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Chapter Text

When Harry first notices him, it’s raining. 

It’s a particularly annoying downpour, too. The wind has turned his umbrella inside out and he’s holding three-too-many bags of shopping, so amending it is not an option. His key is slipping between his fingers with the slick moisture, and his glasses are so rain-dropped and fogged that he can’t find the keyhole anyway. 

“Fuck.”

The word falls from his mouth automatically, just before the umbrella that he had been holding decides, obviously, that it has had enough. The wind sweeps it away, up into the air and probably ready to whack some poor old woman in the face. 

He drops the bags to the ground and only spares a moment to wince as he hears a muffled smash of glass over the blaring sound of the battering gales. Ginny’s wine. He hopes she won’t mind too much. They can always get more before Ron and Hermione arrive, he thinks — he hopes — but he can’t think about that right now. 

It’s flying right at someone — Harry can’t quite make out whether it’s an old woman or not, but either way, he doesn’t want them to be hit. Not even considering why someone would be sitting on the bench across from his house in such disgusting weather, letting themselves get drenched, Harry reaches for his wand with his now empty hands. He’d thought it was in his jeans, but no, his coat had been more convenient, damn — He’s ready to run forwards, to warn them of the impending purple impact —

But then they’re gone. The umbrella tumbles over the empty bench, and all Harry can do is stand there for a few seconds, staring. He accios the umbrella back to himself to avoid any further carnage to humans or benches alike, but his eyes remain fixated on the spot of absence. 

A vague, thin outline dampens under the rain from where it had once been dry. Harry narrows his eyes, resolves that there’s nothing that he can do about it for now, and turns back to his discarded shopping, soaked with the Heavens, and with red wine.

*

He had loved Ginny. 

He’d loved her laugh, and he’d loved her freckles, and he  loves her family. He had loved her sense of humour, her temper, her ability to love and her inability to lose. 

It’s probably what makes the slow breakage so difficult. 

Because this has been brewing for too long, now. 

Because this is not about the wine.

“They’ll be here in ten, can you crack the bottle open for me?” she asks, hair frizzy from the heat of the kitchen. 

Harry freezes, cursing himself and cursing the weather and cursing the fact that they can’t just potentially drink water, instead. 

“Right,” he says hesitantly, pulling his head out of the fridge. “About that.”

She turns to him, a frown betraying her beauty. “Harry.”

“The bottle smashed.” He sighs. “I meant to go out again and get another. It completely slipped my mind.”

She nods, but she’d been humming before, and now she doesn’t continue her tune. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry tells her. “I can ask Kreacher to get some. Or — You know what, I’ll just pop out again now.”

He watches as she shakes her head, her long, ginger strands swaying from side to side. “There’s no time. It’s fine.”

“You said they’d be here in twenty minutes,” he counters.

“I said ten.”

Harry bites his lip. He takes a look out of the window, sees nothing but the streams of water running down the glass, blurring the view of their back garden. He can grab a coat. He can even give himself an umbrella charm, instead of using a real one. He never quite gets them right, not like Hermione can, but it’d be better than the infernal broken umbrella he’d been using that same morning. Kreacher isn’t really an option; he spends most of his days now wandering around the many unused rooms in the place, lamenting the vast loss of the House’s legacy. Harry doesn’t really like to bother him. 

“I’ll be back,” he promises. “Before they get here.”

He collects his coat from the radiator, heated and dry, finally, from his earlier excursion. But Ginny’s just sighing, shaking her head again. She says, “Don’t, Harry.”

“It’s only Ron and Hermione, Gin. They won’t care if I’m a little late.”

“I might,” she tells him, and there’s something new, indistinguishable in her tone. “I might care if you’re late, Harry. We do this every fortnight. Hermione is never late, is she? Even Ron is always on time.”

Harry frowns at her, frozen in pulling his arm through his sleeve. “Ron’s only on time because Hermione forces him.”

“That’s besides the point,” she huffs. “I just — I just want everyone to be here, together, for when we arranged to be.”

“I’ll only be ten minutes late,” he defends. “Jesus, Ginny, it’s not that big—”

“It is a big deal! It matters because it matters to me,” she exclaims, and he remembers how he had loved all of her so dearly once. Even her temper. Now, her eyes are ablaze and her hands are flying with expression, and Harry feels nothing but exasperation. She growls, “You used to care about that.”

Harry, to his discredit, rolls his eyes at her. He will regret it in hindsight, will think of better ways that he could have addressed the situation. But now, he just says, “You’re being dramatic.”

He should not be surprised at the extreme reaction, having grown up with Hermione and Ginny as his closest friends through their roughest years. He, better than most, knows that calling women dramatic is not only demeaning, but triggering.

But Ginny surprises him anyway. She always has. 

She does not shout at him further, but instead bursts into tears. Her hands shake as they cover her reddening face, pale over a sad maroon. Harry can only watch for the first shocking moments, as her fingers slide through her hair and over her mouth, holding back her sudden sobs. 

“Hey,” he says, throwing his coat onto the floor and placing gentle hands onto her upper arms. They’re hard under his grip, tensed, like her. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t lower her arms, doesn’t let him embrace her like she once would have sought out. Her knuckles are almost as red as her face now from balling up her fists so tightly. When Harry tries to hug her, she pushes them at his chest. Through a croaking voice, she mumbles, “Stop.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again, because he doesn’t know quite what else to say. He holds her arms still, because she allows that, for now. “I’m so sorry.”

The words, in some otherworldly manner, feel like they’re spoken and received with a higher understanding than intended. She drops her forehead to his chest with acceptance, shoulders shaking beneath her. Harry has never felt so much guilt and so much relief at once. 

Then she pulls herself back, takes a deep, steadying breath, and tells him, “I’m going to wash my face.” Harry simply nods, and long minutes tick by before he hears the Floo, and Ron’s cheerful voice announcing their arrival.

Harry paints a smile on his face, and greets his friends with open arms that are accepted. 

Hermione is holding a bottle of wine. She tells him that Ginny had asked her to bring one the day before. Harry steadies his breath, and makes polite conversation until his fiancée returns.

*

A week later, Harry’s carrying Ginny’s suitcase full of clothes down the stairs from his door, as she follows behind with an equally, if not heavier box of random stuff that she had accumulated over the years. She smiles at him awkwardly as they both place them down, only the linger of love on her lips. 

“Thanks,” she says quietly, and doesn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he says, and tries not to choke on it. It all happened too quickly, he thinks. Despite the months, maybe years of waiting for this, waiting for the fallout, the moment when the façade of pure happiness fell to pieces… It’s rough. It’s all that he’s known for too long now. 

She bites her lip and puts a hand on his arm. It’s gentle, like she used to do all the time absentmindedly. His heart gets stuck in his throat for a moment, and he wonders whether this is a mistake. Whether he should ask her to stay. 

His voice shakes, and he whispers, “Gin,” but nothing else leaves his lips. She shakes her head, a minute gesture, barely even noticeable. Her fingers tense around his arm, and she looks like she may hug him. She doesn’t. Not yet. For now, it’s too raw. 

“You’re fine,” she says in her sweet, soft voice. “And I’m fine. We’re fine.” 

“We’re fine,” he repeats. He forgets the anger, the boredom, the long nights where it just felt wrong for some reason. Like neither of them wanted to be there. Rose-tints fall over his glasses and he sees through them and through tears. He wants to hold her face, wants to kiss her again. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe they could give it another go. 

“Harry,” she says. “You’ll always be family. You’ll always be my best friend.” 

Then, like a kick in the teeth, even though it’s all his fault, really, she withdraws her hand and holds her own. That’s all Harry is able to observe for a moment, until he sees her holding her ring finger. Her other hand acts like a screw, yanking at the manifestation of their relationship and pulling it clean off her finger. The gold glistens in the palm of her hand once it’s off, apparently joining others in basking in the first sun that London has seen in weeks. 

“You don’t — Gin, please—”

“Harry,” she says quietly, cutting into his words that were never destined to end. “Take it.”

How long had it been since he’d given it to her? Four years, or five? He supposed that its solitude as an engagement ring was reason enough to return it. To end this. How long a betrothal is too long?

He does as she says, taking the ring in his hand and grasping onto it tightly. Her hand looks empty without it. Wrong. He wonders if he should take his own off. She’d given it to him a month after his original proposal, and demanded that he’d wear it even if it wasn’t traditional. With a laugh, he’d accepted it. Is he to remove it now, with nothing but a blank melancholy? 

“Do you want…?”

“Oh,” she says, like she’d forgotten he even had one in the first place. “Um.”

He shrugs. “I took yours.”

“Right.”

“You made me take it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, only fair.” She braces and holds out her palm. He has to work hard to take it off. When he finally manages it, there’s a red indent in his skin. He doesn’t look her in the eye as he returns it to her, half a decade gone. 

He nods at her. She nods back, fingers closing over the metal. Then she picks up her stuff, and with a blink of an eye, she’s gone, apparating away. It’s all gone. 

He stands there for what feels like forever, watching the blank space, the air of her very existence. He’ll see her soon. Too soon, probably, with how often the Weasleys welcome him over. But it’s a very poignant end, and it’s a little scary. A little daunting. A little exciting. He can’t quite decide yet.

When he finally turns to return inside, his eyes catch on the bench again. He hasn’t thought about the mysterious presence since it happened, he’s been too busy, too emotional. But now he does, because there’s somebody there again. 

It’s not raining now, though Harry’s eyesight is slightly blurred with its own wetness. But the person before him is still hidden, long legs drawn over the other, cloaked as the rest of their body in an indistinguishable coat. There’s a hood over their head, but Harry can just make out their pale skin. It’s eerily familiar, and yet Harry can’t quite place it. For a moment, he’s even reminded of Voldemort. But it’s not. It’s not, and he knows it, because Voldemort’s skin was irritated and tight, coiled and grey. This skin seems youthful, bright. And from the quick flash that Harry sees, he knows certainly that Voldemort did not possess pink lips such as those. Or any lips at all, at that.

“Hello?” he says, not quite knowing what he’s expecting. It’s the middle of the day, after all. This could be anyone; an innocent bystander with nothing to do with the mystery-bench-person.

But all the person does is flinch, look around once, quickly, and then apparate away. Harry doesn’t know the truth to the situation. Not yet. But what he does know is that this is not the first time that they’ve been caught watching him, and that it’s probably been going on for longer than Harry is even aware. 

There’s a rush in his chest as he watches yet another empty space, but it quickly forces all upset from his body. There’s adrenaline in its stead, an intrigue that he hasn’t felt take a hold on him since his Hogwarts days. 

As he returns back inside Grimmauld Place with Ginny’s ring forgotten now, slipping into his pocket, Harry forces himself to shove down the feeling of indistinguishable, inappropriate excitement. 

Something is happening again. He wants to know what.

*

Harry takes to peering out his window every single morning before even brushing his teeth. There’s nobody else in his room anymore to judge him for morning breath, so he doesn’t care. He stands at the window, clad only in his pyjama bottoms, staring down a storey to the bench in front of his house. 

He’s not obsessed. The person does appear once or twice in the morning, but mostly, they seem to favour popping up in the afternoons. Harry sees them when he’s getting himself a snack and just happens to peer outside, or when he’s passing a window and just feels like looking. The moment he steps out of the house, the person disappears.

Weeks go by, stagnated only by the various visits from his friends checking in on him. He’s fine, he tells them earnestly. The breaking of his engagement with Ginny has been hard to get used to, but he’s fine. Really. They don’t believe him, obviously. Harry can tell by the look in their eyes. 

On their latest visit, just over one month after the first sighting of the person who almost died via umbrella, Harry tells them. 

“I think,” he says to them, sitting them both down after providing them with tea. “I think someone’s watching me.”

Hermione blinks at him. Ron furrows his brows, looks at him sturdily, then at Hermione, and then at him again. Harry watches as he opens his mouth but nothing comes out of it. After several pregnant seconds, Hermione finally gathers herself together and brings herself to speak.

“Why do you think that?”

Harry says, “Someone has been coming to sit on this bench, right outside —” He turns to the window, points at the bench, empty again, “— For weeks.”

Hermione takes another moment. “It’s a busy street.”

He frowns, looking back at the two of them. “You don’t believe me?”

“It’s not that we don’t believe you, mate,” Ron says, finally speaking up. “We’re just, you know… Worried.”

“Worried.”

“About you,” he clarifies.

“Yeah, Ron. I got that.”

Hermione sighs, placing her mug onto the table beside her. “You haven’t been coming to Sunday dinners at the Burrow, Harry. Robards says that you haven’t been showing up to work.”

“I’m giving Ginny space,” Harry states, defensiveness biting through his tone. “And Robards was the one who told me to take time off to deal with everything.”

“You haven’t updated him on anything, though,” Ron says with a shrug. “You’ve not been in contact with him once. He’s worried, too. The whole department is wondering when you’re coming back… Especially with this new case we got in, you wouldn’t believe who it involves —”

Hermione places her hand on his leg, shakes her head minutely at him. “Ron. Not the time.”

“I’m dealing with it,” Harry says firmly. “And I’m not making anything up.”

The two of them exchange another look, and it sets Harry’s nerves on edge. The person on the bench has been the only thing permeating Harry’s days, taking up time in his mind to avoid being depressed over letting down the girl he promised that he would marry, and her family to boot. Memories of the ever-surrounding doubt he suffered in fifth year resurface yet again, and he feels like he has something to prove.

“Listen,” he says, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. He knows that they only want what’s best for him, he knows that they know him better than anyone else — he knows that they know he can get… Obsessed. They just care, he tells himself. They just care. “Every day, more or less, for about a month, the same person has sat at that bench, wearing a black cloak with their hood up. I’ve tried to talk to them, and yet every single time I get close, they apparate away. I’m not going insane, and I’m not just, you know, looking for distractions.”

Hermione’s eyes widen visibly, eyes furrowing with concern. “They apparate?”

Ron follows her. “They’re completely cloaked? Merlin, Harry, you could’ve led with these things…”

Harry rolls his eyes, gets up and walks to the window, staring out of it. “The first time I saw them, it was pissing down with rain all day. But when they apparated away, the spot where they had been was dry.”

“You didn’t see any features at all?” Ron asks, snapping into Auror mode and following him to the window. He eyes the bench like it’s a bomb. “He was completely cloaked?”

“I couldn't tell if they were male or female, but… They’re white,” Harry tells him. “Pale as anything, really.”

“Pale, like…” Hermione speaks up from behind them. “You don’t think…?”

Harry shakes his head at once as Ron returns to her, taking her hand in his own. “It’s not Voldemort. This person, their skin was… Normal, I guess. Smooth. And this person, they actually had, you know, features. They had lips. They were pink.”

“Right,” Ron says, visibly relaxing. “So we’re looking for a pasty creep with pink lips.”

Hermione bites her lip. “I think, whoever they are… They must want you to approach them, Harry.”

“How’d you figure that?” Ron asks. “He just said that the weirdo ditches as soon as Harry looks at him!”

“You seem awfully certain that it’s a man,” Hermione says. “We know that Harry has plenty of women who have stalked him. If I could wager a bet, I would say that it’s just another shy fan who wants to marry him.”

Harry perches on the back of his sofa, pondering on this theory. Whilst it’s true that the person hasn’t really felt like a threat to Harry, more of an enticing, almost comforting presence as of late, it’s not exactly… Normal. Whoever this person is, it’s of Harry’s opinion that they either have a serious vendetta, or they’re not entirely sane. Or both. 

Oh, well. Harry’s been there. He almost feels sorry for them.

“You have had hoards showing up at work, looking for you,” Ron says, huffing a dry laugh. “Witches on witches, mate. All eager for a go now that you’re single again.”

Harry scrunches up his nose. “No, thanks.”

He wonders why the visceral distaste for these fanatics does not extend to the person on the bench. There’s a magical sort of magnetism there, an unattainable closeness that they’re teasing him with. It feels strange. Familiar. 

“Let us know the next time you see them again, won’t you?” Hermione asks, and Harry tells her that he will. 

He has half a mind not to. 

*

When Harry wakes up, a fortnight after this conversation with his best friends, he slips his glasses onto his face and leans his head against the window. His friend, as he’s started privately referring to them in his brain (never spoken out loud, lest Hermione and Ron deem him clinically unwell again), is present, and yet not on the bench. 

No. In fact, they are in front of the bench, pacing back and forth, twirling and fiddling with their long fingers. 

Harry wastes no time. 

He throws on his dressing gown, grabs his wand to scourgify his teeth clean, and sprints down his stairs, all too eager to catch his mysterious friend off-guard. The first change that he’s seen in — how many weeks? It has got his blood pumping, and he’s thrilled, and he doesn’t even stop to look at himself in the mirror, let alone think about his state of dress, before he’s hitting the hallway to the front door. 

He grabs the door and yanks it open, and it almost runs over his bare foot, but he doesn’t give a fuck. Not a single one.

Because the person isn’t by the bench anymore.

He’s on Harry’s doorstep. 

And it’s Draco Malfoy. It’s Draco fucking Malfoy.

Harry’s heart stops.

He hasn’t seen the man in a long time. His mind unwillingly recalls the hollowed eyes, the tear-stained, blotched cheeks in the trials that he faced. He remembers the silent resignation, the surprising quiet instead of any fight when he was sentenced to three years of house-arrest. He has thought of him, though not frequently; wondered how he was doing, what he’d been up to since the term of house arrest ended. His name had come up in the long hours of the Aurors’ Office, but only in passing. Harry hasn’t thought of him so heavily in years, until this very moment.

His familiar grey eyes are wide with nerves, yet still hold a nostalgic glint of daring when they meet Harry’s for the first time in forever. The hood of the black cloak that Harry has spent so long staring at is pushed back, revealing his white-blond hair, as polished as Harry can ever remember it being, but with less hair gel. Now, he apparently lets it curve in a swoop over his forehead instead of pushing it back, and Harry prefers it. 

With each passing second of silence, Harry feels the air leave his body as his eyes take him in. His face has matured masterfully, pointy edges blunting just so, suiting him like a punch to Harry’s gut. His body is covered by the draping cloak, but whilst he’s still taller than Harry, he’s also visibly skinnier. He shouldn’t bask in that, it’s not the time to focus on physicality. But he does, until his gaze reaches those grey eyes again, and he short-circuits. 

Harry’s brain rushes through every interaction that they’ve ever had. He tries to think of something to say, and yet nothing leaves his gaping lips. Like a goldfish, he just breathes, mouth opening and closing and allowing himself to look like an idiot. In truth, he doesn’t really know if he could trust the depth of his voice at this moment in time. How could he possibly speak, knowing that it may come out shaking, or cracking, like he’s ten years younger all over again?

And it only just sinks in that this is the person Harry has been going to sleep thinking about. Looking out of his window at every spare moment, watching him, wishing that he could know the inner and outer workings of their brain. His fascination with the ever-present figure had somehow led him to yet another obsession with Draco Malfoy.

Fate is never on his side.

Finally, either tired of Harry’s relentless staring or after summoning the courage for himself, Malfoy speaks. 

“Potter.”

And that’s it. That’s all that he says for that moment, and it sends Harry’s head spinning again. The gall of it all, the brazen act in and of itself of showing up here — basically stalking him, watching him all day and being so mysterious that Harry can’t help but watch him back. Anger bubbles up inside of him as soon as he hears his name spoken from those lips after all of these years. Sweat builds up in his palms as he bites his fingernails into them, knuckles stretching white. His lack of breath develops too quickly into panting with anger, a snarl making its way onto his previously agape lips. 

He feels stupid. He feels foolish. He feels tricked, and he feels guilty. 

What had he been picturing? Had he truly thought that the person on the bench had been yet another witch, chasing after him but somehow managing to accomplish it in a way that caught his attention? He’d been impressed, embarrassingly, thinking that maybe he’d go with it this time. That he appreciated the alleviation of boredom so much from this stagnant, day-to-day life that he’d give in and get to know her. 

Distantly, it makes a little sense. Nobody should be able to see Grimmauld, normally, but Harry had just thought he’d forgotten to reinstate the Fidelius charm again. After all, it’s nice to have a chat with your neighbours sometimes, which is hard to do when they keep thinking your house is a figment of their imagination. But something about Malfoy must’ve conjured it, broken it, maybe. His mother was a Black, he thinks through a fog.

Harry is only sure of two things: Malfoy does not care how interesting Harry has found him these last few weeks, and Malfoy is not here to propose to him.

The man at the door, sensing his displeasure, holds up his hands, unarmed. He bites his lip, takes a deep, shaking breath, before speaking once again. He tells him, “Just hear me out. Please.”

Harry tries not to punch the doorframe. Through gritted teeth, he responds to him, “What do you want?”

“Not want,” Malfoy breathes, face twisted with indignity. “Need. I need— Potter, I need you to marry me.”

Harry’s fist drops. And again, he’s knocked breathless. 

Chapter Text

“What?”

Malfoy looks at him with an odd mixture of indignation and earnest need. He looks at him with those wide, grey eyes, imploring for a listening ear, and he looks at him as if Harry’s stomach has not just fallen out of his ass. 

“May I come in?” he asks, purposefully ignoring Harry’s spat question.

“Come in?” Harry repeats. “You — What?”

“I want to come inside your house, Potter.”

“Yes, I got that.” Harry sighs, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. “You— Fine.” He concedes, because there’s really no point in having a conversation as seemingly complicated and delicate as this on his doorstep. 

Malfoy steps inside, as elegantly as ever, and takes himself to the front room without another glance in Harry’s direction. Harry follows him after closing the door, giving himself a small pinch on the upper arm, just to make sure that he’s not dreaming. 

“Make yourself at home,” Harry says dryly, dropping his body down onto the couch opposite where Malfoy has planted himself, prim and upright, possessing a posture that Harry could only wish to have.

Malfoy, in lieu of looking at him, begins to undo his long, billowing robes as he replies, “This is my home. Partly. This is the Black ancestral home, and I am a Black. But don’t worry yourself, that’s not why I’m here.”

“No.” Harry takes a deep breath. He speaks with a tone that is low, poisonous now, suspicion threaded through every syllable. “You’re here to marry me.”

Malfoy pauses then in his fiddling of his buttons, narrowly eyeing him with a stern jaw. “Believe me, Potter, it is my last option.”

Harry leans his head into his hand, wondering whether to quickly get a message to Ron or Hermione, just in case this goes sour. He has never felt more foolish than now — after warning on warning from the two of them, ignored by his own overactive imagination. He had sat in this very seat for plenty of nights, arching his neck uncomfortably just to make sure that the person on the bench was still there. The mere fact that this fascination, with which Harry had been overcome during his time off, turned out to be Draco Malfoy, well… He may need some more time off to process this.

“So you’ve not joined a fan club, then?” he asks. “You do know that I receive about fifty proposals a day.”

“Fifty?” Malfoy raises a brow. “I heard it used to be a hundred. Getting old?”

Harry scoffs. “We’re twenty-three.”

“And not as sought after as you used to be. That’s good for me. Gives me more of a chance.”

Harry watches as he finally pushes off those black robes, revealing a white shirt, somehow crease-free despite the heaviness of the robes that had been pressing down on it. It’s long-sleeved, buttoned to the very top, sparing only one. Harry can’t help but allow his gaze to linger at the expanse of skin, down his neck and wanting to delve beneath the high, ruffled collar. It’s strange to see so much of him and in so many different ways; the now grown body he resides in appears so similar yet so different to how it was in their years in school. On top of that, Harry had grown all too familiar with observing the movements of his body beneath the black cloak, day in, day out — there is so much of him on display now, and Harry, for whatever reason, is transfixed. 

It doesn’t make sense, really. Harry had seen him in these casual clothes almost everyday in Hogwarts. Perhaps absence had made the mind more curious. 

“You need to explain what you’re talking about,” Harry tells him, adjusting the way his glasses sit on his nose, trying to look again at his face. “You can’t just— You’ve been watching me, stalking me for, what, two months? And now you ask me to marry you? Are you ill?”

“I’m not ill,” he huffs. “And I haven’t been stalking you. I’ve just been… Biding my time.”

“Malfoy,” he deadpans. “You have two minutes before I throw you out.”

“Always the dramatics,” he says, flicking a hand of defiance. “Fine. It’s simple. You must agree to marry me, or else I am exiled from our Great Britain.”

Harry just stares at him for a moment, rubs his chin, before leaning forward and slowly humming. He wonders, blindly, whether Malfoy has any reason to lie to him. Probably more reasons than most. Probably a lot less reasons than most. The complexities of their past loom over this conversation in a way that Harry is unable to fully comprehend. There are givings and takings in this odd relationship that they have harboured over the years. 

In an odd way, Harry feels like they owe each other something. At the very least, the time of day. 

After a moment, he asks, “What time is it?”

Malfoy just blinks, obviously mildly taken aback. “Just gone nine.”

“Right,” Harry affirms. “Good enough.”

And then he’s standing and walking to his decanter, pouring himself two fingers of whiskey and shooting them like it’s the evening. He pours himself another and then one for the other man in the room, because if this really is out of his control, he probably needs it just as much as he does. 

When he offers Malfoy the glass, he takes it, giving it a sniff before sipping at the alcohol. He hums with approval and a raised eyebrow, clearly surprised and impressed with the quality of the whiskey. After watching Harry sit down, he says, “I normally take it on the rocks.”

Harry sips at his own. “Too bad. Keep talking.”

Malfoy swirls the whiskey in his glass, takes a deep breath, and tells him, “I have been falsely accused of tampering with and distributing faulty potions to the general public. If you’re not aware, and I don’t know why you would be, I run my own business out of Knockturn.”

Harry is aware. Harry had known this piece of information since the very moment that Malfoy had bought one of the old buildings. Alarm bells had rung throughout the Auror department, because it surely wasn’t going to be for anything good — but with a close eye on the man, he’d been allowed to carry on. He’d served his time and was a free wizard, after all. 

Malfoy continues, “I am good at making potions, Potter. I am very good. St. Mungos approached to commission me, do you understand? But now this—” He takes a moment, wrings out the frustration from his voice. “Your colleague is ruining my life.”

Harry frowns. “Who?”

“Dawlish,” he says, and Harry has to refrain from rolling his eyes. Dawlish has always been an excellent Auror, but Harry, especially after the man had attempted to arrest Dumbledore, had never liked him. Too black and white. He can understand how an Auror like Dawlish would have issues with Malfoy running his own business, staying successful. Malfoy bites out the following words, “He checks up on me every so often.”

“He does?” Harry hums. He wonders if he’d been assigned that, or else decided to do it out of his own volition. “And what has he found?”

“What he found was none of his business,” Malfoy growls. “I have been experimenting, attempting with various new techniques and new ingredients for a potion that would be for personal use. He — That oaf thought that I was using these… Less than regulated ingredients to, I don’t know, poison the already ailed witches and wizards of the Wizarding World.”

Harry taps his finger to the rim of the glass, mulling over the information. He can see how it can be misconstrued. He also, for whatever reason, can’t bring himself to doubt what Malfoy is saying. He’s made some questionable decisions in his life; some awful, terrible decisions in his life, but the man isn’t evil. He’s served his time and apparently created a business that he seems to genuinely care for. What good would it do him to risk all of that? Not only his business, but his and his family’s already crumbled reputation as well?

Harry asks, “What has he done about it?”

“He’s shut down my shop,” he tells him at once. “He’s told Mungo’s that I’m not to be trusted. He is kicking at the foundation of everything that I have worked for in these last two years, Potter, and he—” Harry sees his knuckles whiten on his thigh, “— He has informed me that under British Wizarding law, as I have dual citizenship, I am liable to be ordered to leave the United Kingdom.”

“What?” he can’t help but ask, the word leaving his mouth before he knows it’s happening. He’d never heard of such a law. 

“I am not leaving this country so long as my mother is alive,” Malfoy tells him. “And I am asking you to help me with that.”

Harry can feel the sweat of injustice pooling on his forehead now, beneath his curls. His fingers itch at the mention of Narcissa, for whom he has always harboured a soft spot since the War. He’d heard of her slow decline, and lamented that he could do nothing for her. He’d sent his regards and his well wishes, though nothing had been returned. He can’t bring himself to ask how she is.

With a perhaps misguided sense of duty, he feels the need to help. Not help Malfoy himself, necessarily, but Harry knows that his mother deserves to live out her days with her son nearby. He says, “Tell me what this has to do with marrying me.”

Malfoy clears his throat, helps himself to another slug of whiskey. There is an uncharacteristic bead of sweat at his forehead, and he speaks like he might fall over his words. Harry can tell at once that he’d never expected to actually get this far. “If I’m legally bound to somebody here, they can’t do anything. I’m within my rights to stay. It won’t get me my shop back, but it will at least give me a chance to try.”

Harry releases a long, shaking breath. “Why does it have to be me?”

Malfoy meets his eye, then, and a jolt of electricity zaps down Harry’s spine. He watches the deliberate way that he leans forward, spoiling his posture. His feet shuffle forwards and one of his shoes sidle next to Harry’s bare skin there, and he laments his total lack of dress. His robe covers him but underneath, he’s completely shirtless, his joggers tatty and old, too small for him now. He hadn’t even spared time to pull on socks. 

His eyes drop to Malfoy’s lips as they say, “You’re the one person that they wouldn’t think I’d go to for help.”

He tries not to let it show on his face, but his mind is already made up. Even with the ring in his pocket, heavy and hard. His heart is beating too fast at the prospect of all of this, an adrenaline shooting through his veins that he hasn’t felt since the War — that not even the long cases in work have given him. This feeling has only been present in him since the first day he saw the man on that bench, and he knows why.

It’s a challenge. 

And God help him. He needs it. 

To provide the guise of debating the issue, he asks, “And what made you think I’d say yes?”

Harry thinks that he knows by now that Malfoy had originally believed this to be a pipe dream; a last resort but strongest contender against Dawlish, tactically. He could have asked anyone — Harry is probably the least likely person to agree to all of this. In theory. He wonders whether the man has thought all of this through, on his long days at the bench. 

Malfoy allows himself an old smirk on his face, a checkmate ingrained in his barely-born smile lines, and he says, “Don’t tell me you haven’t been bored, Potter.” 

And it hits Harry, even through the indignant disgust that he feels at the man in front of him being proved right, that he is. Harry’s mind involuntarily throws itself back to tedious days filled with a doomed relationship; to hebetating shifts in the Aurors’ department, not even made better by the ever-presence of his best friend and others who he has grown to love; the social life he has managed to harbour revolving only around his two best friends who actually seem to be making something for themselves. A kid, soon, maybe, Ron had told him. He’s happy for them — so happy — but stagnant in himself in comparison. It is embarrassing. 

Harry is at an impasse in his life, and Malfoy, watching him day in and day out, must have been able to observe that very thing. 

But when he doesn’t respond, too caught up in the humiliation of the truth, Malfoy speaks again. With another shuffle of his foot, a quick readjustment of his posture, a shift of his grey eyes, he says the words as though admitting a dark secret, or as though they should be served with a sheepish sigh: “You’re the only person who would.”

And Harry can’t hold in the long string of breath at that, the words in complete opposition to his string of consciousness. In theory, he’d thought. He wonders if Malfoy had had the same thought, but decided that he had no other choice but to go for it anyway. 

Harry sterns his jaw, throws back the rest of his whiskey, and slams the glass on the table next to him. “Tell me how we’d do this.”

It’s simple, Malfoy had told him. Except it’s really, really not. 

Apparently, in the many hours that Malfoy has spent debating whether to approach Harry for help, he has devised a plan — at the very least, Harry thinks, it all ends in an amicable divorce, when (or, if) Malfoy’s shop is his own and his innocence is restored. 

Dawlish, according to Malfoy, is not going to take this information lying down. There’s a determination there that he has no idea the motive behind, but not even Harry going along with the plan will be enough to convince him. Despite the obvious weight that he being Harry fucking Potter will hold, Dawlish will be no doubt suspicious of the convenient timing. 

They’re going to need to be convincing, Malfoy warns him, catching his eye with a glint of sheepish meaning. They’re going to need to keep this plan strictly between the two of them, and they’re going to need to convince every single person in their lives that they’re wildly in love. And they’re going to need to get going, sooner rather than later. 

“They’ll think it’s too fast,” Harry says, leg bouncing beneath him. “What if everyone thinks I’ve been cheating on Ginny? What if Ginny thinks I’ve been cheating on her?!”

“It’s been almost two months since you split up with her.” Malfoy waves his hand dismissively. “We make up a story. You ran into me somewhere immediately after. We’ve scarcely spent a moment apart since.”

Harry nods slowly. “But Ron and Hermione… They’ll be furious that I haven’t said anything about it. Hermione will see right through me.”

“Then don’t let her,” Malfoy says. “Convince yourself if you have to, Potter, but we are madly in love with each other.”

Harry can’t help but huff a laugh before he finishes his whiskey. “We know nothing about each other.”

Malfoy shrugs his shoulders, throwing one leg over the other. “Then let’s get to.”

Harry excuses himself to go and shower, dress, and get himself presentable before their conversation continues. He leaves Malfoy downstairs alone, a fact which would have horrified him a day ago. He could be doing anything, he thinks, and as he steps into the shower, he can’t help but ponder over whether he’s making a smart decision here. There's a million reasons as to why this could go wrong, starting with the fact that it’s illegal, highly, not even mentioning the fact that it’s literally Harry’s job to uphold the law. Then there’s the question of everybody and their mother knowing that the two of them absolutely despised each other in their youth and have felt nothing but indifference ever since. 

By the time he’s doing up the zipper and button on his trousers, he’s made the easy decision to put an end to this deceit before it even begins. He’s sure that he can help Malfoy another way, use his influence and his career for some good. 

Then he walks downstairs, prepared to tell him the bad news, and his mind is wiped clean of logic. 

Malfoy is peering at the television, still turned off, its screen completely black. His head is tilted to one side, like a curious animal, and he’s poking the screen like expecting it to do something, but he’s not sure what. Harry holds back a laugh, trying to stay quiet as he approaches behind him. He picks up the remote control from the crook of the sofa and turns the television on, sending Malfoy a foot into the air at the sudden appearance of the morning news.  

“That was cruel,” Malfoy tells him, hand on his chest, and Harry’s eyes drag down again to the slither of skin between open white fabric. “There. I know that about you.”

Harry chuckles and turns the television off again. “You still don’t know anything about muggle inventions. I know that about you.”

“I—” Malfoy sighs. “I do know some things about muggle inventions. Pansy even has a telly-phone.” 

“She does?” 

“She does,” he says, standing up taller now, eager to prove something. “Her fiancé gave it to her. He’s half-blood.”

“He is?” Harry asks, genuinely intrigued. “She’s marrying a half-blood?”

“Yes,” Malfoy says, a little bitterly. “Am I not also?”

Harry thinks back to his litany of doubts from when he was alone, just a few moments ago. But Malfoy is asking him now, for a reaffirmation in his choice to go into this with him, and for ten blasted reasons that Harry can’t get straight in his head, he has to give it to him. 

“I guess you are.” Harry nods. “How do you feel about that?” 

Malfoy stares at him for a moment, then taps his fingers on the television, looking down again. “I know you have many preconceived notions about me, Potter, and I know that they’re grounded in a past truth. But I promise you, I’ve had more than enough time to mull over what I’ve been wrong about in my youth.”

Harry allows these words to settle between them and sink into his skin, and he relishes in them. It’s an extremely welcome revelation to know that Malfoy has grown more than just physically. He tells him, “Good,” and throws himself down into his sofa once again. 

Malfoy follows suit, sitting opposite him yet again. He twiddles his long fingers in his lap before he speaks again. “It has occurred to me that you’re a private man. I am, as well.”

“Yes,” Harry prompts.

“Well,” he continues. “Neither of us are particularly the type to announce our relationship, are we?”

“No,” he agrees. “So?”

“So,” he says. “How easy do you think it would be to get a whisper to the biggest gossip you know?”

*

A week later, going all in, full throttle, Rita Skeeter announces that rumours of a Malfoy and Potter love affair have been apparently circulating since his broken engagement with Ginny Weasley a few months prior. Though such details were not provided by either of them, Skeeter tells the world that they — quote — “had one steamy night of a rebound which quickly blossomed into something more”, and that purely unnamed sources have since confirmed the relationship. 

Malfoy arrives at his doorstep once again with a copy of The Prophet in tow. Harry is taken aback by the presence before he allows him inside, knowing that he’ll have to suck it up and get used to it. They analyse it at his kitchen counter, and Malfoy thinks of ways to best use this to their advantage, its intricate details and missteps. Harry agrees that the rebound angle is a smart one to take, and disagrees that they should go out in public already. If it were real, he argues, he’d be too angry to prove it right straight away. 

“But that’s exactly what we want to do,” Malfoy counters. 

“Not if we want it to seem realistic to people who know me,” Harry tells him firmly. “You’re just going to have to—”

He shuts himself up, ears perking up as the Floo in his living room fires up. There’s no danger there, he knows, as only a few people are approved to come through to his home, but something occurs to him at once — he’s going to have to act. Already. He hasn’t prepared for this in the least. 

“Harry?” he hears Ron’s voice. “Harry, mate, you in?”

Malfoy asks him a million questions with his gaze, but Harry can’t answer any of them. He gulps, shrugs to tell the man that he has no idea what he’s doing, and wobbles out of the kitchen to the living room.

“Ha— Oh! There you are,” Hermione says, breathing a sigh of relief. “Um, we have something to tell you…”

Harry’s eyes dart down to the rolled up newspaper behind Ron’s back. Hermione catches the movement at once, and she frowns at him sympathetically. Trying not to let his voice give him away, he asks them, “What’s happened now?”

“Well, we know you don’t get the Prophet anymore… And you know we wouldn’t show you unless we thought you really, really needed to know…” Ron gulps. “Thing is, Skeeter has printed something super barmy this time, and—”

“She’s printed that you’re in a relationship with someone,” Hermione interrupts, stress painted in every feature. 

Harry reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s done that a thousand times.”

“Well,” Ron hesitates. “This time is a bit different. This time, she’s saying that you’re shagging —”

Harry hears the footsteps before Ron is cut off by his own shock, and there’s nothing that he can do about it. This is it. Jumping right into the deep end. Really, really no going back from this, and God, it is so exhilarating. Harry has never been less bored and more nervous. 

He watches the faces of his best friends fall into complete shock, eyes wide as they observe the sudden appearance of Draco Malfoy, as surprising to them as it had been to Harry the week before. Harry allows the nervousness to creep into his expression, but it’s nothing to the actual emotion that he feels as he turns around and actually observes the man behind him.

He could collapse. All of the air in the world seems to be caught in his chest as he takes in the sight of him, because when had he done this? 

His hair is messier than he’d ever conceived possible of someone so prim and proper, like he’d run his hands through it, bunched it in his fingers. His cheeks are flushed a bright red that desperately suits the juxtaposition of the paleness beneath it. His shirt is completely creased, one more button undone than it had been when Harry had left him, and his trousers follow in the same footsteps. His zipper is up, but the buttons above it are undone, and Harry can’t take his eyes off of the sliver of green beneath them. Of fucking course the bastard wears green underwear. 

“Oh,” Malfoy says, feigning surprise at the sight of their company. “Oh. Hello.”

Harry manages to pick his jaw up off of the floor and hopes to God that his cheeks don’t appear as hot as they feel. He takes quick strides to cover Malfoy’s body with his own, as he would if they actually had been up to something that he wouldn’t want his best friends to see, and Malfoy gulps before speeding out of the room again, closing the door tightly behind him. 

Harry leans against it once it clicks shut, lips pressed together tightly. He allows his gaze to dart between the two pairs of wide eyes staring back at him, painting a guilty smile on his face that he doesn’t have to fake. The prospect of lying to his best friends is not one that he is delighted about. But he has made his bed. He has made his decision. However foolish it may be.

“Um,” Harry gulps. “You were saying, Ron?”

Ron, seemingly, has lost the capacity for words. 

“Er,” Harry tries again. “Hermione?”

All Hermione appears to be able to do, in response, is reach out blindly for the side of the couch, and sit herself down in lieu of fainting. She places one hand to her heart, whilst the other clutches at the fabric beneath her. Ron attempts to do the same, and in the process, misses, and ends up accidentally falling onto the ground instead of the cushions. Harry just winces. 

“Right,” he says. “Um. Anyone for a cuppa?”

*

He allows himself a few choice words with Malfoy in the kitchen as he prepares four cups of tea, leaving his best friends to ruminate in the news. 

“What the bloody hell was that?” he asks, his voice a quiet hiss.

“Proof,” Malfoy tells him, combing through his hair to flatten it again. “They wouldn’t have believed it even if you told them. Now, they have no choice except to.”

“You could’ve —” He sighs, shaking his head. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Could’ve what, warned him first? Harry’s not that convincing of an actor as to pretend he wasn’t expecting the intrusion. He gulps. “You could’ve been more delicate.”

Malfoy frowns at him. “What?”

“You didn’t need to, you know,” he stresses. “Imply that we were doing something.”

“We’re freshly in a relationship, remember, Potter? It would be more odd if we weren’t doing anything.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and tries to roll off his embarrassment, handing two of the now full mugs over to him to carry in. “The orange cup is Ron’s,” he tells him, and shoots him a glare when he subsequently snorts. 

When they walk back into the living room, together this time, Ron and Hermione are sat side-by-side, whispering in fervency. Malfoy gives them their respective cups and, to his credit, impressively ignores their indignant glares. Once they’re all sitting down, Harry’s heart thumping like nothing he’s ever known, Hermione is the one to speak first. 

“Malfoy,” she says, almost in a late greeting. “How are you?”

He attempts to answer, but Ron gets there first. “Not the best, I’ve heard.”

Malfoy simply blinks at him. “Is that so?”

“Word on the street is that you’re under investigation again,” Ron says. “You wouldn’t know about that yet, Harry. Since you’ve been off.”

“No, I’m, uh… I’m aware,” Harry tells them. He is now, anyway. “And I think it’s bullshit.”

Hermione’s stare is cutting into him, more threatening than when she actually pulls out her wand. At his side, Malfoy flinches, but Harry stays still with a sigh. She sterns her jaw and tells them, “I’m sorry for this, but you do understand why I have to do it.”

Harry nods, already knowing what’s coming. 

She nods straight back at him, gulps, and casts, “Finite!”

Harry takes a sip of his tea, leans back, and tells her, “Not cursed.”

“So, the two of you…” Ron says, and it’s phrased like a question even though it’s not. Hermione slips her wand back into her sleeve. 

“We are…” Harry breathes. “Um… We…” Malfoy sits forward, nods at him. Harry nods back. “M— Draco and I have been seeing each other. Er, for a while now.”

Ron and Hermione exchange a long, wide-eyed look. Hermione is the one to speak first, as Ron looks like he might be ill. “Right,” she says. “And is this… Just sexual?”

“No,” Harry tells her. “No, uh. Draco and I… Me and Draco… We are, er, in love, actually.”

She narrows her eyes, and it’s just a fraction but it’s there. Harry feels panic spread like goosebumps over his skin and so he reaches out, takes Malfoy’s hand in his own, and tries to act as if it’s not the first time this has ever happened. 

But that is, as it turns out, incredibly hard to do. He’d never known that Malfoy’s hands would feel like this, longer than his own and yet somehow smaller, thinner, like they might break if he squeezed too hard. His skin his smooth in a way that makes Harry want to laugh, because of course someone like him would never have had to do hard labour, but there’s something alluring about it that makes him unwilling to let go. He runs his thumb along the skin and it does nothing to slow the thumping of his heart. 

“I get that it’s, er, weird,” he tells them. “But… You know. Thin line between love and hate, and all that.”

He can’t bear to look at the expression on Malfoy’s face, so he doesn’t. He’s just counting down the seconds until his friends leave, and he can reconsider this entire thing because this is hard. 

They leave after a lot of further probing, involving Ron making absolutely, positively sure that there was no overlap at all between Malfoy and Ginny. Hermione still seems somewhat skeptical but Harry pretends not to notice, hoping the anxiety, so obviously present on his face, is interpreted as simple nerves for presenting their relationship. 

Before they leave, Ron pulls Harry aside and asks him whether he and Ginny ended because he was gay. Harry tells him no at once. He had truly loved Ginny, truly loved absolutely all of her, he assures him. He doesn’t know what it all means. He just knows that now, he likes Mal— Draco, too. Ron tells him it’ll take some getting used to. Harry thanks him just for trying. 

When they’re alone, Harry drops his hand. His own are shaking. 

“I don’t know if I can do that again,” he tells him. “That was horrible. I was awful, actually, she saw right through me.”

“She didn’t at all,” Malfoy tells him. “The hand-holding was perfect. Most people would assume you’d never be in my presence, let alone touch me. It proved something.”

“Right,” Harry says, feeling a little dizzy. “Listen, are you going to stay for some lunch, or…?”

Malfoy shakes his head. “I have some things to do, but I shall see you again soon. We need to organise how we will go about the engagement.”

Harry nods, wondering if they shouldn’t just tell everyone it’s already happened. The last thing that he wants is to make it a public display. He doesn’t want to have to propose to somebody again — especially when it isn’t even real. 

“I will keep an ear out for an opportunity for us to properly debut ourselves,” Malfoy tells him, heading to the front door. 

“Great,” Harry says, following along behind, opening and holding the door for him. Malfoy accepts this without verbalising his gratitude, and Harry isn’t at all sure why he’s surprised. A Malfoy is a Malfoy, he supposes. 

“Don’t worry. If we’re good, it shouldn’t take long at all, and we’ll be rid of each other. I don’t want to spend any more time with you than you do with me. If we’re lucky, someone will see me leaving,” Malfoy says, and those are his last words before he’s off, and Harry is sighing into solitary, just stopping himself from leaning his head on the closed door. 

It dawns on him that he has signed up to essentially dealing with Malfoy for the rest of his life.

With respect, and thumbing the outline of Ginny’s engagement ring in his pocket, he has to wonder to himself: What the fuck has he done?

Chapter Text

Harry heads back to work not too long after the Skeeter article is published, and the staring has somehow reached levels that Harry had since forgotten were possible. 

Nobody outright asks him about the rumour, of course. It’s common knowledge that Harry hates exactly two things: Gossip, and Rita Skeeter, and this, as usual, combines the both of them. But the eyes on him are all questioning, all waiting for a statement or a denial. He gives nothing. He acts natural, because that is exactly what he would do if this were real. 

“Good morning, Celia,” he greets the woman at the front desk, as casual as anything. But she’s sharp, this one, and almost as big a gossip as Skeeter herself. 

“Mornin’, Harry.” She grins, her red lips stretching into a pretty smile. She’s the same with everyone, flirting and batting her eyelashes. If she were ten years younger, Harry had thought once, she’d really be the prettiest woman here, before remembering that men in long engagements shouldn’t think that kind of thing — and that Hermione would call him both sexist and ageist for it. She flicks the last of a swirling letter on a document in front of her, and says to him, “Nice to be back?”

Harry shrugs, knowing just what she’s angling for. “Work’s work.”

She laughs. “I’ve got someone… Sorry, somewhere else I’d like to be, too,” she says, and then she’s holding up her hand, wiggling her fingers. Even Harry, who can admittedly be rather obtuse about some things, can’t miss what she’s trying to show him. 

The rock is huge, glimmering even under these dim Ministry lights. The band is gold, fitting her slim finger perfectly. Harry huffs out a breath of appreciation, a smile spreading over his face, and he does a weird half-jog around the desk to give her a hug. 

“Congratulations!” he says, rubbing her back. When he pulls away, he leans back against the table. “Please, tell me if I’m really rude and I’ve just forgotten, but—”

“Myron!” she squeals. “Myron Wagtail, Harry! Oh, can you believe it?!”

Harry has to rack his brain to determine why that name sounds familiar, but when he does, he’s genuinely impressed. “So how exactly did you meet the lead singer of The Weird Sisters?”

She goes off on a tangent. It was love at first sight, they were together only a month when he proposed. They both had to have themselves tested for love potions, ten times over, because they couldn’t believe how strong the draw to each other was. 

Oh, and, by the way, she says, the wedding is in a fortnight.

“What?” he blanches.

“Well, I told Ron to tell you, but — Ugh. I know you don’t like receiving mail, so I sent your invitation to the Burrow. Silly of me, though, I should’ve known you wouldn’t be there so soon after— Oh!” She slaps her hands to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Harry. All this talk of weddings, when you—”

“Celia, it’s fine,” he tells her. “I’m fine. I’ll open my Floo for you, okay? Send me another invitation. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you!” She claps her hands together, keeping her eyes on him as he pushes away from her desk to walk back to his own. “Oh, Harry, will you be bringing a plus one?”

He can’t help but give her a small laugh, knowing he shouldn’t have assumed that she’d forget so easily. 

“Well?” she asks. “Numbers are very important to know.”

Harry clears his throat. “Yes. I’ll be bringing someone.”

“And this someone’s name?” she pushes, leaning forward now to keep talking to him as he heads down the corridor, walking backwards to continue grinning at her. “For the invite!”

“Just writing ‘plus one’ will do, Celia. Thank you!” he tells her, much to her dismay, and then he’s fumbling into his and Ron’s office. 

Ron is already inside, making a few papers fly above his head, feet up on his desk. His eyes light up when he sees him, and he shoots the papers over to him. Harry closes the door behind him, falling into his own seat, batting the papers away one by one. 

“Mate,” Ron says from his desk. “You have no idea how many people have been asking me about you and Malfoy.”

“No, I think I have an idea.” 

Ron shrugs, nodding, and tells him, “I haven’t said anything, though. Promise. I know you probably wouldn’t want to confirm it or anything, so I’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“Thank you, Ron.” Harry nods. “I appreciate that. What I don’t appreciate, however, is you forgetting to tell me that Celia is getting married?”

Ron’s hand finds his forehead at once. “Shit!” he exclaims. “I knew it! I knew there was something that I was forgetting. I meant to tell you, Hermione even reminded me! But we got kind of distracted by all the, you know, you-shagging-Malfoy stuff…”

“It’s fine,” he tells him. “It’s given her enough time to amend my invitation to include a plus one.”

Harry’s not even looking at him, but he just instinctively knows the look that must be on the other man’s face. He doesn’t need to look, because in the next moment, he can hear the other man’s ink pot being knocked to the ground. Ron doesn’t seem to pay it any mind.

“You’re — You’re taking him?”

Harry clears his throat. “Yeah. Why not?”

“I mean,” Ron hesitates. “Yeah. Yeah. Why not? If you two are— If you two are serious, then… Yeah. Yeah, okay. Why not?”

“We’re, er… We’re serious, Ron,” he tells him, pulling out a sheet of parchment, dabbing his quill in his ink. “I know it’s hard to believe… But, I, er… Yeah. I’m in love with him.”

Ron doesn’t respond to that for a moment, but accios his own ink pot back to him when he sees Harry using his. He pushes himself up from his desk, taps it a few times, and tells him, “I’m going to go for a quick walk.”

Harry nods, and Ron leaves him to drop his head into his hands. He’s not even convincing Ron — How is he supposed to convince Dawlish?

Quill to paper, he begins his letter.

Malfoy,

I wanted to let you know that we’ve been invited to a wedding of one of my co-workers, taking place in two weeks. Well, I’ve been invited, and I asked if I could bring a plus one. That’s you. 

I hope this doesn’t coincide with any other plans you’ve made, but I thought perhaps this could be the place we “debut”…? Or whatever it was you said. 

Return your owl to the Ministry. That’s where I am now. 

Harry Potter.

PS. I really don’t think I’m that good at this. I think we need to practice, or something. Let me know. 

Folding the letter and sealing it, he addresses it appropriately to the man it’s meant for, before realising that he must either expose himself, or take a long walk to the Owlery himself. He taps his fingers thrice on the wood of his desk, ink-stained and firm. 

No publicity is bad publicity, he figures. Right?

He finds himself sliding the letter towards Celia, eyes sheepish. “Could you send this, please? As soon as possible?”

She darts her eyes over the name on the envelope and they light up, but she doesn’t say a word. Teeth digging into her smiling bottom lip, she takes the paper in her grasp and winks at him. Harry doesn’t watch her leave but thanks her, embarrassment betraying his tone. He can’t believe this is his life now. 

As the day stretches on, Harry finds himself inundated with paperwork, all that he’s missed from his sabbatical. He forgets that he’s even due a response from his supposed partner (fiancé? Not yet. But boyfriend seems too garish and young, to Harry), as he troubles through another exhaustive risk assessment. Ron seems content enough with his mental state now that he leaves him to it, only providing occasional input and advice about what was missed, and cups of tea. 

In fact, as Ron approaches with the fourth cup of tea in two hours, Harry starts to get suspicious. 

“Ron,” he asks, looking up from the blur of words in front of him. “What are you doing?”

With a gulp, he says, unconvincingly, “Nothing.”

“Ron,” Harry says, and watches as Ron places this new cup on top of the stack of paper before him, leaving a wet, beige ring. 

Ron stares at the many mugs with upturned eyebrows, rubbing the back of his neck. He opens and closes his mouth several times, hesitating on what to say, before inevitably cracking. He turns to their office door and closes it, takes a deep breath, and tells him, “I’m not really supposed to say anything.”

Harry eyes the tea in front of him suspiciously. “But?”

Ron sighs. “I got called into a meeting. It was intimidating, really. I was asked about you and Malfoy, you know, and so I told them about you two, because I had to!”

“Who is ‘they’?” Harry asks, frowning.

“Dawlish,” he says. “He’s in charge of Malfoy’s case right now. And, well, and he’d brought Kingsley in.”

“Kingsley?” he blanches, standing up out of his chair. “What?”

“I’m really sorry!” he tells him, and Harry can see that it’s the truth. “Dawlish told him that he thinks this may have something to do with the illegal potions that Malfoy has been supposedly brewing, that this was potentially… His endgame, I guess?”

“They think he was brewing amortentia?”

“Something like it, I think,” Ron says. “They asked me to put antidotes in your tea. Small doses, so you wouldn’t notice. Merlin, please don’t tell them I told you!”

Harry shakes his head, because of course he wouldn’t. He looks down at the tea again, then he picks it up, and, ignoring the heat, he chugs it. When he’s done, he looks at Ron with eyes as casual as he can muster, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“You can get me the rest,” Harry tells him. “I’ll take it in one.”

Ron looks as though he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He does exactly that, fetching the rest of the antidote and handing it to Harry with some apprehension. Harry doesn’t waste a second, uncorking it and downing the uncomfortable-tasting liquid in one. 

“When they ask,” he says. “Tell them that I had it all, and tell them I’m still in love with him.”

There’s a knock on the door. Celia enters without waiting for an answer, long-lashed eyes wide at the slight tension in the room. In her polished fingers is another envelope, the wax seal an emerald green. 

“Apologies for the interruption,” she says lowly, gaze peering between Harry’s determination and Ron’s chagrined face. “Your owl’s been returned, Harry.”

Harry nods, thanking her again, taking it from her gently. She leaves them to it and Harry doesn’t open it yet. He doesn’t know why he’s so worked up about this. It makes perfect sense, in theory, that Malfoy would have had to drug or curse him in order to spare him the time of day. There is no rhyme or reason in why Harry should be suddenly taken by the man who had once made his life Hell. No, this is a voluntary deception that Harry is performing, not only against those closest to him, but against the Minister for Magic himself. 

He subconsciously squeezes the letter in his grasp, smudging the looped handwriting. This has just begun, and has already gone too far. Every inch of his body, his instincts, are telling him to quit whilst he’s ahead, call it all off and go about this with legality. But then he thinks of Narcissa Malfoy, alone in that big Manor, her son thrown into another country and her too frail to follow. He thinks of Malfoy’s scared gaze, staring back at him in that very same Manor, refusing to identify him to what would be his benefit. 

He feels no sense of obligation or duty. Just sympathy. 

“I didn’t mean to get angry,” he tells his best friend, to whom he must lie to for the foreseeable. He no longer has no right to be angry at him. Ever. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine, mate. I’m sorry, too.” Ron offers him a smile, and Harry returns it. After a moment, he adds, “Getting with Malfoy must be rough enough as it is, let alone with everyone poking their noses in.”

Harry half-laughs at that, because he can see the truth in it. For a moment, he imagines what it must be like to actually be in a relationship with Malfoy. Convoluted and calculated, surely. Making the other person do everything for him. Selfish and cold. Harry wonders if he’s ever even been in a loving relationship before; if he is even capable. If he isn’t, it would explain why he didn’t seek out an actual partner, instead of a past-enemy. 

Ron mistakes his chuckle for agreement and leaves him, heading back to his own desk without another word. Harry falls back into his seat and remembers the letter in his hand, crumpled under his stress. He flattens it out on his desk before prying it open, unfolding the wrinkled parchment. It reads,

Potter,

What an excellent idea. Thank you for letting me know. When you receive the official invitation, I will make my way to your house to get the specific details. It will be a perfect opportunity to debut — not orchestrated by us, and better yet, surrounded by your colleagues. I assume that includes Dawlish?

We can meet up to discuss how to make this easier for you. It may not be obvious, but I am grateful for your help. I don’t want this to be totally horrific for you. 

Yours,

Draco Lucius Malfoy. 

Harry releases a long breath. He doesn't prolong the correspondence, not writing another letter back. 

*

When the invitation comes, so does Malfoy. As promised. 

He prostrates himself against the counter in Harry’s kitchen, reading it over and over, presumably, because there’s really not that many words on it in the first place. The setting sun creates a warm orange glow, the evening only now allowing its daylight to waver. 

“A whole day affair,” Malfoy comments. “Interesting.”

Harry shrugs. “Celia likes extravagance.”

“Yes,” says Malfoy. “Hence the rockstar husband.”

Harry stirs the pot of pasta in front of him. Enough for two. Malfoy has been amicable since he arrived, and yet somehow still manages to keep Harry slightly irritated at all moments. 

“She’s a lovely woman. Delighted that we’re in love.”

“Is she?” Malfoy asks. “Or is she delighted for something to talk about with her other vultures?”

Harry sterns his jaw. He’s above pouring the pasta all over that white-gold head, he tells himself. He’s surely a better person than that. He tells him, “Don’t talk about her like that. May I remind you that you’re using her wedding as an opportunity to better your own chances? She didn’t have to invite you.”

He doesn’t watch the man’s responding expression, but he doesn’t say anything in return. Harry wonders, as the quiet persists into their meal, whether he’s being given the silent treatment, and he has to hold back a scoffing laugh. 

The pasta is mediocre. Harry can taste that, and he’s sure Malfoy can too, though no remark is made on the quality. Harry wonders if he’s ever cooked anything in his life, or else always had house-elves to serve every dish, day in and out, Hogwarts and home. With an odd rush, he wonders what Malfoy would make of Molly Weasley’s famous roast dinner, and knows that he may be forced to find out soon. 

“Do you cook often?” Malfoy asks, setting his cutlery down. 

“Not as often as I should,” Harry tells him. “If you couldn’t tell.”

“It was…” he says, and deliberately ponders over his words. “Maybe better than I could do.”

Harry tries to hide the snort that arises from that, but fails. He pushes from his brain the weird new sensation, laughing with Malfoy. There’s a litany of reasons why it feels — not wrong, per se, but a feeling stronger than weird, one that escapes his words. He wonders if the other man feels the same. 

He allows himself to be convinced to use magic to do the washing up. As they return to the front room, Harry speaks once again, as casually as one can when he says, “The Minister for Magic had my best friend drug me with a love potion antidote.”

Harry watches Malfoy’s face fall, the misstep in his feet. His head whips around to allow him to stare at him, wide-eyed. He asks, “Really?”

“The same day Celia told me about the wedding,” he tells him. “Dawlish was there, too. This looks like it’s going all the way to the top.”

Malfoy clears his throat, nodding his hesitant agreement. He sits himself down and Harry finds himself opposite yet again. When he speaks, it’s with an odd shake in his voice, “Are you asking to stop this arrangement?”

Is he? It’s not out of the question. Not completely. There’s a way they could do it: tell everyone that it was just a fleeting thing, but it’s over now. There’ll be this tint on his legacy forever, that he had a two month fling with a former Death Eater. Harry wonders whether that’s any better or any worse than marrying him. He can’t come to a conclusion. 

Yet, he tells him firmly, “No. But it means that we need to be more vigilant.” He rubs his hands together, and with a sigh, says, “I’ve never had to really — Because of, well, who I am, and everyone knowing what I look like, I’ve never had to take part in any undercover missions. This is new to me.”

Malfoy visibly relaxes, allowing parts of the cushions around him to swallow him up. The sofa he’s perched on is old, and was here from when Harry first took ownership. He wonders, offhandedly, whether Sirius had ever looked like Malfoy does now, pale and blending in with the family name, the family furniture. It seems bizarre to Harry that the two of them had been related, but he has never managed to properly wrap his head around the Wizarding World’s twisted, winding family trees. 

“A mission,” Malfoy is saying, drawing Harry back from his distraction. “That’s exactly how you should think of this.”

Harry, whose whole life has been a mission, perks to attention. “Yeah?”

Nodding his gold head, separating him so from his distant cousin, Malfoy tells him, “If it motivates you. The first thing we’ll need to do is get used to calling each other by our given names.”

Harry agrees. He’ll need to get used to it, but he’s done it before. Not to his face, of course, but during the War. His father had taken precedence in being called “Malfoy” and so, Malfoy was Draco then. He can be Draco again. He just wonders…

“Have you ever even said my name when it hasn’t been followed by my second?”

“Probably,” Malfoy says. Draco says. Draco says, “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Harry hums. “We’re both adults now. It shouldn’t be hard.”

“No, it shouldn’t.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything. He leans back, eyebrow raised, as if daring him. Draco sterns his jaw. Arms crossed over the other, he bounces one leg, his body an uncomfortable puzzle. 

Slowly, after several moments of silence, he says, “Okay. Harry.”

He says it like he’s trying too hard to sound casual. The word should be choked on, stumbled over, or at the very least followed by a spat Potter. It’s antsy and it’s somehow intimate, and beneath Harry’s clothes, it summons goosebumps. 

“Harry,” he says again, trying his best at getting used to it. “Let’s talk about this wedding.”

*

Dawlish, they figure, will be in attendance. 

Celia likes him. She thinks he’s funny because he’s so uptight and rule-bent, and he appreciates the attention that, Celia claims, he apparently doesn’t receive from his wife anymore. So it’s a safe bet, anyway, that he’ll be there, eyes most likely on the two of them like a hawk. 

They don’t plan anything step-by-step, minute-by-minute. Harry knows that this is more likely to feel fake to other people if it seems rehearsed. The moment that Draco had surprised them, walking into the room half-dressed and dishevelled, taking him off-guard — that’s what Harry needs. Realism to commit to, to bounce off of. 

He tells him just that. 

“Okay,” Draco agrees. “What else?”

Harry reels off his ideas. They need to not show off in front of Dawlish specifically, lest they seem too obvious. Show off in front of the right people, stay subtle, mingle and don’t deny the gossip if it’s brought to them. Don’t bring it up themselves. 

“You’re better at thinking this through than I have been,” Draco tells him seriously, even though Harry thinks he’s being rude at first. He looks at him with narrowed eyes until he realises the earnest look in the returned gaze. 

Harry shrugs then. He tells him, “You said to think of it like a mission. I’m good at those.”

Pinned with his eyes, obviously impressed, mixed with something Harry can’t accurately identify, Draco runs a long finger across the fabric of the sofa beneath them. Harry follows its path without realising, like a cat staring down its artificial prey. He only lifts his gaze to meet Draco’s again when he splays out his fingers and allows his palm to rest. 

“Yes,” Draco says. “You are.”

Harry tries not to look over to the whiskey again, because he truly needs to learn not to rely on it every time Draco Malfoy starts confusing him. But it makes him think. He asks, “Do you have any particular opinion on how much we should drink? Celia loves a party, and knowing The Weird Sisters, I’d say it’s going to be sort of wild.”

Draco’s eyes shoot to the whiskey. Harry hates the idea of him tracing his thought process, or else emulating it. There’s no need for them to know each other so well, in reality. 

The falsities can stand. Harry can’t fathom truly knowing Draco, and allowing himself to be known in turn. The feeling it gives him is low in his stomach, not uncomfortable but unknown. Draco’s past and his, entangled and complicated as they are, have always given him this indecipherable sense of tension. 

“Do you regularly drink at these kinds of events?” the man asks him. Harry’s still unsettled, purely from the mere act of Draco looking over at his decanter. He forgets to answer for a moment, debating whether to lie and threaten their illusion, or else tell him the truth and have him think that he’s some kind of alcoholic.

Purely because he knows that he wouldn’t be able to handle Draco finding out that he lied about this, he elects to tell him the truth. With an offhanded hum, he answers, somewhat cryptically, “I might also enjoy a party.”

Draco huffs a laugh at that. “No judgment here, Potter. So do I. Not that anybody will particularly know the difference. I doubt anyone in attendance would have drank with me before.”

“Harry,” Harry amends, and Draco rolls his eyes but doesn’t correct himself. Harry continues, “You can stay sober if you want. People will just think you’re too uptight to let go; that’s what I would think.”

“It is, is it?”

“Yeah,” he tells him, uncaring of causing offence. “You don’t seem like the type to let your hair down.”

Draco narrows his eyes at him. “I’m more than capable of having fun.”

Harry says, “Okay.”

“What do you mean, okay?” he asks. 

“I just mean, okay.” He raises his hands. “I believe you.”

“I’ll drink at this wedding,” Draco tells him, brow furrowed. “Merlin. I’ll have to try and not learn to rely on it when I’m having to deal with you.”

Harry can echo that. He doesn’t, though, but rolls his eyes and says, “Whatever you do, it can’t be embarrassing enough that I don’t want to propose to you afterwards.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco says, and follows them with those perfect, famous last words: “I am absolutely not an embarrassing drunk.”

Chapter Text

When Harry was a child, he’d poke his bruises. 

This wasn’t because he was some kind of psychopath, immune to pain, or else attracted to it. No, he’d poke his bruises simply to remind himself how he’d acquired them. One on his kneecap, from falling over running from Dudley and Piers — one poke and he’d know to be faster, next time. One from Vernon accidentally pushing him over whilst hastily trying to get to turn over the television channel from something that was trying to be too progressive (as such was everything in the 1990s, according to him). That’s fine, Harry would think, examining and poking at the purplish-blue blossom on his skinny arm. Next time, he won’t stand so idly close by. 

This continued into his teenagedom, but became something he’d noticed less and less, on account of Madam Pomfrey being very good at her job. Almost on autopilot, Harry would pick at the slices or bumps on his limbs, acquired by duelling or other means. It’s fine, he’d think, because he’d just have to be better next time. There was always going to be a next time, with Voldemort a seemingly inevitable loom. 

Sometimes, now, he presses the firm pads of his fingers to his scar, just to see if it triggers something. It never does. Harry, with his frequent and now subconscious pokes and prods, feels no pain, and knows that going through it in the first place had been enough to motivate him to make it stop. He’d gotten better; he’d been faster; he’d been in the right place. 

The problem with this method, as reliable as it may seem to Harry, is that it seems to be entirely ineffective when it comes to pain that is emotional, or otherwise physically internal.  

And Draco Malfoy is giving him a huge fucking headache. 

“Stop, stop!” the man demands, right beside Harry’s ear. Harry, for whatever reason, has been lowered to carrying Draco’s luggage to the car. Perhaps he’d gotten too used to doing it for Ginny. From the look of the man, he, at least, needs the assistance more than she had. He huffs, “I’ve forgotten my cufflinks at the Manor.”

Harry closes his eyes and tries not to swear. “You don't have time to get to the Manor and back. We need to leave right now if we want to get to the portkey on time.”

“Well, then, what am I supposed to wear?” Draco asks, shooting him a glare. “This is a wedding, Potter, not some poxy meeting down a pub, or whatever it is you and the Weasleys enjoy doing.”

He might as well have been a prince, calling them commonfolk, so disconnected. “You’ve never gotten smashed at a pub,” Harry deadpans. “And yet you claim to know how to have a good time? Tell me, have you ever actually gotten drunk at a party, or just a little bit tipsy at a dinner?”

