sure I’m, uh, gonna be much help with Malfoy dating advice, mate. But I’ll give it my best go.”

“Hah,” Harry says, bitterly, “thanks, but it’s not that.” 

The relief is so strong as it pours from Ron’s body that Harry imagines he can taste it. “Thank the fucking stars. No offence, Harry, but whatever you saw in that git was pure madness in my opinion-”

“Um, yeah, well…” Harry shifts, not wanting to outright admit that - despite Draco being a wanker in recent history and beyond - he still hasn’t completely given up hope. “Anyway, I was gonna ask if you knew who his probation Auror is.” 

Ron frowns. “Why?”

“I wanna talk to them.” 

Ron’s eyes dart left and right. He leans forwards into Harry’s space. “You know I’m not legally allowed to tell you that, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, sheepish, “I just thought… as mates, you might let it slip? Accidentally? I know it’s a bit shit of me to ask, but well, Hermione told me you’re Narcissa’s Auror, so I don’t think you’d be at risk of getting in trouble with her for spilling Draco’s. And - not to be that guy - but, y’know, I am Harry Potter, so there’s really not much I can’t know-”

“It’s Cox,” Ron stage-whispers. Ron jabs a finger to the cubicle the other side of this one. “You cocky git,” he adds, around a grin. 

The name rings a distant bell, but Harry cannot dredge up a face to match it. Surreptitiously, he leans back in his chair, imitating a stretch and trying to peer around the divider. All that’s visible is a limp strip of ash coloured hair, hanging down just past a thin, liver-spotted neck. Cox is bent forwards over his desk, writing furiously in a leather bound book with yellowing pages; some kind of ledger, with achingly small columns of tiny, scratchy handwriting. The work looks painstaking, and dreadfully dull. 

Harry tears his eyes away, glad to focus back on Ron’s open, easy to read face. “Don’t know him.”

“Been in the department for over twenty years, I think,” Ron says quietly, voice dripping with unease. “Tenacious guy. And a scary good Auror. But uh, definitely has a serious hatred of… y’know.”

“Of…?” 

Ron winces. “Death Eaters.” 

Harry’s face hardens into a glower. “Draco’s not a-”

“I know, I know!” Ron’s hands go up, shielding his chest from Harry’s glare. “But it’s all the same to Cox. He requested to be a probation Auror, and it’s gotta be to give Malf- I mean Draco a hard time. Cos’ lemme tell you, it’s a shit job. No one wants it. A ton of extra paperwork. Usually comes with a load of abuse from the mark, as they hate your guts. Not to mention all the time you waste tracking them down, keeping tabs on the little weasels.” 

“Right, so, this Cox guy’s a nasty piece of work, then.” 

“Well, he’s not been all that bad when I’ve worked with him-”

The look Harry shoots Ron shuts that defensive remark up pretty fast. “Hey, Cox,” Harry calls out, pushing back his chair, “can I have a word?” 

A few seconds pass, and then a leathery, deeply lined face appears over the top of the divider. “Who’s askin’?” 

“Hello,” Harry says, waggling his fingers at the man, “I’m-”

“I know who you are,” Cox says in a gruff voice, though the outrage at being addressed has evaporated from his expression. “Potter. You wanna talk to me?” 

There’s definite surprise, possibly even a hint of flattery, in his voice. He can work with that. Harry sends him something he hopes passes for a charming, Saviour-esque grin. Ron snorts with laughter, so Harry kicks him, discreetly, in the shin. 

“That’s right. It’s about your probationer, Mr Malfoy.”

Cox’s thin lips twist into a snarl. “What’s he done to ya?” 

A frankly indecent list of the many things Draco Malfoy has done to him reels into Harry’s head, but he forcibly shoves them all away, smile fixed in place. “Nothing that can’t be smoothed over with a quick chat. Do you happen to know where he is?” 

Cox glances, briefly, at Ron, who immediately engrosses himself in the nearest available document on his desk. “I’m aboutta go and pay Mr Malfoy a visit, as a matter of fact. He’s down in the Potions department. Slughorn’s got him doin’ some sort o’freelance project or other.”

Clearly Mr Cox has not seen Draco recently enough to know that Harry was involved in this project. Instead of mentioning this, Harry simply nods, rising to his feet. 

“Say, Mr Cox, would you mind awfully if I stole this meeting slot from you? I’m in a bit of a rush, you see, I’ve got a load of students to teach in a while and I really need to speak with Mr Malfoy as a matter of urgency.” Harry wears his best expression of hopeful concern. “I know you’ve got your obligations too, of course. I’d be sure to mention your kind favour to Kingsley when he and I next catch up.”

“Well…” Cox begins, looking conflicted. He’s trying and failing, still, to catch Ron’s eye, presumably to garner his reaction to bending the rules. Ron simply whistles to himself, flicking through a file of parchment, supposedly oblivious to the conversation. “I- I s’pose I could meet with Malfoy tomorrow if it’s urgent-”

“Brilliant!” Harry exclaims, reaching over the divider to clap Cox on the shoulder. He’s unusually cold, even through his shirt, which is off-putting, but Harry thinks he manages not to let his disgust show. “That’s so good of you, Cox, really. I’ll tell Mr Malfoy that you’ll owl him the new meeting time. So, when was it scheduled for today?” 

“Uh…” Cox casts a glance across the room, to the enormous clock face ticking steadily on the far wall. “Eleven. Potions Department. The Dragon room.” 

“Perfect,” Harry says, trying to ignore the urge to point out the irony in the name. Just enough time to stop by the top floor on his way. “Thanks again. I owe you one.” 

Cox makes a sort of spluttering sound, head shaking. “You don’t owe a wizard in the world a thing, lad.” 

He ducks back down behind the divider with an uneasy nod, and Ron finally lifts his nose from the folder to look at Harry, eyebrows raised. “That was painful to watch. You suck at being famous.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll study up. Watch clips of Beyoncé and Kanye West.” 

“Who?”

“Never mind,” Harry sighs. Hermione would have laughed. He shivers, as if to shake off the slimy feeling of manipulating some random person for personal gain. “Ugh, I’d better go then.” 

“You gonna go and see him? Here?” 

“Gotta go see your wife first,” Harry replies, deftly skirting the question. “Want me to pass on any messages? ‘Pick up milk’? ‘You’re the light of my life’? Anything?”

Ron thinks for a minute, the corners of his mouth turning down. “Tell her I’m free at one if she wants a quickie in the fifth floor cleaning cupboard.” 

“I’m not telling her that.”

*

It’s a brisk and non-consensually grabby walk through the labyrinthine corridors of the Potions department, where there are literally infinite workshop rooms, available for anyone with a Potions Mastery of level five or above to book. Harry, being a level twenty, has even used a room himself, on occasion. To locate the Dragon room, Harry has to enchant a specially designed floating beaker, available at the reception desk, to guide him through the confusing hallways until they reach the correct door. He’s so exhausted from fending off the leeching advances towards him from passers by, and from an endless walk through a seemingly directionless maze, that by the time he gets to the Dragon room, he’s so impatient that he pounds against it, already pissed off with Draco before he’s even set eyes on him. 

“For Merlin’s sake, Cox, there’s no need to batter the door down, I’m-”

Draco wrenches the door open, and the horror leaps onto his face as he takes in the sight of Harry, instead of his probation Auror. “Fuck,” he mutters. 

“I’m coming in.” 

Harry gestures for Draco to step aside, which he does, smartly, seeming to sense that Harry would have no qualms about barreling straight into him, touch-orgasms be damned. The room is thickly warm, and a condensation hangs in the air, giving off a familiar, delicious, but remarkably heady scent. He wonders if Draco is already delirious from the overpowering smell of Sleekeasy, coffee, and 'lightning'.  On a workbench, surrounded by cluttered beakers and vials, a small vat of Fatum Amare is bubbling in a cauldron. The rest, Harry knows, will be stored safely elsewhere; this batch is just for testing. Hesitantly, Draco closes the door. 

“Listen, Potter-”

“Here,” Harry says, crisply, digging the scroll of parchment, still warm from the fresh wax seal, out of his robes. He holds it out towards Draco. “A gift for a gift.”

It takes a while before Draco’s eyes fall from Harry’s to the scroll. “What is that?”

“Why don’t you read it?” Harry asks, or snarls, really. Something about being in this hot, claustrophobic room with this utter dick is really fouling his mood. “Come on, haven’t I wasted enough minutes of my life waiting for you?” 

Draco flinches, stung. But Harry holds his arm out steady, unwavering. Eventually, Draco steps forwards and takes the scroll, damp strands of his hair dangling all about his face. He wipes them away impatiently and they stick in place at his moist temples. Carefully, Draco slips a pale finger into the seam of the scroll, breaking the sticky Ministry seal, his lips pursed.

“I’m sorry that you waited.” 

Harry doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. Draco unfurls the scroll, sighing into the silence. He reads, seeming not even to breathe, and Harry watches his eyes dart left and right across the page. He really is just unfairly beautiful. Even like this, sweaty and exhausted from what Harry imagines could be days holed up in this room, slowly going mad trying to concoct an antidote for the poison that courses through his veins, he is radiant. 

The dampness sits, dewy and faint, at the hairline at the top of his forehead, and below his jaw, glistening at his slightly stubbled throat. His hair is unwashed, but silky and straight even so. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing the sickly black tattoo that still stands out so stark on his skin. He is so obviously a creature of pure magic, in the same way that Harry is a creature of ordinary magic, although he doesn’t really believe in such prejudices. 

“This…” Draco’s lip quivers. There’s a glisten to his grey eyes. Traitorously, Harry feels some splinters of ice break off from around his hardened heart. “I don’t… how have you done this?” 

“Hermione wasn’t all that hard to persuade,” Harry says, gruffly. “I think she always felt it was wrong. To punish you to the same degree that the worst of the Death Eaters were punished. The other council members were a bit tougher, but Hermione can push something through overnight if she really wants to with a majority vote, so...” 

“I’ll never have to see him again?” Draco asks, lowering the parchment to meet Harry’s eye. He’s blinking furiously, trying to eviscerate the tears gathering there. “Cox? He’s… no longer my probation Auror?” 

“As you’re no longer on probation, I’d say you’ve hit the nail on the head,” Harry says, though it’s a fight to remain a bitch when Draco is damn near weeping in front of him. 

“God, Harry, I… If you knew how many times I’d appealed my sentence-”

“Yes, well.” Harry scuffs his toe against the stone floor, stained and mottled with spilled potions. “You’re not Harry Potter, are you? I don’t think they’d refuse me much, to tell you the truth. Not that it took that much convincing to let you off, given that you’re clearly as much of a threat to the public as Neville’s toad.” 

It’s weird to see the twitch of a smile on Draco’s mouth, given that he still looks on the verge of tears. “Thank you,” he whispers. He can’t quite seem to meet Harry’s eye. 

“Now we’re square, alright? I don't have to feel guilty anymore about unintentionally causing you pain with this- this bond that connects us.” Harry’s chin juts forwards. “I've given you your freedom back. You can fuck off and leave the country now, like you wanted. If you still do.” 

Judging by the stunned expression that flits onto Draco’s face, this thought had not even occurred to him. He looks down at the parchment again, obviously overwhelmed. “I… I suppose I could, yes.” 

Harry nods, curtly, and tries to swallow the huge, jagged lump that surges into his throat. “Great. So. Bye, then.”

He heads for the door, desperate to be out of it before any tears fall, but Draco leaps into his path, blocking him. They don’t touch, but Draco is clearly aware that they might, judging by the way his teeth clamp together, steeling himself. 

“Draco, move.”

“Allow me to explain.” 

“Explain what?” Harry demands. “Leaving me in that fucking classroom all alone, waiting for hours? Ignoring the billions of letters I sent you afterwards? Blocking my firecalls? God, Draco, are you a child? Did you freak out? Get cold feet? So what? You don’t treat people like that, especially not if you’ve slept with them, Jesus.” 

Draco nods gravely, chews his lip. “All of it. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d wait long. I suppose I thought you might try and get in touch with me, but I didn’t think you’d go to any lengths to do so.” He shakes his head, re-opening the letter in his hands, gazing down at it as if it’s some kind of holy prophecy. “I certainly didn’t think you’d do this.” 

“That’s not an explanation,” Harry points out, already trying to skirt around him towards the door, but Draco steps in his path again, hands raised. 

“No, it isn’t. But you answered your own question. I did have second thoughts about agreeing to a follow-up… meeting.” Harry rolls his eyes at the choice of word. “Merlin, if you’d known how many times I almost backed out of the first one…” At the sight of Harry’s glare, Draco nimbly switches tack. “Harry, you don’t want to be with me. Don’t try and argue,” he says, when Harry’s mouth opens in indignation. “I know your scrupulous morals have seized you by the throat, but please understand me. You have known me, properly, for two weeks. I have known myself for twenty-eight years. I may not be the monster everyone thinks I am, but that does not make me a nice person. Look what I did to you, already. I hurt your pride, your feelings. It wasn’t my intention, but it’s a result of my cowardice and my callous, defensive nature. I’ll hurt you again. I won’t let you in. I’ll be difficult and petulant and cross. Your friends will despise me, you’ll live to regret ever having indulged me even that one, fireside evening.” 

Harry folds his arms across his chest, shaking his head. “You don’t get to decide what I want.”

“If somebody told me I’d have an option to choose my own fucking object of desire I’d leap at the chance!” Draco cries, impatience surging out in a sudden gust. “Don’t you see what I’m giving you? A free pass, Potter! You can go and be with whomever you’d like! I don’t care, I won’t die.” 

“No, you’ll just be a miserable dick forever,” Harry scoffs. “Look, Draco, I’m not going to beg you to reconsider. If you’ve made up your narrow mind, then fine. Throw away the chance to have the one thing you want, who am I to stop you?” 

“Don’t be conceited.” Draco scowls. “Just because I’m doomed to pine after you romantically doesn’t mean I’m completely incapable of desiring anything or anyone else,” he hisses, seething now. “Besides, once I find the cure to this fucking curse, it will be irrelevant!”

“Good luck with that, then.” 

Harry pushes past him; Draco gasps, sucker punched by the brush of their shoulders. For a moment, Draco staggers with him, prolonging the touch, but wrenches himself away in the next second, so fast that Harry barely catches the falter. He pauses, hand on the doorknob, watching Draco stumble over to the workbench to steady himself, panting. 

“Go, then,” he gasps out, not looking up, “I’m fine.” 

“Have a nice life, Malfoy,” Harry says, then hauls open the door. 

*

Harry has never taken a day off work. Not once. He’s always kind of known the option was there, that he was slowly but surely accumulating days of leave, stored up, untouched, like much of the gold stacked in his vault at Gringotts. It’s never appealed to him, though, the idea of cashing it in and taking a trip, lounging by a pool somewhere with a thick, warm climate, or jetting off around the world on some adrenaline-fuelled adventure tour. Hogwarts is where he wants to be, or that’s how it seemed, before Draco came in and pointed out that really he’s not having as great of a time here as he’d imagined. 

Now, in the aftermath of Draco’s dazzling, comet-like burst through the monotonous night sky of Harry’s life, he feels displaced, dysphoric, like he’s watching his students and coworkers from underwater. There’s a perpetual voice filtering through the water, posh and irritatingly familiar, whispering: ‘you don’t belong here.’  Harry spends several days brooding, half-assing his teaching, and moping about so obviously that Neville keeps leaving chocolate frogs and sickly sweet pastries at his desk and in his room - sweets that Harry, in a half-awake daze, often forgets or doesn’t even notice, meaning that even with their preservation charms they end up going stale and mouldy, growing strange furry skins and annoying the Castle Elves. On the seventh day, exactly a week after he and Draco last saw one another, Harry finds himself sat opposite McGonogall, telling her he wants to take a week or two off. 

“I suppose you’ve deliberately chosen the weeks leading up to your students’ NEWTs and OWLs to make things simple for me,” McGonogall says in reply, but she’s already summoning a piece of parchment, drafting a letter to some reserve Professor on standby, so Harry doesn’t feel too bad. “Off you go, then Professor,” she says, waving him away, “I shall see you when you return, rested and ready for work.” 

At first, Harry isn’t sure where to go. He thinks about going to see Luna, who is living in Iceland with a woman named Jupiter, living some kind of dream lesbian life bathing in natural hot springs and foraging in the woods for mushrooms of a whole other kind of magic. But the idea of intruding on them at a moment’s notice, even though Luna would welcome him as if she’d known he was coming all along, makes Harry feel awkward. He wants to stop treading on eggshells around anyone, wants to live for himself for a while, to remember what it’s like to have no responsibility, to not have to smile for cameras and have quills shoved in his face. 

