Loverboys - corvuscrowned - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Hermione sweeps into her office in a flurry of nervous energy. Her wand holds her textured hair in a bun, a pile of books is stacked in her arms, and a Quick-Quotes Quill scribbles on a bit of parchment levitating behind her. If he didn’t know her better, Harry might think she’d forgotten they were meeting.

“Harry!” she exclaims, dropping the books, which zip neatly onto her shelves. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione,” Harry says. He’s used to her being late in her new position as Director of Community Affairs, though he occasionally has to tamp down his jealousy. Unlike him, Hermione makes a difference with her hard work, and not just her reputation.

“Well, thank you for coming by so late, Harry,” she says. “You know I wouldn’t have asked if it weren’t important.”

Harry nods. Frankly, he’s been itching for someone to ask him to do something lately. Too many trips to St Mungo’s over the years had reminded the DMLE that he was, in fact, mortal. Now, the Ministry generally keeps him busy trotting him out to galas and fundraisers and things that may look like Auror missions, but are really thinly-veiled photoshoots.

“I’m happy to help however I can,” he says.

“Yes,” Hermione says with a slightly pained smile. “I had a feeling you would say that.”

Harry frowns. “Is everything alright, ‘Mione?”

“Oh,” Hermione sighs, her shoulders slumping. “Yes. Perfectly alright.” With a flick of her wand, the Quick-Quotes Quill and parchment drop from the air and settle neatly at her desk. “It’s just — there’s been another attack.”

She slides a file across the desk to him. “Her name is Alacia Dolohov,” she sighs. “Antonin Dolohov was her second cousin. To our knowledge, she had no involvement in anything to do with Voldemort’s efforts.”

Harry leans over to page through the report. “I wouldn’t think so,” he says. “She would have been — what — seven years old at the time?”

“She’s barely seventeen now,” Hermione says with a grimace. “They’ve long since run out of reasonable targets — not that any of this enters the realm of reasonable. They’re attacking with complete irreverence for the victims’ actual involvement with Voldemort, not to mention a lack of consideration for the reparations the families have made.”

Hermione closes her eyes and rubs them with an exasperation so intense Harry can feel it from across the desk. “Alacia is recovering in St Mungo’s right now. The Healers have done their best, but — she might never return from this mentally.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “She’s lucky to be alive.”

Harry winces at the photographs attached on the final page. There’s an image of Alacia bruised and mangled in a bed at St Mungo’s, her mouth bleeding and eyes swollen shut. Angry purple marks and ragged crimson rope burns stain her neck.

“Do you have any leads?” Harry asks, his voice clipped with anger.

“Oh,” Hermione says, her face turning up into a sad smile. “Harry, that’s not…”

Harry deflates. “That’s not what you need me for.”

“You know I would if they’d let me,” she says. “But I do need your help.”

“Right,” Harry says, sighing. “Then what’ll it be?”

Hermione takes in a long breath, studying him for a moment as she worries her bottom lip. “I think you’d better come with me.”

*

The head of the Ministry’s Office of Public Relations waits for them outside the door to the Ministry’s holding cell. “A pleasure to see you, as always, Auror Potter,” she says in the honeyed voice that always reminds Harry a bit of Professor Umbridge.

Harry has had the frequent displeasure of working with Grimartha Notwick, who, despite her ability to twist, embellish, or fabricate any story, has never been able to successfully hide her distaste for him.

Head Auror Robards’ greeting is refreshingly informal by contrast. “Potter,” he says simply with a paternal nod. He shares Hermione’s uncomfortable, antsy expression, an uncharacteristic demeanour that makes Harry’s stomach sink.

Harry nods to each of them before turning to Hermione. “What are we all doing here?”

“Erm,” Hermione says. Her eyes flash up to Notwick’s. “Maybe it’s better we tell them at the same time.”

“Whatever you think is best, Director Granger,” Notwick says cooly as questions begin to storm through Harry’s mind. She gestures to the door of the holding cell. “After you.”

Notwick and Hermione disappear into the holding cell, but Robards grabs Harry by the elbow before he can follow.

“Harry,” he murmurs with an expression that Harry knows all too well. It’s the look he gets when he’s about to ask Harry to do something he’ll hate, or to tell him that he hasn’t been cleared for a case — both of which Harry is more than used to by now. “I asked them to let me brief you first, but — just know that you can say no to any of this.”

“Come, come!” Notwick calls from within the cell. Harry spares Robards one last wary glance before following her in.

Harry blinks into the darkness of the holding cell, which resembles a medieval dungeon much more than part of a civilised justice system. In the back of the room, he can slowly make out a huddled mass of a bound wizard.

The man sits against the back wall of the cell, resting his head on his knees. His face is obscured by a shock of sleek, chin-length white-blond hair.

Harry steels himself immediately as Draco Malfoy lifts his head to meet his eye.

“Oh,” Malfoy says, his voice like the memory of a bad dream from lifetimes ago. “I see you’ve brought the whole welcome brigade — how lovely.”

Harry freezes in place. Barring tabloid photographs from the rare times Malfoy surfaced from obscurity in the past decade, Harry hasn’t seen him since the trials. It’s as if he’s seeing the ghost of the boy he once knew. His features have shifted with age: his jawline is stronger, his face devoid of the boyish curve of his youth, his hair longer but no less perfectly groomed.

His appearance may have changed, but the hatred that brims in Malfoy’s eyes is unmistakable.

Malfoy’s wrists are handcuffed together, a glowing silver cord extending back to bind him to the wall of the cell. Captive is not a position Harry ever thought he’d see him in. He’d always imagined that the only way Malfoy would ever be caught was if he wanted to be.

In the manner only Malfoy ever really could, he scans Harry for less than a second before drawing upon the deepest weakness. “I see the mighty Ministry is continuing to put The Saviour to good use as its showpony.”

Harry turns to Hermione, unwilling to endure Malfoy’s presence any longer than necessary. “What are we doing here?” he repeats.

“Yes, Granger,” Malfoy drawls from the floor. “Why don’t you enlighten us?” He’s dressed in dark robes and a midnight blue cloak, its hood spilling behind his shoulders. He props his head up with a cuffed hand, as though they’re in the middle of a relaxing game of wizard chess.

“Maybe you should sit, Harry,” Hermione says, glancing at an ancient chair in the corner of the room.

“Oh, God forbid Saint Potter have to —”

“Shove it, Malfoy,” Harry bites, the words coming with the familiarity of a lullaby. It only succeeds in widening the sneer painted across Malfoy’s face. “Hermione,” Harry breathes. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Hermione stammers with uncharacteristic hesitance, her eyes flashing between Notwick and Harry. Then she composes herself into the calm demeanour of an experienced public official.

“Firstly, we all want you to understand that none of this is being formally required by any department within the Ministry,” she says. “It’s simply a proposition.”

“Does all of this apply to me as well?” Malfoy asks. “Seeing as I’m —”

As Malfoy gestures to his chains, Robards draws his wand and shoots off an expertly aimed Silencio. Malfoy rolls his eyes indifferently as if he’s been jeered at by a first year.

“As I was saying,” Hermione continues stonily. “Grimartha and I have been working together on a potential campaign to address the increasing tensions between the populations of the wizarding world which are perceived to be the light and dark,” she says. “As you know, Harry, we’ve seen a drastic uptick in revenge-motivated aggression towards innocent or reformed individuals who have previously been associated with Voldemort, no matter how tenuous the connection, as well as generational Slytherin families.”

Harry’s face narrows in confusion. He glances at Malfoy, who glares at the ground. “So this is protective custody, then?”

“It’s really better if you let me finish,” Hermione says. If it was anyone else, the questions brimming at the back of Harry’s throat would already be pouring out of him. But it’s Hermione, so he tries to stuff them down and trust her.

Hermione draws in another long breath. “We believe that it may significantly alleviate these tensions if the public could perceive a — a unity between the two sides.”

Harry and Malfoy glance at one another at the same moment, and then look away immediately.

“So you want us to appear to be friendly,” Harry supplies. He almost says friends, but the word feels strange on his tongue when referring to the two of them, and he can’t get it out.

Hermione looks at him with trepidation. “Do you think that’s possible?”

Harry glances at Malfoy. It’s lucky that he can’t speak, because his eyes say everything. He looks as though he’s trying to set Harry on fire solely with the hatred in his eyes.

“Do you really think it would make a difference?” Harry asks without looking away.

“It wouldn’t,” Notwick says. “Were it anyone but the two of you.

“Just think of it,” she continues, gesturing extravagantly with the type of panache reserved only for the likes of Rita Skeeter. “The hero who saved us all, and the fallen son of a Death Eater who once walked the path of darkness himself. But now, Draco Malfoy has seen the error of his ways and has been successfully reformed with the help of his childhood schoolmate.”

She pins Harry with a curled smile. “After all, if the former Death Eater who made an attempt on Albus Dumbledore’s life could secure forgiveness from Harry Potter, surely that means the rest are deserving of similar grace.”

It makes Harry’s skin crawl the way she speaks of it all, like it’s the plot of an entertaining novel and not a trauma that still shocks him from his slumber to sweat-drenched sheets several times a month. But despite everything he knows, when she sells it like that, even he can almost believe it.

Harry takes a step closer to Malfoy, gazing down upon him. Malfoy huddles back against the wall, glaring down at the floor like the spoiled child he is.

Harry almost wishes that he looked more wretched, more time-ravaged and pathetic, but he doesn’t. He looks a little graceless, but no less sophisticated, groomed, or powerful. Harry can feel the magic coming off of him in waves, lavish and alluring as any Dark Magic.

“Is it something you think is possible?” Hermione asks again.

It’s not, not really. But Harry thinks back to Alacia Dolohov’s file, her bruised neck and swollen eyes. He pictures her there, inches from death, shown the same lack of mercy that was wrought upon Hermione, Luna, Dean, and countless others.

Harry nods, not taking his eyes off of Malfoy’s deepening scowl.

“Good,” Hermione says, her voice nearly a whisper. “Because that isn’t all.”

Harry turns to her in confusion, though part of him knew there was bound to be more. Hermione was far too nervous for her great request to simply be “Can you chum around with Draco Malfoy for the cameras now and then?”

Hermione looks at him with pleading eyes before her face falls. She turns to Notwick. “Would you explain to him, please, Grimartha?” she asks, pushing her hands through her hair and setting off to pace back and forth in the cell.

“Mr Potter,” Notwick says, stepping towards him. “We believe that the benefits of a perceived friendship between you and Mr Malfoy would be significant; however, we’re not convinced it would be enough to significantly address the violence plaguing the vulnerable members of our community.

“That is,” she continues, “Not as significantly as a perceived romance.”

Harry’s mouth falls open in a gawk. He grows warm with a confusing mixture of anger and mortification — and he thinks for a moment that he must have misheard her.

Everyone in the cell is still for a beat as Harry stammers. Notwick stares at him with an unkind smile on her lips. Neither Robards nor Hermione will meet his incredulous stares. He can’t begin to consider looking down at Malfoy.

“No,” he says, after what feels like a century. His hands are shaking with nerves or with anger. “No. It’s not — It’s not going to happen. No.”

Notwick tuts. Hermione finally looks at him, a pained expression on her face.

“No!” Harry repeats — shouts, really — because it’s as if no one has heard him. “I’m not giving up more of my life and my privacy to — with this twat — I’m not —”

“It wouldn’t require your life, Auror Potter,” Notwick says as though speaking to an over dramatic child. “It wouldn’t require much at all, in the grand scheme of things.”

Harry seethes the way he often does when Notwick is trying to convince him of something. He’s sick of seeing things in the grand scheme of things. He’s been lost in the grand scheme of things since he was eleven years old — making sacrifices and giving up parts of himself since before he even knew who he was.

“It would require no more of your time than any of your Auror missions. Director Granger and I have done the work of drawing up a timeline of the relationship and preparing materials and narratives for the press. For you and Mr Malfoy, all that would be required is to provide a few pieces of evidence in public settings, attend a small number of events, and, of course, refrain from other romantic dalliances for the duration.”

Harry grimaces. He hasn’t been having very many dalliances lately — but banning him from the possibility of an actual relationship is extreme, even for Notwick. Of course, it’s far from the most absurd part of the request.

“I don’t understand why a friendship wouldn’t work,” Harry says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “It’s hard enough to act chummy with the prat.”

“As Director Granger said,” Potwick says slowly, “a friendship would improve public perception. However, a romantic relationship runs much deeper, and would be far more likely to sway even the most vengeful in our community. That’s not even to speak on a romance’s ability to grip the media, expanding the campaign’s reach exponentially.”

Harry flusters, incapable of contradicting a single one of her points. “Aren’t there others?” he asks desperately. “Parkinson? Zabini?” He scowls down at Malfoy. “I’d be happier to work with Greg Goyle than with him.”

Notwick shakes her head firmly. “Auror Potter, please know that we have extensively researched our options. In addition to the fact that Mr Malfoy is the most —” she nods to his bonds “— accessible, we believe that the narrative of his reform would be much more compelling than those of the others.”

“It’s — I’m not —” Harry stammers. “It’s out of the question. It’s not happening.” He can’t bear to look at Hermione or Robards, so he stares at Notwick. “We need to try something else.”

“We’ve tried —” Hermione says wearily, her voice cracking. “Harry, we’ve tried everything else.”

He finally looks to her, wincing at the misery painted on her face. He knows that she wouldn’t ask him if she didn’t believe it would work. She wouldn’t ask him if she hadn’t done hours of research and consulting and projecting, if she hadn’t exhausted every other possible solution. She’d always been the most moved by the plights of the suffering, and hadn't been calloused to the attacks the way that Harry and Ron and everyone else had.

It wasn’t a campaign to her, a statistic, a line for her resume. It was Alacia Dolohov chained in an alley, tortured within an inch of her life. It was every other innocent witch or wizard that would come after her.

“We’ll take care of everything, of course,” Notwick says. “The quotes, the interviews, the appearances. You and Mr Malfoy will just have to show up.”

Harry can barely hear her words, his eyes locked on Hermione’s.

Because, despite himself, he’s considering it.

Harry can’t be furious with Hermione, so he’s furious with Malfoy. Harry is in a perfect position to kick him squarely in the face, just like Malfoy had done that night on the train before sixth year. And maybe if Harry were a lesser man, he would.

Notwick turns to Robards. “Would you be so kind as to allow our friend to share his insights with the room?” she asks, as though she isn’t perfectly capable of reversing the Silencio herself.

Harry draws his wand first, because aiming it directly at Malfoy’s stupid face feels as close as he’ll get to hexing him right now. He lifts the charm without an incantation and pockets his wand.

Malfoy smiles up at him sweetly. “Why, hello there, loverboy.”

Harry is on him in a flash, without thinking, without feeling. Before he registers it, he has one hand bunched into that ridiculous cloak, the other reared back and balled into a fist so tight his knuckles redden. “You bloody f*cking —”

“Harry!” Hermione exclaims as Robards scrambles to pull him away and Notwick makes that infuriating tut again. Malfoy smirks up at him, looking positively delighted, and it’s all Harry can do to not actually kick him in the face as he’s dragged across the room.

Robards stands before him, but Harry can’t tear his eyes from Malfoy’s infuriating face. “Breathe, Potter,” he says before turning back to Notwick and Hermione. “I think we can all agree that we can continue this conversation once our tempers have cooled. We can speak more tomorrow.”

“You’ll know right where to find me,” Malfoy grumbles.

“I believe Auror Potter is perfectly capable of composing himself,” Notwick says.

Malfoy barks a laugh. “So I take it that a great deal has changed since —”

Hermione draws her wand and points it directly between his eyes. Malfoy winces back, exposing his Adam’s apple as he elongates his long neck to strain away from her, though he locks onto her eyes with equal ire. Harry hopes she’ll punch him squarely in the face just like old times, but unlike Harry, she’s learned to control her temper.