“Shut up.” Draco takes a deep breath. “I need cufflinks.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Harry groans, setting down the suitcase and digging into his pocket. He hands Draco the key to Grimmauld Place. “I’ve got a spare set in the top left of my chest of drawers. My room is on the second floor, second door on the right. Quickly.” 

Draco hesitates, just for a moment. Harry wonders if he’s debating whether the quality of the cufflinks will match his standard. But then he goes, before Harry can gently encourage him again, and Harry is left alone to lug the suitcase to the car. 

Yes, suitcase. Yes, car. 

The wedding of Celia and Myron Wagtail is to be celebrated in a posh hotel, just off of Edinburgh, and each guest (or couple) is to be generously hosted in a room of the hotel, free of charge. The hotel is apparently run by a Muggleborn witch and her muggle sister, and so the two worlds often overlap. For this one occasion, the entire hotel will be wizarding-folk only, in case of accidental drunk magic, or brawls alike. 

They will be there for one night and one night only, and Draco Malfoy has brought with him a suitcase that reaches Harry’s waist. Harry only has a rucksack, and a prayer that his suit won’t get creased. 

When he returns, locking the door before hurrying down the steps, he simply throws the keys to Harry before getting into the passenger side door. Harry takes a long, deep breath, attempting to calm himself down. The drive to the portkey isn’t long, but it’s long enough and in close enough quarters to inevitably make Harry’s headache worse.

“I’ve never been in one of these,” Draco says as Harry sits down and starts up the car. “Are they even safe?”

Harry looks at him. “They’re not if you don’t put your seatbelt on.”

“My what?”

“Your — This,” he says, and plugs in his own. “See? It’ll stop you from getting thrown out of the window if we crash into anything.”

Draco quickly mimics Harry, doing up his seatbelt, his face blanching. “You can actually drive this, can’t you? You won’t actually crash? I know that you’re obviously adequate on a broom, but—”

“Adequate?” Harry interrupts.

“—But this does seem— Yes, Potter, adequate. We both know that you never quite bested me.”

“It’s Harry,” Harry says sternly. The car starts, and the radio comes on, blasting a band Harry hasn’t heard of before. He turns it up, attempting to drone out any further commentary from the man next to him. 

Despite the volume, Harry’s headache slowly subsides. 

*

After leaving the car and awkwardly carrying the luggage to the portkey, they’re met with a party of familiar faces, all more on time than them. There’s pleasantries exchanged as they wait for the accurate time, and then Harry is trying not to laugh at the way Draco bumps into Hermione’s leg — multiple times — with the suitcase he’s so desperately attempting to keep close to him. 

The hotel, when they arrive, truly is grand. Harry is momentarily in awe of just how much it reminds him of Hogwarts, before he sees the various obvious differences and decides that nothing can really ever compare. But it is huge, truly, and there are already several members of staff making their way over to them to help them with their luggage. To his left, Draco seems entirely nonplussed. He hands over his suitcase to a man with white gloves and then turns his back on him, staring at Harry with a raised brow. 

Harry goes to make an offhand comment about his manners when a second man asks if he can take his backpack. Harry thanks him, but tells him no, it’s okay. The man with the white gloves falters, his fingers and bushy eyebrows twitching, and he clears his throat. Once again, he holds out his hand, palm up, and tells him that he is afraid he must insist. 

Ron appears to be having the same problem, but Hermione is giving over her small case with a kind smile. There’s hushed whispers between them, and, confused, Harry looks back to Draco. 

“Give him your bag, Pot— Harry,” Draco says quietly. “It is polite.”

Harry gives in, then, awkwardly shuffling it off of his shoulders and into the open grasp of the man. He says to him, awkwardly, “Thank you,” and the man nods, a light judgment in his eyes. Harry hasn’t felt that from somebody in the Wizarding World in a long time — discounting the nuisance to his left. 

The receptionist tells them that they are to be in room 303, whilst Ron and Hermione are a ways away, in 244. When asked, she tells them every room in the hotel has been reserved for the wedding. Harry can only wonder who they will be surrounded by, whether he’ll know them, or if a variety of strangers will share their walls for the night. 

They say their goodbyes to Ron and Hermione for now, Draco still somewhat awkwardly, not used to their presence or casual conversation. On the walk to their room, Harry feels too light, yearning for the weight of his bag on his back so he knows that it’s safe. 

“Why do they have to take our stuff, anyway?” he asks.

Draco looks at him. “We’re guests.”

“If we’re guests,” Harry counters, “Surely it is my decision if my bag gets taken.”

“And here,” Draco says, as they finally come upon their door, “Is the most simple demonstration of monetary divide as I can imagine. I have read the papers, your vault is overflowing. And yet, it cannot buy class.”

Harry sterns his jaw, tenses his fists. He wants to hit him, or curse him, or shout. He doesn’t. They’re in love, and who knows how many of these doors around them may hold eavesdropping gossips? 

“Shut up,” he whispers instead. “It’s pointless, and you sound like my uncle.”

Draco may want to reply, but Harry doesn’t give him the chance. He inserts the key-card and pushes open the door, and then they’re too distracted to continue the conversation, which is a good thing, by Harry’s standards, because he doesn’t want to ever think about his Uncle Vernon and Draco Malfoy in the same moment ever again. 

The room can only be encapsulated by one word: immaculate. From floor to ceiling, it seeps decadence. Its walls are a navy blue with ornate patterning, the trimmings black, the floor a dark wood with occasional matching rugs. The size is mainly what takes Harry by surprise; it must be the same size as his dormitory back at Hogwarts, which slept five. This, pointedly, sleeps two. 

The bed proves this impressively. White pillows, black duvet, dark wood frame to match the floor. It is the biggest bed that Harry has ever seen. He resists the urge to run and jump onto it, knowing it would just support Draco’s judgment on his class. 

“Jesus,“ Harry mutters. “I didn’t know the Weird Sisters pulled in so many galleons.”

Draco strides inside, eyeing up every inch, every corner. Harry has half a mind to wonder whether this is casual to him, the appearance of his bedroom, perhaps. But he’s obviously impressed. Maybe not so much as Harry is, granted, but it’s there in a glint of his eye. 

Harry’s eyes fall to the sofa against the wall to the left of the bed. It looks comfortable enough, he thinks. If he’s drunk, he hopefully won’t even notice the difference — until perhaps the morning, with an aching back and sore neck that he’ll be unable to explain away. He picks up his bag, helpfully already inside the room thanks to the white-gloved attendants who had greeted them, and throws it onto the cushions. 

“I’ll take the couch,” he says, though he hadn’t expected Draco to ever give up the bed anyway. 

“Alright,” Draco says, without, as predicted, any argument, and then he’s bending down to unzip his suitcase. He retrieves his suit robes from within and immediately hangs them up, preventing any creases. Watching it spurs Harry into doing the same, sure that his own will be in a far worse state, cramped into his tiny backpack. 

Then, in what seems to be a direct contradiction to the rich nature of the room, they hear the low rumble of laughter and muffled conversation through the wall. Harry’s eyes find Draco’s at once. A woman’s voice is not impossible to make out, and Harry hears the word ‘imagine’ in with a tumble of indiscernible others. 

Despite the decadence of their surroundings, the walls appear to be quite thin indeed. 

No remark is made on this from either of them, and it’s probably for the better. 

*

Draco’s posh robes look better than Harry’s do, and his cufflinks appear to be up to standards because there’s been a surprising lack of complaining about them. Harry has counted the amount of times that Draco has looked in the mirror, and is proud of himself for only scoffing at the man for half of them. 

With one last fleeting glance at one another, they leave the room in silence. Harry can’t help but wonder whether or not the nerves are flooding the man next to him as much as they are himself. He doesn’t ask. 

Before they breach the doors of the reception once again, Draco reaches out and touches his arm. It’s instinctual when Harry pulls himself away, not an act of malice or defiance, but stormy eyes turn upon him at once anyway. 

“Let me,” he says, and Harry stares for only a second before doing as he’s asked. He’s holding out his bent arm when Draco hooks within it his own, his other hand moving to rest just above Harry’s wrist. The presence is warm at Harry’s side, imposing and close, and somehow making him even more nervous. 

“Ready?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper. 

Draco takes a deep breath. “If you fix your face.”

With a considerable effort, he does. He fixes himself with a smile, holding Draco closer than he’d like. 

When they break past the doors, the room comes to a hush, like their presence is a threatening rumble of thunder. Every party in there stares at them, like they’re the happy couple of the occasion, and whispers break out faster than Harry can scan the room for a safe haven. He sees many of his colleagues but can’t bring himself to speak to them yet; he sees familiar faces from Hogwarts, students and teachers alike, but it’s not enough. Harry can feel panic rising in his chest, because he’s still pretending, everything is revolving around him pretending, lying to everyone, and —

He feels a tug on his arm. He hears Draco’s jovial tone, and his body is turning, diverting to the side as the man says, “Ah, Hermione. Ronald. Lovely rooms, aren’t they?”

Harry visibly relaxes as he sees them, the forced smile on his face softening to become genuine. The whispers around them become louder until there’s again a steady thrum of conversation, and Harry can pretend that it’s not all about him. He hears someone say, all three of them are talking to him? and wants to turn around, but Draco holds him straight. 

Ron clears his throat. “Glad you came?” 

Draco eyes him and for a moment, Harry is worried that he’ll give Ron some more of the attitude that he’s been subjected to recently. But he doesn’t. He says, “Yes. The venue is beautiful.” And then he turns to Hermione, and says, “As are you. That dress is striking.”

Red blooms on pale skin beneath the mop of ginger hair, and Harry tries not to look too confused. Ron’s face twists with anger for just a moment, and he looks like he’s going to give Draco a piece of his mind for flirting with his wife right in front of him. Then his eyes fall to the spot where Draco’s fingers lay on Harry’s arm, and befuddlement takes over his expression instead. 

Draco notices all of this, and says nothing. So does Hermione, who can’t help but laugh behind newly-manicured fingers. She says, “Thank you.”

Harry rubs the back of his neck. “That was a horrible entrance.”

Hermione turns to him, eyes softening, humour falling from her gaze. “I’m sorry. At least it’s done now, though.”

Harry nods, knowing she means well. His heart is still fluttering. Draco moves his hand until it’s placed over his own, and it’s subtle, but not subtle enough to be missed by his friends. He rubs what appears to be a comforting thumb over the back of Harry’s knuckles, and it does nothing to ease the quickening of his heartbeat. 

Another rumble of loud conversation takes over the focus of the room, and Harry’s terrified that somehow everyone there has seen the touch. It takes only a few moments to realise that it has nothing to do with him and absolutely everything to do with the entire membership of the Weird Sisters entering through the door, the groom in front, wearing stunning dress robes (far more expensive than his), and a dazzling smile (far more real than his). 

To be so excited to get married, Harry thinks, you must really have to love someone. He watches as Myron Wagtail excitedly hugs his bandmates, the grin unwavering, tears in his eyes, a spring in his step. He’s over aware of the painfully empty feeling on his ring finger as thoughts of Ginny come swimming back to the forefront of his mind. Why had he been so neglectful, he wonders yet again. This could’ve been them, could’ve been them years ago, and yet —

Fingers slip between his. He looks up at Draco, but he’s not looking back, jaw clenched, and Harry wonders if he’d read his mind. He hopes not. He already has to spend every public minute pretending to be in love with the bastard, he doesn’t need him intruding upon his thoughts, too. 

His thoughts press in then on the man next to him. Marriage. Marriage with him. Will Harry be able to feign such an expression as Myron wears on his face now? Will he be able to summon emotive tears to his eyes as he hugs his best friends, his adoptive family? As he peers upon the impassive face of a man he will be pretending to desire to spend the rest of his life with. Can he look into those grey eyes and hold the cold hands without shaking? Can he so easily speak out vows that he has no intention of keeping — in sickness and in health? Can he gaze at his pink lips and lean forwards to press his own against them, sealing their false union?

His eyes fall to them, pressed together, plump and soft. Had they been kissed by many people before? Pansy Parkinson probably got a go at them a few times, Harry thinks bitterly. Would Harry be the first man? 

He shakes his head free of the thoughts as he watches Myron approaching them, the same wide smile plastered on his face. Hand outstretched, Harry takes it, mirroring his enthusiasm. 

*

The ceremony is beautiful. By the time the toasts come and go and the dance-floor is getting set up, Harry has had three glasses of white and one glass of champagne. Now, everything seems beautiful.

He’s at a table with Draco, of course, but that’s about where the familiarity ends. Ron and Hermione are on the other side of the room, and other various Weasleys are dotted about but nowhere near him. It’s to encourage mingling, of course, but these people…

One lady seems to talk exclusively in Skeeter headlines. Her partner has already fallen asleep sitting up. Opposite them, a young couple — younger than himself and Draco — have not removed their hands from each other. To Harry’s left, a man fully cloaked, head-to-toe, does not speak to anyone, and pisses him off slightly, reminding him of the man — Draco — sitting on the bench. To Draco’s right, a woman with a face caked in makeup is nodding at the woman speaking in fluent Skeeter-ish, and he wants to die. 

Draco is the only one here worth bloody looking at, and Harry wants to die. 

“I suppose we should be glad that they aren’t talking about us,” Draco says quietly. He has only had two glasses of white, plus one of champagne. Harry’s been watching. He had raised an eyebrow when he drank it, and commented that it was better than he’d expected it to be. 

Harry nods, the buzz fuelling his distaste for the topics passing around the table. He responds at once, “‘Surprised Skeeter has anything bigger to print at the minute.”

“They may be attempting to be delicate.” Draco runs his fingers up the stem of his glass. “Gossiping about us whilst we’re right here might ruin the illusion.”

“They could just ask us to our faces,” Harry hums. 

“No need,” the man says back. He takes a long swig, finishing the dregs of his wine. “They can already see enough.”

Harry’s head must be buzzing too much already, because he looks down, having forgotten that their hands are still intertwined atop the table.

His palm feels suddenly sweaty. 

He clears his throat, tries not to twitch his fingers. “Have you seen Dawlish yet?”

Draco takes a moment to answer him, his back straightening, looking around the room with an impressive subtlety. “He’s on the table next to the exit, sitting next to Sprout.”

Harry holds back the snort that threatens to leave him, though a smirk breaks through. Thoughts of the two of them interacting can’t seem to make sense in Harry’s slowly wine-fogging mind. He remembers Sprout’s rage when Dumbledore was almost arrested, her anger at Fudge that extended to Dawlish for even daring to attempt to imprison the Headmaster. It was difficult to take her seriously sometimes — she was a funny little woman. 

Now, he resists the urge to turn his head and watch to see if polite words and niceties were being passed between them. It could be that they were completely fine with one another, moved on after the War and made amends. Perhaps not everyone was so like Harry, holding grudges and remembering misdeeds. 

The thought tugs at his hand, wanting to pull away from the man who had, on many occasions, made his life Hell. The wine pushes the memories to the forefront of his mind and he’s second-guessing himself again, debating whether all of this deceit is worth it. Shoves and smirks and spitting each other’s names out like they’re curses. Suddenly, it’s all ridiculous again, and Harry understands the anxieties of his best friends and colleagues. 

They’re watching the first dance, then. Slow and easy, they hold each other close, foreheads pressed against the other’s, eyelashes and lips so close. They’re truly in love, despite the shortness in their relationship. It’s clear for anyone to see that this will last. 

How do you fake that?

“There they go,” someone on their table laughs, and Harry watches the rest of The Weird Sisters envelope their lead and his new wife as they finish swaying. Then the music is speeding up, and the dancing is becoming more and more wild, and the illumination of the room dims to a faint glow. 

Crowds leave their tables to join them or begin mingling, and Harry and Draco have no choice but to join them when their entire table stands up apart from the cloaked man beside Harry. His eyes search out his best friends on instinct but he can’t find them through the thrum of people. His heart is still racing from the impossibility of this situation again, but this makes it worse, his head beginning to dizzy far too much—

“Potter,” he hears in his ear, low and intimate compared to banging footsteps and music around them. 

He turns to look at him. Every effort is being put into pretending to be okay, but his resolve breaks as he turns to those grey eyes, unable to hide it.

He says, “We should’ve planned more.”

Draco just looks at him. His hands find Harry’s arms and he holds them gently, attempting a form of comfort. He says, “Maybe.”

Harry resists the urge to run his hands through his hair and mess it up more than it already is. Draco moves him away from the table to a quiet corner, constantly throwing glances over his shoulder. When they’re there, he speaks again. “You’re completely fine.”

“I don’t feel it,” Harry breathes. “Did you see them? Did you? How the fuck are we supposed to compete with that, Malfoy? How are we supposed to look at each other like that?”

“Practice,” Draco stresses. “We’re fine. Nobody has caught on yet, have they? We’ve been convincingly holding hands all evening.”

“Holding hands and getting married are rather different. They— They know each other, they breathe each other. Like Mr and Mrs Weasley, like Bill and Fleur.”

Draco closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them again, he opens them wide. “Will you look at me for five minutes?”

Harry blinks. The confusion, as sudden as it is, interrupts his wave of panic. “Pardon?”

“I’m unsure of whether this is just something that you do with me, or with everyone, but you don’t tend to look at me when you speak to me. Perhaps it is because you are still disgusted with me from our school days, I don’t know. But I am asking you to look at me as I speak,” he says. “Can you do that?”

Harry, who had been completely unaware that he had been doing this, dumbly nods. 

“Don’t take your eyes off me. My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

Harry is this close to rolling his eyes before realising that it would mean immediately failing whatever test this is. He settles for a frown, instead. “I know your name. I’m not thick.”

Draco ignores him. “My birthday is the fifth of June, nineteen-eighty, which means that I am older than you as well as taller than you.”

His frown deepens. “Hey—”

“My favourite flower is a sweet William, and my favourite colour is green. My wand is ten inches, made with hawthorn wood and a unicorn hair core, but, well, you knew that already.” 

“Malfoy—”

“Call me Draco, and keep looking at me.”

Harry sighs, but he does as he says. He settles into listening to what the man is saying, his eyes remaining on his face. His face is flushed from emotion and alcohol, pink blossoming over pale cheeks. His gaze is intense as it is returned, and his lips are still as pink as they were under the hood on that bench, not long ago. 

He’s looking at him. 

Draco continues, “My favourite wine is a sauvignon and my favourite author is Rosana Amorim. Not for Spellman’s Syllabary, but for various fiction books that she has published since. My favourite muggle author is a William Shakespeare, he does quite good sonnets. I’ve been reading a lot of him lately, I don’t know if you’ve heard of him.”

Harry cannot even bring himself to snarkily respond, because he is looking at him. He’s watching the turn of his lips as he speaks, the hinting poke of tongue that rolls out on some syllables. 

“I currently own my own potions’ apothecary on Knockturn Alley and provide a number of potions for St. Mungo’s. It is easily my greatest achievement within a lifetime of failures.”

His hands are still on him, Harry recalls, and he’s still looking at the man’s lips. He tries to look normal, lifts his gaze and stares into his eyes but that somehow makes everything worse. He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know if the man has noticed. 

All he knows is that he certainly needs another glass of wine. 

“I meet up with Pansy, Blaise, Theo and Gregory at least once a fortnight, mainly for lunches, although Pansy has been very insistent lately that we begin ‘going for drinks’, so she says.” Those lips turn up at the corners. “Maybe I should take her up on her offer though, as you seemed so convinced that I didn’t know how to — what was it? Pull my hair down.”

Harry blinks, confused as to when his gaze had dropped to the man’s lips again. “Let your hair down.”

“Right. Well, P— Harry. That’s five minutes. All you have to do is actually look at me, and it’s easy enough to trick anyone. And now, you know everything about me, should anyone ask.”

“Right,” Harry says. “Okay.”

“Alright? Don’t overthink this. You can easily fake being in love with me.”

“I can,” he says, half-questioning it. He’s feeling, somehow, more delirious than when his heart had been in his throat. 

There’s a new glass in his hand before he even knows it.

*

Dawlish is on the dance floor.

So is Draco. So is Harry, at that, as well as Hermione and Ron, but they’re too caught up in each other to notice Harry’s change in expression at the realisation. 

Draco’s back is to the man, so he doesn’t realise his presence when Harry does. He’s dancing in a manner that Harry never would’ve guessed he’s capable of, just a few more glasses of wine in, a pink glow now a permanent fixture on his face. He’s still holding a glass, but his movements are causing the wine inside to spill over the rim and splash on expensive shoes. Nobody seems to notice or care; they’re all doing the same thing.

Harry opens his mouth to say, “He’s behind you,” but Draco’s eyes are closed and the music is too loud, anyway. 

He doesn’t know what the objective is of telling him. They have already established that they don’t want to make it look too forced, don’t want to make it look like they’re trying to make him see. He doesn’t know what he’ll say if Draco returns the statement with a sneered, “So?” but at this point, Harry is too drunk to care. 

He reaches out and taps the man on the upper arm, but it goes unnoticed. When he does it again, the result is the exact same. Harry grunts, finishing his glass and vanishing it with a whisper and a flick of his fingers before resolutely stepping forwards, right into Draco’s personal space.

Draco’s eyes only open when Harry’s hands find his waist and hold it. They stare at him for a moment, blinking to communicate their startled confusion at the sudden proximity. Harry can feel the hotness of his breath on his face even in the sweaty humidity of the dancing bodies around them. When he leans in, it’s to whisper in his ear. 

“Dawlish is behind you,” he says. 

Harry feels the man’s arm move, but quickly realises that it’s just to take another sip of his drink. He can still see Dawlish like this, can see the awkward shuffle and the less-than-subtle way that his eyes keep flickering over to them. Harry, even in his drunkenness, tries not to make it obvious that he’s looking right back at him. 

Draco’s head tilts closer to him, and Harry feels his lips brush against his ear when he responds, “Is he watching us?”

Harry nods. Draco’s hair smells both sweet and salty, like a fancy shampoo mixing with the natural perspiration of an alcohol-induced dance. He resists the urge to close his eyes and press his nose into the scent. However convincing that may be to onlookers, it would be undoubtedly — intensely — weird for the both of them. 

Draco says, “Pretend you’re whispering in my ear.”

Harry’s face splits into a tipsy grin. “I am whispering in your ear.”

There’s a brush against his own waist. Draco says, his voice partially a slur, “Pretending you’re whispering something sultry in my ear.”

“Sultry,” Harry repeats. A hazy chuckle leaves his mouth now. “Is that what you think I’d be like as a boyfriend? All that in front of this many people?”

Draco’s hand secures itself on the small of Harry’s back, his other still occupied by wine. He tells him, lips still tickling his ear, “Yes, actually. You’re an overly-confident Gryffindor with the entire Wizarding World at his beck and call. Nobody can judge you.”

Another laugh. “People do. You do, apparently.”

“So,” Draco hums. “You’re saying I’m right in my assumptions.”

Harry shrugs his shoulders. “Is this your way of getting to know me?”

It must be the alcohol that makes Draco answer, “I’m quite sure I know everything about you already.”

It’s his subconscious that makes him squeeze Draco’s waist. His thumbs push against the thin fabric of his shirt, his and everybody else’s dress robes abandoned due to the heat. The tips of his middle fingers just brush when he stretches them far enough, his thumbs just above the man’s hips. It must be his subconscious that pulls him a little closer, too.

Draco asks, “Is he still watching us?”

Harry has to refocus his eyes to find him again. The closeness is making him over-aware of everything, every press of their bodies. He tries to think of what he’d be doing with Ginny in this situation, but quickly comes up with the answer: this. With slightly more kissing and rubbing, sure, and his hands wandering a lot further south, but Harry’s not sure they’re ready for that yet, even if their pretend-selves have been shagging for — how long, again?

He says, “No. He’s talking to Kingsley.”

Beneath his hands, Draco stiffens. “The Minister for Magic is here? He wasn’t here earlier.”

“It’s probably fine—”

Draco gives a shaking breath against his ear. “He’s the one that gave the go-ahead to drug you with the antidote.” 

“Calm down,” Harry says, and immediately wonders whether they’ll ever both be able to feel calm simultaneously, or if they must take it in turns every time. “Come on. We’re practically morphing into one, right now. I’d say this is pretty convincing.” 

A pause, then. The thrum of the music booms in Harry’s ears, the noticeable silence of Draco’s voice opening up for the deafening chorus of people singing along to whatever this song is. Any anxieties that Harry reserved earlier have been either completely subdued by the alcohol or passed to the man pressed against him, it seems. Perhaps through touch. Harry’s fingers curl against the shirt beneath them again, and he feels, somehow, a little calmer still.

Draco’s hand on his back is as stiff as a board. Harry can’t understand why, as his fingers begin to move against the man’s shirt all by themselves, in a massage-esque gesture. It’s soothing him well enough.

“Draco?” he says again, and leans back now, far enough to look him in the eye for the first time since grabbing ahold of his waist. His eyes are wide and his face is pinker than it had been when this started — but then Harry supposes that their being so close to one another has done nothing to help the closing heat of the room. Draco can’t seem to look him in the eye, and the only movement he makes is to remove his hand from the small of Harry’s back. Harry has to ask, “You okay?”

A small nod. “Too many glasses of wine, I think.”

“Right,” Harry scoffs. “And?”

“And nothing,” he replies, far too quickly. “Can we retire?”

“Already? I mean, if you want. Do you want to say goodnight to everyone or, you know, do an Irish goodbye?”

Draco’s proceeding expression tells him that he has no bloody clue what on earth that means. Harry tries not to let his grin stretch across his face too widely. 

“Okay,” Harry says. He leans in once again, this time rubbing their cheeks together as he approaches his ear, liquid courage for the mission coursing through his body. “We either say our goodbyes, we try to slip out of here without anybody seeing, or we show everyone why we’re leaving instead.”

Against his own, Draco’s face is boiling hot. “It feels like you’ve already made a decision.”

“Kingsley is looking right at us,” Harry says, and it’s the truth. His glasses are getting steamy but he can both see and feel the Minister’s eyes on the both of them. “I don’t know if just slipping away is an option.”

A low sigh. “And saying goodbye will take too long. Nobody will interrupt us if we — Right.” 

“I’m whispering something sultry in your ear right now,” Harry hums, turning his head to face inwards. “Pretend like you’re incredibly thrilled at the offers I’m making you.”

He can practically feel the eye-roll through Draco’s temple. “He can’t see what I’m doing.”

“He can’t see your face, but he can see your body language. Just pretend to be incredibly aroused and you can go to bed, alright?”

There’s a moment of consideration, and then he feels the man give in. Hands are on him at once, one on his bicep and the other on his chest. He leans back slightly, lowering his head just to Harry’s height, causing Harry to wrap an arm around his waist to keep him upright. His own other hand heads upwards, until he’s cupping the other side of Draco’s face, fingertips delving into the blond starts of his hair. 

“Okay,” Harry says. “This is good.”

“Good,” Draco repeats. 

“I’m offering, and I’m offering,” he drawls.

Draco shoves him a little, almost sending them both off balance. He turns his own head, his lips brushing Harry’s ear again, and says, “Come on, then.”

He turns them both around quicker than Harry can comprehend, spinning them on their fumbling feet. Harry bumps into someone and apologises but can’t give them his full attention, because Draco is hooking his hands around his neck and walking them both towards the exit. He can’t see where he’s going, so Harry guides him, laughing with his hands back on his waist again. 

When they’re out in the freedom of the corridor, they separate. Hands to themselves, they quickly pace to the elevator, a nasty banging in Harry’s head from how loud the music had been. And, he presumes, from the wine. 

It had been very nice wine. That must be what still warms him now, what still beats thrums of pleasure through his body and soul. 

Harry stumbles when attempting to step out of the lift and Draco lets him, stifling a laugh. This hallway is so bright compared to downstairs, and it hurts his eyes as they re-adjust, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. 

It’s for this very reason that Harry is so taken aback when he feels it; the grab of both of Draco’s hands, wrapping Harry’s arms around himself and — unintentionally, Harry figures — planting them perhaps slightly lower than intended. He blinks about five times before reason catches up with him, shocked at the feeling of Draco’s body beneath him and against him once again. Harry’s hands are as still as can possibly be as Draco leans against an available wall. All Harry can seem to think, for at least one distracted, odd moment, is that their room is still three doors down, and if they’re going to actually do this then they should really get there first —

Then he hears a quiet gasp, a tinny of stifled laughter, and he manages to see what Draco had impressively caught before himself; the couple neighbouring them, whom they had heard through the wall when first arriving. They’re staring at them wide-eyed, caught up all in each other the same way that Harry and Draco appear to be. 

Their door opens as they all remain still. 

“‘Place will be crawling with silencing charms tonight, eh?” the man says to them awkwardly. The girl rushes into the room and he follows without waiting for a response from either of them, the shrillest of voices asking, “Was that Harry Potter?!” before the door slams shut. 

They make it to their room, once Harry has sufficiently — and literally — leapt away from the man against the wall. He holds his hands up the entire way, as if they’re evidence of some kind, not to be touched again after what they’ve been privy to. He holds his tongue, too, and Draco follows suit, neither of them saying another word as they brush their teeth and settle down in their respective beds. Draco’s is the actual bed, of course. Harry’s is the couch, with a few blankets. But his hands tingle and his head is beginning to hurt and he feels even hotter again, for some reason, so he doesn’t complain once. Besides, he’d agreed to it.

Draco is bright red, panting in his absolute silence. Harry watches him taking heaving breaths as he sits down on the bed that he has taken. He wants to know what he’s thinking — what’s going through that intricate, alcohol-riddled brain of his. He’d told him, I’m not an embarrassing drunk, and he hadn’t been. He’d been almost perfect, until he’d made Harry manhandle him. Case or not — he’s clearly blushing with a mortification that he’d never thought he’d put himself into.

It slowly sinks into his half-working brain, clouded with drink and fatigue, that he’d actually had fun tonight. That it had truly been thrilling — daring and impossible and yet somehow completed. His heart had been pumping a million beats a second because it’s ridiculous — it shouldn’t have worked — but they’d done it anyway. It’s the most exciting thing that has happened to Harry in — God, years.

He thinks about saying goodnight, or about thanking him for giving him something to actually make his life interesting again. He falls asleep before he has a chance to go through with it. 

Chapter Text

Harry’s head feels like it’s been hit with a hammer. It’s unfair really, considering the fact that he hadn’t even felt that drunk last night. His memories come back to him easier than they would normally if he’d gone out, and yet the pounding in his head only gets worse as he processes them, a phantom touch of another body beneath his hands. 

The pounding gets worse. And worse again. 

Then he realises that the banging is actually coming from outside his head. 

“Fuck,” he says, scrambling up and off of the couch. He looks over to the bed where Draco is still soundly asleep, somehow, and Harry has to make a split decision. 

He grabs the blankets that had kept him warm all night and throws them into the bathroom before closing the door. He steps next to the bed next, standing over Draco, and gently shoves his shoulder, wobbling his still body. 

He looks peaceful in his sleep. His eyelashes are light but just visible against his pale skin, somehow free from dark circles despite what must have been a rough night’s sleep, alcohol-riddled and head aching. From what Harry can see, anyway, as his glasses are somewhere that is not on his face and he doesn’t have time to search for them right now. The shaking seems to elicit a blurry shift from the man’s otherwise still body, but that’s it.

If he’s dreaming, Harry has to interrupt it. 

“Draco,” he whispers harshly. “Wake up!”

The subsequent noise is a rough one as a gasp is ripped from his wakening state, sitting up so quickly that he almost headbutts Harry, making both of their headaches substantially worse. 

“What—?” Draco grunts. He blinks wildly as his eyes and brain readjust to consciousness, staring up at Harry, his eyes trailing down and lingering on his shirtless torso. It gives Harry a pause, but there’s no time to dwell on his own self-consciousness. 

“Answer the door,” Harry says quickly. 

“What?” he says again. “Why can’t you answer it? What— What is wrong with you!”

Harry shakes his head, already walking around to the other side of the bed, lifting up the covers and settling himself in, covers to his face. Draco sits up, staring at him, wearing both what appears to be a matching set of pyjamas — seriously — and an expression of pure, unbridled rage. 

“This side wasn’t slept in!” Harry argues.

Draco is already getting out of bed at the next round of banging at the door, glaring at him with a roll of thunder in his eyes. If he could wandlessly, wordlessly curse people, Harry has a feeling that he’d have lost his bollocks by now.

“I could’ve rolled over,” Draco sneers, and Harry has only a moment to blame the lingering alcohol on that slight oversight before Draco is peering through the peephole and swearing under his breath. Then it opens.

He hadn’t spoken to them last night, which is what makes it so confusing now. Surely, Harry thinks, it would have been better to catch them out when they were drunk, more likely to spill something of a lie. But instead, he’s here now, only identifiable to Harry through the immediate distaste from Draco that practically fills the room — as well as the odd shape of the man that Harry can just barely make out in the doorway. 

“Dawlish,” Draco deadpans, holding his ground. He doesn’t attempt to hide Harry’s figure in the bed behind his body, nor does he invite the man in. The only word spoken is the sodden name, dripping with contempt. If Draco had been furious already at the rude awakening from Harry, this would not do much to help his mood. 

Harry feels a bit bad for the man, in that respect.

“Good morning, Mr Malfoy,” says Dawlish, and Harry screws his eyes shut when he cranes his neck to look at him, too. A part of him is curious to see how this will go when the man does not know that he’s privy to the conversation. 

In the absence of his vision, Harry can practically hear the tensing of Draco’s jaw. He hears him say, “You woke me.”

“Not both of you, I see,” is pointed out.

A pause. Then, “He’s a heavy sleeper after a few glasses.”

Dawlish does not respond at once, and an awkward silence passes between them, wherein Harry can only imagine a confusing stand-off between the two of them. Dawlish in his full robes; Draco in his matching pyjamas. 

At last, Draco succumbs. “Can I help you?”

“I just took it upon myself to check on you both,” he hums. “I was surprised you were in the mood for a party… Given the investigation.”

Through his teeth: “I have nothing to be worried about because you won’t find anything.”

“As you keep saying. Auror Potter appeared smitten with you last night.”

“Well, I should hope so. If that is all—”

“Extermina factum,” Dawlish interrupts him, seemingly quick enough to shock Draco into a momentary quiet. Dawlish waits for an answer that does not come. When the silence stretches thin, there’s smugness in his voice as it returns, saying, “Are you familiar?”

“That is private,” Draco breathes. “You have no right to—”

“I do, Malfoy. I have every right. I don’t know how you’ve gotten him to do this, but it is not going to spare you. He’s everyone else’s Saviour; not yours. I don’t believe this for a second. I’ll get you.” Another long pause comes then, and Harry wills Draco to say something, but he doesn’t. With retrospect, he has no clue what Draco could say to that. When Dawlish says a proud, “Good day, Malfoy,” Draco says nothing in return before the door clicks shut. 

As Harry’s eyes open, it’s to the image of Draco’s blurry figure leaning his back against the door, head in his hands. Harry truly doesn’t know where his glasses are, but decides to put the small matter aside for now. 

He doesn’t approach him, but throws his legs over the side, ignoring the fact that he can’t see anything at all and speaking to him. It feels more normal than going over to him. 

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Even through his blindness, Harry can see him shake his head. Weakly, he responds, “I don’t know why I’m trying. Their minds are already made up.”

“That’s just Dawlish. I’m sure that—”

“He already doesn’t believe this. Did you hear him? Even after last night. If we announce an engagement soon, he’ll see right through it; he’ll see it as panic.”

“Hey,” Harry says firmly. “Then we make him believe, right? We leave it without any doubt.”

Draco’s eyes are on him. He can feel them more than see them, the gaze curious and worried. He asks, “What else could we possibly do?”

And for a moment, Harry doesn’t know. It was one thing to see the both of them hold hands all night, press against each other and whisper in each other’s ears, he figures. But if one was looking for it to be false; if one was searching for their façade to be just that, it would seem an easy out. Anyone could do that, Harry’s Auror brain tells him. 

His brain wracks over every incident of his and Ginny’s that had ended up on the front pages over their time together. Less had there been public shows of affection at parties and commencement ceremonies for the War — more, for whatever reason, had there been private moments, moments where they had genuinely not known that anybody had been watching. 

Catching each other by coincidence when out in public. Finding a small corner at a busy event to indulge in each other. Ginny being caught one-too-many times with one-too-many love bites on her neck — The Prophet had dubbed him The Boy Who Bites. 

He takes a deep breath. Go all in. It’s better when they don’t try. 

“I think I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.”

Draco snorts through his disdain. “If it’s yours, that’s a given.”

Harry ignores him. He really can’t deal with the man’s attitude on a hangover. “Are you free tomorrow evening? I’m working during the day.”

A nod of his head comes before he voices it: “Yes.”

“Great. Come over to mine, then, and I promise you, we’ll figure it out.”

“You seem awfully sure of that, Potter.”

“Harry,” Harry corrects. “Shut up, and help me find my glasses.”

“Gladly. You look ridiculous without them.”

“You always look ridiculous.”

“And put a shirt on. You look obscene.”

“Shut up.”

*

Work that next day is possibly the longest thing that Harry has ever had to endure, ever. 

Coupled with teasing jabs from colleagues about his and Draco’s proximity on the dance floor, Harry is both overly conscious of running into Dawlish at any given moment, not knowing what to say to him if he does. The man is obviously still disillusioned by their false relationship, which means one of two things: he still believes Harry to be drugged, or he believes Harry to be an accomplice to Draco Malfoy and whatever crimes he is accused of. It beats on his brain like a hammer all day, superseded by only one other dominating thought: how to explain his idea to Draco tonight without sounding like an utter freak. 

He bites his nails on the entire commute back home, still not having come to a conclusion. As usual, when he walks the steps up to his front door, fumbling for his key, he spares a glance to the empty bench across the street. It’s not raining today. 

The hour between getting home and when Draco is due to arrive is rough. Harry showers and changes out of his work robes but then spends the rest of the time worrying, thinking of ways to back out of the idea that he, himself thought up in the first place — that he could still keep to himself, he ponders, but knows that it isn’t an option. If people need to be convinced, Harry and Draco will convince them. 

They just need to convince themselves a bit, first. 

The knock on the door makes him jump. Harry doesn’t know why he hasn’t just opened his Floo for the man yet, but it’s too late to wonder now, because he’s already here. Here, and with wet hair, plastered to his forehead and darkening with the moisture. Harry keeps his eyes on it as Draco steps in without a word, shutting the door without one from himself, either. 

Stripping himself of his travelling cloak, Draco says, disgruntled, “It’s raining in Wiltshire.”

“I see that,” Harry says, and he has to laugh at the look on the man’s face. He takes the cloak, hanging it up for him. “For once, blue skies in London.” 

“Typical,” the man huffs, and makes his way into the front room. Harry follows closely behind, rubbing away the wetness leftover on his palms from the cloak onto his jeans. 

He politely declines a drink when Harry offers one and so Harry sips alone on his water, hand perspiring and shaking, on the couch opposite the one that Draco has planted himself on. He’s shifting around too much, enough to catch Draco’s inquisition, bouncing his leg in the same way that shakes every table he sits at. 

Draco eyes him, arm strewn over the arm of the chair. There’s curiosity and a hint of worry in those eyes, looking him up and down, pinning him to the spot. With a shift in his seat of his own, and a low voice, he says, “I think I know what your idea is.”

Harry, who had not a clue on how to articulate his idea in the first place, breathes a sigh of relief. “Really?”

“I believe so.” Draco nods. “I think it’s a good idea.”

Harry blinks. “You do?”

“Yes. With some clever manoeuvres, it should be pleasant for both of us.”

He almost chokes on it. “Pleasant?”

“Well, within reason. I think, perhaps, a bit nostalgic for me,” he says, and Harry genuinely believes that he’s entered a parallel universe. Even more so when he adds, “I shall make suitable arrangements regarding my mother…”

“Hold on,” Harry interrupts. “Just what do you think my idea is?”

Draco allows a frown to shade his features, clear confusion taking over. He opens his mouth once, twice before he manages to spit it out. “My moving in here.”

Harry’s eyes blow wide. “What?!”

“It’s a simple progression in a relationship, Potter. It’ll make the engagement look entirely more plausible.”

“So, what, you just — Move yourself in here?”

“I thought you were asking me,” the man huffs, rolling his eyes again. “What is your grand idea, then? How much better for our image is it than mine?”

Harry pauses then, hesitation covering his momentary outrage. He forgets how to speak again, wondering how the idea may be received after that — because now that he’s taking the time to think about it, living with the man does seem like a reasonable next step. He had lived with Ginny for years, though after already having proposed. Perhaps they really had done everything the wrong way around, he thinks. 

And now he has to wonder, whilst genuinely deliberating Draco’s idea, whether he’d be able to stomach it. Draco has already figuratively filled the void left by her, though only through falsities. Would Harry be able to handle watching Draco Malfoy tread the floors barefoot where Ginny had once done the same? Sitting on these sofas everyday to watch the morning news? Brushing their teeth, cooking, shopping side-by-side, the picture of a pure domestic bliss that is entirely fake. 

There’s a finger snapping in his face. “Potter! What is your idea?”

“Right,” he says, snapping back to reality. “Don’t shout at me.”

“You quite literally just shouted at me for mine,” Draco deadpans.

Harry ignores this. He takes one deep breath, and knows that this is the absolute last chance that he has to back out of this. But the thoughts are prominent and obvious on how to make this seem believable. They need to be prepared.

Harry, very awkwardly, says, “I think we should kiss.”

Perhaps context would’ve been good to add, but it’s too late. Heavily, the words hang between them, somehow accentuating the thickness of the room and the pure flummoxed expression on Draco’s face. His mouth hangs open now, staring at Harry like perhaps Dawlish had had the right idea about him being drugged.

He asks, “Have you already been at the whiskey?”

“Shut up,” Harry says. He allows himself one more sigh, trying to articulate it in his head. “Look, the freaks at The Prophet almost always found a way to get sneaky photos of me and Gin kissing. If none start to come out of me and you, they’ll figure out that it’s because it’s not even happening.”

Draco, to his credit, is nodding along. At least he’s trying to understand, Harry figures. All he says is, “Right.”

“So, you know. We need to get used to the idea of, well, PDA stuff. Trust me, I don’t like it anymore than you do. I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t truly think that it would benefit us.”

Draco simply says, “Right.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, honestly expecting more protestation but not complaining for the lack of an argument. “The thing is that, well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never necked a bloke.”

To that, Draco says nothing. Harry doesn’t read into it.

He continues, “I don’t know. It’s probably the same thing. But I do know that we don’t want to be caught in public looking like we’ve never done it before.”

Draco’s mouth closes. He swallows. He says, “You want to practice.”

Harry nods, and Draco’s expression becomes unreadable. He stands up, looking around the room but seemingly unsure what exactly for. A hand comes up to his forehead and he wipes it, screwing his eyes together and squeezing his lips shut.

Before Harry can ask if he’s alright, Draco asks, “May I use your washroom?”

Harry rubs his palms on his thighs, wondering if he’s ill or just that disgusted at the prospect of kissing him. The thought stings as he makes his way to the kitchen, fetching the man a cup of water for when he’s out, because he looked like he needed it. 

It would be fine, he tells himself. They’ve already gone this far, after all. Harry had already plastered his hands on Draco’s arse and pinned him to a wall, though through no fault of his own. What’s a little kissing between ex-enemies?

He’s more composed when he returns, taking the glass of water gladly. When he sits down again, it’s not on his own respective couch. It’s on Harry’s, right next to him. Their knees brush. Draco’s hands shake when he places down his glass of water, just how Harry’s had done. 

With a new resolve, he says, “Come on, then.”

Harry blinks. “Wh— Now?”

“Sorry, did you want to slot ‘practice kissing’ into your calendar?” Draco snaps. “I’ve prepared myself now. Mentally.”

“Okay, okay,” Harry says, holding up his hands. When he lowers them again, it’s as he turns his body, one leg hiking up on the cushion. One arm drapes across the back of the sofa. “Ready when you are.”

Draco glares at him. Harry can almost certainly read his mind. He knows what he wants to say; knows that he wants Harry to come to him and not the other way around. But it’s a childish thing to say, and Harry’s made fun of him for less, recently. He’s as still as a statue (a muggle one, of course), his chest heaving beneath his shirt, knuckles paling as his fingernails must be pushing into his palms. 

Harry feels him take in his resolve, his readiness. In reality, he’s anything but — but somebody needs to present an air of confidence right now and it does not look like that’s going to be Draco. Harry has no choice but to act as if he couldn’t care less about this happening. Like it’s any other Monday night. 

He’s getting ready to speak another goading taunt into the space between them when Draco moves. Harry almost doesn’t notice, but not for the speed of it; for the subtlety. Draco is shuffling towards him, manoeuvring his body so that his knees are beneath him on the cushions, and it doesn’t even occur to Harry to tell him to get his grubby shoes off of his furniture. 

He’s there, then — Right there, in fact. His hand brushes Harry’s arm as he steadies himself on the back of the couch, and his knees slot between Harry’s. They’d probably been closer than this at the wedding. Maybe. But it hadn’t felt like this — There had been no sense of anticipation and there had not been this privacy.

Both of their eyes are still open. Neither of them can decide whether to hold eye contact or not, so it becomes an awkward shuffle between them, looking at each other or looking down, or away, or at each other’s lips instead. They’re the object of this proximity, anyway, right? So it surely doesn’t matter if Harry stares at them for a little too long. He’s just waiting to see when they’ll land on his own; whether Draco will make him wait or not. 

Hot breath hits his face and he has no choice but to part his lips and lick them, his own breath seeping out, mingling with the heat of Draco’s. He’s glad he shaved this morning on a whim, he thinks absently. He wouldn’t want it tickling Draco’s face, which is weirdly smooth, like he’d never even had to manage facial hair. And should he have taken his glasses off, he thinks? They might get in the way. And for some reason, right now, anything getting in the way of this can go to Hell. For some reason, this is —

Their noses brush and Harry doesn’t even have a chance to process it before a pair of chaste lips are set upon his own. Draco’s eyes are closed and so Harry copies him, fluttering his lids shut until the only thing he can see is the after-image of Draco’s pretty lashes, closer than he’d ever seen them before. 

His lips are soft. He must use something, Harry thinks, but the thought is sent away with urgency as he moves on instinct, opening his lips and kissing him the way he’s always kissed. It’s muscle memory, he tells himself in the next moment, when Draco stills. He’s ready to pull away, ready to apologise and — something, he doesn’t know — but there’s no need. Before he finishes opening his eyes again, Draco’s emulating the motion against his lips, softly moving them against Harry.

It feels good. He’s almost astounded by how good it feels. It must’ve been longer than he’d thought — must’ve been an age since he’d felt this, had someone else against him. He can’t help the long breath that escapes through his nose, audible in its intensity. He has to readjust himself — he doesn’t know why, an overwhelming feeling washing over him as he pushes himself up a little, giving him a better angle. 

Confusing heat rushes to his abdomen. They’ve only been kissing for, what, a minute? Harry curses these last lonely months, curses that he hadn’t made use of his being single before an illusion ruined it. He shifts his legs apart in a gentle hope to worsen the pressure from his jeans over his crotch, praying for it to push down anything that might happen. All this does, in reality, is make Draco slip a little more between his thighs. 

But Draco doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t stop kissing him, still slow but gathering a good rhythm now. It’s slow enough to keep this casual, slow enough to remind themselves that this isn’t serious — this isn’t someone they’d be kissing if not for necessity. 

Then Harry’s goddamn fucking hand moves on autopilot again and that — that is to blame for what unravels. 

It reaches blindly for Draco’s arm, holding it for a second and rubbing it with his thumb when he startles at the touch. Harry continues kissing him through the brief jump, encouraging him to keep going even though he should probably be looking for an excuse to end it. His hand slips upwards then, gently perusing over his shoulder and to the base of his neck until he’s cupping him, pulling him in more than he should be. 

Draco seems to take it as a form of permission. He raises his own hands in response, both of them coming to Harry’s shoulders, steadying him. He pushes as Harry pulls, arching himself so that Harry has to tilt his head back slightly to keep up with him. 

He can feel all reason leave him. The lips — His fucking lips, pink and soft and so, so Draco Malfoy. It’s all he can do to keep himself from thrusting his hips upwards, but all of his focus is going on that. So who can blame him, really, when he pulls away for the splittest of seconds just to kiss him once again, now on the other side of his nose, smudging his other lens, deepening the kiss and oh, this was not the plan, this —

Draco’s fingers are bunching up the fabric of his shirt, and Harry’s hand has slipped to his hair. His other lands on the man’s waist, messing up the fabric there, too, in revenge. He lets himself get lost in the kiss now, fingertips messing up his hair, and Merlin, where had Draco learned to kiss like this? 

It’s not slow anymore, not at all, and it’s dangerous. Harry knows that they should stop but just the prospect has him gripping on tighter to the man, pulling him in. He responds in turn by slipping a hand to Harry’s chest, fingertips caught in the collar. Harry wants him to go under. He wants everything — wants them to both rip their shirts off and forget fucking everything for now. At least for now. He can feel the want pushing at his jeans and he’s only a man — the focus is slipping — he’s really, truly, only a man — 

He bucks his hips upwards and basks in the resulting gasp that it elicits from the man when their groins brush, but that’s all he seems to be able to get. The sensation is so unique to Harry, feeling another man’s hardness against his own, that he stumbles in his kiss. But that shouldn’t have been the end. 

By a horrid trick of their nature, it is. Draco pulls away with a start, wide-eyed and entirely red, flying until his back is against the couch again and he’s as far away from Harry as he can get. He’s panting just as hard as Harry is, his lips kiss-swollen and reddened. He looks so alarmed, so confused. 

“Sorry,” Harry says at once, his heaving breaths seeping into his speech. “It’s been a while. I guess I forgot who I was kissing.”

Draco visibly gulps. Harry watches him, waiting for him to say something. The only thing that’s repeated in his head, over and over is a wrenching need to approach him again, to continue it, but reality is slowly setting back into his mind and he knows it’s not plausible. Reality, unfortunately, does nothing to ease the tightening of his jeans. 

“Yes,” Draco says finally, breaking the silence. He’s still bright red, impressively so, looking at an insignificant spot on Harry’s carpet. He says, “Me too.”

“That was good though, right?” Harry asks. Hastily then, he adds, “Convincing?”

Draco looks at him again then. His eyes are still so wide, unbelieving. He licks his lips and then balls his hands into fists, breath caught in his throat. He does not answer Harry’s question, but instead asks his own: “You want us to do that in public?”

Harry can’t help but splutter a laugh, despite the situation. “Well, you know, it wouldn’t be like that when we’re doing it in public. That was a tester. You could probably tell that it was our first time. We need to get used to each other first.”

Draco looks like he’s been personally handed a nightmare from the Devil himself. Harry tries not to let it get to him too much — after all, there had to have been something about it that the man had enjoyed, otherwise his body would not have betrayed him. He watches the information settle in on him and wishes that he could apologise again, but really, it isn’t his fault. This was all Draco’s idea, after all. He can blame himself, if he’s so disgusted at having to kiss Harry again and again. 

Apparently, he does just that. As Harry gets up, awkwardly clearing his throat and waddling to the bathroom, he hears the man ask himself, very clearly, “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?”

Chapter Text

It doesn’t truly hit Harry until the next morning, when he’s making himself breakfast and the realisation hits him so hard that he drops his entire plate of scrambled eggs onto the floor. 

Somehow, he had not dreamt of it, but then, he does not think he managed to get much sleep at all. The dreamless night seems impossible with how much it plagues his every thought throughout his day, distracting him from colleagues and terrifying him to his core. He spills his coffee twice before lunch. 

It’s not until he’s home again and alone that Harry allows himself to dwell on it, under the bowers of his bedsheets. No distractions. And so he begins to recall everything — compartmentalising this and that. Draco’s lips on his, Draco’s hands on his shoulders, his chest. His hands in Draco’s hair and on Draco’s neck, his waist, pulling him closer.

Draco Malfoy. God. God. 

Even as the heat begins settling into his body again, he knows that it’s awful in theory. Knows that it’s unbelievable — to think that Harry would ever be able to kiss the man, exchange breaths with him, dig his fingers into the fabric of his shirt. To think Draco Malfoy would kiss him, climb on top of him, smudge Harry’s glasses with the tip of his nose— 

Their history is an aching, black hole between them. It is impossible to imagine getting hard over the bully; the cheat; the boy who had been crying in the bathroom. 

And yet, he had. 

And yet, he is again. 

He slams his head back down onto his pillow, cursing himself. His heart is thumping and his cock is aching, remembering the heat that had been shared, the feeling of Draco’s own excitement against his own. The two of them had been so caught up in it that they had not considered the ramifications, forgotten who it was that had been kissing him so well, so closely. 

And it was more than just the complicated fact of the man’s identity — it was the fact that it was a man at all. Harry had never thought himself to be attracted to men; had never even considered it. It was the type of thing that occurred in other people, he’d thought. Friends of friends. People shunned by the likes of the Dursleys.

But then, he tries to reason with himself — Does it have to mean anything? Could it not be just the culmination of those lonely months and nothing else? The desperate ache for connection, not caring who it is, what vessel is carrying it. It hadn’t meant anything, he tells himself.

It didn’t have to mean anything. 

He slips a hand underneath the bed-sheets. 

His head sinks further into the pillows, mouth hanging open. His fingertips dip beneath the elastic of his waistband and he can’t help but wonder whether Draco had done the same. He’d left in a hurry. Was it for this? Was it to run back to his own bed and touch himself at the memory of it all, the echo of every touch a spur? Harry had been too confused last night for this, gone straight to bed as soon as the door had closed. He’d not even considered entertaining the thumping heat in his underwear. Not until now. 

He wraps his fingers around himself and sighs, the breath released as easily as it had the night before. It all comes back to him, the wet heat of it, the desperate need to carry it on. It’s good, so good, his hand moving up and down on himself before he can even blink. 

Thoughts of Draco stay at the forefront of his mind even when he tries to think of something else. He pushes away thoughts of Ginny and tries instead to think of other girls, known to him or not, but nothing works, each and every person shunted aside for Draco. His pink lips, his long fingers, holding him. 

A curse leaves his lips before he bites down on them. He could kiss him again. He could kiss anyone again, really, but he really could kiss Draco again. Maybe for longer, next time. Harry on top, hovering over him. Sliding down from those lips to his neck—

His hips jerk upwards at just the thought. Draco’s neck, a clean slate, long and slender and elegant. Harry hadn’t really thought of it before. Perhaps it’s not just Draco, he thinks for a moment, but then it’s skewed — images and images of him, arched back, holding Harry’s head at his throat and letting him mark it. 

It’s not just Draco. It’s not just Draco. 

He’s just horny and alone. That’s all. 

Even as he squeezes his eyes shut and digs his fingernails into his thigh, spilling out over his fist, he thinks of kissing him, thinks of taking it further. He’s cumming with the sensation of Draco on him and for a moment it feels so real again —

But soon, he’s asleep again, and he doesn’t have to think about awkward logistics or wallow in post-orgasm clarity. 

Yet again, if he dreams, he doesn’t remember it. 

*

It’s not awkward when they see each other again.

This is simultaneously a good thing and a weird thing, because he and Draco both know that it probably should be awkward, but it’s not. They don’t bring it up particularly but they don’t avoid it. Certainly, Harry does not mention nor dwell on the fact that just the recollection of kissing him gave him one of the best orgasms he’s had in a long, long time. 

He doesn’t need to. It doesn’t mean anything; the words are a permanent fixture in his head. 

Tonight, Harry has cooked up some fairly basic chicken, and by some miracle, Draco is genuinely impressed by it. 

“It’s rather lovely,” he says, hand covering his mouth before picking up a napkin to dab around his lips. Harry tries not to stare. Draco continues, “What is in this?”

Harry shrugs. It had been a recipe from a muggle newspaper, not very complicated and so perfect for him. He lists out some basic ingredients, ones he’d found tucked away in the high cupboards.

“Chilli powder?” Draco balks. “It isn’t spicy.”

A slow blink. “You do know that spices add more than just heat, don’t you?” he asks, and Draco just looks at him. Harry snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. He adds, “Merlin, no wonder you’re so amazed by my shitty cooking if you’ve been eating such bland stuff your whole life. I thought you had house-elves?”

Draco hums. “Father always had a sensitive palate.”

Harry doesn’t comment on that, because Lucius Malfoy is a whole different can of worms that Harry doesn’t feel like opening yet. He doesn’t know how the man feels about his father and, frankly, is a little afraid to find out. They’ve been going good, mostly, with times like these. Good conversation, minimal arguments of little to no actual substance. Harry doesn’t want to ruin that. Not yet. Not whilst they still have to deal with each other. 

So he clears his throat, and redirects the conversation somewhere else. “I spoke to Ron today.”

“That is interesting, considering you share an office.”

“Shut up. He’s said that the Weasleys have requested that we join them for a roast on Sunday.”

Draco studies him for a moment. Then he places down his knife and fork. He says, “I see.”

“We’re invited every single week, really, but I haven’t really… You know, because Ginny will be there.”

A slow nod. “Of course.”

“But they seem to be getting tired of the fact that we’re not going. I got the impression that the request was really more of a threat.” Harry chuckles. “You alright with that?” 

Draco says, “Of course,” but it’s subdued slightly. Harry watches him clear his throat and take a long sip of his water. Feeling the inquisitive gaze upon him, Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes. I’m fine with it.”

“You don’t look fine with it,” Harry states, trying not to let bitterness seep into his tone. He doesn’t want to assume, but it’s Malfoy, for crying out loud. It’s not like the bloke doesn’t have form. He says, “Look, if you’re going to be a dick about them and their house, then forget it. I’ll tell them you had other plans.”

Draco’s neck practically snaps as his head shoots up, pure indignant shock in his gaze. He stares at Harry with a sad dawning, his mouth parted, his head shaking slightly. The silence stretches for a moment, his knuckles whitening on the edge of the table, and Harry has the faintest idea that he may have gotten the wrong impression. 

“Okay,” he says quickly. “I’m assuming that’s not it.”

“No. That’s not it,” Draco snarls. Harry double-checks quickly that his wand is indeed in his pocket, lest he have to throw up a shield charm to protect himself from flying chicken. It is.

Harry takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

But the apology is ignored. “You have been spending so much time with me, and yet —”

“Draco, I’m sorry.”

“If you thought that I was the same as I was in school, why did you agree to help me?” he asks, and it may be Harry’s imagination, but his hand seems awfully too close to his knife. Draco adds, “Or to marry me?”

“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t think you’re still the same. I’m sorry. Just— You don’t seem to be all that enthusiastic about going to the Burrow, and—”

“Oh, and you were quick to make an assumption, weren’t you? Potter, it’ll be the first time I’m seeing most of them since the War. Clearly, you’ve barely forgiven me. How on Earth can I expect them to?” Draco’s eyes remain on him as the words echo in Harry’s head; this had not even been a consideration. He says, “Not to mention the fact that I now have the added bonus of stealing you away from their only daughter. Why have they even invited me in the first place? To scorn me?”

“Draco,” Harry says. He reaches across the table and places a hand on his wrist casually, like this is something they normally do in privacy. But it’s fine, Harry figures. They’re supposed to be getting used to each other, aren’t they? 

Draco stares at the hand on his wrist and then back up at his face, wide-eyed, his rant cut short by the contact. He looks like he wants to continue but doesn’t, frozen to the spot, ice forming from where Harry’s fingers brush his pulse.

Harry goes on, “They wouldn’t have asked you there if they hated you. It’s been years. And, well, as for Ginny…”

The man takes a breath. “Have you seen her since she left?”

The phrasing stings. He shrugs his shoulders. “No. But it’s fine. I’ll have you with me.”

Draco is still frozen beneath Harry’s hand, so he removes it, having lingered for probably too long, anyway. Draco remains unmoving, his eyes now boring a hole into the spot on his wrist that had been touched. Harry wishes that he could see what was going on in his mind, wishes that he could decipher every little thing. 

Harry’s already returned to eating his dinner when Draco speaks again. “Is Arthur Weasley close with Dawlish?”

“Not personally,” he tells him. “But they work closely together on some things.”

“Right,” Draco says, picking up his cutlery once again. “That could be beneficial for us. Let’s be convincing.”

And Harry’s mind is swept away with thoughts of kissing him again, getting him somewhere comfortable and gliding a hand down his body. When all of this is over, he tells himself, he’ll go to the first club he sees and happily indulge in the prettiest woman in there. God knows that he needs it. 

*

“Do I look alright?” 

Harry takes a good look at him as he walks through the door. He looks way too posh for a Sunday dinner, but Harry doesn’t tell him that for worry that he’ll run back to the Manor to change again. He looks good, too, but Harry doesn’t say that either. 

He’s been attempting to think of things like that less often, after almost a week has gone by since they had kissed on Harry’s couch — since it had penetrated his every waking thought as the days had ticked by. His loneliness is a catalyst of his desire. As is his boredom. For whatever reason, the universe has decided that Draco Malfoy should be the object of his solving these things. He’s trying to ignore it. 

So, he doesn’t voice anything at all about his opinion on Draco’s looks. He says instead, “What are you, a girl?”

“I’m a man, thank you, who is supposed to be meeting his partner’s family for the first time. I need to look like I’m making an effort.”

Harry doesn’t know why the wording makes him feel warm. There’s something about it that makes him feel understood by the man in an odd sort of way; just the fact that he knows what the Weasley’s mean to him, how close they really are, calling them his family. Harry holds back a smile.

He doesn’t remind the man not to say any inappropriate comments about their lifestyle or their wealth. Not only does he not feel like it’ll end well after their previous conversation, but he somewhat genuinely feels like he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t even need to convince himself of this, either. 

Harry goes through the Floo first, mostly to ease the other man’s anxieties, and it’s basically an ambush. He takes not even two steps out of the soot before he’s enveloped by two warm arms, two utensils still in the hands that wrap around him. There’s a kiss to his cheek and a chorus of pleased hums of his name, and when Mrs Weasley steps back to look at him, it’s with adoration. 

“There he is. Goodness, I’ve missed you,” she coos, cupping his face. “You’re just in time. Everyone is just getting to the table.”

Harry nods, opening his mouth and stepping inside slightly, but she’s already fumbling away to gather something else. He clears his throat, holds up a hand, and says, “Um, Mrs Weasley…”

“Yes?” she asks. 

“I don’t know if you recall, but—”

He doesn’t have time to get it out. The Floo is alight again, and then he’s there, tall and feigning confidence, not stumbling even a little bit as he steps out of the flames. He’s pristine, exacerbated more so by all of the mess surrounding them. 

Mrs Weasley stares at him, then at Harry, and then back at Draco, scrutinisingly scanning him up and down. She seems to only come back to herself after a few moments. Then, she says, “I thought this was next week.”

Was it? Had it been? Harry sees Draco’s eyes flash with alarm, peering over to him for help with what to do. Harry had been convinced that it was today, unless Ron had been mistaken and told him the wrong date, somehow—

“Just joking,” she says then, interrupting the immediate panic that had entered the room. Her face warms, but there’s still an astute alertness in her gaze. “Well. Haven’t you grown up, Malfoy?”

Draco is nervously rubbing his fingers together. It was something that he did regularly, but Harry had never noticed it before now. He watches the man’s tension deflate ever so slightly, his face painted with politeness. 

“Mrs Weasley,” he says to her. “I would like to thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“Hm,” she replies, and Harry is still staring between them, eyes flickering back and forth. “Well. If you’ve really grown up, there shouldn’t be any problem at all. Do you like parsnips?”

Draco blinks. “Yes.”

“Good. Help carry them in for me, then. Harry, you get the meat.”

Draco stares at him all the while attempting to pick up the heavy pot of parsnips, and Harry just has to struggle to hold back his laughter. He picks up the tray of the meat and follows after Draco’s shaking grip, knowing that this could’ve started off a lot worse. 

“Look who’s here,” Mrs Weasley says, introducing them into the dining room, and Harry’s hand almost slips with how suddenly sweaty they become.

And it’s all rushing over him again as he realises that he’s going to have to lie to everyone he holds dear. He puts down the meat and re-introduces Draco to the table with a smile on his face, but his heart is beating a hundred miles a minute. He watches Mr Weasley shake his hand and sees George wink at him and Hermione and Ron smile kindly and he tries to forget about the guilt rising in his throat. 

It’s fine, he thinks. Tries to think. Draco Lucius Malfoy. Fifth of June, 1980, older and taller. Sweet William, green, ten inches, unicorn hair. He runs it all off in his mind, an earnest attempt at making his pulse slow down, and it actually begins to work. The way he’s nervously accepted by the table actually works to calm him somewhat.

Then she walks in, drying her hands on her jumper, hair haphazardly tucked behind one of her freckled ears. Her eyes widen when she sees the both of them. In fact, she stops right in her tracks. 

“Oh,” she says quietly. “You’re here.”

The table falls into an awkward silence, looking between them. Harry feels that same familiar ache rise up inside of him as he looks at her. He’d almost forgotten what it had been like to be in the same room as her, which is… Weird. Considering that they’d lived together for years, extremely so.

“Hi,” he says. “Um. Gin, you remember Draco.”

Her eyes slide over to the man beside him, mouth already half-open. She peers at him in the same way that her mother had done to him, quietly dissecting. “Yeah,” she responds, tone flat. “I remember… Draco.”

Harry has the distinct feeling then that whilst Ron and Hermione had done most of the heavy lifting when convincing the family of Draco’s intentions and Harry’s ability to make his own decisions, they had not dared to speak about it with Ginny. He couldn’t have expected them to. How could they? How is that a topic that you breach? 

“Pleasure to see you again,” Draco says into the still silence of the room. He says nothing else. 

The tension could be sliced. Nobody seems to have any idea of what to do to dissolve it, and so it stays. 

The meal is still filled with conversation, attempting to avoid the elephant in the room. Bill and Fleur are holidaying in the Alps, Harry hears. Percy is planning to get engaged to the American lawyer he has been spending a lot of time with recently. Charlie recently welcomed a new baby Ukrainian Irontail into the world all by himself, because the resident dragon-midwife called in sick. Celia and Myron are still honeymooning all over Asia. 

Every conversation, no matter how distantly, seems to revolve or keep coming back to marriage and kids. Harry sees Hermione and Ron sneak small looks at each other, adoration plain on their faces. Should he be doing that with Draco, he wonders? Did he used to do that with Ginny? Did his eyes once fill with clear love when he looked at her? Now, when he tries to catch her eyes for a semblance of civility, all he feels is… He doesn’t know what. 

When he turns his head to Draco, he finds the man already looking at him. Casual, he reminds himself, and stretches his arm to drape an arm across the back of the man’s chair before asking him quietly, “Do I have something on my face?”

His answer is a roll of his eyes and an aversion of eye contact as he continues to cut into his beef. Harry’s plate is long-clean. Ginny and Draco are the only ones who have yet to finish. 

When they finally do, Mr and Mrs Weasley refuse all help from the children (as she still refers to them) and take the plates to go and wash up themselves, leaving the table with an awkward six. 

George is the one to break the silence. Harry should’ve known that it wouldn’t be to make it anything smoother. “So,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You haven’t had to invest in any scarves, I see.”

Ron snorts, but Ginny rolls her eyes and says in warning, “George.”

“What? I’m just saying, Malfoy seems to wear higher necklines than you. He won’t have to worry about that sort of thing.”

“George,” she says again, and he raises his hands in surrender. 

“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound it. Then he leans in closer to Harry and whispers, not so quietly, “Never letting you live that down, mate. Even if she wants to kill me for it.”

Harry can’t help but laugh, even if it’s not the right time for the conversation at all. Hermione is the one to politely divert the conversation to something more suitable, as Harry can feel grey eyes on him, lingering for the rest of the time they’re there.

*

They get back to Grimmauld Place after saying polite goodbyes, not hanging around for too long after they finish eating. The air is awkward with Ginny around and whilst he can’t wait to get away from it, it’s deathly unfortunate. He used to tell her his every thought. Now, they can’t even look at each other. 

His mood seeps into the front room as they re-enter through the Floo. It seems to flow from him like a darkness; the same helpless feeling that had infected him the day that Ginny had left. 