So, he goes home. To Grimmauld Place - the only other home he’s known - while he thinks about what to do with all this endless time on his hands. It’s a mistake; he knows it from the moment his bag hits the dusty wooden floor. Kreacher grabs for it as soon as he hears the door close, but it’s enough to remind Harry that this house is devoid of comfort, or hominess of any kind. He’s neglected it for too long; his only recent memories of it are with Draco, who he’s been trying desperately not to think about.  He’ll stay one night, he decides, for Kreacher’s sake, who is - possibly? - glad to have his master home to cook and clean for. Behind all his grumbling, Harry suspects the Elf misses him when he’s away. 

That night, he lies in Sirius’ old bed, staring at a tiny spider crawling along the fold of the drapery that hangs across the four poster above him, and thinks of Draco’s shadowy, spindly form, creeping through the darkness to wake Harry from a horrible nightmare. Reaching his hand out, wanting to touch so badly , but stopping himself, like always. He’d had the sense to bring the Dreamless Sleep, at least, so he drops a tiny amount onto his tongue, then, after a moment's pause another drop. Sleep blankets him, weighty and obliterating, so fast that the vial falls from his hand. 

*

Kreacher is shouting, ranting, shoving a newspaper in his face. Blind without his glasses, and still swimming up through a milky, viscous swamp of semi-consciousness, Harry can only bat his hand feebly at the paper. His voice won’t work properly, it’s croaky and weak, out of use. 

“Kreacher tried several times to wake Master Potter, but Master Potter would only lie there, unmoving - Kreacher thought perhaps Master Potter was cursed, or drugged-”

“Kreacher,” Harry manages after a few tries. He clears his throat. “Please stop talking. I can’t hear myself think.” 

Obediently, Kreacher shuts up, which Harry then feels bad about, but is too busy trying to move himself into a sitting position to really care. His joints ache, his limbs feel noodly and weak. He finds his glasses on the bedside table, puts them on, and accepts the paper Kreacher is thrusting at him. His tiny finger jabs at the date in the top right hand corner. 

April 22nd. 

He reads it again and again, unable to believe that he’s been passed out for forty-eight hours. He turns to Kreacher, baffled. “Oh,” he says, lowering the paper. “Um. Did anybody call? Or owl, maybe?” 

He’d told Ron and Hermione he was staying here for a while. And Neville, obviously. Rita Skeeter always seems to know where he is anyway, so he suspects the whole world is aware he’s back in London by now. Still, Kreacher shakes his head. Harry sighs, falling back against the pillows. How has he managed to isolate himself so totally? He has friends, doesn’t he? Stand-in relatives? Is he just shit at keeping in touch with them all? Do they simply not worry about him? He grimaces, then squeezes the bridge of his nose. At least his exhaustion is gone, for the time being. 

“Can I have some coffee please, Kreacher?” 

The Elf nods, and Harry realises too late, after he’s already disapparated, that he’s forgotten to tell the poor thing he’s allowed to speak now. After a few minutes wallowing in his own self-pity, gathering himself together piece by piece, Harry lifts the covers and heads, groggily, to the bathroom, where he has a disappointingly tepid shower from a rusty contraption that he’s never been bothered to look up the spells to fix. He could call a plumber, he supposes, or tell Kreacher to do it, but he hasn’t, and he probably won’t. There are other showers in the house, after all. Perhaps one of them work better. He could test them all out, one by one. He finds an old tub of Sleekeasy’s in the cabinet (he’s not sure if it belongs to him or Sirius, to be honest) and slicks it through his still-wet hair, casts a teeth-cleaning charm, a hair-drying charm, and a ccio ’s his comfy clothes from the bag he’d brought. 

It’s evening, Harry realises as he sits down at the kitchen table only to be presented with a mug of fresh coffee. He gulps it down eagerly even so, certain that regular sleeping patterns are now out of the question for a while, and skims aimlessly through the paper Kreacher had given him, reading snatches of gossip about himself (though somehow, thankfully, the Malfoy stuff seems to have evaded Rita Skeeter’s beady eye): 

‘Harry Potter Spotted In Ministry of Magic Auror Department!

Sources tell us that the Saviour himself was last seen in the London
Ministry of Magic Headquarters, possibly following up on the alleged
job offer he received many years ago. Has the Boy Who Lived finally
decided to put his talents to use, protecting the citizens of the world
from further Dark Forces-’

The doorbell rings. Kreacher apparates into the room with a crack, staring wide-eyed at Harry, apparently awaiting instruction. Harry, just as baffled - have there ever been unexpected guests here under Harry’s ownership? - shrugs and says, “answer it.” 

Kreacher looks pissed off, for reasons Harry is too bleary to work out, but does as he’s told, crack-ing off to get the door. Harry goes back to his paper, takes a long, glorious drink of warm, rich coffee. Not even a minute later, Draco Malfoy strides into the room, barely glancing Harry’s way, his cloak rain-speckled, his hair curiously dry. Some sort of waterproofing spell, perhaps. 

“Why did you do it?” Draco demands; Harry, only half sure he’s not hallucinating, merely blinks at the vision before him. “Dissolving my probation. What - are you some kind of- of impossibly selfless philanthropist? Keen on proving to yourself that you are really as good as the rest of the public perceive you? I’ve been expecting to read about your act of charity in the Prophet every day since, but you didn’t even tell anyone you did this, did you? What on Earth drove you to do such a thing for me, something so- so bloody-”

Harry waits, but he seems to be stumped for the word. “Good?” he suggests. 

Draco looks like he wants to spit a wad into Harry’s coffee. Instead, he straightens, chin jutted out, and says, “Come. I… have to show you something.” 

He sweeps out of the room, his burgundy cloak fluttering behind him. It doesn’t suit him the way his emerald one does, the colour is too warm for his pearlescent complexion. He needs lush, glittering greens, cool blues, silvers, blacks, violets. Harry gets up without thinking about it, like he's walking the path of a dreamscape, and follows Draco out of the kitchen, coffee clasped in his hand. He feels dozy still, wading through the hallways and up corridors behind Draco, content to just be led wherever, as long as Draco is almost near enough to touch.

It’s lovely to have him here, even with the hostility radiating off him. It’s pleasant just to see him animated and real, in the way that he never quite manages to be in Harry’s constant, looping memories. He is ethereal and substantial at once, a ghost of an angel gliding through Harry’s dying house, his movements managing to be both purposeful and awkward, languid and anxious. He’s a contradiction, a puzzle, a constant frustration on Harry’s eyes, so tired from observing every inch of his face, his body, his expression, his manner.  Draco leads them into the second floor lounge, where they’d sat last time he was here, drinking whiskey across from one another. Where Draco had procured a glorious tune from a piano that hadn’t been touched in decades. Where he'd confessed to Harry a secret that only a handful of people know, about his first boyhood mistake, and the way it splintered his life apart. When he gets into the centre of the room, Draco stops, swirls to face him. There’s fright in his eyes, unmistakable and worrying. 

“What is it?” Harry asks, calmer than he would be if he weren’t currently a half-here zombie. 

“Just watch,” Draco mutters, then pulls out his wand. He takes a deep breath, eyes flicking to Harry’s, and then quickly away. “ Expecto Patronum .” 

It’s so far beyond what Harry expected him to say, that it takes him a minute to catch up, by which point the blaze of blue and white exploding from Draco’s wand is practically filling the room. The glass rattles in the panes, the piano’s strings jostle inside its ebony shell; Harry feels fierce, scraping goosebumps rip over his skin. And then, bizarrely, an animal bursts from the midst of it all, so blazing and bright that it takes a moment before Harry, hand shielding his eyes from the worst of it, can make out what it is. It gallops around the room, head tossing, rearing up every third step, agitated and confused. 

It’s a deer. 

At first, Harry thinks he must have cast too, by mistake, and that he’s seeing his own Patronus , for some reason missing its antlers. But the more he looks, the more his mind adjusts, wrapping slowly, cautiously, around the scene. Draco has cast a corporeal Patronus . It’s a doe. 

“I just decided, the other day, to try it again,” Draco garbles, eyes wild, fixed on the galloping animal like it's not attached to him in the deepest, most profound way. “It shot out like- well. You saw.”

“My mother’s was a doe,” Harry says, awed. 

“I know.” Draco sighs, sinks to the piano stool, shoulder hunched, face drawn. “Merlin, your parents’ perfect partnership is taught in Hogwarts History lessons nowadays. Lily Evans, who so perfectly complemented James Potter that it was as if fate had painted their paths to cross. Which, some suppose, is the truth, as you were destined to save the world and all that lark.”

Utterly perplexed, Harry just watches the doe circle him, its spindly hooves taking cautious steps as it studies him from every angle.

“I read about Patronus lore, after our impromptu lesson,” Draco explains, gesturing to the doe, now tamping the oak floor with its shiny, iridescent hoof, “about why some Patronuses take certain forms, or no forms at all. There’s a whole section in ‘Your Patronus and You’ about coupled wizards and witches, whose Patronuses change to mirror each other due to the intensity of their bond. But I didn’t stop there, Potter. Couldn’t, actually - was never good at knowing when to pack in the extra research - so I tracked down outside theories, papers written by Charms Theorists in the Middle Ages, scouring for mentions of this ‘bond’. Snape, as you know, produced a doe because he was so obsessed with your mother. But some say, Potter, that the Patronuses that reflect the truest bonds are the ones that don’t mirror one another. They’re the ones that harmonise with each other. The perfect other half. The augmentation of their partner.” 

Draco’s head drops into his hand. Harry can’t speak; he’s sat on the arm of the nearest sofa to listen, only barely understanding what Draco is saying. His words tumble out in great surges, which is unlike him, as he tends to pick perfect, biting remarks. Witty comebacks. Impressive, eloquent phrases. At a loss for any sort of response to Draco’s obvious freak-out, Harry does the only thing he can think of that might help. He draws his wand. 

“ Expecto Patronum ,” he intones, the magic rushing through him in a violent wave, down his arm, through the bones of his wrist, up to his fingers, through the wood and out into a splash of colour, his trusty stag bursting forth. It trots about, head shaking as if expecting an enemy, and spots the doe. Her head raises, seeing him too, and they both stop still. Draco has lifted his gaze; his mouth is open, his eyes unblinking. He watches the two animals, their brightness filling the room with dazzling blue light. The stag makes the first step, head ducking as he inches toward her. The doe doesn’t move, stares as wide as Draco does, her front hoof poised a few inches off the ground, her neck elongated, ears pricked high. It seems to take an age for the stag to get across to her, and when he does, he bows, head to the floor, legs stretched. When he rises again, she dips her head to his, and their noses brush, then rub together; as they touch, a rosy, pale pink light glows between them. Harry turns to Draco. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.” 

“No,” Draco says, glumly. He swallows, eyes tortured, watching the animals nuzzle, curious and fond, “ Finite Incantatum .” 

The doe disappears so fast that the stag looks perplexed. There’s a loss in his expression at once, he nudges the ground where she’d stood with his nose. Opens his mouth in a silent cry. 

“ Finite Incantatum ,” Harry says, too heartbroken for the animal to watch it suffer. 

“I can’t deny this anymore,” Draco whispers; it’s almost silent in this room aside from them, so the words carry, but Harry still doesn’t understand them. “Potions are unpredictable, unreliable. I can pretend that I don’t believe that Fatum Amare is anything more than a drug, but this…” he gestures to the place the two deer had been. “This is my soul . And she wanted you. Wants you. Matches you. Complements you.” 

“I want you as well,” Harry hears himself say. “According to my stag, anyway. I’m still working through being incredibly pissed at you for standing me up, truth be told. But as you said, Patronus behaviour seems to give the game away a little, about true feelings.” 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Draco protests, standing up and pacing to the window. “I demand to know which deity decided that you and I, of all people, were in the same ‘perfectly matched’ category as James and Lily Potter.”

One of Harry’s shoulders pulls up towards his ear. “Not sure deities care about it making sense. Not to us, anyway.” 

Draco whirls to face him. The desperation on his face pulls at his features, pinches and drags on them un-prettily. “Potter, don’t you see? I’ll be a wretch. You won’t be able to cope with me. With my mood swings and my bad temper and my dislike for anyone outside of the small circle I can tolerate. I will drive you beserk.”

Hearing, for the very first time, a future tense leave Draco’s lips, is like being filled with the most vivacious, scintillating magic. A smile swells on Harry’s mouth. “Good. I hate being bored.” 

“You aren’t taking me seriously.” 

“And I solemnly swear I never will.” 

“You do realise what you are agreeing to,” Draco persists, pushing hair out of his face that Harry aches to do himself, “this won’t be secret for long. The world will find out, and your name will be smeared for even associating with me.” 

“Draco,” Harry says, standing up and moving towards him. He feels calm, dreamy, and like he could dance with this boy, this man, out of the window at his back, and across the silk sheet of the sky. “This is simple. I want you, you want me. None of it matters, apart from that.” 

Draco’s eyes flick between Harry’s, hesitant and searching, searching - for what? Dishonesty? Unsurety? Mockery, perhaps? He won’t find it, Harry knows, so he holds the gaze, and eventually Draco softens, slackens, lets his gaze fall. 

“Very well,” he whispers, like he’s surrendering. 

Harry laughs, wants to wrap him in a hug. “Enthusiasm is pouring off you. Am I that terrible?” 

Draco nods, mouth twitching. “So very terrible.” 

Harry reaches out for him then, and Draco starts, bites his lip, readying. It’s a touch of the cheek, a brush of hair from his face. He lets his fingers rest on Draco’s shoulder, doesn’t rip them away. 

“I should probably go,” Draco breathes, eyes closed against whatever sensation is undulating through him. 

“You don’t have to go,” Harry points out. “Since I know you don’t want to go, and we’re no longer pretending that you do.” 

Draco’s eyes flutter to be half open, his silver, swirling irises peeking through the slits. “No, I suppose not. But we shouldn’t- mmmm.” Harry has slipped his hand round to the back of Draco’s neck, is pulling him closer, gently. “We perhaps jumped in too deep, last t-time,” Draco manages, before a gasp slips out, “if you are truly serious about wanting to try… being with one another, then it might be prudent to take things a bit slower…. ohh, that feels…”

Draco places his own hand over Harry’s, lifting it from his neck, pressing it back down against Harry’s own side. Then, a deep breath, and he lets it go. A flash of pain is visible on his face, gone in an instant. 

“I could put you in the spare room again,” Harry suggests, already abhorred by the idea of spending another night alone, unable to sleep, in this rotting house. “We can just… hang out.” Draco’s eyebrow arches, obviously unfamiliar with Muggle slang. “Talk. Watch telly. Drink tea. Or… something stronger. I don’t know. Whatever you want.” 

“Telly?” 

Harry laughs. “Muggle thing, sorry. Television.” 

“Oh, yes. I know of those. Goyle had one at his parents’ house. Gave me a headache.” 

“Stay,” Harry implores. “I want you to stay with me.” 

Harry can’t be sure, but it seems as though Draco briefly stops breathing. His eyes catch onto Harry’s, his mouth quivering faintly. “Alright,” he whispers, after a moment of pause. “If I must.” 

Chapter Text

Sat on an old, cracked, vaguely uncomfortable sofa, Harry has not been this happy for a long time. Draco is a foot away, his long legs folded under him, his body heat seeping through the space between them. He wears an easy, alcohol smoothed smile, which pours over Harry’s skin like warm, melted butter. It’s an itch, permanent and hard to ignore, wanting to reach over and touch him, to assure himself that their conversation earlier, and its implication, was not a figment of Harry’s imagination. 

“Why lightning?” Harry asks, musing. There’s a mug of liquorice root tea, livened up with a generous splash of firewhiskey, in his hand. He’s barely sipped it, not wanting to blur the heightened senses that having Draco so close are presenting. “What does lightning have to do with me?” 

Draco’s eyebrow arches. “Seriously?” He gestures to his own forehead. “Scarhead.”

Harry fingers the outline of his scar, frowning. “That seems a bit of a reach.” 

Draco chuckles to himself, eyes growing distant. “I didn’t choose to make the association. But when lightning strikes, there you are. In my head.” He looks away, toward the night sky beyond the window pane. “Everywhere else.” 

“Liquorice. That’s the third thing I smell in Amortentia,” Harry confesses; it no longer seems scary to say this aloud to Draco, the way it once had. He gestures to the tea in Draco’s hand. “Took me a while to figure out why.”

Draco fixes eyes on him, then leans forward to place his mug - half drunk - to the coffee table. He reaches his foot across the cushion between them, touching his socked toe to Harry’s thigh. As soon as their bodies make contact, Draco pulls in a breath, long and jagged, eyelids drooping. 

“Is it okay?” he whispers, though he’s already sliding his foot towards Harry's hip. “To touch you?”

Harry nods, transfixed on him. He wants to put his own cup down, scared he’ll drop it all over himself in his distraction. “Do you want me to-”

“No,” Draco says quickly, hand raised, “just stay. Just like that.” 

Harry nods, lets his fingers rest on Draco’s bare ankle. It makes Draco sigh, prettily, limbs weakening, sinking into the cushions. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry marvels, eyes roving over the sharp contours of his face, the way his eyes sparkle, even in the half-light. 