“Surely you understand the gravity of your situation, Draco,” Hermione says with ice in her voice. “We have you on no less than six counts of possession of illicit Dark materials with intent to distribute, two counts of disseminating instructions of prohibited magical acts, and three violations of international magical treaties, all of which are in violation of your probation.”

“You simply must be mistaken,” Malfoy says unflinchingly. “I’m sure you’ll find my record is quite clear.”

“We could have you in Azkaban within the hour,” Hermione says, though Harry knows it's a bluff. Hermione has been an outspoken advocate for prison reform and rallies against sentences in nearly all cases.

A shock of laughter bursts from Malfoy’s throat. “I’d much rather snog a Dementor than him.”

Hermione sighs, pocketing her wand as though she hadn’t heard him. She walks over to Harry and puts her hands on his chest. Harry closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, feeling her hands rise and fall with the expansion of his ribs, then opens them.

“Alright?” Hermione asks.

“He’d never agree to it, anyway,” Harry murmurs, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth — because it’s beginning to sound like he’s slowly fading into agreement.

Hermione smiles wanly. “He doesn’t have much of a choice,” she says. “But you do. Harry, you can do whatever you choose. We can — we can figure something else out,” she adds. She’s always been a bad liar.

Harry thinks of all of the late nights she’s been working at the Ministry, all of the pub nights he and Ron have gone out to alone because she was tied up with work. She was working on this.

“I want to help,” Harry says quietly.

Notwicks claps her hands together behind Hermione. “Of course, we would be wise to seek some degree of cooperation from Mr Malfoy, beyond the threat of Azkaban,” she says cheerfully, turning to Malfoy. “Surely you have some interest in preserving the safety of your friends and peers.”

“I’m not the one hunting people down in the street,” Malfoy says, sneering up at her, but his expression falters.

“It was such a shame,” Notwick says lightly, “seeing Narcissa struggle to recover after she was attacked only last year. I understand the Healers weren’t sure that she would make it. And how difficult, having lost your father so recently as well,” she tuts again.

“Keep my mother’s name out of your filthy mouth,” Malfoy growls.

Harry hadn’t known of Narcissa’s attack, though he was sure it had passed across his desk, or that Hermione must have mentioned it. Maybe he just hadn’t thought to care.

“She’s right,” Hermione says, crossing back to where Malfoy is huddled on the ground. “This won’t work without you both cooperating.”

“Or, at the very least, our ability to trust them to be in a room together without killing one another,” Robards adds unhelpfully.

“No promises,” Harry grumbles.

Notwick lets out a low hum of annoyance, and then turns to Malfoy. “If the interest of your fellow witches and wizards is not enough to motivate you, we are prepared to offer you a full exoneration of your numerous charges in exchange for your participation. And there is, as Auror Potter so astutely assessed, an added benefit of protection to be considered. Most who bear the Mark have already been targeted, as I’m sure you know — the few who aren’t in Azkaban, that is.” She lets out a small, dispassionate sigh.

“I’m sure I’ll feel quite safe with The Chosen One as my personal guard,” Malfoy spits.

Hermione huffs a sigh before dropping next to Malfoy. She sits across from him like an old friend. Malfoy seems as befuddled by it as Harry, who feels a territorial pang shoot across his chest.

“You must know that forcing others to comply with my wishes is not my usual style,” Hermione says softly. The sneer slowly drops from Malfoy’s face as he listens.

“I wouldn’t have suggested you as a candidate if I didn’t think there would be some benefit for you as well. We can offer you safety, Draco — certainly you understand how much danger you’re in, how many people would love to see you dead.”

“Is this your idea of sweet talk, Granger?” Malfoy asks, but the jab is delivered quietly, without any of his previous fire.

“You won’t have to keep hiding in the darkest corners of the world if this campaign is as successful as we anticipate it being. Your mother would be safe. We’re even prepared to station an Auror outside of the Manor around the clock if you comply.”

“My mother has her own guards.”

“I’m aware,” Hermione says, nodding patiently. “I imagine those are the same guards who were meant to be protecting her on the night she was attacked.”

Malfoy’s mouth twists, but he doesn’t say anything.

“This simply won’t work unless the both of you are willing to participate,” Hermione says gently. “It’s true that we’ve done a great deal of work preparing the details, but if you’re not willing to try your best to sell it, it’s going to be a waste of all of our time.”

She stands, her face shifting back from maternal concern to the astute composure of a Ministry official. She turns to Harry, who deflates under her determined gaze. “And innocent people will continue to die,” she says.

Malfoy resumes staring at the ground as if it’s a complex riddle to be solved. The room falls silent again as Hermione and Notwick trap him in unrelenting stares, Robard turning his eyes to the floor. The pressure is so unrelenting that it feels as though the entire room has been cloaked in a Dark spell. Harry finds himself wishing that Malfoy would break the silence with something stupid or cruel just so that he won’t have to.

Finally, Harry sighs. “I can’t do it.”

“You can do anything,” Hermione presses, her voice hushed.

“Right,” Harry says, trying not to feel angry with her for pushing so much, just like the others always do. “I can do it. But I won’t.”

Notwick interrupts the tension by clapping her hands loudly, and they all look to her.

“Well, then,” she says cheerfully, as if she hasn’t heard. “We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow. Head Auror Robards, Auror Potter, if you’d kindly meet Director Granger and I in my office tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp.”

Malfoy stirs with renewed anger, pulling at his bonds. “You’re just going to leave me here to rot overnight?” he asks incredulously. “Is this how you treat all of your Ministry pawns who aren’t Harry Potter?”

Harry glares down at him sourly, still considering a kick. Hermione takes him by the arm.

“We can meet at mine, if you’d like,” she says. “Ron just got back yesterday, so he’ll be home. I’m going to get Draco a bed and some food, and then I’ll come round.”

Harry would prefer to be anywhere other than this dreary, dark cell, stiff with hatred and confusion and his own mortification. He knows that seeing Ron right now might be the only thing capable of preventing him from going mad, so he nods and follows Robards out of the cell without sparing Malfoy so much as another glance.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

It is with deep mortification that Harry discovers Ron already knows all about the plan. Though Hermione has not outgrown her stringent adherence to rules, Ron is equally steadfast in his ability to get Ministry secrets out of her. Harry also suspects that Hermione used Ron as a sounding board during her planning, which only adds to his embarrassment.

“I told her it was a ridiculous idea,” Ron tells him when they’re three rounds of Firewhisky deep and have finally managed to broach the topic. He’s bulked out so much playing for the Cannons, which means he can hold his liquor better than Harry, who is already feeling a bit like this was all a bad dream. “But we both know if she didn’t think it would work, she wouldn’t be asking you to do it.”

“She never asks anything of me,” Harry concedes glumly. Though she easily could have, Hermione has never relied on him for her success. She’s never needed to.

“The woman is incapable of not investing her life into people’s suffering,” Ron says with a mixture of affection and exasperation.

Harry had hoped that Ron would immediately side with him and be adamant about shutting down the campaign without a second thought. Instead, Ron is being reasonable. Harry hates when Ron is reasonable.

“She spends so many nights working with the victims,” Ron adds. “Down at St Mungo's, or collecting testimonies to try to get more protections in place.” He swallows. “Or attending their funerals. It’s all she thinks about sometimes, I reckon.”

Harry shifts in his seat, wondering if he should have just gone home.

“It was always harder for me, I think, to forgive,” Ron says, shooting Harry a knowing look over his glass. “We weren’t the ones the Death Eaters were trying to exterminate. She was. I can’t even think about it without getting —” He pauses, his face darkening with anger.

“I can’t forgive on her behalf. It’s harder for me to care about what happens to the lot of them.” Ron sighs, his expression relaxing. “I don’t really understand her.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t either.”

“S.P.E.W. should have been a warning sign,” Ron adds with a playful scowl. “Now she’s all worried about animals, too, trying to get me to eat tofu.”

The Floo flares from the next room, and Hermione walks into the kitchen, shrugging off her robes as she enters. “A double,” she says in greeting, and Ron happily pours. She draws a chair up to the table, kissing Ron on the cheek and squeezing Harry’s forearm. She looks even more exhausted than she had in the cell.

“I honestly don’t know how it’s even possible to be as ridiculously difficult as he —” she starts. She remembers herself quickly, eyes widening as she looks to Harry. “But then, parts of him aren’t so bad,” she adds halfheartedly.

Harry lets out a laugh, the Firewhisky having taken the edge off. “No need trying to put lipstick on a Crup,” he says. “He’s even more of a bastard than I remember.”

Hermione purses her lips. “I actually do believe he’s changed quite a bit,” she says. “We — erm — were able to speak a bit after everyone left.”

Harry stares at her warily, suddenly feeling much more sober.

“He’s no more eager than you, of course,” she says carefully. “But I believe he really wants to do anything to help. I can’t imagine it’s been easy for him to watch his friends and family be targeted over the years.”

“Is that why he’s disappeared off the surface of the planet?” Harry grumbles.

“I think it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Hermione says with her unflinching, exhausting patience. “Of course you know he’s at the top of many people’s lists for vengeance, so I can understand why he’s gone into hiding. It’s honestly a wonder he hasn’t been killed yet.”

She speaks dispassionately, but Harry suspects she’s trying to tug at his emotions. He’s disappointed to find that it sort of works. Harry’s testimony at the trials hadn’t been without heart. He truly believed that Malfoy had been a child who was a victim to circ*mstances out of his control, not entirely unlike what Harry had gone through himself.

“It’s a wonder I haven’t killed him yet,” Harry grumbles. Hermione’s frown deepens, and Harry is washed with guilt.

Hermione couldn’t really understand what she was asking of him. Harry spent his entire youth being the essential key to prophecies and plots he had no say in. He’d spent his entire life saving people, then grew up to find he still didn’t have an ounce of agency — not unless he wanted to ignore the pleas of Harry, this appearance would really help the community and Harry, these testimonies could save so many lives, and on, and on, and on.

He cared. Of course he cared. But sometimes — selfishly — he wanted rest.

Hermione couldn’t understand it entirely, but Harry knew that she understood it more than most. And the fact that she still asked, despite it all, spoke volumes.

“We even considered having someone Polyjuice as him,” she says with a wry laugh. “But the risk of discovery was too high. We really tried to think of any other way.”

Harry pushes his hands through his hair. “Have you considered going back in time and preventing me from ever being born?”

Ron barks a laugh and pours him another Firewhisky. Harry downs it in one gulp, its heat spreading through his chest and loosening his shoulders. When he puts his glass down, Ron and Hermione are staring at him apprehensively, as if they’re afraid of scaring off a unicorn.

Images of it passes through his mind: Draco Malfoy on his arm. Draco Malfoy holding his hand. The public, the press, the very confused reactions from his friends and family.

They’re followed by another image: Alacia Dolohov, left for dead in an alley, scared and alone.

“Okay,” he says, before he can reconsider. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it if he will.”

“Harry,” Hermione cries, springing from her chair to throw her arms around him. “Oh, Harry. I just knew you’d come around.” When she pulls back, she wipes a tear from her eye so quickly he almost misses it. “I know this is a lot to ask, maybe unfair to ask, but I just know if you two can let go of some of your past, you can —”

“Don’t make me think about it too much,” Harry says as Ron refills his glass with an incredulous look on his face. “I might change my mind.”

“I told Grimartha it was off the table unless she let me take the lead,” Hermione says, brimming with renewed energy. She bounds into the living room, spelling parchment and files onto the counter in a flurry. “That way, I can make sure you’re never pushed too hard or made too uncomfortable. I can lay it all out for you right now, we can look over all of the plans and you can give me your thoughts —”

“Hermione,” Ron calls. “It’s gone one in the morning. Would you please sit down for at least five minutes?”

Hermione appears back at the kitchen door. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” she says, dropping an armful of papers onto the counter. “I’m just so relieved.”

She pulls Harry into another hug, and his stomach sinks at how pleased she is. Maybe it’s the Firewhisky, but he knows he can’t take it back now.

“I promise I’ll make sure it’s as painless as possible,” she says, squeezing his hand.

“I don’t know how it could be painless at all,” Harry groans. “It’s Draco sodding Malfoy.”

*

Hermione’s office always reminded Harry of the familiar comfort of Hogwarts. Notwick’s was much more reminiscent of the rigid formality of the Wizengamot chambers. Not even the artificial morning sunlight trickling in through the windows was ever enough to make Harry feel natural in the room.

It certainly doesn’t help when Harry arrives to see Malfoy sitting across from her desk. He looks infuriatingly well groomed and not at all like he’d spent the night in a holding cell. Harry is more than a bit disappointed to see that he’s not currently chained to anything at all.

Hermione and Robards stand behind Notwick, leaving an empty chair next to Malfoy. Harry pauses at the door, the reality of it washing over him, the months of torture that loom ahead.

“Good morning, Auror Potter,” Notwick says. “Please, have a seat.”

Harry sits silently, and Malfoy doesn’t remove his irate gaze from Notwick’s face. Harry begins to wonder whether it’s too late to flee to Antarctica.

“Director Granger has informed me that you have kindly agreed to move forward with our proposal,” Notwick says.

“I’ve agreed to hear the proposal out,” Harry corrects.

“Splendid,” Notwick says coldly. “I believe that puts you and Mr Malfoy on the same page.”

Harry steals a glance in Malfoy’s direction. He’s lost his energy from the previous night, just like Harry has. He looks as exhausted as Harry feels, the flame of his hatred having sputtered out without the proper tending.

“Of course, we would be remiss not to thank you both for your willing participation,” Notwick begins again.

“On with it,” Harry bites.

Irritation flits through her eyes for less than a second before she turns to Hermione. “Director Granger?”

“So!” Hermione says peppily. “We’ve compiled an overarching narrative of your — of the relationship. This includes when and where you’ll need to be publicly spotted together. We’ll anonymously tip off the press when need be, but I think they’re going to feast on this immediately.”

She starts to pace as she talks. “Aside from the overarching narrative, we have numerous options so that we can prioritise your comfort throughout the campaign.” She pauses mid-pace to look at them. “You won’t actually have to spend much time together — as little as possible, of course — but when you’re together in public, it’s very important that you — erm.” Her expression flickers between her Ministry-issued composure and her Best Friend discomfort. “Actually pretend to be in love.”

Harry feels like he might be sick right then and there. Malfoy doesn’t even react.

“I don’t doubt either of your abilities to sell a story,” Hermione continues. “You’ve both had to do similar things before. I think the larger concern may be…” Her voice trails off as she tries to find the right words.

“Not killing each other?” Harry supplies.

Hermione nods with a pained smile. “We really can’t risk the press thinking there may be trouble in paradise.”

“So if you feel the need to hex him, cast a Disillusionment Charm first,” Robards chips in.

Hermione glances at him warily. “It’s not that you have to appear to be happy and ecstatic all of the time,” she says. “But both of you are a bit prone to brooding, and that’s something you’ll have to relegate to privacy.”

“I’m certain Malfoy has plenty of experience putting on acts,” Robards says, accurately, if a bit cruelly.

Hermione gives that sad smile again. “It’s not actually him I’m worried about.”

Notwick clears her throat. “We’ve designed the narrative so that the relationship will have been established for several months before becoming public,” she says. “This way, any absence of excessive affection may be explained by familiarity.”

Hermione nods. “Past the honeymoon phase,” she clarifies. “More comfortable with each other, less in need of — erm —displays of public affection.”

Harry really thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Head Auror Robards has agreed to create some records from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that will support the relationship’s inception,” Notwick says, nodding to Robards. “The story begins with Auror Potter responding to an attack on Malfoy Manor. Though he was off-duty at the time, he responded to the call when no other Aurors were available, ultimately saving Mr Malfoy’s life.”