Draco must have been spending too much time with him. He notices at once. Perhaps, he’d already sensed it.

“So,” the man says to him, wiping soot off of his shoulder. “That was…”

Harry shuffles away awkwardly, red hair and brown eyes flashing in his brain. He shakes his head as he moves. He doesn’t want to talk about it. And yet, he speaks. 

“It was horrible,” he tells him. “Genuinely. God, she couldn’t even look at me.”

Distantly, Harry can hear the other man clear his throat. He asks, “You were looking at her?”

“I was trying to — I don’t know. Gauge whether or not she hated me.”

“It didn’t look like she hated you,” Draco tells him, and he’s making his way over to the decanter, helping himself to two fingers of whiskey. He pours one for Harry as well, but he still thinks it’s cheeky. 

Harry takes the glass, sipping it before tentatively asking, “It didn’t?”

“No,” he confirms. “It looked like she hated me.”

He watches as Draco shoots back the whiskey in one, eyes following the glisten of light on the ridges of the glass. It doesn’t shatter when it hits the countertop, thankfully, even with such force. 

“Well, that’s probably a good thing,” Harry tells him, carefully eyeing the white tightening of the other man’s knuckles. “It means she’s convinced enough to be jealous. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Draco says. “Just— I’m fine.”

It’s not hard for Harry not to believe him. He’s avoiding eye contact with him, staring out instead at the drizzle on the window, grey eyes on a grey landscape. Harry follows his gaze, staring out at the view of the rain-darkened bench that had started all of this. 

Harry puts down his barely touched glass of whiskey, taking strides closer to the other man before motioning wordlessly at the sofa. The action is received with a quiet, long, scrutinising gaze before the instruction is followed. He practically throws himself down onto the cushions, eyes determinedly remaining on the leafless trees, silhouetted by clouds. 

Harry sits down beside him. Not too close, not too far. He says, his voice soft and understanding, “I’m not going to go back to Ginny, if that’s what you’re worried about. I won’t just abandon you.”

Draco’s eyes flutter closed. “I know. I know you wouldn’t, you’re too… Kind,” he says, and sighs like it’s a bad thing. “I have come in here and ruined any chances you would have of getting her back.”

“Ginny and I were done before you were even in the picture. Neither of us would be happy if we got back together, it’s just— Seeing me with someone new must have been weird. It’s pretty much always been me and her. It’s just… Weird. Falling out of love with someone. You know?”

His head is shaking before his mouth opens to tell him, “No, I don’t.”

Harry wonders if the man has ever even been in love at all. They’re still young, after all. Naive to what love can even be. He rubs the back of his neck, averts his eyes. He says, “Well. I’m just letting you know, anyway, that I’m not giving up on you. Not for Ginny, not for anyone now. We’re sticking to it.”

Draco watches him for a few moments, maybe putting out some feelers for deceit. “As you keep saying.”

“What?” Harry asks, and chuckles now. “You can’t be doubting me, not after taking you to see the Weasleys.”

“No, I’m not doubting you. I’m not.” He sighs, looking around for Harry’s abandoned glass. “Can I finish that?”

Harry shakes his head, knowing realistically that he’s not going to get to the bottom of the man’s odd mood. He wants to keep digging, wants to talk and talk until he knows how his mind works, but even he knows that it probably isn’t smart. 

So he watches him instead, eyes scanning every inch of that melancholy pale face and downturned, worried eyes. His entire livelihood is reliant upon Harry, and Harry alone, and his commitment to him. To the act that they have committed themselves to. 

“Why don’t we go to Diagon in the morning? We can get some breakfast. People have seen us together at events, but we haven’t really… Gone out in public.”

It takes a few moments of deliberation before the man replies, “Neither of us tend to venture out into public anymore.” 

Harry shrugs. “Maybe having each other will change that. Besides, who doesn’t want breakfast after spending the night together? It’ll look good.”

This actually summons a laugh from the man. His features, just previously mellowed with frown lines, all smooth out and break, and Harry can’t help but look upon it with awe. He rarely remembers him smiling in school. Harsh smirks proudly declaring his conceitedness were plenty, but smiles? And these last few weeks have not provided much opportunity for laughter, either. 

Harry takes it in with its rarity, and mirrors his smile without meaning to. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing. It’s just…” The smile stays on his face. “I can’t believe what we’ve come to. I never would have considered risking going to Diagon Alley for something as mundane as breakfast. Now, I’ll be going just to convince the Wizarding World that I’ve had an excellent, sex-filled night with its very own Saviour.”

“Well,” Harry says, shifting in his seat, clearing his throat. “I’m flattered you think it would be excellent.”

“Hypothetically,” he adds quickly. “Let’s be realistic.”

Harry’s mouth drops open. “Hey!”

Draco doesn’t leave right away, as the both of them had been expecting. He follows Harry to the kitchen to make themselves cups of tea, abandoning the whiskey. Then he stays to eat, as well, because the conversation is flowing easily and there seems to be a new encouragement in Draco from Harry’s reassurance. Despite this, when Ginny is brought up, he seems to quieten, shrinking away from the topic — so they steer away from it, avoiding it because he’s still half-convinced Harry might ruin the plan, he supposes. 

Outside, it gets dark and then darker, until they’re spelling the fire and the lamps on so that they can actually see each other when they’re speaking. The low, warm light makes the conversation somehow even easier than it already is. It softens Draco’s appearance, affecting even his distinctly pointy features, painting the image as not dissimilar to a dream. 

When the grandfather clock strikes on the fifth hour that they’ve been talking since they’ve been back, Draco leans against his hand and sighs. He says, “I’d best be getting home.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and tries not to let the disappointment ring too clearly in his voice. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

The thing is, he is disappointed. He really is. Chatting with him had been so easy — like the trip to the Burrow was a sort of boost — a reassurance that Draco was really not the boy he used to be. He’d avoided the topic of Ginny, of course, but only had complimentary things to say about Mrs Weasley’s cooking, and the generous hospitality that they provided. Once or twice, he did sheepishly reference how appreciative he’d been for their kindness — especially with knowing that he was not owed it. Not from them. 

And it’s just so nice to talk to someone who does not balk at him. Even now, years after the War, his status has not dwindled. It’s hard to leave the house unswarmed by fans or reporters. Hard to have a conversation that does not involve copious amounts of praise and doting. Hermione and Ron are not included, of course, as they are ever-presently understanding and almost subject to the same thing, to a certain extent. But with Draco… He does not know what it is. It’s different.

Perhaps, he ponders, it’s because he’s still taking the piss out of him whenever he can, and treating him more like a peer than superior. Borderline subordinately, sometimes, like when he tells Harry that he fancies another tea, or mentions that he’s cold, expecting him to solve these things immediately. It should annoy him, probably, but he can’t help but laugh at it as he now routinely passes him a blanket or picks up his empty cup to refill it. 

He can’t make sense of it and doesn’t try to. For all he knows, it’ll help contribute to the act they’re putting up. Or would, if anybody else were here to witness it.

The point being, he is actually enjoying himself. And he doesn’t want him to have to leave. For whatever reason, he really doesn’t. 

“Actually,” he says quickly as Draco pushes himself up from the couch. “If we’re meeting for breakfast anyway, why don’t you stay the night?”

Draco blinks at him. Then blinks again. Eventually, when he seems to convince himself that he has not hallucinated what Harry said to him, he answers, “Okay.”

“…Yeah?”

“Well. Yes.” He nods. “I’ll just have to Floo Mother to let her know, but, yes. If you think it’s apt.”

“Yeah.” Harry nods back. “Yeah, very apt. Um. I’ll go get the spare room ready for you while you tell your mum.”

Draco blinks again. Very, very slowly.  “Ah. Yes, of course. Thank you, Potter.”

“Harry.”

“Harry.”

Harry plods on upstairs, wringing his fingers with an anxiety he isn’t sure why exists. The house is full of bedrooms, many untouched by humans for a few years now, but he elects the room right next to his own. For convenience, probably. Probably. 

When he pushes the door open, though, it’s not empty.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Hello, Kreacher.”

“Potter boy is here,” Kreacher grumbles. “Saying ‘hello’.”

“Been doing some tidying, have you?” he asks politely. The room is genuinely clean. Kreacher keeps good care of the house. He always has done, he figures. Harry doesn’t like to ask anything of him nowadays, and this is what he prefers. They share the house peacefully, because Harry still finds it difficult in this expansive space, anyway. 

“Always keeping the Ancestral Estate of Black smart and organised,” Kreacher confirms. He snaps his spindly fingers and a layer of dust disappears from the mirror in the corner of the room. 

“Thanks, Kreacher,” he says with a smile. “On that topic, actually… Er, Draco Malfoy is here. He’ll be staying in this room overnight.”

“Draco Malfoy,” Kreacher repeats, perking up. “The Malfoy boy has Black blood.”

Harry nods. “That’s right. I was just coming to get the room ready for him.”

Kreacher shakes his head as he runs forward, ushering Harry out of the room. He tells him, “Kreacher will prepare the room up to the standard of a Black.”

“Really, Kreacher, I don’t mind doing it myself—”

The shaking of his head intensifies, his ears flapping against his head. “Kreacher will prepare the room up to the standard of a Black,” he repeats.

“Okay! Okay,” Harry surrenders, backing out of the room with his hands up. “Come let me know when you’re done.” 

There’s another grumble, and the door closes in his face. 

Figuring that Draco is still speaking with Narcissa, Harry walks to the next door, entering his own room and taking the solitary moment to change out of his day clothes. He doesn’t feel the need to relax, or debrief himself on the day like he normally does after socialising, and he doesn’t dwell on it. He just takes off his trousers and his shirt, throwing them haphazardly into the wash basket, and pulls on his pyjama bottoms. 

Should he be offering Draco some of his pyjamas as well, he wonders? He wouldn’t have anything with him otherwise. Would his pyjama bottoms even fit him? Maybe he didn’t wear pyjama bottoms at all. He has this odd idea of posh people not bothering with them, sleeping with their silk sheets on their bare skin. Maybe that’s what Draco did. Maybe Draco would sleep in his house naked, too.

“Harry?” he hears, and his head whips to the door, which he’d left open. He’s been here so long now, either alone or just with Ginny. He’s forgotten what it was like to need to keep a door shut. 

“In here,” he says, even though Draco is already walking to the doorway, leaning against it and curiously looking around the room. Harry smiles at him, only half-conscious again at his lack of dress. He says, “Come in. Kreacher is just sorting your room.”

“A house-elf?” Draco hums, and he looks genuinely surprised. He takes just one step in, like he’s unsure the invitation was genuine. Instead of mentioning any ethics, or throwing a jibe about S.P.E.W like he might have done in the past, he just says, “You told me you were going to do it yourself.”

“He insisted. I didn’t get lazy,” he jokes. “You’ve got Black blood in you, so, you know. He wants to make it perfect. Come in, seriously.”

He does. He steps in silently, still peering around the bedroom with poorly disguised interest, until he joins Harry to sit on the edge of his bed.

“How was your mum?” he asks, genuinely wanting to know.

Draco shrugs. “She was alright. She’s rather nonchalant about most things, nowadays. We’ve a healer staying with her at all times, so it’s not so bad, leaving the Manor.”

“Ah,” Harry says. “Good. I’m glad.”

As if physically needing to change the direction of the conversation, Draco clears his throat, shakes his head. “Can I ask you a question?” he asks. “Regarding something one of the Weasleys said earlier on.”

“Oh. Right, yeah. Anything.”

Draco’s eyes stay down for a moment, like he’s trying not to look at him. Then he asks, “What was all of that about the scarves?” 

Harry feels the heat rise to his face. He should’ve known it was going to come, based on the humour that was shared about it at the table, but it doesn’t make it any less embarrassing. He looks down at his sifting hands, sucking his teeth. 

“Well.” He scratches his nose. “There was sort of a running joke, after Gin and I first got together… Because, well. Well,” he stalls. “Er.”

“Oh, come on.” Draco groans. “Spit it out.”

Harry is sitting now with the reality of the situation and the implications of what he is going to admit. Sitting here, on his bed with Draco Malfoy. He’d touched himself not so long ago, reminiscing over that kiss that they had shared; had made himself cum remembering how soft his lips had been — how they’d gotten so carried away with themselves. 

He feels that heat now, all over again.

“I, er,” he says, still struggling to articulate it all delicately. “I seem to have a thing for… Sucking… Necks.”

Draco narrows his eyes. He says, “Sucking necks.”

“Leaving love-bites,” he clarifies. “I don’t know why, but I just can’t seem to help myself. Obviously, I was taken the piss out of when Ginny suddenly started appearing with red splotches all over her neck.”

A flash of something glints in Draco’s eyes. He sits up straighter, clearing his throat. “You’re right,” he says, and then shakes his head. “I mean, obviously you’re right, but— I remember reading about it. The Prophet did a whole page dedicated to it, a few years ago.”

“They did?” Harry laughs. He doesn’t dwell over the fact that Draco remembers a single article from a few years ago. It probably means nothing. “I’ve avoided reading it since school.”

“They described you as feral and compared you to a werewolf marking his property,” Draco offers. “It was probably not for your eyes. More suited to the blushing witches with inappropriate crushes on you.”

Harry laughs as he nods his amused agreement, trying to shrug off his embarrassment. He doesn’t know what to say, because it’s not as if he can defend himself to such claims. If anything, they’re maybe a little bit true. Harry has always been admittedly too jealous for his own good. Maybe that’s why the — marking — feels so good, so self-serving. Proclaiming that this person is not for the taking. Already Harry’s.

Draco speaks again then, after a short silence falls between them and sits there for a while in the small distance between them. His tone is hesitant but he does not back out when he says it, though there is a distinct redness that blotches his cheeks when he does. 

The words come quietly. There is nobody else to hear them. He says, “If the goal for breakfast is to make it look like we’ve had a good night, do you think…?”

Though his words trail off, the meaning is plain and obvious. Harry’s eyes drop to the man’s throat immediately, his brain fogging with inappropriate ideas. It’s not even exposed; his collar still covers the most of it, hiding it away from Harry and his lust. 

“To make it convincing, you mean?” he asks, even though his mind was made up the moment the first word was spoken. 

“Yes,” Draco affirms. “If everybody in the Wizarding World already knows what you’re like, it’ll start to look suspicious, otherwise.”

“Right,” Harry says back. He licks his lips, gaze firm on the thin strip of pale skin above his high shirt. He didn’t know it was possible to become so impatient so quickly. “Do you— Now?”

Draco is nodding. His long fingers reach up to loosen his collar, undoing the tight buttons and making Harry feel drunk. Inch by small inch, his throat is exposed more, dizzying Harry with the idea that he’s going to be allowed to access it. 

When Draco lowers his hands to the bed and just stares at him, waiting, Harry doesn’t waste a second more. He doesn’t ask for explicit permission, or double check that it’s a good idea before he’s diving forwards. He may regret it later, may feel somewhat guilty about it, but now it’s just tunnel vision for him and Draco’s eyes were telling him nothing but go ahead, anyway. 

His lips are on his neck, open-mouthed kissing it first several times before finding just the right spot to suck. His hands settle on the man before him, one on the nape of his neck and the other on his knee. It doesn’t need to be there. He doesn’t think about that, yet. 

All he’s thinking about now is the clouding image of how good he’s going to look when he’s done with this, a pristine expanse littered otherwise with a new landscape of red and purple bruises. It shouldn’t be so attractive. It really shouldn’t.

Beneath him, Harry can feel Draco’s pulse speed up under his sensitive lips. He keeps his hands to himself but Harry also has the faintest awareness of the man moving them here, there and everywhere, like he has no idea where to put them. His chest is rising and falling quickly, filling itself with an incredible amount of breath. It’s falling heavily from his nose until it can no longer take its quickening abundance, and his lips are forced to part for it instead. 

Sooner or later, a hand shoots to Harry’s head, fingers sinking in his dark curls. Through his now-askew glasses, he looks up at him for a sign to stop. Or continue. 

Draco meets his gaze, half-lidded and glazed. Voice thick with breath, he says to him, “Do you think, perhaps, whilst we’re at it —” A pause, for a thick swallow, “— We should practice kissing again?”

Harry doesn’t even give it a moment’s thought. He’s nodding, lifting his head and his hand at once, tenderly taking his chin in his hand and directing him down, and then they’re kissing again. They both sink into it at once, eyes closing, pushing against each other, and God. There’s no tentativeness to the way that they push to explore now, no hesitation to hold each other or take the other’s tongue when it is offered. 

He holds back a moan of content and wonders how he has lasted for so long without this. It’s been too long. Far too long. Had he been able to breathe apart from him before? Is that something that has ever been possible? Now, his breathing comes fast and easy, gasping in the short spaces that their open mouths separate to change position. 

One of Draco’s hands lands on Harry’s shoulder. Then down. Harry is reminded starkly of the fact that he has no shirt on, but for this moment, it doesn’t matter. Draco’s trimmed fingernails scratch against the top of his pec, and he must be aghast at how fast his heart is beating. 

He has to part, then. He can’t help himself once more, pulling himself away from his lips and heading down again to his neck. This time, he is bold, pulling apart the collar himself and sliding his lips down to where he had previously been denied access. He’s kissing and sucking and nipping and above him, Draco is making the smallest, sweetest noises between breaths. Harry could listen to that forever. He could do this forever. 

He could. But, alas. 

“Kreacher is done with Master Malfoy’s bedroom.” 

The voice comes from the open doorway like lightning striking them apart, caught doing something they shouldn’t be. Which is ridiculous in itself, because they should probably want to be caught now. Help the cover. That’s the whole point. 

Regardless, the both of them jump about a foot from the other. They’d yet again gotten too caught up in it all. Harry awkwardly fixes his glasses to look up at him with wildly blinking eyes, as Draco had flown to his feet, and wow. He looks like a prize. He looks fucking astounding, with kiss-bitten lips and a flushed composure, and God, his fucking neck. Harry had made a good job of the achingly short time he’d been allowed. 

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry says after managing to clear his throat and ground himself back in reality. He is achingly hard. These pyjama bottoms do nothing to aid him in hiding this fact, whereas Draco’s trousers still provide an adequate cover and protection. He can’t stand up. He will never live down the embarrassment. So, he says, “Could you show Draco to his room, please?”

“Of course. Master Malfoy is following me now.” 

Draco holds his hot gaze for a few moments before nodding to him. Quietly, he says, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Harry says back. 

Then he is gone, and closing the door behind him. 

And Harry is alone on his bed, lips tingling, heart racing, and cock so hard it begins to strain his underwear. 

He lets himself fall back with a heavy thud. 

Chapter Text

Before he is able to get to sleep, Harry jerks off. 

When he wakes up in the morning, he jerks off again. 

He thinks of Draco on both occasions, adrenaline running through him with the memories, with the anticipation of seeing him again with those marks all over his neck. Has he ever even been so turned on by a kiss before? By the small, slightest whimpers falling from the other man’s mouth, urging him on so prettily. Even just the hitch of every breath, the twitch of his fingers — they’re astoundingly effective at spurring on Harry’s fist as he moves it with impressive vigour over his erection. 

Both night and morning are equally the best orgasms that he’s ever had. Somehow. 

In the rushed departure before both of them had headed to bed, they hadn’t agreed on a time to wake up and head out to Diagon Alley. But by the time Harry scourifies his stomach several times for good measure and leaves his room to brush his teeth, Draco is already leaving the bathroom, freshly showered and fully clothed again, right up to the retightened buttons at his neck. 

They both pause and falter when they see each other. Harry, upon still being able to see the redness on his neck peeking out over the top of his collar, is genuinely frightened that he might somehow get hard again. But his anxiety stunts this just for the moment, swallowing hard, faulty smile making its way to his face. 

“Morning,” he says to him. 

Draco nods his head politely. “Good morning. I hope you don’t mind me using the shower. Kreacher was kind enough to show me where it was.”

“Oh. Right, yeah. Not at all.” Harry welcomes the polite conversation, glad for a brief distraction. But he can’t stick to it. He takes a step or two closer, unable to steal his eyes away from the marks on his neck for long enough to even convince himself of nonchalance. “They — They look good.”

Perhaps it’s left over from the heat of the shower, or perhaps Harry wholly imagines the redness on the man’s cheeks. Awkwardly, he replies, “Do they? Well. Good.”

“Definitely going to be enough to, er, convince the public.” He nods affirmingly. “I’ll just shower too, and then we can be off.”

Draco retreats to his bedroom and Harry to the bathroom, wondering whether he’s put his foot in it; wondering whether he’ll be asked to do it again soon. 

When they set out to leave, the morning seems just as icy as the other man’s attitude. Draco has barely spoken a word to him all morning, has barely even brokered to make eye contact with him, and Harry doesn’t have a single idea why. 

Had he gone too far? He had not done anything that Draco had not agreed to, after all, and it had been his idea to kiss again. Is he regretting it now? Harry isn’t. Resolutely and absolutely — Harry is not regretting the plush feel of those pink lips on his own, the beating sensation of his pulse against his mouth, his soft hair in his fingers. 

In fact, if Draco had not been so quiet, Harry would be in a positively beaming mood this morning. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks as he shrugs on his coat, because there’s no point in shying around it. They’re supposed to be swanning out into the Wizarding World to show off their newfound infatuation with each other, to declare to the public that they’re so in love that they’re nearly ready for marriage. If they aren’t going to appear so, then why should they leave the house at all?

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Draco says back, snark riddled throughout his tone. The soft friendliness of their conversation yesterday seems to have evaporated, sizzling away with the separation of their bodies. 

Harry stares at him, frowning. He’d woken up so ready for the day, as well. Now, this. “Yeah. Seems it.” 

The look that he shoots him is thunder. For a moment, Harry briefly considers that he might just not be a morning person. He stays quiet, pulling on his own coat and avoiding looking at him. 

Harry sighs, following along as Draco determinedly steps to the Floo in the living room. When the pale hand reaches down into the tray of Floo powder, Harry has to speak again. He says, “Hold on. Seriously, Draco. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” he tells him, thick with annoyance. “I just — I didn’t sleep well, alright? And I’m hungry. Can we get going, please?”

“You didn’t sleep well?” Harry asks, frowning, stepping towards him with concern. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he snaps again. “Most nights are not smooth for me. Can we go?”

Harry can understand the impacts of not having a good night’s sleep. Nightmares have plagued him for longer than he can very well remember. He can’t think of a reason why Draco shouldn’t be tormented by them as well. Perhaps, in his own selfishness, Harry had been too focused on himself and his night filled with pleasant dreams and eroticism to consider that Draco had not been similarly fortunate in escaping the terrors. 

He nods. “Okay,” he tells him. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

Diagon Alley is still moderately quiet this early in the morning. There are several businesses still yet to open, so they venture to one of Harry’s favourites; decently hidden and yet entirely capable of making a more than decent greasy breakfast. He hasn’t been there in a while now, not since before Ginny left, but the owner is always happy to see him. 

He should hope so, anyway, because he’s only known him for over a decade. 

“Harry!” Seamus says, delighted. “How’ve you been? It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” Harry agrees. “I’m okay. How’s the business?”

“Quiet whenever you’ve been hiding away,” he jokes. “But you’re back now, so— Oh.”

It’s easy to sense the exact moment that he notices Draco. He’s probably been under the same illusion as many other of his friends have been; that the words of the Daily Prophet are just more cycled lies. Once upon a time, Seamus might’ve believed it just because it was printed, but he’s too smart not to challenge it now. Alas, to challenge it had been wrong. 

In appearance.

“Malfoy,” Seamus says. His eyes flicker between the both of them. “‘He here with you, Harry?”

Harry nods, once again trying to act natural. He reaches back and places a hand on the small of Draco’s back, directing him closer, trying to ignore the influx of flashbacks suddenly overcoming him. He’d touched him last night, too. 

“Draco,” he says softly. “You remember Seamus, right?”

“Of course,” Draco says, thankfully more mild-mannered now than he had been before leaving the house. “Nice to see you again, Finnigan.”

“… Right.” Seamus scratches his head. “So all that’s been in the papers…?”

“True. For once,” Harry jokes awkwardly. 

Seamus’ eyebrows genuinely shoot to his forehead. He’s half amused, half concerned, judging by the look of the muffled expression on his face. “Right,” he says again. “Well. Listen, Harry, sit yourself down and I’ll be over in a minute, alright?”

Harry nods yet again, directing Draco into the seating area by the hand that is still on him. They find a table that is not too public, but not too tucked away, perfectly balanced to not look deliberate. If one were to look through the window, they might just be able to make out who he is — just. 

“Add Finnigan to the list of people who think you’ve lost your mind,” Draco says as they sit down, but at least he’s talking to him now. 

Harry simply shrugs. “He’s probably more surprised that Skeeter supposedly got something right for once.”

He peers over his shoulder, and sees the man disappearing to the back. When he looks back again, Draco has the menu floating in front of him. 

“Anything look good?” Harry asks him after a while, because Seamus is really taking his time. “I always go for a classic fry up. Even when I’m not feeling that hungry, I always manage to eat it all.”

Draco doesn’t respond to this but with a quiet “Mm,” as he continues to deliberate, fingers drumming against the tabletop. 

Harry releases a long breath. “Something has to be appealing to you.”

“Well, Finnigan is taking his time, so I have as long as I need until he’s back to make a decision. Unless you’re going to put on a pinny and take my order for me.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, there’s movement. “He’s coming,” Harry says quickly. “At least try and look happy to be here.”

Draco’s face morphs at once, and there’s no telling that he’d ever been just scowling at the man across from him. It’s a little scary. They both watch the man approach them, his expression less reluctant now, more sated. He sits on the table next to them, smiling with a sense of relief. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he tells them. “No offense to you, Malfoy, but I did have to go and Floo Ron and Hermione just to see that Harry wasn’t cursed.” 

Draco nods his head. “None taken.”

“Just mad,” he continues. Harry smiles politely as his stomach growls. “The both of you together. Although, when you give it a few minute’s thought, it might actually make a bit of sense.”

Harry wants to ask why, but thinks it might seem too suspicious. He doesn’t want to seem defensive, doesn’t know if that’s even how it would necessarily come across. He’s too hungry to think.

He’s hoping that the silence will provide the opportunity for Seamus to take their orders, but Draco answers him. “Sense? What, from school?”

“Yeah, from school,” Seamus scoffs. “The amount of days where he wouldn’t talk about anything but you. We had a running joke up in the Tower, how long a conversation could go before he brought you up. Obsessed, weren’t you, Harry?”

And then he's frightened to react at all. If he agrees to what Seamus is saying, would he be inadvertently admitting to something untruthful? He hadn’t been — obsessed. If he had been, it was not for any untoward reasons, of course. Harry had been investigating him potentially working for Voldemort — and he had been right. 

And now? If he proclaims that truth, what awkwardness would that bring up between them? They had done so well so far at avoiding discussing that part of their past. Harry doesn’t want to open the flood gates, doesn’t want to make room for more resentment to fizzle up and bubble between them. Especially not in front of Seamus.

Already, he can feel Draco’s hot gaze on him, interested, and maybe worried, to see how he may react. Harry knows that the man is under no illusion that his obsession might have meant anything else. But what is Seamus thinking? He knows that Harry had been right about his suspicions, and therefore his obsession — for lack of a better term — had been warranted. What could he possibly be imagining? That Harry had been investigating him for the Dark Arts and then going to bed thinking of him that very same night? Dreaming of him in a bed of roses whilst he’d been trying to welcome Death Eaters into the school? 

Well. There had been one or two occasions, perhaps, but they were so inconsequential that they needn’t be brought up. Draco had been so wholly taking up every other aspect of his life in sixth year… Well. Like he said. So inconsequential he’d forgotten that it had happened at all. 

Harry holds his breath for a second. Smiles. Acts like everything is glitter and roses. “Yeah, well,” he says with a chuckle, and turns to look at the other man. “How couldn’t I be obsessed with that face?”

Maybe it’s saying it whilst looking at him that does it. It’s confusing, because the man’s attractiveness really makes it feel real. He’s gorgeous, even with the slight downturn of his brows as he’s judging the response. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if somebody, somewhere on earth, was obsessed with that face. 

Nonetheless. Harry has to change the conversation. 

“How’s Dean?”

Seamus rambles on about him for what feels like a whole half-hour, all the while Harry’s stomach continues rumbling and he can feel Draco’s mood getting worse. They haven’t even been offered tea or coffee by the time that Seamus begins talking about Dean’s new promotion. 

He can entirely sense Draco holding back from shouting at him, and honestly, admires his effort to be civil more than anything else. But even he has to admit that he’s had enough. 

“Seamus, you can join us while we eat, yeah? I’m starving.”

He apologises and takes their orders, because they’ve had enough time to think about what they want by now. Draco orders a fried egg on toast, and remarks when Seamus hurries to meet some more guests that he hopes the simplicity of the meal translates to its efficiency. 

Whilst they wait, the staring starts. These new guests spot them only after sitting down, whispering behind their hands. When Harry’s coffee and Draco’s tea finally get to the table, the staring starts from beyond the windows, too. In their peripheral vision, they can see people stumbling and stopping to double check if what they’d seen first of all was real. 

Draco stirs his tea and ignores it. Harry supposes that excluding Ron and Hermione, Draco might be the person closest to him in terms of swarming by the press. It would make sense that he’s as used to it as Harry. Ginny had hated it for him as much as he had, but she’d never quite understood it. The press was a part of her job — playing up to it was a substantial part of publicity for her team. 

Soon enough, Seamus is having to turn people away at the door because the small breakfast restaurant just does not hold that kind of capacity. Then, bless him, he’s telling Harry and Draco to stay sitting down and enjoy their food whilst he fumbles to kick everybody out who isn’t going to order anything. And there’s a lot of them. 

He manages to get it under control, somehow. The building itself begins to dislike the intrusion and starts to slide people out by the floor tiles if they’re not sitting down. The people around them then do not settle but do order food, so Seamus doesn’t complain much. Still, they cannot stop the swarm of people that forms outside of the windows, pressing their nosey and greedy faces to the glass panes, trying to get a look at them both. 

He’d almost forgotten that it could be so drastic. This is why he has avoided it for so long — even more so in the aftermath of the breakup with Ginny. But now, they have a new story on their hands. A double story, if anything. 

Some certainly unflattering photos of Harry shoving sausage into his mouth are taken when several flashes start appearing from the outside. He’s sure there’s going to be a few jokes made about that in whichever rag decides to publish them — perhaps all of them — but whatever. 

He just hopes they look convincing. Neither of them are looking particularly over the moon to be there, but that’s because they wouldn’t be in any normal situation anyway. If it were him alone, he would’ve just left, thinking sod the fucking breakfast, it’s not worth it. But Draco is here, and he’s eating his egg on toast so delicately with his knife and fork, and though he’s clearly bothered, he doesn’t react. So neither does Harry. 

Instead of exaggerated smiles, Harry figures that subtlety will work more. They’ll be examining him — both of them — every single inch of them, so nothing will be missed. It won’t be missed then, when he slips his foot forward and nudges his calf beneath the table. It won’t be missed when Harry refills Draco’s tea, with just the perfect amount of sugar (because he knows things like that, now) without being asked. It won’t be missed when Draco, clearly following Harry’s lead, or perhaps just being rude, reaches over and steals a rasher of bacon from his plate. Naturally. Like it’s something they do all the time. 

Harry watches him chew it with what he hopes looks like adoration in his eyes. He wonders if it’s working as he watches him, chin resting on his hands gently, his head slightly tilted. They keep eye contact for a while until Draco, for whatever reason, can’t seem to handle it and proceeds to stare back down at his plate again. His plate, which is nearly empty. Harry chomps down on his tomato and thinks about kissing him — just to make the gaze look more convincing.

Another camera flashes. Is this what it’s like for every one of his colleagues to do undercover work, he wonders? Is it so thrilling? If Harry always was afforded the opportunity to do this, he might actually enjoy his job. He used to enjoy it. 

“So,” he asks after a while, when it’s been long enough that their silence begins to feel weird. “What next?”

Draco finishes the fresh tea that Harry had poured him, and shrugs his shoulders minutely. “I don’t know. Escaping the house was your idea.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I haven’t gone anywhere apart from work for so long, I’ve forgotten what’s out there.”

Grey eyes narrow at him. He covers his mouth carefully and deliberately with his hands and says quietly, “I hope you know that’s not healthy.”

Harry shrugs, because it’s fine. It just happens. Life gets busy, and Ginny was the one who liked to go everywhere. Maybe he could’ve made room for it when he’d taken the short sabbatical, sure, but then he still has to deal with the press. It’s easier to stay inside, sometimes. Focus on work. Fucking work. 

Draco doesn’t push the matter, and Harry is thankful for it. Instead, he says to him, “I do have a request, actually, before we return home.”

It’s a reasonable one, too — if not perfectly done to pique Harry’s curiosity. He hides his mouth again from the reporters as he says it, and Harry tries to hide his interest. They pay Seamus hand to hand and he lets them slip into the back room to apparate together, leaving the crowds disappointed and scrambling. Harry hopes that they at least stay around for a breakfast from the poor man. 

The apparition has to be a side-along, because Harry doesn’t know where exactly he’s headed. When they land, he’s disoriented, but nobody immediately jumps on them. They wouldn’t, here. They’re too focused on hiding their own shifty movements. Knockturn Alley is often deserted in the mornings anyway, reserved instead for those dealings and meetings that best be done under the bowers of darkness. 

When Harry regains his step, he sees that they’re in front of a boarded up shop, the windows so dark that it’s impossible to see within. There’s a smash in the bottom left of the glass. Draco procures a key and lets himself inside. 

“God,” he says, only partially under his breath. “How long has it been since you’ve been here?”

Draco’s body is stiff as he moves between the upturned tables, steps over the books strewn over the floor. He flicks his wand and the ceiling lights turn on, illuminating the mess. His voice is very quiet when he answers, “Only a few months.”

It doesn’t seem possible. It’s all a wreck, darker than it should be from the boards over the windows. Had the Aurors done this? His colleagues? Dawlish on a power trip, trying to find things that aren’t there. 

Harry bends down and picks up a book. Then another. Then, because there’s nowhere to actually place them down apart from the floor, he bends down to lift up the overturned table and then places the books on that. 

Draco stares at him. “What are you doing?”

Harry stares back, picking up several books at once. He says, “Tidying up.”

Draco’s staring continues, watching Harry plodder along and pick up item after item. Harry doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what’s so confusing about the fact that he’d want to help. Anyone would do the same. 

Eventually, he stops looking agog and starts to join in. Neither of them use magic to tidy up, and if pressed, they might not be able to explain why. They use their hands and bend their knees and yeah, he might get a splinter or two, and he might seriously contemplate the possibility that he already is getting arthritis in his knees. But it’s fine. Genuinely.

They get into a steady rhythm, mostly avoiding each other, only occasionally brushing against one another. Harry turns up all of the tables and for some reason feels chivalrous when doing so, which is ridiculous considering that Draco is a grown man. But still, there’s something about him standing back and letting him do all of the heavy lifting, watching him do it, even. What is that?

And then it happens. He doesn’t mean to do it. Yeah, he has the vague inclination that this particular book looks more like a diary than an academic book, but it’s still a book on the ground. He doesn’t mean to let it fly open. He doesn’t mean to let the pages flicker, showing off all of their secrets. It lands, spread open as if it was meant to happen, right on the page entitled, Extermina factum.

Harry has to narrow his eyes, has to stop to take a pause, because why does that sound so familiar? His freeze does not go unnoticed, though, as he stares at the page to try and figure it out. Barely two paces away, Draco freezes too. 

“Oh,” he says. “May I have that, Harry?”

Harry folds it back together, but the words are burnt into his brain. He keeps it in his hand, asks, “Where have I heard that before?” 

“Heard what?” 

“Extermina factum,” he says. “I’ve heard that before.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Potter,” he says back, sticking out his hand expectantly. 

“Harry,” he corrects. “Tell me what it is.”

Draco glares at him, a new fire in his eyes that Harry hasn’t seen in a while. A long while. He takes a step forward and Harry takes a step back, holding the journal away from him. 

“You know that it’s none of your business.”

“Tell me where I’ve heard it, and I’ll give it to you.”

There’s a twinge in the sharp, pale jaw. He crosses his arms over his chest, brow furrowed so that the crease between them turns to a cavern. He waits for a few deliberate moments, the silence beating like a drum between them, before finally deciding to answer him. 

“The morning after the wedding,” he tells him. “Dawlish asked me what it was.”

Harry tries to remember, then he does. He’d been in bed, pretending to be asleep. Dawlish had said the words like a taunt, trying to get a reaction out of the other man. Draco had said to him, That’s private. He had said, You have no right. 

He’s torn, then. Torn between pushing and leaving it. The auror part of him is screaming for him to find out, desperate to keep the book and read the rest of it. The human part of him can see the begging look in Draco’s eyes and wants to give in and let him have this. But it’s pertinent to everything that they’re doing here. If Harry wants to keep him safe from the Ministry, he has to know what’s going on.

Slowly, he prepares himself to let him down. He doesn’t even have to speak before he can see the disappointment and betrayal reflected back at him in the sharpness of his eyes. 

But there’s a snap from the outside, and he can’t get the words to come out. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Danger trickles down his spine like cold water. Draco doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem to hear, too caught up in his own anger to sense it. Harry hears a whisper, a footstep, standing out in the dead air of a morning in Knockturn Alley. 

He has to make a split decision. He should’ve known, after all, that Dawlish would’ve thought to cast an alarm spell to know if Draco re-entered his shop. So it’ll be the Aurors who have shown up, the Aurors who are stalking outside to try and catch him in the act, doing something illegal. Distantly, he only just realises that he is referring to them like a separate entity from himself. 

One second. That’s all it takes for him to make the decision. 

Harry takes three long strides towards Draco, too fast for him to realise and step away. The man barely has time to react as he watches the approach, as Harry stops dead with their feet intertwined, and he says to him, “Trust me.”

In a way, Draco does. Mostly, it is just his lack of movement that makes the trust so. He simply stands there, allowing everything to happen to him with an apparent surprise as Harry slips the fingers of his empty hand into his hair and brings him forward. He crowds him against the recently righted table behind him and kisses him with strong intent, lips and teeth and tongue immediately on one another. 

Perhaps it’s just the fact that they’re moderately used to this now, and that’s why Draco doesn’t attack him for it. Perhaps he really does trust him. Either way, the man accepts the kiss almost instantly, willingly pushing back at him. He tastes like toast and tea. 

He tastes good. Harry presses him further against the table and he lets him, following his lead and practically jumping to sit up on top of it. Harry stands between his legs then, head tilted upwards to keep their lips together, slipping his hand from his hair down to his thigh because he’s not thinking. He’s not thinking.

Draco is. Draco is still filled with a clear rage, anger pumped into every movement of his lips. His fingers dig into Harry’s arms, everything deliberate, pushing and pulling just enough to make Harry chase him. 

Hours. That’s all it’s been since Harry had gotten himself off to the memory of kissing him and yet here is again: hard. Harder than he’d been when he had orgasmed so intensely that he’d seen stars, and it’s been mere fucking seconds. Like with every other thing in the world when it comes to Draco Malfoy now, Harry feels like a goddamn teenager again. 

He almost forgets about the journal in his hand; about the law at their door. He wants to use the kiss to apologise and fight back. He can’t do it all at once but fuck, he wants to. He licks against the other man’s tongue and his thumb rubs the inside of his thigh, and then the door to the deserted shop is bursting open with a bang and an array of shouting. 

“Mr Malfoy!” Dawlish’s voice comes from the entrance, wand firm in his raised hand. “You are— Potter?”

They jump apart from one another, as if actually caught, as if it hadn’t been planned by Harry. It had been planned, after all. Even if it doesn’t exactly feel like it now.

“Dawlish,” he says, steadying himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm. “Er — On the early shift, are you?”

He doesn’t step out from between Draco’s legs. Not yet, anyway, because each and every person in the room is frozen and he doesn’t want to be the first to break the tension. The only movement is the shared rapid blinking. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dawlish says. “This is, for all intents and purposes, a crime scene.”

“No, it’s not,” Harry says right back. “There’s no evidence any crime was ever committed here. You’ve shut down his business for investigation; there’s no rules saying he can’t come back to the premises.”

Dawlish glares at him. Harry does move then, ever so subtly, slips the journal into Draco’s back pocket. He doesn’t know what Draco must be thinking when his hand first drifts there, his body bristling even through its stiffness. But he doesn’t react otherwise, and seems to understand Harry’s plan. Potentially, he is only just realising that this may have been Harry’s plan since first stepping towards him. 

Harry slips away from the other man now that the diary is out of his hand, and takes several confident steps towards Dawlish, and their other colleagues. The rest of them have all shied away at the sight of Harry’s presence. Dawlish does not seem inclined to do the same. 

“You can lower your wand now,” he tells him. “Unless you’re planning on cursing the both of us.” 

All eyes turn to him, suspicious and nervous energy radiating even from the man’s subordinates. But Harry is not Dawlish’s subordinate, and he cannot raise his wand at him without pushback. 

He seems to crack under the pressure of all of those disgruntled gazes. He lowers his arm but keeps the wand firm in his grip nonetheless. Because he can’t say anything to counteract Harry’s words, he spits out at them, “Why are you here?” 

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He can’t say that it’s just because Draco wanted to come; it may incriminate him. And so the lies continue. 

“I wanted to see the place,” he says. “I’d never been before.”

Behind him now, Draco crosses one leg over the other. He says, “Harry had a surprise for me.”

And why the fuck would he say that? Why would he put him in this position? He must still be angry — must still be trying to torture him for daring to be curious about what first got them into this mess. Harry hopes he realises that his spite may just make everything worse for the both of them. He tries not to freeze, tries to look natural about it. But he has no ideas. He hasn’t a clue what to say, what kind of surprise might warrant coming back here at such risk. 

Then he feels it. Still in his pocket. He hadn’t taken it out since that day — not because of any sentiment, but… Well. He doesn’t know why. Regardless, it might be his ticket out of it all. He thumbs it in his pocket, pokes his thumb through the hoop even though it’s far, far too small to go through. 

Dawlish says, “Well? What surprise?”

Harry is still standing. To do it or not is the question. If Ginny ever found out —

Draco, still on the table, answers, “I don’t know yet.” 

Tap, tap, tap. Right on the platinum band. He doesn’t know if he has been goaded into it, or else placed on the spot and into panic by Draco. Nonetheless, he acts. He acts, because he has no other choice.

“Well,” Harry says, with an awkward laugh that he can’t play off properly. “You’ve really put me on the spot here, guys. I didn’t exactly want it to happen like this.”

There’s nothing else he really can do, after all. No other way that they could play it off from this point. Perhaps it’s all orchestrated; perhaps it’s just a fluke, playing into his favour. Whatever it is, Harry has to use it to his advantage.

He brings from his pocket the ring, twiddling it in his hand. Draco seems genuinely surprised to see it. Perhaps he really hadn’t expected this. Perhaps. It almost slips through his fingers with the nervous sweat that accumulates in them, but he manages to hold it still, firm in between them. After so many seconds, he is able to hold it up to him, perched between his forefinger and thumb, presented like a piece of gold.

In a way, it is. Well. It was extremely expensive, is the best way that Harry can phrase it. It seems more valuable now, with the history behind it, but still — He has to really differentiate them in his mind. After all, it had been such a struggle for him with Ginny, and he hadn’t exactly made it subtle. On more than one occasion, he had told Dawlish — and the rest of his colleagues — that he had been too cowardly to go ahead and commit to her. They’d understood, made jokes about their own wives and the symbolic ball and chain they represented. Now, it seems like all of that doesn’t even matter. All of his attempts at relating to his coworkers are now working against him as he seems to fully commit to the man that they all despise. 

He sinks down to one knee, presenting the ring in all of its glory and proof to Draco fucking Malfoy. He tries to look overjoyed, but there’s more anxiety in his veins right now than there is blood. Sure, they’d never actually discussed the specifics of the proposal, but Harry had never actually wanted it to end up happening with Ginny’s engagement ring. It feels like a slap in the face. 

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” he says truthfully, hoping Draco understands the weight behind it. To the aurors surrounding them, they will just think it to be about their presence. 

Distantly, hushed whispers erupt all around them. Draco stares down at him with a clear shock, like he hadn’t actually expected Harry to go through with it — like he’d still expected Harry to back out before it got this far. Clearly, the man hadn’t realised how deeply and annoyingly committed Harry always is to those causes that he backs. All or nothing. 

He takes a deep breath. Then, for the second time in his life, he asks, “Will you marry me?”

Chapter Text

THE BOY WHO LIVED FINALLY ENGAGED!

Mere months after the birth of the steamy relationship between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, son of disgraced Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, and ex-Death Eater himself, the two love-struck former classmates have done what we here at the Daily Prophet had previously thought impossible: Pinning the Saviour down. 

We’re all thinking it, aren’t we? What has Draco Malfoy got that Ginevra Weasley doesn’t? She’d managed to get the ring on her finger but after so many years, she must’ve gotten as tired as the rest of us waiting for what was meant to be the Biggest Wedding of the Century. Will the Malfoy boy be able to beat the odds and finally drag our Potter to the altar?

All of this comes in the whirlwind of their romance, right on the heels of Potter’s break-up with Weasley, and we all know how that went. The question now becomes how the Weasley family is going to take the news. Readers, how would you feel if the boy you adopted as your own broke your only daughter’s heart and immediately committed himself to a man with the Dark Mark? Four words: Completely and utterly betrayed.

Rumour has it that Potter’s seconds in the Golden Trio are not too happy with the arrangement themselves. And how could anyone expect them to be? Weasley and Granger fought on the opposite side of the war to Malfoy and are now being FORCED to watch them get into bed with each other. One can’t help but be interested in how the dynamics with the best man will be…

But not all of Potter’s friends seem to be so vehemently opposed to the engagement. Seamus Finnigan, another former classmate of the couple, welcomed them for breakfast just a few short hours before the proposal supposedly occurred. Witnesses say that they weren’t too pleased with the company — but must’ve been pleased the night before! See page 4 for more photos placing evidence for the Boy Who Bites… And say a prayer for young Malfoy’s precious neck! When questioned about his opinion on the relationship, Finnigan told us that he ‘wholeheartedly supported them both’ and that he’d ’always had a feeling’. No word yet on how Ginevra Weasely is taking the support from people who are meant to be her friends…

Nonetheless, we must express all the best to the happy couple. There are only a few pressing things to be remarked upon about the situation at hand, each one more tantalising than the last: Will Malfoy rush the wedding to ensure Potter won’t run away like he did with his last fiancée? Will it be big enough to rival the recent show-stopping ceremony of Celia and Myron Wagtail? If Potter’s friends and adopted family refuse to attend on account of Malfoy’s disastrous history, will this author be able to bag an invite in their stead? 

So many questions to be asked before the ceremony. If Malfoy gets his way, there hopefully won’t be enough time to answer them all. 

*

Harry briefly considers throwing the copy of the Prophet into his burning fireplace, but knows that Draco will probably want to read it. He’ll want to know how the public is reacting, the general consensus gained from the recent events. He’ll be here soon, with his suitcases and freshly cut key. Harry has been waiting painstakingly for the last half an hour. 

In the time that has passed since Harry had gotten down on one knee, they’d made the decision to have Draco move in. It didn’t make sense not to, now. Not when they were supposed to be committing their entire lives to one another. 

One of the first ports of call had been getting a replacement engagement ring for Draco. 

Seriously. 

Ginny’s had slipped right on to Draco’s finger somehow, and Harry had tried not to think too much about it. Despite Harry’s insistence that he hadn’t had a choice but to use it to propose, Draco had not exactly been — pleased — with the outcome. Something, something, can’t believe you’d use that, something, something, as he’d ripped it off of his finger when they’d gotten home. Harry hadn’t been focused, too busy fretting over the matter leaving the confines of Draco’s shop. He’d made mental note of the Aurors who had been there, trying to work out whether they would’ve recognised the ring he used. Thankfully, they hadn’t seemed like the type. The only one to be worried about was Dawlish. 

And Ginny. And Ron. God. All of the Weasleys. If any of them found out that he’d used Ginny’s bloody engagement ring to propose to Draco Malfoy, he reckons he’d be chased out of the Burrow all together. 

By the time Harry has to tell his friends and they come over to congratulate them, Ginny’s ring is somewhere at the bottom of his sock drawer. He’s not even sure why he’d kept it, why he’d carried it around. He’d supposed that it — helped him. Gave him something to hold onto. 

He feels fucking stupid about it now.

He also now adorns his own new engagement ring, so starkly different to his previous one, still kept by Ginny. Draco had chosen it for him, as he’d said was a tradition. In all of its thick silver, it has a thin line of green swirled through the middle of it. Because of course, it does. 

Harry had chosen Draco’s as a thin golden band, when he’d seen the way that it had contrasted against him. Draco had taken it will no comment other than, “Better than that other ring you gave me.”

He has not particularly been looking forward to Draco’s moving in. In the sparse moments where they had spoken, their conversations had been short and tight. Harry was still angry with him for putting him on the spot. Draco was still angry with him for prying. The matter of Extermina factum was still hot in their minds; Harry had not forgotten it, and Draco had not forgotten his nosey inquisition. 

Now, they were going to be treading on each other’s toes with little to no break. It was a big house. Not that big.

When he arrives with his luggage, Harry helps him. Draco doesn’t thank him for taking the suitcases or boxes, and Harry doesn’t comment on the abundance of stuff he’d brought over. He doesn’t even know what half of these things are, as he looks at them, and he can’t resign himself to a comfort that it’ll all stay restricted to Draco’s own bedroom. It does not. 

The pre-existing annoyance spills out into his expression and movements as he carelessly drops boxes onto the ground. Still, even he can admit that as they wave their wands and the new objects settle into place, it starts to look somewhat better. It had all been too empty, anyway, since Ginny had taken her things and left. 

“Kreacher will help settle these things in place,” Kreacher says, snapping into the expansive space between them. “Master Malfoy is to be moving in. Master Malfoy should sit down and let Kreacher and Mr Potter do unpacking.” 

Harry frowns. “Hey.”

Draco takes a deep breath. “No, thank you, Kreacher. Dare I say that if I leave Potter to do this himself, my crockery will end up in the bathroom.”

Harry blinks at him. “You really brought crockery?”

“Yours is cheap.”

“There’s no difference, you snob,” he says, though it does lack real bite. “It’s alright, Kreacher. We’ll be fine. Could you put some tea on, instead?”

Kreacher bows his acquiescence and grumbles as he leaves, leaving the both of them alone in awkward, stubborn silence once again. Draco slams down a very old-looking book onto the coffee table. 

“What’s that?” Harry asks.

“A potions book. Nothing nefarious. Do you want to double check, just in case? Go through every page to see if I might have proclaimed in there my deepest secrets?”

He has to roll his eyes. “Don’t start. I’ve dropped it, haven’t I?”

“Every second that I am with you, I can physically feel your desperation to continue poking your nose in where it does not concern you.”

“You’re the one who brought it up!” he exclaims. “And might I bloody well remind you, Draco, that it does concern me. This entire investigation now concerns me. I have literally incriminated myself if anything that you’re doing is actually illegal, so forgive me for being cautious.”

Draco’s expression seeps with pure cold anger. “It’s delightful to know that even after all of this time, you still think the worst of me.”

His body fills with exasperation, and he groans. “I don’t! I wouldn’t have agreed to do any of this if I didn’t believe that you weren’t guilty of whatever it is they’re accusing you of. But you need to realise what I’m putting on the line for you here; My career, my reputation—”

“I’m sorry?” The words slice through the air between them. “Your reputation?”

He closes his eyes, takes a pause. “I didn’t mean—” he begins, but it’s too late. His poor wording, his carelessness, have broken the floodgates. 

“No, don’t worry, Potter. I completely understand how much your reputation means to you. How good it is of you to offer to help someone as lowly and disgraced such as myself. They should honour you in the Prophet for your contribution to charity. Oh, wait.” Each word is biting, and he takes several steps forward, stomping on the rickety floorboards. 

“Draco, please,” Harry tries to interrupt. 

“Don’t push yourself into niceties with me. Call me what you really want. Scum gets thrown around plenty, why don’t you try that one?”

Obviously, this has been building up for some time. Harry doesn’t know quite how to proceed, because for some reason, he has the distinct impression that trying to calm him down will not work in the slightest. 

Instead, he just says, knowing he will be interrupted again, “Draco.”

“I told you that I came to you because you were the only person who would help me. I mightn’t have bothered if I knew it would be held above me for every one of my secrets. I know this might surprise you to hear, Potter, but you are not entitled to anything; certainly not to me. Merlin knows that I have had enough poking and prodding from Dawlish.” There’s a pause, and Harry thinks he’s done. He’s not. He continues, “Did it ever occur to you what this has done to my reputation? I suppose not. How could associating with you be anything but beneficial, after all? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Harry’s chest hurts. He still wants to interrupt, but not to defend himself, now. To apologise. Not for his actions, and certainly not for wanting to know about the reasons for which Draco is being investigated — but for his choice of words. Clearly, they had struck a nerve.

“You are the most self-serving, arrogant person I have ever had the misfortune of knowing, and I am disappointed in myself for thinking that you could have even a hint of understanding and compassion within you,” Draco rushes out, and his face by now is bright red. Harry feels genuinely hurt at the words, but not for how they insult him. He just can’t imagine how upset Draco must be for him to believe that kind of thing about him. He prepares to apologise again, when Draco says, “Just for the record, why did you ever testify for me before the Wizengamot if you didn’t believe that I had truly reformed?”

He takes a long breath. So, they’re going to talk about it? It’s been looming over them this whole time, heavy in the air that went unspoken. 

“I do believe that,” Harry tells him. “I testified for you because you were just as much of a victim of Voldemort as the rest of us. In the end, you didn’t have a choice in what you were doing.” He shrugs. “When it came to what was important… You and your mother did what was right. We wouldn’t have won without you.”

Draco stares at him, hands still in the box. He doesn’t speak; all of his words have been used.

Harry continues now, “You were an absolute tosser, Draco. You were really horrible. But you weren’t evil. You weren’t a Death Eater. You were a teenager trying to save yours and your family’s lives.” He shrugs. “Everything you were subjected to after Lucius failed to get that prophecy… It was punishment enough. But, Draco, God, that doesn’t— I’m sorry for saying that about my reputation. That was stupid. But I need to know what it is that you’re doing — What it is that’s got even Kingsley so riled up. You said that you were getting dodgy potion supplies or something… And I don’t think you would ever do anything to hurt anyone now with that, really, I don’t. But then, what is that for? What’s with all of the shadiness?”

Draco continues to stare. His cheeks are still hot pink, knuckles white on cardboard. He barely even moves. Barely breathes. 

“Please,” he says, shaking his head. “For my own peace of mind.”

He appears to consider the words rather intensely, his gaze unwavering from Harry’s face. Even that feels heated, scrutinising. Harry just stares right back at him, silence stretching with the other man’s indecision. Distantly, from the kitchen, Harry hears a spoon scraping on china. 

“I hate you,” is what eventually comes out of his shaking mouth. He really sounds like he means it. He picks up the box and then slams it back down. “I hate you. You always just — You always manage to get what you want.” 

He watches as Draco comes closer, walking with deliberate heavy steps. When he’s eye to eye with Harry, only a few short paces between them, he yanks up his sleeve. 

Seeing it stalls Harry’s breath. It’s been so long. In reality, he’d known, of course, that it still existed on his skin. But seeing it? Laying his eye on the Mark after not having seen it for so long? It sends a shiver down his spine, a phantom pain throbbing in his scar for the first time in forever. His fingers twitch to slam over his forehead, but he resists it. 

“I have to see this,” Draco breathes. “Every single day. I am branded with the reminder of him and every— Everything that I have ever done wrong. And I know that I— I deserve it. I know that I should be forced to keep it for the rest of my life and bear the consequences that it brings upon me. But I hate it. I absolutely despise it, Potter.”

It’s fair enough. Harry doesn’t quite get his point yet, so he doesn’t speak. He listens, eyes directed exactly where Draco wants them.

“I was old enough, and stupid enough to do all of it. I don’t welcome excuses for my behaviour because I don’t deserve them. But this — I just —” He shakes his head. “It is also a reminder of having him there. It is a reminder of having him in my home, in my head. Of all of the things he — they — delighted in forcing me into. I will never be able to forget any of it, anyway.”

It is still roaring black. As if it hasn’t faded a single shade, all of these years passed. He feels sick. 

“I do not care if it sounds like a sob story,” Draco tells him earnestly, irritation and determination still seeping into every single syllable. “I am one of the best potion masters in Britain for a damned reason, and I will find a way to get this cursed blemish off of me, even if I die trying.”

The sentence finishes with a slam, breath blowing Harry’s curls off of his forehead. And he gets it. The unorthodox ingredients, only gotten through back-alley trading, secrecy on secrecy because it’s true; the Ministry would most certainly have something to say about him trying to get rid of the Mark. The research that he must be doing for it would raise alarms as well — checking out or buying books specifically on the Dark Arts. Curses as dark as this. 

Unorthodox. Fair. So, so fair.

Harry whispers, because talking now seems too loud between them, “You could’ve told me that. For all of this — Why would you not want to just tell the Ministry?”

Fury still in his face, he tells him, “Please. You’ve all been desperate to pin something on me for years, Dawlish doesn’t care what for. Besides, if you can’t see how furiously shameful this is for me, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“More shameful than marrying me?” he asks quietly.

His jaw sets with displeasure. Harry doesn’t look down, doesn’t break their eye contact, but in his peripheral vision, he can see him twirling his new ring around his finger. He tells him, “Only just.” 

Harry licks his lips. He wants to tell him that he understands. He wants to tell him that he’d probably have helped him from the get-go, if he knew. Tried to, at least. But he doesn’t know how to articulate all of these things at just this moment, because though Harry is a lot of things, graceful is not one of them. 

So, he just says, “You could’ve told me.”

“Why?” he asks, and he’s quieter now, too. Resigned. “So you could swoop in and save the day? Somehow find something that I have missed in all of these years of trying?”

Harry shrugs. “I’ve navigated most of my life based on dumb luck. You never know.”

Draco’s stare molds slowly from indignation to chagrin. Once again, he just looks at him, eyebrows still downturned but now with more defeat than annoyance. Ever so slightly, he’s shaking his head. 

Once again, he doesn’t know what to say. The silence off-balances him. He says only what’s on his mind, then, uncaring of it’ll piss him off even more. 

“If you ever want to talk about anything,” he starts, and licks his lips again when Draco’s narrowed eyes fall to his mouth. “About Voldemort; the War. If you ever want to discuss what… Happened during the time he spent at your home…”

“What?” he lets out a dry, bitter laugh. “I can talk to you?”

Harry simply nods. He reaches down, too, in a moment of daft nerve, to take Draco’s hand in his own, his thumb brushing over the new ring that he had chosen. It’s beautiful. It suits him. He touches it, looks at it in the same way that he would if this was real. If any of this was real. 

“I don’t know. It’s what real fiancés would do, right? Besides, if there’s anyone else to understand what it was like to be tormented by him, I’d wager that might be me.”

Draco’s eyes are wide when he looks up at him again. Harry gives him a small smile, doesn’t let go of his hand yet. There’s a shuffle from the doorway to the kitchen, and when Harry looks over, Kreacher isn’t actually there. Two floating cups of tea are though. Presumably, the elf had heard the shouting and excused himself to stay out of it. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he says when he speaks again. “Seriously, Draco. And I’m sorry for upsetting you.” 

Draco doesn’t answer that, and by Harry’s view, his expression is unreadable. But the man does turn his hand slightly, squeezing Harry’s fingers where they touch. It’s enough for him. 

*

The day passes on with considerably less aggression and awkwardness as they get on with unpacking Draco’s things. Kreacher does pop in and help them to get the items for his new bedroom up there without having to go up and down the stairs over and over themselves.  Eventually, with the help of their own magic and with Kreacher, most of Draco’s things are packed away by tea time. 

Harry suggests that because of all of their hard work throughout the day, they skip cooking. Kreacher steps forward but Harry waves him off, as well, telling him that he worked just as hard. Instead, he suggests a takeaway.

“On me,” he promises. “As penance.”

Draco rolls his eyes as he collapses down onto the sofa, finally clear of cardboard boxes. There’s considerably less malice in the action now, even if he is still moderately snarky as he answers, “My deepest secrets in exchange for free junk food? Wonderful.”

“Yep. Exactly.” Harry nods. “What’re you fancying? Pizza?”

They get pizza. It’s a whole thing, as well, because Harry doesn’t really like it plain, and prefers a meaty one, and Draco hasn’t really experimented a lot with pizza (understandably) so wants to go for the most boring option possible. In the end, they just get two separate pizzas instead of sharing. 

They sit on the couch as they eat, Harry trying meanwhile to explain to him the different buttons on the remote control (again) without getting it too greasy. He gives up eventually, as Draco jumps out of his skin when it suddenly goes static. Harry can’t finish his slice for laughing too hard. 

When Harry has finished his pizza, and Draco has declared that he’s too full to eat anymore (with half of the thing left), Harry remembers the article he’d been waiting to show him. 

“Here,” he says. “What do you think?”

Draco takes his time reading it, and then reading it again. His eyes narrow and Harry watches him absentmindedly suck tomato sauce off of his fingers. He seems to be deliberating something.

“Well?” Harry presses, when he appears to start reading it for the fourth time.

“Well, there’s nothing about your ex-fiancée’s ring,” Draco says with some bitterness. When Harry gives him nothing but a deadpan look, he adds, “They believe us, at least.”

“They also believe that we’ve been deserted by all of my friends and family,” he points out. 

“Yes,” he concedes. “But that’s easy to disprove. One single public appearance with Granger or Weasley is all it takes. By extension then, they wouldn’t assume that the rest of the Weasleys are still upset with you.” 

“You’re sure?” he asks. “So it’s all fine? The engagement is a go?”

Draco nods. “Your friend, Finnigan, did some heavy lifting, though. The breakfast was definitely a good idea, especially with the — neck. It’s all more evidence. If the Ministry accuses it of being fake, they’ll look ridiculous.”

Harry moves closer to him as they flip to page 4, which is adorned with nothing — literally nothing — other than several photos of the two of them, picking off of each other’s plates and making each other tea. Several of these are accompanied by a zoomed in photo at the side of them, highlighting dark love-bites on the side of Draco’s neck facing the cameras. 

Harry lets himself stare at the moving image, gives himself the grace of the excuse that he’s just looking at the paper. He could, in all honesty, stare at it forever. Maybe he’s sick in the head, to be so enamored by such a sight. His mouth still begins to water, though, no matter how wrong it is. His heart is beating like a drum at not just the sight of his markings, but the memory of making them. 

Quickly, he realises just how close they are. Right next to each other, in fact. Harry tries not to make it too obvious when he turns his head to look at the real neck right next to him, to try and get a view up-close and in full colour of his handiwork. It’s unfairly hidden away, though, in the tightly laced collar that Draco always seems to wear as high as possible. From this angle, and with the cruel coverage it has as protection, Harry can only just see the faintest edge of a maroon mark. 

“We should wed as soon as possible,” Draco says, still looking down at the paper. “Clearly, they think that it’s not going to happen because you backed out the last time. We need to get ahead.”

Harry nods absentmindedly, still staring. “Okay.”

“We shouldn’t do anything grandiose. Nothing at all akin to the Wagtails’. It would not be expected of you, and be unbecoming for me in light of my past.” As he speaks, Harry watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs against its confines. “We shall have a small wedding. Family only; with restrictions, of course. If I invited every family member of mine, the whole Sacred Twenty-Eight would turn up.”

Harry hums. “Mhm.”

“Myself, yourself, the Weasleys, my mother… Of course, friends are permitted. Close friends. Ah. That reminds me…”

Harry has no idea what he’s talking about. He’d tuned out somewhere around grandiose. All he’s able to focus on is the marks and memories and try not to dribble as he does — had the same man who had allowed him to do this really spat out his hatred for him just earlier today? The words, twice over. And Harry really believes them. Draco Malfoy being forced to spill his dark secrets over to his proclaimed rival was never going to go well. 

But then again, what had made him say it? All Harry had said was please. 

He supposed that had been enough. 

Still, he watches him talk, wondering if he’ll ever be permitted to kiss him or his neck again after their fight. Probably, for the cover. They’ll have to kiss at the altar, after all. But would that be it? Harry doesn’t know why the idea gets to him so much. It shouldn’t. If anything, it should be a relief that he won’t have to put up with the man for much longer. 

He’s still talking. Harry briefly considers interrupting him, asking him whether they should practice again, or else leave more marks for the public’s approval. Then he considers making the interruption itself the kiss, cutting through his speech with his greedy lips. Draco would probably hex him for his rudeness, but that’s okay. He’d survived the killing curse. 

“Harry!” Pale fingers snap right in his face. “Merlin. Were you even listening to me?”

Harry blinks. “What?”

Draco rolls his eyes, throws the newspaper down on the coffee table, and glares. Harry has half the mind to explain himself, before he realises why that might be a terribly bad idea. He shakes his head to rid itself of his poisoned thoughts. 

“Sorry. Tell me again.”

With a deep sigh, he says it: the words that make Harry’s head cloud with something fuzzy, confusing and ridiculous:

 “My friends want to meet you. Again.” 

Chapter Text

“Your friends,” Harry repeats. 

“Yes,” Draco deadpans. “I do have them.”

“Your friends,” Harry says one more time. “As in… Parkinson..?”

The resulting roll of his eyes is a strong one. “Pansy, yes. Blaise, Theo, as well.” 

Harry reaches up to scratch his head. He hasn’t heard of those three in years, apart from the small glimpses of what Draco has mentioned in passing. How were they taking the news of all of this, anyway, Harry wonders? Why, when Harry has been giving weekly updates on the feelings and opinions of Ron and Hermione, has Draco not thought to do the same?

“Okay,” he says. “Meet, and do what?”

A shrug. “Drink, I suppose. Pansy said it’s not fair that I’ve been spending so much time with your lot, and you scarcely with mine.”

Well. That, Harry supposes, is warranted. But he hasn’t been asked to anything before this. Had this been something that Draco has been mulling over, debating to do? Did he have reservations about introducing Harry to his friends based on their time at Hogwarts? He shouldn’t — No more than Harry would’ve had about introducing him to his friends, anyway.

He sits back, thinking about the last few months. He looks down at the ring on his finger, eyes drifting over to Draco’s, then back again. 

“Is there a reason that you’ve waited until our engagement to do this?”

Draco shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He twirls the ring around his finger, mouth opening and then closing again. Harry doesn’t push, just watches him decide what to say. 

Eventually, he tells him, “My friends already suspect something.”

Harry allows the words to sink in with the following beat of silence, unsure of how to react. His own friends had suspected something, too. That hadn’t been a problem for Draco, then. They just needed to be more convincing. 

He says, “So?”

Draco shakes his head. Mouth opens, closes again. “They… Think that you’re pretending, so as to help me with staying in the country.”

“What?” Harry demands, eyes borderline bursting out of his head. “They know?”

“No, they suspect,” Draco corrects him. “They — Know me too well. They’ve put all of the pieces together, and I have only ever denied them or changed the subject. They want to meet us together as a sort of… Test.”

“A test,” Harry says. “And these are supposed to be your friends?” 

“They are my friends. They’re my incredibly nosey and invasive friends. They’re, what, twentieth generation Slytherins, Harry, what do you expect?”

Harry groans, leaning back against the cushions, hands covering his face and smudging his glasses. He can only imagine. He can only imagine. 

“So, what?” he asks. “What do we need to do to prepare?”

He should’ve known, then, when the red heat slowly rose up into Draco’s cheeks and he purposefully averted his eyes to the ground, that it was going to be a lot.

“Well,” he says, and takes a deep breath. “We could just tell them. They’d be more than willing to lie for us, and, I mean, they are good liars. If Dawlish came asking them questions, demanding to interview them, they would just play along.”

Harry considers that. He considers the easy way out, not having to play up to them but still having the outward appearance of getting along with Draco’s friends to the public. It would be easy. It would be so easy. In fact, his mind protests, unfairly so. 