Draco laughs, quietly. A faint blush appears on his cheeks. “I think most of the wizarding world would agree that you are the looker between us, Potter.” 

He’d told Harry not to move, but it’s getting difficult to resist. His fingers dance across the skin of Draco’s ankle, through the fine hairs scattered there, just below the cuff of his trouser leg. He can see, in the flickers of pleasure that flit over Draco’s expression, how even this small touch affects him. Suddenly, just as Harry is sure his resistance is about to dissolve, Draco sits up, crawls towards him, slings a leg over both of his. With Draco so suddenly astride him, Harry can only stare, gormless, up at him, towering and magnificent, so much of his hair fallen from its ponytail that it’s almost down completely. 

“Sorry to be presumptuous,” Draco says, soft, low, “but I’ve had enough tea.” 

He plucks the mug from Harry’s lax fingers, places it down on the coffee table behind him, then leans straight in to capture Harry’s mouth. Last time, their kisses had been a product of desperation, too filled with pent-up desire to be judged on technique; this time, Draco leads a slow, delicious dance of their tongues, lets his mouth melt against Harry’s, his hands slipping from his shoulders, to the back of his neck, up through his hair. It makes Harry shiver, makes him seal his own hands over Draco’s waist. 

“I th-thought you said we should wait,” Harry manages to mumble, though he annoys himself even saying it. “Take things slow.”

“Mmm,” Draco agrees, pushing Harry back against the cushion, shifting his hips closer, so their groins press, their chests touch. “Never been one for impulse control. Which is a lot of the reason I'm in such a predicament, I'd imagine.” 

His mouth is warm as it slips over Harry’s jaw, dragging kisses across what must be two days worth of stubble, up to the join of his ear. His ears have always been sensitive, in an untouched way, where the hint of breath against them can have Harry seizing up, pulling away, but desperate for more. Draco is keenly intuitive, and picks up on this at once, flicking his tongue against the shell, then burrowing deeper, breath hot and damp, tongue probing, until Harry is pulling at clumps of his hair, saying “Draco, Draco, unngh, stop-” 

Draco does so, at once, moving lower, turning his attention to Harry’s neck. He clamps teeth over the skin, right where Harry’s pulse quickens, and sucks, laves at the area until it’s beginning to prickle and grow sore. Harry’s eyes are shut tight, the blister of thrill rippling over his every nerve, curling his toes in his tattered Gryffindor slippers. Draco’s fingers trace down the front of his chest, over the thin red shirt that he’s wearing, until they reach the hem, slip underneath it to dance across his skin. 

“I have things,” Draco growls into the dip of Harry’s clavicle, “that I yearn to do to you.” He pulls back, meets Harry’s eye. “Will you let me?” 

Harry’s not sure he could nod with any more fervour. Draco’s responding smile is bordering on wicked, but with a weakness to it that he guesses is born of overwhelm. Despite this, Draco sets about pulling Harry’s shirt up his body, rucking it under his arms until Harry lifts them towards the ceiling, allows Draco to pull it all the way off. As soon as his bare chest is exposed to the chill, evening air (Grimmauld has no Muggle heating system, and relies solely on Kreacher remembering to cast heating charms in the rooms when Harry is using them), Harry feels his nipples pucker, the hairs on his chest standing to attention. 

Draco takes a long moment to just look, eyes hungry and searching, roving across his chest, down his arms, stilling on the dip of his navel. And then he leans in, pushing kisses against Harry’s pectoral muscles, pulling Harry’s knees apart until he falls between them, kneeling on the floor. His hands scrabble at the knot securing Harry’s tracksuit bottoms (he really is dressed like an utter slob; it’s a surprise that Draco can find him attractive like this), then begin pulling insistently at the elasticated waistband. Eventually, Harry gets the picture, and lifts his hips to let Draco slide them off. He’s naked beneath, having only recently crawled out of bed. A hot flash of embarrassment sluices across his face as his cock springs free, already hard as a rock. He’s flushed and leaking, caught up in the delicious, impromptu, unexpected delight of this moment, Draco so eager and focused on him. 

“Circe, I’d near forgotten…” Draco mutters, but Harry never gets to hear exactly what, because Draco wastes no time getting on with things. His long, cool fingers wrap around Harry, taking hold of him with both hands before bringing his pinkened lips to the head, peeking out of his closed fist. 

“Fuck…” Harry whispers, flopping back against the cushions, eyes stuck to the man knelt before him, unable to tear his eyes away if he tried. 

On his knees, Draco is possibly the most beautiful Harry has ever seen him; his long, pale eyelashes flutter, caught in the wash of light from the dusty chandelier above them. Their spidery shadows flicker across his rosy cheeks. Wisps of white-blond gossamer tickle against his temples, against - oh, fuck - Harry’s inner thighs. He reaches out with a trembling hand to tuck them back in place, over Draco’s ears; Draco shudders, removes one of his hands so he can sink down, mouth fitting so perfectly around Harry’s cock. 

Harry’s hips cant upwards, searching for more, and Draco just slackens, lets him push all the way back to his throat. He is too good at this - Harry knows it at once - for this to be a first for him. The ghosts of whichever lovers Draco has indulged in before this hover around them, until Harry gathers himself together, bats them away with a swish of his hand. They don’t matter. Draco is focused on him now, wants only him, has possibly wanted him for so long that Harry can’t comprehend it. Draco’s head moves surely, up and down, the perfect pressure, utterly scintillating and Christ , Harry is so close to coming he could cry. He buries his hands in Draco’s hair, whimpers and moans with the effort of trying not to thrust deeply into him, though Draco doesn’t seem to mind one bit. 

It takes less than a minute, and then Harry comes so hard that it rips through him, dazzling and bright. His vision whites out, and his glasses fall askew; when he refocuses on the ceiling (head tipped back, gasping) Draco is licking come from his fingers, and Harry feels like he might tip into a second orgasm right there. 

“My turn,” Draco says, crawling straight back into Harry’s lap, arms wrapping around his neck like coiled snakes. Harry could not agree more. His own arms wind around Draco’s narrow waist, bringing him closer so that their mouths meet, and they fall back into another sensual, electrifying kiss. “Too many clothes,” Draco mutters, then scrambles for his wand - still in its holster at his thigh - and casts two charms in quick succession while Harry presses kisses up his flushed throat. “ Calidus. Decortico .”

It’s only the distinctive sensation of warm, bare skin rubbing against his that alerts Harry to Draco’s sudden nakedness. A muddy, hazy heat dapples the air around them, preventing the cold air of the room from making it unpleasant. Draco is already pushing his hips forwards, insistent and alert with impatience, hands on Harry’s chest, then his shoulders, then his hair. He can’t keep still, keeps rutting forwards, his cock long and pink, curved upwards, sliding against Harry’s belly, stirring his own erection quickly back into life. 

“Please,” Draco whispers, head drooping forwards to knock against Harry’s, “please can you be inside me again.”  

Harry’s fingers tighten around Draco’s upper arms. He swallows hard, shudders harder, hips bucking upwards as if he’s anticipating the future. “Yes,” he says, capturing Draco’s mouth - caramelised tang of liquorice - before fumbling for his own wand, fallen somewhere unknown after Draco (fuck) vanished his fucking clothes. “Just let me, um- uh- fuck, I can’t find-”

“Let me do it,” Draco says, irritably, turning Harry’s hand palm-upwards, then aiming his own wand into the centre. “ Lubrico ,” he pronounces, and a small, neat pool of jelly-like, clear substance appears in Harry’s hand. “For the love of Salazar, do it quickly.” 

On his lap is possibly the most impatient man Harry has ever known, as Draco doesn’t even bother to wait for Harry’s brain to kick in to gear before he’s guiding the lubricated hand down, kneeling up until he can push Harry’s fingers between the ‘V’ of his legs, beneath the hard line of his erection, all the way back to his perineum. He’s overshot the mark, even Harry’s basic knowledge of anatomy can lend itself to that piece of information, but Draco still goes taut and stringy against him, whole body arching forwards, fingers slackening around Harry’s hand. 

Draco likes to pretend, perhaps, that he’s in control, but Harry has holds over him that even he can’t truly comprehend, still. Harry’s fingers pull backwards, tracing through the soft, barely touched skin between Draco’s cheeks. Draco’s breathing has become stilted, slow, right by Harry’s ear. His arms are locked around Harry’s neck. 

“You want me inside you?” Harry finds himself asking. 

Draco’s moan is so broken that it’s a little heart-wrenching to listen to. “Please. Please, Harry.” 

It’s easy - too easy - to slip a finger into Draco. He expects resistance, but is met with nothing but the welcoming tug of Draco’s muscles, the slick give of his body, opening up like a flower in bloom. He sighs, long and shivery, the breath hitting the shell of Harry’s ear, making him jerk. The lube makes everything easy, smooth, painless, but Harry can tell as he slides a second finger in, that they needn’t have bothered. 

There is nothing in Draco’s entire being that suggests hesitance; everything about him - from the hard, tight grip he has around Harry’s neck, to the way his sharp nose is poking fiercely into Harry’s cheek, to the way his thighs jump and tremble with each thrust of Harry’s hand - is a giant, pulsating green light. He wants this so much, and Harry is so overwhelmed by that want, that desperation radiating off him, that it is all his shut down brain can do to keep pressing fingers into him, probing deeply until Draco cries out, fingernails dragging across Harry’s shoulders, pleas for ‘more’ falling from his lips. 

“More?” Harry whispers, marvelling at the limp wreck of him, having to hold him up with an arm around his waist. “Are you sure?” 

“N-no,” Draco manages, head shaking. He pulls back, pupils so blown that his eyes are black holes, lower lip bitten and sore from his own teeth gnawing at it. One of his hands comes up, shaking, to push Harry’s flop of fringe away from his eyes. Draco’s thumb swipes over his faded scar. “No more fingers, please. I need you.” He closes his eyes, touches his own forehead to the scar. “Want you so much. Always have. Please…” 

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, pulling his hand free.

Draco shudders, says, “yes that’s the idea.” 

It takes a fair amount of shifting to get into the right position, made more difficult by Draco’s sudden floppiness, and Harry’s weakened state from all of the rich, mind-numbing lust pumping rigorously through him like it has no qualms about smacking him into a second coma right here. He’s already on the verge of coming when he manages to line himself up with Draco’s entrance, and then Draco starts sinking down, almost at once, way too fast.

“Fuck, shit- Draco, stop stop-” 

Draco makes an absolutely feral noise, but does stop, Harry’s cock halfway inside him, eyes blazing with indignation. “What?” 

“T-too fast,” Harry gasps, head lolling backwards so that he won’t be tipped over the edge by the agonised, pleading expression Draco wears. “Take it slow, you’re - fuck - too hot. I’ll come. Slow, okay? Slow.” 

When Harry’s eyes settle back onto Draco, he’s red, furiously red, and avoiding Harry’s eye. He moves when Harry taps him on the hip, doing just as he’s told, inching slowly down, though it’s plain as day that it’s utter torture. His thighs quake, his fingers dig so hard into Harry’s shoulders that he can feel the blood vessels bursting, creating five strong bruises on each that Harry knows he will preen over tomorrow in the bathroom mirror. 

“I- I-” Draco gasps out as he sinks all the way down, the backs of his thighs meeting Harry's skin at last. His chest is heaving, his forehead glistening; Harry reaches for him, pulls their chests flush, brushes damp strands from his face in order to hear him better. “I can’t do this- it’s too much- you’re so deep-” 

“Hey, hey,” Harry says, shoving the crazed, incessant pull of his own lust to focus on Draco’s sudden anguish, “what are you talking about? You wanna stop?” 

His dick throbs in protest, nestled inside Draco still; Harry has to fight the urge to rock his hips up into the sensation. Draco’s head shake is annoyed. A snap from left to right. “Stop? Are you mad? I mean-” he sighs, shaky, spent, “-I don’t think I can move. N-not properly, not how you need…” 

Harry nods slowly; he’s ninety percent sure he understands. “You want me to move?” 

“Yes,” Draco moans, relieved, then kisses Harry so deeply that it makes him blush. Sap sap sap . “Do it. Please. I’m dying. You feel- oh, Merlin. You feel like Heaven.” 

Too stunned to speak, Harry lets go of the tight, vice grip he has on his resolve, and pushes up, into Draco’s body, cock pressing against soft, pillowy, slick muscle. Draco groans and shakes, so Harry tries to pull out again, but Draco is too weak to let him. Without thinking, Harry yanks him to the side, pushes him down against the bare, cracked leather of the couch, and fucks him that way, face to face, just as they had before. Draco’s eyes roll back, his legs lock around Harry’s waist, his fingernails dig so deeply into Harry’s skin - his back, his arms, his scalp - that he knows he’s covered in marks, but none of it distracts him. 

Fucking Draco feels just as splendiferous as it did the first time; they are entirely in tune, Draco’s small, weak movements perfectly timed to Harry’s. Their mouths surge towards each other at the same moments, right at the peak of their ability to withstand not kissing one another. Their hands lock, their eyes latch, and the words that fall from Draco’s mouth -“Harry, fuck, so good, right there, harder, please, yes, want you, want you, want you ” are exactly what he needs to hear to send him into dizzying heights of ecstasy. 

And equally, the words that tumblr from his own lips seem to be just the right ones to have Draco a bumbling, stuttering, weeping, trembling fool. 

“Draco, darling, perfect, so hot, so beautiful, feel so amazing, could fuck you forever.” 

It could be that they’re at it for hours, joined together so intimately, their sweat and come and saliva drenching them, seeping into the couch cushions. Or it could be that the intensity is too strong, and it overwhelms them both in minutes. Harry has never been good with time. 

When Draco comes it’s an awe-inspiring sight; the branches of his neck bones strain beneath the milky skin, his hands shake, his toes splay so wide that it must cramp, his cock pulses in Harry’s frantic fist, come pouring viscous and hot over his belly, dribbling down onto the join of their bodies. When Harry comes it feels like his bones are splintering, like his skin is flaying off, but in a torture of pure bliss. Draco’s magic - because he swears that’s what it is - skitters blue and silver and grey and white over his nerves, alighting each of them in turn, until his limbs are mush, until he can’t hold himself up. He feels his hips jerk, feels it when he comes, like a punch to the stomach, and spurts his release straight into Draco’s body as he whispers, “yes, Harry, yes.” 

When the ebb of the orgasm begins to fade, Harry is able to move just enough to pull out of Draco, earning himself a mildly disgusted, “eugh” from the man beneath him. He’s still half draped over Draco, but has shifted enough to have fallen into the sofa crease, which is slowly but surely swallowing him alive. The couch is sticking to his bare, sweaty skin, and he expects Draco is experiencing worse, being laid out on it on his back, completely bare. 

“We should’ve apparated to my bed,” Harry muffles against Draco’s arm. “We’re dumb.” 

“I have half been wondering if we’re about to receive a surprise appearance from your House Elf,” Draco says casually, then brings a hand up to tousle idly in Harry’s hair. “Perhaps I should call him to clean us up. Kr-”

Harry claps a hand over his mouth, making Draco shout something probably very rude, but fortunately it’s muffled by Harry’s palm. After a moment of struggle, Harry releases him, and Draco makes a dramatic show of spluttering.

“You taste vile,” Draco says, wiping his mouth. 

“Definitely not how you made it seem earlier,” Harry replies, to which Draco responds by pulling sharply on a strand of his hair. “Ow! God, you’re the worst.” 

“Definitely not how you made it seem earlier,” Draco mimics. 

Rolling his eyes, Harry lets the matter drop for now. They lapse into a comfortable silence; Harry replays the last half hour in his mind in a quick fast-forward, just to ensure he doesn’t miss anything when he replays it later, in excruciating detail. 

“So, best night of your life?” Harry asks around a grin, intending to throw the situation into a lighter mood in the hopes of moving them upstairs, and possibly entering into round two, or maybe sleeping, depending on what Draco feels up for. But then, Draco throws it all out of whack. 

“Obviously,” he drawls. 

Harry flips the reply over in his mind, scanning it for sarcasm. He finds not a drop. “What- uh, really?” 

Draco sighs, suffering and loud, as he always does when he finds Harry particularly exasperating. “I really hoped, given that I am doomed to find you attractive, that you possessed at least a modicum of intelligence.” 

“I don't-”

“This is all I have ever wanted," Draco interrupts, "since before I knew that I could want. Of course this is the best night of my life. Well. Barr one.” 

“Which would be...?” 

“Use your imagination.” 

“Are you telling me I’ve given you the two best nights of your life in the past…” Harry thinks about it. “Ten days?” 

“Don’t look too smug,” Draco warns, uncomfortably, “my life wasn’t exactly the stuff of dreams before you fucked my brains out.” 