“Saving —” Malfoy stammers, breaking his silence. “Are you quite serious? As if I would ever need —”

“I’m afraid these elements of the proposal are not up for discussion,” Notwick interrupts. “We believe that this is a good opportunity to demonstrate Auror Potter’s bountiful mercy towards even those who have fallen the furthest from grace.”

Malfoy sinks back into his chair, crossing his arms with a glower. Harry tries not to think about the hell he has in store as he eyes him. Then again, it’s easier than thinking about the fact that this is the closest he’s come to actually seeing danger in years.

“Won’t his mother be able to refute it all?” Harry asks. “Narcissa?”

“Narcissa has been staying in France this month,” Hermione says, glancing at Malfoy warily.

“And I’m quite sure Mr Malfoy will be happy to help us with a bit of staging and corroboration so that his mother is none the wiser,” Notwick says. Malfoy just sinks further into his chair.

“Following the attack, Auror Potter took a special interest in Mr Malfoy’s recovery from his injuries, attending to him carefully in a private wing of St Mungo's, where the couple’s budding relationship continued to develop,” Notwick proceeds, caught up in her own storytelling. “Of course, Auror Potter experienced no small amount of internal struggle at his growing feelings — after all, this was the man who would have offered him up to the Dark Lord if given the chance less than a decade ago. But he was able to see that Mr Malfoy had truly changed and seen the error of his ways. His continued dalliances with the Dark Arts were simply the result of an inability to forgive himself for his deepest regrets, a process Auror Potter provided great aid in.”

Notwick lowers her voice, giving one of her feline smiles. “We believe that some exploration of the darker sides of the relationship will serve not only to present just how deep the wells of Auror Potter’s forgiveness reach, but will also provide for a more salacious relationship for the public and media to become engrossed with.”

“Fine,” Harry says after Notwick stares at him expectantly for a moment. “Sounds fine to me.”

“Of course it does,” Malfoy grumbles under his breath.

“Meanwhile, the new relationship will inspire Auror Potter to take a temporary leave of absence from the Aurors,” Notwick continues.

It’s Harry’s turn to stammer in incredulity. “A what?” he says, looking to Robards.

“Look at it as a long holiday,” Robards says traitorously.

“I don’t take holidays,” Harry says.

Robards nods paternally. “Exactly.”

“We just think it’s for the best for now,” Hermione says sympathetically. “Consider this your current mission. You can get back into the field when it’s all over.”

Harry rubs his eyes under his glasses to prevent himself from glaring at her.

“Luckily, all of this backstory will happen off stage, so to speak,” Notwick presses on. “It will be alluded to in interviews and details we’ll leak to the press, but won’t require any actual action on your parts. Not until your first public appearance as a couple.”

All of those words — couple, relationship, affections, love — hit Harry like Dark incantations.

“It’s understandable that you’d want to keep a potentially controversial relationship under wraps, and it also allows the media and its readership to believe they’ve uncovered something salacious,” Notwick says.

Harry feels like he’s going to pull his hair out if they keep dancing around the point. “And this first appearance?”

“Well,” Hermione says slowly. “There’s actually a good bit of leeway in that area. There are plenty of options — pub outings, Quidditch matches, café dates.”

Date is another of those painful words.

“We’ll keep it casual to start, so that Ron and I can come along to — erm — keep an eye on tempers,” Hermione says.

“Oh, what a delight,” Malfoy says. “King Weasley. Just when I was beginning to think this couldn’t get any more exciting.”

Harry lets out a long sigh. “I think it’s probably best if you just pick something, Hermione.”

“I had a feeling you might say that,” Hermione says. “It’ll be a pub night, then, this Friday — Ron and I will come along. Draco, you can feel free to invite anyone you’d like, as well.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Does this mean you won’t be keeping me in some dark cellar for the duration of this enthralling romance novel?”

“You’re perfectly free to go about as you please, though your probation is, of course, still in effect,” Hermione says sternly. She lowers her voice, fixing him with a cool stare. “You may have been able to pull the more weakly-tuned strings at the Ministry to avoid incarceration over the years, Draco, but don’t forget that when I needed you caught and bound, it happened within the day.”

She’s quite frightening, really. Even Malfoy’s expression falters. “Is that a threat from a Ministry official?”

“You’re to send a location-tracked owl to myself or Grimartha each morning so that we can ensure you remain in London. Other than that, you’re perfectly free to carry on life as usual, though if you have any interest in using the Auror Department’s protective services, we’ll be more than happy to provide you a guard.”

“I believe I’ll be just fine,” Malfoy says, quite Malfoyishly.

“Do either of you have any questions?” Notwick asks. Harry has thousands, but most of them are some variation of What in the living f*ck did I do to deserve this? so he just bites his tongue.

“We won’t tip off the press about this first outing, though they’re likely to pick up on it, anyway,” Hermione says after a few moments of silence roll past. “But you can think of it as a practice run, and I’ll be there to help you however I can. Both of you.”

“In the meantime,” Notwick says, “I kindly suggest the two of you get some practice addressing and referring to each other with your first names.”

“Or maybe interacting without attempting to murder each other,” Robards adds unhelpfully.

“You two should try to spend some time together before Friday,” Hermione nods. “I believe you may have some things to — process.”

Just the thought of being alone in a room with Draco Malfoy makes Harry’s skin crawl, so he knows that Hermione is right, as usual.

“Consider it a homework assignment,” Notwick says.

Hermione nods. “In fact, we can start right now.”

Notwick stands. “Use my office as long as you need,” she says. Robards claps a hand on Harry’s back as he follows her out, and the sound of the door closing behind them is like a death knell.

Hermione crosses to sit atop the desk, looking down at them like an irritated older sister. Harry and Malfoy both cross their arms testily, glaring at their shoes.

“I just want to reiterate that I’m here to make this as easy on the two of you as possible,” she says gently. “I know this isn’t an easy task. That’s why it will be worth it.”

“How charitable,” Malfoy murmurs.

Hermione’s composure falls. “Would it kill you to say a single word to one another?”

“Might do,” Harry says childishly.

“Fine,” Hermione says, hopping off of Notwick’s desk and drawing her wand. “I had a feeling I was going to have to do this.”

She casts a charm, and the outlined face of a clock appears and vanishes in a flash of pink wisps. “The door will unlock in twenty minutes. See you soon, boys,” she says cheerfully. By the time Harry can even jump up from his chair to stop her, she’s locked the door.

f*ck.

Harry stares at the door in shock, already formulating the rant he has in store for Hermione the second he gets out of this bloody pressure chamber. He knows it’s not worth attempting to unlock it, but considers setting the entire thing on fire instead. Enduring Robards’ lecture would be better than whatever the next twenty minutes holds.

“Maybe this is all just an elaborate assassination plot,” Malfoy says conversationally from behind him. Harry turns to face him; he’s crossed to the back of the room to look out of Notwick’s large window, his hands clasped behind his back as though they’re old friends having a cheeky catch up. “They must actually want us to kill one another.”

“Maybe we should give them what they want,” Harry says, annoyed that Malfoy won’t let him do what he’d prefer, which is to sit in dead silence for twenty minutes and act like none of this is happening.

Malfoy hums indifferently without turning away from the window. Harry sucks in a lungful of air and holds it until his chest aches. The reality of the situation has been washing over him in waves since yesterday, like a canvas layered too thick with crusting layers of paint. But being alone with Malfoy makes the thought of playing nice for the cameras seem even more impossible, let alone the thought of — of —

He’s not an unattractive man. It’s a little bit infuriating, really, the way he looks sometimes. In the rare photo of him the press managed to snap — Malfoy snarling before his trials or being taken in on charges he’d inevitably sidestep — there was always something rugged about his darkness, something entrancing. It’s the reason that despite his dalliances with the Dark Arts, the press has always hungrily shared what few snippets of his life reached the surface of the wizarding world.

He isn’t unattractive at all, and Harry isn’t sure whether that makes things easier or harder.

Harry slumps back down into his chair and rubs his temples. He can begrudgingly admit to himself that Hermione is right: everything about this is going to be more miserable if they’re at each other’s throats all the time.

But then, it’s all they really know how to do.

“So,” Malfoy drawls before Harry can decide whether he wants to try talking. He sinks into Notwick’s throne-like chair, kicking his feet up on her desk. “What shall we chat about then, Potter? Perhaps how to celebrate our first anniversary? Do you think you’ll propose, or shall I? Are you the fathering type, Potter — Do you think we’ll have many children?”

“Shove off, Malfoy,” Harry growls.

“Now, now,” Malfoy says, clearly enjoying himself too much. “That’s no way to talk to your dashingly handsome lover. Besides, I believe you’re meant to call me Draco now, isn’t that right?”

“You don’t seem particularly upset about all of this.”

Malfoy laughs and reclines further into Potwick’s chair, cradling his head in his hands like he owns the place. “That’s because I know it will never last,” he says. “It’s just one of the countless inane Ministry schemes that’s headed positively nowhere, and once they realise that not even Harry Potter’s bountiful font of forgiveness can sway the masses, you can go back to being a Ministry sock puppet, and I’ll get back to my own affairs.”

Harry ignores the jab. “And what would those be?”

“Positively none of your business,” he snaps. “Does that bother you, Potter? Are you going to stalk me all around London like you did when we were sixteen?”

“Frankly, I couldn’t give a rat’s arse what you do with your time, Malfoy,” Harry snarls.

“Draco,” Malfoy repeats, inspecting his fingernails. They’re carefully groomed, of course, just like the rest of him: perfectly combed white-blond locks and smoothed, pressed blue and charcoal robes that suggest nothing of having spent the night in a holding cell. “Anyway, it’s all a bit insulting, if you ask me — them capitalising off of the inclinations of England’s two most eligible bachelors.”

Harry actually agrees with this. It’s not the first time he’s wished the entire public didn’t know he was bisexual. Of course, everyone knew that Malfoy was gay, between his reputed high-profile trysts with Ministry officials and Quidditch players — which often overlapped, as the rumours would have it.

Malfoy chews on a perfect pinky nail. “Then again, I seem to recall one of us was not quite so eligible in recent years,” he says coolly. “In fact, I believe I heard of some engagement or other to a certain Weasley cub.”

“f*ck you,” Harry says before he can stop himself. He’s giving Malfoy exactly what he wants, and it shows in the cruel smile that spreads across Malfoy’s lips.

“Struck a nerve, have I?” he tuts. “It did seem like quite the tragic story. After all, who in their right mind could turn down the chance to marry our Saviour Harry Potter?”

The door unlocks. Hermione strolls in to find Harry with his wand pointed right between Malfoy’s eyes.

“Four minutes and twenty-six seconds,” she says, pocketing her watch. “Longer than I would have guessed.”

Harry’s breaths are heavy. Malfoy smirks at the tip of his wand. Harry reckons it would be much more satisfying to punch him than to hex him.

“Oh, for Godric’s sake, Harry, put that away,” Hermione says, pushing his arm down. “You can’t let him get to you like that.”

“Shouldn’t you be saying something to him?” Harry asks as he repockets his wand. He can immediately hear how bratty he sounds.

Hermione glances at Malfoy, whose eyes are glued to the ceiling in an expression of mock innocence. “I think there’s much less hope on that path, unfortunately,” she says. “He’s just trying to rile you up. You can’t let it work on you so easily, or this is going to be a waste of time.”

“It’s going to be a waste of time either way,” Malfoy grumbles.

Hermione shoots him a death glare. “All I know is that if you two don’t find some common ground, I’m not the only one who’s going to have blood on my hands.”

Harry’s stomach sinks.

“Friday,” she says, throwing a glare at Malfoy as she herds Harry out of the door. “Silvertide’s in Hogsmeade at nine sharp. If you’re late, Harry’s not the only one who’s going to have a wand at your throat.”

“Sounds so very romantic,” Malfoy calls as Harry finally escapes the room. “I have butterflies!”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Harry wishes that Hermione had chosen anywhere but Silvertide's on a Friday night. The pub teems with a bustling crowd, all of its dark wooden surfaces glowing under warm yellow lamplight. It’s one of his favorite places, and one of many that he knows is about to be ruined by Draco Malfoy.

Ron joins him at the table an hour early, offering halfhearted attempts to convince Harry to forgo his escape to Antarctica. He grabs Harry’s arm when he gestures to catch the attention of a bartender.

“No, no, no,” Ron says. “Hermione will kill me if I let you have a third before they even get here.”

“After she kills you, maybe she can kill me, too,” Harry says.

Harry has long since learned that wife trumps best mate every single time. If it weren’t for that, he knows that Ron would definitely help him figure out how to survive in the middle of the tundra.

Ron gives him one of the looks Harry hates most: a mixture of pity and helplessness. It’s the same look he gave Harry for weeks after Ginny called their engagement off, memories of which Harry can’t seem to shake from his head ever since Malfoy resurrected them in his mind.

Draco, Harry reminds himself. Draco’s first name feels unfamiliar and unwieldy, as if he’s a man Harry has never met, and not the prat who made his adolescence as miserable as possible.

“You’ll get through it, mate,” Ron says, finishing off his fourth very unfair firefly rum and clapping Harry on the back. “You’ve got through worse.”

Harry knows he’s talking about the whole killing Voldemort thing, but he still can’t help but think of Ginny, and the way things ended. It wasn’t her fault, of course — no more than it was Harry’s fault that his eyes were green. When they both began to recognise their attraction for their own gender, it had been funny at first. But somewhere along the line, Ginny had realised that her attraction to men was more of a confusing and compulsory experience that she had simply outgrown, shrugging it off like a too-tight coat.

Harry had tried dating after her, blowing through trysts and flings with reckless abandon, to the media’s delight. But he found that it was impossible to replace being known by someone the way that Ginny had known him — all of his flaws, all of his history, all of him, and not just the version they read about in the newspapers.

Ron waves a hand in Harry’s face. “Anyone home?” he says. “You usually love my crazed fan stories.”

Harry hadn’t realised Ron had moved on to a new topic. He’s been spacing out a lot this week, like his brain is trying to catch up with reality, or choosing to exist outside of it.

Ron peers over Harry’s shoulder and waves. Harry turns to see Hermione pushing through the packed pub, followed by a spritely witch with high cheekbones and narrow eyes, her dark hair styled into a bob with a neat, sharply cut fringe.

“Is it bring-your-own-Slytherin night?” Harry grumbles as Hermione brings Pansy Parkinson to join them at their corner booth.

“Of course he’s late,” Pansy says as she slides next to Hermione. “He wouldn’t dream of being on time to anything, the absolute prat.”

Harry chuckles, and she shoots him a glare. “Something funny, Potter?”

Harry hasn’t seen Pansy since the trials. She looks around the bar shiftily, as if she’s being stalked. “Sorry,” she murmurs, her face softening. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in such a crowded place.”

“It’s fine, Pansy,” Hermione says soothingly as pity sears across Harry’s chest. She threads her arms through Ron’s as though she’s anchoring herself against stormy weather. “Pansy has been doing a great deal of work with the Ministry on the protections of generational Slytherin communities,” Hermione explains. “We’ve briefed her on the situation under the Fidelius Charm. We thought it might, erm, mellow things out a bit if Draco had someone in his corner.”

“Like in a boxing match?” Harry says, before he can stop himself. “So it’ll be a fight?”

Hermione studies him. “How many drinks have you had?” She turns to Ron. “How many drinks did you let him have?”

“Calm down, ‘Mione,” Harry sighs. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Thank you,” Hermione says softly. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“You act like you’ve been asked to snog a bridge troll,” Pansy says with nervous energy. “But then again, I suppose that’s not too far off the mark.”

Harry laughs. “I like your attitude, Parkinson,” he says. “Let me get you a drink.”