Because why should Harry have to suffer through lying to everyone he knows, and Draco not do the same? The guilt has been eating him alive; staring all of the Weasleys in the face and telling them he’s happy with him when it’s all a farce. If he has to do it, so does Draco. Who cares if they’re a bit more invasive?

Harry shakes his head at him. “No,” he says sternly. “What do we need to do to prepare?”

Draco’s subsequent deep sigh is mirrored in the rest of his body language. He leans back against the sofa and places a hand to his forehead, eyes closed for a few seconds as if he’s deliberating the best choice of words.

Harry hears him clear his throat. “Well,” Draco says again. “My friends are… Not shy. Regarding their sex lives, I mean.” 

Harry blinks. “Okay.”

“And… I have not been shy about mine, with them. They are wonderful people, but extremely determined, and they will not let the conversation pass without bringing up, and questioning, our sex life.”

Untoward flashes of their kisses, of Harry’s inability to keep his hand out of his underwear, flash through his head. Their sex life? Harry might’ve hated lying to his friends, but at least it wasn’t this. 

“Um,” he says dumbly. “Okay. Like… Questioning what?”

“They believe we’re faking all of this. They’re going to be asking questions to try and catch us out — To test you, against what they already know about me.”

Harry feels himself heat up and freeze at the same time. There’s no other word for it other than bizarre. 

“What?” he baulks. “What do— Christ, how much do you share with each other?!”

“It’s accumulated knowledge after many years of knowing each other, playing games, et cetera. I don’t want them to know all of this, but they do. And trust me —” He inhales deeply, “I do not want you to know any of it. You, of all people. But if it’s this, or giving up everything that I have worked for, then… I will have to grin and bear it.”

Harry wonders if he should say something back, something along the lines of, “I don’t want to know any of that either,” but for whatever reason, he can’t bring himself to. 

“Will they ask you questions about me?” he asks instead, shuffling subconsciously closer. 

Draco hums. “Probably. But that, they won’t know fact from fiction. I could say anything.”

At this, Harry shrugs. “I guess… Seems unfair for you, though.”

“What?” 

“It just seems unfair… You know, that I get to hear all of this stuff about you, and you don’t get to hear anything about me.”

Draco looks at him like he’s ridiculous. Maybe he is. Surely he is, judging by the pure scrutiny and confusion that is beaming at him from his eyes. He frowns, looks around like there might be somebody else in the room worthy of such disturbed attention. 

Harry clears his throat. “Er, hello?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Draco tells him. “How trusting must you be? You want to just — Freely give me that kind of information?”

Harry can only shrug again. “I'm just offering. I told you, it’s not fair otherwise. And, well, you know, if we need to be convincing, we might as well just stick to the truth.” 

Draco blinks at him. “Okay. Well. Okay.”

Harry nods, because he doesn’t know what else to do, and because he’s not sure that it’s something they’re supposed to do right this instant. Draco just continues to look at him as he nods dumbly, lips pressed together awkwardly, until neither of them speak and he just can’t handle it anymore. 

“Right. Tea?”

*

They leave that where it is, and neither of them mention it again for the following days. Harry goes to work and then comes home, only occasionally forgetting that Draco is actually living there now. Harry doesn't know where he goes, but he’s not there most times he returns from work. When he is, he doesn’t greet him at the door with a kiss and a cup of tea. 

Harry tries — and pretends — to not think about their exchanged promise. He doesn’t think about it at work, wishing he could be doing anything but sitting in his shitty office, with his boring assignments. He doesn’t think about it at night, alone in bed and wondering if a warm body might cheer him up some. He doesn’t think about it at all — not one single bit. 

Draco breaks the illusion of ignorance for the both of them when he comes home after Harry one day, stepping through the Floo like he really has made himself at home. He’s walking with an air of faint annoyance, but Harry can’t tell if that’s because anything has happened or not. He normally looks like that, anyway, most days.

“Hello,” he says plainly. “What’s going on with you?”

The man wipes soot off of his white shirt, sterning his jaw, glaring at Harry as if he’s done something wrong. “Damnit.”

Harry sits up, frowning, and flicks his wand to turn some of the lights on. He hadn’t realised how dark it had gotten outside. “What?”

“I thought you’d— Nevermind.” He sighs. “Pansy has cordially invited us for a drink or three at the Smoking Dragon — You know, that new one off of Diagon. This Friday.”

“Friday?” Harry asks, sitting up further. “Jesus. She’s not giving us much time to prepare, is she?”

“I believe that’s the point.” Draco walks to the front door, just out of view. Harry hears him kick his shoes off. 

That was on Wednesday. 

Thursday night, they’re almost panicking. 

Over dinner, Harry proposes that he skip work tomorrow, but Draco calls him ridiculous for suggesting it. 

Harry tells him he’s going to, anyway. He sends a Floo to Robards telling him that he’s come down with something and couldn’t possibly face working a full day, and, because being the Saviour does have some perks, it’s met with no argument. 

He treats himself to a lie-in in the morning, waking up at his normal time before falling back asleep. He’s not as reliant on dreamless sleep as he used to be, immediately after the War. With time, the nightmares have fizzled to be thankfully less frequent. Sometimes, only occasional flashes of the horrors he’s seen attacking his psyche at night. 

Unfortunately, that means that when he does dream, it’s usually something like this:

In his sleeping state, Harry doesn’t worry about the sounds he’s making. His mind is filled with nothing but the feigned sensation of touch, as if his hands can actually feel something against them. A body, warm and welcoming and writhing under his touch. Cool sunlight begins to shine through his sheer curtains and he groggily wills it go away, because even though it’s not real, it feels so good. He changes position and rolls his hips into his mattress, pretending it’s someone, jaw dropping and pushing out heavy breaths. He can practically feel the illusion of fucking, can believe it in his mind’s eye, and when he orgasms against his poor bedsheets and pyjama bottoms, that feels real, too. 

Waking up henceforth feels horrible. He’s clumsily casting cleaning spells over himself, eager to get up and have an actual wash, before anxiety washes over him like that very same shower should. His breath catches in his throat as he remembers that this is an old house, and the sound-proofing charms are not as good as they used to be. If he had been careless, what then? If his subconscious had latched onto the man next door — not for the first time — and he had given himself away… 

And for some reason, thinking of Draco feels — different.

But though he showers, and continues to panic, nothing bad happens. Draco doesn’t look upon him with any hint of malice or disgust, thankfully, so they make their breakfast together in peace, and Harry’s worries ease. Slightly. 

Today, there’s something else to face. 

Porridge and toast cleared away, the tension feels mounting, and when they sit down next to each other on the couch, it doesn’t feel like either of them can breathe. The air is tight and suffocating, weirdly erotic when it shouldn’t be. 

It feels like a business meeting. Where they’re going to talk about sex. 

Right. 

“So,” he hums. “What sort of stuff have you told your friends that I need to know?”

Draco doesn’t answer at first, which seems obvious when Harry thinks about it. He probably hasn’t been thinking about it as much as him, hasn’t been mulling over the exact things to say and list off. 

Eventually, he does speak. It sends a shockwave down Harry’s spine for whatever reason, as if his body had not been primed to actually expect an answer. He can only stare at him, trying not to look too dumbfounded as Draco says, “I’m loud.”

And, oh. Because he needs to stall, having no fucking idea what to possibly to say to this, Harry simply clears his throat and says, “Hm?”

In response, Draco raises an eyebrow. His face is red but his words are not quite as shy. “I’m loud,” he says again. “I cannot seem to keep quiet.” 

“When… You’re…”

“Yes. That’s the first thing they’ll make sure you know, mark my words.”

He doesn’t know how to take that. Suddenly, his head is full of phantom sounds, ears in an imaginary echo chamber. He wants to pull at his collar, but it feels too on the nose.

Because he put himself in this position, — because it is fair, — Harry admits something himself. “I— Er. I can’t ever seem to shut up, either. But not — that. Talking. I can’t stop talking.”

Draco gives away no inclination of any opinion on this. His expression remains steadfastly nonchalant, but for two strong, long blinks. Then, he says, “Quite.”

Harry recalls long nights with Ginny, unable to stop running his mouth about everything on his mind; he liked the way she moved her hips; he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. There’d been several occasions where she’d had to cover his mouth with her hands because he couldn’t keep quiet. 

He shakes that from his head. Then, he wonders how awful he’d be with Draco — the two of them unable to help themselves for their volume. Then he shakes that from his head, too. It does not do to dwell on such things. 

Harry takes a deep breath. “So… You already know about my thing for… Marks.” His eyes flutter down to his neck again, before he has to wretch them away. What is wrong with him? He’s still tightly wound almost all the way to his jawline, Harry can barely see anything, and yet—

Draco doesn’t react, or give away any semblance of recognition again. Good. He does nod, though, and says to him, “In my correspondence with my friends, it has come up frequently. No doubt, they’ll bring it up to your face as well.” 

“Right. And you?”

“What?”

“Do you… Share any similar… Interests?”

Draco’s resolve is unshaking for a few stretching seconds, in which Harry feels like a dolt for asking. But then he’s turning red again, a hand raising to his forehead to lean on. He shakes his head minutely against it, as if he can’t believe the situation that he’s in, which, well. It’s fair enough. Neither can Harry. 

With great effort, Draco tells him, “I enjoy it, also.”

“Oh.” Harry blinks. He reaches up to the collar of his shirt, pulling it slightly. “Should you be giving me some, too?”

“No, you— No. I enjoy — receiving them,” he manages. “Not necessarily… The other way around.”

“Oh,” Harry says again, and the word is barely audible. 

Inexplicably, his mouth is watering, his eyes growing wide. With all of his own bravado about enjoying giving them out, Harry had never stopped to think about whether Draco had any strong opinions about receiving them. The new information lights something within him. He shifts in his seat, swallows hard, and has to physically and actively convince himself not to make a fool of himself. 

“Anyway,” Draco shakes it off, attempting to move on, though it’s pointless. They’re just moving on to more embarrassing truths, after all. “I must ask, have you ever actually been with a man before?”

“No,” Harry tells him truthfully. Then, “Why? Have you?”

There’s a hint of disbelief in the following expression that graces Draco’s face. He says, “Well. Yes.”

“Really?” Harry asks immediately. “You — Really?”

He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. After all, if Draco’s friends really know everything about his sex life, they would’ve been more suspicious about his trust with Harry if he’d never exhibited an interest in men before. 

Images flood his mind — indecent and inappropriate, teasing himself with impossibilities. Draco sits across from him, unmoving and impervious, watching Harry’s reactions. Harry just hopes he can’t sense the nonsensical thoughts going on within his mind, that he isn’t more talented of a legilimens than Harry is an occulumens. 

He doesn’t know why they’re there. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling so hot as his brain slips through them all, thoughts of Draco Malfoy in bed with a man, enjoying and seeking out male company. Then — even more ridiculously — comes the heated strike of jealousy. Why Harry should be so concerned about who Draco has sex with, he has no idea, but he is. He is detrimentally, inwardly cursing at every man who has ever had the chance to get in bed with his fake-fiancé. He is, self-admittedly, an idiot. 

“Yes,” Draco says, with another hint of snark seeping into the word. “Is that a problem?”

“No!” he says at once. “No, of course not.” 

And it is fine. It’s fine, but all of his brain is still focusing on the news. Like an obsession, it lingers, and he can’t help but wonder whether Draco has been even slightly enjoying himself when they’ve shared their kisses. There’s no reason why he wouldn’t have been, right? Harry is a decent looking bloke, he likes to think. And Draco hasn’t exactly been quiet when he’s had his mouth attached to his neck. Though apparently, that’s normal for him.

“I’ve, er…” He continues. “No, I’ve never done anything.”

“Well,” Draco hums. “Then you obviously wouldn’t have a preference, or know any difference. But I do, and my friends know it.”

Harry asks, “Preference?”

“I prefer — receiving,” he says quietly. “Instead of giving.”

It takes him longer than it should for him to decipher what he means. Draco Malfoy likes to get fucked. 

He short circuits, a little bit. 

“Harry?”

“Yes.” He coughs, spluttering himself back to reality. If his mind was bad before, well. Well. “Sorry. You— You enjoy receiving. Right.”

Again, resoundingly echoing off of the walls of his skull, as if to confirm what has just been revealed from his own lips: Draco Malfoy likes to get fucked. 

“I hope that doesn’t interfere too terribly with whatever your preference would’ve been,” Draco says, but it’s dry, and he’s watching Harry far too closely. 

“No. No interference here,” he tells him. “Er… How many people have you been with?”

With eyes narrowed, creasing long eyelashes, he only hesitated slightly before answering, “Two. Yourself?”

“Just one. Just Ginny.”

He’s not expecting the surprise. “Really?”

“Well, yes.” He shrugs. He’s still caught up on the fact that Draco Malfoy likes to get fucked, but the conversation is running away from him. “It’s only ever been Ginny. Then you knocked on my door.”

Ten blinks, all in the space of two seconds. Harry watches him listen to those words; words which were said rather absentmindedly, though it appears they are not received so. His already pink face gets even more flustered. Harry thinks, does he get pinker when he’s getting fucked? 

“But there was time in between then,” Draco argues. “Weeks. You could’ve had anyone you wanted; the Wizarding World’s most eligible bachelor.”

Daftly, he shrugs again. “You were the one watching me for all of those weeks. You know that I didn’t bring anyone home.”

“No,” he says softly. “You didn’t.”

The silence stretches then, but Harry barely notices it. He’s too busy wondering if Draco would have that same cadence in his voice when getting fucked, or rather if the softness would be gone all together. Would he be accepting and sweet, asking for more? Or would he demand it, shoving Harry — or, er, whoever — down, straddling him and taking it as he sees fit? 

He can’t decide which one sounds better. If either of them sound good at all. 

He swallows thickly through his shame, but can’t seem to shake the idea. “And what are you like?” he asks, and he feels dizzy with it. 

“What am I like?” Draco asks, and has his voice become huskier, closer, or is that just Harry’s imagination as well? 

“How do you act?” he clarifies. “Are you— I, er…”

“I can’t believe I am having this conversation with you.” He shudders slightly. “I am… By no fault of my own, I am surprisingly unassertive.”

Draco Malfoy is loud. Draco Malfoy likes to get fucked. Draco Malfoy is surprisingly unassertive. 

Harry Potter is going to have a heart attack. 

“Right,” he croaks out. “I’m… the opposite.”

A small sound escapes the man, but neither of them acknowledge it. Eventually, he says as well, “Right.” 

Harry is hot. Harry is so, so hot. He’s sweating, and wants to cool down but it’s not possible. There’s an annoyance to the situation because it’s so impossible, but above all that, there is arousal. He doesn’t know — can’t say for sure — that it’s shared between them, but the air is certainly thick. Whether it’s with awkwardness, that, he also doesn’t know. 

He has to level with himself. No matter how aroused they are, it’s not as if anything could happen. Or would. He really needs to just stop thinking about it. 

Not thinking about it is kind of hard in this situation, though. 

“Is there… Anything else of note that I should know?” Harry asks him, even though he’s slightly frightened of what the answer may be. 

He fills his lungs; prepares himself. “This conversation is detrimental to my health. I am very sensitive.”

Harry hums with consideration. “You mean, you cum quickly?”

“Wh— No!” Draco groans. “You are— No. I just mean that I am sensitive. Not in that way. It doesn’t take a lot to get me going, I mean. I didn’t mean that it doesn’t take me a lot to finish me off.”

“So, it does take a lot?”

He grits his teeth. “No.”

Harry tries to picture it. He wouldn’t mind if Draco was so sensitive. He wouldn’t mind if only a few strokes got him right to the edge, had him throwing his head back and begging him to slow down because he wanted it to last longer. Harry would very much like to make something like that last. He can picture the slow, coaxing motions he would perform, circling his fingers and pulling at him. Dipping his fingers inside, because that’s apparently what he likes. 

This conversation is certainly not good for his own health, either. 

Harry swallows thickly, squeezes his thighs together and tries not to wholly succumb to the fog of arousal clouding his rhyme and reason. He could ask so much more, but should he? Really, that’s the aim of this, isn’t it? Harry has to wonder, has to genuinely debate within himself — where is the line? 

He licks his lips. Takes the dive. He asks, “Where are you the most sensitive?”

He is met with hard, gritted teeth, and Draco says to him, “I don’t know. Aside from the obvious?”

He nods, trying not to let his mind divert there again. He doesn’t trust himself to speak because he doesn’t want a follow-up question or defence to sound desperate. 

“I don’t know,” he says again. “It’s not something I’ve thought about.”

He tries not to exhibit his disappointment too obviously on his face. Scratching his head with one finger, feeling the heat radiate off of his cheek, he says, “Would any of them have an expected answer?”

“They, well — I don’t know. My ears, maybe. Theo would say my chest, or something, but that’s ridiculous and untrue.”

There’s something about the way that he says it. There’s just something — a nagging feeling that pulls at Harry’s lungs, like it’s trying to dampen his breathing. Theo, as in Theodore Nott, Harry is assuming. He’d always been lingering around Draco in school. Tall, dark hair, stupid face and eyes. Harry tenses his jaw, hands turning to fists on his pressed-together thighs. 

“You and Nott… Have..?”

Draco looks at him, eyes half-visible under the shade of his lashes. He obviously mulls something over in that mind of his as he continues to stare — perhaps, but hopefully not, debating Harry’s tension; his body language. Still, Harry does not break the silence and speak again. He wants to know. Desperately.

He tells him, “A few times.”

He hates it. It’s an unspeakable distaste that comes to his mouth, bitter and ridiculous, and probably displayed all over his face in the way that it twists. Nott and Malfoy. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t have any opinion at all on the way that Nott must’ve kissed him, held the back of his head to keep him close. He would’ve torn his shirt open and kissed him there, too, if he is so inclined to believe that Draco is so sensitive there. Gotten his mouth on his neck and then lower, licking over his nipples, which Harry can only imagine must be a similar shade of pink to his lips. Perhaps lighter. Nott had the opportunity to have all of him, from pretty grey eyes to his undoubtedly sweet erection, and then — More? 

Had he had the opportunity to make love to Draco wholly? Had he the pleasure of seeing him laid bare — all loud and enthusiastic and surprisingly unassertive? The pointless rage in his chest continues to flame. Had he appreciated it as much as he should’ve? Did Nott know the gold that he was holding at that moment in time? Moments, Harry corrects himself. Long moments, two of their bodies intertwined, sweaty skin on sweaty skin. He does not know why he cannot bear the thought of it all. 

Later, he thinks to himself, he will have to be mindful to keep his attention off of the matter. Or not. Will the glaring help their cover, he wonders? Will Draco’s friends be able to easily sense his displeasure with the situation and be unable to find even a hint of dishonesty? Maybe it’s good, Harry wagers. Unless Draco senses that too, of course. 

Unless he already has.

“There’s — Another thing that you should know,” Draco says, and Harry braces himself. He figures that it’s either going to be another fact to keep stored for those long, hot, lonely nights, or something to make him want to punch Nott in the face when he sees him. 

“Yeah?” 

Draco’s face is entrenched with hesitation, and Harry wonders how bad it must be. His first thought is that he’s embarrassed of whatever next sexual fact he’s about to pass onto Harry, but this is stamped away almost immediately. There is pure trepidation in his almost glossing eyes now, the silence stalling his words as Harry slowly begins to realise that the fun is over. This is not going to be a tidbit of a sex life, Harry knows, and allows anxiety to creep up his body.

“I am only bringing this up because it’s going to be brought up,” Draco disclaims. Harry nods, confused, but doesn’t say anything. Draco continues, “I do not think of it as something to be rehashed, nor as something to linger on for long. I am not seeking an apology from you.”

An apology? Harry’s frown deepens. Far from it, is Harry blameless for a lot of things in life, especially now, day to day, living with him. Had he mixed up Draco’s posh shampoo and conditioner? Had he forgotten some vegetable that Draco dislikes, and fed it to him for a lunch? Pansy Parkinson seemed like the type of person to chew out a friend’s partner for that sort of taste negligence. 

But, no. Harry knows by the look on his face that it is more serious than any of these ideas of misdeeds. He racks his brain but cannot come up with a reason, and so, he must ask for it — knowing that he won’t like the answer.

“What have I done?” he asks, no trace of humour in the shaking lilt of his voice. Deeply, he is worried: worried of the potentials of what he may have done to hurt the man. He comes to wonder if it’s related to the Mark again, but he’s confused as to why it would be: that is a conversation they’ve already had. Fleetingly, of course, but it has still already been out there. It is not something unspoken of and hidden anymore, and that is exactly what this feels like. 

“Nothing new,” Draco tells him calmly. “Just something that has remained. I scarred,” he says. “Badly.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but Harry doesn’t need him to. At first, perhaps in an effort to alleviate his own guilt, he imagines that it was a separate incident. He imagines that at some other point in the War, Voldemort had ripped him open, too. 

But he hadn’t. Harry knows it. In the sparing glimpses of Voldemort’s torture of Draco, he’d never seen as much blood as Harry had managed to get out of him — that one wretched day in the girls’ bathroom. 

He hadn’t known that it had left a scar. He hadn’t anticipated more of a lingering reminder of that night than mentally. Amongst an innumerable amount of other horrors, Draco laying in a pool of diluted red, sobbing and pale, frequented his nightmares every so often. Not enough to have given it a considerable amount of thought since its happening, though — Harry feels selfish to think of it only now. 

Only now, when it has so obviously been a factor of Draco’s everyday life since then. Years. 

“Draco,” is all he can say, mournful and quiet. He had been told not to apologise, but it’s there, aching on the tip of his tongue. His eyes drop to his torso as if he’d be able to see it through his clothes. All that resurfaces is a memory. The scene is more and more scarlet every time he remembers it. 

“I told you, I do not wish to dwell,” he says shorthandedly. “It’s something you should know. You will have been seeing me, shirtless.”

He understands. God, he does. But it’s ripping into him, numbing his head. All he can do is continue to stare. Badly, Draco had had to remark. Scarred badly. He can’t wrap his head around it.

“I thought that Snape…”

“Dittany and countercurses are only as good as they can be. He returned my blood to me so that I did not die; it didn’t make it so the wound had never been at all.” He’s so nonchalant, stable. Harry can’t breathe. Draco continues, “They saved my face, and that’s enough. Would’ve been frightfully embarrassing, otherwise.”

He has to scoff. “Embarrassing?”

“Yes. Embarrassing.” His tone is sharper now. “It’s bad enough having a permanent reminder of you on me; let alone where everybody else can see it.”

Harry swallows. He fiddles with his fingers, shrugs his slumped shoulders. “Lots of people were left with scars after the War.”

“I doubt little others were as fortunate to have them painted by the Saviour himself.”

His sarcasm is biting, and Harry doesn’t know how to navigate it. He knows that Draco will not be willing to have a conversation about it seriously, and so he doesn’t want to push it, but— But. But there’s so much that he wants to say, so much history in this alone. He’s not even allowed to apologise. 

Instead, he whispers the one thing that he can think of. He doesn’t know if Draco will curse him for it. He might. Harry doesn’t know if he cares. If he can’t talk to him about it, he might as well attempt whatever he can.

He asks him, “Can I see it?” 

Harry can see the moment that the words really hit him. He’s wholly expecting the man to whip his wand out, or else give him a good, old-fashioned slap across the face for his gaul. But, by some miracle, he doesn’t. 

Draco stares at him with wide, unbelieving eyes. Perhaps, Harry ponders, he did not expect him to want to face what he had done. Perhaps he’d been expecting him to want to move on from the conversation as swiftly as possible, heart and head overwhelmed with a sick kind of guilt. 

But Harry, at this point in time, is kind of used to facing his problems head-on. And this isn’t the kind of thing that he wants to hide from. He doesn’t think he deserves to.

Draco doesn’t speak. He doesn’t say anything like really? to double down, to give him a second chance to change his mind. Impossibly, he swallows, wetting his dry lips and presumably drier throat, and sits up. His fingers drift to his collar — so highly buttoned, as George had remarked at their dinner. Now, Harry can understand why. 

As it comes undone, Harry understands how he hadn’t been able to see it when leaving his love-bites. It’s more faded up here, and seems to deepen, darken further the lower down his body it gets. It is jagged and somehow paler than his skin, light but ashy pink. 

And he is right; it has scarred badly. It’s impossible to miss. In any lighting, Harry would wager, it would stand out like a sore thumb — a potent and deadly reminder of both of their mistakes.

Had Theodore Nott acknowledged it as he stripped his friend bare? Had he wept for him, caressed it with his large fingers and willed away the memories? Or perhaps it was best to be a moment of ignorance. So heated, it would not have done to hash up that discussion. Distantly, Harry wished he had. Selfishly. It would mean that even then, in that dark room, wherever it was, between them, Harry was there too. In mind, in spirit. It’s nonsensical. It’s horrible. He can’t help it. 

Now, as Draco pulls apart his finally unbuttoned shirt, exposing himself entirely in the suddenly small front room, Harry loses his breath. He hadn’t — anticipated this. Hip bone to Adam’s apple. He should’ve died. It’s a miracle that he hadn’t. 

There’s an odd kind of draw to it, the scar itself. Like it recognises Harry. Like it’s still retaining his magical signature. Darkly, it makes Draco’s words even worse — that he felt it such a reminder of not just the war, but of Harry himself.

His nipples are just a few shades darker than the scar. Pink, like Harry had thought, and hardened in the cold tension of the room. It’s not the thing to be focusing on right now, and he quickly reprimands himself for it. It’s not hard to redirect his mind to the seriousness of the situation once again. 

His hand itches to reach out and touch it, but that’s ridiculous. At some point, though, he seems to have inched forwards on the sofa. Their knees knock awkwardly. Harry cannot do anything but stare. 

In all of the years past, Harry has had many things said about him. Good and bad. The general consensus of the Wizarding World seems to be that he can now do no wrong — that he is saintly — The Saviour! The words are a choke in his throat. This is a stark reminder of the destruction that he is capable of. Just like everybody else. 

The bathroom had had such a ghostly glow, even in the dark evening. He can still hear Myrtle’s cries. Draco’s. 

It’s the natural thing to do, in the face of one’s own wrongdoing — and so he stops himself from apologising again. He stops himself from talking at all. There is nothing that he can say. 

Draco is the one to break the silence again. Harry cannot look at his face when he does. He says, “I fucking hated you. I hated you so much for this.”

All he can do is nod his understanding, and hope that it isn’t the wrong thing to do. 

Draco says, “I still hate you for it. Merlin. I hate you.”

But he shakes as he says it all, and the words choke in his throat. Harry allows himself the delusion of wondering whether it’s because he doesn’t mean it. 

Maybe he’s trying to convince himself. 

Maybe not. 

Either way, there’s something about the words that stir something in him — something different, separated from the obvious. A realisation that he doesn’t hate him back at all. These days, stretched and sweet with him — Harry no longer feels anything but — he doesn’t know, he can’t put his finger on it. But he feels — something — and these words, the claimed hatred, tug at his heart with frightening ease.

Harry reaches out without permission. Draco doesn’t stop him, chest heaving, still uncovered and vulnerable. His fingertips ghost the parted fabric of his shirt. He’s shuffled close again without realising. He does not have any rebuttals for Draco’s claims, does not want to share the same words. No words of his own are going to help the situation. He drops his hand slightly and it brushes the man’s side when it does, until he’s leaning on it, hair dangling with gravity in front of his lowered eyes.

They have to be out of the house so soon. They’re meeting Draco’s friends in a matter of hours. Still, the room feels like a vacuum. There’s nothing else that exists but them and their past; needing facing no matter how many times they face it. There’s always more.

Draco manages to whisper, “I hate you,” but he leans into Harry’s briefest of touches. He says, “I hate that giving me this is one of the kindest things you could’ve done to me.” 

At this, Harry’s eyes flicker back up to his face again. There is a furiously fought glisten in both of his eyes. He is red with a true fury in his cheeks. Even like this, he is beautiful. He would be.

His words — said again — repeated unceremoniously and unforgivingly, get quieter and quieter. “I hate you, I hate you.” He continues to say it as Harry reaches forwards, gently taking his shoulder in his hand and guiding him forwards. He says the words over again and again as he does not fight against Harry’s grip. He can still hear them as he brings him forward, embracing him, tucking his face into the crook of his neck. 

Draco does not embrace him back, but softens against him. Slowly, the quiet chants of convinced hatred dissipate into evened out breathing. Harry strokes the soft blond hair at the back of his head, and Draco lets him. There is nothing about it that Harry feels offended by. This feels like something that Draco has had bottled up for a long time. 

If Harry had to guess, he’d wager that Draco hated him for everything that has transpired between them. Not just the cruelty, like this. Harry remembers the distinct feeling of Draco being furious that he’d spoken in his favour at his trial. 

The man is an enigma. Harry pulls him closer. 

He wants to dissect his mind, spend hours going through his thoughts. He wants to know every reason that he hates him, because he knows it’s not just the obvious. The silent sobs are proof of that. The fact that he’d not even wanted to bring up the subject was proof of that. Once upon a time, Harry would’ve expected to hear him brandishing about his victimhood. Now, he’d most likely delayed seeing his best friends because of it; because he knew it would mean confronting this. 

Harry sinks his fingers deeper into Draco’s hair, supposing that it would always have been like this. He has a newfound, stronger appreciation for the step Draco must’ve taken to be able to swallow his pride and actually ask for his help with this. To have bet on Harry’s boredom and hit it right on the mark. 

And, well. He hadn't been wrong. Despite it all — despite the stress, the lies, the confrontation — Harry doesn’t know if he’s ever been happier.

The thought almost makes him sick with worry. 

Chapter Text

They don’t have a lot of time to recuperate.

They manage to pull themselves together before they have to leave though, with but a few hours to shower and dress and spend separately, to reflect. Harry’s mind is an infuriating pendulum as he readies himself, swinging back and forth between extreme guilt and extreme arousal. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to get the view out of his mind, nor the impossibility of how close he got to touching it again. He feels more than guilt. He should’ve deserved sentencing, for something as vile as that, but somehow — he can’t imagine Draco would agree. For all of his hatred and blame, he refused even an apology. For this, Harry finds it all above him, in a sense, like the meaning of the scar to Draco is now more than he can comprehend. He had said, giving me this is one of the kindest things you could’ve done. Why? So he could free himself of some guilt? Doubtful, now. Draco had hidden any outrage at being brought to trial for his crimes, if it was ever there at all. He had not brought up any defense of his own in front of the Wizengamot; Harry, mainly, did that for him, with help from Arthur and Kingsley. Once again, he’d seen the torture through Voldemort’s eyes. This was a boy — had been a boy when he took the Mark — underage and vulnerable in wanting to impress his father. None of that, Draco had used in his favour. 

So perhaps, Harry considers now, he wears the scar as a sign of penance in lieu of being sent to Azkaban. A reminder of consequence. 

Perhaps, in the dark times that was their sixth year, the kindest thing that Harry had done in giving him the scar had been giving him a wake up call. Had he realised then, laying on the cold, wet stone, that this war was going to be more than he could fathom? That it would take from him more than it would give?

Maybe, Harry thought. But he’d been crying before Harry had even entered the room. 

Then, as he’s pulling on his trousers and attempting to style his hair (it doesn’t work. It never works. He doesn’t know why he keeps trying), the pendulum swings again. 

Inappropriate reminders of words keep coming back to him, before their conversation had turned solemn. There, again, ringing in his mind like a bell: Draco Malfoy likes to get fucked. Harry can’t find it in himself to believe it. How many times had he laid on his back and thrown his head back, loud and surprisingly unassertive? He can physically see his face darken with blood in the mirror before him. Below his waistband, his cock takes its fair share, too. 

And now — Harry was supposed to pretend that he had been there, too? Harry was supposed to act as though he knew the precise ways of how Draco made love, of how it felt to be able to open his legs and push in. Kissing him was already too much, too dizzying. Worryingly dizzying. Would he even be able to fuck him? Harry, actually, is mostly convinced that he’d struggle not to come ten times over before they even reached that point.

Not that it was ever going to happen. His hand hits his forehead. It’s pretend. All pretend. It’s bad enough that he’s thinking about it, lusting for it at all — for him — and this is something that he cannot hide from anymore. All the denial in the world cannot change the fact that if he’s hard, it’s because of Draco. If they’re in the same room, he’s staring at him. 

It’s a fact that he has had to come to terms with. Slowly. He wants this man. He wants this man something awful. 

But something else that he has had to come to terms with is its innate impossibility. Firstly, the fact that Draco would never want to do it in the first place (I hate you, I hate you, I hate you — it’s been echoing in his head). Secondly… Well. Actually, that’s all he has. This does not make it easier. 

There’s two taps on his bedroom door. His head swings around to it, to find Draco already poking his head in. His face is borderline sheepish but not quite, standoffish in a way that makes it known to Harry that he should not mention the scar again. Fine by him, for now. 

He says, “Ready?” 

As they leave, making their way to the Floo, Harry has the distinct sinking feeling that he’s not going to be able to look Nott in the eye. How could he, knowing that the man has somehow managed the impossible? That he’s supposed to be doing the same? Nott is going to take two looks at him and know that he has not known that unique euphoria: he is sure of it. 

*

Diagon Alley is bustling this Friday night. There’s no direct Floo to the Smoking Dragon, so they have to make do with heading to the Leaky Cauldron and taking long, quick strides from there. Harry takes his hand in his own before they step out, people already beginning to recognise them. From where their hands link, it feels like fire. 

They keep their heads down on the walk, but the stark contrast in their colouring alone makes it inevitable for them to be identified. They don’t stop for anybody but Harry throws some polite smiles to those few who he does remember the faces of, if not foggily. Draco storms on with purposeful steps, his boots click-clack-ing on the cobbles beneath them, occasionally having to tug Harry by the arm to keep up with him. 

When they’re a few steps away from the entrance, Harry hears Draco whisper a misdirection charm that he knows too well. Suddenly, the hoard that had started to follow them seem to become distracted, and appear to not realise which door to which building that Draco and Harry scurry into. Harry puts his face down as he smiles.

“Good thinking,” he tells him. 

“Don’t sound so surprised. I thought you’d be as practised at that as me, by now,”

Harry shrugs. “Like I said, I tend to just avoid going out in general instead.”

There’s an infinitesimal shake of his head. Draco says, “I’ve been there, too. At least you’re out now.”

“And not regretting it, so far,” Harry says, and lets out a long sigh. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

As if on cue, a distantly familiar female voice rings out from across the crowded room, “Draco!”

Their heads whip around to the source, to where Pansy Parkinson is standing with a glass already in one hand — wine — and the other elegantly upwards, fingers outreached to show her position. Oddly, Harry can’t help but notice how much better she looks compared to how she did in school. The likeness of a pug was no more, indeed. 

Next to her, as they advance through the crowd, Harry can see two more figures, still sitting at their table. Getting closer, he can also tell that Pansy was not alone in her new attractiveness. Zabini and Nott sit with their own glasses of wine, both of them having grown into their looks, too. Harry feels somewhat small, out of place; he really hadn’t been able to tame his hair.

“Hello, darling,” Pansy welcomes. She drapes her arm over Draco’s shoulder, leaning forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek — light enough to not leave an impression from her dark lipstick. “So glad the both of you could make it on such short notice.”

Draco kisses her cheek in turn. “Quite.”

He turns to his male friends, and Harry is suddenly left with her. He tries to paint the most polite smile on his face that he can. Her gaze is impervious, scrutinising, all over his body. He starts to feel his smile get less polite. 

“So,” she says, and then she’s stepping forward, towards him, too. “Good to see you, Potter.”

Harry nods his agreement, because it’s the right thing to do, even though he feels a bit scared right now. He accepts her civil kiss on the cheek when it is offered as well, and returns it because it’s the right thing to do. And they’re supposed to be influencing her, after all. 

“Um,” he says awkwardly. “Call me Harry. Please.”

She hums appreciatively. “Thank you. Call me Pansy.”

“Right.”

“So, is this the right sort of place?” she asks.

Harry blinks. “Sorry?”

She waves her manicured hand. “Draco said that you and your friends often frequent pubs to drink. Did I have the right idea with this?”

“Oh,” Harry says. He looks around needlessly. “Oh, I mean. Yeah. Sure. Course.”

“Oh, good,” she says, and looks genuinely relieved. “We normally do lounges. I have been begging these men to actually get pissed for once. They’re no fun, so you have to help me. You will, won’t you?”

Trying — and probably failing — to hide the surprise on his face, all he can do is nod again. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll get a drink in.”

“Perfect. Get one for Draco too, won’t you?”

He agrees, heading to the bar before realising two things at once. Rudely, he hadn’t even said hello to the other two men at the table. And, more importantly, he hadn’t a clue what was Draco’s drink of choice. 

Was this the first test, he wonders? Pansy, sending him off before he had a chance to join him at the table and ask him what he wanted? He doesn’t need to file through his brain for the answer. It’s there and easy, cemented in his head now as a soothing technique. Draco Lucius Malfoy. Fifth of June, 1980, older and taller. Sweet William, green, ten inches, unicorn hair, sauvignon.

“Er, hi,” he says to the bartender when she makes her way over. There’s recognition in her eyes, but in her professionalism, she doesn’t say anything. He asks, “What’s the best sauvignon blanc that you have?”

He returns to the table with a pint for himself and a whole bottle of some apparent top-shelf sauvignon blanc for Draco, just to save him getting up and going to the bar every time he finishes his glass. There’s a chorus of approval when he does, thankfully, and when he takes his seat next to his fiancé, he puts a hand on his thigh and whispers a thank you. 

Harry gulps down his beer, half-gone in seconds. It’s needed, after the day he’s had so far. It’s needed for the way this night is going to go. 

He also finally gets to greet Zabini and Nott, who also tell him that he can call them by their given names. He says the same in turn, not quite being able to look Nott in the eye. 

“So,” he says, and his pint is almost finished already. “Pansy, Draco tells me you’re engaged to a half-blood?”

Beside him, Draco tenses up. Perhaps it’s rude to discuss blood status at drinks, or still a taboo in pure-blood circles. Frankly, he doesn’t care. If he’s going to be going out with a load of Slytherins, he’s going to make sure that they’re not still pricks. 

Regardless of this, Pansy takes it in her stride. “I know,” she says, holding out her hand to show off her ring. The other men must’ve already seen it a thousand times, but still lean forward to stare at the diamond— diamonds, plural, of course — nonetheless. 

Harry whistles appreciatively. “That’s very pretty.”

“Isn’t it?” she laughs. “Show us yours again, Draco. It’s gorgeous. Not as lovely as mine, of course, but then men’s never are.”

Blush pinkening his cheeks again, Draco holds out his own hand in the same manner as Pansy had. Harry can’t help but smile at it, at the sight of her fawning over it, like it’s real. 

“Merlin, would you believe it?” she laughs, turning to Blaise and Nott. “Me and Draco. Both marrying half-bloods. It almost seems impossible, doesn’t it?”

Harry stares at her. Is this another test, another jab? He tries not to react, and she tilts her head back to finish her glass of wine. But around the table are just jovial nods, kind laughter, self-mocking. 

Is he overthinking it all? He finishes his drink, too, placing the empty back onto the table with purpose. He drapes a hand over the back of Draco’s chair, attempting to look casual in an absentminded gesture of rubbing his arm. Do her eyes focus on the movement, or is that just a trick of the light?

“Oh, that’s three of us,” Nott says, placing down his own empty glass. “Refills, ladies and gentlemen?” 

Blaise and Pansy thank him and say yes, with Blaise quickly, and yet still elegantly, somehow, rushing to finish his own so as to have a reason for another. Harry looks up at him and thanks him, too, smile taut on his face. It is not as hard as he thought it would be to be around the man, but there is a green monster inside him that makes him shuffle his chair closer to his fiancé’s, anyway. 

When he returns with more drinks, Harry has to regulate himself. It’s not a race. And the first pint is hitting him already, a little bit. Draco, on the other hand, has not even had half of his first glass. This does not garner only his attention. 

“Not having fun?” Blaise asks him. 

“I do not glug,” Draco says pertinently. 

“I thought you wanted to experience going out and getting hammered, darling,” Pansy sighs. “You’re ever so boring.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” She sips on her own. “Tell him, Harry.”

Draco’s head turns to him at once, eyebrow raised in a challenge. Harry simply laughs, because he can’t disagree. He shrugs, and tells him, “I remember you telling me you wanted to let your hair down.” 

Jaw clenched, glaring around at the people supposed to be his friends, Draco clutches the stem of the wine glass. Then, he throws it back, draining it in one. 

Everything goes very quickly after that. 

By the time Harry is — five? No, six pints in, and Draco has polished his bottle and then some, they are significantly more relaxed. In the presence of three inquisitive, blood-thirsty Slytherins, they are like prey. At this point, Harry doesn’t care. He has a thousand backdated fantasies about the man that he’s sure he can pass off as real if he needs to. And for some reason, here, sitting next to Draco with a hand brushing his skin, it’s never felt so easy to pretend like he’s in love with him.

“I have to ask,” Pansy says, and her speech is slurred now, too. There’s a flush over her cheeks. “Forgive my crassness, but we’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

“Pans,” Draco warns, still holding that wherewithal. 

“Shush. Potter — Harry, how long have you wanted him?”

Harry has to close his eyes for a moment. How long has it been? What was their cover story? He takes another sip of his pint, hoping time and space is not accelerated in his head. He says, “I’d been broken up with Ginny for a while. I saw him one night and I— I knew.”

It causes a thick, arched eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. He looks over at Draco now, whose face is also flushed and pink. In the low light of the pub, it’s even more attractive. “I saw him and I was… Taken aback, I suppose. He looked different. Fit.” He lets his eyes trail over his body. “I hadn’t seen him in so long, so it felt even more intense. I had to… I was lucky that I wasn’t rejected. It would’ve been very embarrassing.”

Draco looks back at him, breathing so heavy it’s visible. 

Still, the story seems plausible enough for them all to swallow. Pansy stifles a laugh, sharing a look with the other two men. Draco doesn’t seem to notice, or else ignores it. Harry doesn’t.

“What?” he asks. 

“Harry,” Blaise says with amusement. “I don’t think there was a chance in Hell he would’ve rejected you.”

Harry doesn’t know how to take that. He takes another sip of his pint, trying to smile like he’s in on the joke, because this should not be something that Draco’s fiancé would find curious. He shouldn’t read too far into it. After all, if Draco is into men (as Harry now knows he is), it might just be a comment on his looks. In which case, Harry should feel complimented. But somehow, in his beer-addled mind, he’s not sure—

There’s echoes again, confusing him. I hate you, I hate you. Why would he not have rejected him?

“That aside,” Draco speaks up, and he is bright red. “What is going on with the two of you? Neither of you found a respectable lady to marry yet?”

Blaise scoffs into his glass. “I don’t think I know any respectable ladies,” he says, and Pansy flings a stinging jinx at his arm. He jumps, almost drops his drink, but manages to save it. “Well, you’re definitely not one.”

She rolls her eyes. “Theo?”

Nott sits back comfortably in his seat. He bites his lip considerably, and does not look at Pansy when he answers. Harry follows his gaze. He’s looking at Draco. He says, “I’m not much of a relationship person. I far prefer a casual night.”

Harry’s hand balls to a fist on his thigh. Nott is still looking at Draco, and Draco is looking back. He lowers his gaze first, but still. The gall of it, the audacity. Perhaps Nott doesn’t know that Harry knows about their previous escapades, but that’s no excuse. He’s flirting with him. Outright. Right in front of him. 

Knowing about the situation between Nott and Draco was bad enough, for some reason. Getting under his skin, haunting his waking brain for nothing. It shouldn’t bother him and he knows it. Draco has had a life before him and, he reminds himself vehemently, doesn’t even have one with him now. He shouldn’t care about it. He has no claim over the man apart from one painted in deceit; a real, given engagement ring with snake-green flecks to match the trickery. 

But this? It feels like Nott is trying to rub it in his face. It feels like a direct taunt from the universe. Draco has wanted him — he doesn’t want you. 

He slams another empty glass onto the table-top and pushes himself backwards, giving him room to unsteadily get up to his feet. Every eye is on him from the Slytherins, surprise painted on almost every face. He doesn’t care. 

He says, “Excuse me,” and saunters back to the bar to get another. 

“Bastard,” he hears Draco hiss as he walks away. “Did you think he didn’t know about us? Of course, he does. What is wrong with you?”

He doesn’t wait around to hear the response. He doesn’t even stay at the bar and order another one. He looks around the pub until he finds the sign, and then heads into the gents’. He needs to splash his face. 

Thankfully, it’s empty when he enters it. It’s clean, too, by the look — and smell — of it. His heart is thudding and his head is swimming, and it’s full of something he knows he has no real right to be jealous of. He takes his glasses off and uses the other hand to cup water, throwing it over his face and gasping, as if it may wash away Nott’s flirtations in his mind and reality. 

The door behind him creaks open, and then closes again. He doesn’t know how he knows who it is without even looking up in the mirror. He releases a long breath, and then suddenly realises that Draco must think—

“Good idea,” he whispers, stepping closer. “Getting so jealous. It tracks with your record. It looked so real, as well.”

Harry gulps, and nods like that’s the truth. He turns around, pressing the fabric on his arm to his face to dry it half-heartedly. He places his glasses back onto his face, and says, “I thought Nott would be the one following me in.”

“Pansy may force him in a bit, if we don’t go out soon,” Draco tells him. “He must not have been convinced, if he was so — confident, in—”

He doesn’t mean to interrupt him. “How many times have you slept together?”

Draco falters slightly, and then continues in his steps. He walks closer until they are side by side at the sinks. Harry can see the effect of the alcohol when he walks as well, slightly doddery and slow. When he reaches his destination, he almost slumps against him. 

“A handful of times,” he says vaguely. “He was more interested than I was, I think. I didn’t want more. Hence, the…”

The comment. Draco must have told Nott that he wasn’t interested in a proper relationship. Now, he’s with Harry. Allegedly. There’s a distant echo in his mind — Himself, unable to marry Ginny. And yet, with Draco, he proposed at once. Allegedly.

He holds his breath. “Do you think they’ll believe us now? After this?”

Draco just shrugs again. His shoulder rubs Harry’s. He’s very close. Harry can see every detail of his face again, in the shaded light. He can feel his warm breath, smell the wine on it. Their eyes are both half-lidded with intoxication. Harry watches him shift against the sink. 

“They haven’t asked anything about our sex life,” he comments. 

Draco, somehow, goes more red. “I was sure that they’d attempt to catch us out. They still may.”

“Maybe,” Harry concedes, his eyes intent on his. “Or maybe, I just know your secrets now.”

Draco blinks, slowly. Harry watches him and feels dizzy with the alcohol. With this. He whispers to him, “I know yours, too.”

“You’re loud,” Harry says, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

“And you can’t seem to stop yourself talking,” Draco says back. His breathing is intertwined with his words now — with every syllable. “Evidently.”

Harry reaches forward, his hand still wet and cold from the water, and uses it to caress Draco’s cheek. He leans into it, eyes flicking between each of Harry’s, searching for — something. Harry doesn’t know if he finds it. He thinks of Nott and his audacity, and of Draco and his scar, and he pulls him closer, leaning in himself at the same time until both of their lips touch. 

It’s slow and tentative, until it’s not. Harry still doesn’t know what he’s doing, what the plan is here. He doesn’t care. He’s fuelled by liquid courage and sliding his fingers in the soft blond hair, holding him in place like he’s scared he may run off. He tastes of posh wine and heaven. He kisses him and crowds him against the sink, and then everything is a rush. The bathroom, the pub, the world disappears around them, somehow. And Harry is focused. It’s been too long.

Draco kisses him back with an equal eagerness, an almost desperation that seems to present itself in his hands, as well. They grasp at Harry’s chest and collar, pulling him in and keeping him close in the same way that Harry tries to do. In both of them, they grapple at the other, and Harry isn’t sure what’s real. If any of it. 

Draco’s letting him kiss him, though, and that’s what matters right now. When they separate for a brief moment to breathe, Harry can hear his small whine, can feel the intensity of his gaze on him. More, his eyes are asking, through the haze of the alcohol. His pink lips stay parted, waiting for his silent request to be answered. Harry answers it. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, and drags a hand down from his head, lower. He kisses him again and slides a hand to the side of his neck, holding it for a moment before he delves down even more — to his chest. Harry can feel his tongue, licks into his mouth with fervour as he debates his next move. The alcohol is telling him it’s a good idea. He hasn’t yet had the confidence to do anything like this. Now, with their earlier conversation —

Even through the fabric of his shirt, he can tell that Draco feels it at once: the splayed hand beneath giving him just a moment to prepare before Harry’s thumb presses down on his nipple, brushing over it. Draco’s resulting gasp into his mouth is beautiful — convenient. Harry tilts his head, presses an open-mouthed kiss to his cheek, instead. 

He applies that same pressure again to his chest, slipping his mouth down to his jaw and then neck, doing there what he does best. Without his mouth as a buffer, Draco’s whimper when he presses down again is loud, echoing in the bathroom. Harry can feel the vibration of it from where he is kissing his throat, dotting new marks. 

“Fuck,” he says again, and tilts his head down to capture him in a kiss once more. Against his lips, he says, “You are loud.”

“Harry,” is all he says back, and then he’s kissing him again, messy — rushed. Desperate, still. 

Harry is hard. So hard. He’s throbbing beneath his trousers and well past the point of hiding it. This had happened once before — their first kiss — wherein their erections had become noticed as they’d gotten carried away. Now, as Harry pushes his hips forward and Draco does the same, neither of them shy away from it. Draco gasps and Harry groans but they both push forward again, aching from the pleasure of contact. 

He doesn’t even hear the door open. Just a resolute, “Oh, shit — I told you!” before the two of them are snapping apart again — as they always seem to be forced to do.

Harry supposes that they should feel lucky it was Blaise and Nott who had walked in, and not a photographer. Blaise is shaking his head against his hand, and Nott is just staring, as if genuinely surprised. 

“Close the door,” Draco hisses. “Honestly.”

Quickly, Harry turns to the mirror again, trying to steady his breathing. His mind is a whirlpool, and he is straining against the zip of his trousers. Fuck.

“Theo came to apologise,” Harry can hear Blaise say. “But it seems that there’s no upset here, so…”

“We’ll be two seconds,” Draco tells them, and judging from the sound of the door shutting, they do. 

Harry cannot move, still. He is stuck to the spot, as if he’s been cursed. The sudden silence of the bathroom overwhelms him, the sounds of the outside muffled again. All that he can hear is their heavy breaths and the soft dripping of a tap that hadn’t been turned back properly. Had it been doing that the whole time? Had Harry been so utterly succumbed to the pressure and sweetness of Draco’s lips that he hadn’t noticed it? Drip, drip, drip. 

Oh, God. What has he done? Has he really been so stupid so as to kiss him — touch him — with no pretence, no context? What cover did he have for this? What else, other than the truth, which he can’t say. He can’t.

Draco’s voice comes quietly. “That was smart of you,” he tells him. “To assume that they’d be following us, after I told you Pansy would push it.”

Harry looks up at him, eyes wide. He doesn’t speak. Draco is not even looking back at him, his grey eyes directed down at the flagstone. He’s still flushed pink, his lips kiss-swelled. He’s beautiful. And he’s giving him an out. 

“You knew that they’d be coming in,” he says again, like he’s willing Harry to actually believe it.

All he can do is gulp, and nod. Then, “Sorry. I should’ve asked.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I should’ve asked if I could — touch you, at least.”

He can’t help it, the way his eyes flutter to his chest again. He licks his lips, and hopes that the man doesn’t notice, for he’s still looking at the ground. He looks like he is choked for words, his brows furrowing, shaking his head minutely. 

When he does speak, it is short. He says, “I said, don’t be ridiculous. This is why we practiced.”

But this was different, Harry wants to say. You know it, too. 

He doesn’t say anything. Draco doesn’t let him. At least they have the alcohol to blame. 

He is sweet with the relief he’s allowed, and waits until Draco turns to the door to let out a sigh that is riddled with it. Smile back on his face, he tries to push away the anxiety for the night, welcoming the now very recent memories of Draco’s moans, how he really was truly sensitive where he said he wouldn’t be. At least that was something that Harry had Nott to thank for. 

There are more eyes on them as they leave the bathroom, and Harry keeps a gentle arm around Draco’s waist, guiding him to the bar before the table. 

“Let me buy you another drink,” he says. 

Draco concedes, but says, lightheartedly, “I don’t know if I need much more.”

Harry laughs, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head. Pansy is many more drinks in than them at this point, on her feet and swaying to the music. Harry mutters, “It doesn’t seem like she’ll want the night to end any time soon.”

“No,” Draco agrees, and watches him with amusement over the brim of his new wine glass as he sips. 

Harry wants to kiss him again. 

“You,” Pansy slurs, making her way over to them, leaning herself against Draco’s side. “Both of you. Had enough public indecency?”

Harry laughs. Shakes his head. He says, “No,” and it comes out easily, because it’s the truth. 

Draco turns his gaze to the dark wood of the bar. 

“Don’t blame you,” she says. “He is gorgeous. You’ve chosen well. Past in the past, present in the present. You know.”

Harry clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Draco,” she says after a moment. “Will you take my drink back to the table whilst I visit the ladies’?”

He does. But Pansy doesn’t step away. Not yet. 

She looks at him, and Harry can’t decipher it. She suddenly seems a lot more solemn. Subdued. Sober. His hand tightens around his pint glass. 

“You care for him,” she says evenly. It feels like an accusation.

Harry can only blink. “Of course,” he says. “Of course, I do.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, fingernails drumming in tandem on the dark wood. She takes a step forward, into his personal space, and he is struck with the urge to step back. But there is a man behind him, and his feet stay in place. She rises to her tip-toes, painted lips brushing his ear. He holds his breath.

“I want to trust you,” she tells him. She cannot whisper; their surroundings are too loud. It still feels like one. She says, “Desperately, I hope you know what you are doing. If this is all a lie—”

At once, he says, “It’s not.”

She ignores him. “If this is all a lie, I hope you know what it’s costing him. The agony he is putting himself through to pretend.”

She stands back then, face stern but with pleading, big eyes. Harry can only stare back at her, incapable of understanding no matter how hard he tries. He must hate him something awful, he concludes. Draco must despise him more than he had realised. 

“Help him,” she says. “You have so much influence. Have you even tried?”

Harry cannot answer her. He is too ashamed. Because she’s right, what has he done? He has not even had a conversation with Dawlish about it. Kingsley would listen to him, too. Kingsley is fair, and is right, and respects him. 

Weakly, he says, “They would think—”

“Potter,” she says, sharp and stinging. “If this had been happening to Granger, or Weasley — any of the Weasleys — would you care what the Ministry thinks? Would you stand back and watch them fend for themselves? You, the most influential person in the Wizarding World after the Minister himself?” 

He feels sober now, too. Again, she is right. At first, that had been the deal between them, with Harry’s only part to play to be in legality — to stop the consequences if he’s proved guilty. Never had he stopped to think about what he could do to stop that from ever coming to pass. 

“You say, of course,” she continues. “You kiss him in the bathroom, when in another, you sliced him in half. You may care about him, but —” She stops, collects herself. “It means nothing. Get down on one knee, propose with Ginevra Weasley’s old ring. Yes, he told me. Kiss him and show him off, buy him drinks and hold him close. None of it matters — It’s all in vain. Do yourself a favour, get your head out of your arse and stop the investigation from going on. Then, maybe you won’t have to marry him at all.”

Her face is thunder, lines of anger parting the perfect makeup on her forehead, half-covered by a black fringe. She takes shallow breaths until it becomes easy for her again. Then she smiles sweetly, licks some lipstick off of her teeth, and squeezes him kindly on the arm before walking to the bathroom. 

After a moment left by himself, he walks back to the table. To teasing and smart remarks from the men, but no hostility. 

He buries himself in a new pint, and squeezes Draco’s hand when it’s given to him. 

Chapter Text

The weekend sees Harry and Draco dancing around each other, unwilling to talk about the kiss, or the nipple touching, or the fact that they’d disclosed all of their private sexual behaviours for no reason whatsoever. Harry now knows that he’s loud, surprisingly unassertive, likes to have his nipples played with, and likes to be fucked. 

Perfect. 

The weekend also sees Harry hating himself for not doing more. Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he pushed for answers and for a stop to the searching? In the beginning, he’d been anxious, scared of it all, not wanting to get involved more than was necessary. But now? Having learnt all about Extermina factum and Draco’s true mission to burn the Dark Mark off of his arm… 

By Monday morning, he’s made a resolute decision. There’s no point in talking to Dawlish. Draco had said it himself, after all — he’s got it out for him, is determined to pin something on him and already thinks Harry’s been cursed — or else is helping him for other reasons. 

He’s a dead end. So, he’ll be doing exactly what Draco had once made fun of him for: Exercising his unique privileges as the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

Unfortunately, Harry realises very quickly when he walks into work that morning, that it wasn’t going to be so easy.

“Auror Potter,” a young man says to him as he enters. He’s blond and sitting in Celia’s chair — her replacement whilst she’s still honeymooning. His voice is tight and awkward. “Um, good morning.”

“Good morning,” Harry says back, frowning.

“Mister Robards has asked to see you,” he tells him. Then he gulps. “Immediately. In his office.”

Harry grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut. “Fine,” he says, his fingers paling on the handle of his briefcase. “One minute.”

He takes his briefcase and himself to his office first. It takes everything in him to not just throw it inside — and Ron can seem to tell. 

“Harry?” he asks, standing up from his own desk. “Woah. What’s up?”

“Robards wants to see me,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. 

“Uh. Yeah,” Ron says, taking a few tentative steps forward. “Might be something to do with this.”

Harry catches the paper when it’s thrown at him, anxiety already pooling in his gut. When he unrolls it, he wants to punch something. Someone. Preferably, the editor of the Daily Prophet.

“You’re joking,” he says, and has to sit himself down.

There it is: two big, fat photos of him and Draco. One of them both in laughter with the rest of the Slytherins, with a think-piece on the corruption of the Saviour. The other moving photograph — which takes up a hell of a lot more space on the front page — is a glimpse of the two of them snogging. Because of course it is. It is, however, really only a glimpse, taken through the briefest moment that the door had been open, when Blaise and Nott had intruded. 

Through his anger, the memory strikes heat in him. God. It had been such a good kiss. 

But that’s not the issue right now. Not at hand, anyway. He doubts Robards cares much about whose tongue he’s got halfway down his throat. No, he would care more about the fact that Harry was supposed to have been ill on Friday — too ill to make it into work. And yet, there it is — an entire exposé on his evening. 

“Oh, I’m fucked,” Harry groans. “I’m done, mate.”

Ron sighs sympathetically, coming to sit next to him. “Probably, yeah.”

He shoves him lightly, staring down at the images still. On one hand, he wants to crumple it up and light a fire just to throw it in. On the other, he wants to take it home and keep it under his pillow — for no particular reason. 

Ron lets out another breath. “Merlin, Harry. Were you trying to eat him?”

Harry laughs into his hand. “Bloody looks like it, doesn’t it?”

There’s a fluttering at the door, an interdepartmental memo flying into the office and right into Harry’s lap. He doesn’t have to look at it to know what it is, but opens it anyway. 

Potter,

My office. Now.

Robards.

He wants to screw this paper up now, too. 

“Better to get it over and done with,” Ron tells him. “Can go about your day, then.”

Go about his day. Harry wants to lay down and laugh. He doesn’t want to go about his days here. He hasn’t wanted to in ages. It’s a startling bore, especially now compared to the thrill that Draco has brought him. He’d said it, that first day that he’d walked into his house — don’t tell me you haven’t been bored. And he had been. God, he had been.

“Pray for me,” he asks as he gets up to leave, and Ron tells him to stop being so dramatic. 

It’ll be fine, he tells himself. He’ll get his infraction written up; a slap on the wrist, a warning, and then he’ll go to find Kingsley. He’ll find Kingsley and talk him around, convince him to see reason —

He walks into Robards’ office with tentative, unsure stepping. He’s not alone in there. In fact, he’s surrounded on both sides, by two of the last people Harry really expected to see: Dawlish, and Kingsley.

“Er,” he says awkwardly, drawing their attention. 

“Harry,” Kingsley says warmly, but there’s a hint of — something — in his face. “Thank you for coming.”

“Minister,” he says. “What’s going on?”

It’s not Kingsley that answers. It’s not any of them, really. Robards pushes the copy of the Daily Prophet across the desk for him to look at, but he doesn’t need to. 

“Sir,” Harry says dryly. “I know I shouldn’t’ve bunked off work, but was this really worth getting the Minister for Magic involved?”

Dawlish slams a hand down onto the moving photo of the five of them around the bar table. “Pansy Parkinson has been evading us for weeks. We’ve been trying to question her about Draco Malfoy’s business.”

All he can do is shrug, glaring at him. “Well. You should’ve been out in the Smoking Dragon then, shouldn’t you?”

“Potter.”

“Dawlish.”

“Harry,” Kingsley says, quieting the room. “Would you be able to get her in for an interview with us?”

Her dark eyes, her darker words flash in his head. She’d been ready to flay him when they had spoken on Friday. He hadn’t even told Draco about that. 

“Respectfully, Minister, no,” he says, to the other man’s surprise. “It’s not my case. And I’m not going to use my relationship with Draco to help it.”

“Potter…” Robards sighs.

Harry shakes his head. “No. You think I’d help you with this? Draco hasn’t done anything wrong.” He turns to Kingsley, resolutely determined. “I wanted to talk to you about that today, actually, Minister.”

“If you won’t help the case, you can’t interfere with it,” Dawlish spits. 

“It’s a miscarriage of justice,” Harry argues. He turns back to Kingsley. “It’s unfairly fracturing his life. He has nothing to do — day to day, he has no work. Are we, the Ministry supposed to subsidise all of his failed income when he is proven innocent? Because he will be. Can we genuinely think about what sort of motive he would have to poison the potions he sold people? He’d lose business!”

Dawlish says, “You’ve never asked what they were poisoned with.”

Harry stops. “What?”

Robards, at once, “Dawlish.”

“No,” Harry tells his boss. “What do you mean? There were actual contaminated potions?”

Kingsley is the one to take a deep breath and step forwards. “Yes. St Mungo’s began noticing odd behaviour in some patients months ago.”

“What, and Draco Malfoy is the only one providing potions? To the entirety of the hospital?”

“No,” Dawlish says. 

He scoffs. “Well, then.”

“He’s the only Death Eater providing potions to St Mungo’s,” he adds.

Harry feels that same fire again. “Ex-Death Eater, and underage when he got the Mark. He served his time as told by the Wizengamot and is a free man. This is sick bias.”

“There is… Something else, Harry,” Kingsley says slowly. 

“Minister?” Robards says, filled with hesitance. “Are you sure—”

“He should know,” Kingsley says. “He could’ve helped us from the start.”

Harry looks between them all. He feels so young again, echoes of Dumbledore and his schemes, his secrets. Quietly, he says, “What is it?”

Kingsley sighs again, so Dawlish gets there first, like he’s eager to be the one to break the news. Harry had never really realised how disgusting he is before now. He twists the words out of his mouth, spittle at the corners of his grin. 

“They had the effects of love potions.”

Harry blinks. Then again. It feels anticlimactic. It feels pointless. “So?” he asks.

Dawlish looks at him like he’s stupid. “You don’t think it’s odd? People poisoned with love potions in St Mungo’s, and then all of a sudden, you’re besotted with Malfoy?”

“No, that’s —” He shakes his head. He can’t explain that there’s no possible way that this is what happened, because Harry has never been in love with him. It’s all been fake. “He’d not have had a chance to drug me with it.”

“Weasley said that someone had been watching you,” Dawlish says. “Sitting outside your house, day in and day out. Is that wrong?”

Harry frowns. “Well, no,” he says, because it’s true, and he doesn’t want to paint Ron as a liar. “But—”

Dawlish interrupts him. “He said you haven’t mentioned it since the rumours about the two of you started. Is that when the visits stopped?”

“Yes, but—” He begins, and doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? That Draco had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to approach him about the deceit? He shakes his head. “You’ve all got this wrong.”

“Do we, Harry?” Kingsley asks gently. 

“Yes,” he says, but he can’t prove it. Not without ruining Draco’s backup plan. “You gave me the antidote. You made Ron put it in my tea. It changed nothing.”

“Malfoy is crafty. He has been creating his own,” Dawlish says. “His own potions, so new that we cannot fight against them yet.” 

Harry shakes his head again. “You’re wrong. The things he has been experimenting with — Extermina factum — it’s nothing to do with love potions. It’s —” He takes a breath. Draco will hate him for this. “It’s to get rid of the Dark Mark. That’s what he’s been trying to figure out.”

He waits for a few moments in the following silence. He’s expecting looks of surprise, of reconsideration. 

None of that is there. 

Dawlish stares at him with a nasty raised eyebrow. “Did he tell you that?”

Well. Yes. “Yes,” he says, and now he’s confused. Why would he have — “Why would he lie?”

It feels foolish as soon as it leaves his mouth. Kingsley approaches him, hand on his shoulder. He pulls up a chair behind him. Harry refuses it, steps away. 

“Harry,” he says again, and it’s full of pity. It shouldn’t be.

“No. You don’t understand,” Harry demands. Because they don’t. They don’t at all. It hasn’t been real. It’s not real. It never has been—

Never?

“It may have started slowly at first. You may not have noticed the change. He would have approached you as a friend.”

Harry squeezes his eyes together. He had — Started to think of him differently, after sharing so much time together. Making food together. Making drinks. Had Draco ever been left unattended with that? Many times, recently. Exclusively, when Harry has been at work. He’s living there, with free access to do anything that he wants. Bring in anything that he wants. 

Did this just so happen to coincide with Harry’s epiphanies? He wanted him. More than that. He had come to accept it, hiding it away from the man for fear of being humiliated. Pansy had looked at him with curious eyes just mere days ago. She had said, You care for him. Like she didn’t really believe it. 

But then, nobody had. They’d had to fake it all, fake every detail, lie in the faces of their friends and family to get away with it. Would Harry even be able to feel what he is feeling, really? Without the pretence? The script? How is it that he’s really feeling all of this for the man —?

Dawlish speaks again, “Marriage is the goal. He gets away with everything once you’re married. We cannot extradite him, and he’ll have you. He’ll have your vault — Merlin knows his own has depleted considerably since the war.” Harry can’t look at him. “He’ll have your properties, too. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was owned by the Blacks, you know.” Obviously, Harry fucking knows. Dawlish adds, “Maybe that’s why he did it all. He feels he’s owed it.” 

He can’t stand it. He shakes his head, because he knows it isn’t true. But that had been the one condition, hadn’t it? Marry him. He might— What if—?

Is this why he’d been so sheepish, so scared to face Harry’s feelings? The excuses that he’d given for each time that they’d kissed. The last one, when Harry had none to give for himself. Had it all been a ploy? A double — triple cross? The most intricate plot that Draco could think of. But he’d been playing it too slow, too safe, so Pansy had to step in and tell Harry what to do; to get on with clearing his name. Is that why she’d been evading questioning?

“You’re wrong,” he says again. “I’m going home.”

Kingsley reaches out to hold his arm again, and he shoves it off. He looks down at him, upset. “Harry.”

Harry wants to scream. Could the man not say anything else?

“I’m going home,” he repeats. “Don’t follow me.”

They don’t. People jump out of Harry’s way as he charges through to the Floos, like there’s something about him telling them that they do not want to get in his way. He steps in, and when he returns to Grimmauld, he closes it. 

Nobody will be getting in. Or out, at that matter.

His heart is beating like a drum in his chest as he takes in his surroundings. His skin is ablaze. There, Malfoy’s lamp. There, Malfoy’s cushion. Malfoy’s crockery in the kitchen. He’d gotten in, alright. If the house was his aim, his end goal, he’d already received it. What was the point in continuing the façade, if not to hurt Harry more?

The words, echoing in his head as they had not ceased to do for days — I hate you, I hate you. But before that, too. I hate you. You always manage to get what you want. Why is it a surprise? Why is he shocked that he can recall statements of hatred from a man who has publicly hated him from the very moment that they’d met?