For some mad, inexplicable reason, Harry feels himself blush. Perhaps it’s something about Draco saying it so explicitly. In that plummy, expensive-robes-and-box-seats-at-the-Quidditch-stadium voice of his. 

“Uh,” Harry manages to say, hand pushing into his thoroughly dishevelled hair, “you’re welcome.” 

Draco snorts. “Can you apparate us to bed now? I think I might be stuck to your hideous sofa.” 

*

Harry wakes up when Draco starts pulling away from him. It’s pretty close to what he was expecting to happen following a night holding Draco tightly to his naked chest and meeting little resistance, but it still utterly sucks. He clings to Draco’s waist, disoriented and half-asleep, still submerged partially in a comforting void. 

“You’re awake,” Draco points out, and stops tugging himself free. 

Through his still closed eyes, Harry counters, “You’re trying to escape.” 

“Oh? I was not aware that I’m being held captive.” 

Harry’s grip loosens. “Not a prisoner,” he mumbles, grumpy. “Where’re you going?” 

“To work,” Draco replies, wriggling out from underneath the dead weight of Harry’s arm. He takes a deep breath before extricating himself completely from Harry’s touch. “I cannot spend the entire morning in bed with you.”

“But do you want to?” 

Harry’s eyes have fought their way open; he can sense the twinkle in them as he meets Draco’s withering stare. “Irrelevant." 

“Does Slughorn even care if you’re late?”  

“I’m on probation,” Draco says, patting the covers in search of something. “I can’t put so much as a toe out of line.” 

“Not on probation anymore,” Harry points out, very happy to admire the stretch and twist of Draco’s pale, lithe body from his position, laid back in the pillows. “I sorted it, remember?” 

Draco sighs, expression drawing into a pinch. “I recall, yes. But the dissolution of my punishment doesn’t go into effect until the beginning of next month. And in the intervening weeks, I think it’s in my best interest not to do anything that might change their minds.” 

“But showing up late to work once won’t-" 

“Harry,” Draco interrupts, shrill and pained, “you seem to have forgotten, in your privileged status as King of the World, just how easy it is to be the scapegoat for the Ministry’s every mistake if you fit the role of the villain. Just trust me on this one. I’m better off not… tempting fate.” 

Harry frowns, but as his mind clears of sleep, Draco’s point does seem to hold considerable weight. “But I’ll miss you.” 

The noise Draco makes in response to this is so funny that Harry has to swallow the back of his nose to stop himself bursting out with laughter. He’ll definitely replay the memory later on, in private, along with some… other Draco-memories.  

“You can go back to sleep when I’m gone,” Draco manages after a while, cheeks pink. “You’ll forget I was ever here.” 

Harry scoffs at the self-deprecative comment, but decides to let it slide for now. He tosses the covers off his legs, remembering too late that he’s entirely naked, but rolls with it as best he can. He can, however, feel Draco’s hungry stare. 

“Think I’ll get up, actually,” he says, arms reaching for the ceiling as he yawns. “Before you swanned in yesterday, I was asleep for literally two days. Prob’ly best not to drift off for too long again.”  

Draco’s gaze drags up from Harry’s lap to meet his eye, narrowing. “You doused yourself with a double dose of my sleeping draught, didn’t you?” 

One of Harry’s shoulders lifts, sheepishly. “I was going through emotional turmoil?” 

“Such a drama queen.”  

“Oh, you’re one to talk, Mister-My-Father-Will-Hear-Of-This-”

“Perhaps,” Draco interrupts, eyes dropping back to Harry’s bare chest, “I could stay for another ten minutes or so.” 

It takes approximately three seconds for Harry to understand the implication of this casually thrown out suggestion, and then he lunges for Draco - “ah, too fast, careful” - and drags him down on top of him.  

It’s waaay too easy to make Draco come, Harry is quickly learning. The heightened senses that the Fatum Amare give him ramp up his responsiveness to the slightest touch by about a million degrees, though he bears the intensity with remarkable strength. Despite the pleasure being so quick to summon, Harry is determined not to let it get to his head. Draco deserves to be coaxed into bliss gradually, to be brought to climax over and over, to be loved, copiously, from head to toe.  

So, unfortunately for Draco’s punctuality record, Harry intends to take his time. He starts with his hands, gliding them up the backs of Draco’s firm thighs, then over his pert buttocks, dipping into the small of his back, trailing along his spine. He kisses Draco all the while, languid and slow, letting Draco chase the tease of his tongue, waiting until he loses ability to stop himself sinking down, body weight pressing totally into Harry’s. Already, Harry is aware of the stiff, hard line of Draco’s erection trapped between them, of how it twitches each time Harry’s fingers explore a new part of his back. He’s so on edge, already, though Harry has barely touched him. Without a word, he flips them over, lands Draco on his back and rolls with him, so he’s the one on top. 

“I want…” Draco starts to say before Harry kisses him - can’t help it - and removes the words from his lips. He forced himself to pull back, to observe the sweet, faint blush that creeps across the bridge of Draco’s nose. “I want to taste you again.” 

Harry’s heart skips, his left hand winds into the pillow behind Draco’s halo of hair. He nods, quirk of a smile and a flutter of a wink. “Anything you want,” he says, and means it. 

Draco sighs: a pleasured, trembling thing. He sits up just a little, propped by the pillows. “Can I stay like this?”

He doesn’t understand, at first, but Draco finds his hands, guides him onto his knees, pulls him forwards, legs either side of Draco’s body, until he’s got his thighs beside Draco’s shoulders, his cock jutting out thick and swollen, hovering right before Draco’s lips.  

“Like this?” Harry whispers, voice having left him. 

He can feel his face paling, every drop of blood in him rushing south at the sight of Draco, hungry, eyes fixed on Harry’s cock like he can’t wait to get his mouth on it. Draco doesn’t bother replying, he simply slips his hands round Harry’s hips, palms flattening on the cheeks of his ass, then pulls him even closer, until he can wrap his perfect, pink lips around the head of Harry’s cock. 

Draco’s hands pull him forwards, sliding the length of Harry into his warm, wet mouth, and Harry whimpers, hands curling into Draco’s hair. Draco guides his hips back, then forwards again, urging Harry to move them, to thrust into his mouth; it’s about the hottest thing Harry has ever so much as dared to do sexually, and it’s embarrassingly obvious, as Draco sucks and makes wet, slurping noises of encouragement, that he won’t be able to last very long. Belatedly, as the waves of pleasure undulate through his stomach, Harry realises that one of Draco’s hands has fallen from Harry’s hip, and has wrapped itself around his own cock. He jerks himself to the same rhythm of Harry’s gradually speeding thrusts, and it only makes everything more dazzling. 

“God, Draco,” Harry groans, teeth gritted, “you’re perfect. Do you know that? Fuck. Perfect.” 

He feels the shudder that his words inspire in Draco, violent and sudden. Harry combs his hands through Draco’s hair; he’s so close to the edge now; Draco’s hand is pumping steadily, Harry’s hips are stuttering, frantic, unable to stop himself pushing deeply into Draco’s mouth, until his cock nudges the back of Draco’s throat. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Harry warns; Draco’s hand tightens on Harry’s ass, holding him still as he spears himself further onto Harry’s cock. Something relaxes, gives way, and suddenly Harry is being swallowed, slipping right into Draco’s throat, Draco’s nose nestled in the patch of hair at the base of his cock. “Ohhh,” Harry groans, eyelids fluttering, “oh my- fuck, fuck. Drac-o…” 

Like that, he comes, hard and intense, slammed with his orgasm so hard that he topples forwards, hand braced on the bedstead behind Draco’s head. Draco swallows and moans, his own hand still flying over his cock, other hand gripping firmly into the flesh of Harry’s buttcheek. When Harry is done, he feels spent, drained, as if Draco had sucked the energy right out of him, and shit, maybe he did. He falls backwards, straight into Draco’s lap, and kisses him, hard. He tastes, completely, of come. Harry doesn’t give a damn. He places his own hand around Draco’s as he kisses him, helps him to maintain a smooth, regular rhythm as he brings himself off.  

“Draco,” Harry murmurs, though Draco is far gone enough that Harry’s not entirely sure he hears him. “Draco, I love you. Did you hear me? I love you.”  

The answering cry is feral, wolf-like. The heat of the liquid that pours out of him, over both of their hands, is startling. Harry doesn’t stop moving his hand, doesn’t let their lips drift too far apart, despite the mess of come and saliva that slicks their sloppy kiss. Eventually, Draco’s head hangs, forehead dropping to Harry’s shoulder, and his hand clutches at Harry’s, begging him to “stop, stop, it’s too much-”. For a moment, Harry lets him stay as he is, bent forwards into the skin of Harry’s neck and shoulder, sweaty and tear-stained, the mess of his own release soaking the places their skin meets. He trails three soft fingers through the baby soft hairs at the back of Draco’s neck, revealed through the parting of his long hair, now hanging forwards by his chin. 

“Ready for work, then?” Harry asks after a minute or so. 

“Fuck you,” Draco murmurs. He takes a deep breath, then sits up, marginally less wrecked-looking than moments before. “You know - I convinced myself, in the week or so that’s passed since the fireside night, that it couldn’t possibly be as good as I remembered. The sex.” 

He shakes his head, eyes honey-glazed and distant.

Harry raises one eyebrow. “But?” 

Draco doesn’t respond with words, only wipes a stray tear from his cheek. “How will I live?” he asks mournfully. “How will I be able to function? I’ll end up chaining myself to this dusty old bed with the same sheets on it that my Great Uncle used to sleep in, waiting for you to come and ravish me.”

Harry laughs, pushing several strands from his eyes. “Nah, I’ll chain myself here beside you. Then there’ll be no need to wait.” 

There’s a small smile on Draco’s lips, which Harry feels triumphant about procuring. Then he’s being kissed, soft and sweet - a rarity that Harry knows he must treasure. 

“You know,” Draco says, clearing his throat, suddenly serious, “that, I… also. Well. Obviously. It’s evident, no doubt, that I reciprocate… your feelings.” 

Harry arches an eyebrow. “Yeesh, Draco. Stopper up the gushing tap. Don’t think I can stomach all sappy talk.”  

“It’s all you’re getting out of me.”  

“Aw, come on, say the words! I said the words-” 

“Harry, I’m not going to miraculously morph into some kind of romantic fop just because you give me multiple orgasms alongside the usual migraines,” Draco says, pushing sharply at his chest now, apparently having had enough of the pillow talk, trying to shove Harry off. “You knew before you decided to seduce me in your Gryffindor-decorated, mountain-top love nest that I was going to be difficult, so it’s really your own sodding fault if you conjured up a fantasy version of how this relationship might evolve-” 

“Relationship?” Harry cocks his head to one side, amused.  

Draco stops short, cheeks aflame. “Well. I suppose we ought to discuss… I- I just assumed that-”

“Are you-” Harry gasps, clutching a dramatic hand to his chest. “Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?” 

“Sod off.”  

“Oh, Draco!” Harry exclaims, picking up his wand to cast a cartoonish glamour of pink, pulsating heart-eyes. “Yes! Yes, of course I will be yours! This is all so romantic, I had no idea you’d-”

“I hate you, Harry Potter.”  

Draco shoves him entirely away then, so that Harry rolls onto his back on the bed, grinning madly, the pink lovehearts in his eyes shrinking and popping out of existence. Draco gets up then, stark naked, dried come streaking his thigh, and looks around the room. Harry watches him happily, eyes fixed to the delicious plumpness of his behind. 

“Fuck,” Draco mutters, turning back to Harry and aiming an accusatory glare at him. “How long have you known that we left our clothes on the couch downstairs?” 

“Since we woke up,” Harry admits readily. “Come back to bed, promise you won’t need them-”

Draco disapparates, but not before shooting Harry another, harder glare. When, around a minute later, he re-apparates into the room, he’s unfortunately clothed, though haphazardly. He throws Harry his sweats and t-shirt, glowering. 

“That was brave,” Harry comments, throwing his clothes over his shoulder. He’s decided it’s much more preferable to be naked around Draco, who is so very bad at pretending he is able to keep his eyes off Harry for even ten second stretches. “Kreacher could’ve seen you.” 

“Oh, he did,” Draco says, blasé. He’s fastening the cuffs of his shirt sleeves. Securing them with silver snakes. Harry gapes at him, smile slipping. “I told him thank you for setting up the guest room, but I ended up not needing to sleep there, so it wouldn’t require changing.” 

“You didn’t,” Harry breathes. 

In his mind's eye, he sees Kreacher’s gnarled, scandalised face. His redoubled attempts to drive Harry out of the house for sullying its good, pure history. Maybe Kreacher would even begin trying to murder Harry, who knows. He doesn’t seem like the type of Elf to take something like a homosexual master in his stride. Even if he does have a soft spot for Draco. 

Draco smiles sweetly. “See you later, darling.” 

“Wait!” Harry springs to his feet; Draco takes a hasty step backwards out of habit, his ears turning a bit pink because Harry is still naked. “When, exactly, is later?” 

Draco tries, and fails, not to let his gaze drop to Harry’s bare body. To his credit, he manages to keep his hands twitching at his sides. “I- I don’t know. Would tomorrow be acceptable?” 

“Tonight,” Harry urges. He regrets his obvious enthusiasm a fraction too late. “I don’t want to sleep here without you.” 

Draco’s cheeks burn so brightly that Harry wonders how they don’t spark. “Very well,” he says eventually. “I’ll… come by later.” 

With a relieved grin, Harry nods, then leans in, intending to steal a final kiss. Draco dodges out of his path. 

“Nice try,” he says, collecting his wand from the floor and slotting it into his fancy holster, “if I have any hope of getting out of here without further defilement, I cannot touch you.”

“But-”  

“See you later, Potter,” Draco says, with emphasis. He quirks an eyebrow. “Later I won’t have anywhere to be. For hours.” 

Before Harry can throw something at his big, cockteasing head, he vanishes, cloak rippling and swirling into a tight pinprick of light. 

*

When Draco’s work day is, at last, complete, he doesn’t Floo directly to the Manor, as he is so used to doing. Instead, he Apparates to Grimmauld Place in Islington. It takes him a moment or two to figure out how to unlock the secret of Number Twelve, but Harry had assured him, via his lunchtime owl ('I've thought up thirty-two different ways to repay you for this morning so come back as soon as you have finished faffing about with Fatum Amare. I've persuaded the house to drop the Malfoy wards that I set up back before I knew how good at blowjobs you are. Just stroll in and insert yourself back in my bed ty xoxo') that he’d enchanted the house to reveal itself to him on arrival. Sure enough, when he takes a tentative step closer to the non-existent space between Number Eleven and Number Thirteen, the buildings begin to shake, the bricks trembling in their mortar, and a whole house squeezes itself between them. 

He climbs the steps, trying to load his walk with more confidence than he feels. In truth, just the concept of lifting Harry’s door knocker is enough to leave his mouth dry, his palms clammy. It feels like days ago that he felt the sweet, delirious sting of Harry’s touch, heard the impossible whisper of his love confession. But it was only this morning that he was entwined with the fucker so tightly that he's felt the lingering sting against every patch of skin Harry had been pressed against. 

How is it that he can still feel so incredibly, hotly nervous, just seeing him again? Harry is the least scary person on the planet, once you get past the self-important, ‘I’ll kill anyone that hurts a small puppy’ attitude. He’s goofy, and clumsy, and spontaneous, and teasing. He doesn’t take himself seriously at all, which is every bit as frustrating for Draco (Queen of taking himself seriously to the point where it makes everyone roll their eyes, he knows) as it is endearing. There’s just no reason whatsoever to feel afraid of Harry, yet here Draco is, dithering on his doorstep, hand shaking as it reaches up for the rope that pulls the bell. 

'Just stroll in,' Harry had written, like it meant nothing at all. 

Probably this is true of all his friends, as well. He's just the sort of prat that would bypass every safety measure Granger and Shacklebolt have almost certainly told him to keep to avoid being tracked down and torn apart by gooey-eyed Potterheads in order to have a bustling, come-as-you-please open house for anyone that knows him. Draco will have to have a word with him about keeping the doors more firmly sealed; if he's now going to be in Potter's immediate vicinity a good deal of the time, he would rather not feel constantly as if he's about to be walked in on by one of the Weasley clan. 

Regardless, Draco simply cannot make himself just walk in to Harry's house. Aside from the fact that it goes against his faultless set of manners that have been drummed into him since birth, it’s too intimate, too soon. Number Twelve feels like his old, strange, starey Uncle Black’s house still. He can remember his mother ringing the doorbell back then, Kreacher opening the door a crack and ushering them through like their presence was a secret shame. When Kreacher opens the door this time, he looks embarrassed, doesn’t meet Draco’s eye.

His bow of the head is unusually low to the ground. “Master Draco, Sir. Please enter. Master Harry is in the kitchen.”  

“Thanks,” Draco replies crisply, handing over his cloak.  