Ron and Hermione begin murmuring to each other as he pushes out from the booth. Harry usually avoids all pubs on Friday nights — he can already feel the energy of unwanted attention falling upon him, the heavy gazes of strangers and the vibration of whispers following him as he moves through the crowd. But he knows that’s precisely why Hermione chose a busy night.

He orders a round for the table, plus a shot of lightning vodka that he knocks back while Hermione’s back is turned. As he watches the bartender fill their glasses with foamy amber mead, Harry imagines, as he often does, that he’s just an ordinary bloke — one who can go to bars without being leered at or followed all night. One who hasn’t just signed away his freedom for the foreseeable future.

The spell is immediately broken when someone presses a cool hand to the back of his neck. Harry instinctively shrugs off the unwelcome advance from a particularly ballsy stranger, but when he turns, he’s met with the bright, silver eyes of Draco Malfoy.

“Now, darling,” Draco coos. He traces his hand down to the small of Harry’s back, and Harry squirms reflexively. “We are pacing ourselves, aren’t we?”

For a second, Harry forgets about everything, fingers itching to shove Draco hard out of his space. Then he remembers himself and breathes a low sigh.

“Oh,” Draco exclaims dramatically. “Don’t be cross with me for being late, love. You know how I am by now.”

Draco leans in and kisses Harry unceremoniously. Harry knew that this was inevitable, but Draco’s soft lips catch him off guard, and he tenses up immediately. Draco holds him by the cheek, letting out a low chuckle against Harry’s lips, and then pulls back to wave over a bartender.

Harry’s mind is empty for a beat as he stares into the space before him. Then, slowly, everything rematerialises around him: the bustling of the bar; Ron, Hermione, and Pansy in the corner; the Ministry; the campaign.

Draco’s hand on his, his fingers curling between Harry’s on top of the bar. Harry’s lips, still slightly warm.

What the f*ck.

It’s hard to say who the bartender is more surprised to see as Draco orders something overpriced and puts it on Harry’s tab. His eyes flicker between Harry and Draco for too long before he starts working.

“Are you quite alright, darling?” Draco asks, drawing his thumb gently across Harry’s cheek. “You look quite pale all of a sudden.”

“Cool it,” Harry says, shaking his head slightly so Draco drops his hand.

A flicker of ever-familiar hatred passes through Draco’s eyes, but it’s quickly re-painted with false concern. “You’re still angry that I’m late. I know how much you hate to be apart from me, love, but I promise I’ll make it up to you later.” He bunches a hand in the brown leather of Harry’s jacket in a way that may seem affectionate to an outsider, but Harry knows it’s just as close to throttling him as Draco is allowed to get.

Harry wants to shrug him off, but he realises that Draco’s act is working — and well. A quick glance around the room reveals at least a dozen sets of eyes watching them, the conspiratorial gazes of onlookers who immediately turn back to whisper to their friends.

Harry grabs the drinks and heads back to the booth. Pansy springs up immediately to sweep Draco into a hug as tight as a straitjacket. Harry remembers Pansy being cool and confident, unflinchingly self-assured. Now, she shakes like a leaf as Draco strokes her hair, murmuring something into her ear. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchange a look.

Pansy pulls away and grabs one of the drinks, downing half of it immediately. She gives Draco a little shove on his shoulder and pouts. “Why is it that it always takes some nonsense involving Harry Potter for me to see you?” she asks. “I was never sure when you would emerge from whatever black pit you were last sucked into.”

“You worry too much, darling,” Draco says. Harry tries not to think about what other nonsense involving Harry Potter Pansy is referring to.

“Brilliant, Draco,” Hermione says when he and Harry sit across from them. Never one to miss a detail, Hermione and Ron moved while Harry was at the bar, leaving him and Draco on display to the whole pub.

“Harry,” she says. “You look like you’re being tortured by loose pixies.”

“She means you look like you have a stick up your arse,” Ron clarifies.

Harry tangles his fingers into his hair. He glances over at Draco who, to his great disdain, is making dramatic goo-goo eyes at him.

“So wound up, love,” he purrs, stroking Harry’s shoulder. “Luckily I know just how to relax you.”

Hermione shoots him a glare. “Split the difference, Malfoy.”

Draco just snigg*rs, but he drops his paws. “How are you faring lately, Weasley?” he asks after a sip of whatever expensive scotch Harry is paying for. “I understand you’ve made quite a career for yourself helping your Quidditch opponents to victory.”

“Watch it, Malfoy,” Ron snarls. Harry knows this blow was particularly biting after the Cannon’s upset to the Bats last week — a fact Draco is surely aware of. “I don’t have to act nice with you.”

“Who’s acting?” Draco asks innocently, kissing Harry on the cheek. He smells of something expensive: pine, citrus, and freshly pressed linen.

Pansy stares at them like their heads have caught on fire. “I’m going to need another drink if I’m going to watch this all night.”

Harry soon learns that Pansy is not the only Slytherin whose company he’ll get to delight in that evening. Soon, Blaise Zabini, Theo Nott, and Daphne Greengrass appear at the bar. Draco and Pansy go to greet them, giving Harry a much-needed respite.

“He’ll get bored of it soon, making you sweat,” Hermione says once it’s just her and Ron. “But he’s good — I knew he would be. The number of people who have been looking over here is already more than I expected. I won’t make you stay long.”

“What if seeing us together just makes people hate us both?” Harry asks, though Hermione knows he’s grown indifferent to the public’s opinion of him.

“I don’t think people hate him as much as you think,” Hermione says. “Loads do, of course — but he’s become something of a tragic figure since the war, and people love reading about him in the Prophet. That’s one of the reasons we picked him.”

She peers at the Slytherins at the bar, huddled together like a support group. “It doesn’t hurt that he’s so ridiculously good-looking, either.”

Ron gawks at her.

“It was a factor I had to consider!” Hermione exclaims, flushing. “Listen, Harry, you’ve really got to get out of your head about this. Just look at it like any other Ministry assignment.”

“Or give him a taste of his own medicine,” Ron says quietly, like he’s hoping Hermione won’t hear.

Harry raises an eyebrow at him.

“Malfoy always wants to feel like he has the upper hand in the situation,” Ron says. He glances at Hermione as if he’s waiting for her to interject, but she seems to be in agreement. “If he didn’t think it was bothering you, he wouldn’t be so over the top.”

“But it is bothering me,” Harry says. He knows he’s being difficult, but he also knows that Ron and Hermione can’t begin to understand what this is like.

“At this point, it’s just about making things as easy on yourself as possible,” Hermione says gently. “This can be torture, or it can just be a job.”

Harry looks over at Draco and his friends. They’re in a tight semi-circle against the bar as though huddled against the cold. Nott wraps up some long-winded story and the five of them break into laughter. Draco’s hand reaches up to the back of Zabini’s neck as if reflexively. Harry doesn’t know whether they used to shag or whether they’re currently shagging, and he definitely doesn’t care.

“He’s a hell of a flirty git, isn’t he,” Ron murmurs like he’s read Harry’s mind.

“I’m certainly going to have to reign that in,” Hermione grumbles.

Draco returns to the booth with Pansy and Daphne, sliding back in next to Harry. Luckily, there’s no time for him to speak before Daphne launches into a tirade.

“I simply didn’t believe it when Pansy told me, I thought she must have been drunk or lying,” Daphne says with roiling energy. “I mean, Draco has had his fair share of unexpected romances, sure, but I suppose I simply don’t understand how the two of you are compatible in the slightest.”

“Love is strange, Daphne,” Draco says. “Maybe someday you’ll understand.”

“Love!” Daphne exclaims. “Pans, do you hear him? Love! The man hasn’t been able to keep a relationship longer than two weeks for as long as we’ve known him! Love! With Harry Potter!”

“Nice to see you again, too, Greengrass,” Harry says, fearing he’s surpassed the upper limit of Slytherins he can handle in one night.

“Draco was pretty obsessed with him back in Hogwarts, Daph,” Pansy supplies. “Don’t you remember all the nights he spent ranting about Potter in the common room — about his stupid hair and his stupid Quidditch skills and his stupid, beautiful green eyes?” She gives Draco a devilish look as she peers at him over her drink. “The clues were there all along, when you really think about it.”

“That — I wasn’t —” Draco stammers, turning just the slightest bit pink at the tops of his ears. “Shut it, Pansy,” he says brutishly. Harry suddenly understands why Draco is so dead set on pushing his buttons: it’s incredibly fun to watch.

“It’s perfectly alright to admit you had a schoolboy crush,” Harry says, nudging him with his elbow. “Seeing as it worked out in your favor.”

Draco opens his mouth and then closes it when he glances at Daphne. “Truly, a romance for the ages,” he settles on, tapping his fingers on the table.

“Well, I think it’s all very sweet,” Hermione chips in.

“Besides, it’s not like it was a one way street,” Ron says with a grin, ignoring the glare Harry shoots at him. “Malfoy was all Hermione and I heard about from Harry during sixth year. It was always, ‘Where do you think he is right now,’ and ‘What do you reckon he’s doing.’”

Draco breathes a snort. “Positively star-crossed.”

Daphne turns to Ron as Harry silently stews. “I listened to your last match on the wireless,” she says with the same manic energy as before. “The Harpies are positively unmatched up front, so, really, you kept their score much lower than it could have been. Is that a Detwell Dip you use to block with your broom?”

Ron stammers. “Actually, it’s a slight inversion of that technique,” he says apprehensively. “But, yeah.”

“It sounded impeccably executed,” Daphne pushes on. “The Harpies are known for their shot put chasing techniques, of course, which makes the Dip the perfect move to keep them on their toes. My aunt used to play for the Kestrels,” she adds, as if in explanation.

Ron sizes her up and then stands. “What are you drinking?” he asks, and the two make their way over to the bar, chattering animatedly about techniques and players.

Pansy claps her hands together. “It’s already working!” she exclaims. “Interhouse unity!”

Hermione smiles in a way that could almost convince Harry that this might all be worth it.

“Mother always hoped I’d marry into the Malfoy family, of course,” Pansy says to no one in particular. Her face twists like she’s tasted something rotten. “Luckily, Draco figured out he was gay well before I did, so we never had to go too far down that path.” She shoots Draco a wink. “I suppose I have Potter to thank for that.”

“Pansy,” Draco growls. “It’s just us. You can lay off.”

“Oh, but I’m only being honest, Dray,” Pansy says. Draco sneers at her and finishes his drink in one large gulp.

“It’s going well,” Hermione says. “You’re both doing great. We won’t have to stay too much longer — I don’t want to burn you out too early.”

“Well, I’m having fun,” Pansy says.

“You know, I think I am too,” Harry says. He’s a little buzzed, and he’s starting to like the way Pansy can get into Draco’s head even when he can’t.

“Then that’s all that really matters, isn’t it love?” Draco asks, his voice syrup-sweet. He squeezes Harry’s knee beneath the table.

Harry freezes. Unlike Draco’s other touches, this is entirely out of sight of anyone, including Hermione and Pansy. He knows it’s just another button Draco is trying to push, but it doesn’t stop his face from growing very, very warm.

“Hermione, I think your husband might need a spot of rescuing,” Pansy says, looking at the bar where Ron and Daphne are in the middle of a rapidly escalating debate.

She stands, and Hermione joins her. “Please don’t kill each other for at least three minutes,” she whispers before they walk off.

Draco resurfaces his hand and runs it through his blond hair. Harry looks up at the ceiling, trying to ground himself back into reality, trying to think of what a real couple might do, might look like. Certainly not like this.

“Pansy’s a lot,” Harry says finally, extending a feeble olive branch.

Draco laughs mirthlessly. “She’s my oldest friend,” he says. It’s not much, but it’s the first exchange they’ve had — maybe ever — that isn’t laced with insults.

They sit in silence as they watch the others at the bar. Hermione appears to have got sucked into the debate, and Pansy whispers to Nott and Zabini, all of them sneaking glances at Harry and Draco. Harry knows they should probably look a little less like they both want to die, but that feels impossible right now.

“They’re afraid,” Draco says quietly. There’s something unrecognisable in his tone, something Harry has never heard from him: vulnerability, perhaps.

“Daphne didn’t miss a single Quidditch match in England for the first sixteen years of her life. She’s been listening to matches on the wireless because she’s afraid of going in person.” He glances at Harry, as if checking to see whether he’s actually listening, and then back to the Slytherins. “I can’t even recall the last time I saw Theo and Blaise around this many people at once. They’re only here because they knew you’d be around.”

Draco laughs at Harry’s blank expression, but it’s without its usual bite. “No one would attack us within thirty metres of The Saviour.”

Each of the Slytherins looks starkly different, so much older and more mature. Maybe because it’s been years since he’s seen any of them out at pubs or even just walking the streets.

“I suppose you think we’re all lying in the beds we’ve made,” Draco says.

Harry shakes his head. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “Convincing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco rolls his eyes. Then he glances out to the rest of the pub as if remembering himself. “It means, darling,” he says, combing his fingers through Harry’s hair slowly, “I believe you’ll do positively anything your lovely friends at the Ministry ask you to, even if you detest the very people you’re trying to protect.”

“I don’t hate them,” Harry says, shivering at the touch.

Draco just carries on playing with his hair. “Oh, I’m going to have to carry this entire thing, aren’t I?” he says with a sigh. “You always were such a dreadful liar.”

He drops his hand to Harry’s cheek, cupping it with what Harry might mistake as tenderness if he didn’t know any better. “Theo was never much of a thinker, but Blaise can already tell that there’s something less than authentic afoot. And if even a handful of dastardly Slytherins aren’t buying it, what of the rest of them?”

He turns pointedly to the bar just as the group returns, this time including Nott and Zabini.

“Oh, you two just can’t keep your hands off of each other, can you?” Pansy chirps. She has two drinks in her hands. Harry suspects that they’re both for her and that they’ve both been added to his tab.

“Wotcher, Potter,” Nott says awkwardly. He’s wearing a tight black shirt with long sleeves, but faint, winding scars peek out from his hands and neck. One juts across his cheek, only faintly visible in the dim light. He and Zabini slide across from them, and the booth is divided between Slytherins and Gryffindors; only Draco is on the wrong side.

“So, this is bloody strange,” Zabini says without preamble.

“You know, it was strange to me at first, too,” Harry says, fuelled by Draco’s words as though they had been a challenge. He glances at Draco with what he hopes appears to be admiration and not murderous intent. “Sometimes, it still is.”

“And how is it that I’ve not heard hide nor hair of this, even though it’s been months?” Zabini presses.

“I suppose I’m meant to owl you about every new bloke I’m shagging?” Draco snaps.

“Seems to be more than just shagging,” Zabini says. “If anything Pansy says is true.”

“Oh, don’t mind Blaise,” Pansy says, elbowing Zabini. “He’s just sore that you told me first.”

Zabini’s gaze passes between Draco and Harry for a moment. Hermione nudges Harry with her knee.

“Yeah, no, really strange,” Harry says, because he thinks it’s what he might say if it was all true. “I definitely — erm — resisted it a bit at first.” He reaches for Draco’s hand and threads their fingers together on top of the table, hoping that his hesitancy isn’t obvious. “But I don’t know. You don’t really have much control over it sometimes.”

“I just don’t see it,” Zabini says.

“Then it’s fantastic news that it has positively nothing to do with you, isn’t it?” Draco snaps.

Zabini acts as though he hasn’t heard this, his eyes fixed on Harry. “And how was it that you met? Because Pansy’s version of events is a little jumbled.”

Harry glances at Pansy warily. “That’s probably for the best — the details of that night haven’t been released to the public yet,” he says, grateful for Hermione’s coaching the night before.

“It was all very damsel in distress,” Draco says with dramatic panache. “I was in a bit over my head.”

“A bit,” Harry says.

“I was in quite a bit over my head,” Draco says, nudging Harry playfully. “And Harry valiantly appeared in my time of most need, and — well, I’ll spare you all the gory details.”