Everybody — everybody had been trying to warn him. When had he ever ignored the concerns of his friends before? Even the Minister for Magic had been trying to tell him. Ron and Hermione hadn’t wasted a minute to tell him their concerns. They’d only want the best for him and he knows it. Should he have listened?

And then, like a pressure on his chest, he knows. Somewhere along the way, he really had developed — feelings. More than sexual. But even that had been startlingly sudden. He’d reached beneath the bedsheets that he and Ginny used to share, grabbed himself and brought himself off when thinking of the man. Obviously, he hadn’t been in his right mind. He hadn’t realised it at the time.

He’d never even thought of men before. Not before the man had sauntered into his life. Malfoy had asked him that, too, recently — Have you ever actually been with a man before? Had he been getting worried? Worried that it wouldn’t work if they did ever marry and have to — consummate —

He leans against the fireplace, dizzy with it. Everything feels askew in his brain. Nothing is right. He is second guessing everything — and in a way, doing so makes it all easier. It makes sense. Otherwise, there’s no way that he would be—

“Harry?” his voice comes, and God.

Harry tilts his head towards the doorway to the living room, the source of the voice. It’s difficult to look at him. Perhaps that was a symptom, too, that every time he looked at him after being away for a length of time, he somehow became even more beautiful? 

But look at him, he does. 

And everything is ruined. 

God. God. 

He’s fucked. 

Because he knows it — in the pit of his stomach, no matter how vehemently he tries to excuse it, to write it off as something else. He knows. He knows that Draco hasn’t drugged him, hasn’t slipped any antidote-resistant love potion into his cup of tea, somehow undetected by even the Ministry. He knows that Draco is a good man now, and has seen every single way in which he’s grown and developed for the better. He hasn’t imagined that. He hasn’t been influenced by a potion to find kissing him the hottest thing in the world, or to find the downturned scrunch of his eyebrows the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.

Harry stares at him, open-mouthed. He can’t speak. The fizzle of fake fury inside of him is quickly turning to panic. 

If he’s not been drugged — and he knows he hasn’t — then it only leaves one possibility. 

“Harry,” Draco says again, concerned now with his dumb silence. “Are you alright?”

He’s not alright. Still, all he can do is look at him, and he can’t help but wonder about the turning point. When Harry had started to lose control of the situation; of himself.

There’s one thing that he’s sure of, resolutely, no matter how horrific the circumstances would be if true: His life would be a whole lot easier right now if Draco had been evil enough to poison him.

“I’m fine,” he lies. He can see the disbelief on Draco’s face. “Draco. I’m fine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says at once, and when he approaches Harry, gentle arm outstretched to take his shoulder, Harry wants to jerk away from him. He doesn’t. But it doesn’t feel right, any of it. 

He feels the softness of Draco’s touch on him, worried and imploring, directing him in the next second to sit him down on the sofa. Harry feels warm at just the touch and he knows that he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t look at him like this, shouldn’t want to hold his hand and press it to his lips with no ulterior motive. 

“What happened?” Draco asks, and he’s sitting very close. “You were barely there for half an hour.”

Harry shakes his head. He doesn’t know what to say. That he was confronted by the Minister for Magic and subsequently discovered a truth that could ruin this — that could tear it apart and stamp on it?

He realises it then, in that silence. What he has to do. If Draco ever finds out, he’ll end this. He’ll be too disturbed by Harry’s feelings to want to continue it. What was it that Pansy had said? I hope you know what it’s costing him. The agony he is putting himself through to pretend. How would he feel if he discovered the new truth? If he knew that he had to kiss Harry, hold him and touch him when Harry saw it in an entirely different light to him now?

He feels wrong, when thinking about it, but he knows he doesn’t have a choice. Coming clean and telling Draco would mean that the man would abandon this mission — and Harry is not going to be the one to make him forsake his hard-earned business. They’ve come so far, have convinced so many people. Harry can’t let him lose it now. 

He can’t let Draco know how he feels about him. That should be easy enough, right?

Still, he needs an excuse for his paled silence, for why he returned home from work seven and a half hours early, forgetting his briefcase and his sensibilities. 

He swallows, and tells him, “I got called to Robards’ office as soon as I got in. When I got there, he was with Kingsley and Dawlish.”

He watches Draco’s expression change. He doesn’t speak for a moment, most likely mulling over the many potential situations that may have unravelled. Then, he asks, “And?”

“They saw that we were with Pansy on Friday. They wanted me to convince her to go in for an interview with them. Apparently, she’s been evading them.”

Draco scoffs at this, at the brazenness of the Ministry; of Dawlish. “She knows what she does and doesn’t have to do. Her fiancé is a law-maker— no, a lawyer for muggles; he’s been working to make the Wizengamot trials fairer.”

“I told them no,” Harry says quickly. “I told them I wasn’t going to use our relationship to make Pansy do anything, and that it was useless anyway. Because you’re not doing anything wrong.”

Draco is considering every word, alarm still in his eyes. “I take it that they weren’t pleased with this.”

Harry sighs, and makes the split decision. He has to. Telling most of the truth makes it easier to hide a lie, he supposes. He explains everything then, what they had told him about the patients at St Mungo’s, how they had tried to convince him yet again that he’d been under the influence of a powerful, tampered-with love potion this whole time. 

Draco sits and listens, not daring to interrupt. He is obviously perturbed by the news that they’re still unconvinced by their performance, still desperate to prove that Harry is doing this all against his will. Even if they somehow prove that no love potions are involved, they’ll think Harry is being coerced, or else elevating his better nature to help a man he thinks is innocent. Whatever they can do to justify his involvement against them.

“Don’t get angry at me,” he says once he’s finished explaining. “I had to — I really tried to convince them. I hoped I could change their minds, so I…”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “What did you do?”

He’s going to get angry at him. He knows it. He doesn't want to say the words and feel those eyes turn angry and betrayed, but he has to. He’s done it to himself. 

“I told them,” he says quietly. “That your potion experiments are to try and get rid of the Mark.”

It’s not exactly as though the air shifts, and Draco looks as though he suddenly wants to launch at him and curse him. His gaze remains steady, considering, though hard on him. His hand drifts to his arm, closing over the Mark almost unconsciously. The silence stretches in lieu of Harry being shouted at, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“Draco?” he says after a while. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says quietly. “It was all going to come to a head, one way or another. You did what I was too afraid to do myself. It’s done now.”

Harry’s breath shakes. He presses his lips together, and doesn’t know how to tell him. “No, they… They didn’t believe me.”

Alarm floods the other man’s eyes. He cannot speak for a moment. Then, almost breathless, he asks, “What?”

“They didn’t even give it a moment of consideration. They think that I’m still under the influence of your advanced amortentia, and that’s the only reason that I’m trying to make excuses for you.”

His heart is pounding with relief that he hasn’t entirely betrayed Draco’s trust, but equally aching at the disappointment on his face. His biggest secret right now, told to the Ministry for no pay off whatsoever. 

“I don’t know what else to do,” he says quietly. “I have nothing else, Harry. The truth was the one thing I was holding out on against them, and even that—”

“I know,” he tells him. And then again, “I’m sorry.”

Draco lets himself fall back against the cushions in defeat, and his hand falls next to his. Brushing the tensed skin of his own. Harry wants to lift his fingers and slide them betwixt the man’s own, wants to press their palms together and feel the steadying pace of his pulse beneath him. His fingers twitch with the need for it, but he can’t make himself follow through. It is not the time; certainly not for Harry's own selfish desires to take advantage of Draco’s upset. 

“I’m going to help you,” he says resolutely. “I haven’t been doing enough. But I’m going to start.”

Draco looks up at him with those same alarmingly soft eyes that Harry has been falling over so much lately. His small smile is sad, accompanied by a tired shrug. He says to him, “That’s not what you signed up for.”

“No,” he agrees. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ve been letting you deal with everything by yourself, and that’s going to stop. Okay?”

His gaze is firm, wide and filled with disbelief as he studies Harry’s face, possibly searching for any sign of treachery or falsities. Whatever it is, he can’t seem to find it. He nods, apprehensive at first before strengthening, the dip of his head becoming more and more assured. “Thank you,” he breathes.

Harry gulps. It’s taking everything in him not to melt under the intensity of his gaze. He asks, “What have you already been doing?”

Draco sighs, and his hand withdraws its proximity to Harry’s in order to rub his face before answering. There’s a kind of bittersweet relief in the absence. Harry no longer needs to resist the strong temptation to hold his hand, but desperately misses it. He’s not able to find any sense in the matter. 

Draco, oblivious to Harry’s inner turmoil, answers his question. “I’ve been attempting to collect evidence as to how the ingredients I’ve been using have nothing to do with brewing love potions of any sort. Just because I’ve been using bdellium and powdered unicorn horn for their coverage properties… Ugh. It’s difficult, because it’s my own recipe I’ve been cultivating. There’s nothing even remotely similar to the potion I’m trying to create.”

Harry nods his understanding. He asks, “Do you know about the patients in St Mungo’s?”

He sighs. “That they’ve been exhibiting behaviour affiliated with love potions? Yes. As I told them when they first came to me with their suspicions, any potion can result in unforeseen side effects. If the potion’s master added too much of a single ingredient, or if there was cross-contamination from another potion then —” He closes his eyes, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. As I’ve said, Dawlish has made up his mind and has convinced Kingsley and Robards, so there’s no point. The best chance I have of no further consequence is marrying you.”

“That’s still happening,” Harry tells him assuredly, trying to ignore the dizziness it brings to his head. “But we can still try to work to clear your name, can’t we?”

After a moment, Draco nods.

Harry smiles. “Good. Well, first of all, you’re a good, professional Potions Master. Anyone can see that. I’m assuming that you know what you’re doing — you wouldn’t allow for the chance of cross contamination. Right?”

“Right,” he tells him. He sits up slightly. 

“So there’s a simple solution: We have to find out which other Potions Master contributing to St Mungo’s is dealing in an unsafe environment. Is there a list somewhere of those who do?”

Draco blinks at him. “There should be. I’m assuming Dawlish looked over it, saw my name and didn’t bother looking into the others.”

Harry has to agree. Dawlish had basically admitted it to him: He’s the only Death Eater providing potions to St Mungo’s. All they had to do was get their hands on that list, and look at it with a keener eye and less prejudice than his colleague had. 

“Do you know how many other people there’d be?” he asks.

Draco says, “Not many, but not little. It’s highly regulated, obviously, but they need the manpower to be able to keep up with demand. We have to brew in batches, mostly. I’ve already tried to find out the batch numbers that the patients took, to see if I could try and trace it back to whichever Master made them, but I didn’t have the clearance.”

Harry looks at him then, high with the possibility that they could do this. His adrenaline reminds him of when discoveries used to be fun, used to mean something. Nowadays, his Auror work means nothing more than discovering the whereabouts of a dark artefact, or monitoring recently released prisoners from Azkaban. It was boring. So boring. But this? An actual investigation to carry out independently, that would actually make a difference to somebody’s life — directly? It feels nostalgic. It feels right. It feels just like how it had in school, the first time they’d cottoned on to the Philosopher’s Stone.

And then, looking at Draco’s face, Harry could choke. He needs to do this for him. The idea implanted in Harry’s brain is intense, and he can’t help but picture Draco working on this by himself, trying his best to crack it independently. He hadn’t known that he could ask Harry for that sort of help, and Harry couldn’t blame him for that. Day after day, they’d both thought that the best thing Harry could do was keep his composure when holding his hand in public. 

He’s beautiful, Harry thinks. Again. And hopeful now — more hopeful than Harry has seen him in God knows how long. Harry wants to do this for him, because he feels, in part, like he owes him this one thing. Still stung with the fresh realisation of his feelings, Harry feels like he’s betraying him. The least he can do is clear Draco’s name so that he’s no longer forced to pretend with someone who actually feels — something — for him. To prolong it further than necessary would be more of a betrayal. Especially with Pansy’s words still fresh in his head from the few days prior: I hope you know what it’s costing him. The agony he is putting himself through to pretend.

Harry looks at him with purpose, and pushes the idea of holding his hand out of his head again. He says poignantly, “I’ll get that clearance. I’ll get that list, I’ll get the batch numbers, and we’ll work it all out for you,” he promises him. Draco just continues to look at him, and for whatever reason it may be, Harry can tell that he believes him. His faith makes him feel warmer. Harry continues, tells him, “I’m not stopping until I prove your innocence, Draco. You can trust me on that.”

Draco’s widened eyes stay on him. He’s the one, then, who reaches forward, bridges the gap, and places his long fingers and warm palm over Harry’s hand on his thigh. Harry can’t help but follow the movement with his eyes, mouth opening to make way for the rush of breath that comes with the touch.

His eyes flicker back up to Draco’s face, and only then does he answer him. Resolutely, and with no hesitation whatsoever in his voice, Draco tells him, “I do. I trust you.”

Harry feels the words wash over him, like warm water on a beach, coloured thickly with responsibility.

Chapter Text

First thing’s first, Harry gets in his head, is to recruit those he needs the most. There’s no question about it. 

Harry heads back to the Ministry and tries to avoid being noticed by anyone who may be clued into the situation. He slips past the blond boy at Celia’s desk and marches quickly to his and Ron’s office, shutting the door behind him as he enters. Ron’s still in there, none the wiser to the fact that he had been home at all. 

“Alright?” he says, brows furrowing as he watches Harry shut the blinds on the window. “Blimey, did Robards send a squadron after you for faking being ill? What are you doing?”

“Ron,” he says, turning to him. “I’ve not lost my mind. Promise. I need your help. How soon can Hermione get here?”

As it turns out, Ron tells him that Hermione can’t just drop everything in her own job and has to have at least a little notice first, so Harry does what he can to try and explain the situation to Ron alone first. He sounds like a paranoid lunatic, but that’s okay, because Ron really is one of the best people in the world. 

“I have to help him,” Harry finishes. “They won’t listen to my testimony because they think I’m — lying, or under a potion, or whatever. So I have to do it with indisputable facts. Draco can’t do it alone.”

Ron is sitting down, reflecting on the dump of information that Harry has given him. He blinks slowly, and Harry doesn’t speak as he stares at him, hands on his hips and waiting for it to all process. 

“So,” Ron says. “Malfoy is being accused of something he really, really hasn’t done. Dawlish has everybody convinced because he’s done barely any research and has come to the easiest conclusion possible. You want to gain access to those same records so that you’re able to prove Dawlish wrong — which are incredibly difficult to get — but even with that concrete proof, you need us to present it as evidence because they won’t listen to a thing you say anymore?”

Harry’s lips are pressed in a tight, thin line. He raises his hands, nods and lets the situation speak for itself. 

“Right,” Ron says. “I’ll get Hermione.”

*

Though initially unimpressed with being dragged away from her own workload, Hermione very quickly comes around to the idea that she’s very much needed, as well. Because like Ron, she’s one of the best people in the world. And Harry is most certainly the luckiest. 

“I can go to St Mungo’s,” she offers. “I should be able to get the list of employed Potion Masters easily.”

“Thank you,” Harry breathes.

“I can speak with Dawlish,” Ron offers. “If I pretend like I’m on his side and suspicious of Malfoy again, I reckon he’d be pretty easy to get information out of.”

Harry nods. “I think so, too. We need to know the batch numbers of the contaminated potions, and he has to have them somewhere. You don’t think they’ll tell you that too, Hermione?”

She shakes her head. “I could, but… It’ll be far too obvious that I’m looking into the case.”

“You’re right,” he says. “No problem. Ron, if you get him talking and then away from his office, I could sneak in and—”

Hermione sucks in a breath. “Harry, I love you dearly, but you’re perhaps the least inconspicuous person to be sneaking into people’s offices.”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry says. “They think I’ve gone home for the day. They won’t be looking for me. I’ll be fine,” he repeats, because he has to be. 

“I’ll catch Dawlish on his way out to lunch,” Ron offers. “Far enough away so you can get in unnoticed, but close enough that he wouldn’t think I’d risk covering for anything.”

Harry nods at him in thanks. He looks back to Hermione, eyebrow raised. She obviously has some reservations about the chancy plan, but she doesn’t say anything to advise them against it. They’ve been lucky before, they all figure. 

“Okay,” she resigns. “I’ll head straight to St Mungo’s. Harry,” she says quickly, just as the smile splits across his face. She studies his expression, and Harry can barely read her own. She places a steadying, kind hand on his arm, and tells him, “It’s good to see you so passionate about something again.”

He takes a deep breath, staring back at her, and tries not to betray himself so utterly. “Yeah,” he chokes out, and spares a small glance over at Ron, who is also watching him with sympathetic eyes. 

“Come on,” he says to them both, interrupting the moment that he can tell Harry wants out of. “If we wait any longer, the greedy bugger will have gone already. Meet back later, at Harry’s.”

*

Hermione bids them good luck before she leaves and heads straight to the hospital, giving Ron a kiss on the cheek and Harry another encouraging squeeze on his arm. 

They time it almost perfectly. They only have to wait for a few minutes before Dawlish is fumbling out of his office, hands in his pockets. He doesn’t even look in their direction. Ron heads out and catches him before he gets too far away, making the meeting seem as coincidental as possible. 

Harry knows he has to be fast. He keeps his head down as he shuffles over to the door to his office, and is so close — so close — when a voice interrupts his stead and steals his attention away.

“Mr Potter?” the blond boy says, big eyes staring at him from behind Celia’s desk. “I thought you’d gone home.”

Harry stands still, smiles to try and hide his gulp, and turns to him. He walks closer, and consequently further from the door, so that he doesn’t have to raise his voice. He says, “I came back.”

“Right,” he hums. “Say, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Harry looks up and peers over at Ron, doing his best to keep Dawlish’s attention. “Um. Sure.”

“Are you really engaged to Draco Malfoy?”

Harry looks back at him, not wanting to be rude. “Yes.”

“Wow,” the boy says. He can’t be more than eighteen, freshly out of Hogwarts. Harry feels a pang of envy before writing it off as ridiculous. 

“Is that all? Sorry, but I’m in a bit of a rush.”

“Sorry,” he says. “I just… Didn’t know you liked men.”

Harry lets out a breath of amusement, and rubs his arm. “What’s your name?” 

The boy blinks. “Terry, Mr Potter.”

“Right,” he says, and he feels very mature. Very old. “I didn’t know I liked men until he came about, either. Listen, sorry, but I really must go. Lovely to meet you.”

Terry nods dumbly, but opens his mouth to speak again. Harry takes a deep breath, looking over once again at Ron and Dawlish. He’s running out of time. He has to get rid of the poor kid.

“Would you do me a favour, Terry?” he asks. “It’s a big job. Could you let Kingsley know that I was looking for him?”

His young eyes go wide. “The… Minister for Magic?”

“Yep.” Harry nods. “Tell him I’ll be having lunch. Quickly, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course!” he says. “Of course, Mr Potter! I’m on it.”

Harry winces as he rushes away, because there’s every possibility that Terry’s volume may have given him away. But Dawlish remains speaking to Ron, shaking his head as he does so.

Seizing the opportunity, Harry makes his move. 

He holds his breath as he launches himself across the hall and into the office as subtly and quietly as possible. He makes it, shutting the door behind him with a click and crossing his fingers that Ron has kept his attention. 

He waits a few moments to make sure that nobody else has noticed, or is going to follow him in, before he withdraws his wand and holds it out in front of him. 

“Accio Draco Malfoy’s file,” he casts, and a drawer in his desk flies open. A file flies out from it, and Harry catches it with one hand carefully. It’s thick, filled with papers, and Harry places it on the desk to start flicking through it at once. 

It starts with childhood. Information carefully collected, Harry assumes, when the Death Eater trials were under way. He doesn’t want to read through all of that, the invasiveness creeping like an itch under his skin. He heads instead to a page closer to the end. 

This one is entitled, Known Enemies. 

Harry frowns, flattening it with his hand. The list is a jumble of light and dark; like there’s nobody on his side at all. Like he’s been forsaken by both. Harry thinks back to sixth year, as he has been doing a lot lately, and figures that he really has been. 

His name is there. It’s third on the list, in fact, right after Albus Dumbledore and Tom Riddle. He gulps as he looks at it, his fingers sliding over the printed words. Harry Potter. Enemy. It brings forth a chill from his fingertips downwards. Like lightning; like a sudden downpour. Draco’s words, again, echoing: I hate you, I hate you. 

Harry swallows his feelings. His everything. 

He flicks the page, not wanting to wallow — knowing he can’t waste too much time. He flicks and flicks until he reaches a section on his potions work. He knows it should be here, knows that if he just keeps looking, then—

Yes. Relief ripples through him as he reaches a page littered with names of potions, dates and numbers. He knows what none of it means, and has no idea how he could possibly relay the information in front of him. He holds out his wand again, pointing it at the sheet.

“Gemino,” he casts, intending for it to just replicate this sheet. Maybe his hand slips, or he aims it at the wrong place entirely, because he simply blinks — and the whole file has been replicated. He curses, places the original back in its drawer, and slips the new fake into his robes. It’s uncomfortable, and he’s almost certainly sure that it’s more than obvious. He doesn’t really have another choice. 

He holds his breath again as he slips back out of the office, desperately hoping that he’ll remain unnoticed. He presses his back against the door once it clicks shut again, eyes shooting all around the atrium to check if there’s any reflected back at him. There’s not. 

He only feels comfortable enough to breathe again once he’s back inside his office, Ron absent still, so he’s fully alone. He pulls the file out from his robes and resists the urge to lock the door and flip through every single page. Instead, he throws it onto his desk and listens to it slap on the wood, the sound echoing through the room. 

He thinks he’s struck gold with his luck, and is ready to take a deep breath before heading back to the Floo’s and remaining home for the rest of the day, ready to meet Ron and Hermione back there once they’re done, too.

But he’s never been that lucky, has he?

The door opens without even a knock, and he almost jumps out of his skin with shock. He steps back several paces until he’s leaning against his desk, automatically moving to hide the file atop of it. 

He gulps. “Minister.”

Kingsley smiles at him. He doesn’t close the door yet, but stands beside it, hand remaining on the door handle. He says, “Harry,” with a kind voice. 

The anxiety that rushes through him is impossible to ignore. He feels rude, insubordinate after the way that had left their previous meeting. He’d never wanted to have to speak to him that way. He feels blood rush to his cheeks and he doesn’t feel like an adult. He feels like a child, in awe of him.

When he doesn’t say anything else, Kingsley steps further into the office. Now, he closes the door, and says, “You were looking for me, I was told.”

Harry gulps. He’d expected to be gone by the time Terry had found him, let alone by the time Kingsley made time to find him. He looks down, avoiding eye contact, and tries to think of something to say that doesn’t make it sound like he’s stolen Ministry property to interfere with an ongoing investigation.

“I wanted to apologise,” he says. “For the way I acted. Storming out.”

“Harry,” he says again, shaking his head. “It’s understandable if you needed some time to wrap your head around what we were telling you.”

“I didn’t. I don’t,” Harry tells him plainly. He takes a breath. “Minister, I need you to understand.”

Kingsley frowns, like he’d been expecting to hear something else. An epiphany, maybe. Harry being strong enough to break through whatever influence they think he’s under. Harry doesn’t give him the satisfaction. It’s not going to happen. 

“It pains me to hear that,” he says seriously. 

Harry shakes his head. “Minister… Kingsley. I know that Dawlish is getting all the evidence that he can. I know that it’s completely bizarre for me to… Apparently be in love with Draco so suddenly. But you really, really have to believe me. He’s not drugged me with any potions. He’s not placed me under any curses, or spells. I am with him out of my own free will.”

Kingsley looks at him. His expression doesn’t change. 

Harry continues. He’d been wanting to talk to him in private, anyway. It’s what he’d been searching for him for this morning. He may as well lay it all bare now. 

“I wouldn’t need an excuse to be with him. He’s funny, and he’s bright, and witty and kind. He’s gorgeous.” He shrugs, and he no longer needs to hope that he’s being convincing. “He understands me. No one apart from Ron and Hermione ever has. He just — makes sense. We — fit right.” 

Kingsley continues to observe him. He still isn’t rid of his frown, or the downturn of his brows. He still doesn’t speak. Harry’s knuckles whiten on the desk.

“Do you remember that I shook off the Imperius curse? Multiple times?” he asks. “I am used to the feeling of Voldemort invading my head. Snape himself taught me Occlumency. I’m not a defenceless first year, I know what’s going on.”

Kingsley does speak, then. “Draco Malfoy is one of the best Potion Masters this Ministry has seen for years. Snape taught him Occlumency, too. I also seem to remember him and Dumbledore saying that you didn’t quite take to it.”

Harry clenches his jaw. Looks down. “I’d know if I was under the influence of a love potion, Kingsley.”

“You know as well as I do that every single Amortentia victim says that, Harry.”

He can’t even argue that. He shakes his head and lets the silence hang between them until he has it in him to break it again. His voice is soft when he does, pleading but determined. “He’s innocent of all of this,” he tells him. “The only things that he’s been trying to do — this whole time — is rid himself of the Mark, and rid himself of Dawlish’s harassment.”

Kingsley listens to him. Hums. “You mentioned that earlier. About the Mark.”

Harry jumps at the opening. “Look at the ingredients he’s been getting. None of them are even remotely related to love potions. Even I know that, and I was ruddy awful at potions.”

“Come now, you wouldn’t have been able to become an Auror if—”

“Kingsley,” he interrupts him. “Stop talking around the subject. I’m serious. Draco Malfoy has not done anything to me, and has not done anything to the patients of St Mungo’s. You can look for two seconds into Dawlish’s investigation and see nothing but laziness. If you have ever valued my word, or me, then I’m begging you, Minister,” he says, passion now in every word. “Please.”

Kingsley’s eyes remain on him for a few more moments before they lower to the ground. He folds his arms. After what feels like an eon or two have passed, he finally speaks again. “I’ll keep a more open mind. You must understand that you’re our priority, and I don’t know that I can trust what you’re saying. Like I said, he’s the best Potions Master we’ve seen in a damn while. Even so,” he says, when Harry opens his mouth to argue again, “I’ll look into Dawlish’s notes myself for indiscrepancies.”

Harry feels himself physically deflate with relief. That’s enough, for now. “Thank you, sir.”

Kingsley nods, but continues to look at him. “I want you to take the rest of the week off. I don’t think any of this is good for your health. Stay home, and relax.”

“With Draco,” he says flippantly, frowning. “You can’t be all that concerned then, Minister.”

“I trust that Ms Granger and Mr Weasley will be keeping an eye on you,” he tells him, but it still doesn’t feel right. Harry can’t shake the suspicion, even as Kingsley tells him, “I promise, I’ll look into it. Go home.”

Harry nods, and thanks him again just to hide his prickling intuition. He gives Harry a pat on the shoulder and a kind nod as he leaves his office, as he leaves Harry to his own devices. 

He can’t think about that for now. Now, all he can think about is stuffing the file into his briefcase before anyone else decides to barge on in. 

*

Draco is still downstairs when Harry gets home again, and this time, he has his briefcase with him. Draco stands up the moment he comes through, eyes wide with anticipation. 

“You’re home so quickly,” he says. “I didn’t expect you for another few hours, still.”

Harry shrugs at him, throwing the briefcase down onto the couch, right next to where Draco had just been sitting. He sits himself down on the couch opposite, falling into the cushions, and tells Draco everything. 

He listens with intent, and, when Harry finishes by telling him he won’t be back in work for at least a week, finally turns his gaze back to the briefcase. Harry can see his fingers twitch to open it, to look through everything they have on him. 

“You can look,” Harry tells him softly. 

Draco looks back at him. He asks, “Did you?”

“Not really,” he says truthfully. “Looking for the right sheet, I saw some stuff. Nothing substantial.” 

After a moment of consideration, Draco nods. “Good.”

“All we need to look at with Ron and Hermione is the batch numbers. You can take the rest of it,” Harry tells him. “Put it in your room and look at it later. They don’t even need to know that I took anything else.”

“Hm. I think I will,” he says, pulling the file to his lap. “It’ll be interesting to see what they think they know about me.”

Harry huffs out a laugh. “I tabbed the right page, so we’ll know which one we need when they get here. I’m going to go and shower. Just… Need to relax a bit, I think.”

Draco stands again as he does, and they head upstairs together, parting ways in the hall between the bathroom and Draco’s bedroom. Harry watches him take the file into his room and wonders if he’ll be as hung up on the list of names as Harry was. 

In the shower, Harry ponders. He’d been on the brink of a panic earlier, and he’s not about to forget that quickly. There’s no wonder that Dawlish had been able to convince Kingsley and Robards of Draco’s supposed guilt — he’d even had Harry questioning his own reality, for a few worrying moments. Seeing Draco again had brought him right back. Not without some serious realisations. But still.

He lets the rush of hot water fall over him and wonders how his friends are doing. Their reliance is enough to keep him grounded, too. Though he’s never been more grateful to have them there to help him, he has to live with the fact that he’s still lying to them. Technically. 

Would he ever tell them now? Eventually, he figures. Once all of this is over and done with. They’ll figure it out then, anyway, that at least part of the way through it all, it became real at some point. They’ll look at him with pity and exasperation and wonder why he never told them. And he won’t be able to give a good answer. 

And Kingsley… Well. If anything, Harry will be expecting a big bloody pay rise. This is the best undercover mission anyone in the Wizarding World has ever done, he reckons. 

He wraps his waist in his towel after exiting the shower, and decides at once to elect to abandon his work clothes for something more comfortable. He doesn’t see any point in remaining uncomfortable for the foreseeable when unnecessary. Who was going to see him, after all, but just Draco, Ron and Hermione? They can deal with him throwing his robes in the wash and putting on his joggers again. 

He opens the door to the bathroom, ready to make his quick shuffle across the hall back to his bedroom to get dressed. What he doesn’t see is Draco standing right there already, right outside the bathroom door, arm raised like he was about to give it a knock. 

Harry walks right into him. 

“Oof,” he says, or Draco says. He can’t really decipher it. His hands move on instinct as he feels Draco’s legs become more unsteady beneath him, and they find themselves encircling the man’s waist to keep him upright, pulling him close against him. 

Draco puts his hands to Harry’s shoulders for stability then too, and waits only a moment or two before they both catch their breath and come to their senses. Harry’s dizzy with their closeness for more than a few moments as they find it in them to still themselves. 

“Sorry,” Draco breathes, but he’s not looking at Harry’s face. His eyes are down, distracted, and Harry is starkly reminded again of the fact that this is a man who is interested in men. Harry licks his lips, feeling hot and flushed under his gaze. Is it the shock that has him staring, or something else?

Harry shakes his head. His hands are firm on his waist still, and his shoulders are hot under Draco’s grip. He says, “It’s okay.”

Draco is still looking down, distracted, at his bare torso. His pale finger nudges a remaining droplet trickling down his skin, and his speech stutters. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then squeezes his eyes shut. 

Harry feels warm under the appreciative gaze, that heat blossoming from his abdomen and — down. This towel is not so forgiving. He clears his throat. He says, his voice soft with the proximity, “You were coming to get me?”

He takes a few moments to respond. “Yes,” he says, opening his eyes again. He steps back, holding his hands to his own chest now. “Yes, I was. Um. Sorry, I—”

“It's okay,” Harry says, though he doesn’t want to give away his awareness of Draco’s fluster. “Has something happened?”

“No,” he says. “No, I… Granger and Weasley are here.”

“Oh, shit,” Harry says back, and automatically reaches down to pull his towel closer. “Already?”

“Just,” he tells him. “I’ll leave you to get dressed.” 

But he doesn’t leave. Not yet. He clears his throat and stays right where he is, his bright red face even more noticeable against the paleness of his hair. Harry doesn’t move when he knows that he maybe should, the words an expression of dismissal.

Walk, he tells himself, still holding the towel tight around him. Two bloody paces to your bedroom. Walk!

He doesn’t. He can’t make his legs move. He’s too interested in Draco’s frozen stature, because he’s sure that he’s never seen the man like this before. He is stiff with rigid embarrassment, and Harry feels obsessed with it. 

“Draco?” he says after a few more moments, when he can hear the voices of his best friends more clearly from the living room. His voice is low, close, and makes Draco blink wildly with rushed realisation. 

“Yes,” he says, and takes two steps backwards, dangerously close to toppling over the top of the staircase. “I’ll see you down there.”

“Okay,” he says, and waits for the man to disappear down the stairs before making his way back into his bedroom to put some clothes on. 

He doesn’t want to distract himself with it all. With the impossibility of the situation dawning on him slowly. He’s delusional, he tells himself. Or Draco is overwhelmed with the concept of his troubles coming to a head. Or, better yet, both. 

Step back, he tells himself. There’s bigger fish to fry right now. 

When he gets downstairs, he finds Draco serving Ron and Hermione full cups of tea. Before he sits down, he’s handing Harry one as well. Just as he likes it. He smiles at him, and tells him earnestly, “Thanks.”

“So,” Harry says, leaning forwards. “What happened with both of you?”

“I managed to get the list,” Hermione says, procuring it out of her bag and placing it down onto the table. “It’s not that long, like Draco told you.”

“Perfect,” Draco says, and sits forward to take a better look. Harry does the same. The list is not too comprehensive, but still filled with names Harry has never heard before. He’d wager that Draco was familiar with most of them. Draco says, “Thank you, Granger.”

She smiles at him. “Hermione.”

“Yes. Quite, Hermione.”

Harry feels his chest tighten inexplicably. “I managed to get the sheet with all of the numbers, and that,” he says. “Do you have it, Draco?”

He nods, pulling it out and settling it alongside the other list. Hermione frowns as she leans forward, examining it and comparing it with her own list. 

She says, “What are these letters? Some of them look like they could be corresponding initials, but the number of letters differs too much.”

Draco nods. “They are, partly. They’re the initials of the Potion Master, and of the Mediwitch who received the batch. Then the letter on the end is supposed to signify what kind of potion it was.”

Her frown deepens. “But… All of these…”

Draco sighs. “I know.”

“What?” Ron asks.

Draco clenches his jaw. “They all have DM written at the end of them.”

Harry’s eyes flicker up at once, subconsciously meeting Ron’s gaze. Harry speaks before Ron does. “So these really are your batches?”

Draco reaches forward, picks up the paper to examine it more closely. “No, they can’t be,” he tells them. “As I said, the Potion Master’s initials are supposed to be first in the sequence. These are just — taken out, and have mine fitted on the end. Look. Instead of how it should be, it’s written as — Mediwitch, potion, Master.”

He holds it out to show Hermione, who stands up to get a better look. “You’re right.”

“So they’ve been altered?” Ron asks. 

“If Draco’s right, they must have been.” Hermione looks up. “Not that I don’t trust you, but I may return to St Mungo’s to get a similar copy… Just to compare.”

“Of course,” Draco says. 

“That’ll be better yet, to build the case,” Harry encourages. “If Dawlish has actually altered these himself, just to frame you… He’ll be fired.”

Hermione scoffs. “He should be arrested.”

“There’s something else,” Draco points out, bringing it closer to his face again. “I didn’t notice the — the dates. They’re wrong. I send my potion batches into St Mungo’s on the first of every month. But this —”

Harry pauses, peering over his shoulder. “It’s the end of the month. Every time.”

Draco nods. “Including your birthday. I wasn't working on your birthday; I was with my mother. I finished the potions earlier than usual and shut the shop. I collected them again the day after, and took them to St Mungo’s as usual.”

Ron says, “Good. If your mum is able to confirm that, too, you’ve got an alibi.”

Harry’s eyes shoot up to Draco’s face. He says, “Maybe.”

Ron doesn’t push the topic. Hermione is scanning her own list of Potion Master’s again, brows furrowed with focus. She says aloud, “I’m going to find out which of these Masters deliver to St Mungo’s at the end of each month, instead. That should be able to help us narrow the list down a bit.”

“Perfect, Hermione. Thank you,” Harry says. 

She sighs. “I really am rushed off my feet today, though. I may have to go tomorrow, instead. I promise, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Don’t rush yourself,” Draco says to her. “You’re doing me a massive favour. I’m in your debt.”

She smiles at him again, tucks her hair behind her ear, and folds the sheet of parchment back into her bag. “I’ll see you later,” she says, and places a kiss on Ron's forehead. “Good luck, boys.”

She rushes off, determination written across her face. She leaves the three men there, bent over the coffee table. She leaves Harry, at least, feeling more optimistic about the situation. It feels like they’re almost there — like they’re so close to proving Draco’s innocence that he can taste it. If anyone can find out some information to make the truth come to light, it’ll be Hermione.

“Ron,” Harry says after a moment or two of quiet reflection. “Anything interesting from Dawlish?”

At once, Ron groans. “What, you mean whilst you were chatting away to Celia’s replacement? Merlin, you had me rambling on about some bullshit.”

Draco’s eyes turn to him. “He better not have been flirting.”

Now, Ron snorts. “He did look a bit like you.” 

Harry doesn’t look at him. He can’t. He keeps his eyes on his best friend. Clearing his throat, he says, “Ron. Dawlish?”

“Right. I had to try and convince him that I still think you’re crazy, or that Malfoy is a mastermind. That was pretty easy, I mean. You could tell him anything and he’d agree. I told him I’d keep an eye on you because of it.” Ron sighs then, rubs the back of his neck. Harry thinks back to Kingsley’s words, “I trust that Ms Granger and Mr Weasley will be keeping an eye on you.”

“What?” Harry asks. “What else?”

“He asked me to let him know when I leave you tonight. He wants you both under observation, but you’re, you know… Not supposed to know. Don’t ask me how. It’s sick, mate.” He looks around the room. “I’d shut the curtains, if I were both of you.”

Harry blinks. The odd feeling that Kingsley had left him with suddenly makes sense, and he feels a sickness rise up in his throat with realisation. Observation. 

He thinks, distantly, that he’s never needed to worry about people crowding his window, or other peeping Tom’s. Not before Draco, anyway. He’d forgotten about the charms of Grimmauld, probably opening for Draco because of his blood. But Kingsley knew how to gain access to the House — which means that Dawlish probably does, too.

They’re going to be watched. For just tonight, maybe. Potentially longer. He’ll have to rely on Ron for word otherwise. Any difference that Harry makes in his own home will be noted — will be suspicious. 

Draco says, “Harry has never closed his curtains,” and doesn’t meet his gaze when he turns to look at him. 

Fuck.

Chapter Text

He tries to make Ron stay as long as possible, until it’s just ridiculous for him to bring him another cup of tea, another plate of biscuits. 

It’s dark by the time he leaves, with a frown and a pat on Harry’s shoulder. He tells him, “Really sorry, mate. I really do have to go.”

Harry wants to be selfish. He wants to beg him to stay and sleep in one of the dozen spare bedrooms they have here, wants to ask him why he doesn’t share a moment for nostalgia and pretend like they’re in the dorms again. But he doesn’t. He’s had a long day too, and no doubt wants to talk to Hermione. 

He calls him a tosser and lets him leave finally. Ron tells them that he’ll get absolutely reamed if he never gets back to tell Dawlish that he’s gone home, and Harry tells him that it’s fine, really, and thanks him for preparing them at all. Ron doesn’t know quite how appreciative he truly is for that. 

After all, if they’d been watched without realising it, within the confines of their own home… It would just give them away — entirely. No question about it. They don’t even share a room together. 

He feels sick. Truly. There are uncomfortable goosebumps rising all over his body, and he can’t stop the anxiety itself from spreading. Aside from the obvious horror at the fact that they’ll be wholly spied on — in their own home — It’s… Well. They’ll have to pretend. And for some reason, it’s different. Harry can’t pinpoint it. When they’ve displayed affection in public, it has been automatically limited. There’s only so far that you can go without being arrested for public indecency, after all. 

But here? With nothing to stop them from draping themselves over each other, nothing to stop them from starting and following through with whatever their hearts desire — not even work in the morning? Harry has a bad feeling. He knows it, deep down. It’s bad. It’s awful. 

Harry has no shelter from his feelings now. 

Draco clears the coffee table from any remnants of the investigation and goes to put them upstairs, to hide them, whilst Harry starts to make tea. He’s not even hungry — doesn’t even know if he really can eat at all. His eyes drawl over the pantry, but nothing looks appealing in the slightest.

When Draco walks back through into the kitchen, arms folded, Harry can’t help but think: They might already be watching. 

“I don’t think they’ll be able to hear us,” Draco says, coming to stand beside him. “I never could.”

Harry looks at him. “You’re not the Ministry.”

“Harry,” he says, and puts a gentle hand to his arm. “They’re just keeping an eye to make sure that I don’t do anything illegal, most likely. They haven’t got seeing, or hearing devices hidden in every room. I think that… If you look…”

Harry follows his lead, follows his gaze. He could almost laugh. 

There, inconspicuously, is a cloaked figure. Sitting on Draco’s bench. Harry feels a wave of familiarity at the view, but it comes with an innate wrongness. There’s no intrigue, no warmth when he looks at this. Not like there was with him. 

“Got yourself a copycat,” Harry remarks weakly.

They both look away subtly, trying to not give away the fact that they’d been staring. They’re not supposed to know. The hand on Harry’s arm squeezes, slightly.

Draco tells him, so quietly, “We just need to do what we’ve been doing. Pretending.” 

Harry releases one long breath. 

They try to go about the evening normally, but Harry can tell that even Draco is on edge, as well. He’s not very hungry either, so they decide to just make sandwiches, which they eat sitting side by side on the settee instead of the dinner table. Right in front of the window. 

Harry feels overly conscious of everything. It feels how it did at the very start of this, when they first began pretending. He is overtly aware of how close Draco is to him, and how once they finish eating, he’ll probably get even closer. It’s what he’d have done with Ginny, though thinking of her now gives him even more of an adverse reaction. Since realising that there’s — something — that he feels for Draco, the concept of Ginny is an odd haze of a past that feels longer ago than it was. 

And it’s worse, because it’s exactly what Harry wants to do. Through no fault of his own, Harry feels torn apart at the possibility of holding Draco so much closer to him. It makes him feel like a teenager again, his heart pounding and head turning fuzzy. He wants to wrap an arm around Draco’s shoulders and kiss his cheek once he’s completely flush against him. He wants to watch crappy television with him and point out all of the flaws in the plot lines. He wants to put a hand on his thigh and rub his thumb over the inside. The worst part of it all is that he can. He can do exactly that. 

Draco clears away the plates, and Harry feels like he can choke when he returns from it. He sits down, and it’s exactly as he’d fretted; closer. Their legs press against each other, and Draco’s slightly twisted posture brings their faces closer too. 

“What is this show?” Draco asks quietly. 

“No idea,” Harry tells him. He feels unnatural, like he’s holding himself back. His entire body feels stiff. 

“Relax,” Draco whispers to him. “Uptight.”

“Sorry.”

Draco takes his hand in his own, and it’s alarmingly calming. Harry squeezes it. He tries to imagine a scenario that would get rid of the spying bastard outside, but that’s — impossible. That’s the worst case scenario. 

And yet Draco seems to come to the conclusion at exactly the same time. 

It seems like an inevitability of this situation. And yet, Draco is the one who says it. Harry is glad. He’d do nothing but second-guess himself otherwise. 

“We may be able to scare him off,” he tells him softly. Harry’s skin feels on fire. He says, “You’ll have to initiate it. I’ll look desperate enough to warrant suspicion of drugging you, otherwise.” 

Harry, despite himself, lets out a laugh as he looks at him. “Do you want to explain?” he asks, because he wants to put it off. He doesn’t want to kiss him, because he wants to so badly. 

He is met with a shake of his head, his eyes hot and locked on Harry’s. He says, “You know what I mean.”

Watch it, Harry, he tells himself. His eyes drop to Draco’s lips as he licks his own. Danger prickles up his skin. So does promise. 

He says, “If I’m the initiator, I may look desperate enough to be drugged.”

You are, he tells himself. You are desperate. 

There is an infinitesimal movement of Draco’s hand holding his. He can’t breathe. 

Harry is accosted by the still-fresh memory of their drunken kiss on Friday. It had felt like fire; like passion embodied. Harry had been too bold. He had welcomed himself to kissing him, to touching him, to speaking filthy words that Harry would never have dreamt he’d say to Draco Malfoy. Just the memory is enough to spur him on now, to forget about the possibility of consequences. He’d never been so turned on in his life, he’s sure. 

He won’t be surprised if that’s rivalled. Shortly.

“So, what?” Harry breathes, barely able to summon speech beyond that. He doesn’t even need to raise his voice further because they’re so goddamn close. 

“So,” Draco says, and he leans forward. Harry can feel the warmth of his breath on his face as it gets closer, hotter. 

Their noses slot in alongside one another, but their lips don’t touch. Not yet. Harry’s eyes remain open, half-lidded for the moment. He intends for his gaze to scan the other man’s face but it doesn’t. It stays exactly in one spot — unmoving from those pretty pink lips. 

Draco’s hand squeezes his. Harry could faint. 

And then — “Remember,” he whispers, “Make it look convincing.”

The touch of their lips sends Harry’s magic on edge. It’s bad. It’s so, so bad that he falls into it as soon as they meet. His head is filled at once with a glittering fog that pushes out any apprehension, and all he can think is yes, yes, yes. Harry doesn’t remember any preconceived notions as to why this would be a bad idea, because there’s no possible way that it can be — not when just a kiss is lighting him up inside. 

Harry lifts a hand to Draco’s cheek. It’s soft, like his lips. Like all of him seems to be. The tips of his fingers brush his hair and that’s soft, too. He’d been soft on Friday as well, when Harry had been too headstrong and straight-forward. Draco had let him do that, then. He’d bet that he’d let him do it again, now. 

Draco makes a sweet hum of pleasure against his lips, but it happens when Harry doesn’t even do anything. He keeps kissing him — but that’s it. Is that enough? Is that all it takes for self-professed I’m loud Draco Malfoy to start panting and moaning? It’s enough for Harry. It’s more than enough for Harry. 

Hands find his head now, too. Long, thin fingers slide into his curls, pulling him closer and making sure he doesn’t slip away. There’s that as another difference here, now. Harry feels ridiculous with how quickly the care has gone out of him. It feels like how he did when he was drunk. 

Their mouths move against each other and they remain upright for now, sitting with their knees knocking. He can feel Draco’s weight against him, slowly leaning on him more and more. 

A dangerous idea pops into Harry’s head. More dangerous than any of this. 

When he pulls away to voice it, because apparently his Gryffindor traits are shining through more and more now, he can hear Draco whine as he tries to follow his head back. Like he doesn’t want it to stop. He holds his head back to stop him advancing, chasing him, with a gentle spread hand on his cheek. His thumb nudges against his kiss-swollen lips and he’s mesmerised by the sight of it.

“What?” Draco asks, already short of breath. His brows are downturned, like he’s angry at the interruption. Really. 

“You seem like you’re at an awkward angle,” Harry tells him. He means it, even despite his ulterior motive. Draco is positioned awkwardly, body twisted at the hips. 

“Right,” Draco hums. “And you want me to get more comfortable?”

Harry nods, tilting his head closer still, pressing a small kiss to his cheek. Into his ear, he says, “It’ll look good.”

And it would. The underlying meaning of his words are thick there — they both know what Harry means, what position he’s insinuating. For an odd, alternate moment or two, Harry feels jealous of the Auror outside the window, Dawlish or not. He wishes he could see it from that point of view, on the outside looking in, as Draco makes his move.

And oh. God.

He does it so beautifully, so — Wow. He’s so fluid in it, lifting his left leg and throwing it over Harry’s lap, and then he settles in it. He sits down on him like it’s a throne, careful and slow before applying all of his weight. He’s just the slightest bit back from Harry’s crotch, which is probably for the best. Probably. 

Draco Malfoy is in his lap.   

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Draco whispers to him. His hands settle on Harry’s shoulders, and slide down to his chest. 

“Why?” Harry asks, and he’s lucky that it’s a whole sentence. He can only manage one word.

“Because,” he tells him. Harry simultaneously hangs on his every syllable, whilst not being able to perfectly comprehend English. “It’s you.”

A thousand emotions run through him and he can’t even identify them all. He feels like he should be upset, or offended, but despite the words, it doesn’t seem like that’s the intent. Draco’s voice is transparently soft when he says them, and coupled with the look on his face, the proximity… Harry feels a pull at his chest. It feels like he means something else. 

Harry gulps. He doesn’t know what to say to that. So, he doesn’t say anything. He just continues to stare — bewitched at the situation. 

Draco doesn’t seem to acknowledge Harry’s lack of acknowledgement. He’s an even brighter red than he had been when they’d first pulled away from each other, and in the absence of logic, Harry only drearily thinks that it may be because of the words.

“You should check to see if he’s still watching,” Draco murmurs. “Or if he’s given up.”

Harry clears his throat. His hands are on Draco’s hips. “I can’t see. You’re in my way. You look.”

A roll of his eyes. “Oh, yes. That’ll be very subtle.”

“What happened to you being ‘surprisingly unassertive’?” Harry asks, and feels the thrill run through him as Draco’s gaze turns to a glare. Harry feels like he should be more embarrassed that he has remembered the phrase. He’s not. Not right now, anyway. 

“Bastard,” Draco says. 

Harry just nods, tells him, “Yeah, I am,” and slips a hand around the back of his neck to pull him down again. It’s nonsensical to do so, but he does, ignoring the possibility that the Auror might not be there anymore. That’s not a possibility he particularly cares for. Not right now, anyway. 

Draco allows him to pull him down, his long lashes fluttering as his eyes close before their lips even meet again. This time, they both release a muffled moan into the kiss. And this one is somehow more rushed, more intense. Harry holds him close like he’s scared he might want to pull away. He is. 

But he doesn’t. Draco stays in his lap, knees spread over his thighs. Harry holds his neck bent down with both hands, the speeding pulse felt too easily under his thumbs. Draco’s hands, in turn, are grabbing bunches of Harry’s shirt and creasing it to nothing, white fabric poking through monochromatic knuckles. 

And what was it that they had been scared to seem? Desperate? Well. 

At some point, Harry’s hands acquire a mind of their own. From his neck, they slide down, draped over his shoulders, then chest, then his hips and thighs. His palms are fucking sweaty because there’s still a part of him that knows he should be more cautious. But then he’s grasping his hips with his thumbs smoothing over the stretched fabric over his thighs. 

Touching. Touching. It’s dangerous and he’s getting into it all over again. And worse than that, he’s —

He doesn’t know which one of them it is, but someone does it. Draco either slides himself forward or it’s Harry, all Harry, pulling him by his hips and lifting his knees to tilt him closer. Either way, they’re flush against each other now, chest against chest, arms thrown, all over the other. 

Draco doesn’t complain, or pull away. His fingers slide down now to Harry’s cheek, fingertips pressing into his skin. It’s strikingly intimate, and Harry feels dizzier now than he had been before. Dizzier still when — when—

“Fuck,” he whispers into his mouth, because he knows the exact moment they both feel it. It’s familiar again in a way that it shouldn’t be. Their erections, trapped yet again in their clothes, straining against the fabric and against each other. 

“Harry,” Draco whispers right back. Harry is torn between pulling back to get a good look at his face, and continuing to kiss him. He can barely choose. “Harry.”

“Fuck,” Harry says again. 

“Mm,” Draco whispers. “Need — See if he’s still there.”

Harry captures his mouth again, quieting him quickly. He doesn’t want to pull back and look out at the bench outside the window. If he does, this might end. And every single fucking atom in his body doesn’t want this to end. 

“Harry,” he whines. “Merlin— Dawlish—”

And it’s too suspicious for him not to comply, even feeling Draco’s shared excitement. Even with — whatever this is — going on. It’s a reality that’s all too confusing and all too real for him to conceptualise right now. Focusing on what’s at hand is far, far easier. 

“Fine,” he says, giving in because he has to. “I’m going to kiss your neck. Take the opportunity to turn your head and see.”

“Fine.”

Harry’s on him and his neck as soon as the word leaves his kissed lips. He presses his lips to the skin, still brazen with old, fading marks, and begins to make some more. He’s in his element again, and making the most of it while he can. He can feel Draco’s head turning, the tendons of his neck stretching. 

He’s waiting, because any moment now, Draco’s going to tell him that Dawlish — or whoever it is outside — is gone already. 

But then, in the breathiest voice Harry has heard from the other man, he hears him say, “He's still there.”

It’s a sick kind of thrill that Harry gets from that. He doesn’t want his colleague out there, watching this, but God. It means he can keep doing this. That they can keep acting. Pretending. God. 

Harry doesn’t move from his neck. He closes his eyes now and as he kisses it, open-mouthed and sweet. He can think of a hundred things to say but he can’t bear to separate himself from this. 

“Harry?” Draco breathes. “He’s still watching us.”

“Mm,” Harry says, and then he’s kissing a line up to his jawline. “Maybe we haven’t been convincing enough yet.”

Draco looks to be considering this. He looks, detrimentally, like he’s considering a way out. And there’s a lot of ways out. They could claim they’re taking it upstairs, out of sight of the window. They could move just a few steps in another direction, and it would be all fine. 

Then he says, “You really think we can do better than this?”

Harry leans back for a second, gazing at him. He’s slightly blurred through the smudges on his glasses. He’s acutely aware of how hard they’re both breathing, the quick, rhythmic rise and fall of their chests — still touching. His eyes remain firmly on his lips, parted and slightly swollen.

“If you think we should prove ourselves,” Harry says, because he wants to put the ball in his court. There it is again — the air of plausible deniability on all accounts. They’re kissing as cover. The cover is only necessary because Dawlish is outside. They’re only staying by the window to fuel the cover more. Explanations, explanations, explanations. 

“Yes.” Draco nods. “Perhaps, we should.”

“Yeah,” Harry hums, fingers stretching over his cheek, thumb pulling at his lower lip. “Let’s make it really awkward for him to face us in the Wizengamot.”

Draco just breathes a singular huff of laughter at that, and then they’re kissing again. He’s shifting in his lap, knees squeezing the outside of his thighs. Hands and lips and there, again, their erections —

Harry moves again. He holds him by his hips, lifts him, and manoeuvres the both of them in one swift movement until Draco is on his back against the couch. Harry leans over him, kissing him still, kneeling between his spread legs. 

His hands are all over him again, and this position gives him far better access to his body. He trails his fingers up and down his waist, pauses them and takes his time at his chest again. He doesn’t linger for too long — scared still to overstep. Draco is whining into his mouth again, like there’s been no pause, no interruption at all. 

“You’re —” Draco gasps. His hands are rife in Harry’s hair. “Mmf— Harry.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “God.”

He doesn’t know when exactly it changes. If it has, already by this point. A slight change in the little air between them, both of them too enthusiastic, too willing to stay blind to why this is a bad fucking idea.

Is kissing supposed to feel this good, Harry wonders? Has it ever felt this good before? For anybody? He loses himself in it, in everything, and then he’s forgetting himself, too. 

He’s reaching down, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pulling away from the kiss just long enough to pull it off and over his head. It goes — somewhere. Harry can’t say where. He doesn’t give a damn. Draco’s hands are the ones working then, sliding all over his naked torso, his shoulders, his arms. He kisses him with somehow more vigour than before, and it’s shared — the heat, the energy.  

He can’t help it when his hips push forward, push down, and they both gasp with the pressure of it. It’s dangerous and stupid and feels so fucking good that he wants to do it again. And again. And again.

He’s about to reach across to pinch himself, to try and distract himself from going too far. He needs to bite down on his lip, dig his fingernails into his palms, slap himself in the face to stop himself from getting carried away. Any pain to keep himself under control—

But then, “Wait,” Draco says, breathless still. “Do that again. Pretend — Pretend like you’re fucking me.”

Harry thinks he may be dead and in Heaven. He tries not to show the pure lust on his face, the intensity of what it does to him. All his mind can fathom is, Oh, God. Oh, good God. He reaches down, and Draco reaches down at the same time as well. Harry undoes and shoves his trousers down his thighs just far enough for it to seem plausible for him to expose himself. Draco has to take his own trousers off entirely for the scenario to look believable from an outside eye. 

And then he’s doing as Draco said, just rolling his hips into him, Draco breathing heavily through his nose as the both of them continue to kiss through the turbulence. The couch is rocking, and it’s an old couch — too old to deal with this. The legs of it could give out beneath them at any moment as it squeaks and groans with the to and fro. 

And it is slowly sinking in how this is the most undressed he’s ever been around the man, bar the stunt in his towel this morning. Clad in just underwear, it’s easier to feel truly naked. And Draco — Harry had never even entertained the fact that he may be in front of him in his underwear, too. Long, toned, thin legs — mouth-wateringly real — bare. Harry wants to bite his thighs.

Beneath him, Draco’s beautiful legs wrap around Harry’s waist. There continues to be no objections at all to the simulated fuck, as Harry continues to thrust them both together. He reels with how good it is, and wonders why they haven’t possibly been finding excuses to do this with each other the whole time. It’s been months. Months, when they could’ve had this. 

“Draco,” he pants. “Is this—”

“Shut up,” the man replies, and kisses him harder still, his fingertips pressing light bruises into everywhere he can reach. 

“Mm—” Harry pulls away achingly, because he knows he has to ask— “Is this okay—”

“Shut up,” Draco says again, his knees squeezing the sides of Harry’s torso. “Just — Don’t stop—”

Harry’s heard that before. In his dreams, his fantasies. Every single one of them comes flooding back to him now, his mind and body alive with remembering how many times he’s thought of this since Draco first sat on that fucking bench. Every single time, he’s jerked himself off, came all over his fist and his stomach with the man’s name on his tongue, and with the knowledge that it’s never going to mean anything. 

But this? When Harry orgasms this time, flush against Draco’s body — his real body, not the speculative one from his imagination — how will that be? Transcendent? Allowed?

And then the flicker of parchment is before his closed eyes, the darkness of his eyelids: his name, beneath Known Enemies.

Enemies, doing this. Taking it too far. 

They always seem to manage that.

His mind is a war that is distant, wrecking his head and plaguing him with doubt. It’s too hot, too fucking intense, and they’re only doing it because it’s convincing — sure — but it’s so good. Harry wants to talk, wants to tell him how good it is, like he can taste the words on the tip of his tongue. 

He’s never been able to shut up during sex. Draco knew this already. 

“Probably looks — good,” he pants, and Draco looks up at him, eyes filmed and hazy. He doesn’t tell him to shut up again. Not yet. Harry continues, “Probably looks real. Like I’m actually —” He has to catch his breath, “— Really fucking you.”

Draco nods, and it’s almost frantic. His face is so red that he looks like he may be overheating. He’s arching his back, dragging fingernails over his exposed back. Allowing himself to be thrust back and forth atop of the couch belonging to his ancestors. 

“Our legs are — covering us perfectly,” he says, and he doesn’t even know why he’s still speaking, what will come out his mouth next. “You’ve got nice fucking legs.”

His hands take hold of his naked thighs, rubbing over them, dipping fingers against the flesh. He wants to move his mouth to them, bite along them and leave marks all over them just like he’s been afforded to do with his throat. Even if Draco allowed him to do any of this now, he knows he probably shouldn’t. It would mean moving away from where his fabric-covered cock is nestled comfortably against his arse, from where the pressure is making him stupid and dizzy. 

He captures him in another kiss, but it’s short, because then he’s pulling back and seemingly leaving Draco wanting. He arches his neck up to try and keep it going, but Harry doesn’t let him. Instead, now straight-backed, the two of their bodies making a satisfying L-shape, Harry gazes down at him. 

His shirt is still on, but he wouldn’t ask him to remove it if he didn’t initiate, anyway. Regardless of the coverage, it’s still the most intoxicating view that Harry has seen in his life. His spread legs leave no room for doubt or forgiveness as to Draco’s mirrored arousal. His short underwear are stretched thin where his erection is pushing against them, with Harry’s own so fucking close, settled almost directly against and between his cheeks, pushing against it with every twitch of his hips. In this position, if they both took their underwear off, he could really do it. He could push right inside. 

“Fuck,” Harry whispers, breath caught in his throat at the sight; the implications. He’s staring. He feels wild. 

He almost doesn’t notice Draco’s embarrassment, too caught up in the view. It only registers with him when he sees Draco’s hands move, one to cover his red face, the other to cover the object of Harry’s attention. He hides it, apparently bashful at its close regard — which just makes Harry feel even more obsessed. 

The sight of his hand even remotely near it is spurring him even further, his mouth dropping open with awe. He feels sweat trickle down his forehead, the exercise, constant thrusting getting to him. He is panting. He is — terribly — getting fucking close to orgasm. 

It catches him unawares, the sudden build-up of heat in his abdomen overwhelming him at once. The pressure from pushing into him again and again becoming all too much. He feels like a teenager again, not even needing naked touch to feel this good. Worse, is that he doesn’t know what to do about it. He could stop, pull away and pretend to the outside eye that he’s already reached climax. Most likely, that’s what he should do. 

But the sensation of it is so— God —

“Draco,” he breathes, and his own voice sounds a wreck. He’s not sure why he’s saying it, but it comes out as almost a warning. At least, that’s how it appears to be taken. 

“Harry,” Draco echoes, his hands still covering his face and his crotch. He’s nodding — seemingly, at Harry’s warning. He’s nodding, and he won’t stop. He’s not stopping.

“Fuck,” Harry says again, and he’s pushing in further now, harder. Unable to stop himself. He’s grabbing at his thighs hard enough to leave imprints in an attempt to stay stable. His eyes trail over every single inch of the man in front of him, and the clouding heat is too much to even ponder on how lucky he is to be doing this. His gaze falls to his hand again, over his erection. 

If Draco’s nodding — If he’s okay with Harry doing it, then maybe—

“Touch yourself,” Harry tells him. 

Draco’s jaw drops. His head tilts back, neck wholly exposed, showing off all of the marks there — new and faded. Harry genuinely whimpers at the sight of his handiwork. And then, even fucking better—

It doesn’t need to be suggested more than once. The hand over his face desperately reaches for something around him, landing on the pillow behind him and grasping at it with white knuckles. The hand over his erection does the unthinkable — It slides up, pushing his shirt up in the process, granting Harry the privilege of seeing the light dusting of his hair over his stomach, even for just a moment. The glimpse of the scar only distantly registers — but at least he’s seen it before now. He’d been prepared for it. 

Then the hand moves down again, dipping his fingers beneath his waistband and then further. Harry feels fucking feral. He can see the outline of his hand wrapping around his cock, the fabric stretching too far, the motion going from slowly tentative to more intense by the second. Once he starts, he’s unable to hold himself back. His fist works over himself in a frenzy, and Harry is still fucking against him, and the two of them are lost in it all — in what was never meant to be real. 

And if this is so euphoric, what the hell would it be like to actually make love to him? To rid him of all of his clothing and slick him up, dipping his cock inside and getting to fuck him until he’s able to spill inside. To be able to grab Draco’s cock and bring him to orgasm himself. To make this real. 

Draco is gasping, genuinely whimpering, loud enough that whoever is outside can most certainly hear him. Loud enough and enthusiastic enough to break through any privacy charms that Grimmauld Place has within its walls, no matter how ancient. 

He’s pushing against the arm of the chair above him now so that he’s rocking right back against Harry’s thrusts, bouncing in rhythm. It’s too much, sending Harry’s head spinning — and he feels it in all of its familiarity — and it’s hitting him, he’s—

“I’m going to cum,” Harry says, deep and rough. Draco appears to moan at just the words. He continues again, because he’s right there — he’s right on the verge — “Holy shit, Draco, I’m going to—”

Draco beats him to it. Harry’s eyes widen as he sees it happen before him, the man’s orgasm ripping a moan from him that is hotter than anything Harry’s ever fucking heard in his entire life. He watches it happen, sees the cum shoot out from the gap where his underwear is held up by his wrist. 

And there’s no stopping him then. He feels close to passing out as he spills out into his underwear, pressing his cock as close as possible to him, right up against his behind. There are fireworks exploding in his head, and his glasses are sliding down his nose for how wet his face has become with perspiration. 

It’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. It’s the best decision that he’s ever made. 

He’s allowed to keep that thought for as long as one minute before reality begins to creep in. Before clarity hits him as he tries to catch his breath. 

Harry has to keep himself from collapsing forward onto him. He doesn’t want to move yet, but doesn’t know if he’d be able to if he tried. His legs; his knees feel like jelly. And he doesn’t want to be the first to speak, either.. Draco’s face, when he dares to look at it, seems to be gradually twisting with slow realisation as well. 

They can’t show the awkwardness, Harry tries to remind himself distantly. Any other couple would be coming closer together, kissing each other in the aftermath, stroking each other’s hair and whispering words of sweetness. If they appear as anything other than that, then the suspicions will be high all over again. Then all of this was for nothing. 

Through the haze, Harry manages to raise his head and turn it, trying to remain subtle. He has to push his glasses up to double check, to try and see properly. 

But there’s no trick of the light. Dawlish, or whoever it had been, isn’t there anymore. The bench is empty. For God knows how long. 

Harry clears his throat. And then, with light awkwardness and an intense shake to his voice, he says, “I think we managed to scare him away.”

Chapter Text

Growing up, and especially when manoeuvring his way through Hogwarts, Harry had been under the slightly misogynistic impression that it was girls who were the ones who always had to complicate things. Girls, who feel far too many emotions at once, who overreact and overthink, and who must divulge everything to their friends because they aren’t equipped to deal with so many things going on simultaneously. 

Now, Harry reckons that this is all just a symptom of having to deal with men. Because, fuck. 

Granted, it’s mostly all him. He’s almost entirely overwhelmed with guilt and unease after their accidental tryst on his settee in front of the window. He’d sworn to himself to only do what is necessary, not wanting to take advantage of the fact of their fake relationship ever since making a discovery about his own feelings. There was no way to excuse the heat of the moment, how far they’d pushed things. 

And now? Harry is hiding in his bedroom, a poor excuse of a Gryffindor, not wanting to go out and face the other man. To face what might have changed about them. He’s pacing back and forth across his bedroom floor.

Because it’s not just his own guilt — but unprecedence at Draco’s approach to how to go on. If he thinks that Harry has lost control of himself, has actually developed feelings, then it’s more than likely that Draco will be tempted to shoot himself in the foot and stop their act all together. Harry doesn’t want that. More than anything, he needs to finish this for him — needs to make sure that Draco is proven innocent and gets his livelihood back. He can’t be the reason to wreck that for him. 

And then, there’s… Well. The reason for Harry’s doubt in his morality in the first place. The fact that what happened last night was the sexiest fucking thing that’s ever happened to him in his entire life. The fact that Draco’s face as he came has been unable and unwilling to leave his brain for one single second since it happened. The fact that he was granted the privilege to watch Draco jerk himself off and cum all over his exposed stomach, the front of his otherwise pristine shirt. 

Fuck. Maybe he’s a bad person, because he really can’t bring himself to regret it too much.

Besides, Draco was the one who had said pretend like you’re fucking me in the first place. But Harry should’ve been smarter. More responsible. He knows that. Fuck. 

After they’d calmed down and realised that they were no longer being watched, Draco hadn’t spoken. Harry had found their clothes, and, consequently, their wands, and had cast a quick and needed scourgify over the both of them before they’d gotten dressed in silence. Harry had been light-headed the whole time, enacting every step like an outsider looking in.

They’d wandered off to their bedrooms, also in silence. Draco hadn’t managed to answer him when Harry bid him goodnight.

Reflecting on the situation, he feels the need to slap himself across the face. Maybe curse himself. Bang his head against his door. 

He tries to make himself focus, instead. Focus on the case, what to do next. That’s always been an easy way for him to ground himself and take his mind off of things. 

Hermione is going to be trying to head back to St. Mungo’s today for more information. Ron will be in work, but probably ordered to come around again to check on them soon enough. Harry figures that Kingsley’s order to go home hadn’t just applied to yesterday — and if they’re so sure that he’s under the effects of a potion, he shouldn’t be working anyway. 

The respite from his job recently has been entirely welcome, anyway. No matter how twisted and convoluted his personal life has become, it’s a hell of a lot more thrilling than Ministry life.