He hadn’t run into Kreacher when he was naked this morning, despite what he’d told Harry to make him squirm. But Draco gets the distinct sense that Kreacher somehow knows what happened last night anyway - perhaps he heard noises, or found their discarded clothes - so the silence as Draco follows Kreacher through the darkly painted hallways towards the kitchen is painfully awkward. As they approach the hearth-warmed, brightly lit kitchen space where Harry seems to spend a good chunk of his time, Draco hears the dreadful and unmistakable sound of multiple voices. One of them is Harry’s, which does sickening things to his heart rate, and the other two are - he knows it at once - Weasley and Granger. 

He thinks about bolting back the way he came, but Kreacher is shuffling too far ahead, ready to announce his arrival to the room. And besides, the little monster has ahold of his cloak. He sighs, bracing himself for further awkwardness, and walks, a step behind the Elf, into the room. Harry is wearing the dark grey jogging bottoms that Draco threw at his head this morning in a vague, half-hearted attempt to get him to cover himself up. He’s wearing a different shirt, a blue one, made of a thin, clingy material. In its love-drugged absurdity Draco's brain supplies a vivid fantasy of peeling the t-shirt from the gorgeous, almond-brown skin beneath.  

“Hey!” Harry greets, pushing away from the wood burning stove, a smile alighting his features. “I told you you don’t have to ring the doorbell.” 

“Only being polite,” Draco says crisply, his nerves making him short and terse. His gaze travels to Granger, stood holding a glass of wine beside a saucepan of something bubbling. It smells of garlic and onions and coriander, all things Draco loves. His empty stomach rumbles quietly, thankfully muffled by the sound of the flames crackling in the hearth. “Mrs Granger,” Draco says, nodding politely to her. He turns to Ronald, who is staring at the floor, his obvious discomfort showing through the hard set of his frown. “Mr Weasley.” 

“Good evening, Draco,” Granger says weakly, eyes full of apologies for her husband. “Sorry about, um. Well, we didn’t mean to intrude on your evening. We just dropped by for a drink with Harry, and- well. We got a little caught up talking…”

Her cheeks pinken, indicating the subject matter of their ‘talking’. Draco shakes his head, forces a smile. Kreacher disapparates beside him with the cloak, making Harry jolt in surprise. Instinctively, Draco takes a side-step towards him.  

“No, no, please. It’s lovely to see you.” Draco glances at Ronald. “Both of you.”  

“Would you mind if…” Harry winces, but pushes his gaze to meet Draco’s. “If they stayed for dinner? I was having Kreacher make something for you and I, but… well. Hermione and Ron are barely ever free, so I thought it might be…” 

He trails off. The concern is pouring from his open, expressive face. Does this idiot really believe that, after everything that’s happened, Draco could ever again deny him a thing? In a way, Draco hopes Harry does believe this, as it would certainly give Draco more of a leg to stand on in any future arguments, of which there are bound to be many, judging from their shared history.

“Perhaps it’s better if we just see you a different time, Harry,” Hermione jumps in, filling the silence that Draco had unintentionally left empty. “Draco seems tired, I’m sure he’s had a trying day, and you had plans-”

“Sorry, no,” Draco jumps in, hands held aloft. “It’s perfectly fine, really. I’d welcome the extra company. Harry does tend to prattle on without other people diluting the conversation space.”  

Hermione laughs, so does Harry, and a sense of relief floods the room. Even the fire dials it back a notch. Ron, however, continues saying nothing, nursing the drink in his hand. 

“Excellent, I’ll tell Kreacher to set two extra places,” Harry says, then walks over and slings his arm around Draco’s waist. 

Draco shoots away from him, ablaze with sudden, scorching heat, like fireworks exploding in his chest, fingernails scraping along his bones, great buckets of liquid thrill sloshing over his head. He gasps, backing across the stone floor until he’s pressed up against the doorframe. When he gathers himself, mere seconds later, every set of eyes is boring into him. Humiliation replaces every other sensation coursing through him, hot and unbearably sticky; he mutters something, vaguely intelligible, and bolts from the room. 

* 

He goes to the living area, up on the second floor of this madly designed house, where Harry has been storing the world’s most beautiful and under-appreciated piano. He sits on the stool of the instrument now, clasped hands hanging between his knees, elbows resting on his thighs. This is a foolish endeavour, he realises. To think that any normalcy could be achieved, dating Harry Potter. To behave well enough as his partner in front of his friends, or anyone for that matter, and be viewed in any other way than how Ronald so obviously perceives him: a huge, terrible mistake. 

Harry finds him easily. not that Draco had been trying to hide. He'd simply needed a moment to himself, to draw the edges of his wounded ego back together before going back downstairs to drown in Granger’s pitying looks, Weasley’s snarl. Harry’s carrying two tumblers, half full of sparking Firewhiskey. He hovers in the doorway, eyes screaming aplogies.  

“Can I come in?”

Draco straightens up, snorts at his question. He turns on the stool so that he’s facing the piano, and hovers his hands over the keys. “It’s your house, Potter.” 

“Still feels like a stranger’s house, mostly.” Harry walks over as Draco wanders his fingers over a delicate, simple tune. He places a tumbler down on the piano, and Draco feels the berating comment swell up in his throat for not using a coaster. But then, Harry says, “are you okay?” and all the derision seeps out of him. 

“I’m fine,” Draco sighs, though it comes out a lot less fine than he intended. He stops playing, reaches for the drink and takes a sip. It’s glorious. “Thank you.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Harry’s voice is a shade of itself. “I’m an idiot. I was just so pleased to see you, and I wanted them to see us together, and how happy you make me, and-” he sighs at himself, impatiently. Tanned fingers push into his curls. “I can tell them to go, if you want. I know this isn’t the evening you expected from my invitation-”

“It’s alright,” Draco says, uncomfortable with the dumb, pure honesty Potter is shedding. “I wasn’t expecting the touch, so my reaction was… embarrassing. But I can be more alert to it.” 

“I don’t have to touch you at all,” Harry says, assuringly. He sits carefully down on the bench beside Draco, doing well to keep his limbs to himself despite the tiny surface area. He smiles, hands gesturing to the scant space between their bodies. “See? I’m an expert at not touching. I won’t even look at you if you don’t want-”

Draco kisses him. It hurts, in a pleasing, tugging ‘more, God, please, more’ kind of way, but he doesn’t care. Harry is surprised, but responds eagerly, arm resting on Draco’s shoulder, tumbler of whiskey dangling from his fingers. When the kiss ends, Harry’s eyes stay closed behind his glasses, a serene smile caressing his face. When he opens his eyes, Draco is looking right into their depths, and he drowns in moss, in jungle vines, in limes and fresh, ripe grass. 

“Might have to adjust my promise. I won’t touch you... until they leave.” 

Draco’s cheeks grow warm, but he smiles, eyes dropping to Harry’s mouth. He hasn’t shaved, still, leaving a dark trail of stubble across his square jaw. Later, Draco thinks, he will lick over it, feel how it prickles and catches on the soft flesh of his tongue. 

“Does Ronald despise me for seducing you?” Draco asks, mostly to distract himself from indulging in this fantasy right now. 

Harry shrugs, leaning carefully away. He keeps his hand on Draco’s knee, considerate of the sudden removal of his touch. A simple token of his consideration, so sweet it rots Draco’s teeth. 

“He’s having a bit of trouble with the idea,” Harry admits. “But it comes in swings and roundabouts. Sometimes he seems fine with it. Other times… I dunno. I think he’s more upset that I kept it from him, honestly.” 

“So, you’ve told them… everything?”  

Harry flashes a sheepish look his way. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t exactly planning on it, but they dropped by unexpectedly, and I was still sorta reeling from, um. Y’know, everything last night. So they know, yeah.” Harry winces when Draco meets his words with silence. “Sorry.” 

“Hmm.” Draco muses, looking down into his sparkling whiskey. “I suppose I’d better make a good impression, then.”  

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I mean, they know you.” 

“Exactly.” 

Harry laughs, takes another sip. “Seriously, they don’t expect you to have morphed into someone new. I mean, they know I like you because you’re Draco Malfoy, y’know? It's always been your Malfoy-ness that attracted me to you. If you’d been dull, an unworthy opponent - some polite, sweet, smiley little bugger - I might not have given you a thought.” 

Draco snorts. “I think you’re forgetting my fantastic ass,” he says, rising to his feet, already mentally preparing himself to return back downstairs, and endure an evening of exchanged niceties with two of Harry's closest friends. “That would always have lured you in unconsciously, no matter how much of a bore I might have been.”  

“Yeah,” Harry says wistfully, and as Draco turns his back, he feels the prickle of Harry’s laser stare on his behind. “Until later, sweet derriere.” 

Chapter Text

Kreacher makes putanesca for dinner, a dish that Draco vaguely remembers having at this house before, as a child. He assumes, therefore, that the meal is probably made in his honour, which just makes everything even more tense. During the first course, a parsnip soup, Ronald stays completely silent. Hermione chatters almost non-stop, obviously intent on distracting attention away from the reaction Draco had to Harry’s touch earlier. She speaks of work, mostly, which is a broad topic given her profession, and Draco, being part of the Ministry, is, in theory, able to join in. He's finding it difficult to concentrate, however.

“I’m working on a new bill for Muggle technology exchange,” Hermione is saying now, just as Kreacher is dishing out the pasta. “They are, in some ways, miles ahead of us in terms of communication and entertainment technology. Social media,” she looks at Harry for backup here, “and smartphones, and streaming services. And what do we have? The Prophet. Floo Network updates. Owls. It’s simply not as effective. It’s mere prejudice holding us back-”

“Okay,” Ron says, suddenly, putting down his fork. “Enough. Let’s talk about what’s really going on here, shall we?” 

Underneath the dining table, Harry’s foot inches forward, touching his socked toe to Draco’s pointed shoe. There should be enough thick material between their skin to stifle the sensation of his touch, but Draco still feels it like a bolt of lightning ricocheting up his leg. 

“Ron…” Hermione says softly, looking worried.

“No, Herm, you might be able to pretend that this is completely normal, but it just isn’t. Our best friend is sleeping with a fucking-” he breaks off, but Draco feels he could make a pretty good stab at what he’d been about to say. “Malfoy.”

Draco quietly moves his foot away from Harry’s, tucks it around the leg of his chair. 

“What’s the issue, exactly?” Harry asks, all stiff suddenly, knuckles white around the handle of his fork; it’s such a distinctly Harry reaction that Draco aches, wants to lean toward him, but doesn’t. “I thought you were alright about this now?” 

Ron scowls. “It’s not about that. Sure, I can handle you, like, wanting to fuck him. See what it’s like, I don’t know. But to actually be with him? I mean, what’s Ginny gonna think? You go from her to him?!” 

“Ginny is far more open-minded than you are, apparently,” Harry shoots back. “I've no doubt she'd be happy for me, no matter who I wanted to be with." 

“Perhaps I should step in,” Draco interrupts, throat tight. Ron’s lips press together. “I agree with you, Ronald. I’m entirely undeserving. But this is a sentiment I have expressed to Harry many, many times. And he is adamant that we try to make this work, for whatever reason. Merlin knows I’ll likely fuck it up, eventually. I’m cold and ungrateful. Closed off. Selfish. There’s all sorts of reasons he could pick to get rid of me down the line. But for now…” Draco trails off, lump lodged in his throat. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of it. “I’m trying my best to make the most of this rare snippet of time. I have him, for now. Whilst he’s foolish enough to believe this could work out. And whilst I am cynical, I am also… grateful. I am, regrettably, unwaveringly in love with Harry. It will never change, of that I am certain. So even for this moment, I am the luckiest person alive. And I will not treat him badly, for as long as I am with him, I assure you. To do so would be the worst mistake I could make. You needn’t fear for your friend. He will probably grow tired of my Malfoy-ness, as you say. But for the time being, I’ll do my best to keep him happy.” 

In the ensuing silence, Draco decides to drink some wine. They’ve switched from whiskey to vino because Hermione brought a bottle of some actually passable Rioja. 

“Draco…” Harry begins. When Draco looks up at him, he’s frowning hard at the table beside his plate, scar creased and bumpy from the furrow of his brow. “That’s not…”

He trails off. Another silence grows. Ron clears his throat. 

“I intend to be supportive,” Hermione blurts out at last. Draco could swaddle her in a hug just for breaking the unbearable awkwardness filling the air. “Ron too. We love Harry, and he clearly cares for you. So, provided that you have good intentions, which I think it’s fairly evident you do, Draco, we support this. Right, Ron?”

She sends a look across the table at her husband that is sharp enough to cut diamonds. Ron cowers very slightly from it, shrinking into his chair. “Yeah,” he mutters, visibly softened. “Sorry, Harry. You know you’ve got me in your corner. S’just a lot to deal with.” 

“Right.” Harry still frowns, but it’s shallower. “Kreacher!” he shouts, suddenly. Almost at once, the Elf apparates into the room, wringing his hands. “Pop another bottle of wine, would you?” 

*

Once the hideous dissection of Draco’s intentions is out of the way, the atmosphere creeps slowly into amicable, with some wine-soaked reminiscing of Hogwarts days, then things actually progress into the surprisingly enjoyable. There’s bountiful food, and treacle tart for dessert; Draco gets a kick out of the knowing glance he manages to send Harry’s way as his slice is served to him. It makes Harry blush, adorably, and he misses at least two fond jibes that his friends aim at him. By the end of the evening, Draco is receiving an actual hug from Ron, though it’s half an excuse to keep himself upright, probably. Ron’s liquor tolerance seems to be as sturdy as the roof of the Leaky Cauldron. Hermione is a sweet, warm kind of drunk, with rosy cheeks and a tendency to express motherly concern for Harry in particular. 

“You will make sure he sleeps enough, won’t you Draco?” she wheedles as she drags a near unconscious Ron towards the fireplace. “He’s gotten into such a bad habit, staying up all night long sometimes I’m sure. Once or twice in the past month he’s Firecalled us at two, sometimes three in the morning, all flustered, seeking advice or-”

“Great to see you guys!” Harry exclaims suddenly, ushering them back into the grate. 

The three of them laugh and exchange fond farewells, half-hearted ‘we’ll meet up soon’ promises, and then, with a whoosh of green flame, they’re gone. Harry turns from the fireplace. The line of his back has gone rigid, his face losing its open, happy quality. He walks right past Draco, back into the dining area, and begins stacking plates, much to Kreacher’s chagrin. 

“You’re angry,” Draco assesses after a quiet, watchful moment. “With me.”

“Yes.”

Draco sighs to himself. This is, in all likelihood, his life now. Dealing with the passive aggressive plate stacking tantrums of Harry Potter. “Is this about the-”

“You think I’m going to get sick of your ‘Malfoy-ness’?” Harry asks in a sudden, sharp tone, glasses slipping down his nose as he glares. His fingers had gone up to form air quotations around ‘Malfoy-ness’. “That’s bonkers, Draco. I can’t believe you said that to my friends, making me out to be some kind of- of-”

“Good person?” Draco suggests, eyebrow arching. “Someone that will eventually see his folly in trying to form a romantic attachment to a former Death Eater?”

“Oh, not this again.” 

“What? You can’t avoid the facts, Potter-”

“You’re not a bloody Death Eater, alright? I think I’d know that about you, at this point.” 

“But-” Draco’s hand hovers over his shirt sleeve, right where the Dark Mark is. 

“Having that damn tattoo doesn’t mean shit, and you know it. If I had some murderous dictator with a wand to my throat force me to get a Swastika tattooed on my arse cheek, that wouldn’t mean I was a fucking Nazi, would it?” 

Draco pauses, considers. “He wasn’t holding a wand to my throat.” 

Harry just snorts, waves his hand through the air, sends a wine glass toppling. Kreacher catches it before it rolls off the table, then scurries out of the room. “He might as well have been. You knew he wouldn’t let you or your parents live long if you refused.” 

Draco’s mouth twists in discomfort. All of a sudden, Harry’s shoulders release their tension; he takes a step around the table, then another, until he’s stood right in front of Draco. His eyes shine. His gorgeous fucking green eyes. 

“You have to stop punishing yourself,” Harry begs. One hand reaches, slowly, to Draco’s face. Before he even does it, Draco knows he’s going for the strand of hair that’s fallen loose - a maddening, but unbearably tender and touching habit he’s developed since they begun whatever this is. “How can we make each other happy if you’re forever bullying yourself for something you could barely control? Something you were forced to do when you were sixteen?” 

Draco’s eyes flutter closed at the skim of Harry’s fingertips. Light touches like this are wondrous, like rose petals dragging over his skin. Feathers sweeping. A cool wind on a hot, sweltering day. 

“Kiss me,” Draco says, and Harry does it, at once, no hesitation. 

Moulding his lips to Harry's feels like sinking a chisel into thick, veined marble, finding the sculpture within. Harry’s hands dip into his hair, a comb into honey, and all Draco can do is open for him, lean into him, have whole rivers of his love be siphoned from the depthless fathoms within his stricken soul. 