Zabini looks unimpressed. “Then you put aside nearly two decades of bad blood and fell in love?”

“No,” Harry says. “Of course not. There was still a lot of…” he glances at Draco. “… resentment. In both directions, I think. But the recovery period at St Mungo’s gave us a lot of time to talk things through.”

“I think the two of us have been through a great deal that not many others can understand,” Draco says. He looks at Harry like he’s the only person in the pub, in the city, on the planet. It’s very convincing.

“I think there was always something buried underneath all that hatred growing up,” Draco says. “Something we just needed the opportunity to explore a bit.”

Harry knows Draco is caught off guard by his kiss. He can feel the stiffness of shock in his lips. But within seconds, his lips soften and open against Harry’s as he wraps his fingers around the nape of his neck to pull him closer, the other hand bunched up in Harry’s jacket without the aggression from before. There’s a neediness in his touch.

He’s really not a bad kisser, and Harry can’t be sure whether that makes things easier or harder.

“Oh, would you stop it already?!” Daphne squeals from what feels like millions of miles away. Harry pulls back as she and Pansy devolve into a chorus of spiteful laughter. Draco shoots them a glare, but he doesn’t take his hands off of Harry.

Zabini’s expression has shifted from suspicion to wary apprehension. It wasn’t the story that convinced him. It was the kiss.

Harry glances at Hermione. She’s positively beaming at him.

“It was strange for everyone at first,” she says to no one in particular. “But it just takes some getting used to.”

“I guess we all have our coping mechanisms,” Zabini finally says. “Speaking of which — I’m going to need another drink if I have to see that happen again.”

Draco drops his hands as though he’s just realised they’re there. “I’ll take that to mean we have your blessing,” he calls as Zabini stalks to the bar.

“Harry,” Hermione says. “I know we said we’d finish out the night at the pub, but I’m working on a case tonight that I could really use another set of eyes on. Do you think you could help me out?”

“Reckon I could,” Harry says, trying to keep the relief off of his face.

“She’s always stealing him away from me,” Draco says dramatically. “I suppose I’ll have to start a Ministry spouse support club with Weasley.” He shuffles out of the booth to let Harry out, his hand lingering on Harry’s arm as if he needs steadying.

“Promise you won’t work too hard, my love,” Draco says as Ron and Hermione stand to gather their things. That glint in his eye is back — he must know that Harry hasn’t done anything useful in ages.

But the thought leaves Harry’s mind when Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and pulls him into a deep kiss. He nips Harry’s bottom lip in a way that makes his head buzz like television static.

“Erm,” Hermione says, shaking Harry slightly to pull him away. “Really, Harry, we need to go. You two can snog tomorrow.”

“Sorry, Granger,” Draco says as Harry flushes. He fixes Harry’s hair with nimble fingers. “You know how he drives me positively mad.”

He pats Harry’s chest affectionately and then turns back to the booth.

Hermione can’t get him out of the pub quickly enough.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Hermione and Notwick weren’t exaggerating when they said the relationship was intricately planned out — nor was Hermione wrong when she told Harry he’d best treat the campaign like a mission.

The next few weeks are filled with carefully-planned appearances. Hermione attends the first several, somewhere in the periphery to make sure that they stay on task and to evacuate Harry before the hexes fly.

The only upside to pretending to date Draco Malfoy is that the man loves to hear himself talk. As such, most of their time is filled with him prattling on about something or other; the history of the buildings they’re in, or the properties of the herbs growing in the windows of potions shops, or retellings of the trysts he’s had with Ministry officials, Quidditch players, and high profile solicitors as he spots them, all described in varying levels of detail that Harry did not ask for.

Hermione’s plan to not require great deals of public affection were apparently in vain. During the rare times that Draco isn’t being a handsy git, he’s compensating for it with gazes of abject love and admiration, some so sickly-sweet that Harry has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

But the worst part isn’t having to act like a couple when others are around, when they’re under the curious gazes of shopkeeps or passers-by — or even the odd brazen witch or wizard who approaches Harry directly to ask why the hell he’s looking so chummy with Draco Malfoy. It’s not even Draco’s constant pawing, or the way that he sometimes looks at Harry, so convincingly in love that even Harry believes it for a second.

The worst part is when they’re alone together, truly alone. When they’re walking empty Ministry halls after coaching sessions or finding quiet alleys after dates so that they can Apparate separately.

During those times, Draco switches off like a light bulb. Anything that could be mistaken for affection or even tolerance sloughs off of him like water, replaced with contempt so quickly that it gives Harry whiplash. He never makes any attempt to bury the fact that he’d sooner give up his magic than have to be in Harry’s presence for a second longer. But at least the feeling is mutual.

After two weeks of exhausting coffee dates, broom shopping, and romantic strolls down lamplit streets, Hermione reports that things aren’t moving as quickly as she’d like.

“I think we may have underestimated how the unlikelihood of you two dating would work against us,” she says from behind her desk. “We’ve seen some speculation about it in Witch Weekly and The Celestial, but the Prophet isn’t going near it with a ten-foot pole until there’s concrete evidence that it’s real.”

“Evidence,” Harry repeats, knowing that he isn’t going to like what’s next.

“Yes,” Hermione says. “We were thinking — a kiss. Somewhere very public, where it can be photographed.”

Draco’s expression remains impassive when Harry glances over. They haven’t kissed since the night at the pub, and Harry isn’t entirely convinced it’s something he can endure sober.

“I’ve anonymously tipped off the Prophet about you two having a reservation at Fibonacci on Saturday evening. You don’t have to stay long. We just need you to come out of the restaurant, kiss, and part ways.” Hermione speaks gravely, as though she’s delivering a eulogy. “Is that something you can do for us?”

“Why act like we have a choice?” Draco says, voicing Harry’s exact thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says, pursing her lips. “You’re right. I suppose I don’t see an alternative to this one.”

“It’s fine, Hermione,” Harry says. “We’ll survive it.”

“Unfortunately,” Draco grumbles to the floor.

But when Saturday comes, he’s an entirely different person.

They sit at the bar of the restaurant, which is ideal, because they don’t have to look at each other. Draco spends most of the evening relentlessly flirting with the spritely young bartender, regaling him with stories that are almost certainly fabricated on the spot. But Harry has a suspicion that Draco is just as uncomfortable as he is, because he doesn’t reach out once the entire night.

“Shall we?” Draco finally says when the time comes for them to leave. Harry has zoned out into his third whisky, as if he’s trying to astral project into a universe where he’s out on a date with someone he actually likes.

Harry’s heart pounds as they make for the exit. It’s so loud he’s sure Draco can hear it. He hates that all of it makes him so nervous, even though there’s nothing at stake. It’s not like he has any reason to care what Draco thinks of him. Or his kissing skills.

Draco’s personality shifts somewhere between the bar and the exit. He reaches down to thread his fingers through Harry’s, his entire energy alit with affection. It’s uncanny how he’s able to do it, unlike Harry, who wears his heart on his sleeve and remains so stiff under his touch.

It’s a cold evening at the very end of winter, and the bite in the air pinkens Draco’s cheeks the moment they step onto the avenue. The rain has left a sheen on the dark cobblestone that reflects the warm yellow of the streetlamps, making the entire night glow. People amble lazily down the street, some of them hand in hand, living an authentic version of Harry and Draco’s falsehood.

As in all things, Hermione was right to pick this night, this place. It’s incredibly romantic.

“Cold out,” Draco says as they stand outside of the restaurant. The ambient light from inside casts his face in tones of gold. His hair is pulled half up in a knot at the top of his head, the rest falling lazily to his chin. He fusses with the collar of Harry’s jacket. “Are you warm enough?”

“Your endless love keeps me warm.”

Draco’s eyelids flutter. Harry can tell he’s resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He has no idea where the photographer is — probably in the pub across the street — but Hermione insisted they avoid those looks they often shoot back and forth — the ones where it looks like they’re plotting one another’s murders.

Harry shrugs Draco’s hands away. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

“What a poet,” Draco says. “You always had such a way with words.”

He locks eyes with Harry, and sometimes it’s so intense when he does that, like he’s seeing parts of Harry that he’s not particularly keen on sharing. He cards his fingers through Harry’s hair like he often does in public. Sometimes, when no one’s looking, he tugs.

But tonight his touch is gentle, so gentle that Harry almost shivers under it. He traces a hand up Harry’s neck and cradles his jaw. His eyes drop to Harry’s bottom lip and he brushes his thumb across it, and Harry does shiver.

Harry knows Hermione is just going to love this. Draco will probably get a little gold star in his records for good behavior. He tries to soften his face. It must be obvious how much he’s struggling, because Draco chuckles under his breath.

“You know,” Draco says, his voice the lowest, quietest of vibrations. “I’m just so mad about you, Potter.”

“Harry,” Harry reminds him.

“Yes, yes, that. Harry. I’m so in love.”

“You can save it.”

“So madly in love,” Draco purrs. “Why, I have been for some time.”

Harry looks up to the sky, because it’s as close as he can get to rolling his eyes. It’s dotted with bright, twinkling stars.

“In fact, I suppose Pansy was right about all of it. You know, at that first pub night.”

Harry’s eyes snap back down to earth — because what the f*ck.

Draco gives a small nod, making another featherlight stroke across Harry’s lip. “We were too young to understand it then, weren’t we?” he says with a light laugh. “It was easier to think of it as mutual hatred than to admit that there’s always been something between us.”

“Stop it,” Harry says. “No one can hear us.”

“I’m not saying it for them,” Draco says, leaning in so that he’s nearly speaking into Harry’s lips. “I’m saying it for you.”

Draco kisses him. It’s nothing like the other night. It’s not hungry, and it’s not showy. It’s slow and tender, his fingers winding to the nape of Harry’s neck to tangle into his hair, his lips slowly opening Harry’s mouth where he slips an exploratory tongue inside. His taste is sweet and bitter like the expensive scotch Harry paid for. Harry’s hands reach automatically for his waist, and Draco presses into him. Harry hears a noise slip from his throat — a soft, low sigh that he did not sign off on making.

Not a single thought passes through Harry’s head for the length of the kiss: only Draco’s soft lips, his now-familiar scent, the warmth radiating off of him. The second Draco pulls back, a million thoughts return at once, swarming around his brain like angry, stinging wasps.

Somewhere during the kiss, Draco has become another person — Malfoy again, with a flicker of mockery and hostility brimming in his silver eyes. When he smiles at Harry, it’s curled cruelly at the corners, a victor claiming his winnings.

Harry wants to kill him.

“Dream sweet dreams of me, loverboy,” Draco says. He shoots Harry a wink, turns on his heel, and walks away into the night.

*

“He is absolutely just f*cking with your head.”

Harry knows it’s true. Ron and Hermione had said the same thing when he told them what Draco had said. But he needed to hear it from Ginny.

A lot has changed about her since she ended their engagement. She’s cut her hair short, for one, in a sharp bob that makes the stark red even more shocking. She also f*cked off to the British countryside, a decision that Harry envies more and more with each passing day.

Now, Ginny works mostly as a medicinal herbalist, an interest she developed when she realised that chasing wartime adrenaline highs by playing Quidditch was best left to Ron, and that she preferred a quieter lifestyle. She spends hours working in her garden and lab, developing natural magical remedies that are less intense and complex than potions, and which she sells in brightly coloured bottles out of Luna’s naturalist shop.

Ginny is the only one of them who had decided to leave and heal after the war, rather than constantly reliving it. She’d figured out a lot for herself before the rest of them had.

She pours Harry a second cup of tea and pushes over a plate of homemade flax cookies, which taste a lot better than they sound. “I hope the Ministry is going to pay for a good Mind Healer once all of this is over.”

“I’d rather they Obliviate me once this is over.”

Ginny sits down across from him and puts her hand over his. It’s incredible how the same gesture Draco has made dozens of times in the past two weeks feels so different now — comforting and grounding instead of infuriating and confusing.

“It’s very Malfoy of him to do this,” Ginny says angrily, riled up on Harry’s behalf. “As if things weren’t already difficult enough, he’s making sure you’re miserable on every possible level.”

“What if he’s being honest?” Harry asks desperately. He can’t just ignore the possibility, no matter how hard he tries. “What if he’s just taking the opportunity to spill his guts because he knows I won’t believe it?” Harry pauses as he tries to catch even one of the thousands of thoughts in his head. “Or maybe that’s what he wants me to think — that it’s all true — because I’d think it wouldn’t be — when it’s really false, but he just wants to watch me squirm?”

Ginny pulls her hand away, her frown deepening. “I can barely follow that,” she says. “Damn. He’s good.”

Harry leans back into his chair. Light floods in through the kitchen window, open to the field behind Ginny’s little cottage. He can see a harvest of purple, stalky plants swaying in the wind, belching out clouds of orange mist every few minutes. He wishes he could live out here with her and never go back to London. He could till the land or harvest herbs or whatever the hell it was she got up to these days, as long as it had nothing to do with Draco Malfoy.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Ginny says. “Even if he does fancy you, it’s not like it matters.” She eyes him awkwardly over a long sip of tea. “Unless it’s mutual, of course.”

Harry glares at her. “It’s not mutual, Gin.”

“Well, then you have nothing to worry about,” she says. “Just don’t let him get to you.”

“Funny,” Harry says grouchily. “That seems to be the common advice I’m getting from everyone who doesn’t have Draco Malfoy trying to crack their brains like a walnut.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Ginny says. She’s always been able to understand Harry a bit more than anyone else. It’s why he couldn’t let her leave his life entirely when they split up — and she hadn’t wanted him to.

“Have you thought about giving him a taste of his own medicine?” she says.

It’s exactly what Ron had said, but Harry shakes his head. “I can barely pretend to have feelings for him for the campaign, let alone — pretend to not be pretending to have feelings for him.”

“Godric,” Ginny says. “If we’re going to keep adding layers to this, we’re going to need something stronger than tea.”

“Now you know how I feel.”

Ginny fixes him with a steely look. “All I know is that you’ve survived having Voldemort in your head, Harry. You can survive Draco Malfoy.”

A bright flash of light shines in from the living room as Ginny’s Floo lights up.

“Gin, bunny,” Luna’s soft voice chimes. “I’ve brought some spare remedy bottles and —”

She pauses when she walks into the kitchen. “Harry!” she says, her voice a joyful melody. “And lunch! I’ve brought lunch, and it’s more than enough for three.”

They sit out under Ginny’s trellis and tear through Luna’s sandwiches, pastries, and homemade pumpkin juice, watching the wind ripple through the tall grass of the flowered field. Luna tells them about the expanding customer base of the shop and fills them in on updates from Neville, Dean, the Patils, and others from their year, all of whom she keeps steadfast weekly correspondences with, as if she’s their appointed secretary.

Ginny takes them out to her greenhouse after lunch and shows them the beautiful and often frightening plants and herbs she grows. Harry has always loved to watch her talk about the things she adores. It’s why he loves to listen to her talk about Luna, which is something he reckons the two of them will figure out one way or another in their own time.

Harry watches and learns and listens and tries his best not to spend the afternoon thinking about Draco Malfoy — but it’s a perpetually losing battle.

*

Notwick drops the copy of the Daily Prophet on Hermione’s desk as she strolls into her office. It’s unfolded so Harry and Draco can see the massive amount of space they’ve dedicated to the article. Harry Potter Spotted Romancing Former Death Eater Draco Malfoy, the headline reads matter-of-factly, and sits atop a too-large photo of Draco and Harry.

It makes Harry’s stomach hurt to see the way he looks in it: completely enamoured with Draco, transfixed by his gaze and hungrily leaning into the kiss as though it sustains him.

Draco peers down at it with an unreadable expression on his face. Harry reaches out and turns it over so he never has to see it again in his life.

“As you can see, Director Granger’s arrangement has paid off quite nicely,” Notwick says, tenting her fingers at her chin. “We’re both quite pleased with the results.”