Still, now, he’s itching to do something himself. Anything to help insist upon and prove Draco’s innocence. Ron and Hermione are playing their parts but there’s nothing for Harry to do because of the implicit suspicion surrounding him. Surely, the best thing he can do to help the case isn’t just to sit around and continue to play his part?

He has — one idea. One avenue of thought. He can’t do it without Draco’s permission, though, and his heart is in his throat at the prospect of talking with him just yet.

Well. Deep breath. He has to face it all at some point, he figures. 

*

When he gets downstairs, he’s met with Draco sitting at the dining table, picking with a spoon at a mostly full bowl of porridge. It is not the porridge that sets Harry back, or that makes him walk straight into one of the dining chairs — It is what the man is wearing. 

Red and yellow, emblazoned over him. Gryffindor colours on the colouring that does not match it, that which seems like a direct juxtaposition to what the man should be in. It’s Harry’s hoodie. And Draco is wearing it with the hood up, head leaning against his hand. 

“Er,” is what stupidly falls out of Harry’s mouth, followed by a gulp and more inward self-loathing. 

Draco’s eyes turn up to him, but Harry can’t read the expression in them. Against the bright red of the fabric surrounding his face, he can’t even tell if his cheeks turn that colour, too. He says, with no emotion whatsoever, as if this — and last night — was all completely normal, “Good morning.”

Distantly, Harry thinks that he may faint. He wants to ask about the hoodie, but doesn’t know if it’s something he should be quietly acknowledging and ignoring instead. Maybe it’s a test, he considers. He doesn’t know what for, or why it possibly would be — but the man is a Slytherin (despite the clothing), so who knows? 

“Good morning,” Harry says back, in a quiet, strained voice. He can’t acknowledge it. Not yet. At the very least, he should wait to see if Draco acknowledges it first. So, instead, he puts his plan to action; to speech. He clears his throat and says to him, the first conversation since the night before — “I’ve been thinking about your mother.”

Clearly, it’s not what Draco had been expecting to come out of his mouth. The words break his charade of nonchalance, and his eyebrows downturn, his eyes growing wide with apparent confusion and concern. 

“Pardon?”

Harry hears himself stutter, feels his hesitation and attempt to recover the situation manifest itself awkwardly. “Not —” he says. “Um. Just for the last hour. In my room. Not in a weird way, though.”

Draco continues to stare at him. Harry is having a very hard time looking at him in this get up. The man at the table considers him slowly, before rubbing his temples and saying, “That is absolutely not the first thing I expected you to say after last night.”

Harry feels himself freeze. That’s an acknowledgment. He just doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Er,” he fumbles. “I didn’t — I didn’t know what to say about last night. To be honest.”

Draco sighs, pushing himself out of his chair and picking up the bowl of porridge. It’s not empty yet, but he takes it to the kitchen to clean out anyway. Harry follows him slowly, sticking against the wall, partially hoping it’ll swallow him up (and partially not — because you never know, with this house).

“We don’t have to say anything,” Draco tells him, as he scrapes the rest of the porridge into the food bin. His back is to him. “We were being convincing and our bodies simply reacted. There is nothing to say. We can’t help biology.”

Harry can’t help but frown at that. What had happened last night was not just biology. He wagers that Draco knows that. The first time they had kissed and gotten aroused, sure. That could be excused away with being just biology. But jerking yourself off whilst being dry-humped in the ass until both of you orgasm all over yourselves? 

There’s a bit more at play than biology, there. 

But the excuse feels weirdly familiar. It feels like Draco telling Harry that he knew Nott would be following them into the bathroom. It feels like them saying that they forgot who they were kissing in the first place. It feels like Draco making every excuse in the book for why Harry has been feeling like he has. Evasion. 

And in a way, he should be grateful for it. Harry doesn’t need to — apparently hasn’t needed to — try and hide his own feelings because Draco is doing it for him, rationalising and relieving him from the possibility that he could actually be feeling something for him. Like anything he has been doing or saying couldn’t mean something more. 

He should be grateful, but he’s not. In a way, it feels even more intrusive, like he’s telling Harry what he’s feeling. What he could possibly be feeling. He wants to say something about it — but that would mean outing himself directly to the man. And that would mean Draco refusing his help from this point forward. Not an option. 

He swallows this for now. He could be wrong. He most likely is. Draco most likely has no idea about his feelings — and that’s the way it has to stay. 

“Right, well,” he says, clearing his throat again. “Anyway. I was thinking about going to see your mum and asking her about that alibi, for when the records say you made a delivery, but you were with her.”

Draco hums, and makes his way to the sink to wash the bowl. His back is still to Harry. He says, “No need. I was going to head back to the shop today to collect my delivery records anyway. I always send in deliveries of multiple batches at once, so it won’t rule anything out on that account, but it’ll show the dates. There are slips that have to be sent back to me as soon as they receive it. Signed.”

“Right,” Harry says, nodding. “Okay. When are we going?”

Draco runs the water. Washes the bowl. “I was going to go alone.”

“Oh,” he says. Probably due to what they did the night before, so he doesn’t ask why. Still. It’s not a good idea. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Of course,” Draco tells him as he continues to run water over the bowl. “I’ll be fine heading out for two minutes by myself.”

Harry takes a few steps forward. “The shop is alarmed. Dawlish will be there quicker than anything.”

Draco places the bowl onto the drying rack. 

He can’t help but frown at that. “What, do you want him to show up?” 

He’s met with a sigh that tells Harry he should just give up. He answers, “No. Of course, I don’t. I want my records, and I would like to get them alone.”

“And when he gets there again, with five more Aurors, wands raised and ready to take the records off of you? Then what?”

Draco turns around to look at him, distaste written in every inch of his expression. “They won’t do that again.”

Harry has half a mind to cast a Tempus charm. It’s way too early for this. “You know that they will. Why don’t you want me there? If they come, then at least I’ll be able to—”

“Protect me? Brilliant,” Draco snarks. “Dawlish told me you’re everybody else’s Saviour, not mine.” 

“If Dawlish is out to get you, I’d rather be with you if he shows up.”

“Merlin, you’re stubborn.”

“So are you!” Harry argues. “Why don’t you want me there?”

“Because last time, you managed to find one of my private journals and wouldn’t shut up about it until I told you every bloody detail!” he shouts back. Then Harry watches him quietly as he groans, shakes his head, as if figuring that he’s not going to be able to stop Harry from pushing. “It is my shop, filled with my work. If you come this time, you don’t touch anything. Do you understand?”

At once, he says, “Yes,” because it’s better to be nosey and unsatisfied than to leave Draco alone with Dawlish. “Promise.”

Draco stares at him for a few moments, as if debating the legitimacy of this, weighing the pros and the cons. Eventually, he says, “Fine. Be ready to leave in an hour.”

Harry wants to push him. He wants to know why he shouldn’t be able to go ahead and flick through a potions book or two, but it’s not the time to ask. Privacy is privacy is privacy. Instead, he tightens his lips and nods.

But still. Before he leaves, he just has to know—

“Can I ask you something first?”

Draco turns a glare onto him. “Is it about my work?”

Truthfully: “No.”

He blinks. “Fine. What?”

His gaze falls from his unimpressed face to his body, too enveloped. He asks, “Is that my hoodie?”

Now, Harry can actually see redness make its way to his cheeks, like he’d forgotten that he was wearing it in the first place. He watches the man tighten his jaw, stand up straighter, as if pretending like he’s unaffected by this observation. 

“Clearly.”

“Right,” he says. He lets his gaze linger on him in it, licking his lips. It looks good on him. “Did you run out of your own clothes?”

Somehow, his face becomes even more furious. It’s too late for him to go back on his words, on his observation and interrogation. Harry watches him reach for words, but, whether due to being too angry, or no words in the English language being able to succinctly describe the situation, he shuts his mouth again. 

Then, after a long breath, Draco shuts his eyes and lowers the hood from his head. 

Harry almost falls to his knees. 

It’s not that he hadn’t seen it last night. He had. He’d done it last night, after all. He’d seen them fresh and in all of their new glory, but he hadn’t quite been in the right frame of mind to consider the lasting effect. He hadn’t been able to assume that perspective.

But holy shit. 

It’s too much, but it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Purple blooming over the pale skin on his neck, in a few different clusters. He’d marked his neck before, had been given the privilege of more than one or two love-bites. But this. 

It’s safe to say that he may have gotten carried away. But then, they knew that already. 

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Draco glares at him. His cheeks really are red. “Not even my high collars are enough to cover these, it seems.”

“Fuck,” is all he can say. Again. 

“I feel like a teenager,” Draco says through his teeth. “Merlin. There’s too many. I look—”

“Amazing,” Harry interrupts. “Fuck.”

Draco stares at him for a moment, eyebrow raised, before a breath of laughter seems to escape him. He covers his mouth to hide the laughter, but it’s audible anyway. He shakes his head. 

“Really?” he asks. “This is really attractive to you?”

It’s a dangerous question. Harry steps forward. He doesn’t mean to. He can’t take his eyes off of him. He answers honestly, because he can’t seem to think straight or debate a single thing. “Yes.”

Draco’s eyebrows furrow inquisitively, doubting, as he tries to get rid of the smile still on his face. “Right,” he says. “Are you going to talk like an animal so long as I keep them visible?”

Harry takes another deep breath. Then, after a long moment, “Yes.”

Draco puts his hood back up. He says, “You're never giving me this many again. Be ready in fifty minutes.” 

Then he leaves. And all Harry can focus on is Draco saying, this many, because it sounds like he still might be allowed to do it. Less. But still allowed. 

He swallows, and heads upstairs to shower. 

*

Dawlish does, in fact, show up when they get to his shop. They don’t even bother to get looking for the records when they walk in. They just wait for him, and he thankfully takes even less time than he had the last time that he had showed up. 

He can’t manage to look Harry in the eye. Safe to assume he hadn’t passed off the spying to a subordinate.

“Morning, Dawlish,” Harry says, tone bored and blasé. He leans against the wall opposite the front door, wand twiddling in his hands. Seeing him, he feels anything but nonchalance. Now that he knows that he’s deliberately setting Draco up, he wants to curse the bones of him. 

He doesn’t.

“Auror Dawlish,” Draco greets. Dawlish is actually looking at him. Looking at his neck, most likely. He hadn’t been as bold as to wear the hoodie out of Grimmauld Place, and his high collars really aren’t enough to cover the dark purple. 

“Potter. Malfoy,” Dawlish returns. He seems to be fumbling. He trips over a pile of books on the ground. “What are you doing here again?”

“It’s his property,” Harry says at once. Dawlish still doesn’t look at him. Harry can’t help but feel an odd mixture of glad and embarrassed; embarrassed that his colleague would have surely seen him in such a compromising situation — one that he doesn’t even know how to navigate himself — but simultaneously glad that they truly had been convincing enough to make Dawlish blush. 

“If there is suspicion that he is removing evidence—”

“Evidence?” Draco sighs. “You would have already taken anything you deemed as evidence. Isn’t your faux-file big enough by now?”

Dawlish glares at him. Behind him, the few Aurors there seem to consider this. None of them are holding their wands up like they had been last time. Harry recognises them. Not even they seem to see the point in being there.

“Was there anything else?” Harry asks. “Or do you want to put a little bell on him, too? So you know absolutely everywhere that he goes?”

“Watch it, Potter,” Dawlish says.

Harry pushes off of the wall. Wand still in hand. He asks, “Or what?”

The other Aurors there bristle at once at the tension. At Harry Potter with a vendetta. One of them steps forward and places a hand on Dawlish’s shoulder, but he shrugs them off before they have a chance to whisper de-escalation in his ear. 

“Or I’ll serve your fiancé his papers,” he says. He withdraws some parchment from his robes. “These took too long to get. Apologies for that.”

Harry stares at them, perplexed. He doesn’t reach forward to take them, because they’re held out towards Draco. Draco, who seems to already know what they are. 

“I’m afraid I am not going to be taking those from you,” he tells him; allows the room to hear. “With you all here as witnesses, I’d like it noted that I refuse to accept action until I am found and proved guilty in front of the Wizengamot.”

Had he known this was going to happen today, Harry wonders? Had he been expecting Dawlish to show up with an entourage, so that he could denounce the power-hungry man’s attempts to ruin him? Ruin him with whatever may be on that sheet of parchment. Harry is still lost.

“You may leave now,” Draco tells them. “And make sure the Minister is made privy to why these papers haven’t been served. Thank you.”

The Aurors all look at each other, faces turned down with frowns of confusion. Should they really do as he says? Harry can see the trepidation on each of their faces. They stand still, waiting for Dawlish to give an order, to even move. 

He doesn’t address them. Hand still outstretched with the papers, he speaks to Draco again. He says, though his voice is faltering with confusion, “Just take them, Malfoy.”

Draco, with his upright posture and unimpressed expression, with his red and purple neck and singular raised eyebrow, says, very clearly, “No.”

Dawlish looks furious. Furious that, apparently, Draco Malfoy knows his rights. If he doesn’t receive whatever order is on the papers, he’s under no obligation to follow it. 

“You can leave now,” Harry says, speaking up again. “See you all in work.”

The Aurors behind Dawlish smile awkwardly at him, like they’re afraid they may get in trouble with Harry for just doing their jobs. Dawlish seems too full of anger — and himself — to physically move for a few moments. Then, finally, he’s crumpling up the parchment and shoving it back within his robes. 

“Fine,” he succumbs. “But don’t think you’ll be able to evade this for long.”

Draco doesn’t respond to him. Harry flicks his wand, and the front door flies open for them to take their leave. The aurors awkwardly shuffle out without waiting for word from Dawlish, and eventually, he’s following them out as well, stubbornness wretched into his every inch. 

When Harry finally sees them disapparate outside the window — all of them, with Dawlish snapping away last — he turns to him at once. 

“You knew he was going to be serving you those, didn’t you?” he asks, but he already knows the answer. “That’s why you wanted to come alone.”

Draco sighs. He walks before he answers, heading behind his desk and bending down to retrieve a large book. He waits a moment after placing it on the desk to tell him, “Yes.”

Harry doesn’t know what to feel. “Okay,” he says. “What were they?”

Draco begins to flick through his records, page by page. He doesn’t look up at Harry when he answers him. “It is the declaration stating that I am no longer welcome in Great Britain. It says that even whilst the investigation is still ongoing, my presence here poses too much of a threat.”

He could kill Dawlish. “Fucking bastard,” is all he can get out. 

“It was in my file,” he tells him, eyes still on the pages before him. “The one you brought me. It gave me decent forewarning. So. Many thanks.”

He watches as he continues to flick through the records, taking in all of the necessary information, making sure everything that needs to be there is there. Harry is still stuck on the papers being served, because it seems to be so preemptive. How could Dawlish have gotten permission to go ahead with it already? Unless, Harry ponders to himself, he’s already presented every immoral piece of evidence that he has. Unless he thinks that his case is strong enough to push forward. 

The breaking point, already passed.

“Why didn’t you want me to know about this?” he asks.

For a few long moments, it feels as though Draco is entirely ignoring him. Harry doesn’t speak again to fill the silence, not wanting to let him evade answering, because he can’t think of a single reason as to why he might want to keep this secret from him. 

He takes several steps towards him and leans against his desk, standing directly opposite him. Ducking his head down, he attempts to catch his eye, but the man remains determinedly focused on the words and words and words. He clears his throat, and not even that works. 

So, he says, with a sigh, “If you don’t answer me, I’m going to have to start ransacking the place.”

Draco’s eyes flick up to him, a glare through his long lashes. He still doesn’t speak. 

Instead, Harry speaks again. “I’ll go looking through every book trying to find something juicy. Maybe you’ve been trying to invent other kinds of embarrassing potions.”

The man raises his finger. He licks it. Then he uses it to turn to the next page. The action shouldn’t make Harry feel as hot as it does. 

“Maybe the amortentia they think you’ve been brewing is more like… A new Wizard viagra,” he teases offhandedly.

“I don’t know what that is,” Draco says quietly, face still downturned.

“Oh, so you can hear me,” he huffs. His voice softens. “Draco. Come on. Why didn’t you want me to know that Dawlish was so close to sending you away?”

Draco’s hand turns to a fist over the elegant writing. He seems to be tensing his jaw, the line between his brows deepening with annoyance. 

Harry looks around. He reaches for a small book, dark red with black accents around its edges, and is about to make a joke about the recipe for Veritaserum being somewhere around here — when in quick succession, Draco sends a stinging jinx at his hand and accios the book to himself.

It causes him to jump back a step, but he doesn’t feel sheepish under the new glare directed right at him, the both of them knowing that he’d almost gone back on his promise to not touch anything. He feels electric, having finally caught his attention, holding his gaze. He’d crowded him against this desk just before he’d proposed to him. He’d caught his lips in his and they’d kissed as a distraction, but also as a vent. Draco had kissed his anger through to him, so much so that Harry could taste how pissed off he was. It had tasted fucking amazing. 

He looks at his lips again now, at that which had caught his own last night, as well. He’d now heard a million beautiful sounds flutter from those lips — all from his own making. He’d been responsible for each pretty whine and whimper that had been sighed and hummed and oh, just the memory has Harry feeling unsteady. Just the memory has Harry forgetting what they’re doing here — what question it was that he’d been asking in the first place. 

Even now, with the vexed, irritated curl of his mouth, it’s astounding how gorgeous he looks — how kissable he still is. Harry weighs up what could possibly go wrong if he kissed him again right now, cupped his cheek and brought him forward. Draco had moved his head with even the lightest suggestion of a tug the night before. Sweetly, surprisingly unassertive when it really came down to it. Following Harry’s lead, getting on his lap, letting him throw him onto his back on the sofa, even going as far as to do as he said when Harry had told him, touch yourself. 

He licks his lips, and Draco’s glare seems to darken some, as if he can read and sense every misdeed going on in Harry’s inappropriate mind. As if he can feel Harry’s lust fire up the exact moment that the memories happen to resurface again. 

Harry thinks, for a moment or two, that he’s going to give him a telling-off for the heat beginning to spread through his body, from his head to his groin. Mainly his groin. 

But he doesn’t. Though he clearly can sense what is going on behind the fog in his eyes, Draco doesn’t acknowledge it. It feels, distantly, just like how it had felt when Draco had pushed past the situation from the night before and excused it away as nothing. 

Instead, he answers him. Finally. 

With a sigh, he says, “I didn’t want you to know about it because now, it is pressing. There’s only one way to get out of it, and we knew that, but now it has to happen soon. Imminently.”

Even through the haze of his lingering arousal, Harry understands what he means. He gulps, takes the words in, and nods. “That’s fine, Draco. I’m ready whenever.”

“No, you—” He takes a breath. “I knew you’d say that. But we’ve managed to prolong it for this long, I just thought that — Maybe if we managed to get all of the evidence first…”

“What?” Harry asks. “We wouldn’t have to get married at all?”

Draco looks at him. “Well. It’s why you’re trying so hard, so suddenly, isn’t it?”

Harry looks back at him blankly. Just for a moment. Then, he frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I know about the conversation you had with Pans,” he says quietly. “She asked you to get your head out of your arse and help me. She said, if you did, you wouldn’t have to marry me. Look what’s happened.”

He can’t speak, because he’s still trying to make sense of the situation in his head. Draco’s not wrong. That’s how the conversation had gone, but Harry hadn’t been spurred into action because he didn’t want it to go that far. He’d been spurred into action due to the realisation that he’d been useless the entire time. He’d agreed to this. He’d agreed to all of this.

“You’re wrong,” Harry tells him, but it’s clear from Draco’s expression that he doesn’t believe him. “No. Really. I knew what I was getting into when you asked me for help, Draco. I would’ve married you that same week if it had been believable. I’d marry you right now.”

The words shouldn’t feel like they do as they leave his lips. They shouldn’t sap courage from him, make his following breath shaky and uneven. They do. His heart feels like it’s beating ten-times too fast in his chest because it feels like a sordid wound that has been torn. It feels like a truth that has been unwillingly spoken. The faltering of his expression, his fidgety hands — Harry can’t see how they don’t give him away, no matter how much he tries to hide it. 

“I mean it,” he says, trying to follow up to cover himself in the silence. He keeps his eyes on Draco’s face but there, there is just doubt. No disbelief, or shock, or suspicion. Quite the opposite. “Draco, I’m serious. I’d go with you to a courthouse right now. No friends. No family. Just us.”

Draco stares at him now, attention to his records abandoned. His finger lay dormant on some forgotten line that he’d been reading a moment or two before. 

“No, you wouldn’t,” he tells him. “The Weasleys would kill you. Pansy would kill me.”

Harry shakes his head, steps closer again. “You said it yourself, that we don’t need extravagance. You, me, and an officiator. Isn’t that enough?”

Draco’s expression truly has shifted now, and there is that disbelief that Harry has been waiting for, expecting. He blinks rapidly. “It’ll look — suspicious, Harry. If we don’t invite anyone. If we rush right after Dawlish presents me with—”

“Fuck that. Fuck Dawlish,” Harry breathes. “Once we’re married, there’s nothing they can do anyway, no matter how suspicious it looks.”

Draco stares at him. Eyes wide. Mouth hanging open, barely able to form words.

Harry steps forward. “It’s still the morning. If you want people there, then we can send some urgent owls. If they want to be there, they’ll find the time.”

There’s still just silence, perplexity radiating from the look on his face. A few minutes pass when neither of them speak. Then, after many rapid blinks and a shake of his head that causes blond hair to fall into his face, he finally gives him an answer. 

“Okay,” he says at last. “Okay. Yes. Fine. We’ll do it.”

Harry shouldn’t feel the elation that he does at that, the pure giddiness that takes over his whole body and whole mind. 

“Great. When you’re done with that, we’ll send off the owls,” he says, not even trying to hold back his grin. 

Draco is still looking at him like he’s got three heads, but he nods regardless, following along with the plan. He doesn’t immediately head back to looking at the records, as Harry had anticipated, too caught up in whatever is going on in that brilliant mind.

Wanting to hurry him up so they could get straight to doing it, Harry takes a breath. Then, he says, “When I’m your husband, can I know what’s in that little red book?”

The stupidity of it snaps Draco back to his previously-fixed annoyance, the awe and surprise only slightly slipping off of his face to give room for another raised eyebrow. 

“No,” he says, but his tone is more gentle, still. And as Harry watches him get back to work, it’s impossible to miss the small, soft smile that sneaks onto his face. 

He can’t rip his eyes away from it.

Chapter Text

Half an hour after they send out the owls with the news and, subsequently, the few invitations as well, Harry gets a Howler from Mrs Weasley.

It’s with great relief that he realises, as the message goes on — and on — that she’s not truly angry about the wedding happening — only that she doesn’t have time to get an outfit. 

Five minutes after Harry scribbles out an apologetic reply, Draco receives a Howler from Pansy. 

She is less forgiving than Mrs Weasley in her tone, and her choice of words. She curses them both out and calls them a number of different names — some of which Harry has never even heard before. But ultimately, she says she’s coming. And she even says they can use her Officiator.

“She can’t hate us too much,” Draco tells him. They’re rushing around themselves, answering this and that, arranging a venue on such short notice. Harry looks over at him as he speaks and almost trips over because of this. “She’s been raving about this man for months. He’ll cost us a damn lot, though.”

Harry can’t bring himself to care. He’s always tried to be quite frugal since finishing Hogwarts, moving in with Ginny. Neither of them had ever had much money (until Harry realised what his parents had left him — but that had still always felt wrong to touch, to regard as his own), after all, and felt it unnecessary to waste on things, even now that they had it in abundance. 

It was one of the excuses they’d been telling themselves for the years that ticked on and on — a wedding would cost too much, for now. Let’s wait, plan more, save more. 

Now, with Draco on the line, he can’t help but wonder — given more time — whether he’d be against all of the extravagance. 

Plus, he’d have the added satisfaction of chipping away at Lucius Malfoy’s wealth, something he’d always been so snobby and proud of. Not that he needs it anymore, locked away in Azkaban.

As Draco drags him to a high-end robe shop on a road just off of Diagon Alley, because he’s absolutely adamant on them at least being presentable for their wedding, Harry can’t help but wonder what Lucius may think of the whole thing. He wonders if news has managed to reach him in Azkaban — if the guards there taunt him with the photos in the Daily Prophet. Harry Potter all over his only son. Marrying his only son and, as far as everyone else is aware, ridding him of the only possible way for the Malfoy’s to get another heir.

They tell the woman in charge of the robe shop that they’re planning for the wedding early, that it’s months away yet, but they’d like to take them today. Better to keep things under wraps until it’s all sorted, Harry thinks, and Draco agrees. News of it can spread as much as it wants to after the fact, but until then, they can’t risk Dawlish finding out and shutting down the whole thing. Once they’re married, there’s nothing he can do. 

The woman insists that the two of them get fitted and choose their robes separately, so it remains a surprise for the day. They don’t see any point in arguing.

The venue side of things is far more simple — yet all the more risky. Harry has to somewhat sheepishly use his Saviour privilege yet again to secure a time on the same day, but it’s worth it. Better yet, it’s easy for everyone to get to. So long as Dawlish, Kingsley or Robards don’t happen to see all of their friends, and more than a handful of Weasleys, running across the Atrium of the Ministry in posh wedding guest attire, it’ll all be fine. 

Because even though it’s most certainly not the most romantic of settings, it’s definitely the most apt, and the best place for a couple wanting to get married quickly and quietly: the Magical Marriage Registry Office. 

Draco returns home whilst Harry makes his way there, still with an hour to go until the time they’d told everybody to arrive. He goes to deposit the records he’d found, to get his cufflinks, he tells him, so Harry is left alone in the Ministry, pacing back and forth, because holy shit. He’s about to get married.

He has his new dress robes with him — not on him, not yet, because he doesn’t want to draw more attention to himself than he usually garners alone. He’s sitting with his head down outside of the Registry Office, heart in his throat, wondering why the fuck he’s so nervous when it isn’t even real. It’s not a real wedding. He still has that to come, at some point in his life. 

His leg bounces and bounces and he still has so fucking long to wait that he starts to think about leaving just to come back, but he knows that’s a bad idea. Something will inevitably go wrong, and then he’ll end up being late, and Draco will never forgive him for that — being late on their wedding day. His and Draco’s wedding day. Oh, God. 

It had been his idea to have such little preparation. Now, he’s able to wallow in it. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. 

Everything will be fine.

“Harry?” he hears, and his ears are pricking up in an instant. His brows furrow and his mouth opens as he looks up, mostly to validate that what he thinks is true is true. But he couldn’t forget her voice. Not just like that, not even after the time they’ve spent apart. 

He stands up at once.

“Ginny?”

She’s already dressed elegantly in wedding guest attire. The sight blindly reminds Harry of how she’d looked at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. She looks different now, though. He supposes that she is. They both are. 

“Hey,” she says quietly, and walks over awkwardly to sit in the seat next to him. He takes a moment before he sits back down again, whilst she rubs the back of her neck, kicking her legs, her feet swaying in her pretty heels. 

“Hi,” he says back. He doesn’t know if there’s much else he can say. 

He watches the kick of her legs, the folds in her skirt swaying. She is the next to speak, voice just loud enough over the buzz of the Atrium.

She says to him, “So. You’re finally doing it.”

Why does he feel sick? Light-headed? He feels like he’s spinning all of a sudden. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” she says, and it’s light-hearted. “Definitely didn’t think Draco bloody Malfoy, of all people, could draw it out.”

Harry releases a long breath through his lips. He sits back against the wall, puts his hands behind his head, and shakes it. “Trust me,” he tells her. “Me neither.”

“He seems more — normal, now,” she comments. “Less of a prick.”

“He’s still a prick,” Harry tells her with a laugh. “Just not about — you know. Things other than forgetting to buy his posh shampoo.”

She laughs at this as well. It’s nice. He doesn’t look at her and wonder what the Hell he’s done letting her go. He looks at her and wants her approval. Wants her to like him. God, that feels ridiculous. 

“Are you —” she starts, and then she stops again. She tucks some hair behind her ear. Harry doesn’t think anything of that, until he realises that he used to do that to her, too. Now, he can’t help but simply wonder what it might be like to brush back Draco’s hair. He blinks. She says, “Does he make you happy?”

Harry wonders if he’s reading too much into it, but it seems implied, unspoken — Does he make you happier than I did? 

He takes a breath. “He does,” he tells her, and it’s weirdly truthful. “You did, too, you know.”

It feels like another lifetime that that happened. Seems so long ago, though it’s barely been — what, six months? Six months of Draco, of pretending, and not. It had been years with Ginny. Somehow, it didn’t hold a match. 

“Yeah, well,” she says, and she’s smiling now, at least. He’d missed her. Not romantically — that had sailed. But he had missed talking to her, missed her presence. He looks upon her fondly now, waiting to hear everything she thinks. Then, she says, “I bet you guys are having much better sex, anyway.”

He hadn’t been expecting that. 

“What?” he chokes out, but she’s not — well. Would she be wrong? Harry hasn’t had the pleasure of truly finding out, but if their kisses, if their grinding against each other is anything to go by—

She’s laughing, hiding her toothy smile with her hand. “C’mon. You and Malfoy? That’s like, a decade of pent up sexual tension to get out. We were doing it like once a month. If that. Is there really any competition?”

Harry can’t physically respond for a moment. His head is suddenly full of it, full of what it all could be if it was real. He feels the buzz come back to his head again, memories fogging his brain of what Draco looks like splayed out on his back. 

“Oh, Merlin. I remember that look,” she says, and looks away from him. “I can get behind the both of you getting together, but don’t think about shagging him right in front of me. I don’t know if I’m ready for that just yet.”

He feels himself flush. “You brought it up.”

She rolls her eyes. “And I’ve proven myself right.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say so doesn’t talk at all. His heart is beating with the ridiculousness of it all. This situation. Himself and Ginny, sitting outside the registry office. Her hand bare, his with someone else’s engagement ring. 

She is the one to break the silence after it stretches. Harry has had the time in that quiet to wonder how she feels about the silver and green on his hand. He doesn’t ask the question. Between them are too many questions, and they don’t need to ask or answer them. Just this is okay. They don’t need to know it all.

She says, “I’m happy for you, Harry.”

She wouldn’t be. Not if she knew that it was barely real. Not if she knew that to pretend was something that was getting harder and harder to manage. To not let the lines blur. 

He shudders out a breath. “Thanks, Gin,” he says, and he means it. 

They sit quietly for a while then, nobody thankfully passing by this quiet area of the Ministry to recognise them. Soon enough, people start to arrive — the rest of the Weasleys, showering him with love and hugs and congratulations (and a few flicks and light shoves for being a tosser and doing something so suddenly). Charlie couldn’t make it, but that’s fair enough — he doubts the poor owl has even gotten to Romania yet. 

He slips away to get his new robes on just before Ron and Hermione arrive, and when they do, they look — Happy, too. More than he’d expect. He’d expected some telling off, at the very least. 

“Hey,” he says to them, a drawn out breath. He holds out his arms. “Do I look…?”

“Like a twat?” Ron asks, and winces as Hermione turns a glare to him. “Joking. You look fine, mate. Nervous.”

He is. He shouldn’t be. Why is he? It shouldn’t feel this — real. 

He gulps, and steps forward. “Did you guys find out anything else?”

Hermione nods, lowering her voice. “Draco was right about the order of the printing. The files that Dawlish has from St. Mungo’s have been altered to make him look guilty.”

In a way, it’s good news, though it confirms the injustice of it. Easier to prove to Kingsley, once this is done, once they secure Draco’s place here. 

“Thank you,” he says to her. “We’ll talk more after —-” The ceremony. 

She huffs a laugh, shares a glance with Ron, who is looking at him with raised eyebrows. They both have the same look on their face, an amused disbelief. 

“What?” he asks.

“Harry,” Ron chuckles. “‘Think you’re going to be a bit too busy to be talking with us. You know, after your wedding.”

It’s a testament to how much they trust him. They don't even flinch away from the idea of him having sex with Draco, they have no hesitation or doubts that it’s something he’d want to do. And it is. And yet somehow, the sensation of betrayal still lingers. 

They’re genuinely happy for him. They have looked beyond their own previous hatred and animosity for the man somehow, purely on the belief that Harry loves him; that he loves Harry. 

Deep breaths. 

“Well,” he says sheepishly, because he still has to play up to it. “Yeah. But I’m still — I’m worried. About him.” That’s true, at least. 

Their eyes soften at once. Hermione reaches forward and holds his arm gently, like a promise, and Harry shoots her a smile. Ron looks around, almost as antsy as Harry, at being in the Ministry still — when Dawlish could be around any corner. No doubt, he’d rip into Ron for not stopping this. For letting it go ahead. 

“So,” he says after a moment. “Where is the… Other groom?”

Harry takes another deep breath. He hadn’t been thinking about it, exactly, until this moment. It had been in the back of his mind that the time was approaching, and he wasn’t here yet. That the time was approaching, and none of his friends were here yet, either. No Pansy, no Blaise, no Nott. 

“Hopefully close,” Harry says, trying not to let his eyes shoot around too desperately. “It’ll be really bloody embarrassing if I get left at the altar by Draco Malfoy.”

The wait stretches for long enough that Harry begins to sweat. He tries not to look like a meerkat, tries not to look like he’s two seconds away from whipping out his wand and sending his Patronus to go and find him.

Then, Ginny: “Is that Pansy Parkinson?”

It was. Harry didn’t think he’d ever be so glad to see her, strolling across the hall to them, in heels that looked bigger than his head. She’s accompanied by Blaise and Nott, and even Goyle.

No Draco. 

Pansy strolls over to him, jet-black hair seeping in amongst the sea of red. Harry feels his heart beating harder. Distantly, he’s aware of Draco knowing of their conversation last time, in which Pansy had almost put her foot in it. 

There are bigger things to focus on.

“Is he keeping me waiting on purpose?”

She rolls her dark eyes, flicking up her long lashes. “Well, it sounds very like him.”

“Pansy,” he says. He shifts from one foot to the other. 

“He’s not late,” she says, and casts a Tempus. She’s right. He’s got two minutes to get there. She turns to him. “Why don’t we wait inside the office? We’re really clogging up the corridor, aren’t we?”

Then, they’re clogging up the office instead.

Pansy ushers over the rest of her and Draco’s friends and they say a quick hello and congratulations before talking quickly with the Officiator. It’s been two minutes. 

He can’t bring himself to mingle anymore, so Harry is standing at the front desk of the room, alone, the babble of Slytherins behind him. Everyone else is looking on with a range of differing emotions. Apprehension, excitement, sympathy. Every last one of them sets his teeth on edge. 

He’s changed his mind, Harry can’t help but think. He’s two minutes late. He’s found out Harry’s true feelings and has had to make sure this wedding doesn’t really happen, because if he knew, then surely— Surely, he wouldn’t—

He takes a deep breath. 

And the door to the office opens. 

It’s Draco, and all of Harry’s breath leaves his body. Relief, and disbelief, and then something else because he’s not alone. He’s walking through the door, holding a small hand, paler than his own. He’s so confused for only a moment before he sees her following him in — a smile on her face that looks just like his.

He escorts her in, straight over to Pansy and the rest of his friends, who she greets with a maternal familiarity, holding each of their hands kindly. He does not look up at Harry until Narcissa turns back to him and kisses his cheek, her blessing to continue and leave her. The room is so crowded, he wouldn’t be more than four feet from her at any given point now, anyway.

When he does look up and meets his eye, Harry feels all breath leave him. It feels like a rush — like a floodgate opening and not stopping and Harry knows all at once that he’s in too deep. And it’s too late to stop it now. It’s so fucking late.

He’s drowning. 

And Draco—

There’s no way that he can’t see it. Mirrored in his grey eyes are a feeling — something — a sensation that Harry can’t place. He’s got his heart in his throat and Draco is staring at him, and he’s staring back. He looks good in his robes — too good. They’re high-necked, which Harry notices at once. Knowing that his marks are all over him beneath them shunts his breath from him even more violently. Everything about the image in front of him is dizzying: his robes, his gaze, his expression. 

The crowd parts ways, forming a make-shift aisle. Draco blushes as he takes one shaking step, and then another. It’s real. They’re actually doing it. He can see the impossibility of it reflected in the other man’s face, on almost all of the faces surrounding them. 

Another step. Another. Until he’s right next to Harry, who may genuinely pass out. He’d died before. This feels quite similar.

“Hi,“ he says quietly.

Draco seems to be struggling to look at him. He says, in an equally soft voice, “Hello.”

There’s some voices behind him, and then a sweeping hush. Everyone else in the room seems to fade away into nothing. The room, the Ministry, the world — Harry forgets that it exists. 

And it hurts. It’s like a knife right to his heart, because it’s not real. None of it is real. 

He remembers wondering how he could possibly fake doing this. He remembers watching Celia, watching Myron, seeing the gaze that they both had for each other and wondering what could cause Harry to become such a good actor in such a compressed time frame. He’d panicked over the thought of it — having to lie to his friends, having to look at Draco Malfoy and force himself to gather any semblance of fondness just to give a convincing performance. 

Clearly, he has flown far too close to the sun. 

The Officiator stands before them, then. He says his welcoming words, makes a few jokes about the rushed nature of it all. Everyone chuckles, but Harry can’t bring himself to. Draco doesn’t either. Draco is staring at the ground and Harry can’t convince himself to drop the heavy gaze he has on his face. They’re both too distracted to hear the words to their own ceremony. 

He just has to get through this, he thinks. He’s sweating through his new robes. He just has to get through this quick ceremony and then that’s it, he’s done his duty, he’s saved Draco from being split from his country and his mother. He can get back to investigating and finding proof of his innocence without suffering through heart palpitations. 

But this is what it had all been for, he thinks. The boy on the bench. Waiting, watching, plucking up the courage to ask Harry for something he’d never in a thousand years imagined Harry would actually agree to. And what if he hadn’t? What if Harry hadn’t followed his gut that day — when Draco had barged through his front door and sat himself down like he owned the place? Would Harry simply still be wallowing, finding himself with a vast nothingness of work, work, boring, pencil-pushing work? He would, most likely, not have been able to pull himself out of the slump he was headed towards. He most certainly would not have found anything else to obsess over to the same degree. That kind of thing has, for better or for worse, always been reserved for Draco Malfoy.

Harry swallows. Draco looks up at him, eyes expectant through long, pretty lashes. He is a picture.

He only distantly realises that everyone is waiting for him to do something when the room falls silent, and Draco has his wand in his hand. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and withdraws his own wand, too, because it seems like the right thing to do. He doesn’t remember much from the Wizarding weddings that he has attended (too stressed during Bill and Fleur’s, too many glasses of champagne during Ron and Hermione’s), but he remembers this distantly. 

They exchange wands when the Officiator tells them to do so, and somehow this is even more overwhelming. Having Draco’s hawthorn wand back in his hands after so many years is almost surreal. He remembers the long days and nights he’d held it after the incident at Malfoy Manor, after Draco had lied to his family about Harry’s identity. Why didn’t you tell her? Bellatrix. You knew it was me. You didn’t say anything. Draco’s face when he had said that, starkly exposed. 

He’d killed Voldemort with this wand. He’d returned it after Draco’s trials, like a congratulatory gift for not getting thrown in Azkaban. Harry wonders now if Draco had appreciated it or seen it as just another slight, a taunt as if to say, I won, you lost, but I’m giving you this back because I’m such a good person. It seems like the kind of thing he’d think, Harry realises, and then he’s hearing it in his head again: I hate you, I hate you.

And how odd must it be for Draco to see Harry with it in his hands again? It’s odd enough for Harry to see Draco with his own new wand, but with the history that is there, blatant, he wants to read his thoughts. He always finds himself wanting to read his thoughts. 

On the Officiator’s instructions, they hold their wands together, each held still by the other. Draco is actually looking at him now, eye to eye, because he probably figured it would start to look suspicious if he kept his gaze on the ground the entire time. At least he seems to have perfected his acting skills, Harry thinks numbly, because those eyes could get away with looking like they’re in love with him.

The Officiator is still talking, until he stops, and Harry feels a rush run through him that is — magnificent. Draco’s eyes glaze over with it, and he’s sure that his own do, too. And at once it’s like he is breathing the other man, like he knows him wholly, and he only recognises what it is after a few otherworldly moments of it: He is feeling Draco’s magic, flowing through him like a replacement for his own blood. It’s a perfect feeling, and he feels like he could fall from it, could live in it forever. 

Meanwhile, Draco’s face says that he’s finding it all the more encompassing. His eyes are wide, mouth parted for heavy breaths. He looks stunned, like he is in pure awe, and his hand shakes as it continues to hold Harry’s wand. As he meets and gazes still into Harry’s eyes, he looks almost — exposed. 

Long moments pass that feels like forever, a lasting bliss that Harry feels devastated to pass and fizzle out. They take a moment to recover, with those already having married in the room chuckling with acknowledgment over the remembrance feeling. Draco, Harry assumes, would have been familiar with Wizarding marriage traditions. Harry, as always, should’ve done more homework. Or at least asked Hermione. 

The Officiator, who they are apparently paying a hell of a lot to do this, seems to be at the end of his words. Harry feels like they’ve only been up there for two seconds but it can’t be. It’s been longer than that, and he knows it in his bones.

Then, the man says, “You may now kiss to seal your vows to one another.”

They’ve done this so many times now. Too many times, some may say. But Harry is fluttering, hesitating, staring at the expectant look on the man’s face because he’s supposed to kiss him now — right now — in front of everyone. They’ve trained for this, this very moment. 

Draco inches forwards. 

And it’s all he needs. Hesitation leaves him like smoke. He reaches forward, taking Draco by his waist and pulling him closer, swooping forward and taking his lips against his own in one swift movement. It feels like breathing. 

He clutches at the man’s robes and feels the same reflected back, tugging at him, bringing him as close as possible. Harry feels his hands rise, flying to the man’s face after two seconds, holding his cheeks in his palms and trying not to feel like the entire world is only worth anything because of this. 

The way in which Draco holds him, kisses him is... It’s not different at all, and yet somehow, it seeps into Harry — lips, down — a fumbling, desperate sense of hope. He shouldn’t cling to that, but he does. The idea that this isn’t an act, that there might be something to it. It’s impossibly perfect. Emphasis on impossible. It makes Harry want to keep this moment lasting forever, to grasp the semblance of a pipe dream. 

When they pull away from each other, too early than Harry would like, they stare at one another again. Like seeing something for the first time. Or the hundredth. 

It’s only then that Harry realises that the room is filled with cheers and claps. He hadn’t heard it before. The Weasleys are wolf-whistling, shouting out, and Draco’s friends and mother are all grinning as they clap their hands together.

They’ve done it. They’ve managed, somehow, to convince them all.

Harry can’t even look at them. He doesn’t look upon the wave of his found family, delighted for him, because he can’t. Whether part of it is because of the deep-rooted guilt within him, Harry doesn’t know. All that he knows right now is that Draco is still staring at him, so he’s continuing to stare back. Neither of them seem to be too aware of anything at this moment in time. 

Eventually, Draco gathers himself from his bewilderment and turns to their crowd, a big grin on his face that nobody else can see shaking. Harry tries to follow his lead but he cannot shake this odd feeling. Hermione and Ron charge on him for a hug, and Mr and Mrs Weasley are patting his shoulder and squeezing his cheeks accordingly, and then George is trying to lift him up, for some reason. Ginny is close by still, too, grinning for him. It all passes over Harry like water. 

Beside him, Draco is laughing with his friends, his mother. He is holding her hand again, kissing her on the cheek. Harry can see the pure fondness in her eyes as she looks at her son. 

Then, her eyes turn on him. 

The Weasleys back off a little. They turn to Draco to congratulate him, welcoming him to the family and threatening him with the fact that he won’t be able to avoid Sunday lunches as often as Harry had been letting on. He is jovial and teasing with them, but Harry barely notices. He thinks that probably, Draco barely notices himself, too caught up in keeping an eye on his mother. 

She is shorter than Harry remembers her being. 

“Mrs Malfoy,” he greets her. 

“Mr Potter,” she greets back, small smile playing on her face. “Congratulations on wedding my son.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he says honestly. “I’m sorry, I probably should’ve spoken to you first. Asked your permission for his hand.”

She hums. “Yes. You should’ve. That’s okay, though,” she says, and leans forward. She takes his hand in her own. “If anyone gets to break the rules, I think we all know by now that it’s you.” 

He laughs quietly. “Thank you.”

“If you make my son happy, Mr Potter,” she tells him. “You can do whatever you want.”

He can’t help it. He looks away from her, his gaze drawn immediately to Draco. He says, “He makes me happy, too.”

She watches him for long moments, and when Harry turns back to look at her again, there’s a glisten in her eyes. She looks so happy at the prospect of her son having found someone to hold and cherish him forever. She has no idea. This is the most guilt that Harry has had so far; he doesn’t know how Draco can handle it. 

“I expect you over to the Manor soon,” she says, oblivious to his turmoil. “To discuss the sharing of assets.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” He nods, because he doesn’t even know what assets he has, exactly. 

Distantly, he finds himself thinking of his parents; of their house in Godric’s Hollow. Is that his? Has it always been?

And then again of his parents, fragmented ghosts, like Sirius and Remus. They all would’ve wanted to be here today. They had deserved to be here — to see his monument in his life. 

But then, he would’ve had to have lied to them, too.

And the thought of going back to Malfoy Manor —

“Mother,” Draco interjects. “We can talk politics later.” 

She nods at him once, but squeezes Harry’s hand once again before she drops it. He smiles at her, and then the chatter all around them begins again. Pansy is stepping over to say hello to Hermione and Ginny, surprising humility as she tests the waters. Ron and George awkwardly begin to talk with Blaise, Nott and Goyle, because they’re just standing there. Mr and Mrs Weasley, as well as Percy, begin to talk kindly with Narcissa, cautious in their approach — not due to her dubious past, so much as the rumours about her wellbeing. She takes to the conversation well, though. 

Draco sidles beside him. For a second, there’s a moment of peace for the two of them to talk with one another. Instead of saying anything about the ceremony, the kiss, or Draco’s lateness and Harry’s subsequent anxiety, Harry looks over at Narcissa as he talks.

He says, “She looks really well.”

Draco smiles. “She’s not out of her mind. She’s just — more fragile nowadays.”

Harry looks at him again. “I’m glad you brought her.”

The man hums. He doesn’t look back at him, his eyes remaining on her. “She would’ve cursed me silly if I didn’t.”

Harry doesn’t think. He reaches out and takes his hand, and the action finally yanks the man’s attention back to him. He looks down at their hands, doesn’t try to pull away from him. 

Harry steps closer, leans in close to his ear. “If this were real,” he tells him. “I’d be all over you right now.”

He hears something like heavy breath expelled all in one from Draco’s lips, which are parted when he pulls back. His eyes are as wide as they were earlier, when Harry had proposed this rushed ceremony. He appears to take a moment, and he licks his lips, gulping before he reaches for something to say in return. Harry can’t understand the reason for his bewilderment, for the look on his face. 

“What?” Draco says.

“If I’d just really gotten married to someone,” he clarifies, a frown breaking his features. “I don’t think I’d be able to stay away from them.”

Draco waits a moment before he nods. Another excel of breath. “Of course.”

He asks, because of this very fact, “Can I kiss you again?”

There is a blink, and then another. Harry feels his breath, warm against his ear as he leans in to answer him. “To make it look real?”

Harry draws back, looks at him again. His eyes scan his face and linger on his lips. “Yeah.”

It’s only once he says this that Draco nods, his head moving the very moment that it leaves his lips. “Then, yes,” he says. “You can.”

Harry does. He forgets where he is, who he’s surrounded by, even though it’s the whole reason he’s allowed to kiss him in the first place. He watches Draco’s eyes close before their lips meet, still holding hands with each other, Draco’ other hand coming to rest on his chest. 

Due to their company, it’s more chaste than Harry would have liked; what he is used to doing now with the other man. He kisses him gently, sweetly, and it feels so right, like the remnants of Draco’s magic that had so recently swam through him are alive with the connection. 

“Alright, lover-boys,” George says, interrupting them, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “Save some of that for the honeymoon, eh?”

There’s laughter, and Draco rolls his eyes as he keeps his head down. It doesn’t hide the blush on his face that Harry can’t seem to look away from.

“So,” Pansy says in the silence. “Do people really need to go back to work, or are we going to go and celebrate?”

There’s a few shared looks of hesitation. People can truly only leave their work for so long before getting in trouble, and Mr Weasley, Ron, Percy and Hermione are all still wearing their work robes. Pansy, who Harry can only assume is not working at all, doesn’t seem to take this into consideration.

“I’ll tell you what,” Harry says. “Everyone’s invited to ours for a party tonight. Give us a few hours to get it all ready first.”

George snorts. He says, “A few hours to make sure you get every surface, more like,” and then winces when Molly hits his arm. 

This idea is a lot more amicable to people. After all, it’s barely past lunchtime. Pansy declares everybody boring, but ultimately decides it to be for the best, anyway, because then she can get changed into clothes, as she says, suitable for a party. 

Kisses and hugs and fond I’ll see you laters are exchanged, and Pansy offers to take Narcissa home. Everyone starts filtering out until only Draco and Harry are left, standing in the office with their Officiator. He smiles at them both, draws up all of their paperwork, and speaks. 

“So, to whom should I address the bill?”

Chapter Text

When they get home, Harry feels more alive than he’s ever been. 

Sure, he’s suffering under the pressing knowledge that he’s lying to everybody he’s ever loved, and that after revealing the disastrous truth to himself about his own feelings, the fact that he’s entered into a fake marriage with the object of his desires is — not ideal. 

But he’s truly alive. He’s moving out of the way what Draco has called the ‘good china’, and he’s excited about the upcoming party. He’s excited about the fact that they no longer have to worry about Draco being sent packing away to France. He’s excited that they have proof now, so much to go on to exonerate him. 

He’s excited, selfishly, that he and Draco now must pretend to be the picture of newly-married bliss. 

“I’ve spelled my bedroom door shut, and put some of my clothes on your bed,” Draco tells him as he walks back through the front door, having popped to the shops to get drinks and snacks. “Just in case anyone fancies wandering upstairs.”

Harry nods, because it’s a good idea. He doesn’t know how exactly they’d explain away having separate bedrooms. He places the carrier bag down in the kitchen, and the two of them start to take out the various bags of crisps, bottles of wine. 

“Do you think they know yet?” Harry asks. “Dawlish and Kingsley?”

“Probably,” Draco says. “I’m surprised they aren’t here already.”

They might be, Harry thinks. They might have discovered a new way to spy on them beyond staking claim on Draco’s bench. He wouldn’t put it past them, though it’s hard to care too much right now. He’s pretty distracted. 

He can’t seem to take his mind off of the possibility of what they could be doing right now. What they should be doing, according to everybody else. The natural thing that occurs after a wedding. And to Harry, this feels more real than anything else about the day. 

He can’t look at the sofa without thinking about how good Draco had looked laying back on it, hand shoved down his underwear. The look that he’d had on his face as he’d cum, Harry’s own erection nestled so closely against him as he did. Now, he can’t stop himself from looking at every single piece of furniture in the house and picturing the same thing. George had said, Make sure you get every surface, more like, and didn’t know that Harry would literally love absolutely nothing more. 

Against the fireplace. Over the kitchen counter. On top of the dining table. Across the old rug on the floor. Harry is losing his mind.

And if this was real, he’d be doing all of it, like a checklist of places around the house to fuck him in a race against time before the party begins. If it was real, Harry wouldn’t let a single inch go untouched by their debauchery. He’d even take him right up against the window, looking out at the bench. That’s what newlyweds are supposed to do immediately after they marry, isn’t it?

Instead, Harry is forced into sitting on the couch he’d so recently dry-humped his enemy-turned-husband atop of, helping him decide whether or not they need to rush to hire a caterer for the night. Harry’s crisps of choice from the Muggle supermarket are apparently not up to scratch for a marriage celebration. 

Harry’s just pondering the risks and rewards of asking whether or not they should pretend to do something again, when Draco says the least sexual sentence ever spoken: “What do you think, Kreacher?”

Kreacher appears with a snap, already shaking his head. “Kreacher can make and provide food for the party.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks. “There’ll be quite a few people. Seamus and Dean have confirmed, and so have Luna, Neville, the Patils—”

“Yes, every one of your friends from school are coming. That’s fine. Kreacher can handle them, can’t you, Kreacher?”

Kreacher nods at once. He tells them, “Kreacher has provided for events bigger than this, the Malfoy’s should know.”

Harry frowns. He waits for a moment, wondering if he’s heard him correctly. “Sorry — Who?”

Kreacher glares at him. “Potter boy has married into the Malfoy family. That makes him a Malfoy.”

The words settle onto him and spill off like hot water. He hadn’t even considered the possibility of something like that, had forgotten it was even part of the process. He’d signed all of the paperwork as normal — as Harry Potter. He couldn’t recall any papers regarding a name change, but then, there’d been so many—

“We decided to forgo that tradition,” Draco inputs. He must’ve seen the look on his face. “‘Potter’ is a stronger name in the Wizarding World than ‘Malfoy’ now, anyway.”

“Kreacher understands,” he says, but there’s pure distaste on his face still. “Harry Malfoy and Draco Potter. Both ridiculous.”

Harry can’t actually help but splutter a laugh at that, the absurdity too much. “Thanks, Kreacher.”

He grumbles before apparating away again, and within less than a minute, he can smell something start cooking. 

Harry starts to feel the thoughts come back as quickly as they had gone. It’s bad. Draco has abandoned his dress robes already, for normal clothing that yet again does not cover his neck. He can yet again see the marks that he had put there the night before, dizzying him and sending him off-focus. Even more off-focus than he already is. 

And now, as he looks like he begins to relax a bit more, it’s worse. Draco takes the moment to sit down and breathe for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut. He looks breathtaking, even like this, exhausted and rushed off of his feet. 

They really haven’t stopped today. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “Just in case they are watching right now… Why don’t we go upstairs?”

Draco’s eyes flick over to him. He doesn’t speak for a few moments. Then, “You’re probably right.”

“You can have a lie down, then.”

“Mm,” Draco continues. “And of course… It’s the presumption. It’s what we should be doing.”

Harry wonders if he’s hearing the words again, the ones said into his ear in the crowd of their loved ones: If this were real, I’d be all over you. He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. He hadn’t — realised it at the time. What it would sound like to the other man. An accidental truth, a Freudian slip. 

“Exactly,” Harry says. “When in reality, we can have a break and lie down.”

“A break,” Draco deadpans. “Don’t know if that’s possible around you.”

Harry looks at him, takes a moment just to debate whether or not he’s telling the truth or not. He examines his face and can’t come to an immediate answer. This is only made more confusing by the way that he looks back at him, one eyebrow raised, as if challenging him to try and argue. 

He doesn’t. He keeps quiet, because he doesn’t know how to take it — doesn’t know if there’s an underlying meaning that Harry’s overthinking. He seems to be thinking too much about everything now. 

He stands up and holds out a hand towards him. Just in case they’re looking, watching them. Draco takes his hand after a second or ten of deliberation, and it is soft, gentle. Just like the rest of him.

“Come on then,” he says. Then, with a small, teasing smile, he adds, “Husband.”

Draco rolls his eyes and lets Harry pull him up to his feet. Even though he’d held him in his lap and thrown him bodily onto his back, Harry is still somehow surprised at how light he feels. 

“Right,” Harry hears him say as he leads him up the stairs. “I’m married to Harry Potter. I’m the envy of every witch in Britain.”

They enter the bedroom together. Harry closes the door behind them. Draco is the one who drops his hand once they enter, lingering at the door as Harry goes to close the curtains. He risks a glance over at the bench across from his house before pulling them shut, but it’s empty. 

When he turns to look behind him, Draco looks out of place, arm held by a tight hand, eyes not knowing where to be directed. 

He says, “I could’ve gone to my own room.”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe,” he says, and throws himself down onto his bed. Draco appears to just watch him, incredulous, examining. 

“What are you doing?”

“Resting. Like we said,” he answers, and lets out a long, dramatic sigh as he reaches back and rests his head on his arms. “Come on. Bed’s comfy.”

“If it’s anything like the bed in my room—”

“Shut up,” Harry interrupts. He pats the space in the bed next to him, the space which had been achingly empty for too many lonely months. “Come on.”

Draco continues to look like he’s somehow suspicious of something, like cautious prey. Still, though slowly, he takes tentative steps towards the other side of the bed. There, he sits. 

“No,” says Harry. “Come on.”

He stares at him for another long moment, stretched in the unidentifiable silence between them. Harry doesn’t know how to feel, so he just continues to be. Eventually, he watches as Draco swings his legs up onto the bed, takes a deep breath, and lays down beside him. 

He smiles as he looks at him, head rolling on his arms. “Comfortable?” he asks.

Draco hums, resolutely staring at the ceiling. “Ill at ease,” he answers.

Harry shifts his leg, kicking him lightly. “We have a few hours, still. You can nap if you want.”

“I don’t want to nap.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Okay. What do you want?”

Harry watches as the man opens his mouth, lips hovering open. Nothing comes out of them, like something is choked in his throat. The words are distant, not ready to come out yet. Harry can’t help but frown now, rolling over onto his side to look at him. 

“Draco?”

He looks at him then, lips still parted for a never-coming speech. His gaze lingers for longer than Harry expects to, before he shuts his eyes, shaking his head, like vacating all prior thought from his brain.

“Perhaps I will sleep,” he says quietly, when too many minutes have passed and Harry is beginning to feel anxiety rise inside him, fluttering in his chest. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asks quickly. “You’re not — Regretting anything, are you?”

“No,” he says, and at least he sounds sure of this. “I’m not. It’s the best method to prolong our chance at proving my innocence.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Okay,” he says, and doesn’t know whether he should push his luck. He wants to press him on the matter, on his silence, wants to delve and discover every inner working of his mind. 

He doesn’t, though. He keeps his mouth shut and watches Draco simply lay there, slowly becoming more accustomed to laying atop of his bed. He doesn’t shut his eyes to sleep, like one might’ve thought he would after saying Perhaps I will sleep. He stares at the ceiling and Harry stares at him. And so it goes.

Harry doesn’t know how long the quiet stretches out between them in the dark room. Light is filtering in through the closed curtains, just enough to give him a good look at the man’s perfect silhouette. The sun peeking through shines just right to see the glisten of his open eyes. 

It’s so prolonged that Harry has to force himself not to break it, physically holding himself back. His heart is in his throat as he lets his mind run away with itself, and for some reason, in the shadowy bowers of his bedroom, he starts to think of things he probably shouldn’t be. He starts to think about saying things that he probably shouldn’t say. 

None of these things are sexual, per se. More — Things that they still have yet to talk about in depth. Echoes of I hate you, I hate you that have been haunting Harry’s waking mind. The scars that had been borne from him in that bathroom. Draco saying, Giving me this is one of the kindest things you could’ve done to me. The Dark Mark and his tireless efforts at ridding himself of it. The War in general; the trials thereafter. His father. 

Harry thinks to himself, intimacy is what is expected after a wedding. Maybe they can still have that, at least.

“Can we talk?” he says, and Draco does not startle at the sound. Like he’d been expecting it. 

“That depends on what you want to talk about,” he says. 

Harry shifts a little closer. “Can I ask you something?”

Draco rolls his eyes, though he still doesn’t turn to look at him. “That depends on what you want to ask me.”

He takes a few moments to breathe and reevaluate the moment. The day has been a success so far. A great success. For all intents and purposes, they should be celebrating and hoping to forget all animosity, at least for the night. 

Harry asks, though feeling mildly childish as he does so, “Do you still hate me?” 

He’d said it, after all. Those exact words. The air between them freezes slightly and so does Draco, his body tensing beside him. He doesn’t answer at once, but Harry doesn’t expect him to. 

He wonders if he does, and he’s trying to find a soft way of saying it. But then again, if he really hates him, why would he try to hide the way that he feels? If he has even an inkling towards Harry’s affection towards him, his hatred should make him shove it in Harry’s face. 

Slowly, and with great hesitation, he says, “I… Don’t know.”

Then he turns his head, actually looks at him. His features are more clear like this, eyes wider than they’d seemed, like he’s afraid of the truth leaving his lips. He curls his limbs in on himself. 

“Really?” Harry asks. He doesn’t believe it. 

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “You make me — I don’t know.”

Harry pushes himself up on his arm, looking at him closer. “Even with—” he says, and then stops himself. When Draco doesn’t fill the silence, he continues. “After what I did to you?”

At this, Draco actually laughs. It’s a stark difference to the way they had spoken about it all before. He says, “You don’t appear to hate me, after all I’ve done to you.”

He feels the words appear and fizzle on the tip of his tongue, too dangerous to say them out loud still. Because he doesn’t hate him. He has no idea. 

“No,” he tells him, voice firm. “I don’t hate you.”

Draco pauses and then, inexplicably, sighs at this. Hands fly to his head, and he drags them down his face. Like what Harry said, for some reason, is detrimental. 

“What?” Harry asks. 

“You should,” Draco says to him. “You should despise me. Instead, you —” He takes a moment, sets his teeth and breathes in. “We have always hated each other. That’s what we do.”

He considers this. Shrugs. It’s true, and they both know it. They get on each other’s nerves, annoy each other on purpose. They’ve tried to ruin each other’s lives on more than one occasion. They’ve almost killed each other. 

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly. “And, yet.”

Draco looks at him. “And, yet.”

Harry could kiss him again. The thought has never crossed his mind more than it has been lately — than it is now. He doesn’t dare to attempt it. 

“I can’t hate my husband, can I?” Harry says, filling the quiet. 

The man next to him hums. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

“Draco,” he says. “When you told me you hated me…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He watches his figure closely, carefully. The darkness doesn’t hide his expression as much now, Harry’s eyes having gotten too used to the dim light. He doesn’t present with surprise or denial. He can’t. 

“I did,” he tells him. “I hated you. Every time I got changed; every time I showered. Every time I look at myself, I hate you.”

Harry resists the urge to reach out to him. “You looked like you hated me at the trials, too.”

A sharp intake of breath. Like he hadn’t expected Harry to go there. “Yes.”

“You did?”

“I did,” he confesses again. 

He has to say it. He doesn’t want to come across as conceited, arrogant. He doesn’t want to take the whole credit for it, but: “If it weren’t for me testifying, you—”

“Would be rotting in there with my father. I know,” he interrupts, voice low, cutting suddenly. “I just couldn’t stand that you — you — were the one to save me.”

It feels like a confirmation of a truth Harry has already known. He doesn’t say anything to this, because it all sounds big-headed, or rude. Besides, Draco is opening his mouth to speak again, anyway.

“It was like a kick in the teeth,” he continues, the words slowly turning to a hiss. “Did you see the looks on their faces? Those who came to watch the spectacle; the Wizengamot themselves? Merlin, they loved it. A handout from the Saviour to the Dark Lord’s child spy. It couldn’t have made you look like more of a Saint if you’d tried and — And I know you weren’t trying.”

Harry remembered the headlines in the days that had followed the trials. He’d actually bothered to take a look at the Prophet to see what was being said about Draco, even though he knew that it wouldn’t have changed his mind about testifying for him. It had been exactly as he recounts it now, Draco being absolved of the worst of his crimes but Harry being the one who was celebrated, cheered. 

“And the holding cells,” Draco goes on, the words choking in his throat now. “Harry Potter himself comes to my aid, and I had to spend three more nights in those cells until the Wizengamot came to a verdict. The remaining Death Eaters — they were all there. Watching me. My father—”

Harry gulps. They had barely touched on him yet, either. 

“He was a shell, but still so… Disappointed.” Harry hears his breath shake. “He’d always tried his best to support me. I’d never seen him so… Well. Doesn’t matter.”

Lucius Malfoy is high on the list of people Harry wishes will rot in Hell for the rest of their lives. But that’s not what Draco needs to hear right now. He shifts, and says, “He’s still your father.”

Another dry laugh. “You don’t want to talk about my father.”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t mind. We can talk about anything.” Still, there’s the splashes of suggestion; too much intimacy, a mirror of a real wedding night. 

“No, we can’t.”

“Of course, we can.”

“There’s — Too much between us for that.”

“We’ve made it this far,” Harry argues. “Haven’t we?”

Draco sighs. He seems to give in slightly. “What, so, you want to know about my father? Interested in whether I’m still in contact with him?”

“I’m interested,” Harry tells him honestly. “Not to investigate you, though.”

“Hm.”

Harry smiles. “Maybe I just want to know everything. Then, what?”

“Then nothing has changed since you were eleven,” Draco deadpans. “Poking your nose around.”

“That’s me.” He nods. “So?”

Draco shifts again. Harry feels his foot brush his leg. He says, “I haven’t spoken to my father since the trials.”

Harry isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to be surprised or not. He isn’t actually sure whether he is. Draco not having contact with his father since the War makes a world of sense for how he sees him now, and of the repentant, regretful man that he had appeared to have become in the brief moments they shared in the turmoil. He never would’ve pictured it for the man — the boy — he had known before, in his youth. Daddy’s boy, loyal to a fault. 

“That’s,” Harry says. “A big shift for you. Isn’t it?” 

“It doesn’t feel so. Not anymore.”

“And your mother,” he begins, more tentative now. “Does she…?”

Draco’s shaking his head before he finishes the sentence. “She has never forgiven him for dragging me as far into it as I was.”

“Well. I don’t blame her.” And he doesn’t. When he thinks of how young they’d been — when he looks at Hogwarts students now — he doesn’t know how they’d ever done it. How they’d managed to struggle through.

Draco doesn’t answer him, doesn’t continue this line of conversation, and Harry doesn’t blame him. It all feels very one-sided, anyway. 

“So,” he says, because for whatever reason, the conversation is spurring on that feeling of aliveness that he’d wanted to bottle straight after the ceremony. “Is there anything pressing you want to ask me?”

At once, Draco says, “No.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Come on. There’s got to be something you’ve always been dying to ask.”

Sharp eyes turn on him again. “Aside from why you’re a giant arsehole?”

“Hey,” Harry says. “That was one of my next questions. Next.”

Draco groans. “I can’t think of anything.”

Harry nudges him with his foot. “Try?”

It appears that he does. Harry doesn’t push as another stretch of silence begins because somehow, he can sense that the man is really thinking of something to ask. 

“In school,” he begins, and Harry composes himself at once, immediately interested. “My friends and I used to have long debates regarding which of the rumours about you were true.”

He has to laugh at that. “Glad to know I was on your mind so much, Draco.”

“Well, I—” He clears his throat. “Anyway. I want to know which of them were true.”

“Okay. Go ahead. I’m sure I won’t even have heard of half of them.”

Draco deliberates for a moment. Then, “Were you and Granger ever…?”

“Oh,” Harry says at once. “God, no. She’s like my sister.”

Draco laughs. “I knew it. Pansy always argued, but it was obvious that she and Weasley were the ones mad for each other.” 

Harry nods. “Definitely mad.”

“Okay,” he hums, getting into it now. “You were responsible for Dumbledore needing to hire a new Defense Professor every year.”

At this, he has to hesitate. “Sort of,” he admits. “Not — Directly. I was just… Involved.”

Draco scoffs. “With every single one?”

“I mean,” he says, and sighs, because most are not the best memories. “I kind of — destroyed Professor Quirrell, so that was me. Lockhart tried to erase mine and Ron’s memories, but it backfired, so that’s why he got stuck in Janus Thickey. Remus — Well.” He clears his throat. “He transformed, and, you know, Snape told everyone.” 

Draco, quietly, says, “I remember that.”

“Well, he was trying to help me and Sirius when he did transform, so… Yeah. Other than that, Moody not actually being Moody, but Barry Crouch Jr, and Umbridge… They just hated me, so I guess that was my fault?”

After a few seconds, Draco says, “Hold on. You destroyed Professor Quirrell?”

“I swear everybody already knew this.” 

“Well — Again, Potter — Harry, there were rumours, but, I mean, Merlin. You were eleven!”

“Almost twelve,” Harry says. “Quirrell is boring. Surely there were some juicier rumours floating around?”

Draco flutters, confused for a moment or two more before giving in and letting the topic drop. “Fine,” he says. “There certainly were some juicy ones. If I remember correctly, a Gryffindor Quidditch player reportedly walked into the changing rooms one afternoon to see you bending over the Weaslette. True?”