“I love you,” Harry says, again. It’s just as unbelievable the second time Draco hears it. “I want to be with you. I want to try.” 

Tears smart in Draco’s ducts, so he keeps his eyes tightly closed, trying to imprison them. “Okay. Okay, let’s try.” 

*

Three months later

Dear Headmistress,

Thank you for your letter. As yet, I am still uncertain about the date of my return to Hogwarts.
Another few days Another week or so- I will write again when I am ready to-

“Would you like me to write that for you?” Draco asks, as Harry scribbles through his third line. Harry had thought Draco was dozing, head in his lap, but it appears he has woken just in time to scrutinise Harry’s embarrassing ineptitude to write a simple letter through the hovering parchment from below. “I’d possibly reword the beginning a little. ‘Dear Headmistress, please stop writing me letters as I am too busy devoting my attention to my gorgeous boyfriend to ever return to your miserable school-’”

Harry jabs Draco in the forehead with the quill in his hand. It leaves a tiny dot of ink, like a third eye. He splutters indignantly, but doesn’t try to rub it off. With a sigh, Harry waves the parchment away, then shoots an incendio at it. 

“I’m not quitting,” he says stubbornly. “I’m just having some time off.” 

“It’s been three months.”

“I know that,” Harry grumbles. He kind of wants to shove Draco’s head off his lap, but he looks remarkably angelic like this, hair fanned out over Harry’s thighs. Instead, Harry lets his hand fall into this silky halo, stroking gently. Draco shivers, a little. “Can we have sex?” Harry asks, perking up at the sudden idea. “I need to distract myself.” 

“Oh, stop, you’ll have me all a-quiver.” Draco rolls his eyes. “We need to start getting ready.”

“We’ve still got, like, an hour.” 

“As sexy as it is that you put no effort whatsoever into your appearance, I intend to shower and shave.” 

Harry’s head lolls backwards against the cushion of this new, plush sofa. He must admit, even though it had been a ball ache to find two matching sofas that met Draco’s precise specifications in terms of comfort, style, and quality, it has been worth it. The old, cracked leather ones had been levitated away by a nice thrifty witch from Brixton, and Harry has never looked back. Similarly, the wallpaper Draco had selected covers up the ugly cracks and peeling paint, the window cleaner he hired means that the view of London's skyline is clear and un-smudged. Number Twelve is gradually becoming liveable, even attractive, and it's doing strange things to Harry's heart whenever he thinks about who is responsible for healing the scarred shell of his godfather's home. 

“Ugh. Fine,” he says. Draco is a marvel, in so many ways, but Harry wishes he wasn't always so annoyingly right about everything. 

Draco sits up then, yawning as he does so, still sleepy from his nap. He’s wearing a loose grey jumper that has a tendency to slip off his pale shoulder, meaning the dip of a clavicle is almost always on show. It’s Harry’s favourite garment of his, which he’s mentioned more than once. He likes to think that this is why Draco so often wears it when he stays over at Grimmauld Place. When Draco straightens, eyes hooded, he turns to Harry, a familiar smirk playing on his lips. 

“If you shower with me, I’d consider... distracting you.” 

Harry narrows his eyes to hide the way his heart skips a beat. “Coercion. You’re trying to groom me so I won’t embarrass you later by looking sloppy.”

Draco’s fingers dance up Harry’s thigh, hooking themselves into his belt. “Do you care?” 

“Nope,” Harry replies brightly. His hands dart to the hem of the jumper, already sliding beneath it to skim over the warm skin of Draco's waist. “Need help getting this off?” 

Draco nods into the kiss he presses against Harry’s lips, then leans back to let Harry pull the jumper off him. Even now, the sight of his bare, faintly scarred torso stirs a confusing cocktail of distress and arousal in Harry’s belly. The best remedy to combat this, he’s found, is to run his tongue over every scar he can see. As he kisses along the line of Draco’s collarbone, he feels Draco shuddering, his thighs tensing. 

It’s been a learning process, navigating the Fatum Amare affliction. But gradually, it’s become obvious to them both, that the more often Harry touches Draco, the less intense the reaction becomes. Once again, Harry is struck by the aptitude of Neville’s proverbial wisdom way back before any of this Fatum Amare business had been on Harry’s radar. They get less starey the more they get the chance to stare. Or, in other words, ‘prolonged contact reduces the potency of the result.’ 

Harry’s almost annoyed at himself for not hypothesising such a thing earlier, being a supposed magical scientist. At any rate, it’s a good thing. Even though it was incredibly hot when Draco could barely stand to have Harry’s hands on him without being thrown into a whirlpool of ecstasy, Harry suspects that both of them had been concerned about the practicality of this reaction in the long-term. Nowadays, Draco’s sensitivity to Harry’s touch is minimal, though it is still there, heightening everything just a little more than normal, making him pliant and submissive beneath Harry’s ministrations. 

Harry lets Draco, shirtless and beautiful in the dwindling light from the large windows, take him by the hand and lead him out of the room, up the stairs to the bathroom in which Harry has, upon Draco’s insistence, finally called upon Kreacher to fix the plumbing. Draco charms the shower to run without a wand - unspeakably attractive, effortlessly cool magic - then, after tugging Harry’s clothes from his body, pulls him under the spray. Despite Kreacher’s valiant efforts to keep the house heated with magic, Number Twelve is perpetually cooled by a drafty chill; the heat of the shower is glorious against their bodies, chasing the cold away in moments. They press their naked skin together hungrily, everything wet and hot and perfect. 

Draco attaches his mouth to Harry’s ear, knowing just how it affects him; Harry’s knees buckle, he grips to Draco’s upper arms, clinging as Draco whispers through the roar of the falling water, “how should I make you come, hm?” 

Harry’s hands trace the contours of Draco’s sharp facial features, the pads of his fingers lingering on the damp, plush lips in front of him. “Mouth.”

Draco quirks an eyebrow, but obliges, sinking straight to his knees beneath the spray, hair mousey and lank under the stream of water, sticking to his scalp and neck. “Do me a favour,” he says, tilting his face up to look Harry in the eye, expression deceptively unaffected, “shampoo my hair for me?” 

Droplets litter across his face, and he wipes away some moisture from his eyes; shakily, Harry twists to reach for the shampoo bottle, and Draco hums in satisfaction, then returns his focus to the sight in front of him. His fingers wrap around Harry’s erection before he leans in to suckle gently at the tip. Harry’s knees weaken at the first touch of his mouth, helpless as always to the intense, searing arousal that thrums through him when Draco is on his knees this way. He is so incredibly good at this, and so eager, so pliant. He lets Harry slide himself all the way into his mouth with barely a flicker of complaint. He swallows him down right to the hilt, gag reflex seemingly non-existent, and encourages Harry to thrust his hips as he pleases, just letting himself be used. It’s extraordinarily hot, every single time, and Harry has never lasted longer than five minutes. 

With this in mind, he wastes no time in pouring a dollop of the shampoo onto his palm, holding his hand out of the spray. The gel substance misses his hand entirely at first, clumsy as he feels with Draco’s mouth around him, hot and tight and delicious, but eventually he manages it, and slaps it straight onto Draco’s scalp. 

At once, Draco pulls off, affronted. “I’m not a fucking poodle, Potter. Massage it in. Make sure you get it right to the ends.” 

Resisting the urge to wipe his soapy fingers into Draco's eyes, Harry pushes his fingers into wet hair, circling them in what he hopes counts as a ‘massage’. Draco seems relatively satisfied, and moves his mouth back to where it was, much to Harry’s relief. He moans, settling back against the shower wall to watch Draco suck him down, more than happy to dig his fingers into the soapy locks atop his head. 

It takes under two minutes for Harry to become so consumed by pleasure that his fingers stop working altogether. His hips jerk forwards a few times, cock thrusting deep into Draco’s lax throat, and then he comes, whole body trembling with the force. Draco, in all his perfection, doesn’t move an inch until he’s swallowed every drop of Harry’s release, then pulls off with a serene half-smile, rising to his knees and angling his head under the water to rinse out the last of the suds. 

Draco’s still hard, so Harry ignores his attempt at nonchalance - well aware that Draco is pretty much always on edge around him - turns him around and pushes him up against the glass panel of the shower. Draco’s hands brace himself against it at chest height, his forehead connecting with the glass, but he doesn’t utter so much as a whimper of protest. Harry finds the shampoo bottle again, gets some more gel on his fingers and slips them straight into the crease between Draco’s butt cheeks. 

He spends a good two minutes just circling the tips of his slippery fingers against Draco’s perineum, whispering into his ear - “you look so good all naked and wet, baby”, “wish I had time to taste you properly”, “think you can come from just my fingers here, hm?” - until he’s arching backwards, pushing his bum into Harry’s hand, chasing more. Harry’s fingers push into him, one at a time, careful and slow, burrowing deeper in accordance with the desperate mewling sounds Draco makes against the glass. 

It’s rare that Draco needs anything more than this to come the first time. He’s still so sensitised to Harry’s touch that he can be riled up in moments, and tonight is no exception. He loves Harry inside of him, in any way, and now, with Harry three knuckles deep, pressed up so tightly against the wall, Harry’s naked, wet body covering him, holding him in place, he comes in record time. His release spurts out in streaks against the steamy glass while Harry gnaws softly at his earlobe. 

Draco insists on washing Harry’s hair as well before they get out, and for once Harry doesn’t mind. Draco’s hands on him are purposeful but gentle, methodically working the shampoo into every lock of his unruly mane. He does it facing Harry, a tiny frown caught between the translucent strips of his eyebrows; Harry is helpless to resist kissing him, like that. It makes the process take twice as long, and Draco complains that he can’t concentrate, but it’s worth it for the way he sighs into Harry’s mouth, so contentedly. 

*

Buoyed from a fantastic orgasm and several long minutes having Draco naked, warm, and slippery crowded into the shower with him, Harry doesn't start to feel nervous until he's stepping into the grate of Grimmauld's largest fireplace, and Draco is saying, "Malfoy Manor, Guest Parlour" with clear, perfect diction. He grabs Harry's hand as the green flames consume them. 

Nowadays, the Spectre Guard of the Manor has been instructed to let Harry come and go as he pleases via Floo, so they don't have any problems on their short journey. Harry has visited the Manor a few times now, at first with a sense of unease given his wartime memories of the place, but after a while, a sense of admiration he hadn't been able to focus on before, given that he was a prisoner there, overshadowed everything else. It's a stunning building, there is no doubt, divided into several wings connected by endless confusing corridors and staircases, some of which change around according to the occupants' necessity, much like the ones at Hogwarts. Usually, when he visits, Harry Floo's straight into Draco's quarters, up on the top floor, so he has never actually been in the Guest Parlour. When they land in the enormous, ornate, grey brick fireplace, Harry's eyes bug out at the scope of the room; the ceilings alone must be twelve feet high, with two great crystal chandeliers suspended, rope-less, at about the ten foot mark. Most of the room is decorated with various forms of seating: four plush green sofas, six armchairs to match, various round tables with high backed chairs clustered around them, and even a few chaise longues. 

Narcissa Malfoy is sat on the green sofa farthest from the fireplace, sipping tea from a pretty black and silver teacup, the saucer hovering in the air beside her. At the sight of them, she places the cup onto the saucer, hands folding in her lap, knees together beneath her long, ruffled black skirt, and fixes them with an appraising glare. Immediately, Harry has to fight an urge to reach for the Floo powder and scarper back to Grimmauld. Instead, because he's annoyingly chivalrous and unfortunately wants to make a good impression on his boyfriend's mum, Harry steps out of the fireplace and crosses the room towards Narcissa. Draco had dropped his hand with a quiet squeak of discomfort as soon as they arrived, so he follows a few paces behind; even his careful footsteps radiate wariness. 

"Mrs Malfoy," Harry says as warmly as he can, given that the temperature of this room is tepid at best, emotionally speaking, "great to see you again." 

He sticks out his hand, wondering too late whether he should have bowed or something. Her cool gaze falls to his hand, and Harry is almost certain that she won't take it, but she does, weakly clasping the tips of his fingers and giving them a small shake. Her fingernails, he notices, are also painted black. He gets it - she's a widow, but how far does she need to take it? Is her underwear black too? 

Stop thinking about your boyfriend's mum's underwear. 

"Is it?" Narcissa asks, looking past Harry to stare at her son. Draco steps forwards, bending down to plant a kiss on her powdered cheek. "Draco," she says, "you look thin."

"I've been working a lot."

"It's true," Harry agrees quickly, desperate to score points in these first precarious minutes. "He barely leaves the Ministry. I'll have to dress up a broomstick with a blonde wig and pointy shoes, charm it to say 'quite so', and 'don't be so tiresome Harry'." 

It's not even a funny joke. Harry has no clue why it ever left his mouth; luckily, Narcissa seems so displeased with it that she pretends he hasn't spoken.

"Are we expecting more guests?" Draco asks, eyes fixed quizzically on the tea tray on the coffee table nearby. There are four more of those pretty black and silver teacups, along with a matching teapot, milk jug, and sugar bowl. 

Harry's stomach lurches. Surely Narcissa wouldn't blindside them with more, unexpected- what is he saying? Of course she bloody would. As if in answer, the doorbell suddenly chimes. Narcissa gives he and Draco a bland smile, then waves her hand in a gesture that apparently means 'sit', because that's what Draco does. Harry follows him closely, not quite touching, to another of the green sofas, which are arranged in a square around the coffee table. The one Draco picks is the one to Narcissa's left. Harry sits down beside him, forcing himself to keep from jiggling his leg with anxiety. 

"I thought the two of you might appreciate the company of some old friends," Narcissa says, reaching for her cup again.

Just then, the enormous arched double doors behind her swing open of their own accord, and in walks a House Elf followed by a stunningly beautiful woman. She has black lipstick on to match her short black bob, and wears a long, form-fitting red dress with an almost indecently high slit going up the leg. Beside her walks a dark skinned, equally handsome young man with a thin wash of tight curls covering his head, dressed in what looks to be a designer black suit, decorated with a blossoming red rose pattern, the exact shade of the woman's dress. 

"Rudy would like to announce Miss Pansy Parkinson and Mister Blaise Zabini," Rudy the Elf calls out, then ducks its head. 

"Merlin's fucking bollocks, it's true," Pansy breathes, eyes fixed on Harry. "Draco, you absolute swine."

Her expletive is so at odds with her flawless appearance that Harry actually jerks back a little in surprise. His eyes dart towards Narcissa, who is sipping her tea as calmly as though Pansy had no more than curtsied and batted her lashes. Beside him, Draco jumps to his feet, looking alarmed. 

"Pans!" he says, dithering on the spot. She storms towards him, her long, tanned, shapely leg flashing through the slit of her dress as she click-clacks across the wooden floor. As soon as she is close enough, she all but hurls herself into Draco's arms, arms locking around his neck. Over his shoulder, she fixes her gaze on Harry, her black lips stretching into a wide, devilish smile. After a moment of imitating a statue, Draco returns the hug, gingerly. "I'd no idea you were coming." 

"I know! You're the luckiest boy in the whole world tonight. Blaise and I were headed out to the Floating Opal for dinner. We booked months ago, it's impossible to get a table there, even for Blaise, but your charming mother called about an hour ago to invite us to dinner with you and Harry Potter!" Something about the way Pansy says this is odd; the way her dark eyes bore into Draco's, the way her teeth grit together a bit too hard, the way her fingers dig into Draco's shoulders as she leans back to look him in the eye. Her words are mostly ordinary, but there's another, unspoken conversation going on beneath them, an angry one. Harry watches her fingers grip Draco's shoulders; her nails, too, are pointed, and jet black. Two of them, on her right hand, the index and middle, are filed down. "We don't cancel plans like that for just anyone." Harry can't be sure, but he thinks he sees Draco gulp. Pansy removes her hands, turning to Narcissa. "So nice of you to think of us, Cissy." 

In lieu of a reply, Narcissa simply holds her cup a little higher, and nods. By now, Blaise has wandered over to the group of them, slapping a friendly hand on Draco's back a bit too hard, and saying hello, his eyes firing another unspoken message into Draco's skull that Harry cannot read. 

"So," Pansy says, gleefully shoving Draco aside in order to step closer to Harry. Draco turns, alarmed, but doesn't try to stop her. Harry wonders if he should get up, but honestly he's not sure his legs would hold him. He hasn't seen these two since school, since the war, when Pansy tried to turn him over to Lord Voldemort. He highly doubts, given the years that have passed since then, that she will try to murder him again, but he's nevertheless unnerved by the predatory look in her dark, glittering eyes. "Harry fucking Potter. I never thought this gay little twat would actually manage it," she gestures towards Draco, "but here you are." 