“Now that the Prophet has confirmed it, all of the other outlets are writing about it more openly,” Hermione adds, pleased with her work. “The tone of the reporting is really quite favorable. There’s a great deal of open speculation about what this means for others with darker pasts. You should really consider reading one or two of the articles.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Harry says. “Thanks.”

“We think it’s time for things to move in a more formal direction,” Notwick says. “It’s important that it’s clear this relationship has the blessing of the Ministry, and we believe this month’s charity gala will be an opportune time for your official debut as a couple.”

Harry hates attending the Ministry’s galas even when he isn’t playing house with an arsehole. “Fantastic.”

“The fundraising is going towards summer housing for children with nowhere to go between terms at Hogwarts,” Hermione says pleadingly. Harry feels guilty immediately, especially given how incredible that would have been while he was in school.

“It’s next Saturday at six,” Hermione continues. “Ron and I will be in attendance, in case you need us. We’ll give you two a break until then. It will give the press more time to stir up rumours and maybe —” she hesitates “— allow some time for tensions to settle.”

Draco hasn’t spoken the entire meeting, which isn’t uncharacteristic. But Hermione seems to be picking up on the same thing Harry has noticed: his usual air of loathing seems to have doubled since the last time Harry saw him. Since the kiss.

“I’ll brief them on the details, Grimartha,” Hermione says, and Notwick gives a little bow and leaves the room. Hermione crosses to the front of her desk and sits atop it, looking down at them warily.

“Is everything alright here?”

“Peachy,” Draco says.

Hermione purses her lips as she studies them: both have their arms crossed and are looking anywhere but at her or one another, just like teenage boys.

“We still have a long road ahead of us,” she says gently. “You’re both going to lose your minds if you don’t learn how to get along a bit better.”

She chews at her bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment, then adds, “You know, everything that happened between you two was such a long time ago, and you’ve both changed so much since then. It’s obvious to just about everyone except for you. It wouldn’t kill you to try to talk things out sometime.”

They both go on glaring into space.

“Fine,” Hermione says, and Harry knows she’d lecture them more if she didn’t know they were suffering enough already. “But this gala is going to be the most torturous of all if you don’t sort things out.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

As in all things, Hermione is right. But then, the Ministry’s illustrious, flashy, and equally vapid galas have always made Harry miserable.

Draco is late. While he waits, Harry nearly falls asleep on the desk in his afterthought of an office — which he really isn’t highly ranked enough to deserve, anyway. At some point, he lets himself fantasise that maybe Draco has fled the country or been eaten by the giant squid.

When Draco finally walks in, Harry can see why he’s so late. It must show on his face, because Draco’s eyes immediately flash with murder.

“What, Potter?”

Harry just laughs. Draco looks incredible.

Some time after Hogwarts he must have learned that, despite his penchant for emerald green, he looks incredible in royal blue. His dress robes look expensive and expertly tailored, the high collar of his flowing cloak finished with two ornate golden clasps that match the intricate stitching at his waist. When he walks, the ensemble is enchanted to shimmer like the twinkling night sky.

“When the hell have you ever had occasion to wear that?” Harry laughs, not realising how snide it sounds until it’s too late. He walks over and notices that the two clasps are little snakes, which is an interesting choice.

“You don’t know a thing about me, Potter,” Draco snaps.

“Harry.”

“I see you’ve gone to great lengths to look presentable tonight,” Draco says as he watches Harry fasten the top button of his robes.

“Hermione dressed me,” Harry says with a shrug. He doesn’t really care about this sort of thing. Hermione has put him in an expensive set of forest green dress robes. She insisted the colour brought out his eyes, but Harry suspects the Slytherin house colours played into her decision.

Draco closes the space between them and bats Harry’s hands away from his collar. “Such an oaf. You’ve positively no sense of style.” He undoes Harry’s top button again and fusses with his collar, flattening it down. He’s got his hair pulled back into one of those stupid half knots again, and something about it accentuates the sharpness of his jaw. Harry doesn’t even dare exhale as he works.

Draco catches Harry’s eye and drops his hands as though he’s just realised what he’s doing.

“Was that a compliment just then, by the way?” Harry asks. “I don’t think you’ve ever come close to calling me presentable in your life.”

“f*ck off, Potter,” Draco says inarticulately.

“Harry,” Harry says, and he leads the way down to the ballroom.

They’re late. It’s just as well, because it allows them to get lost within the ambling crowd of patrons, Ministry officials, delegates, and whoevers — dozens upon dozens of people who greet Harry as if he’s their brother, although he can’t recall having ever seen them in his life. None of them seem to know what to make of Draco on his arm.

The ballroom is gaping and illustrious, an expansive hall whose large, windowed doors open out onto an artificial night sky. Hermione has secured a small standing table for the four of them. Her ivory dress compliments her rich brown skin and layers at the bottom like the petals of a flower. It looks like she’s dressed Ron, too. He towers beside her in warm mahogany robes that somehow work with his fiery hair — which, if Harry isn’t mistaken, has been combed.

Draco stands at the table for approximately one minute before he heaves a sigh. “I need a drink,” he says, stalking off immediately to find a waiter. It’s hard to know whether he doesn’t notice the way the scandalised eyes of nearly everyone in the room fall to him as he cuts across it, or if he simply doesn’t care. Already, people peer back at Harry with incredulity.

It’s going to be a long night.

“That simply isn’t going to work,” Hermione murmurs.

“He’s worse than usual,” Harry says. “I don’t know what’s going on.” Draco is already flirting with the waiter — it’s obvious even from across the room.

“I didn’t think it was possible for him to be more of a prat,” Ron says as they watch Draco give the waiter a playful shove.

Hermione makes a pained noise. “I’ll be right back,” she says before hurrying off to him.

“She’s thrilled, you know,” Ron says, though the words ring a bit ironically as they watch Hermione grab Draco by his elbow to pull him away from the waiter. “She feels terrible about all of it, but it’s going even better than she expected.”

“Because she expected us to have duelled in public by this point?” Harry asks. He watches as Hermione speaks sternly to Draco, who doesn’t meet her eye. Then her face softens and she presses a hand to his forearm.

“Well, that,” Ron says. “But they’re already seeing so much change. I mean, it’s only been a few weeks, but there’s already been a drop off in attacks, and not a single death. Do you keep up with it?”

“Not really,” Harry admits, though Hermione has been briefing them on crime stats at the beginning of their meetings. “Guess you could say I’ve been a little in my head lately.” He’s let Draco get so into his head that he’s been ignoring the bigger picture. It all feels so petty now.

“I wouldn’t, either, if it wasn’t for her,” Ron says. “But things are changing, and maybe this can all wrap up sooner than expected.”

Harry doesn’t let himself think about how long this is going to last, because it scares him too much. But Ron’s stalwart optimism brings him back to earth.

Hermione returns with a very sour-looking Draco on her arm and deposits him next to Harry.

“Tonight isn’t something we can afford to f*ck up,” Hermione says, a slight tremble in her voice. “This place is swimming with reporters, not to mention the majority of the Ministry has no idea about the campaign. Seeing you two together could really help move some of our protective legislation along.”

Draco is standing as far away from Harry as possible. Hermione unsubtly pushes him over.

“Let me correct myself,” Hermione says. “Being seen together isn’t enough tonight. You need to look like you actually like each other.” She looks pointedly at Harry. “And you need to actually speak to people, not just brood in a corner for the entire night.”

She waves over a waitress and takes two flutes of champagne off of her tray, placing one in front of each of them. “Ron and I are going to make the rounds,” she says, taking a very wary looking Ron by the arm. “Please play nice.”

The moment they turn away, Draco drains his flute in one unsophisticated gulp.

“So, what shall we discuss?” he asks, false politeness in his tone. It still catches Harry off guard when he addresses him directly, especially when he doesn’t have to. It’s always a little intense.

“The weather? The latest Quidditch rankings? Perhaps all of those poor orphans with nowhere to go all summer. But, oh,” Draco tuts. “Maybe that hits a little close to home.”

It’s a cheap shot. “Clever,” Harry says.

“You know, this might be easier if you were capable of stringing together more than five words at a time.”

“I’ll take that under advisem*nt,” Harry replies, giving him exactly five words before adding, “Thanks.”

Draco must have counted, too. He lets out a laugh that seems accidental.

“Look,” Harry says. “Hermione’s been right this whole time. We’re not making it any easier on ourselves by constantly being at each other’s throats.”

“Oh,” Draco says, his voice dropping into that low vibration that makes Harry’s head spin. He leans in to kiss Harry’s jaw, and then right beneath it. “But your throat is my favorite thing about you.”

Harry takes a step backwards. “Quit it, Malfoy.”

“Draco,” Draco says. “And besides, I’m only doing as I’ve been told.”

“Trying to give me love bites in the middle of a formal gala was not the assignment.”

Draco laughs again. “Have you ever actually got a love bite? Because that’s really not how they work, Potter.”

“Harry,” Harry says.

“Or didn’t your little ex-wife ever show you?”

“Don’t you ever get new material?” Harry sighs. He sips his champagne and glances around the bustling room. “Besides, this seems like the sort of thing you would enjoy.”

Draco seems taken aback. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you own robes like that.”

Draco grins sad*stically. “Why, Harry, have you honestly got a crush? You can just tell me if you think I look fit.”

Harry shrugs. “I think you look fit.”

This breaks Draco’s composure, and he stammers. It’s not a war, but if it was, Harry would be winning.

“Didn’t you grow up attending these sorts of things?” Harry presses. “I figured it would be like second nature.”

“If you’re wondering about my ability to schmooze, Potter, you needn’t worry.”

Harry just holds out his elbow. “Alright then,” he says. “Show me.”

Draco looks at him, and then down at his arm as though it might be infectious. Then, with a roll of his eyes, he takes it.

*

Harry’s suspicions are proven correct — Draco is really good at this. As always, he turns it on like a switch when they’re around others, and his ability to charm is completely unrivaled. Draco ignores the bewildered looks and halting greetings from the other guests — most of the Ministry officials wouldn’t lift a quill to protect Draco and his friends, let alone speak to him were he not on Harry’s arm. But by the end of most conversations, they seem reluctant to let Harry pull him away.

Harry quickly learns that Draco knows about everything. He chats to the Director of Magical Creature Control about the invasive species of pixies that are crowding out the indigenous varieties and carefully prods the new Durmstrang Headmistress about her inclusion of Occlumency in the school’s curriculum. He allows the Gringotts head archivist to ramble on about their updated filing techniques for over fifteen minutes, during which Harry desperately tries to cover his yawns with coughs and receives more than one subtle elbow to the ribcage. He regales a group of bewildered and somewhat tipsy Aurors with embarrassing stories of Harry during his Hogwarts days, and even manages to win over Robards when he astutely compliments his wife on the Belgian embroidering technique featured on her ornate cloak.

The gala is significantly less miserable than usual, because no one is really interested in talking to Harry when Draco is around. As they move through the evening, Draco holds onto Harry like he’s a lifeboat in the middle of a stormy sea. His hands are always on Harry’s elbow or the small of his back or the nape of his neck, as if they might float apart without a tether.

Eventually, Hermione and Ron reemerge from the crowd. Ron’s exhausted expression makes Harry consider whether the Ministry spouse support group wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Draco,” Hermione says, catching him by the arm and herding the four of them back to their table. “You are doing incredibly well tonight.”

“Thanks,” Harry says sourly.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione says as Ron laughs. “You know what I mean. You’re not the one who needs to win people over.”

“You don’t have to seem so impressed, Granger. Some of us were raised with manners,” Draco says, but he seems pretty pleased with himself, anyway. It’s the first time in the past hour that Draco isn’t touching him. Harry feels as though he’s missing an article of clothing.

Suddenly, Draco’s touch returns, one hand wrapping around Harry’s waist and the other splaying possessively on his chest. Harry looks to him inquisitively before turning to see Notwick approaching their table along with Felicia Chansky, the current Minister for Magic.

“Erm,” Hermione says, shooting a panicked look in their direction. “Chansky doesn’t — know. Did I mention?”

Harry looks at her in astonishment. “Hermione.”

“She never would have signed off on it,” Hermione says frantically. “We’ve kept the language as vague as possible in the formal reports.”

“Would have been nice to know,” Harry says impatiently. It’s a very un-Hermione oversight.

“I should have told you. I didn’t want to add any more pressure than necessary.” She pauses. “And then it must have slipped my mind.”

She turns the second the two women are within earshot. “Minister Chansky,” she says with a nod. “Grimartha.”

Chansky nods around the table at each of them in turn. She’s an eagle-eyed woman with blonde locks piled neatly atop her head in a complex set of coils. After serving in various strategic positions with the Ministry during both wars, she became one of the youngest Ministers the wizarding world has seen in decades.

Harry doesn’t have much occasion to interact with her in his current, largely symbolic, Auror position — but he knows she’s brilliant, and he sweats under her shrewd gaze.

“Director Granger, Mr Weasley,” she says to each of them in turn. “Auror Potter — and, is this…”

“Draco Malfoy,” Draco says cooly, taking Chansky’s extended hand and kissing it. “A pleasure.”

Chansky draws her hand away slowly and studies him for a long moment. “Frankly, Mr Potter, I wasn’t sure if I believed it was true,” she says without removing her eyes from Draco’s face.

Harry ignores the unbidden pang of possessiveness he feels as Chansky scrutinises Draco. He clasps Draco’s hand on top of the table. “I still find it hard to believe, myself,” he says, trying to keep his voice light.

“Yes, it’s so unlikely as to seem positively fabricated at times,” Draco says pleasantly. Notwick shoots him a look so icy that Harry is surprised he isn’t Petrified on the spot.

Chansky gives him an unreadable smile. “And I understand all of this began under Head Auror Robards’ supervision.”

“It was an ugly attack, but I’m glad it happened,” Harry says, shifting on his feet. He glances at Draco, and then back to Chansky. “Maybe that’s selfish. But I just don’t see how we could have reconnected any other way.”

Chansky hums. “Quite the romantic story,” she says, her eyes passing over to Hermione for a flicker. “I must say I didn’t think that a member of the Malfoy clan would set foot inside a Ministry building again after the trials ended.”

“Wasn’t that the point of the trials?” Harry asks, battling to get the irritation out of his tone. “Draco was tried, he served his probation, and went on to live as a free man, just like the rest. I don’t see why there should be any problem.”

Chansky turns that unreadable smile on him. “I’m impressed, Harry,” she says. “I hadn’t pegged you as the type to forgive and forget.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Harry says through a grimace. “But forgiveness comes easily when you can stop living in the past long enough to see the present.” He tightens his hand on Draco’s just slightly. Draco’s eyes stay locked on Chansky.

A tense beat passes before Chansky nods. “Maybe we’ll see this ballroom turned into a wedding hall before the year ends,” she utters like a curse. “My best wishes. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Harry never thought he’d see Notwick give him a genuine smile, but he believes he sees one cross her lips as she escorts Chansky to the next table.

The four of them breathe a collective sigh of relief. Harry pulls his hand away from Draco’s. Draco moves it to Harry’s back.

“You know, Harry, our Seeker is retiring next year if you want to quit and never come to one of these things again,” Ron says. He looks a little peaky, like he’s just been on the receiving end of one of Molly’s Howlers.

“Merlin,” Hermione says, summoning a waiter and grabbing flour flutes of champagne off of their tray with shaky hands. “Don’t they serve anything stronger at these things?”

“Relax, Granger,” Draco says. “Luckily, Potter’s random strokes of brilliance always seem to happen under pressure.”

“Harry,” Harry corrects him. He pauses. “Was that another compliment?”

“And he understands the English language with near-complete fluency,” Draco says. He draws absent-minded circles on the small of Harry’s back with his thumb.