“Jesus,” Harry says, face filling with heat. “No. Not true.”

“Really?” Draco hums. “That seems like a wasted opportunity.”

 He freezes at that, brows furrowing, shock mixed with confusion filtering through his head. He balks, “What?”

“No,” the other man says quickly. “Not because — No. Not with Ginevra. Merlin. I didn’t mean that.”

Harry feels the relief run through him, but still, he asks, “Really? What did you mean?”

“Not that! I wouldn’t — I meant debauching the changing rooms. I wouldn’t dream of doing that with her. No offence to her, I’m just — I’m gay.”

He doesn’t know why the words stun him still. He’d known this for a while, in a way. He’d known in the sense that nobody in his life had questioned him being in a relationship with a man; that he’d gotten an erection on numerous occasions whilst snogging Harry’s face off; that he’d come with Harry’s cock against his ass. It’s not a surprise or a revelation. He’d even said it in plainer words than this before —  He’d raised a high brow and asked, Is that a problem? and Harry had said, No, of course not. 

Perhaps it’s just the label that gets to him. He’d never wondered about it before, not until now that he doesn’t even need to wonder. But it begs the question, as his throat runs dry as he sits with his mouth agape, like a fish: Harry had done all of that bar shagging Theodore Nott. What does that make him?

It hadn’t been something he’d had to face until now. Even still, he doesn’t have to face it, necessarily. But he’s frozen at the prospect of an uncovered truth. A shift in his chest, echoing his stolen breath. 

“Oh,” Draco says, looking at him again with widening eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re having some epiphany. Please.”

Harry gulps. 

“What?” the man continues. “You can’t seriously not have realised I’m gay. Did you somehow miss the whole — thing with Theo?”

Minutely, barely, Harry shakes his head. 

“What, then?” he asks again. Then, almost too seriously, “Oh, no. Don’t start this. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

It’s Harry’s turn to blink himself out of his stupour, confused, and ask, “What?”

Draco says, plainly, “You're not gay.”

Harry blinks again. 

Draco repeats himself. “You’re Harry Potter. You’re not gay.” 

Harry feels that same reckoning in his fogged brain again, the one that he had felt in his kitchen; Draco pushing away any semblance of realism. It feels sickening in an odd, distant way. He wants to refute it. He doesn’t know if Draco is ready for that. 

Still, he says, “I could be gay.”

The following laugh just twists inside him more. Draco shakes his head. “No. You couldn’t.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Harry feels his frown deepen. The worry is ever-present still, not wanting to scare the man off if it gets too real. If he admits it. “I’m not saying — I'm not saying anything. But, I mean—”

“You can continue not saying anything.”

“Draco,” he says. “Look at your neck.”

He scoffs. “Aesthetics. You’re sexually attracted to love-bites. Not men.”

“Draco.”

He sees the man shake his head, like batting away reason from nearing his ears. “It’s not possible. So don’t worry yourself over it.”

Harry can feel himself slipping further into frustration, battling with wanting him to know and wanting to hide it, words choking in his throat at the stupidity of it. “On the couch, I literally—”

“Stop,” Draco says quickly. “I explained that all already. It was the friction, it was—”

“Me having the best orgasm of my life as I watched you touch yourself?” he balks. Admits.

Draco sits up, legs thrown over the side of the bed in an instant. Harry watches him, pushing himself up but not getting to his feet, a distant horror pulsing through him. He flicks his fingers and lets the curtains fly open, simply because he needs to see him, needs to be able to read his expressions more clearly. Yet again, he finds himself unable to let go of the carnal need to read the man’s thoughts. 

“We’re not having this conversation now,” Draco tells him. He is stone-faced, but whiter than normal. 

“What conversation?” Harry challenges.

“Damn it. You know what conversation,” Draco all but hisses. He composes himself, catches his breath. Harry stares at him, his hair bed-messy from where it had been rubbing on the pillow. He looks anxiety-ridden and defeated. 

Harry yearns to reach forward and touch him, take his hand in his own and absolve him of the stress. But the reality stays within him, and he knows it would do nothing. He’s the very cause of it, after all. 

“I’m going to lie down,” he says, with no hint of irony. “Do not follow me. I’ll see you when the party starts.”

He leaves, then. Harry can’t even bring himself to attempt to think of anything to say to stop him from leaving. The door all but slams shut behind him as he walks out. 

Harry falls back against his pillow, silently cursing the wall between them. The countdown to the party feels more like a bane than a blessing now, the torture of putting on and continuing their act more important and impossible than it has ever been. 

Perhaps he’d pushed too far. Perhaps he should learn to finally reel himself in. Either way, he should’ve known that whatever the outcome, it was never going to be a simple ride with Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Harry doesn’t see Draco again until after people start arriving for the party. For their party. He’s forced into welcoming people in by himself, into telling them that he’s still up there, getting ready, and that he’d asked Harry to apologise for him. He hadn’t. 

Harry has no idea what Draco has been doing for the last few hours, and he hasn’t had the opportunity to ask. It’s not until enough people are there and congratulating Harry on his marriage with the absent groom that the chatter must be high enough for Draco to hear, and he finally heads down from his solitude. 

When he does eventually emerge, he acts as a gracious host. He sweeps his friends in his arms (Harry notices him still not lingering for too long on Nott) and kisses cheeks where appropriate. He thanks Harry’s friends for coming and takes the congratulations in his stride, tastefully ignoring the suspicious looks from those who still had yet to see them together in the flesh.

He only interacts with Harry when the occasion calls for it. He gently touches his arm, laughs politely and stands close by. He makes appropriate comments and gestures zipping his mouth shut when people mention the love-bites peeking out of his collar and the supposed, alleged post-marital bliss. 

But he doesn’t look at Harry. He looks at everybody else, as if showing off that nothing is wrong, without so much as a single glance in his direction to give him any inkling on how he’s feeling himself. He doesn’t look at him, and it sets Harry’s teeth on edge. Amongst the irritation is guilt and regret. He knows that he shouldn’t have said anything — should have kept it all to himself. He’d known this was going to happen.

Kreacher is a more dutiful host than he is as a result, making sure that canapés are delivered and wine glasses remain filled. Harry kisses Luna on the cheek and then takes a long swig, because from across the room, he can see Draco talking in fervent whispers with Pansy. When his glass is once again full with the sweet wine that he’d picked up earlier, he downs it in one. He cannot focus on anything else.

He attempts to distract himself by catching up with old friends, by accepting well wishes and speaking well-timed deflections, back to their own lives. He’s halfway into a long, orchestrated conversation with Luna and Neville about what kinds of plants give the best fortune when he realises that just about nothing is going to be able to force the other man out of his head.

Particularly not when he’s there. Right there, all the time. It’s where he should be — After all, this is his house, his party, too. But he is right goddamn there and he is knocking back glasses of wine like he wants to forget about Harry’s existence as well. He probably does. 

Swirling memories, not just of the argument, but before, too. Draco’s naked honesty; Every time I look at myself, I hate you. And Harry’s stupidity, getting too close to the truth of his feelings for him. Draco despises the way he looks because of Harry — and there Harry goes, spilling his deepest desires of sexuality and — aesthetics. He’s an idiot. 

He finishes his drink as Neville finishes his sentence. Then he smiles at him kindly and says, “Guess you don’t need much more fortune now though, do you, Harry?”

Perhaps it’s the abundance of alcohol he’s already had, even this early in the night. He forgets to feign anything, forgets — somehow — about the excitement of the wedding and the celebrations surrounding them at this very moment. He pulls a face before he can think about what he’s doing, before he can formulate an appropriate response, and he says, “I might’ve married him, but he’s still Draco Malfoy.”

And it’s true. But it’s not the sort of thing that you say right after your wedding. 

Neville’s face reflects this with his surprise. He chuckles awkwardly, rubs the back of his neck, and says, “Right. Er, say what you really think, Harry.”

He blinks. “I — Sorry. No. I just mean — Well. I could do with some good fortune when he’s in a mood. You remember what he’s like.”

Neville sips his drink quietly as Harry cringes at himself. Of course, Neville remembered what Draco was like. He’d been bloody bullied by him. 

Luna, holding a large bottle of an ominously purple, glittering liquid, leans into the conversation. “He seems to be much more pleasant now,” she comments.

“He is,” Harry says hastily, embarrassment pushing through the fuzziness of the alcohol. He’d forgotten that whilst he’d been mainly been the focal point of Draco’s aggression in school, he’d not been the only one. “He’s much better.” And then, because he’s panicking and needs to cover himself, he adds, “Got a good arse on him, too.”

This does nothing to ease the awkwardness oozing from Neville’s face, buried in his drink. Harry wants to kick himself. Hard. 

But Luna hums, considering and deep. “It’s unsurprising that the two of you would be sexually compatible. Did you know that your orgasms are meant to be ten times as intense if they’re caused by someone you dislike?”

Harry can’t answer that. Neville frowns at her, finally putting down the drink. “Is that true?”

“I don’t know, really,” she hums. “Only one person told me so. What do you think, Harry?”

Unnecessary, unasked for memories flash before his eyes for the umpteenth time that day. Draco’s back arching with encouragement, thin hand stretched over his own cock. Whilst Harry has some complicated feelings about the man, it’s impossible to argue that Draco still dislikes him, at the very least. And yet he’d moaned and gasped and painted himself with splatters of his own pleasure. He’d either been so disgusted with himself that he couldn’t bring himself to speak, or else been so befuddled by the euphoria that his ability had removed itself immediately afterwards. Either way, oddly, it almost proves Luna’s point. 

He clears his throat, not wanting to traumatise Neville any further. “No comment on that, Luna.”

“Okay,” she says, and follows up with no argument. 

Harry feels too awkward to even apologise for the conversation, so excuses himself to get a refill. It’s probably not necessary — not with his blood alcohol content — but feels incredibly overdue. 

As he pours himself another glass, his eyes scan the room almost on impulse. He doesn’t need to think about or ponder over who he’s searching for. Even with the new tension between them, he finds himself somehow relaxing when his gaze finally finds and rests upon him. He hums into his drink, watching him as he doesn’t hesitate to laugh and smile with his friends. It must be the wine that makes Harry feel dizzy with that sight — the dimmed lights somehow beautifying his dimpled, stretched cheeks even more. 

Watching him from afar is easier, Harry thinks. He doesn’t have to worry about the man holding himself back around him, walking on eggshells even now, despite how close they’ve grown — something neither of them can deny anymore, no matter how much Draco may wish to. It’s easier to observe his natural presence from back against a far wall, where he can pretend like they don’t have to pretend that nothing is going on between them. 

He takes a deep breath. His head hits the wall behind him, but his gaze does not waver from beneath his lashes and lenses. 

And from across the room, grey eyes meet his. And for the first time this evening, they don’t immediately hurry away. Emotions without names rush through Harry’s head and chest. Even his hands and feet seem to tingle with it. It feels like something akin to daring. To hope. 

Pansy leans in, painted lips behind painted fingers, and whispers something in his ear. He lowers his eyes for just a moment to focus on listening to her before he looks back at him again. He takes a sip of his drink. So does Harry. 

Then he’s on his feet, walking over to him. He feels like he can’t breathe as he watches the approach, doesn’t know what it could possibly be for, other than appearances. The wall feels like a fanciful method of escape now, if only it really could swallow him whole. The convergence shouldn’t feel so daunting. It is his husband. It is Draco. But they are hiding from something real, and there is nothing more frightening.

“I was told I shouldn’t be leaving my husband to stand all by himself,” Draco says, his tone flat. He positions himself next to Harry, back to the wall at his side. Together, they look out at their party. 

Harry says, “So, I’m a charity case.”

Draco hums. “One of us is.”

The elephant in the room remains, flashing big tusks that ruffle them bodily. They ignore it, despite the accosting of its presence. Harry feels a dry, blind fury come over him. As is the nature of them, he cannot address it. 

He says, mostly because he wants to shock him out of his stubbornness, “Luna was just asking me if our orgasms are more intense because we dislike each other.”

It does appear to stumble him. He opens his mouth, closes it, then swirls his wine around his glass. He says, “I hope you told her that we don’t dislike each other anymore. We wouldn’t have gotten married, otherwise.”

He can’t help but release a long breath of something like laughter, head shaking. He turns his head to look over at him now, flattening his hair, rolling it over the wall. The man’s face gives nothing away. He doesn’t look back at him. 

“Are you enjoying the celebrations?” he asks Harry politely, ignoring the head roll, ignoring the look. 

Harry’s tongue dents his cheek. His grip on the stem of his glass tightens, the liquid sliding up the edge, teetering on spilling. “Yeah,” he says. “The wine’s nice.”

Draco finishes his wine poignantly. “It is.” Then he pours himself some more. 

The buzz is almost throbbing in Harry’s head now. He shifts closer, their arms brushing. Draco clears his throat, takes a small step away from him. It aches. And the annoyance swells in his throat. 

“Seriously?” he asks. 

“Don’t pull that face,” he says quietly, a fake smile on his face. “People are watching.”

“If people are watching, you shouldn’t be flinching away from my touch,” he deadpans. 

That smile still there, he speaks through his teeth, “Stand in front of me if you’re going to throw a fit. Put your back to the audience.”

“They’re not an audience,” Harry tells him. “They’re our friends.”

The look in Draco’s eyes flashes with fury, ferocity. He reaches up and grabs Harry’s bicep, an outwardly fond gesture to all onlookers. His real grip is hard, fingers digging in, tugging at him subtly to try and get him to move. He doesn’t.

Draco’s next words are a harsh whisper now. “But we are still playing our parts. We are acting. You’d do well to remember that.”

He scoffs. “Oh, would I?”

Draco kisses him. His lips are tight and his hand is firm on his arm, and Harry doesn’t even think about how it’s only to save face. His lips act as a code, activating Harry like a sleeper agent the moment they touch his own. He holds him now, his mouth and body just feeling right. 

There is a wolf-whistle from somewhere and someone. When Draco’s lips are ripped from his own, Harry is too dazed to realise that his legs are moving, that he is being led away from the party, the room. He is taken upstairs, taken to his bedroom, the door slamming behind them. Harry’s optimism and delusion almost makes him expect to be shoved onto his bed. 

He is not. And Draco’s face is a drunk thunder. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demands. A drop or two of his wine flies from the glass and lands on Harry’s floor. 

“I’m —” He stops himself. “I don’t know.”

“No. You don’t,” he snarls. “We’ve gotten this far. All you have to do is act besotted with me on our wedding day. That’s all you have to do.”

“I know,” Harry stresses. He takes a moment, takes a drink. “But you—”

Draco almost loses his footing as he takes another step forward, one of the first symptoms of intoxication that Harry has seen. “I, what?”

“Piss me off,” he says. “So much.”

“Good,” he says back. “So. Nothing has changed.”

Harry just looks at him. He doesn’t know what exactly it is about this look that causes Draco’s reaction, but it’s visceral. Instant. Draco is shaking his head, his hands shaking too. He downs the rest of his wine, pulls a face at the sensation, and simply says, “No.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Harry replies at once.

“You were — No. Nothing has changed,” he repeats. “Oh, Merlin. I need more wine.”

“What are you so afraid of?” Harry asks. 

His initial answer is a look of despair, of desperation. Quietly, he says, “Please. Let’s not.”

“Draco —”

“Shut up,” he says, and curses his empty glass. “Give me your wine.”

Harry doesn’t move.

“I’m serious,” Draco says. “I’m drunk, but I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“So if I give you my wine, we can actually talk?”

A mean, dry laugh, then. He says, “No. Now, give me your wine. We’re going downstairs, and we’re going to drink, and we’re going to act well enough to convince even the most sceptical wizard in the world.”

Harry considers this. Then, after a long pause, he says, “Be careful what you wish for.”

*

They drink. They drink a lot. 

And Harry makes damn sure to be convincing. 

He takes every opportunity he can to act like a man just married. To be selfish about it all, just because he knows that Draco is going to try and avoid talking about it with any semblance of reality. As much as Harry had wanted to hide his true feelings about the man, it’s infuriating that now, faced with it, he seems to already know and wants to hide. It’s more than infuriating. It feels insulting.

So Harry takes the congratulatory shot that’s given to him, and then snogs Draco’s face off. Because he can. He takes another shot and wraps his arms around Draco from behind, holding him close and knowing that he can’t complain. He takes another and gives Draco one too. He lets Harry feed it to him, lowering his head and looking up at him through his light lashes, opening his mouth when Harry offers it up. The sight is so distracting that the thumping of the music around them drowns out. He watches a glisten of the vodka trickle down from the corner of his pink lips, down his chin, and is so distracted that he drops the shot glass. He remains so distracted that he doesn’t clear it up right away. He grabs him and kisses him and doesn’t give a damn about the bitter taste from the alcohol. 

Eventually, it gets so drunkenly ridiculous that he starts to get called out on it. 

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron says, eyes wide. “I know you just got married, but let the man breathe!”

Harry, despite himself, feels his face burn red. “‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You definitely weren’t this bad with Ginny,” George says, popping up behind him. 

Harry looks at Draco. “That—”

“He’s right,” Ginny says, appearing at his other side. “I don’t think you were ever this bad with me.”

“No comment there, Ginevra,” Draco says, a testament to his intoxication. “I must be fitter.”

“Okay,” Harry interrupts. He wraps an arm around Draco’s waist and pulls him in again, as if holding him back. The man’s hands fly to his arm and he almost seems like he wants to shove him off, until he remembers. Harry tells him, “You’ve married me. Put the green monster away.”

Draco glares at him. “Says the famously relaxed and unconcerned Harry Potter.”

George clears his throat. He says, “Yeah. Nice handiwork, Harry,” and nods towards the splotches on Draco’s neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. 

Harry hears Hermione sigh. “Leave them alone.”

And Ron, “‘Mione, they’re going to start shagging right in front of us in a minute, the way they’re going!”

There’s a burst of laughter, when in the midst of it — Luna’s voice. Something so sweet shouldn’t bring such a reckoning. And she doesn’t mean to do it, she doesn’t mean it at all, but Harry feels the ground slip out from beneath him — from him and Draco both. 

She says, “No, they’re not. They’re waiting for something special. You can tell.”

Hermione frowns at her. “I don’t think…”

“What?” she says, innocent and sipping on that glittering, purple liquid. “You can sense it in the marriage bond.”

Harry cannot move. Beneath him, Draco has stiffened too. Confused eyes slide to them. 

“What?” Draco says quickly. “I’m a pureblood. I’ve been waiting until marriage. Is that so surprising?”

Somewhere behind them, Theodore Nott mumbles something. When Harry turns his head, sharp and quick, he sees both Pansy and Blaise accosting him for it. He catches Harry’s eye between his tellings-off. Harry wants to curse him — wants to find his wand and ruin this party at once. 

Ron laughs awkwardly, a brave attempt at easing the tension. “Thanks, Luna,” he says. “Didn’t need to know that about them.”

George throws an arm around his brother. “What? You didn’t need to know that tonight, your best friend and former enemy will be having the best night of their entire lives, breaking the bed—”

Ron covers his ears. “What the fuck!”

“Merlin,” Draco says. “I need another drink.”

But Harry is still frozen. He lets Draco go and can barely even bring himself to watch him as he walks away. He stares at the ground in prolonged shock, unable to bring himself around to the idea that what Luna said is true; whether it has substance to it. 

He filters through his mind to try and think of a way out of it. It’s Luna, is the first thing that he reminds himself. He loves her, but little that she says ever makes true sense. Perhaps the measure of sensing sex through magical bonds is as real as nargles are. After all, she’d been the only one to notice it, to bring it up. Everyone else had been watching them with admiration and affection, no doubts graying their perception of their relationship. 

But now? If everybody in the house — let alone the Wizarding World — found out that they hadn’t even had sex yet? It would be grounds for more than doubt. It would plant the seeds and water them, too. And if Dawlish found out — or Robards, Kingsley — Would that be even more reasonable suspicion for them? At the very least, it would disprove that Draco had drugged Harry, but it could prove in and of itself that they’d been lying. That Harry, an Auror himself, had participated in the interference of an active investigation. An easy argument for a miscarriage of justice. 

Harry can’t breathe. The intoxication makes it all feel ten times as big.

There’s reason enough for it now. But after tonight… If anyone sensed it after the night of their wedding that they still hadn’t consummated the marriage… 

He’d been so sure that this had been their ticket to freedom. It might have been the opposite. 

“Harry?” he hears quietly. He looks up at Hermione and doesn’t bother to try and hide the worry on his face. She puts a hand on his arm and says, “Are you alright?”

She watches him with concern as he bites his lip, and even looking at her is hard. He could tell her now. He probably should. He could confess everything to her and she would probably have all the answers right away. 

But he can’t. He knows he can’t. 

Panic again. He closes his eyes for a long moment. Draco Lucius Malfoy. Fifth of June, 1980, older and taller. Sweet William, green, ten inches, unicorn hair, sauvignon.

“Fine,” he tells her. “Just — Didn’t really want people to know the details of our sex life, to be honest.”

Her expression turns to pity. She takes a seat next to him, hand still on his arm. “Luna didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he interrupts. Then, “Sorry, I— Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she tells him. Her face is flushed from the wine too, but she still holds the same worry. A rush of fondness comes over Harry again. He doesn’t appreciate her enough, he thinks often. 

“I didn’t know that… It was something you could sense,” he admits to her. “A bit embarrassing.”

She chuckles at that. “I think it’s more of a pseudo-magic, from what I’ve read. Pure-blood marriages used to be measured by it, but there’s been plenty of research to disprove it. It’s like… Saying you can sense when someone else is drunk.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. A smile actually sneaks its way back onto his face now, too. “Oh, yeah?” he teases. “Well.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ve had barely three glasses!”

“More like four or five,” he corrects. “Ron topped you up a few times.”

“He did?” she hums. “Horrible man.”

“You love him.”

She smiles. “I do,” she says. Then, looking at him with serious eyes again, she says to him, “You really love Draco. Don’t you?”

His next breath is shaky. He just looks back at her. Another opportunity presenting itself to tell the truth. 

So he says, “Yes.”

And something seems to transpire between them. What, he’s not really sure, but there seems to be a new understanding in her eyes. She hums to herself, takes a breath, and says, “When would you like Ron and I to come back and discuss everything?”

And Harry, momentarily confused on what she means, asks, “Everything?”

She laughs at him. “The evidence we’ve found in Draco’s favour. What to do next?”

“Oh, right,” he says. “As soon as possible, ideally.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, and she has that same look on her face that everyone else has had today. “We can give you your privacy, at least for a few days. Especially if you haven’t yet…”

Harry wants to tell her no. He wants to tell her that they can come as soon as possible, because clearing Draco’s name is of the utmost importance. And it is. He wants them to come over tomorrow, hangover be damned. But there’s a million things telling him through the haze that it might be a bad idea to do so. That look on her face, the insistence at leaving the both of them to their own freshly-wedded devices for as long as possible… 

If this was real, Harry thinks to himself, then he wouldn’t hesitate to accept the offer. If this was real, he’d gladly take a month alone with Draco for their celebrations. 

But it’s not. And he’s not going to get anything like that out of this. He needs to get that into his head. 

Unless.

Luna’s words echo again in his mind. He feels them sink into and linger within himself, his very being. He could get high on the feeling of possibility that they give him. He has to talk to Draco about it, of course, but the fact of the matter is there. 

If Luna was able to sense that they haven’t had sex yet — If Hermione was able to corroborate that there’s some truth in it — Then, well, maybe —

No. He’s not allowed to ponder on that. At the very least, not until they’ve had a chance to talk about it. And that means working up the courage to do that. And that means—

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Give us a few days.”

She laughs, hiding a blush, oblivious to the war unfolding within Harry’s being. As for Draco having to decide whether or not it will be worth it to delay proving his innocence… 

Well. That’s just another conversation Harry will have to try and deal with when they’re sober. 

*

He wakes up on his floor, extremely confused and with an absolutely banging headache. 

It takes him a long time to even realise that it’s the morning, and to remember that he’d actually gotten married yesterday. Pieces of the distorted reality that is his life seem to fall back into place slowly, one by one, until he feels like a real person again. 

He sits up with a groan, his back tearing him apart from the stiff, hard floor that he’d apparently slept on. He can only assume that there’s a good reason as to why he’s not in his bed, which is right next to him and easily accessible. As he reaches around blindly for his glasses, patting and tapping the floor and hoping he hasn’t lost or stepped on them, a feeling of unease rises up within him. 

A blurry something moves before his eyes, and suddenly he’s looking at his glasses, floating before him, held by an extended pale hand. 

Harry takes them, fits them to his face, and blinks as his vision comes flooding back. When the first thing that he sees is Draco Malfoy in his bed, seemingly mostly unclothed, he’s not entirely sure that he’s not still dreaming. It would explain the helpfulness. 

“Hello,” Harry says, still confused, still waking up. 

“Good morning,” Draco says back. He is so casual about it, like Harry wouldn’t have any questions at all; even as he drapes himself in Harry’s bed, the blanket the only thing covering him, as far as Harry can see. At the very least, his arms are exposed, and that’s already more than what Harry is used to seeing from him. 

“Er,” he says quietly. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, the light from the window an affrontation, before he can finally bring himself to open them again. “Why am I on the floor?”

Draco hums. He’s laying on his front, head resting on his arms.  The more Harry looks at him, the more he starts to stare at the low, curving arch of his back. 

Harry doesn’t know how long it is before he hears him answer. It could be a second or an hour. He blinks himself back to reality as he hears him answer, “We came up before everyone left. You offered me the bed and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

He swallows. “I can’t imagine you argued much.”

“Well,” Draco says. “No, not too much.”

The residual alcohol is still affecting him, pumping his blood harder, further South. Looking down, he realises that he’s only covered by a thin blanket that he doesn’t think he’s ever even seen before. He has underwear on at least, but these two thin pieces of fabric are not secure, nor thick enough for him to let his imagination run away with him. 

Draco turns over then, and Harry sees that he’s not unclothed at all. He’s wearing a familiar shirt, short-sleeved and too baggy on him, like it’s mostly swallowing him. One of his legs pokes out of the duvet, and Harry sees another familiar, plaid-patterned fabric covering it.

His breath catches in his throat. He asks, “Are those… My…?”

“Mm?” Draco hums, and looks down at himself. “You thought it would be too suspicious if I left to get my own pyjamas, and insisted I wear yours instead. Thank you again. They are very comfortable.”

“Right,” Harry croaks out. He pulls the blanket further up over his crotch. He’d been wearing those the night before. Distantly, he wonders if Draco thinks they smell like him. “How long have you been awake?”

For whatever reason, Harry watches blood creep into Draco’s face, his cheeks flooding with a rich pink. Maybe it’s a trick of the light. He answers, “Not that long.”

“Right,” he says again. 

And then more comes flooding back. Dawlish. Luna. The threat of exposure, perhaps closer than they’d thought it would be. This goddamn marriage bond, which may have made it all far more complicated than it could’ve been, as well. 

“Draco,” he says after a few moments of silence float between them. “Do you remember, er, what Luna said? Last night?”

The pink on his face darkens further. He opens his mouth, shuts it, clears his throat. Then he throws the blankets off of his body and pushes himself to his feet. He has to pause once standing up straight, pressing a hand to his head to ward off the hangover dizziness. In lieu of an answer, Draco says, “I think I’m going to shower now.”

“Oh,” Harry says, confused — yet again — at the abruptness. “Okay.”

He takes a moment within his confusion to take a proper look at him, finally standing up, giving Harry a full view of him wearing his pyjamas. Well — Not exactly pyjamas. It’s an old shirt, and tatty jogger bottoms that he should probably throw away. The shirt is big on Harry, but bigger on Draco, swallowing him. The jogger bottoms hang dangerously low on his hips, and Harry feels his mouth flood with saliva. He looks gorgeous. He looks gorgeous. 

And he’s still standing there, holding his head. 

“You okay?” he asks.

“I was,” he says weakly. “Until I stood up. Oh, Merlin.”

“Uh oh.”

“What were we — Who gave me shots?”

Harry clears his throat. “Er. Me.”

“Shit,” he breathes. He pauses, eyes wide, and after a moment, shakes his head viscerally. “I’m going to — I must —” he says, and slaps a hand over his mouth.

As Harry watches him run out of the room, across the landing and presumably — hopefully — making it to the bathroom, he takes one more deep breath. Half of him has a mind to ponder whether or not it’s on purpose, or fake — an excuse manufactured just so he could avoid the elephant in the room. 

If it’s true, Harry doesn’t blame him. How are they even going to begin to talk about such a thing? Starting with, We’ve already pretended to fuck and orgasmed in the meantime — what’s the harm in doing the real thing? Images flash through Harry’s head again, of memories and the potential future, the impossible result of this that he knows he shouldn’t want. 

It makes it worse, somehow, that they have this — whatever it is. Draco won’t even acknowledge it, won’t allow Harry to acknowledge it either. Whatever it is, it’s intense, it’s huge, and it makes them both lose control over themselves when they’re together. Harry gave up a long while ago with trying to deny it. Draco doesn’t seem to be quite there yet. 

But if it’s already this intense when they’re just kissing? Harry doesn’t have a single idea how they could possibly find it in themselves to stay detached and impartial whilst fucking each other. Whilst actually getting to fuck him. Harry can see it now, in his mind’s eye, losing his cool and running his mouth as he’s deep inside of him because that’s just what he does. 

For both of them, it’s too dangerous.

Pros and cons flutter through his mind as he continues to lay on the ground, hesitant to get up yet, lest he need to run to the bathroom as well. His head is swimming with thoughts that he shouldn’t allow himself to entertain, and yet they go on and on, as Draco seems to take his time, delaying coming back. 

When he is eventually weighing the consequences and time he has left, his hand drifting reluctantly to his underwear, he is interrupted. 

Draco bursts through the door, his hair dripping, still wearing Harry’s baggy shirt and trousers. His eyes are wild, wide and pissed off, like he’s furious with both Harry and himself. His chest is heaving, mouth tight with it. 

Before Harry can even say a word, Draco gets there first, and he says through his teeth, “Salazar fucking Slytherin, Potter. We’re going to have to have sex.”

Chapter Text

It’s been a few hours. Harry still doesn’t quite believe that he’s not dreaming.

Draco had left immediately after saying those words, slamming the door to the bedroom shut behind him. Harry had not been able to respond — or even think of responding — before he’d disappeared, leaving him with those words and his hand, stretched out towards his cock. 

Fuck. 

Harry has spent the subsequent time biting his lip and itching to see him again, too worried to seek him out outright, too scared to see over-eager. He paces the length of the living room and kitchen several times, attempting to distract himself by picking up empty bottles and carefully vanishing suspicious stains from his couches. He cleans and tidies enough to feel nostalgic about living with the Dursleys, but there seems to be nothing that can distract him.

Just when he starts to feel like his hangover is subsiding, the object of his fantasies re-emerges from his bedroom, stopping Harry’s breath and accelerating his anxieties. 

Afraid to break the silence, but unwilling to let it go on, Harry clears his throat when he sees him. He says, with a tremor in his voice, “Morning. Again.”

Draco looks at him with pure resignation, a new gaze of fear that almost seems to portray hesitance at wanting him anywhere near him. His hair is still damp, as if he’d been so distracted himself that he’d forgotten to spell it dry, like he normally does. 

Harry doesn’t know whether he should be the one to bring it up, or whether it would be too suspicious if he didn’t, after Draco’s outburst. Harry has found himself in a desperate cycle of overthinking, but — well. That is not exactly new. Perhaps, he ponders, it would be easiest to lead with a joke to break the ice. He pictures it first, too used to Draco’s blank reactions and unimpressed raised eyebrows towards Harry’s inappropriate comments. 

He could say, “So, did you bring a condom?” but for some reason, he really doesn’t think it’ll go down well.

“We’re going to have to talk about this,” he says instead. 

Draco still looks like he’s going to be sick. Harry isn’t convinced it’s from the shots. He tells him, weakly, “Yes. We are.”

“We don’t necessarily have to — you know,” Harry tells him. “I told Hermione that she and Ron should come over as soon as possible. We could have enough to present a case already.”

“And when your friends come and sense it too? When they realise we’ve been lying to them about this and think we’re also lying about my innocence?”

Harry takes a breath. He hates it. He hates it.

“Yeah,” he concedes.

“And by the time we get a chance to speak our case before the Wizengamot, Dawlish would have found a way to force me out of the country. Especially if the marriage isn’t consummated. You’re an Auror, you know this.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Harry huffs. He nods, sighing. “You’ve thought it through.”

And there comes that unimpressed raised eyebrow. “And you haven’t?”

His mouth opens. Closes. He feels heat spread everywhere yet again, though he doesn’t even know whether Draco is implying what Harry thinks he’s implying. It’s too much.

“I’ve — thought about it,” he confesses. 

“Yes,” Draco deadpans. “That’s another issue.”

Harry meets his eye hesitantly. He says, “Is it?”

“Yes,” Draco reaffirms. “Before we do this… You must get your head straight. Whatever you think you feel for me is not real.”

He can’t even answer that. It feels too affronting. He sits back, sighs, and keeps his mouth resolutely shut. 

And so Draco continues, “You’re caught up in the proximity. In the act,” he explains, like it’s true. “You’re Harry Potter.”

“You keep saying that,” Harry says. 

“Well. It’s true.”

“And it somehow means that I can’t be attracted to you?”

His pale face reddens. “Yes.”

Harry hums. “And… It also means that I can’t want to fuck you?”

His words get caught in his throat before he even gets to deny it. He splutters out, “You do not want to fuck me.”

“Really,” Harry says. The anger now outweighs his worry, because it at least doesn’t seem like Draco is going to stop this. Not yet, anyway. “Because I’ve been—”

Draco points his wand at him, the movement faster than Harry can process. He’s standing up, pushing himself to his feet and glaring down at him. His cheeks are still violently red, his chest rising and falling heavily beneath his shirt. 

“You don’t want to fuck me,” he repeats, his words sharp. “When you do, it’ll be just for the cover.”

Harry should not be so aroused as he is now, staring down at the wand that he’d once held. Everything Draco is saying feels like a hot, thumping juxtaposition to the truth. He shifts in his seat, gaze subconsciously raking over every single inch of him. 

“Right. Of course. I don’t want to fuck you,” he says, though he’s never wanted to fuck anyone more. 

“The only reason we’re doing this is necessity,” Draco clarifies, his wand shaking slightly in his grip. “Nothing more.”

And Harry’s entire being feels like exploding. It’s not real, he keeps telling himself, but he’s hard, and he’s sweating, and Draco had said doing this. Draco had said doing this, as if it’s imminent. As if it’s already happening. 

Draco must see the look in his eyes darken, because he’s losing his composure again. He blinks wildly, like he’s trying to bring himself back to a reality that doesn’t exist. He can’t keep still for more than a minute, can’t keep his gaze or feet in one place.

Hurriedly, he says, “We need rules. Boundaries. Before we—”

“Okay,” Harry says, breathless. He’s in a daze. 

Draco blinks again. Nods. “Okay,” he echoes, sounding unsure.

Harry is only able to stare at him. He asks, slow and deliberate, “And what are your rules?”

And all Draco seems to be able to do his stare right back. He doesn’t answer Harry’s question for what feels like far too long, the silence a thumping mass between them, Harry somehow still getting more turned on by the second. 

“Don’t speak,” he says at last. 

“That’s not fair,” he argues, because Draco knows it is his weakness. Draco has experienced it now. 

“You’ll let your mouth run away with you. You’ll say things that you don’t mean.”

“Then we’ll both agree beforehand,” he tries to bargain. “I won’t mean anything I say.”

Another beat. Draco says, “That's dangerous.”

And Harry tells him, with a risky shrug, “I think all of this is, really.”

Draco seems to be caught in an almost limbo, afraid to move or to speak without serious inward deliberation first. He still has his wand pointed at him, eyes so wide and cautious that Harry feels like he’s looking right through him. In contrast, Harry feels no more need for waiting at all. Do they really need to talk about this first, he can’t help but wonder? It’s going to be complicated no matter what they do to prepare themselves. For now, all he wants to do is pounce on the man. Or better yet, grab him and bring him forward, pull him onto his lap and take him from the bottom up. 

God, he thinks. What are they waiting for?

“Do you have any more rules?” he asks, and tries not to sound as desperate as he feels. 

“I — did,” Draco says. “I can’t really — remember.”

Slowly, Harry pushes himself to stand. He watches Draco’s wand closely as he does, just in case the man really does want to avoid this happening. Then he watches his face, thick with trepidation. This is something they can’t come back from. 

“I have a rule,” Harry says. 

“Yes?”

“I want to do it in the bedroom,” he tells him. “My bedroom.”

Draco’s eyes burn into him. They’re close now, and Draco does not curse him. “That’s not a rule. More of a preference.”

“Okay. Give me a proper rule, or I’ll give you another preference.”

Draco stares at him for another long moment in lieu of answering him. When his eyes drop down to his mouth, Harry’s half-convinced that he’s going to skip the conversation and get right to it with him. Harry can only dream. 

Instead, eyes still on his lips, Draco says, “No kissing.”

And Harry feels the pit fall out of his stomach. “What?”

A splutter. “Don’t — I haven’t told you that I want your firstborn!”

Harry doesn’t know how to describe the fact that it feels incredibly similar. There are so many protests on the tip of his tongue, and none of them are there to help his case. He has to be smart about it, or at the very least, semi-thoughtful. Draco doesn’t want Harry to fancy him.

He says, “I just — Having sex without kissing—”

“Kissing, just like talking, invites too much. It’ll give you ideas,” Draco interrupts. 

“It won’t,” Harry argues. “I won’t get any ideas at all.”

“No,” Draco firms, wrecking Harry’s entire life. “No kissing. And no speaking. We do it. We get it done. That’s that.”

*

Harry shouldn’t be so stressed about this as he is. 

They’re in the bedroom, which should be a good thing. They should be setting the scene right now, maybe flirting, flaring up heat in their shared gaze. Maybe, if this were real, they’d be undressing each other. Maybe, Harry thinks, he’d be trailing his lips over his neck, and then down, unbuttoning his shirt for him. He’d be caressing him, getting them both hard, getting them both wanting and ready. 

But he’s not. There’s no scene to be set. Harry isn’t even supposed to be thinking about things like that. 

He’s undressing himself, and is trying not to look over at Draco, who is doing the same thing, despite what they’re about to do. He’s on the edge about whether or not he should hide how hard he is getting; his thoughts are a barbed aphrodisiac. His erection is the sole purpose of what’s going to happen here, and yet he feels guilty for it, like he shouldn’t have it in the first place. 

When he has stripped himself down to his underwear, reluctant to go further without being instructed to, he stands and waits. His hands are sweaty. He itches to reach and hold himself already, to grip his length through the fabric and simultaneously calm himself and relieve himself. 

“Okay,” he hears Draco say, and looks up. His mouth is dry, and so is his throat, and this is not a situation that he ever thought he might find himself in. 

His breath is ripped from his chest, like he’s winded. Draco is naked, sitting on his bed. His legs are folded over each other, blocking from view anything important, but that doesn’t matter. Harry is reminded, starkly, of paintings in museums he’s never dreamed of visiting — and now, could not hold a candle to this. Arms and legs, dipped, shy head; positioned with such gentle yet apprehensive poise, and — let him again state this — sitting on Harry’s bed. 

Does he know how good he looks, Harry wonders distantly? Is he aware of how he can bring a man to his knees with just the exposure of his skin? It’s a good thing that he has changed, Harry thinks to himself, because it would only be all too easy for him to manipulate people to the Dark if an offer of this was on the table. 

His fingers are clasped over the blemish on his forearm, hiding it from view. Harry doesn’t comment on it. Nor does he comment on the scars littering his exposed torso, because they’ve already covered the expanse of that. Harry can hear all of it again, the I hated you for this, I still hate you, and the Every time I look at myself, I hate you. 

Guilt and guilt and guilt. Harry should not have the privilege of this view. 

And, yet.

“Come on,” Draco says, and is Harry imagining the shake in his voice? “I can’t be the only one naked. That’ll make this very difficult.”

One long exhale comes from his mouth. He has no protective shielding up here, standing. He holds his breath as he bends, shoving his underwear to his feet and trying not to fall over as he kicks them off. His hands fall automatically to cover himself, holding one wrist in front, but he knows that he’s barely hiding anything at all. 

It doesn’t help that Draco is looking at him. He may not even realise that he’s doing it, but his eyes are firm on Harry’s crotch, mouth hanging slightly open. The attention should probably make him self-conscious. It doesn’t. 

“I see that you’re ready,” he says after a long while, a croak in his tone. “Good. We don’t have to waste time warming up.”

Harry takes a step forward. “Don’t I—” he starts, and stops himself. “Shouldn’t I… Prepare you first?”

Draco meets his eye, expression indecipherable. He says, “No need. I’ve done all of that already.”

“You’ve — What?” Harry feels his mind go. His knees weaken. Unthinking, he drops his hands, exposing himself wholly. 

In his head is a myriad of juxtaposition. He doesn’t know how to feel. Sad — almost devastated, in fact — that he isn’t able to do it himself. But then again, intoxicated with the visions that conjure up in his brain. Is that what he had been doing for so long in the shower, Harry wonders? He can see it so clearly, the man leaning against the wall, reaching back, fingers delving into himself, spreading himself open. 

“There is no point in prolonging it,” Draco says, but his speech is injected with heavy breath, and he sounds almost — unsure. “We need to get this over with.”

Harry’s imagination is definitely running away from him. He licks his lips. Have Draco’s pupils really blown as wide as they seem? He tries not to let the mirage of attraction spur him on too much, but already, he is feeling the urge to speak sweet things to him, and he cannot even think of a way to start this other than by kissing him. 

“Okay,” Harry says. “What do you want me to do?”

Draco’s face, impossibly, gets redder. “I’m sure that you know what to do.”

“No, walk me through it,” Harry says. “I don’t want you to think I’m getting any ideas. Tell me what I’m allowed to do.”

“You’re a bastard,” Draco spits after the silence lingers. “Firstly, you’ve got to get closer than this.”

Harry does. With several steps, growing in confidence, Harry walks to him at the edge of his bed, the fact that he’s sitting making the difference in height — startling. Draco looks up at him with hard, daring eyes, his face just about level with Harry’s sternum. And Harry, looking down at this… His erection protruding out, indecently intruding upon Draco’s personal space. If he pushed his hips forwards, if Draco ducked his head down just a little bit… 

“Okay,” he says, the proximity forcing his voice to just above a whisper. “What now?”

God. He wants to reach out and grab hold of his chin, put his thumb to his lower lip and open his mouth. He’d probably be cursed if he tried it, so he doesn’t. Draco stares up at him with furrowed brows and an obviously feigned disinterest. 

“Don’t piss me off, Potter,” Draco says, just as quietly. “I’ve seen your cock, now. I own you.”

From this angle, even despite his folded legs, Harry can see his cock, as well. For all of his bravado and frowns, it’s just as, if not somehow even harder than Harry’s is. It is mouthwatering, sweetly pink, and the most perfect thing that Harry has ever seen in his entire life. He wants to reach forward and hold it, trail his fingers over the head of it. He really could drop to his knees. He’s staring and he knows it. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. It’s a bad idea. He’s going to lose it. 

In lieu of touching Draco, because he hasn’t been told he’s allowed to yet, he reaches down and holds himself. He takes himself in his fist, stroking himself on impulse, uncaring of whether or not it’s the wrong thing to do. He doesn’t know how he can be expected to look at a naked Draco Malfoy and not touch himself, frankly. 

Draco’s eyes follow the slow moments. There’s a haze over them as he watches and watches, and he uncrosses his legs. Harry’s breath hitches at the sight, at being allowed to see so much of him. He can’t stop staring between his legs, knowing that’s where he’s supposed to be. That this is really happening. 

“If you wanted to get this over with,” Harry says, “You need to lay back.”

It takes more than a moment of Draco continuing to stare, too transfixed on Harry jerking himself off, before he actually answers him. He clears his throat, as if realising how obvious he had been, and says, “No. You’re not watching me as it happens.”

A sharp disappointment runs through him. He’d been wanting to do exactly that; get inside him and be able to examine every last detail of his face, his expressions. Would his mouth drop open as Harry first pushed in? Would he squeeze his eyes shut with pleasure, or keep them open to lock eye contact with him throughout? 

“Fine,” he says, a little bitterly. “Then turn around.”

Draco glares at him before doing as Harry says, shifting as tightly as he can until he’s facing away, raising to his knees and leaning forwards. Almost speaking into the mattress, he says, “Don’t forget the protective spells.”

Harry barely hears him. The beating of his heart in his ears is too loud, and the entire world has faded away to a blank nothingness. The only thing that exists is Draco Malfoy, and the fact that he is bent over, naked, right in front of him. 

Harry has died and come back. Somehow, this is the luckiest that he’s ever felt. 

He stumbles more than steps forwards, one hand still sliding over himself, the other daring to reach out and place itself on one of Draco’s cheeks. It’s softer than he ever would’ve expected it to be, too gorgeous beneath his rough hand. He squeezes without thinking, the action spreading them, giving him an even closer look at the object of his actions. It’s so dizzyingly attractive that beneath his other fingers, he feels a spill of pre-come push out of his erection. 

He can’t stop himself. He slides a finger between the two cheeks in front of him, letting the pad of it linger over the hole it finds. He simply touches it, his mind still not entirely accepting that this is not a dream. This is real, somehow, he reminds himself. Then he reminds himself to breathe, too. 

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, and he knows he must look crazed, but Draco can’t see him, anyway. 

“Harry,” he hears distantly. His voice is almost a whimper. He watches as the man in front of him appears to arch his back, though he’s not sure whether the movement is a conscious decision or not. “Come on. Focus.”

“Focus,” he repeats dumbly. He speaks out several spells beneath his breath, and then pushes inside the hole with one finger. With hindsight, he’ll probably think that he should’ve asked, should’ve warned him. 

The sound that comes from Draco is a pulled whimper, breathy and high and intoxicating. Either Harry is delusional, or Draco seems to push back against the intrusion, sliding Harry’s finger in further. Harry can’t breathe. 

“I’ve — Seen your prick now, and I know that isn’t it,” Draco complains. “I told you, I’ve already prepared myself.”

“Just… Making sure,” Harry tells him, and pumps his finger in, and then out, in, and then out. He watches, dazed, unable to focus on anything else. The idea of Draco doing this to himself creeps back into his head and he can’t imagine anything more arousing—

Until he remembers what he’s really supposed to be doing. 

After several minutes of this, of Draco’s slowly becoming faster, more laboured, his back arching more, he can’t seem to be able to take the waiting for much longer. 

“Potter,” he says, impatience threaded in the name. 

“Harry,” he corrects him. 

“Come on,” he continues, ignoring him. “I’m ready. Just do it.”

Harry wants to. He needs it. More than anything, he needs it. But the temptation is almost too much. 

He says, “Just do what?”

Draco’s following silence is filled with stubbornness.

Harry speaks again. “I couldn’t hear you. You were muffled by the duvet.”

“Fuck you,” Draco says. 

Harry withdraws his finger. With both hands now on both of his cheeks, he pushes his hips forward. He doesn’t push himself against his hole yet, the waiting and anticipation so sweet. This is likely the only time that this will ever happen with Draco. He wants to be damned sure that he makes the most of it. 

Instead, he slides his erection between his cheeks, rocking back and forth slightly, still not pushing in. He can almost physically feel Draco’s frustration, and that is as sweet as anything, too. 

“Fuck you,” Harry repeats. “That’s what you want?”

“Harry,” Draco breathes. 

“Say it,” he says, and knows that he’s pushing it. He’s breaking the rules already. Draco has every right to kick him away and cancel this. 

But what was it he had said before? Not that Harry would ever forget it. Surprisingly unassertive.

“Harry,” Draco hums. Harry watches as he pushes back against him yet again. “We need to— You— Please,” he babbles. “Hurry up and fuck me, already.”

Harry bites down so hard on his lip he’s surprised when it doesn’t draw blood. He mutters some further spells, gets another grip on his cock once again, and positions himself right against his entrance. 

Just before he does it, he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Merlin’s fucking beard, Harry, if you don’t get inside me — now — I swear, I’ll—”

Harry doesn’t wait around to find out what the threat may be. He makes the final move into it, pushing forwards and sheathing himself inside on one swift movement. It is so quick and overwhelming that it takes Harry’s head a moment to register everything — to truly feel the rush of pleasure, exploding over his body all at once. 

Even when it registers, he struggles to process it. The sensation is so intense that he can’t believe that it’s real. It can’t be. 

Draco feels — otherworldly. He’s hot and tight, and it’s more than just that. The innate knowledge that he’s somehow found himself, after all this time, inside Draco Malfoy… God. He’s inside Draco Malfoy. 

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, eyes wide. He is not even wholly inside yet, but he’s giving the man beneath him time to adjust. The sight before him is more than enough to sate him for the rest of his nights, the visual of his ass spread around him, his body pushed forward onto his forearms— “Oh, God, Draco.”

“Fuck,” Draco groans. Harry wishes he could see his face. “Potter— Harry—”

“You okay?” he asks, holding himself back. 

Harry watches Draco’s head nod viscerally, blond hair bouncing with it. Harry takes a moment to breathe in deeply before he pushes further forwards, his hands on Draco’s hips, holding him in place to make it smoother. Then he’s in. He’s really, fully inside him, no more room to spare. He’s holding his hips tight enough to leave bruises, and he’s not entirely sure that his legs are going to remain strong enough to hold him up. Not if this continues to feel as good as it does.

“Mm— Shit,” Draco breathes, twisting Harry’s bedsheets in his hands. “Harry. Come on.”

“Already?” he asks. “You— Are you sure? I can—”

Draco whimpers, nods again. He says, “Get it… Let’s get it over with.”

Get it over with, Harry thinks bitterly. He can’t linger on it, still too high with everything he’s feeling, but still. There’s a bad taste in his mouth with the feeling. 

Get it over with. Sure, Harry thinks. He can do that. 

Before he can even think about it, he’s pulling back and slamming back inside again, no room for comfort. And he does it again, and again, and fuck, he’s missed this feeling. It’s been so long since he’s had this, and he doesn’t even remember the last day he hasn’t fantasised about this very thing with this very person. It increases the experience tenfold, impossibly erotic and immediately overwhelming. 

Before him, Draco is almost completely pliant. Harry is still upset about the fact that he can’t see his face, but it’s almost completely fine, anyway, because his body language appears to be speaking enough for him. Soon enough, as Harry’s thrusts continue, his arms are struggling to hold him up. His hands twist the sheets so much that Harry’s surprised they haven’t been pulled clean off of the bed.

Like a mounting climb, his thrusts quicken in pace as it goes on. Over the quickening sounds of his own breathing, Harry can barely hear the other man, and it only takes a few seconds of mild worry before he figures out why. He angles his head, trying to get a closer look at the man — and just about, he can see the way his arm is turned, bent so that he has his mouth hidden in the crook of his elbow. 

“Draco,” he says, and knows that he should shut up. Get it over with. But the opportunity is too great, and he’s never been able to stop himself. “Let me hear you.”

A long groan comes from the man beneath him, but it appears to be out of protest more than anything else. A warning for him to be quiet. 

But Harry can’t. He pushes himself in, all the way to the hilt, holding Draco’s behind right up against him. He doesn’t move then, just stays resolutely still. Draco groans again, turning his head minutely to look at him — glare at him. 

“What,” he pants, “do you think you’re doing?”

“You’re allowed to let yourself enjoy this,” Harry says, absentmindedly rubbing his back. “Surely that’s the most efficient way to — get this over with.”

Perhaps subconsciously, perhaps on purpose, Harry feels Draco move against him, pulling himself off and then back on again. He watches it happen with wide eyes and dry mouth, disbelief tingling through his every nerve. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life. 

“I’m not —” Draco says. “It’s — Necessity. Not real.”

Not real. Harry takes a deep breath. 

When he reaches forward next, it’s with purpose. He places his hands under Draco’s arms, fingers just brushing his chest, and pulls him backwards. He pulls him up so that his back is flat against Harry’s chest, his head automatically slotting beside his own, disgruntled eyes too glazed with arousal to seem truly threatening. 

“Bastard,” Draco says, though there is no real bite. He looks at Harry now, their faces so close.

“Mm,” Harry says, his hands still on his chest. His fingertips find Draco’s nipples and he gasps, his head falling to rest against Harry’s. With both hands, he rubs them, something he has been thinking about doing for so fucking long, now. In the same moment, he reinstates the thrusting of his hips again, sliding out — in — out — in. 

Harry can see his face much better like this, up close, personal. It’s mesmerising — the drop of his lips, the upturn of his eyebrows. Harry is besotted. 

“This okay?” he asks, a whisper right in the man’s ear. As much as he wants to prove the man wrong about this get it over with theory, he doesn’t want to do anything out of line. 

And Draco, through his stubbornness, whimpers, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah?” Harry breathes. “Tell me. I can stop.”

“Don’t stop,” Draco says, finally, one hand rising to grip Harry’s wrist. “Merlin, I hate you. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

For whatever reason, the words that have been echoing for so long in his head, over and over like a curse, do not have the same effect now. Intrinsically, he doesn’t believe the way that he says, I hate you. Not as he had before, not as they had haunted him. 

“Yeah,” Harry hums, and he twists his nipples in his fingers, gazing down as he does, his chin resting on the man’s shoulder. “You’re fucking gorgeous. Fuck.”

“Shut— Fuck.” Draco gasps, interrupting himself. “Mm— I shouldn’t have — Told you about my—”

“I can stop,” Harry says again, but he thinks he’d rather die. 

“Don’t,” Draco says again, despite himself.

“You sound fucking — perfect.” He is just talking now, words and their meanings lost on him. “Show me how loud you are. Please. Come on, Draco.”

Draco does. He stops holding himself back, mouth permanently agape, each and every whimper now pronounced. Harry fucks him further — He fucks him hard and fast and holds him as close as possible and allows himself to take in every single moment that he’s been denied for so long. He fucks him hard enough to try and make the most of these new, beautiful moans that he can’t believe he’s now actually allowed to hear. 

Harry doesn’t want this to end. Draco is hell-bent on over and done with but Harry cannot even fathom this moment ever ending. He wants to pretend like this is something he can hold and keep forever, like a husband would. 

And he does feel — amazing. Harry has never felt anything even remotely similar to this. The heat, the tightness around him, it’s all on a whole new level that he hadn’t thought was possible anyway, but it’s somehow even more than that. It’s the layers to it, pretending and denial, and their history. Their goddamn history, the way that they had hated each other. They shouldn’t be doing this, and it makes it ten times as intoxicating. 

Had it ever been like this with Ginny? Even once? Perhaps, the first time, but that feels like a distant, muddy memory now, inconsequential and practically irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Especially compared to this. 

He turns his head without thinking, plastering his lips to Draco’s neck because it’s right there, and it would be frankly rude for him not to. Draco’s whimpers only intensify at the feeling, hot and high, tilting his head further to give Harry better access. There’s already so many leftover splotches from their previous encounter, but he’s not hesitant to add more. It’s a painting. A masterpiece. 

“Mm,” Draco hums. His hands are everywhere, like he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing with them. “Shit. I’m — You’re going to — Cover me—”

Harry couldn’t think of a better sounding proposal. He slides one hand from the man’s chest, up higher, fingers splaying over his Adam’s apple. Draco moans again as Harry continues pumping into him. His hand slides up further, holding his jaw. He doesn’t have a plan with it. Neither of them know what they’re doing. It just feels so fucking good. 

And Draco — Harry could pass out. Draco leans into his hand as it caresses his cheek, turns his head, and takes two of Harry’s fingers in his mouth. They slide between his lips and Draco moans around them, lips pressing sweetly closed, engulfing Harry’s fingers in their heat. 

“God,” Harry basically growls, watching him, eyes peering up from beneath his fogging glasses. He can taste the sweat sliding down Draco’s neck. “Need you. Need this. Forever.”

He feels Draco’s tongue slide over the pad of his fingers. He’s in another universe. His erection is still pumping in and out of him, the man a dead-perfect fit, both of their bodies somehow simultaneously strong and slack against the other. Harry isn’t sure how his legs are still holding him up. 

“Does it feel good?” Harry asks, the words muttered right into his ear. The answer is a resounding moan, followed by one arm lifting and angling behind him. It must be uncomfortable, Harry thinks distantly, but he doesn’t care, because the hand is coming up to slide its fingers into Harry’s hair. He holds the back of his head as Harry drags his teeth down his neck. 

Harry regretfully pulls his fingers from the man’s mouth, readjusting the two of them, trying not to lose his footing. Draco’s knees are still on the bed, so he’s fine, but Harry can feel himself sliding by the second. He takes Draco’s hips in both hands and lifts him, which shouldn’t be as easy as it is. The man just lets it happen, too, grip tightening in the mess of his curls. 

“Fuck,” he pants, more out of frustration now as his thrusts begin to slow. “Need to — Sorry — Need to move.”

“No,” Draco protests, a whine. “You’re fine.”

“Sorry,” he says again. “Lay down.”

Draco does. After Harry carefully pulls himself out of him, which feels like the most detrimental thing in the world, he watches as the man sprawls himself back onto his hands and knees. He’s further up the bed now, giving Harry more room to join him upon the mattress. 

He does. But that’s not how he wants it. 

Kneeling upon it, making dents in the fabric, he approaches him. His legs are grateful for a welcome break. His cock is not. 

Instead of slipping back inside, he says to him, “You should go on your back.”

Draco turns, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Half of his face is hidden, pushed into the mattress by himself. He mumbles, “Bad idea.”

Harry’s hand finds the back of the man’s thigh. He rubs a thumb over it, bizarrely not daring to slide his hand higher, even though he was just inside it. He licks his lips. He wants to see him. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he says, the words ripped from him like uncertain prayer. 

Draco’s eyes meet his. They both know it’s not necessarily true. 

“It doesn’t,” Draco agrees. 

Harry nods, ignoring the ache for the time being. Because he has to. 

With some deliberation, Draco does it. He rolls himself over onto his back, exposing himself again, staring at Harry as if daring him to make an inappropriate comment. Like this, Harry can see the impressiveness of his erection, how hard it is — proof that Harry isn’t the only one losing his mind over this. 

Harry can barely breathe. Again. He shuffles forward, hands on his knees now, pushing the man’s legs apart, finding his way home again. He doesn’t waste another moment before pushing back inside him, his eyes stuck on his face. 

He can’t get as deep like this, but it doesn’t even matter. He gets the view of a lifetime like this. Draco’s eyes flutter shut as Harry slides back in, mouth dropping open. The expanse of his neck is even more alluring as he throws his head back, red splotches on long white. His nipples are irritated, hard and pink. Even the scar breaking through his perfection looks alluring, because it’s on him. It’s him. 

He watches him properly as he begins to fuck him again, watches every gasp and twitch of his face, the pure ecstasy that appears to pass over him every time Harry’s hips meet his cheeks, over and over and over. And it’s somehow just as equally appealing when he realises that Draco’s watching him, too. 

He can feel the other man’s hot gaze trailing over him, apparently appreciative of his body. Harry pumps into him and Draco’s hands find his arms, squeezing and feeling them. It’s too much, and too reassuring to know that he’s not the only one in the room besotted with how the other looks. He arches his back and seems to push himself into the thrusts and shamelessly lets his gaze linger on Harry’s bare, glistening torso.

He can’t, in all honesty, let himself believe that it means anything. It shouldn’t. It’s too much. Draco wants to get this over with, but he’s hard and leaking, leaving trails of shining precome over his own pubis. He assures him that it means nothing, but he’s looking at him like that, taking him as deep as this. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, and his glasses are sliding down his nose. The curse is from both frustration and arousal, which seems fitting for dealing with Draco Malfoy. 

Seemingly without thinking, Draco, in the midst of being rocked up and down across the bedsheets, lifts his hands and directs them to Harry’s face. He pushes his glasses back into place, on the bridge of his nose. Their eyes lock.

His hands stay there. 

Harry’s not sure which of them move first; which of them is to be primarily blamed for breaking this rule, too. 

Draco’s lips on his feel carnal. They feel right. And this is everything that he’s been missing from this picture. Once they start, Harry can’t stop. It would take a catastrophe to pull him away from this. 

Draco kisses him back with an equally ecstatic vigour, moaning into his mouth, both of them uncaring about how messy it is, or how at times, as Harry rocks their bodies together, their cheeks and chins get more involved in the kiss than they should be. Harry is drunk with it all over again, and Draco— Draco is—

Draco is holding his face, still. He is grasping the sides of his head desperately, keeping him in place, kissing him with a thirsting frenzy. He is kissing him. He is holding him. Harry cannot — make sense of it. He is dizzy. He is trying to keep up with the kiss, but Draco’s passion is taking him away with it. It doesn’t take long, as the pace of his thrusts quicken, to realise why. 

“Fuck,” he curses, voice cracking, the word almost swallowed by Harry’s mouth. “I’m going to come.”

At first, Harry thinks he’s misheard him. Through the hazy fog of heat between them, it’s not unthinkable that words may get misconstrued. After all, Harry reasons to himself, it’s highly unlikely that Draco is really about to orgasm. He hasn’t even been touched.

But his fingers are pressing firmer into Harry’s cheeks, and his legs are squeezing him around his waist, and his ass is tightening around him, too. His breathing — impossibly — is quickening, and he cannot keep up with the pace of the kiss that he has set himself. Harry trails a line of kisses over his cheek before pulling back, allowing himself the pleasure of watching his expression morphing with ecstasy. 

He’s really going to do it.

“Oh my God,” Harry breathes. “Fuck, Draco. Do it.”

Draco’s moan is a siren song, each breath laced with aphrodisiac. Harry pounds into him and must be doing something right, because he’s holding him so tightly, and his breathing only quickens, and—

“‘Want you to come,” Harry tells him, muffled against the sweat-slick skin. “Need you to do it whilst I’m still in you. Want to see you; feel you.”

“Oh,” Draco pants, and he’s working himself up. “Ha— Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry hums. “You look so — You look perfect like this, beneath me. Want to see you all spent as well. Want to see you like — Fuck.”

If Draco cares about the incoherent words, he doesn’t show it. He throws his head back with an air of finality as he practically shouts with the intensity of it, the sound of it like it’s ripping his vocal chords apart. His tight grip on Harry does not subside or weaken for a single moment as his orgasm comes, washing over him, occurring with nothing but Harry’s presence over and inside him. 

Harry feels the evidence come out, hitting his body above him with the force and speed of it. He continues to fuck him through it, unwilling to let the sensation die down for him before its time. And because — Well. If it looks as good as it does for Draco… Well. 

And it looks good. Harry knows that he’s supposed to have saved the world and everything, but even that doesn’t seem to be payment enough for getting to see — let alone be the cause of — Draco Malfoy’s orgasm. Twice. The mere idea of it, let alone the physicality, sends Harry spiralling. Everything dialled to eleven. Twelve. Fuck. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, and his glasses are slipping down again, but can’t care. “Me too. I’m gonna—” he rambles, mostly as warning. 

Somehow, he has the presence of mind to reckon that the man probably does not want Harry to come inside him, even though he does not protest in his glow. And so Harry pulls back, out of him, takes himself in his hand and jerks himself hard enough to try and get even a semblance of similarity to Draco’s ass. He stares down at him, flushed and half-lidded and hazy. He realises that Draco’s watching him, too. Waiting for him. Probably wanting to see him come.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he’s pushing up, looking down at the scene before him as he orgasms, painting Draco with his come. The act comes with a head rush that he doesn’t know will ever be matched again, and Draco — lets him. Draco fucking Malfoy simply allows Harry to come all over him, mouth wet with their shared saliva. 

There’s an overwhelming thought that takes over him as he rides his orgasm out, and it is one that is too dangerous to linger on. It is one that makes him appreciate the fact that they’re doing this sober, because if he’d had even a drop of alcohol, then the effects mixed with the strength of this high would be too much. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from whimpering the words that he thinks with such light and vigour now, that he feels so strongly and yet knows that he mustn’t say. He can't even picture Draco’s reaction, even as dazed as he is now, laying on his back, freshly spent. It would certainly be enough to shock him out of his stupour.

When the first hint of calm seeps into him, Harry can’t tell, in the mess, whose come is whose. It is all over Draco’s front, unmoving but for the rise and fall of Draco’s heavy breathing. In a few moments, they will be hurrying to get clean, but in the quiet of this moment, they just look at each other. Reality will seep in shortly, but they have this small glimpse above time, where they can pretend like they haven’t just broken every rule that was set, like that wasn’t the best sex either of them have ever had in their lives. Without even speaking, Harry can tell that it’s not just him that wants to do it again. 

And so he waits until Draco’s head collapses back onto the bed, too heavy for him to hold up to look down at himself anymore, from where he, too, had been trying to get the best view of Harry pushing into him. When Draco still doesn’t speak, Harry doesn’t either. He can’t be the first. He simply does not trust the words that may threaten to come out of his mouth — not now. 

So they lock into a silence, but for the heavy breathing from them both. It seems so much louder than it is, the room seems so much smaller. Harry is still leaning over Draco, flagging erection still in his hand. It might be a trick of the moment, but is it possible that he does actually feel a difference — somewhere? In the bond, perhaps? Had this been what Luna had meant when she’d said that it was something you can sense? He feels closer to him, impossibly, even though he knows that the very moment either of them break the silence, everything is going to fall apart. 

So, he basks in it while he can. He tries to feel the bond, tries to memorise the sight in front of him. Draco’s flushed face, his kiss-bitten lips and neck. His messy hair, his rapid heartbeat. The touch-pink nipples, and the remnants of their pleasure, splashed and almost entirely covering the long scar that Harry had once given him. 

Chapter Text

Predictably, Harry can’t stop thinking about it.

It’s been days now. It’s been days since Harry had somehow been given the opportunity of a lifetime, had been granted a wish he hadn’t known he’d had for so long. He spends these days of given solitude doing little other than reminiscing, either passively or actively, under his sheets, trying not to think about whether it’s too weird that he’s staring at the exact place where it happened. 

He barely sees Draco. Again. As it was before, when he hadn’t wanted to be seen, he wasn’t, and so kept to his room or wandered the house to places Harry wasn’t even privy. In the brief moments that they did pass by one another, Harry hadn’t attempted to speak, knowing that nothing he could say would cushion the tension. 

For these few days, it is nothing but a waiting game. 

Harry is almost surprised when the Floo activates in his living room, sending through a warning message from Ron that they’d better be decent, because he and Hermione were on their way over. He scrambles to his feet, half-terrified because he doesn’t even know where Draco is — let alone how they’re supposed to act like everything is normal. But they’ve done enough pretending by now; have lied so much to their friends already. It should come easy by now. 

“Draco?” he calls from the living room. 

There’s no answer. 

He gets up, makes his way to the hallway, and shouts up the stairs, “Draco?”

Still, there’s nothing. He heads upstairs, too aware that he’s on a timer, here. 

Approaching his bedroom door feels like a death sentence. There’s no sound coming from within, a resounding silence. It shouldn’t feel as threatening as it does, though. 

He knocks. No answer. He says his name again, no answer. 

He lets himself in, pushing open the door after a long moment of deliberation. There’s no immediate protest, so he assumes that he’s not doing anything untoward. Either of them. 

He’s met with a sight that will stay with him forever, and which will forever cement the way that he feels about him. He’s laying on the desk in there, head plastered on a pile of parchments, like he’d been working through the night. Harry has never known anybody to look so peaceful and sweet when sleeping, pink lips parted, lashes light and curled against his flushed cheeks.

He can’t be comfortable, hunched over the desk on this chair, but he looks so — calm, rested. Like nothing going on in their lives is affecting him at this moment, sheltered from the rest of the world, from the falsities and pretences. A part of Harry wishes that he could leave him like this. 

“Draco,” he says softly, knocking on the door as he does. When the man still does not stir, he clears his throat, and says again, louder down, “Draco?”