Again, Harry's eyes dart over to check Narcissa's reaction to Pansy's swearing, but she appears uninterested in any of the conversation, staring into the middle distance, the handle of her teacup between her thumb and forefinger. He swallows, returning his gaze to Pansy, who is now sizing him up with a roving gaze, as if he were a piece of mutton.

"Uh, here I am," Harry says.

He looks to Draco for help, but he's paled considerably, watching Pansy as if she were an adder poised to strike any moment. Blaise chooses this moment to step neatly around them both, taking a seat beside Harry - Draco's seat - and extending his hand. 

"Pans has been frothing at the mouth ever since Narcissa called. I'm afraid she's worked herself up into a bit of a state," Blaise explains with a disarming grin; cautiously, Harry takes his hand, trying to match the strong grip and probably failing spectacularly. "Excuse her forwardness. She doesn't like being kept in the dark about things. I expect she's itching to tie you up and legilimens you." 

"Bollocks," Pansy declares, flopping down the other side of Harry, teeth, her jarringly white teeth exposed as she smiles. "No need for nasty spells. Harry'll tell me all I want to know, won't you?"

"Pans," Draco says in a low, deep voice that goes, unfortunately, right to Harry's dick. "You're a guest in my house. Behave or I'll ask Rudy to escort you out, don't think I won't." She scowls at him, arms folding across her chest. "Go and sit over there," Draco says, as an afterthought, "you too, Blaise." 

To Harry's surprise, they do as they're told, rolling their eyes and exchanging glances, but peel themselves off the sofa and go and sit on a different one, opposite Narcissa. When Draco perches back in his place beside Harry, it's a struggle not to reach over and grab ahold of him somehow, to tether himself to the one thing in this entire room steady enough to prevent Harry feeling dangerously seasick. 

"Tea, Cissy, really? Are we dining with the Queen?" Pansy asks with a derisive scoff, sitting forwards and clapping her hands together twice in quick succession. At once, the tea set vanishes, and in its place sit five crystal wine glasses in a neat circle around a large carafe, filled to the brim with wine in a deep, blood red. Harry has never been so glad, nor so terrified, to see the appearance of alcohol. Pansy grins, reaching into the slit that runs up the leg of her dress, and plucking a straight black wand from a holster that Harry thinks is wrapped around her thigh, though he tries not to look too hard. She flicks the wand at the wine, and it begins to pour itself. "Let's loosen everyone up a little." 

*

Harry kind of knew dinner would be mostly unbearable, given that Narcissa so obviously hates his guts, but they've only just received their starter course, and with the additional curious stares and intrusive questions fired across the table from Pansy and Blaise, he's not sure that he'll make it to dessert. Draco has a hand on his knee - a silent, unseen 'I'm so sorry' - which helps a little, and the wine helps even more, but still it is excruciating. His strategy so far is to try his best to steer the conversation towards generic, smalltalk-y subjects. 

"So, Pansy, are you living in London now?" 

"Nice try Harry, but I'm afraid I won't be distracted from my aim to squeeze every drop of gossip from your tight little bod this evening." She reaches for her wine, takes a sip, somehow without smudging any black onto the rim. "It's my only opportunity, you see. Apparently I'm not far enough into Draco's inner circle to be informed of new relationships. Tell me, please, how did Draco proposition you? Did he prostrate himself on the floor of your dingy classroom and beg you to end his torment?" 

Confused, Harry looks at Draco for help. He blushes, faintly, and shrugs into his soup. "She knows about the affliction." 

"And what Pansy knows, I know," Blaise jumps in, taking a spoonful of what Harry must admit is the best French Onion he's ever had. "Mm, this is delicious Narcissa. I hope you took regular breaks as you slaved over a hot stove all day." 

Pansy snorts with laughter, and Draco fights a smirk. Narcissa only smiles serenely, giving Blaise a brief look of fond exasperation. In that look, Harry sees years of past dinners with Blaise sat at this very table, conversing easily and amiably with Mr and Mrs Malfoy in that adult-friendly, charming manner of his. A thread of envy pulls in Harry's heart for this free pass Narcissa gives Blaise and Pansy, her extended children, that Harry will never hope to have. 

Draco leans towards Harry to whisper, "Mummy hasn't cooked since 1973. There was an incident with a pot pie. Half the Manor had to be treated for smoke damage." 

Harry laughs politely, glad for the explanation of the inside joke; when he turns to share his amusement with Narcissa, her cold mask has been fixed back into place. Pansy sighs heavily then, throwing her spoon into her half-empty bowl with a clatter. 

"Fuck's sake, Draco, did you bite his tongue off or what? He doesn't answer me." 

"I asked Draco out," Harry says quickly, going for nonchalance. He'd hoped that conversation had moved on from Pansy's invasive question, but apparently not. "Draco was rather hesitant to the idea, at first, actually." 

For the first time all evening, Narcissa's face lights up. Harry pretends it's because she loves the soup. 

"Really," Pansy says, leaning forwards. She's practically purring. Blaise rests an arm over the back of her chair, which makes Harry blink in surprise. Are they dating? Somehow, despite their obvious closeness and co-ordinating outfits, this thought hadn't occurred to him. "That is fascinating. Because, you know, back in school, Draco used to bore us all to tears going on about you. Didn't he, Blaise? 'I wish Harry would jump off the clock tower and die.', 'What is Harry up to with his smarmy friends and why am I not invited?', 'Why does Harry mope after that blasted Ravenclaw girl when I'm so vastly superior and ready to hump his leg the moment he shows the slightest bit of interest-'" 

Draco clears his throat to disguise the hiss of pain that comes out as he removes his hand from Harry's leg. "At least I didn't compete with Blaise to see who could shag the most Slytherin boys," he says coolly, leaning back in his chair. "What was your reasoning again? To 'test the parameters' of your sexual proclivity?" 

"Sort of," Blaise says, grinning as he finishes off his soup. "Pans wanted to prove that even as a lesbian, she was better at pulling guys than me. I just wanted to shag a lot of boys. I don't think we ever found out conclusively who won." 

Pansy's mouth opens unnaturally wide as she releases a delighted peal of laughter. "Oh to be a schoolgirl again," she says, resting her chin in her hand. She looks at Harry, smirking. "Did you get up to anything that salacious in Gryffindor, Harry?" 

Cheeks now scalding him, throat too tight to swallow another mouthful of soup, Harry scans his memories of school for anything remotely comparable. He's intensely aware of Narcissa, at the end of the table, of her cool, calm gaze sweeping over the faces of the younger generation, listening to every word of their miscreant deeds of years past. 

"Uh, not really." Harry adjusts his glasses, self-consciously. "I was a bit pre-occupied with other things during the later school years for that kind of stuff, I guess." 

"Of course," Pansy says solemnly, "fighting with Draco and all his undesirable friends. Early lovers tiffs, weren't they?" 

"Easy, Pans," Blaise murmurs, though he's clearly suppressing a laugh. "Let's not dig up ancient history." 

"Is there any more wine?" Harry asks, wincing. His glass refills itself automatically, and Harry all but lunges for it. 

"Anything else you'd like to help yourself to?" Narcissa asks sweetly, fixing her steely eyes on him as he draws the glass to his lips. 

"Oh, s-sorry, I didn't mean-" 

Suddenly, Rudy cracks into the room, bustling over to levitate everyone's bowls into a towering stack, which he then disappears with. They all watch him in silence until he vanishes. Harry places his wine glass down, too scared to drink it now. 

"I hear you're a Professor now, Harry." It takes him a minute to realise that it's Narcissa who spoke. "Severus' old job, is it?" 

"Potions Master, yeah," Harry replies, subdued. 

Narcissa nods, one finger circling her wine glass. Again, there's some hidden agenda in the calculating stare she aims his way; Harry wishes Draco would put his hand back on his knee, but it's probably not the best idea, all things considered. 

"Do you enjoy it?"

The 'yes, of course' is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down, sensing Draco's loaded look. "Um. I'm actually having a bit of a break from it at the moment." He flicks a glance at Pansy, who has arched an eyebrow, obviously dripping with follow-up questions. "Draco thinks- well, he's probably right really. That perhaps I should... try something different."

"Draco thinks that, does he?" Narcissa asks, lifting her wine to her mouth. 

"Well, it's a fair conclusion to draw. It's not terribly enjoyable to teach kids who see you as a sort of circus freak," Harry jokes, though it falls instantly flat. "The Boy Who Lived and Teaches Us How To Make Odour Eliminating Elixir!" 

Narcissa makes a 'hmm' noise, and meets Pansy's eye for a moment. "What else might you prefer to do, if not teaching?" 

Harry's not sure if he prefers Pansy's direct, blunt interrogation technique, or Narcissa's passive aggressive, deceptively polite style. They both have the same effect on his stomach, so when his plate of pigeon breast, roast potatoes and green vegetables appears in front of him, he feels instantly queasy. "Err," he wants to fling a 'help me' look at Draco, but knows that it would only give off a weakness he can't afford to display, "I'm not sure. The Prophet has always insisted I'd be best suited to Auror work, so perhaps that. Or... I've been offered some book deals here and there, so maybe I could do that for a while..."

"How wonderful that the world opened up for you so readily after you played your part in the war," Narcissa says, sighing. "My husband went mad from guilt and public humiliation. Draco and I were nearly imprisoned. And you received my deceased friend's job, multiple book deals, an open offer for a position in the Auror department, eternal celebrity..." 

She trails off, picking at her food with obviously no intention of eating a morsel. Harry's stomach quivers; he chooses to stay silent. Pansy is hiding a snigger in her napkin, earning herself a glare from Draco. Cheeks flaming, Harry lifts his fork, though he cannot bring himself to so much as cut into the food. 

"I really and truly never thought you'd effing manage it, Draco," Pansy says, disrupting the weighted silence. "Harry bloody Potter sat at the fucking Malfoy table spilling his soup into his lap like it's perfectly normal. Did you slip him some of that stuff you swallowed when you were a child? Ramp up his emotions and drug him into thinking it's a great idea to try and wedge his way into this shitshow of a falling apart aristocracy-" 

"Pans, sweetheart, acid tongue." Blaise gives her a warning look, then directs a winning smile at Harry. From Blaise's loose, unbothered body language, an outsider might never know how uncomfortable the topic of conversation is for most parties at this table. "Apologies again. She's excited."

"No, it's- it's fine," Harry mutters. His anxiety wins out against his resistance, and his leg begins to jiggle. 

"It's really not fine," Draco says, jaw clenched. 

"He's fine, Draco," Pansy scoffs, "he's not a baby. He took on Lord Voldemort, what's a little sparring between old school chums compared to that, right Potter?"

"Pansy, darling, please never again mention that name in my house," Narcissa says, her voice so hard and devoid of emotion that it creates an instant atmosphere of unease.

Pansy shrinks back into herself, looking uncharacteristically worried. "Sorry, Cissy." 

Narcissa smiles wanly, then clicks her fingers to summon Rudy to bring another carafe of wine. Harry sinks back into his own seat, breathing out as if he's just gone two rounds at a boxing match. In a way, he supposes, meeting Pansy's gleaming eye, he has. 

*

"So, have you guys fucked yet?" Pansy asks; mercifully, Narcissa has excused herself from the table for a moment. Even so, Harry chokes on a green bean. 

Draco sighs, one hand raking through his hair. "It's been three months, Pans. What do you think?" 

"I've no idea, Draco," Pansy replies sweetly, "given that you haven't so much as owled me in those last three months. How did I find out you're dating Harry Potter? Through your mother. Just hours ago! She told me you were coming for dinner with him, as if it were perfectly normal, and would Blaise and I perhaps like to join you all, as if it were a fucking double date! How could you not tell me, Draco, me! We're supposed to be best friends, you wanker." 

"We aren't in school anymore, Pansy," Draco says in a gruff voice. "And why on earth would I tell you, given that you would so obviously overreact to the news and terrify Potter out of his skin at the first opportunity? You're overzealous about such things, you love to stick your hands in and muddle around in affairs that don't concern you-"

"Don't concern me!" Pansy repeats, shrieking a short laugh. "That's rich, considering it's me that had to endure years of your moping and pining and disgusting weeping over the idiot-" 

"Don't call my boyfriend an idiot-"

"Uh, can I interrupt?" Harry asks loudly; from the way Draco and Pansy snap their heads around to look at him, it's as if they'd forgotten he was even there. "It's not for me to speak for Draco, obviously, but it's all been a bit, um, precarious? Between him and I. For me, anyway, it's been a constant worry that something will splinter our new little bubble of, um, h-happiness. Well because it just seems so likely that something would go wrong, doesn't it? Given our history and what have you. So, I put off telling anyone for fear of risking that. I haven't obviously informed the public or anything. Only Ron, Hermione and, uh," he thinks, "that's it, actually."

Chastened but obviously still annoyed, Pansy glowers at her plate, picking at vegetables with a fork. 

"And I've only told mother," Draco says. "Even that was a conversation I seriously debated skipping, but I thought she might disown me if she found out by reading a leaked story in Witch Weekly." 

"I'd hardly have disowned my only son," Narcissa sighs as she floats back into the room. Draco, Blaise, and Harry all rise from their seats until she's sat down again. "Not that it does me any good either way, given that any hopes of an heir to this family have been extinguished." 

Draco frowns. "Mother, really, lets not get into that again-" 

"No, no, don't let my trivial concerns of our family's nearly extinct legacy spoil this lovely dinner," Narcissa says, smiling in that flat, emotionless way of hers. 

Blaise and Pansy exchange an amused glance. 

"I don't particularly think we should be keen on bringing a new Malfoy into the world to suffer the burden of the name, do you?" Draco asks in a terse voice; Narcissa looks at her son as though he has slapped her. He rolls his eyes and spears a green bean on his fork. "Besides, being gay doesn't mean I can't have children. Magical fertility developments are providing men with all sorts of ways to-"

"This is not about you being homosexual, Draco," Narciss hisses, eyes suddenly ablaze. Harry meets Blaise's eyes across the table. He mimes for Harry to stay still and quiet - advice Harry appreciates. Narcissa is a scary woman when she wants to be. "This is about you not only tainting our family's purity, but joining our name to his, obliterating the Malfoy blood from the tree, letting his fame-" she says this like it's a dirty word "-overshadow your legacy! Your father's legacy!" 

Draco slams down his wine glass, splashing crimson flecks all across the table. "Enough, Mother! I'm here, alive, wearing the Malfoy name like a badge despite all the unwanted attention it brings, given that my predecessor was a war criminal. I don't give a shit that the name may or may not survive. If it dies out, then perhaps it was meant to be that way. Did you ever stop to consider that a child of mine might prefer to be a Potter than a Malfoy?" 

A silence falls. Harry stares very hard into his steaming roast potatoes. Pansy turns to look at him, then laughs loudly. "There's no need to look so petrified, Potter, it's only yours and Draco's hypothetical kid under discussion."

Blaise chuckles, glass in hand. "People from our purity-obsessed circle sometimes forget that talk of heirs and arranged couples and future children is not such a common topic of conversation amongst regular folk." 

Surprisingly, Harry manages to send back a weak smile. Blaise, surprisingly, is turning out to be the least horrific enemy of the evening. Narcissa stands from the table, not excusing herself this time, picks her wine glass up and walks to the door of the room. Harry expects her to hoist it open and march straight out, but she pauses in the doorway when the doors swing open of their own accord, and turns to stare straight at him. 

"Come with me," she says, directly to Harry. It's clearly not a request. 

Helpless, Harry looks to Draco, whose eyes are round and worried. "If you'd rather not, Harry-"

He swallows, turns back to where Narcissa is waiting, already irritated. "It's okay," he whispers. Pansy places a hand on her heart, mouth opening in surprise. "She won't kill me, I don't think. Too many witnesses."

"I'd help her cover it up, if you did, Cissy," Pansy says, helpfully, though Narcissa pretends not to have heard. Draco flicks a green bean at Pansy with his wand. "Hey!" she exclaims, picking the bean from her dress. "The cover up would obviously include murdering you as well, Draco, so you don't blab. You'd be a ghost with your lover in no time. It'd be romantic." 

Harry sighs, choosing to miss the end of the argument in order to follow Narcissa Malfoy into the depths of the Manor, possibly to be fed a dose of poison, or perhaps bricked up in some secret dungeon. As he moves out from his chair, Draco grabs his wrist and strokes a thumb across his palm. It's a touching gesture, and the discomfort it must cause Draco to release him again makes it even more sweet. Harry squeezes his fingers, sends him a soft smile, then pulls carefully away. When he reaches Narcissa, she's watching him with a shrewd eye, pausing for a moment before turning to lead him out of the room. 

*

A long, painfully silent trek through the stone, pillared corridors of the Malfoy Manor, the route lit only by flickering flames from the wall lamps and circular black iron ceiling lights, eventually culminates in Narcissa drawing a key from a pocket in her skirt, and unlocking a fairly average looking wooden door that Harry had barely noticed, given the splendour of everything else around him. A portrait to his rear coughs, and Harry near jumps out of his skin. 