Harry checks his watch, surprised to see how quickly the night has passed when all he had to do was watch Draco work for hours.

“Thanks for getting me through the night,” Harry says to him. “I thought I was supposed to be the one saving you the whole time.”

“I suppose I should apologise for taking the opportunity away from you,” Draco says sarcastically.

“Really,” Harry presses. “Thanks.”

Draco looks away. Harry looks to Hermione and Ron, who are staring at them with stupid grins on their faces. He downs his flute of champagne in one swallow.

“I think it would be alright if we snuck out before the closing speeches,” Hermione says. “I’m exhausted, and I know I’ve done nothing compared to you two.”

“Excuse me,” Ron interjects, “but I’ve just listened to Berlinda Bagley talk about the regulation of thirty-two different types of squid ink for use in migraine potions for forty-five minutes, and I feel like I could use a little bit of acknowledgement here.”

“My hero,” Hermione says, kissing him on the cheek. “I’m just going to make sure Grimartha doesn’t want you to get some face time in with anyone else before we go,” she says, and flits away from the table.

“By the way,” Harry murmurs to Draco. “Did you actually spend a month in Poland raising Horklumps, or did you just say that because the witches in the Herbology Department are all in love with you?”

“Do I strike you as the type to lie for personal gain, darling?” Draco asks innocently.

Harry is in the middle of a snort when a low voice sounds behind him.

“Harry Potter.”

He turns to see Matthias Pearse, one of the senior Aurors running for Robards’ position when he retires. Pearse is a stocky man, built perfectly for the role, and his broad shoulders are shrouded in jet black robes. He looks at Draco as if he’s a diseased troll that’s wandered into a formal event.

“Haven’t seen you around the department too much lately,” Perase says. “I should have known there was something as important as a celebrity romance going on.”

Pearse has never liked him, nor has he ever been particularly subtle about it.

“Pearse,” Harry says, giving him a nod and ignoring the rest. “This is my partner, Draco Malfoy.” Partner has always felt stiff and formal on Harry’s tongue, but it’s leagues better than boyfriend. “Draco, Pearse here is one of the Aurors who trained me when I was just starting out.”

“A pleasure,” Draco says, his expression making it clear that it’s anything but.

“I suppose it was hard to deny the writing on the wall after the Prophet article,” Pearse says. “But I must say I’m still a little surprised that all of it is true.”

“Love is unbelievable sometimes,” Draco says without bothering to hide his sneer.

Pearse glares at him. “Always known you to march to the beat of your own drum, Potter,” he says without breaking his and Draco’s intense eye contact. “But this took all of us by surprise.”

“I’m not sure exactly what you’re trying to say there, Pearse,” Harry says.

“I’m trying to say,” Pearse says, fixing him with his glare, his nostrils flaring. “That every day I’m out on the streets risking my arse to keep people like him in line. Every day, I have to watch my colleagues be attacked or killed by people like him. Which, I might add, I’ve been doing since before you were even an idea in your father’s brain.”

“I suppose I have you to thank for stopping Voldemort as well,” Harry says cooly.

Pearse sneers at him. “I’d think that would make you even more aware of how abhorrent this is,” he spits. “For you to nearly die a dozen times over to defeat the Dark Lord, only to turn around and play house with a Death Eater.”

Harry can feel Draco steel himself beside him, Ron’s wary eyes on him. “No one here is a Death Eater,” he says.

“Is that right?” Pearse snarls. He grabs Draco’s wrist and pushes his sleeve up to reveal the dark, furious Mark swirling on his forearm.

Harry winces. It’s a reflex he can’t shake no matter how often he sees it, imagining it hanging in the sky so pridefully above the desecration it marked.

Harry reaches out to put a firm hand on Pearse’s chest as Draco jerks his hand away. It’s not quite a shove, but it’s as close as he can get to one in the middle of a room full of Aurors, officials, and members of the Wizengamot. “Keep your hands off of him,” he hisses.

“You can live in whatever fantasy you like, Auror Potter,” Pearse says, pushing Harry’s hand away and shooting another scathing glare at Draco, who returns it in equal measure. “But none of the rest of us have forgotten who this man really is — and we’ll be the ones there to save your arse when he shows his true colours again.”

“Thanks,” Harry says. “I highly await that.”

Pearse stalks off. Harry’s blood is boiling, his fingers itching to grab his wand, to cast without thinking and deal with the repercussions later.

“And I thought my coworkers were arseholes,” Ron says, and Harry takes a deep breath, remembering himself.

He turns to Draco, who is staring at the floor and breathing heavily. His hand is clenched around his forearm. “Are you alright, Draco?”

Draco scoffs without looking up. “Please, Potter,” he says. “If it was that easy to get under my skin, I’d be more of a mess than you are.” But he looks as though his mind is a million miles away. He slackens all at once. “I’m going to get some air,” he says, and strides away without another word.

“Um, Harry,” Ron says after Harry stands there like an idiot, watching Draco weave through the crowd. “Don’t — maybe you don’t have to, but the bloke could probably use some company right now.”

“I think that would just make things worse,” Harry says.

Ron shrugs. “Could they really get much worse?” he asks.

He’s been spending way too much time with Hermione lately.

Harry finds Draco on one of the quiet balconies that looks out into the Atrium. They’ve enchanted the space to match the night sky. It twinkles with bright stars of faint yellows and blues that reflect Draco’s robes, complete with a bright crescent moon that bathes him in silver light.

Harry stands beside him, leaning over the balcony. The marble floors of the Atrium seem hollow and empty without the usual scuffling of busy foot traffic. Draco turns his gaze up to the sky, acting like Harry is invisible. It’s slightly better than him shooting off a hex immediately, which is what Harry thought might happen.

“Save it,” Draco says after a long silence, only interrupted by the sounds of the gala that drift through the windows that separate them from the hall. “Whatever little speech you’re about to make, you can save it.”

Harry chuckles. Despite his efforts to appear stoic, Draco is sulking like a third year. “I wasn’t going to make a speech,” he says. “It’s not really my forte, anyway, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Good,” Draco says. “Because after all of this is over, you can go back to your little Auror friends and tell them what a terrible shag I was, anyway.”

“Well, how should I know?” Harry asks innocently, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“They’re really not like that,” Harry says. “Not many of them. You met most of them. They like you.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen them risk their necks to save all sorts of people.”

“How very gracious.”

“Does it still bother you?” Harry asks. “The Mark. You’ve always got it covered, like you don’t like to see it.”

Draco finally turns to him. “Would you?”

Harry hadn’t really thought about it. He’d sort of forgotten about it, in fact — the Mark itself, and everything that Draco went through before he was forced to take it.

“I don’t care about seeing it,” Draco says quietly. “It’s — when others see it.”

There’s that tone in his voice again — the same soft, imperceptible note of vulnerability that crept in when he told Harry how afraid his friends have been.

“You should have seen yourself,” Draco says. “It was like you were watching someone behead a unicorn.”

Harry makes himself pause to actually think about his words before blurting them out for once. “I don’t think it’s something I’ll ever get used to seeing. But it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Well, it’s burned onto my arm, isn’t it?”

Harry turns away from him to the open sky. They need these gaps, sometimes, he’s come to learn — like taking a boiling pot of water off of the heat until it can settle enough to see through.

“You really have been incredible tonight,” Harry says eventually. He’s not sure why he’s trying so hard, even though Draco is still such a git. It’s true that getting along would make things easier, but that might not be his only motivation. “It makes sense now, why Hermione thought you’d be such a good fit for this. I don’t know who else would have been able to change so many people’s minds in one night.”

“Yes, Potter, we’ve since established that I’m a masterful schmoozer.”

“It’s not just that,” Harry says. “I mean, it is that, too, yeah, but — You’re exceptionally clever, and you sort of know about everything. And you’re really good at making people feel heard and listened to.” He pauses. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think it’s because you’re good at being humble with people.”

Harry thinks Draco is going to bat away all of the compliments, but he just looks down at the ground. “I like to learn,” he says.

“It shows.”

A small scowl returns to Draco’s lips as he returns his gaze to Harry. “I believe Granger also knew it takes exceptional charm to make you look like even slightly less of a bumbling idiot.”

Harry shrugs. “Someone’s got to do it,” he says. “I’m nearly thirty. There’s really no hope left for me at this point.”

Draco’s eyes flick through the windows into the event hall, and then he locks Harry with a penetrating gaze. Despite trying to remain composed for the duration of the conversation, Harry feels himself start to crack when Draco looks at him like that.

Draco closes the distance between them. When he puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder, it almost feels fraternal. Then he raises it to tickle his fingers through the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck.

Draco’s words from the night of the kiss for the Prophet flit through Harry’s mind. They’ve passed through his mind more times than he’d like to admit since then, and when he’s feeling indulgent, he’ll twist them and turn them over, pick them apart. We were too young to understand it. There was always something between us.

When he’s feeling really indulgent, namely when he’s a little drunk, Harry lets himself think about it: whether there really was something beneath all of that hatred. He thinks about the fact that they don’t have any reason to hate one another anymore, not really, and that maybe their steadfast grudge is a way to cover something else up.

“Well,” Draco says from somewhere that feels very, very far away. “If she had to pick anyone to be tortured by your idiocy, it may as well have been me, I suppose.”

“Hey,” Harry says dully.

He can’t say much else — not with Draco’s lips on his.

They’ve kissed a few times since that night — little unconvincing pecks when they were being watched or photographed — but this feels different. It feels like the kiss for the Prophet, the one that had felt like a confession.

Just like he had that night, Harry finds himself reaching out, pulling Draco closer by the waist. Draco comes along willingly, pushing up against Harry as he deepens the kiss. He’s more forceful this time; he slides his tongue into Harry’s mouth and bunches his fingers in his hair, pulling on it lightly.

Harry doesn’t think about what the f*ck is going on, why the f*ck they’re kissing for no one’s benefit but their own. He doesn’t think about anything other than Draco’s soft lips pressing into his, Draco’s tongue exploring his mouth, the way Draco's fingers carding through his hair makes Harry feel like he’s going to go insane.

Draco slows his lips and cradles Harry’s face between his hands with a soft touch before pulling away.

It’s lucky that Harry can’t think right now, because the way Draco looks at him —

And then his face twists into an all too familiar smirk. He turns his gaze back through the windows of the ballroom where Hermione, Notwick, and Chansky are standing around a table in the middle of the room, stealing glances at them through the winding crowd.

Draco pats Harry’s chest. “Now if that doesn’t get us an O on the assignment, I simply don’t know what will.” He plants a swift kiss on Harry’s cheek. “Incredible acting, by the way, Potter,” he says snidely. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I would honestly believe you were in love with me.”

He walks back into the bustling hall, leaving Harry to blink in his shimmering wake.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

If the Ministry gala was their N.E.W.T.S., Draco and Harry would have passed with flying colours. Hermione praises Harry for their expert and obviously premeditated decision to kiss while Chansky’s eyes were on them, as it seemed to remove any lingering doubts she may have had. Ron opted to use the term snogging later that night.

Hermione holds Harry back after their next briefing and closes the door behind Notwick and Draco. He hadn’t spoken the entire meeting, as usual, but at least seemed less brooding than usual.

She sits in the chair next to Harry, leaning over the armrest like a first year gossiping about cute boys in the common room.

“I don’t think I’d be a good friend if I didn’t ask,” she says. “It’s just — when I said I was worried about things getting to your head, I didn’t necessarily mean… this.”

“Nothing’s getting into my head, Hermione,” Harry says. He tries to sound reassuring, but it just comes out snippy. Hermione must have seen it, too — the way that the kiss that night seemed like more than just a charade.

“I’m fine,” Harry says. “He doesn’t bother me anymore.”

Hermione studies him, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, I won’t push it,” she says. “But if it starts to be too much, you can tell me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Not much, I guess.”

“Well,” Hermione says sadly. “No, I suppose not. Though I could talk to him.”

“Don’t,” Harry says immediately. “Hermione, don’t talk to him. You’ll only make things worse.”

“I won’t,” Hermione says, putting her hands up defensively. “Not unless you want me to. But you can talk to me if you want to.”

He doesn’t talk to her, because it will only make her feel more guilty. He can’t really talk to anyone about it, except for Ginny. They have an unspoken weekly standing appointment during which he paces holes through her carpet and rants for at least an hour while she gives him sympathetic looks and helps him fine-tune his escape routes and murder methods.

After the gala, Hermione and Notwick loosen the reins a bit on the relationship. Hermione lets them pick their own outings so long as they spend at least a few hours a week together in the public eye, which only makes Harry think she and Notwick are scheming up something bigger.

Harry lets Draco take control, if only to have one less thing to fight about. This results in Draco dragging him all around London and making Harry pay for things he absolutely doesn’t need. Draco just points into display cases and pulls at Harry’s arm and slips his hand under his jacket to wrap around his waist and says, “Oh, pet, aren’t these positively stunning?” Then makes those stupid goo-goo eyes at him until Harry reaches into his pocket.

It’s a bit easy to get lost in. Draco shows up at the Ministry sometimes, waiting in the Atrium for Harry to get out of his department meetings. He always springs up the moment Harry emerges, bounding over to greet him with a kiss or a tight embrace as the rest of the Aurors snicker behind him. He fusses with Harry’s hair while they’re out, murmurs scathing gossip about people just out of earshot as if not a thought can pass through his mind without sharing it with Harry. He always orders for Harry in cafés and restaurants, saying things like, “But I just know you’ll really enjoy this,” and he’s always right.

Sometimes, he kisses Harry without any warning at all, as though the mood struck him and he couldn’t let it pass. Sometimes, Harry catches him staring with a look in his eye that could only be described as awe.

He’s really an incredible actor.

A few teenage wizards eye them with open intrigue one afternoon when Draco drags Harry to an expensive floral shop. Draco rolls his eyes after Harry has a bit too much fun making a vase of Sneezing Lilies spray clouds of yellow pollen after he tickles their stems.

“What do you think?” he asks, looping his arm through Harry’s and pulling him over to an elaborate bouquet of pink and purple flowers whose price tag Harry refuses to even look at.

“Aren’t flowers supposed to be a surprise?”

“They aren’t for me,” Draco says, touching a ruffly pink bloom with a featherlight finger. “It’s Pansy’s birthday tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Maybe — pansies?”

“That’s an incredible idea,” Draco says, bringing the vase to the counter and writing down Pansy’s delivery address. “Then you can send me flowers after she hexes me into St Mungo’s.”

“I don’t understand all of this pure-blood stuff,” Harry says, looking at the blooms. “But I’m sure she’ll love it.”

“I certainly hope so,” Draco murmurs, pausing as if he’s not sure he wants to elaborate. “I suppose I haven’t been an incredible friend to her these past few years.”

The shopkeeper eyes Draco warily until Harry steps up behind him, reflexively putting a hand on his back when Draco straightens. Before Harry can even reach into his pocket to pay, Draco has already placed a few Galleons on the counter.

The teenagers make jeering faces at Draco as they leave, only stopping when Harry glances over. He knows that Draco sees it, the scorn in people’s eyes, the incredulity. It’s already reduced since they first started going out — back when it wasn’t uncommon for people to hurl insults at him as they passed — but all of it seems to roll off of him like water.

Draco turns to him when they step out onto the street. “I’m afraid I’m out of ideas for the day, unless you’d like to watch me shop for groceries. Are you fond of leprechaun blood? I was thinking of trying it in my breakfast cereal.”

Harry checks his watch; they have about another hour to kill before they’re free of one another for the week. “Come with me,” he says. “There’s a stop I’d like to make.”

He takes them down a side street that shoots off of Diagon. Though the facades of the buildings grow more neutral the further they get from the shopping district, there’s one storefront a few blocks away that stands out in a shock of bright teal. Ivory vines wind down its front, and a wooden sign that reads Roots, Shoots, and Skrewts in careful calligraphy swings above the door.