He startles the man awake, at last. Harry watched as he jolts up in his seat, wide-eyed, alert, a piece of parchment sticking to his cheek. Harry doesn’t want to laugh. They still haven’t spoken since they came together — literally — to consummate their marriage. He doesn’t know what is and what isn’t allowed.

“Sorry,” he says, his hand sweaty on the doorknob. “I didn’t — Sorry. I didn’t know you were sleeping.”

“I didn’t…” Draco shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. “I didn’t realise I had fallen asleep. What time is it?”

Harry licks his lips. He’s trying not to stare. “Er, just gone nine. I think.”

“Merlin,” he whispers, and it takes everything in Harry not to react to it. He’d heard whispers like that before. Basically in his ear. Panted and followed by his name. “I last remember it being three.”

Harry takes a shaky breath. Should he ask him what he’d been doing? Offer him a coffee? Nothing feels natural anymore. 

Draco speaks again first. “Why did you wake me?” he asks, and either Harry’s paranoid (likely) or there’s an underlying accusation in his tone (also likely). 

 “Ron sent a Floo,” he tells him. “They’re on their way over.”

“What?” Draco exclaims, pushing himself to his feet, the paper falling from his cheek to the floor. “When!”

Harry blinks, stepping back. “The Floo just came through. He said ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes? Have you done this on purpose?”

“On purpose?” Harry scoffs. “Oh, right, yeah. I did all of this just to sabotage you.”

“Well, you—” Draco stops himself, takes a deep breath. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be down in two minutes.”

Harry tries not to let him get under his skin, but it is an itch. The tension between them has somehow not been released from the sex. Impossibly, it feels like it’s doubled.

“Fine,” he says. “Put a smile on. We’re still honeymooning.”

It’s more than difficult for Harry and Draco to go back to faking that new bliss. By the time that Ron and Hermione arrive, and they take the conversation to the settees, Harry is convinced that this is going to be where they lose it all. They’ve come this far in the journey, in the façade, and now, after everything — after sleeping with one another — this is where it all falls apart. 

He can’t let that happen. For Draco’s sake and his own, Harry tries his best to act as if everything is just peachy. Mostly, he doesn’t even know why he’s feeling like he is. Draco had given him fair warning all throughout this process that none of it meant anything, so he has no real right to feel bitter. 

But he can’t help it. It feels like the hardest thing in the world to only half-have the man, taken in glimpses and only for appearance. Harry wants him. He thinks, or at least a small part of him does, that Draco may want him, too. He doesn’t know why it all has to be so complicated; so convoluted — but then again, he knows who he’s dealing with. 

He sits close to Draco and tries not to stare at him. Even with some inches between them, his body heat itself is just a reminder of the sex. He looks at his face and sees him moaning, looks at his neck and doesn’t even need his imagination to see anything there. Fresher, cleaner marks of red, older ones turning purple. He feels like an animal. 

Draco does not look back at him, eyes focused on Ron and Hermione. “Thank you for coming,” he says politely. “And for waiting.”

“‘Course,” Ron says with a chuckle. “Hell, this is still pretty soon. Surprised you’re not all over each other right now.”

Hermione nudges him, and speaks quickly so that neither Harry or Draco need to respond to that. She says, “We’ve been able to get more than enough evidence. Everything is corroborated: the tampering of the potions logs, the dates not lining up for when they were delivered versus accepted.” She looks at them both, eyes firm. “We could present this to Kingsley today.”

Harry has to look at him then, eyes magnetised to the wide-eyed look on the other man’s face. Draco doesn’t seem to believe it. 

Ron speaks again, then. “And I managed to have words with Dawlish’s secretary. Turns out, he’s had a vendetta against Draco for ages. Remembers something or other about… Fifth year?”

And then his face morphs. It’s something more than disbelief. Pure astonishment. Draco says, “You are joking.”

“What?” Harry asks. 

Draco looks at him, meets his eyes and can’t seem to speak for a moment. Harry almost wants to flinch. There is nothing about the look specifically that conveys more than there is but Harry still feels it, nonetheless. 

“When… Dumbledore was being investigated by Fudge in Fifth year,” he starts, and his voice seems to stutter over the previous Headmaster’s name, “I was working often with Dawlish as I was part of the Inquisitorial Squad. Don’t make that face. I know.” He sighs. “He didn’t like me. He thought I was a sneak. One time, even though we were effectively working towards the same cause, I…”

“What did you do?” Harry asks. 

Draco’s face twists. “I just slipped some Babbling beverage into his drink. I hardly think that’s worth raising an entire Ministry against me.”

“Well,” Hermione says, and she seems sheepish. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Draco, but… There may not be any other motive than… Your Death Eater involvement.”

Ron rubs the back of his neck. “It’s true. He might just be extra butthurt, too, because he was hell-bent on Dumbledore being wrong. Then, you know. Well. You know what happened.”

By his side, Harry feels Draco go completely stiff. He can’t seem to speak. Despite all that he’s grown, Harry can’t imagine that it is easy to speak about all of this. 

“Draco didn’t kill Dumbledore,” Harry says quickly. 

“No,” Hermione agrees. “But Snape is already dead. Draco led them into the school. I’m not — I’m not saying anything personally, I’m just suggesting that Dawlish may resent Draco for Dumbledore dying before he could apologise.”

Harry’s breath shakes. He says, “I think that’s a bit far-fetched.”

“Is it?” Ron asks. “Not being funny, Harry, but hating Death Eaters isn’t exactly a novel idea.”

“So, what, Dawlish and Dumbledore were secretly best friends, and—” Harry starts, hoping to highlight how ridiculous it sounds. 

“Stop,” Draco interrupts him. “There might be — Well. I was doing some reading last night.” 

They all look at him. Waiting. Harry has been itching to know what he’d been doing the night before, but hadn’t wanted to ask. 

“I’ve just thought, this entire time, that Dawlish had it out for me for some petty reasons. But in my file — I’ve been reading through it — there’s notes following me over the previous years. Even when I was still under house arrest, when all I could do was practice meagre, simple potions. He’s been keeping tabs on me for much longer than I thought. And then last year, as soon as I opened my shop, the notes stopped.”

Harry frowns. It didn’t make sense. He meets Ron’s eye, both of them thinking the same thing: The notes should’ve only begun when Draco’s shop opened. The entire Auror Department had been alerted about it. 

“There should be notes on that,” Harry says. “There were notes on that.”

He couldn’t remember any interest being taken in Draco Malfoy before that. Not after the trials, not when he’d been shut away in Malfoy Manor with only himself and his mother to take care of. 

“Well. They’re not in the file you gave me.”

Hermione is tapping her foot. “He’s orchestrating something. Fabricating more pages to put into it. But why?”

“The notes only started again a few months ago, when the first of the St Mungo’s incidents happened, and the first threats were sent to me.”

“So, he’s making up what you were doing in all of that spare time,” Ron says. Then, “What were you doing?”

“Building my shop, trying to cement myself as a credible Potionsmaster. It was not easy.”

“Well. He really was trying to take that away, then. There’s no record of your credibility at all,” Ron tells them. “All that we have is your apparent dodgy stuff.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry says. “What is he trying to do? What is he trying to prove?”

Hermione sighs again. She leans back. “He wants to make an example of him.”

“What?” Harry asks. “As opposed to every other Death Eater, rotting away in Azkaban? What, does he want to prove that people don’t change?”

“Maybe,” Hermione says. She’s looking at Draco. “It would explain why he’s so adamant that your relationship is a farce. It would only make sense for you to be in love with each other if both of you had changed, at least a little bit. But… I think it may be more than that.”

Harry’s kept on his toes, desperate to know what she thinks but more than caught up in the previous words. They both had changed. Really changed. More than Draco would like to admit, apparently. 

She continues, “Ron mentioned last night about some reports he’d found about Dawlish. He’s not been pulling his weight.”

Ron hums. “I found one thing, it was proper ripping into him, Harry, you should’ve seen it.”

“So, what? He’s orchestrated a case — a very high profile case — to try and build up his own image again?” Harry clarifies. 

“The last thing he did that cemented him as an impressive Auror was personally subduing Rabastan Lestrange, after what happened to Neville’s parents,” Hermione says. “Since then, he’s been… Well. A regular Auror. But with the War, him standing against Dumbledore, being used by the Death Eaters whilst they were in control of the Ministry…”

“He wants something big enough to redeem himself,” Harry realises. He looks at Draco. “You’re his ticket.”

Draco’s breathing has hitched, slowed down. He doesn’t look at anyone for a long moment, the words appearing to settle into his skin. He appears to be thinking a million thoughts during every single second that passes them by, all three of them staring at him, waiting for an answer. 

“He’s trying to discredit you because you’re a better Auror,” Draco says, finally. “He knows that if you’re trying to defend me, you’d find out what he’s doing. It’s why he’s making your word unreliable.”

Harry doesn’t know why the mere fact that his words are directed to him makes him feel so elated. Has he really fallen so far that even despite the contents, just the man speaking to him can make him feel light-headed? 

Hermione pushes herself to her feet. “If you give me a day to organise all of this evidence, we can present it to Kingsley right away,” she tells them. “I need that full file, Draco, and enough time to book a discussion with him, and—”

“Er, Hermione,” Ron interrupts, and Harry realises that he hadn’t even noticed him turning around on the couch, peering out of the window. “He’s here.”

Hermione stares at him. “What?”

Ron looks back at them. “He’s here. Kingsley’s at the door.”

Despite everything, Harry fears the worst. He wonders, because nothing ever seems to go right for him, whether he has completely run out of the luck that has seemed to somehow keep him alive this far. He has sudden thoughts of Kingsley being unable to be reasoned with, too poisoned by an embellished propaganda. He has visions of Draco being taken away, regardless of their (truly gruelling) efforts.

It’s something that he’s going to have to come to terms with, anyway. Either by the hand of the Ministry sending him to France or Azkaban, or by them achieving their goal and clearing his name, Draco is going to leave. He wonders whether he’ll be able to deal with that as easily as he had with Ginny. If he’ll be able to carry a suitcase of his things out for him and give him back his ring. 

He wonders whether Draco has been worrying about the same thing, but doesn’t want to give himself false hope.

He’s not alone when he heads to the front door, his friends and — Draco — following along behind him, peering with wide eyes over his shoulder. When he finally takes a deep breath and opens the door to the Minister for Magic, a man who has only been against Draco since the start of this, he is not sure what to expect. 

“Kingsley,” he says, finding it hard to keep his breath. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Harry,” he says kindly. Then, eyes peering at the company behind them, “Ron, Hermione. Mr Malfoy.”

“Minister,” Hermione rushes out. “You have to listen to us. Draco Malfoy is being framed.”

Kingsley looks at her. She shuffles forwards, pushing in front of Harry. He lets her, holding onto the wall to steady himself so he doesn’t accidentally bump into Draco. He tries to keep his eyes ahead of him, but Draco’s side profile is magnetising, and all he can do is try not to look as wistful as he feels as he looks at him, wanting him to look back. Down, between them, their knuckles brush at their sides. They both flinch, their hands flying back to their own space. 

Harry takes a very deep breath. 

Hermione loses herself in a logical ramble, telling Kingsley in extreme detail every theory they have, every shred of evidence that they’ve collected, the gaps in Dawlish’s own explanations that do not make sense. Ron, Harry and Draco do not manage to get in a single word as she works her way through the logistics and cheats, St Mungo’s and house arrests.

But Kingsley listens to her. Out on Harry’s doorstep, he takes in every morsel of information, only occasionally sliding his gaze to the others, possibly judging their reactions. If they wanted to give any input, add anything they think Hermione has forgotten, they don’t. There’s no need. She covers every single thing. 

Harry feels almost nostalgic about it; standing before an authority figure, desperate to get them to listen, to understand. Feeling like there’s next to no hope, like their ideas are so bizarre that they don’t have a leg to stand on. 

“And I know it sounds ridiculous, Ron and I thought so too, but Minister, please,” she says, her voice almost hoarse by this point. “You have to believe us. Draco Malfoy is innocent.”

The silence hangs over the five of them, cramped in the doorway, Ron trying not to trip over the umbrella stand every time he moves an inch. With every passing second, Harry’s doubt grows stronger, and he feels a looming sense of injustice. Draco must feel the same. When their hands touch again now, neither of them flinch away. 

Eventually, when the silence is broken by Kingsley, finally having processed the dump of information, Harry holds his breath. 

He says, “I believe you.”

Hermione is speaking again instantaneously, “No, you don’t understand, Draco has kept a dutiful record of — Pardon?”

“I believe you,” Kingsley repeats. He looks at Harry. “Could I come in and have a seat now?”

They move aside to give him room to walk in, standing, just watching him as he makes his way to sit down. They are positioned in one long line of wide-eyed disbelief, slack-jawed and confused. Ron pushes the door closed. 

“Last time we spoke, Harry,” he begins, “You advised me to look into Dawlish’s claims myself. Personally. I took that advice.”

Harry says, quietly, “You did.”

“Everything you’ve said tracks with what I’ve found. There is evidence that Auror Dawlish has been forging and embezzling evidence to make Mr Malfoy appear guilty of something that there is no real proof of. Every illicit or under-tracked ingredient that Mr Malfoy has been holding can be explained by his trying to rid himself of the Dark Mark. This, whilst potentially unethical, is not illegal. There’s no evidence to suggest that he has drugged or poisoned you with any love potions, Harry, undetectable or otherwise.” Kingsley sighs. “You have proven, time and time again, that you are both really and truly in love with each other.”

The line stays quiet. Harry can’t bring himself to believe what he’s being told. There’s a part of him that’s suspicious, that’s keeling with doubt that it could possibly be this easy. After all of this time. 

“Auror Dawlish has been dismissed and will await a hearing in front of the Wizengamot to decide his sentencing for fraudulence and obstruction of justice. Mr Malfoy, you are no longer under the watch of the Ministry, and you are granted full access again to your business. For the trouble, the Ministry will award you double your missed income for these last months, as well as free access to the Ministry’s records on scar removal.”

Harry can only stand still. Aghast. All that he’s hearing feels too good to be true. After — Really — After all of this time. All of the lying, all of the evidence they had to collect themselves, all of the preparation and deceit and — 

God, he thinks, feeling his chest tighten. After getting himself too caught up in it all. After losing his mind during the process, almost thinking that there was a chance Draco really was poisoning him with a love potion the whole time because there couldn’t possibly be any other explanation for the twist in his stomach, the softness in his heart, the dizziness in his head when he looks at him.

After all of this. After actually falling in love with the man. It’s over. Just like that. 

“You’re serious,” Draco says, speaking up through the still-thick silence. 

“Yes,” Kingsley says — seriously — and there’s genuine remorse in his eyes. “We… Really do apologise for all that you’ve been put through in his process. Making sure Harry was safe and of sound mind became one of our top priorities, but — We lost sight of propriety. Dawlish was foolishly trusted with this.”

Harry looks at Draco, desperately trying to read his expression. But Harry doesn’t even know how he’s feeling, himself. Let alone how somebody else may be. 

From his other side, he hears Hermione murmur, “I’ll — I’ll put the kettle on,” before hurrying to Harry’s kitchen.

And then Ron is stepping forward with purpose, towards his boss, towards the most powerful man in Wizarding Britain, and is saying, “Hold on, now. What about Harry? After what you’ve put him through, as well, putting surveillance on them, watching his every move—”

He goes on. Harry can barely hear him. He’s looking at Draco, wide-eyed and breathless, and sees this reflected back at him. It takes more than a moment of silent staring before the man brings himself to stare back, meeting his still hesitant eyes. 

Beneath the kind courage of Ron’s raised voice, Harry hears Draco whisper to him, “That’s it?”

Later, or even now, in a blurred moment of dizzy overthinking, Harry might wonder what exactly he’d meant by that. In this moment, he takes another thick breath and nods at him, but the question seems heavier, deeper, in the retrospective area of his brain. Later, Harry might wonder whether Draco had meant it with a deeper meaning meant to resonate directly to him, a solemn melancholy at the idea that this might be ending already. Or perhaps that is wishful thinking. He might even be implying a deeper sense of relief, finally free from the ring-small shackles of Harry’s life and his house, a connection that they’d simply been forced into — nothing more. Nothing less. 

If all of this flickers through his mind now, at this very instant, it is too much for him to process all at once. Looking at Draco, he’d struggle to count to ten. The man has taken him over wholly, made him stupid, and he’d not change it for anything. Even if it’s not returned. 

“Draco,” he whispers. He doesn’t know why he does. It doesn’t mean anything. But Draco’s face when he does is even more beautiful. 

He stares at Harry with this same expression for an indeterminate amount of time. He can hear Ron and Kingsley still speaking with each other, but it’s impossible to decipher any words. He can’t make out Draco’s expression entirely, other than the lingering sense of disbelief, perhaps some awe. Something else. Multiple something elses, maybe. 

He’s about to open his mouth again, though for what, he’s not sure. Maybe just to say his name again. Maybe to say, we did it, or something equally as pointless. Either way, he doesn’t get the chance to. Draco moves before he can croak out a single word, launching himself forwards, wrapping his arms around his neck, and —

And hugging him. His body flush against Harry’s, pulling him close with those arms, pressing his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. 

Harry can’t feel his legs. Somehow, this means more than even a kiss would have. A kiss would’ve made sense, for their company. It would’ve been a chance to prove that even after acquitting him, they aren’t breaking character and admitting that they’d been faking. But — This? 

It feels even more intimate. They had hugged before, once. When he had shown him the scar of his making. Since then, they’d gotten closer than that. But somehow, nothing compares to this — to now. To Draco holding him of his own volition, squeezing him, like he really means the hug and all of its connotations. Like it’s a thank you. 

And as Harry finally manages to bring himself to hug him back, he tries not to think about its finality. Arms around his waist. Hands on the small of his back. He takes it in, to the best of his ability, knowing he might never get close to this ever again. 

He can’t breathe. 

And he doesn’t want to be selfish. He should be happy, overwhelmed with it. He is happy — for Draco. He’s happy that the man has got everything that he wanted. He’s just equally torn apart at what it means for him. He knows that he’s being inconsiderate. He can’t help it. After everything, he thinks he deserves to be, at least a little bit.  

And then, with the heat of the other man’s body against his own, something else dawns on him. He can’t help but wonder, as he feels a brief tension which he may or may not be imagining, whether or not Draco somehow realises it simultaneously. The realisation makes him feel hotter, and he wonders whether or not Draco can somehow feel that, too. 

The question of the legitimacy of their marriage is now never going to be called into question. If anybody discovered now that their marriage had not been consummated, it would bring no worries forward legally. There is now no Auror Dawlish to make it a point of contention. 

They never needed to have sex at all. 

The lack of necessity changes everything. It makes it hotter, makes it more illicit. They’d been under the impression that if they didn’t consummate the marriage, then everything would fall apart. Now, it’s as if nobody had forced them to do anything. 

His thumb twitches over Draco’s waist. A boiling pot.

“Draco,” he says again, his breath voice warm against the man’s ear. He doesn’t know what he wants it to mean. He doesn’t know how he wants Draco to take it. 

Draco pulls back, just shortly. The proximity feels intoxicating. It feels promising. Dangerously. Harry always keeps letting himself hope. 

He watches him, this close, and sees the way that his soft, grey gaze passes between both of his eyes. Suddenly, he wants to take his glasses off and remove any possible kind of barrier between them both. He wants to know whether or not Draco can see his reflection in his glasses, can see what Harry sees now, and maybe then he’d be able to understand why Harry’s questioning everything for him. 

“Thank you,” Draco says, whispers fondly, and Harry could suffocate. Harry could do anything. 

All of a sudden, Draco steps back, shattering what could possibly be the very last of their illusion. Everything comes back into focus around him, like they’d been in a bubble, as if one of them had unintentionally cast a Muffliato and hadn’t realised it. 

Neither Kingsley or Ron seem to be paying any attention to them. Ron’s voice is swimming back into focus as Harry returns to the real world, missing the other man’s embrace already. 

“— And in fact, I think he even deserves a promotion!” Ron is still saying. “Head of his own department, for the troubles.”

Kingsley is just staring at him. Harry doesn’t intervene, and tries to hold in his laugh as he watches Ron sit still and turn redder and redder, a gulp rolling down his throat. 

Despite himself, Ron holds true. “With all due respect,” he says, leaning forward, as if he doesn’t want Harry and Draco to hear, “Dawlish had people spying on them through their windows, Minister. Come on.”

He watches as Kingsley takes a deep breath. Considers it all. Just as Hermione comes back into the room with five cups of tea, the Minister looks up at Harry and asks him, “Would you be interested in a promotion?”

Harry can’t answer. He can’t make sense of a thing in the world. All he can think about is Draco and Draco and Draco, a direct mirror of where his priorities have been for all of these months gone by — work at the very bottom. 

It’s as he’s still looking at Draco that he answers, “I’d be interested in… Discussing one.”

And that’s it. They’ve done it.

What more could Harry possibly, possibly want?

Chapter Text

He needs to keep pinching himself when everybody leaves, just to remind himself that he isn’t dreaming. 

Though he and Draco had been avoiding each other for the last few days, too awkward to come face to face after — well — coming face to face, they don’t seem to have any choice now. Harry sits on the couch, Draco at his side, and neither of them seem to be able to think of anything to say. So much hangs between them to discuss, and yet they are forced into an absolute quiet. 

Where are they even meant to begin?

It’s over. This was all they’d planned to do. All along. 

When the silence is finally broken, it is by Draco. 

“I can quietly move my things back to the Manor,” he says. “Nobody needs to know for a while. After a few months, we can announce a separation. Later, our divorce.”

 Harry can’t even bring himself to nod. The room feels so empty already, and he’s not even taken anything yet. He rubs his arm and looks at him.

“Okay,” he says. It’s exactly what they’d said they’d do. 

“It’ll be suspicious, but they can’t accuse us again. Dawlish can read it in the paper and go crazy, but there’s nothing he’d really be able to do,” Draco continues. “Especially with your promotion.”

“If I take the promotion,” is all Harry says. “If I stay there at all.”

Draco takes a moment, then hums. “Maybe you could negotiate more undercover missions.”

Harry can’t help but huff out a laugh. He looks over at him, and aches. Draco can only meet his eyes for a moment as he shares the smile, before looking away again. He can’t keep smiling.

“We aren’t going to talk about it,” Draco says quietly. “We aren’t going to talk about anything.”

Harry can’t speak. He knows that Draco doesn’t want him to argue, so waiting is the only thing he can do. 

Draco says, “I’m glad that we can agree.”

“Can we?” Harry says. 

“Harry.”

Harry brings his legs up to his chest. Beneath his glasses, he rubs his eyes. He has to ask, “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Draco tells him. He stands up, wringing his hands, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll begin packing my effects.” 

Despite himself, he asks, “Do you want any help?”

“No,” he tells him. “And don’t worry about food for me. I’m going out with Pans. I’ll perhaps see you tomorrow. I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” Draco tells him, and makes his way out of Harry’s living room. “You know that this was all it was ever supposed to be.”

The bubbling, boiling pot. 

*

It’s still early in the evening, but he doesn’t really feel like staying awake, anyway.

Harry is brushing his teeth, dreading the moment that the two minutes are up. He spits. He stares at himself in the mirror and laments the fact that the end of the week is already upon them. Him. Them. Whatever. 

He runs his toothbrush under the tap when he’s done and throws it back into its otherwise empty holder. Draco’s toothbrush has been gone since the morning. He tries not to think about it. 

Apart from the fact that he can’t stop himself. 

He feels like he’s on the verge of exploding. Again, he should be ecstatic. He should be proud of himself at doing a convincing job well done. He should be happy for Draco, freed from the unjust eye of the Ministry. He should be feeling at least some small form of relief about everything but he can’t, and he’s furious about it.

Draco is leaving tonight. He’s spent all day finalising things. He’s going to leave Grimmauld Place, is going to leave Harry, and is going to leave whatever the hell — this — is. Because he’s been too much of a coward to talk about it.

So has Harry, he supposes. 

In the mirror, he looks like a mess. He looks how he feels, in fact, and wonders whether he should’ve shaved, before realising that no matter how clean-shaven he is, Draco isn’t going to want to stay. 

He takes a deep breath. Because it’s just not good enough. Not for him, not for Draco, and he doesn’t know why he’s expected to just take it lying down. Like everything else in his life, orchestrated for him so that he has no choice in the matter. 

His fingers pale as he grips the sink. Downstairs, he can hear the other man moving boxes around, the last of his things still here. He’d made quick work of it all. But Harry can’t help but think, wonder, why he’s so eager to get going in the first place?

What is he so afraid of?

Harry could choke on the taste of mint. He tries to steady his breathing and fails, because he’s making a decision that’s most likely going to change the trajectory of the rest of his life. Silently, he decides that it’s a risk that he’s going to have to take. Because fuck, if he’s not owed some happiness in this life, he’s going to bloody well fight for it.

He catches him at the bottom of the stairs. 

He can’t speak when he does, not for a moment, because Draco is actually looking at him again and direct eye contact from the man always seems to be able to take his breath away. He’s holding a lamp and levitating two boxes behind him. 

“Good evening,” Draco says levelly. “You’re going to bed early.”

Harry takes a step down, closer. “Haven’t been able to sleep lately,” he explains. “Wanted to try earlier tonight.”

“Hm,” Draco responds, and he’s not looking at him again. Again. “Right. Well.”

“Draco,” he says, snapping his attention right back. He looks more than worried. He looks terrified. Harry takes another step down the stairs. “Don’t leave.”

“Please,” Draco responds, not quite with a sigh, as if on impulse. “Don’t do this.”

“Draco,” he says again.

“We’ve gotten so far,” Draco continues, like he’s trying to bargain more than beg. “Please, Harry. We really don’t have to do this.”

“Why?” Harry has to ask. “Why not?” He takes another step, now level with the other man, trying not to get too close too quickly. “I have to ask you — I have to tell you what I’m— How I—”

“Feel?” he spits, the interruption harsh and sudden, a resounding sound in the cramped corridor. “How you feel? You don’t feel anything! You’ve — You’ve duped yourself, you’ve conditioned yourself into thinking that you feel something. I’ve tried to tell you, but—”

“Why are you so insistent upon that?” Harry asks, frustrated now, though he still tries not to raise his voice. “Why are you so desperate to think that I don’t feel something for you?”

“Because you don’t,” he says, and the boxes floating behind him fall to the ground at the same time as he throws down the lamp in his arms. Harry doesn’t let it smash, flicking his fingers and stopping it mid-air, before slowly lowering it down to the carpet. Draco glares at him. Dryly, “Oh, you saved my lamp. It must be true love.”

Harry runs an exasperated hand through his hair. “You know, you get incredibly defensive about this topic.”

“And you, delusional,” he returns. “You’re not attracted to men. You’re not attracted to me. Get it into your thick skull, and we’ll both be rid of each other.”

“Is that what you want?” Harry asks. He tries to keep his voice level. “Can you honestly say that you’d be happier back at the Manor? That you haven’t enjoyed this? Haven’t enjoyed being here with me?”

Draco just continues to glare at him. He doesn’t give Harry an answer. 

So Harry goes on. “Because I have. Even though you’ve been a prick at times, I’ve enjoyed it so much. It’s the most — It’s the most I’ve felt in — I don’t even know how long.”

“A nostalgic thrill of an adventure does not equate to a sexuality crisis.”

“I’m not the one in crisis,” Harry says. “We had sex. We — I want to do it again.” 

“No, you don’t.”

“I do,” Harry keeps on, trying to not rise to the other man’s opposition. “Having sex with you — Kissing you — Holding you. Draco, just — Just being with you, talking to you, it’s…”

He trails off, unsure how exactly he’s supposed to put to words everything that he’s been feeling through this whole façade. Unsure whether it’s really possible. A boiling, boiling, boiling pot. All he can do is look at him. He hopes that all of the seconds in his silence continue to stretch, he can somehow convey the seriousness that he feels in his gaze. 

Draco is staring at him, eyes unmoving, unblinking. His hands are fists at his sides, chest rising and falling beneath his thin shirt. He is shaking his head. 

“Draco, I—”

“No,” he says again, and now he is blinking rapidly, staring at the lamp on the ground like he’s trying to figure something out. “You don’t get to say this to me. You don’t get to— to do this to me.”

Harry aches to move forward, to ask him what he means as he holds him. Instead, he stands dumbly and says, “What?”

“I hated you.” Draco’s words come like sharp ice. “And, yet. And, yet. And, yet, you always — You have always somehow managed to—”

The words end there, with his heavy breath, like someone has put a stopper into his throat and clogged it with emotion. Draco’s eyes are actually glistening with a kind of fury. His face is a bottled up red, on the verge. 

“What do I do?” Harry asks quietly. He’s not sure whether taking another step closer is a wise move, but he does it anyway. He is not quite bold enough to reach forwards and touch him yet, though he wants to. 

Draco’s breathing is coming in seethes. “I don’t know. I have never known. I have just always been — ridiculous about it. Pointed out to me by friends and enemies, my — my family. Over and over again, shoved in my face that for you, I always turn myself into a fool.”

Harry looks at him. It’s all he does. He’s not sure it’s right. 

Draco continues, “But I’m not doing it again. I can’t. I can't let myself fall for this idiotic lie that you’ve managed to feed yourself.”

“It’s not a lie.”

“It has to be,” Draco tells him. Now, there’s less anger. Something akin to desperation. “Or a mistake. A misjudgment. Something, Potter, but anything except reality.”

“Why?” he asks, and he must’ve driven himself closer, somehow, without realising. Draco’s angry face is right in front of him. “Why is it so stupid to think that somewhere along the time we’ve spent together, I’ve actually started to fall for you?”

Something flashes across Draco’s glossy eyes. Harry hears his sharp intake of breath and wants to chase it.

“Because,” he says, and that breath turns into a sigh. “When it comes to you, reality has seldom ever been kind to me.”

Harry lifts his hand, lets his fingers trace over Draco’s wrist. He flinches away, and Harry lets him, because even the briefest of touches is enough. Harry tells him, “I would be kind to you. If you’d let me.”

“You’d be kind for half of a minute before you realised that I’m nothing that you want.”

Harry’s knuckles trace over the other man’s veins on the back of his hand, and this time, he reluctantly lets it happen. He leans in, too close, and whispers, “You’re everything that I want,” and he means it, too.

Draco’s answering breath comes out shaking. He says, “And that’s another thing.”

“What?” he asks, distracted by the fact that Draco is allowing him so close. 

“You always —” He is speaking through his teeth again. “—Manage to get what you want.”

Harry could argue. He probably should, because Draco feels wrong, and probably knows, somewhere deep within himself, that he is wrong. Harry has never wanted anything that has ever happened to him. He’d never wanted to be important, held to a higher standard, raised to be something he probably would’ve agreed to, if asked, but he wasn’t. Used by everyone, now mobbed by all but a handful. He’d never wanted the marks of the past unscrubbable from his skin.

And there is Draco: a mirror.

Harry throws himself back into the other man’s shoes and sees them again, on the couch, one shirt ripped open in a forced bearing of the damage Harry had caused. Again, then, the bathroom, white apart from the blood, and quiet with shock, apart from the crying. 

He sees them again, in Malfoy Manor, more than a morsel of recognition in Draco’s eyes as he had looked at him, because how couldn’t he recognise Harry Potter? He, of all people? His pink lips telling the room, I can’t be sure. Even Harry had thought it wasn’t a good enough answer. What had his family thought? What had Voldemort thought?

The Wizengamot Court. Harry giving him what he thought was salvation, a way out of Azkaban, and it was. Everyone else had thought so too, he’d found out. 

Those words. Echoing. I hate you.

Over and over and over again, it just seems to be Harry putting the other man into an impossible situation.

No wonder he’s so reluctant, Harry realises. No wonder he’s so afraid. The hatred that he’d felt — feels? — is a justified one, battling against… Well. 

“I know you don’t want to hear it. I love you,” he tells him, because it seems to make sense to do so. Because it feels right. Because it’s true, and he needs Draco to know. “It’s not a trick. I’m not trying to confuse you, or hurt you. I love you as you are. Right now. Making a mess of my landing. I love you as Draco Malfoy, not in spite of it.”

Draco’s stare has shifted. His breathing has, too. Harry doesn’t know if he’s still breathing at all; he can’t hear any breathing over the thrumming, heavy sound of his own heart in his ears. 

“I don’t think I realised I could feel this until you. You actually make everything — better. Somehow.” He takes a deep breath, himself. “Don’t leave. Please.” 

Draco’s head tilts, his nose brushing against Harry’s own. Harry doesn’t know if he realises what he’s doing. When he manages to answer, after letting his mouth hang open for a moment or two too long, it is to whisper, “I don’t know how to believe you.” 

“Then let me help you,” he says, his voice just as soft, their lips just as close. “Let me prove it to you.”

“Harry,” Draco whispers, like he’s going to say no, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t close his mouth or walk away, even though he’s not up against any wall. There’s a gape of free space behind him that he could walk right into. Away from Harry. Away from all of this. 

“Draco,” he says back, both hands lifting to hold him. He tells him, “This is real.”

Draco looks like he wants to argue on impulse. Like he still isn’t ready to let himself be taken up in what he still believes to be a fantasy. An impossibility. In his gaze there is sadness and fear, and Harry wants to dissolve it. 

He tilts Draco’s head up, and Draco lets him, and he kisses him. God, he kisses him. 

It’s not even been that long. It’s been just over a week since he’s last been allowed to kiss him, but the feeling it inspires within him is unyielding, too intense to shove down. He holds him, and pushes their lips together, and Draco appears to fall against him, a whimper leaving his mouth as he allows Harry to envelope him. 

They stand together, just kissing, letting themselves take in each other what they’ve only partially been able to this whole time. Harry tightens his grip on the man’s waist, afraid that at any point soon, he may change his mind. It’s a real possibility that sends him on edge, and all he can do is hope that Draco doesn’t mistake it for something else. 

He makes another sweet noise against Harry’s mouth and Harry melts for it, his fingers twisting into Draco’s clothes. He doesn’t want to pull back for air, lest the briefest moment of separation inject some more doubt into Draco’s head. But Draco’s hands are on him, too, holding him just as tight, and Harry can’t help but hope. 

Against his lips, Harry says, “Nobody is watching us. There’s nothing else to practice for.”

Draco chases his lips before stopping and staring at him. He says, “I know.”

“I’m doing this because I want to. Because I want you.”

Draco says, weakly, “Harry.” 

“You should know that, too,” he says. “I love you.”

Again, he says, “Harry,” and kisses him, and Harry doesn’t know whether that means that he’s accepting it or not, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to keep trying to tell him, keep kissing him, keep insisting upon the nature of their relationship itself. 

Either way, he’s not upset at the fact that he’s being kissed again. So, there’s that. 

He takes Draco’s face in his hand and pulls him closer with the other, arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close in an almost desperate grasp at getting him to stay. Draco is grabbing at his clothes, too. Harry doesn’t know — doesn’t want to contemplate — whether it’s because he knows he’s going to make it the last time that they’re going to be able to do this. 

“‘Could kiss you forever,” Harry murmurs against his mouth. “‘Thought that since the first time we did it. ‘Changed my life.”

Draco’s hand on the back of his head pulls him forward again, shutting him up. Perhaps it’s to shut himself up, as well — to stop himself from answering with anything he knows Harry will be disagreeable to; No, you couldn’t. No, you didn’t. No, it hasn’t. 

“Mm,” Draco hums, after several long moments of kissing have passed. “Please.”

“Please, what?” Harry asks, because now he’s confused on whether that means more or stop trying to get me to change my mind. 

Luckily, it’s the former. “Change my mind,” he breathes, hot against Harry’s lips, like he really is desperate to be proven wrong. “Show me.”

Harry is nodding before he realises that he’s nodding, fumbling forward in his fervour. Both hands on his face now. Without even realising it, he’s sending them both upstairs in a subconscious, rushed side-along that thankfully doesn’t end up with either of them splinched. 

Not that he wastes much time checking. He could be bleeding out, for all he cares. 

He’s only vaguely aware that they’re in his bedroom. Every second of their kiss feels like an unquenchable thirst, all over each other, their only true form of communication because words seem to be transcendent of what is going on. Draco can’t voice what he’s feeling because there’s too much of it, so he kisses him, and Harry can’t voice what he feels because Draco isn’t letting him, so he kisses him back. 

Draco is the one that crowds Harry against the bed, the side of it knocking his legs out beneath him. He falls back, sitting down onto it, staring up at the other man and hoping against hope that he won’t change his mind at any given moment. There’s still the underlying fear within him that Draco is only doing this as a goodbye. Harry can’t even think about it for too long, but knows that if it’s the truth, he’s going to have to make the most of this. 

Draco stands above him, looking down and sharing his loaded gaze for more than a few moments before leaning forwards, taking Harry’s face in his hands, threading his fingers through his curls, and kissing him again. He places both knees either side of Harry’s hips, settling himself down upon his lap like he had done once before, for the act. But this is real, Harry reminds himself. This is real. 

Harry’s hands are all over him at once, untucking his shirt, sliding his hands over his back. Draco’s warmth presence upon him is doing absolutely nothing to stop the fast pumping of his heart, and lower. He preens at the sensation of long fingers tugging at his hair, holding him closer so that neither of them can pull away. 

His hands slide to Draco’s front. He rubs his thighs for a good few seconds, getting his fill of how they feel once again on top of him. Then up, he directs them further, thumbs grazing his crotch before he clumsily tries to start undoing the buttons of his shirt. As it turns out, this is a very difficult feat without looking. 

Harry takes so long trying to deal with one button that Draco has to try and join him, though neither of them break their kiss until they have to, when Draco begins to struggle on the third one up. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, pulling himself away and looking down. “Blasted thing.”

Harry takes a heavy breath, just staring at him. Even in pure frustration, he’s beautiful. He tells him, “You’re beautiful.”

The look he sends him is with narrowed eyes, sharp, but all it does is make Harry chuckle. Harry wonders if the look is because he doesn’t believe it at all, or because he doesn’t believe it from Harry. Either way, he’s wrong.

“You are,” Harry reaffirms. He stares at the shirt. “Let me?”

Draco sighs, dropping his hands and waving them in approval. Harry lifts his own, manages to work the buttons open now that he’s looking at what he’s doing. He splays open the sides of his shirt and slips his fingers beneath, pads of his fingers pushing into and across his chest. Over the scar and over his nipples. Both of these facts make the both of them shudder. 

Harry pushes the shirt off of his shoulders and marvels at the resulting view. Though he’s seen it multiple times now, it never seems to stop taking his breath away. He’s beautiful. He is really, really beautiful. The shirt ends up on the floor, and he’s sure that Draco is going to complain later. For now, he doesn’t. For now, he just looks at him.

And he’s taking off Harry’s shirt, too, leaning back so that he can take it off over his head. Harry helps him, daring to rip his hands away from the other man’s body for a second that still seems too long. Arms up, shirt off. And then both of their chests are bare against the other’s. 

Draco kisses him again, and Harry takes it, giving back as much as he can because Draco is kissing him like he’s water to a man dying of thirst. Knees squeeze against his thighs, and hands trail everywhere, arms indecisive of whether they want to drape over the other’s shoulders, wrap around their necks, or stay low for more access.

“Mmf —” Draco makes the sound, high and muffled and sweet. It spurs Harry on, makes him even more confident in his movements. Show me, Draco had said. He intends on it. 

Harry’s hands drop to Draco’s trousers, fingers working automatically to undo them. He slips his hand inside once done, taking hold — for the first time — of the other man’s hardness. Feeling it is like feeling another stroke of reassurance. It’s needed. God, Harry needs this. 

And Draco preens into the touch, into the feel of Harry’s grasp. His fingernails dig into his shoulder blades, the back of his neck, but he doesn’t care. It barely even registers. Harry holds him in his eager hand and jerks him, makes him whine into his mouth even more, and he’s never before wanted a moment to last forever like this. Never. 

No cover, no deniability. Draco is only doing this because he wants to. He knows Harry’s only doing this because he wants to, as well. Harry has to keep this thought pounding in his head. 

“Does it feel good?” Harry asks, breaking the kiss for this brief moment. 

Draco nods, breath heavy. He rocks his body into Harry’s hand, accelerating the speed of his jerks. He is still in Harry’s lap, but trembling, his body stiffening like it needs a greater kind of release already. 

“You like how my hand feels?” Harry continues, because he just can’t help himself. “I love how you feel.”

“Yes,” Draco tells him. “I like it.”

“Good,” Harry hums. “I could do this forever.”

Draco’s breath is hot against his cheek. He says, “You said that last time.”

And Harry says, “I wasn’t lying then, either. I wasn’t making things up.” 

Draco, at this, stays silent, the sentences answered only by his heavy breathing. Even now, he is reluctant. Harry wants to prove himself. Harry wants to prove to him that he’s serious about him, because God, he is. He’s never been more certain about anything in his whole life — and he’s found himself having to be certain about a lot.

He’s never been more sure of the fast beating of his heart, the strong adoration that he holds for someone. He’s never been more sure that he could spend day after repetitive day with somebody, without it somehow becoming monotonous. Without breaking a bottle of wine. 

It’s why he’d been so panicked at the prospect of Draco actually being behind something nefarious; it was possible. Too possible. He’d already felt as if he was under a love potion already. He still does. Just being around the other man makes him feel intoxicated, the absence of him making him feel empty. It was more than any potential amortentia. Amortentia could never even hope to emulate, to bottle, this feeling. 

To want and to love Draco Malfoy, in spite of everything. Every other Witch and Wizard in the world could only wish that they could be as lucky. 

His thoughts are interrupted by his being shoved back onto the bed by Draco, who is still in his lap. The shock stuns him for a moment or two as he lays still, looking up at him. He’s confused, but doesn’t argue against it. Who would argue against this?

Draco begins to pull down Harry’s pyjama bottoms. He splays out one long, white hand above his crotch, over Harry’s darker abdomen. The other works to expose him, getting him out of his underwear in the same method that Harry had done himself. He watches those thin fingers wrap around his erection, thumb pushing down on the head. 

Somehow, the most attractive thing about it is the way that Draco observes him. He stares down at his hand on Harry’s cock like he never wants to look away, like he’s trying to examine every last inch of the picture in front of him. It’s such a stark, salivating difference to the last time that he’d been confronted with a naked Harry, when he’d been almost afraid, reluctant to look at him properly. Because it wasn’t real, then. 

The addition of his succumbing to his interest and lust somehow makes this even more real than he already knew it was. 

Draco says, “Can I?” 

Harry doesn’t know what he means. “Yes,” he says. 

He licks his lips and shuffles ever so slightly back before bending, lowering his head and licking the tip, gripping the base of it tightly. Harry cannot breathe. His gaze is intent upon the man above him and his chest is unmoving, afraid that even the slight raising of his lungs might block his view.  

Draco says, “I’ve always wanted to do this,” and wraps his lips around it wholly. 

There’s a million ways that Harry might begin to analyse what that means. About how far back always is, and why it gives him half a sense of doubt and foreboding about the future. Anxiety tries to creep into him — the wonder of whether or not he’s doing this now because he doesn’t think he’ll ever get another chance after this. 

Incredibly quickly, these thoughts are forced out of his mind. Harry’s neck hurts with the speed at which his head falls back with pleasure before it whips back up again, because he doesn’t want to miss a moment of this. He watches with intent for every single second that Draco sucks him down, taking his time with it, his face red and his gaze avoiding contact with Harry’s. 

Draco sucks him, takes him down his throat and doesn’t rush himself. He takes his time, seemingly relishing in the taste of the man beneath him, deep breathing through his nose. Harry can feel it against his pubis, against the base of him, even his respiration somehow endearing and arousing. 

He feels dizzy. He feels insane. Somehow, everything about this feels simultaneously impossible and inevitable, and again — real. Draco’s pink lips, the ones which Harry has been so obsessed with now for so many months, look even better like this, stretched out around him. The colour contrast itself is remarkable. 

“God,” Harry whispers, half-believing that he’s died and gone to Heaven already, and somehow forgotten the journey from King’s Cross. “Oh my God, Draco.”

He hums in response, the vibration of it sending Harry’s toes curling, his head thrown back. He is sweating. His hand shoots down of its own accord, cupping his cheek, fingers slipping into his hair. He tries not to pull at it, wants to be gentle, but then Harry sees him open his eyes, looking up at last, making direct eye contact with him with a gaze full of lust and his mouth full of cock. 

Harry can’t look away. He is even more mesmerised than he had been, green eyes locking on grey and knowing that there is not a chance in Hell that he can rip his gaze away. If Draco left after this, he thinks, at least he’d have this memory to cling to. 

“You look —” He can’t even describe it. A moan is ripped from his throat, allowing an excuse for the cut of his sentence. “Draco, if you keep — If you keep doing that, I’m going to —”

Draco, regretfully, pulls off of him. He delicately wipes the corner of his mouth with his hand and wastes no time as he crawls forwards, over Harry’s body, until they’re face to face again. He looks fucking gorgeous; still reluctant but seductive, as if he knows that once he’s started, he might as well do his best. 

He kisses him. One of them kisses the other. Harry’s not sure who leans in first. He couldn’t care less about where Draco’s mouth had been before this, no single thought spared for any kind of disgust, because if it’s Draco, it’s fine. It’s perfect. 

Draco positions himself over him so that their crotches are level. Harry feels their erections brush over the other as they move their mouths in tune with their feelings. Harry holds him, kisses him in earnest, trying to convey absolutely everything that he can through this. He pushes his feelings into the kiss and doesn’t know if it works, but Draco preens, whimpering against his tongue, arms and hands everywhere and nowhere. Harry wants to gasp every time he feels the solidity slide against his own, the wet heat of their erections pushing against one another. 

“‘Need you,” Draco whispers, still on top of him. He grinds his crotch down against Harry’s determinedly. “Please, Harry. Please.”

“Yes,” Harry breathes, but keeps the speech short. He can’t bring himself to separate out of the kiss for longer than two seconds, as if this is his new oxygen. 

He slides his hands, open-palmed down Draco’s back, his blunt fingernails still leaving dented lines down the pale expanse that he can’t see. He reaches Draco’s behind and grasps it with two intent handfuls, squeezing each side and pulling them apart because it’s something of a fantasy he’s always wanted to do to him. 

He keeps one hand where it is and manoeuvres the other between his cheeks, whispering against his lips that oh-so-familiar spell that lubricates everywhere it needs to at once. Harry is reminded, distinctly, how much he loves magic, and pushes one finger inside of him. 

Draco hums pleasantly, thriving with approval, pushing his body back against Harry’s hand. Harry continues to kiss him, and after a few moments have passed for adjustment, he slides in another finger. 

The proximity between them is at a maximum, nothing but heavy heat, panted breaths and low whines passed from mouth to mouth. Harry can tell every time he moves his fingers correctly from the resulting stammer it causes in the movement of Draco’s lips. Even just the small mumbles of encouragement are intensely attractive, spurring Harry on. 

By the time that he’s three fingers deep and pumping them in and out of the man with a vigorous rhythm, he can barely kiss Harry back at all. 

“Harry,” he drawls, when Harry has been enjoying himself for far too long. “Please.”

Harry chuckles, withdraws his fingers, and keeps the smile on his face at Draco’s resulting whimper at the emptiness. He whispers the same spell again, holding his erection with his still-lubricated hand, and kisses a line down Draco’s cheek. 

He asks, “You okay?”

“Mhm,” Draco hums at once, nodding. Again, he says, “Please.”

“You want me to put it in?” Harry asks, teasing him now. He just wants to hear him say it. 

“Fuck you,” Draco responds, and shifts his body, managing with shaking arms to push himself up onto his knees. He straddles Harry, legs either side of his hips, his face beautifully red and splotchy with exertion. From this angle, Harry can see all of him: Heaving chest, expansive scars, straining erection. He feels faint with what he feels as he looks at him. 

Harry doesn’t get a chance to speak again, because Draco is wrapping his own thin fingers around Harry’s over his cock, and is — Harry feels dizzy — lowering himself onto him. He sits down on his cock carefully, both of them directing it in with their overlapping hands. Once the head is inside, Draco lets go, throwing his head back at the same time as Harry releases a low, long hiss of pleasure. 

How is it that this could be better than it had been before, when the last time had been impossible to surpass? How do you make better, something already perfect? 

Harry doesn’t know, but it’s happening here. Draco is sliding down onto his erection and it feels like — everything. Like feeling magic for the first time, like an elevated version of liquid luck, like a dream broken through to reality. Harry is inside of him, and it’s the best thing that has ever happened, and there is no other reason for it to happen other than that he loves him. 

“Oh my God,” Harry breathes. Draco begins moving his hips, his legs supporting him as he slides himself up and down, creating a new and fantastic rhythm of his own, one hand on Harry’s chest for leverage. Harry moves his hands, holds his hips to try and help him up and down, and Draco lets him. 

And even through the sweat and the steam fogging up his glasses and obscuring his vision, it’s the most beautiful thing that he’s ever seen.

“God,” he says again, any regulation of his emotions almost completely gone. It feels more than amazing. Otherworldly. He’s not even sure that he’s conscious anymore. 

Draco’s pretty mouth is wide open, allowing for as much breath as possible to fall in and out of it as it comes in heaves. He makes it look almost easy, the rhythm coming quicker, bouncing up and down on Harry’s erection like he was made for it — like he’d been waiting, wanting it for as long as Harry had. Longer. 

And the sight of his own erection, bobbing up and down in the process, is mouthwatering. Harry simply watches, feels, unable to even think about doing anything else. He lays back and savours this long moment of time in which Draco at least somewhat believes him, and wants him back. 

The swollen, dark pink of his lips, the matching colour draped across his throat and his neck. His half-lidded grey eyes, glistening with emotion. The scar — the one which Harry will always ache to see but need to be reminded of, of which holds such a significant part of their history. 

“Draco,” he breathes, needing an anchor to remind him this is real. He pushes himself half-up on his elbow, the other hand extending outwards to hold his face. Draco looks at him, in a daze, and turns his head towards him, kissing his palm tenderly.

Harry can’t handle it. He pushes himself up, kissing him again, somehow now with more passion than they had kissed with before. It feels new, fresh — a sort of unending, bizarre thing that makes all of the sense in the world. He kisses him until they’re both pulling back and gasping for breath, his abdomen tensed from the awkward sitting position that he’s gotten himself into. Draco is less bouncing now than rocking himself back and forth, but it still feels euphoric, his erection trapped and rubbing between their bodies in the process. 

“Draco,” he says again, and in a fluid movement, he flips the both of them over. Draco appears too shocked to react for the following moments, laying now on his back, splayed out on the sheets. 

Harry sees his expression melt back from surprise to pleasure in seconds as he starts moving his hips, giving the other man — and his legs — some respite. But it’s not only that. This way, he can push into him and kiss him so much easier, nothing holding back the fervour and speed of his thrusts, nor the passion at which he takes his lips against his own. 

“Yes,” Harry both hears and feels, the word a muffled mumble against his mouth. He weathers the torture of pulling away from the kiss just to hear the sound of his breathy encouragement. “Ye— es,” he continues, the word broken and punctuated by Harry driving home inside of him. “Yes.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, though the contents of what he’s agreeing to are mostly cloudy at best. The sentiment, perhaps. “God, you— You’re so perfect.”

Draco only responds with another high moan, and then Harry is kissing across his cheek, down to his jaw, lower. He takes his time as he kisses down his neck, kissing it open mouthed and trying not to become so distracted by it that he loses focus of the movements of his hips. The wet smack of his mouth against his skin is almost an echo to the same recurring slaps of Harry’s hips and thighs against Draco’s behind. It’s so perfectly crude that Harry can’t believe the sounds are being made with Draco fucking Malfoy, of all people. 

Tearing himself away from his neck is an effort, but he does it. Harry kisses down his collarbone, and down, to the very tip of the scar that he had once given him. He makes a conscious effort to steady his thrusts when he hears Draco’s breath hitch and then pause, as if in genuine shock at the revelation Harry is giving him. 

With a free hand, he spreads his palm and fingers over the base of his stomach, the most hefty and damaged piece of tarnished flesh. He caresses it, traces his fingers over the ragged lines that he had caused, and continues to ghost his lips over the highest part of it. 

Still slowly rolling his hips into him, he looks up, half-terrified that Draco is going to explode at him. He says, his words lined with softness, “Draco,” and nothing else. He’d learnt long ago that apologies were on another plane of existence — that what the two of them owe each other is more than forgiveness — but simply living with the past. 

And Harry knows it’s okay when all he says in return, with his own voice broken and gentle, “Harry.”

Harry moves with speed again, needing more than anything to envelope him in another kiss, that which transcends words or otherwise. He pushes his all into him and into the kiss again, and Draco does the same, fingers digging into Harry’s back, hopefully leaving marks of his own. 

Draco’s legs encircle his waist and start pulling him in, assisting in his thrusts, holding him in deeper for longer. Harry feels the mounting, dizzying feeling that it comes with, along with the tendrils of anxiety about this being over. 

“If you do that —” Harry hums against him. He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. Draco keeps doing it regardless, so Harry follows suit, snaking a hand between their bodies, slick with sweat, and wrapping his hand around Draco’s hardness. He tugs at him, firmly jerking him in his palm, the both of them committing to bringing the other as close as possible. 

When they both orgasm, it is a sweet summit, and they are not kissing as they do. They are simply — looking at each other — taking in every morsel of the other man’s glossy, full eyes. Harry finishes inside of him, and has a brief moment of clarity and regret, knowing that he should’ve asked him permission first. But Draco doesn’t even seem to care. No, he seems to encourage it, if anything, holding him in close and in place with his legs around him. 

Draco’s orgasm follows very closely afterwards, perhaps the feeling of Harry finishing inside him adding to his own excitement, tipping him over the edge that Harry’s fist had brought him to. He arches his back, throws his head back, but still manages to keep his gaze on Harry’s. Like an understanding; an oath. It’s the most beautiful thing Harry has ever been privy to. 

When their breathing levels out, Harry wants to hold it, worried that even one wrong act of respiration will send Draco back into that spiral of self-doubt and denial. He holds him for as long as he can before it becomes uncomfortable, and he withdraws himself from the other man and lies down beside him. 

Draco is still staring up at the ceiling when Harry makes the decision to tell him again, “I really am in love with you, you know.”

Draco’s head rolls over to look at him, his chest rising and falling with leftover exertion. His eyes are not wide, but they are searching, curious. Like maybe, just maybe, he thinks he can actually start to believe it. 

Chapter Text

Harry wakes up in a haze, not having remembered falling asleep. 

He feels well-rested, and can’t help wondering how long he’d actually slept for. He knows that he must have needed the rest, part of his body aching, muscles stretched and strained. He can still feel the throbbing of it now, and then slowly, the cold. He’s still naked, but with a sheet draped over him. There’s none of the sticky discomfort that he must have fallen asleep with, though, meaning that someone must’ve had the wherewithal to spell him clean before — 

Someone —

Harry blinks, and sits up. Because he’s alone.

The room is empty, devoid of the man he’d been most looking forward to seeing, of the man who now leaves a gaping hole in the room. The sheets next to Harry are creased in a vague impression of Draco, giving him at least some proof that he’d even been here in the first place. 

“Draco?” he calls out, but he gets not a word of reply. He gathers some clothes and puts them on haphazardly before wandering the house, peeking inside every room to make sure he’s not hiding away somewhere. He's not. 

When he asks Kreacher if he’s seen him, the answer is just as vague as he should’ve expected it to be.

“Once or twice.”

“Kreacher, please,” Harry asks. “Have you seen him since last night?”

“Seen? No. Heard. Kreacher heard many an unnatural thing last night that Mr and Mr Malfoy should be ashamed of.”

“Right. Thanks for nothing, Kreacher.”

He’s trying not to panic. There’s no reasonable cause for him to be as on edge as he is, apart from the fact that — last night had almost been the end of it. He’d packed up almost everything, had been ready to walk out of the door and leave Harry forever.

He stops, a thought entering his head that he can’t ignore, but that which frightens him. If it’s not there, he thinks, and moves one foot in front of the other tentatively, making his way to the front door. If it’s not there—

He takes a deep breath as he makes his way out into the landing, because it’s still there. The lamp is still there. He hadn’t taken the last of it all — not yet, at least. 

The only thing is, he reckons with himself, is that it still all feels like a ticking time bomb. Draco, whilst possessing a beautiful mind, also possesses a harsh one. One that does not deem him worthy of happiness, as is all apparent. One that wants to push doubt and fear into him, and even though Harry had thought he’d pushed through all of that the night before, the longer he’s running away from it all, the longer he has to convince himself otherwise. 

He gets on his knees next to his fireplace, and lights up the Floo. 

“Good afternoon!” a voice comes from the fire. “How may Pokey be helping you?”

“Good — afternoon,” Harry says, frowning. Was it really so late? “Pokey. Have you seen Draco today?”

“Not today, Master Potter,” she tells him. “Master Malfoy was bringing many things this week, back to the Manor. But not today.”

“Right,” Harry sighs. “Okay. Thank you, Pokey.”

“Master Potter?”

He blinks. “Yes, Pokey?”

“My Mistress says Pokey is to be meeting you soon enough, since Masters Potter and Malfoy are wed now,” she says. “Does Master Potter have a date in mind?”

“Um, soon, Pokey. I promise. And call me Harry, please.”

“Oh, he is most kind,” she giggles. “Pokey can see why Master Malfoy wanted to marry Harry.”

“Right,” he says again. “Thank you again. Have a nice day.”

The flames melt away, and Harry is left dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t have many other options, so he pushes himself to his feet, and steps into the fireplace instead. 

*

When he reaches the Ministry, it’s slightly disorienting. It’s a place that has had such a big impact on his life now, his place of work, somewhere that he’s been almost every single day for the past — three, four years? And yet, in the heavy light of everything going on, it feels like he’s never even been here before. It feels like a stranger. Like he shouldn’t even be here. 

He walks without making eye contact with anyone, resolutely focused on where he has to be. Unfortunately for him, he’s Harry Potter. And he’s entirely too fond of his colleagues to be rude. Especially with her.

“Harry!” she squeals, wrapping him in a big hug. 

“Celia,” he says kindly, genuinely happy to see her back, even through his impatience. “Welcome back. How was the honeymoon?”

“Don’t you even ask me,” she demands. “You’re not even supposed to be back yet. You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon!”

“Yeah,” he chuckles awkwardly. “Listen, I’m sorry we didn’t wait until you were home for the wedding…”

She’s shaking her head at once. “Don’t be ridiculous. You two are in love, plain as anything. No need to wait for little old me. I told your beau the same thing this morning.”

Harry blinks at her. “Draco — was here?”

She hums, giving him only the slightest downturn of her plucked eyebrows. “Of course. He came in to speak to Dawlish, down in the holding cells. Kingsley is still trying to figure out exactly what we should do with him, you know. It’s all such a big scandal, I couldn’t believe it.”

Harry nods, barely hearing her. “Is he still here?”

“I’m not too sure, I haven’t seen him since earlier,” she tells him with a soft smile. “You two haven’t had a falling out already, have you?”

He doesn’t respond to that, which he’ll probably regret later, and he doesn’t say goodbye before he’s walking away from her. He lets his legs take him like muscle memory, heading straight past his office.

Down to the holding cells. 

Even if he’s not still here, going down there is still something Harry wants to do. He wants to face Dawlish in the same way that Draco must have wanted, too. He walks with a straight purpose, down the steps he’s walked so many times, wondering if Draco had remembered the way from his time spent inside of them in his youth. 

Once he’s in there, his eyes find the man at once. The nearby Aurors standing by stare at him, apparently unsure whether to greet him or not. He must look something furious. 

“Auror Potter,” Dawlish says with a sigh. “Am I to get it from you now, too?”

“Get what?” Harry glares at him. “A bollocking? You deserve one, and you know it.”

Dawlish rolls his eyes at him. “I was conducting an investigation. Malfoy was the best suspect.”

“And you didn’t think to look at anyone else after you set your eyes on him.”

“You’re the one that married him,” Dawlish says dryly. “After everything. After what happened with Dumbledore, with him joining the Death Eaters. I really thought you better than that, Potter. I thought that for certain, you must be lying about being in love with him.”

Harry frowns, his gaze still sharp. He doesn’t want to engage with him. “What did Draco say to you?”

“Everything you’re thinking right now.”

“Good,” he says.

“Plus, he wanted to know if I ever truly found out about the mishandled potions in St Mungo’s. Evidently, they weren’t his.”

“And did you?”

“No,” Dawlish admits. “I was wasting my time looking elsewhere.”

Harry stares at him for only a few more moments before turning on his heel and starting to walk away. He could say a lot to the man. He could speak his mind and not stop, he could curse him for what he’d been putting Draco through these last months. But something stops him. Something indeterminate, like the fact that if he hadn’t been such a bastard, Harry may never have given Draco Malfoy another thought again in his life. He could’ve missed out on all of this and stayed instead in his bored and monotonous being. 

Just before he reaches the stairs, he hears Dawlish again. “Auror Potter?” 

He stops. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Harry sighs. And he ascends the stairs, away from the man and the cells. 

Next.

*

“Have you seen Draco?” Harry asks, forgetting that he should probably be knocking on the door of her office, even though she is his best friend. 

“He was here earlier,” Hermione says, frowning behind her desk. “He was trying to connect all of the people who’d had bad reactions to the potions in St Mungo’s, and asked for some advice. I think we’ve almost got it.” And she pauses, tilting her head at him. “Why?”

“I— I need to find him,” he tells her. “Urgently.”

“Is it Dawlish?” she asks, pushing herself to stand up. “Is Draco okay?”

“No, I— Yes. He’s fine. I think. I just—” Harry looks at her. His heart feels like it’s going to give out, with the weight of the morning, of the chase. Lying, on top of that, is an ache that he doesn’t know that he can cope with. 

Especially now that it isn’t necessary anymore. 

“Hermione,” he says, and falls into the chair opposite her. “I need to tell you something.”

And so, he does. He tells her everything, from the first moment that he’d seen Draco on that bench opposite Grimmauld Place, to letting him in and hearing him out when every ounce of common sense would’ve turned him away. He tells her that he’s been lying to her for months on end — about almost everything — and she listens.

“But I do love him, Hermione,” he finishes, head in his hands. “And he’s run for the hills.”

She takes a few moments, absorbing the loaded information with a steady face. Once Harry finally bites the bullet and removes his hands from his face, looking at her, she takes a deep breath.

“I know, Harry,” she sighs. “I’ve — had my suspicions for quite a while.”

Well, that wasn’t fair. Everybody had their suspicions, after all. But Harry knows what she means — that she had seen through them for what it all was, for God knows how long. He shouldn’t even be surprised. 

“It’ll be okay,” she tells him. “I’ve had my suspicions about him for much longer.”

Harry’s eyes widen as he looks at her. “So, you really think that he..?”

“Harry,” she says, and it’s almost a chuckle. “Of course, he does.”

The door to her office opens, and Harry pushes himself to his feet. The conversation has him stretched in ten different directions, not able to think properly. 

“Oh, hey, Harry,” Ron says as he walks in, holding two steaming cups. “Hi, love.” He hands her one, and turns back to Harry with an easy expression. “What’s going on? You and Draco planning on making maps of the place, or something?”

“You’ve seen him, too?” Harry asks. “When?”

“A couple hours ago.” Ron shrugs, looking between them now. “What, has he gone rogue?”

Harry ignores him. “Did he say where he was going?”

“Don’t think so. He was asking about a couple Ministry-funded Potions Masters, where they do their work.” Ron frowns at him. “Is he okay? What’s happening?”

“Hermione,” he says, looking at her with pleading etched into his expression. 

“I’ll — fill him in,” she says. “Go. Find him.”

“Thanks,” he breathes, and clasps Ron on the arm before he runs out of the room. “Sorry, mate!”

*

After checking the potions labs of the Ministry and still not finding any sign of the man, Harry apparates to the only other place he can think of where he might find him. 

Knockturn is almost deserted when he lands, right in front of the shop. There doesn’t appear to be any immediate sign of life inside, but Harry lets himself in anyway, because the boarded up windows can be deceiving. Distantly, he makes a note to remember that they need to come down, soon enough. 

Inside the shop is empty, but Harry’s hopes aren’t immediately shattered. He can smell the remains of a burning candle, recently blown out, and lets his nose lead the way to a back room where he hasn’t been before. This, too, is empty, save for multiple open books strewn across a desk.

Harry steps forward, looking at them. Two of the books appear to be textbooks, opened onto pages detailing the easiest mistakes, or common side-effects, made in potion making. The third is a notebook, with Draco’s neat, swirling writing taking up two whole pages. There are things circled and underlined, and laid out absolutely perfectly for Harry to decipher.

Rows detailing the individual impacted patients, which potions they had been given, and which Potions Masters the affected batches had really been made by. Then, where they did their work. All the same place.

No plot. No conspiracy. Never even a crime.

There’s a passage circled in one of the textbooks on the detrimental effects even things as inconsequential as flooring, roofing, and wall materials are. And in his notebook, it’s written and underlined three times in red ink — Environmental.

All of it, right there. If Dawlish had even bothered to look — or ask a professional on potions in the first place. 

Harry releases one long breath. He wants to applaud him, wants to congratulate him on finally — finally working it out. With this investigative work, Kingsley might offer him a reward. Robards might even offer him a job. The thought makes Harry laugh to himself quietly, but then the moment is quickly depleted. He can only imagine Draco laughing at that, too. 

He has to bloody find him, first. 

Something catches his eye, then, like a glint of a penny to a magpie. It’s not hard to recognise it, its colouring so rich and the design so unique. A red book with black borders, and one which Draco had explicitly told him not to read. Even as his husband. 

He second guesses himself, wanting to respect the man’s wishes but being so wholly overcome with curiosity that he can’t seem to help himself. Harry reaches forwards, fingertips brushing over the fabric. A sliver of sweat trickles down his temple. He can feel it. His desire is tantalising. 

Just one glance couldn’t hurt. Could it?

Harry flips it open to a random page, filled with that same elegant handwriting that Harry now feels like he knows well. He narrows his eyes, adjusting his step, and can’t help but react when he realises what it is.

A diary. 

Harry hasn’t had the best experiences with those.

Delivered fifty bottles of Skele-Gro, fifty bottles of Dittany, and twenty-five Wiggenweld potions. Received by Healer Masters, and she told me that Aurors had been asking questions. She was reluctant to take them this month. Make a note to look into this — what could they possibly be looking for now? 

Harry turns to another page, further along. 

Potter and the Weasley girl have broken their engagement. I must be a fool to even think of doing what I plan to do. 

His heart is racing. Another page. His eyes skim the paragraphs, not knowing what he’s looking for. If anything.

I don’t know if Potter is up to this, but he keeps trying. I have no idea why he keeps trying. 

Another.

Chilli powder. 

Another. Harry is not a good person.

Every time he kisses me, I forget myself. I’m better than this.

The perspiration on Harry’s fingers smudges the long-dry ink. He continues reading, breath caught in his throat.

He’s a fool. And he’s tricking himself. He must be. Harry Potter does not want me. Harry Potter does not want me. Harry Potter does not want me. Salazar. I wish writing it made it so. 

Harry flicks to the last dented, used page in the diary, the rest of it empty and unwritten. He can’t help but react bodily as he does, pulling it closer to him still. 

I know you’re reading this, you bugger. Never could stay out of my business, could you?

I suppose it doesn’t matter now. 

He doesn’t know how to take it. He doesn’t know when it was written. Today, in light of everything? This last week, when they’d both thought it to be over? And is it a good thing or a bad thing? Is it inferring that Harry now knows his feelings anyway, and so reading them plainly in ink doesn’t make a difference? Or is it implying that it doesn’t change anything — because Harry won’t have to see him again from now anyway?

He doesn’t know. But fuck, he can hope. He’s always had to do that. 

*

Harry looks everywhere. 

At least, it feels like everywhere. 

He goes into every shop he can think of, even stopping to ask Seamus if he’d seen him. He hadn’t. He apparates to Malfoy Manor — holding his breath and forgetting his previous apprehension — just to double check that he hasn’t been there since Harry had Floo called in, but he’s not there either. 

By the time night falls, he’s almost ready to go to Kingsley with a missing Wizard’s report.