"Who is this Mudblood, Narcissa? Have you dressed a commoner in Draco's finery?" 

When Harry turns to look the woman in her painted eye, she looks outraged. Her face is angular and pinched, like the rest of the Malfoys, but her hair is dark and tumbling in curls, like Bellatrix. Narcissa, re-pocketing her key, sighs at the woman, sparing her only a fleeting glance. 

"The racial slurs are growing very tiresome, Cymbeline," she says, "unless you want me to leave you alone with Harry here and a box cutter, I suggest you keep your comments to yourself." 

Harry's eyebrows shoot up to the tune of Cymbeline Malfoy's outraged huffing and puffing. Dazed by the unexpected leap to his defence, Harry stumbles after Narcissa into the room, and when she waves her hand, shuts the door behind him. 

"Thanks for that," Harry tells her sincerely.

He had enough trouble coping with Walburga Black's insults (he ended up donating her portrait to a very grateful museum); it's hard to argue back to a portrait without seeming like a lunatic, but Narcissa Malfoy does it effortlessly. She sighs at him, or at least he assumes it's directed towards him, and glides across the patterned rug towards an old fashioned writing desk sat in front of a bricked up fireplace. 

Harry takes the opportunity to look around, taking in dark wood panelled walls, shelves of books, a copper telescope pointed out of a large arched window, maps of constellations unfurled on the floor beside it. There are framed art prints everywhere, some abstract, some more recognisably scenes of magical life, all vaguely recognisable to Harry, indicating their probable notoriety and value. It's a homey room, reflective of a person with a multitude of creative interests: astrology, art collection, writing, reading. It dawns on Harry, as he watches Narcissa pick out her key again, then insert it into the lock on one of the desk drawers, that this is probably her room. A kind of study, kept private and locked from general view. He feels suddenly awkward, as if he is intruding on a very personal space, one that humanises this cold, robotic woman in an unsettling way. His eyes keep falling back to those diagrams of the night sky, some of which have been marked out with ink. Does Narcissa truly place her eye to the lens of this telescope and observe the spiralling trajectories of distant stars, noting down their movements to try and make sense of her life down here below them? 

"Don't expect me to do it again," Narcissa says then, carrying on a conversation Harry thought had died, "I refuse to make a habit of fighting your battles with Lucius' ancestors. I suppose if you're really offended, you and Draco can eventually take the portraits down." 

She gets the drawer open at last, with the aid of a non-verbal spell. Harry tries to follow her words, bemused. "Take them down? Why would we do that?" 

"When you move into the Manor," Narcissa says, as if this is a perfectly reasonable next conclusion for Harry to draw. "I expect you'll want to renovate it somewhat. It lacks much homely appeal in its current state, but I simply cannot summon the energy to do it myself. I don't spend much time here anyway. Draco redecorated his chambers upstairs. He might be more inclined to do the same down here when you move in."

"Move... excuse me?" 

"You needn't get rid of my cousin's house in Islington if you are attached to it, I suppose," Narcissa says, casting a lumos as she peers into the drawer, "but it makes far more sense for you to move up here, given that the Manor is so big, and essentially runs itself." 

Harry nods quietly, though his heart races in his chest. Is she trying to trick him into admitting he wants to marry her son and steal his inherited house or something? She glances up at him, a rare wry smile hinting at spilling forth on her lips. 

"I suppose you haven't even thought of such things," she says. "But I assure you Draco has. I raised him to think practically about such matters. And if what he claims is true, and he's always..." she purses her lips, straightening up, "...desired your companionship, he'll have had years to plan for this."

Harry swallows; he stifles an urge to loosen his tie. "Sorry, and 'this' is?" 

"Accio ring box," Narcissa says, pointing her wand into the drawer. At once, a small square leather box shoots out. She catches it easily, then holds it up for inspection. Aunt Petunia has forced Harry to sit through enough Muggle romance films to know what it is. "I don't know how these things work exactly, in same sex relationships. But I always did fret about giving this to Draco," she muses, then opens the box, keeping it turned towards her. "It's difficult to imagine him getting down on one knee and declaring his love for someone, isn't it?" 

"He'd worry about creasing his trousers," Harry says weakly, mostly because it's either scream, run, Disapparate, or play the fool. 

Narcissa closes the box with a snap, arching one of her thin, sculpted eyebrows. "Quite." She walks back around the desk, and holds out the box to him. Harry stands, frozen, staring at her in disbelief. "It will have to fall to you, then." 

"Sorry," Harry croaks in a shade of his own voice, "you want me to... propose. To Draco." 

Narcissa says nothing, the box still held out in her pale hand. 

"N-now?"

She rolls her eyes. "No. Whenever you decide."

"But..." Harry's eyes fall to the box, scared. "I thought you didn't want that. At the table, you said..." 

"Yes, well," Narcissa sighs, "Draco has made it quite apparent that he does not give a damn what I think about this... union." Her eyes track over his face, strangely curious now. "I do wonder what it is that is so irresistible to him. He was always unable to let his thoughts stray from you for very long. You were a frequent occurrence in his letters home from school. He'd go on about your terrible deeds over the dinner table when he was home for the holidays. I'd hear him and his friends gossiping about you when they came to visit. You were a ghost in this house, from the start. A promise of what was to come." 

When she finishes speaking, Harry is at a loss for what to do. In a way, this is a miraculous moment. Narcissa Malfoy is giving him, with some admitted reluctance, her blessing. It isn't ideal, as Harry prefers not to think too far ahead, and he knows this ring will burn a hole in his pocket from the moment he plucks it from Narcissa's cool, thin fingers, but he's not so stupid that he doesn't realise what this means. The sacrifice Narcissa is making, allowing for her son to choose him. She is breaking her oath of purity, letting an abomination of her husband's entire philosophy take place. He wonders, gazing back at her, whether she would do this for anyone else, anyone that hadn't saved her son's life, or stopped him from being imprisoned. He remembers how she'd bent to check his breathing in the forest, how the only thing she cared about, risked her life to know, was whether her son was still living. And he thinks she would give Draco anything he wanted, really, if he wanted it enough. 

He forces himself not to think too much about what he's doing, reaches up, and takes the ring box. He opens it with shaky fingers, under Narcissa's beady gaze. The ring inside is less extravagant than he would have expected. It's a thin band of pure silver, threaded with a snaking rivulet of emerald. Engraved on the inside is a tiny serpent. There's no enormous diamond like Muggle engagement rings; it's simple, utterly beautiful, and exactly right for Draco Malfoy. 

"It's an heirloom, as you might imagine. It has been in the Malfoy family for thousands of years. The ring changes its appearance based on who the intended recipient is," Narcissa explains, smoothing out her skirt. As she ducks her head to brush away imaginary dust, a strand of hair falls to dangle beside her face. The familiar sight makes Harry smile. "Draco has always had expensive taste."

The look she gives him then is one that is so close to being shared amusement that Harry nearly snaps the box shut on his own fingers. Instead, he laughs, trying to prolong the moment, though it's already passed. "Mrs Malfoy, this is an incredible honour. Thank you." 

He decides not to add the rest, that he hasn't even thought of marrying Draco until right now in this very room. They've only just begun their tentative relationship, and now Narcissa is telling him that Draco has probably already selected their children's names. The swell of fear this causes in Harry's chest is too much to deal with right now, so he just swallows it down, tucks the ring box into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and allows Narcissa to lead him back out of the study. 

"Be kind to him, Harry," Narcissa says as she walks ahead, voice stiff. "He's more vulnerable than you know." 

*

"Did he cry after you had sex the first time?" Pansy enquires, face wholly serious. "Once he cried because he snogged a Muggle boy that looked a bit like you in a gay club."

The Malfoy Manor has many, many rooms, one of which has a fully stocked bar in it. Pansy and Blaise had kidnapped Harry on his way back to the Guest Parlour, where he'd assumed they'd all be waiting for him, dinner being probably well over after all that happened. Narcissa had bid Harry a curt goodbye, and retired to her bedroom for the evening following the bestowing of the ring, leaving him to wander the dreary hallways in search of Draco, and hopefully escape from this nightmarish evening once and for all. Instead, Pansy had spotted him on her way back from the lavatory and called for Blaise, who appeared in an instant to grab ahold of Harry's arm while Pansy held tight to the other. Together, they steered him, all friendly smiles and hard, forceful grips, up a flight of stairs then round two corners, into the bar room. 

One and a half tumblers of Firewhiskey later, Harry has lost all hope of Draco ever finding him. There are too many rooms to check. He'll be in here, drunk under the table by Pansy, whose tolerance for alcohol seems to be endless, until she and Blaise take mercy on him, and let him go.

"You had fed him about six tequila shots, in his defence," Blaise reminds her, and she bats his comment away with her hand.

Once again, Harry zeroes in on those two blunted fingernails, curious. "Uh, yeah, he might've cried a bit. It was pretty overwhelming for him. But I think I probably blubbed a bit too. What's with the fingernails?" 

Pansy's eyebrows lift in surprise; given his deflective answers so far to her barbed questions, she'd probably assumed he wouldn't answer. "God, what an absolute pussy," she says, darting a glance at Blaise, who is fighting a smile. "Which, incidentally, is the reason for this modified manicure." 

She waggles those two blunted fingers, then splits them apart, holds them to her mouth and waggles her tongue between them. Harry's face must do something hilarious, judging by the way Blaise and Pansy burst into laughter. He takes another long drink of Firewhiskey. 

"I-I thought you and Blaise were..." 

"Oh, we are," Blaise says, striding over to the chair Pansy has draped herself in, and leaning in to kiss her on her ebony mouth. "But we're too indulgent for monogamy. We let each other explore."

"Just as long as we share our toys," Pansy adds, aiming a sultry smile at Blaise. "Right, kitten?" 

"Mmm," Blaise says, then falls on top of her. She shifts, as if used to the weight of him piled on her lap, and fixes Harry with a stare.  

"You don't fancy being our toy tonight, do you Potts? Draco can be invited too." 

"We'd be ever so gentle," Blaise says around a grin. 

"He's lying." Harry turns, relief rippling over him head to toe, as Draco strolls into the room, aiming a disapproving look at his two school friends. "He's a pitbull. He chews up all his toys." 

Blaise makes a gnashing sound with his teeth, then laughs. "That's hardly fair. All Unspeakables have to learn the art of Animagus transformation. Pitbulls can be docile when they want to be."

"I'm perfectly in tact," Pansy points out, batting her lashes. 

"The damage he's done to you is undoubtedly mental and emotional," Draco replies, dry as ever, then takes Harry's Firewhiskey from his hand and downs the remains in one go. "Now, you've had your fun with Harry. Enough now." 

"Aww, but we're having such fun exchanging secrets, aren't we Harry? He told me how you wept pitifully into his arms after you first made love, and I was just about to tell him which part of the castle you carved his initials into- ow!" Pansy sticks her tongue out at Draco in response to the Stinging hex - a pink flash through jet black. Harry barely notices any of it, too flustered by the sight of Blaise's hand travelling up the slit in her dress. "Let's continue another time, Potter," she goads, eyes flashing, "invite us round for a couples night at your place. We do have such a lot to discuss still."  

"I'll seal his fireplace shut," Draco replies immediately, but he's smiling at her. Harry wonders if this present company is something he will have to get used to. 

"I expect an invitation within the next two weeks, Potter." 

"Mmm," Blaise agrees, then pauses feeling up his girlfriend to throw both Draco and Harry a wink. "We love double dates, Pansy and I. The more couples the better."

"Ugh, must you be so aggressively sexual all the time?" Draco asks, but only receives a wicked grin in response. He turns from them, holding out a hand to Harry. "Let's just Apparate, I can't be bothered to find the nearest working Floo in this house." 

Harry nods, hand hovering above Draco's. "Uh, nice to see you both again," he says to the space above Blaise and Pansy, who are now starting to make out.

"Oh, bye Harry!" Pansy calls, tearing her lips from Blaise long enough to smile mischievously at him. "So good to see you. I'll look out for your owl." 

Harry nods queasily at Pansy, then at Blaise, and finally slaps his palm into Draco's, letting the familiar sucking magic pull his entire being into a tiny, atom-sized ball of energy, then spit him out full-sized back outside Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. 

*

For the rest of the evening, Draco is unusually quiet. Having barely eaten anything at dinner as a result of all the arguments and stomach-churning tension, Harry asks Kreacher to make them a snack, which they then eat in the refurbished piano room. Draco casts a wonderful spell on the piano to make it repeat a few of the melodies he plays, allowing them to listen as they bite into sandwiches and eat nuts and olives. They have a final glass of wine as well, to celebrate getting through what they'd known from the beginning was going to be a difficult evening. 

Harry tries to start a few light-hearted conversations about Blaise's promiscuity and Pansy's foul mouth, but it doesn't work. Draco gives weak responding smiles, chews thoughtfully on small bites of sandwich, and stares into the distance the way his mother had. Eventually Harry sighs, pulls Draco's feet onto his lap, and removes his perfectly white socks. At once, Draco tries to pull free, alarmed. 

"Do not touch my feet they are very ticklish-" he pauses as Harry digs his fingers in, massaging. "Oh. That's rather nice." 

He sinks back against the arm of the couch, melting into the softness, and closes his eyes. 

"Tell me what's upsetting you," Harry says after a minute or two of foot rubbing.

Draco opens one eye to look at him. "Who says there's anything-"

"Come off it, Draco. You've had a face like a slapped arse ever since we got back."

"Might that be due to the horror of Blaise and Pansy crashing dinner with Mumsy, perhaps?"

Harry shakes his head. "You're too used to them to be this rattled from an evening in their company. It's something else." 

For a while, Draco doesn't speak. He regards Harry with a look that resembles admiration, mixed with contempt. Pretty standard Draco expression, really. Eventually, after five minutes of Draco obviously weighing up the pros and cons of baring his soul, he says: "I know what my mother gave you."

Harry's fingers stutter and slow on Draco's foot. "Oh." 

Draco grimaces, then struggles into a seated position, pressing himself against Harry's side. He sighs; Harry tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. "I'm sorry, Harry. I always expected it to be my burden. That's what I was raised to believe would happen. One day, when I was matched with the right girl, mother would gift me the ring, and I'd be expected to use it as a token to entreat her to wed me." 

Draco shifts, looking uncomfortable. 

"Life doesn't work out like you plan very often, in my experience," Harry offers, though it's shit advice and he knows it. He tries again, going off books this time. "I don't see it as a burden." Draco fixes him with a suspicious look. "I don't exactly, uh, want to pop the question right now," Harry says quickly, "but I think, in the future, it could definitely lead to that. I mean, I believe in the soulmate thing, even if you have your doubts. I'm a die-hard magic disciple. I tend to think that magical prophecies and revelations and stuff are rarely wrong." He shrugs, reaching for Draco's hand. "So, if the Fatum Amare was right, and we're meant to be, then me having that ring is the furthest thing from a burden. In fact, it's a relief."

"A relief," Draco repeats, disbelieving. 

Harry smiles. "Yeah, dingus. Your mum, who basically loathes me and everything I represent, gave me the go ahead to stick around you forever. To tie myself to you legally. And yeah, obviously if I ever got round to it I could've maybe gotten my act together and bought you my own ring, without her blessing, but this is way better. She could even come to this hypothetical future wedding that everyone's apparently thought about but me. I think it would make you a lot happier if she was there than if she stayed home stewing in hatred for the entire affair. And it doesn't just mean I'm permitted to marry you. It means we can visit her together, appear together at family functions, go out in public without fear of her seeing the paparazzi photos. We can sit through more strained, awkward dinners at the Manor, as a couple, and she'll have no grounds to complain, because she gave me the ring. She basically asked me to slip it on your finger. I'm honoured to have the chance at all that. Honestly I am." 

It occurs to Harry then, that Draco is crying. Just a little, one or two drops falling from his misty eyes. He clears his throat, wiping away the worst of it. "That's all very well Potter, but what if I turn you down?" 

Harry laughs, and Draco holds out for a few seconds, then falls into laughter with him. The next thing Harry knows, Draco's mouth is on his; the kiss is hard and loaded with meaning. Harry lets himself be kissed, lets everything Draco wants to say but can't filter through on the taste of his tongue. 

"I love you," Draco mumbles, the words tumbling together.

He speaks it into the corner of Harry's mouth, and can't meet his eye, but it's fine. It's real and honest. Vulnerable, Harry remembers Narcissa saying. He draws back, touches their foreheads together, and lets the huge smile that's been brewing pull the corners of his lips upwards. 

"Love you too," he says, then kisses the blush he foresaw would begin dusting Draco's cheeks. A strand of white blond hair falls between their faces, tickling Harry's nose. He chuckles, reaches up and twirls the rogue strand around his finger, then tugs, gently. "Soulmate." He winks, laughs at Draco's eye roll, then tucks the hair behind his ear.