Ginny is crouched down by one of the green shelves that line the walls of the shop when they walk in, restocking tinctures and balms and sachets of dried herbs. She turns at the chime of the door’s bells, and her face passes quickly through surprise and into an uninhibited snort of laughter when she sees them.

“Why, if it isn’t the lovebirds.”

Draco looks uncomfortable immediately, which might be why Harry took him here. “Weasley,” he says, a more generous greeting than Harry had expected. He starts peering around at Luna’s wares curiously.

“We were in the neighborhood,” Harry says. “Figured we’d pop over.”

Ginny stands and pulls him into a hug. “Well, you caught me just in time. I told Lu I’d watch the shop while she’s down at Gringotts.”

“Spending a lot of time together lately, are we?” Harry asks, pretending to be very interested in a sachet of brightly coloured scales.

“We are business partners,” Ginny says defensively.

Draco turns to her. “How long have you had the place?”

Ginny eyes him apprehensively. It’s been years since they’ve seen each other in person, and Harry would have been equally surprised if Draco had greeted him so neutrally upon their reunion.

“Err — well, the shop is Luna’s,” she says slowly. “But I’ve been supplying about a third of the inventory for a year or so, and if my anxiety relief tinctures come together the way I expect, that might increase.”

She directs this partially to Harry, but Draco seems intrigued. “And I presume that’s some variation on the standard Deep Breaths Elixir?”

Ginny doesn’t try to hide her suspicion when she turns back to him. “There’s some overlap in the ingredients and brewing techniques, but all of my formulations are entirely my own.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Draco says. “The galphimia glauca in the original formulation has more of a sedating effect than what’s ideal for long term use.”

Ginny nods, a trace amount of resentment melting from her face. “I use valerian in its place. It’s a much more robust base without such intense effects — so maybe this year’s class of Ravenclaws won’t look like a table full of zombies the week of their O.W.L.S.”

Draco chuckles and returns his gaze to another shelf. Harry doesn’t let himself wonder why seeing them get along — as well as could be expected — feels like a burden is lifting off of his shoulders.

The door chimes melodiously and Luna bustles into the shop, wearing periwinkle robes and a headband of interwoven peaco*ck feathers. Papers spill out of the files and ledgers in her arms, and her bright blue eyes light up the second she walks into the door.

“Oh, look who it is!” she says, rushing to the counter to drop the paperwork before spinning around to kiss Harry on the cheek. “What a lovely surprise!”

Harry isn’t sure what he was expecting, but Luna turning to Draco and throwing her arms around him like he’s her long lost brother was definitely not it.

“Draco,” she says, giving him his own kiss before pulling him back into another hug, a bounce in her step. “You haven’t returned any of my owls. I’ve been trying not to worry.”

“I suppose you could say I’ve been a little preoccupied,” Draco says flatly.

Luna takes both of his hands in hers. Harry’s always known that she was quicker to forgive than anyone he knew, but her sheer level of adoration towards the person whose basem*nt she was tortured in seems saintly, even for Luna.

“Have you been taking care of yourself?” she asks, with that soul-deep earnestness that’s impossible to lie to. Harry can see it working on Draco immediately as he softens under her gaze. She looks at Harry. “Have you been taking care of him?”

“As much as he lets me,” Harry says awkwardly, glancing at Ginny. He knows that Ginny wouldn’t have told her — he’d had to fight just to be allowed to tell Ginny — but Luna’s always been eerily perceptive.

She looks back and forth between them with a small smile. “Draco,” she says slowly, making his name about ten syllables longer than it is. “I just have some potions brewing in the back. You were always so remarkable with chronobrewing methods at Hogwarts — would you mind having a look?”

“Erm — Actually, Luna, Harry and I were just about to —”

“Take your time,” Harry says, waving a dismissive hand and ignoring the flicker of a glare in Draco’s eye.

Luna pulls him into the back of the shop, and Harry and Ginny step outside onto the street. It feels like Luna and Draco are about to have a conversation he doesn’t want to overhear.

“When the hell did that happen?” Harry asks the second they’re outside.

“I’m not sure, myself,” Ginny admits. “Luna is like that, though. She stays in touch with everyone.”

“I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to stay in touch with him these past few years,” Harry says. “He sort of disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Ginny hums. “I think Luna has seen too many people lose themselves to guilt to see it happen to anyone else.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “That’s profound.”

“Well, you know me. I say sod them all until they prove themselves.” She chews her lip, looking at the ground. “You know, I do trust her, though. I don’t think she forgives so freely that she gives it to people who don’t deserve it.”

“You’re telling me you’re joining the Draco Malfoy fan club.”

“I’d shrink the bastard down and lock him in a chest Mad-Eye-Moody-style if I could,” Ginny says. “I’m just saying that I trust her judgement, and maybe you should, too.”

The best Harry can offer her is a noncommittal shrug. Ginny drops down to sit on the pavement, and Harry sits beside her. He drapes an arm around her, and she leans her head on his shoulder. They sit like that for a spell, watching people rattle around on the street, ambling back to their flats as the sunlight fades and the sky turns orange and pink with sunset. Whatever Luna and Draco are doing, they’re taking their time.

“You may be right,” Ginny says eventually.

“I normally am,” Harry says. “But maybe be a little more specific.”

“I might be a little in love with her.”

Harry reaches up to stroke her hair, and she leans further into him with a helpless sigh. “I think she might be a little in love with you, too, bunny.”

Ginny elbows him. The tinkling of the door chime cuts through the evening, and Luna emerges with a slightly sour-looking Draco. Though Harry and Ginny shuffle apart quickly, something unrecognisable crosses Draco’s face as he looks down at them.

He extends a hand, and Harry stares at it for a moment before he realises that Draco is offering to help him to his feet.

“They’ve invited us for dinner,” Draco tells him.

Ginny gawps at Luna. “Have we?”

“Oh, you simply must come by sometime this week,” Luna says. “I’ve just perfected my lentil loaf, and Ginny has been brewing peach cider.”

“I was going to surprise you,” Ginny whines.

“Well, the bottles were just lying about in your storage room, bunny.”

“They’re busy wizards, Lu.” Ginny says, giving Harry a panicked look.

“One adapts to the lifestyle of the rich and famous,” Draco says with a dramatic sigh. “But I’m sure we can find some time. Don’t you think so, Harry?” He threads his fingers through Harry’s hand at his side. He doesn’t need to, but he does.

“I’ll owl you,” Harry says vaguely. “But I have to get Draco home now. I’ve just been informed I need to take better care of him.”

Ginny kisses him on the cheek. “Love you,” she says. “Don’t let him drive you too crazy — you know, with all of the love and affection.”

Luna casts a knowing look at Draco as she follows Ginny back into the shop with a little wave.

Harry retrieves his hand the second they’re alone. “I’m not sure if that technically counts as time in public, but I think we can wrap up anyway,” he says. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Draco’s entire demeanour has changed since speaking with Luna. He almost seems tired — and not in the usual, slightly exasperated way that people usually are after talking to Luna. He turns his eyes to the sky for a long moment, chewing at his lip as if he’s trying to resist an instinct.

“Alright,” Draco finally says, holding his arm out. “One last stop. It’s my turn.” He looks at Harry, who is gaping slightly. “Or have you got another boyfriend to hop off to see?”

“No, no,” Harry says, looping their arms together. “Let’s.”

Harry blinks into his new surroundings after the rip of the Side-Along. It takes a moment to register that they’re not in a pub, or a café, or a shop, or somewhere else that Draco would find more expensive things for him to buy. Instead, they’re standing in the middle of someone’s kitchen.

Harry looks around. It’s a small space, though no less curated for that, with dark interiors and meticulously clean surfaces and accents of emerald green in the kettle, the small refrigerator, and the array of various herbs growing in the window. The table is piled with books and scrolls, as well as a collection of small phials next to a mortar and pestle, as though it’s being used as a study space before a Potions N.E.W.T.

Harry swallows. “Are we in your flat?”

“You’ll have to excuse me if it’s not up to your exacting standards,” Draco says, shrugging free of his cloak and hanging it by the door.

“You should see mine,” Harry says, immediately regretting it. “I mean, it’s a disaster.”

“How unexpected,” Draco drawls. He turns to walk down the corridor as though Harry has been there a million times. “This way.”

The entire place seems to be about half the size of Harry’s flat, which isn’t exactly palatial itself. He leads them to a closed door at the end of the hall, which he unlocks in a series of ward-breaking spells so nimble they’re nearly a blur.

When Harry follows him into the small room, he’s immediately hit with a familiar prickle at the back of his neck, a tightening in his chest, and the unshakable feeling of being watched. He recognises it immediately: the presence of Dark Magic.

“I would advise you to not touch anything,” Draco says casually, pocketing his hands as if demonstrating.

Harry peers around. It takes some strength to ignore his Gryffindor instinct that makes his fingers itch to do exactly what he’s been warned against and pick up every oddity in his eyeline — and there are a lot of them. The room is dimly lit by a candle on a small desk, which is covered with ancient-looking tomes, many of which are covered in spikes or locked shut with chains. There’s a small cauldron in the corner, bubbling with a brassy-looking liquid that smells of a summer breeze. The desk is crowded with neatly-ordered phials of different powders, liquids, and herbs, as well as a bowl filled with film-covered, yellowed eyeballs that appear to be from a variety of different creatures.

Several more books, as well as some heavily-warded artefacts, line the shelves on the back wall. Some are intimidating, like the skull of some form of mer-creature, or a thick candle burning with a staticky green flame. Others seem commonplace: an expensive-looking quill, a wax-sealed bottle of sherry, a Slytherin necktie, and a Muggle lighter.

Harry takes a step further into the room, and Draco reaches out to stop him. “I wouldn’t step on that, either,” he says. Harry looks down to see a large circle of complex sigils and runes that glows with orange embers, as though it’s perpetually burning deeper into the floor.

“Erm,” Harry says, side-stepping it to get a closer look at a large snow-white spider that scuttles about in a cage on the shelf. “I think there are about a thousand things in here I should arrest you for.”

“You can just tell me if you’d like to see me in handcuffs again.”

Harry ignores him. “This is quite the collection.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to work on it.”

Sometimes, it’s like this — like Draco is trying to tell Harry something indirectly, through mirrors and riddles, as though Harry has to earn the answer for himself.

It feels like a test, one which Harry has no patience for. “So this is what you did,” he says. “All that time when no one heard from you. This is what you were doing.”

“The people who needed to hear from me heard from me,” Draco says.

“So you enjoy them, then,” Harry says. “The Dark Arts. Even after everything.”

Draco’s laughter sounds more surprised than cruel. He peers down at the potion bubbling in the cauldron and stirs it twice clockwise, pauses, and then stirs it once counter clockwise. It belches a purple spark. Draco writes something down on a scrap of parchment next to the cauldron and then Draco turns back to him.

“Blaise worked as a bouncer in a Muggle club for years after the war — did you know? But then, of course not,” Draco says. “Mostly made money selling drugs. Nearly had the life beaten out of him more than once. Pansy and Daphne worked in a dozen clubs in Soho, were in and out of Muggle women’s shelters for years because no-one in the wizarding world would take them in.

“Theo —” he starts, and then pauses. “Well, no one really knows what Theo did all that time. f*cked off to South America, came back all scarred up and muscly and didn’t really want to talk about it.”

There’s a name missing off the list. Draco seems content to let it hang in the air between them as he pulls a small blade from the desk’s drawer.

As casually as though he were making a sandwich, he presses the blade into his forefinger until a small bead of blood pools to the surface. It drips into the bronze potion, which bubbles angrily before taking on the same crimson shade as the offering.

“This potion requires the blood of a virgin to brew properly,” Draco says. He waits a beat for Harry’s silence to fill the room, then he snorts loudly. “Only joking.”

“What about Goyle?”

“Yeah, Goyle,” Draco says as if he’s just remembered his childhood friend’s existence. “Dead, I suppose. Overdosed. Not an uncommon way for us to go out, it would seem.”

Harry had brought up Goyle that first night at the Ministry, used his name against Draco. He hadn’t even known he was dead. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Draco doesn’t look up from the bubbling potion. “You aren’t.”

“I am,” Harry says, his voice a plea.

“I wouldn’t particularly say the Dark Arts call to me,” Draco says, as though he hasn’t heard. “But I also wouldn’t say I’ve had very many options.”

An inventory of Draco’s numerous charges over the years flickers through Harry’s mind — all of which he’s artfully sidestepped by trading money, favors, and secrets. The sale of illicit potions was a frequent one, though he was nearly sent to Azkaban for the teaching of illegal duelling techniques.

“It doesn’t bother you, then,” Harry says, trying to temper his voice. “That all of this is dangerous. That it — hurts people.”

Draco finally turns back to him. “Always such a heroic perspective,” he murmurs. “Things really are that black and white for you, aren’t they?”

“I generally try not to partake in things that get others killed, yes.”

Draco sighs. “You’ll be relieved to know that the vast majority of my clients use my services against one another,” he says. “Besides — if it wasn’t me doing it, someone else would gladly fill the role.”

Harry tries to keep the glower off of his face, but he can’t. Draco narrows his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll surely all kill each other off sooner rather than later, and then you won’t have to worry your pretty little head about it.”

If it is a test, Harry has no doubt that he’s failing. “Is that really what you think I want?”

Draco turns back to his desk where the potion slowly changes from crimson back to its previous brassy hue, like a starving beast that needs to be regularly fed. “I don’t think you thought about us at all before this started.”

Harry finds he can’t argue with that without lying. He takes a step closer. “Well, I want to help now, or I wouldn’t be doing this.”

Draco glances back at him. “I think if Granger and Chansky asked you to chew your own arm off, you’d do it, Potter.”

Harry snickers. “Isn’t that sort of what’s happening?”

Draco scoffs, but something seems to lighten in him. He sits atop his desk and gestures for Harry to sit in the chair. Harry wonders why Draco brought him here as he sits, but it’s not the only thing making tension mount in his body. It’s also the longest time they’ve spent together outside of the Ministry without touching, and Harry almost feels compelled to reach out, to close the space between them.

“I tried to return your wand,” Harry says, surprising himself. “After the trials.”

Like so much of it, Harry had forgotten this — let it sink to the bottom of his mind undisturbed for years before it bubbled its way to the surface. He’d waited for Draco outside of the Wizengamot after they’d laid down their probationary ruling. He’d been exceedingly nervous about Draco’s trial, as if he was personally responsible for the outcome. He’d stayed up the entire night before with Hermione, poring over their shared notes of prior legislation and witness testimonies so that they could make sure they did everything in their power to make sure his sentence was fair. Harry knew the Ministry had wanted to make an example out of Draco, and he’d been plagued the entire week prior by nightmares of himself cowering in a cell in Azkaban as hungry Dementors swirled around him.

Draco’s trial had been the longest of them all, and Harry had emerged from it exhausted. But he still waited outside with the wand, which he’d polished and encased to distract himself from his anxiety. When Draco finally emerged in a flurry of ivory robes, swarmed immediately by solicitors and reporters, Harry had called out for him — once, maybe twice.

Draco had acted like he hadn’t heard. Maybe he hadn’t.

“It never suited me, anyway,” Draco says now, impassive. “The hawthorn was too lightweight for my tastes.”

“I think it’s still on a shelf somewhere in my flat,” Harry says.

“I’ll take that to mean it will never be seen again.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “Probably.”

“You must miss it all,” Draco says blandly. “Doing things that actually matter.”

It’s definitely an insult, but it feels like there’s something beneath it that Harry will miss if he takes the bait. “I’m not particularly fulfilled with being — how did you word it? — ‘a Ministry sock puppet,’ if that’s what you’re asking, no.”

Draco frowns. “Then why do you let them push you around so much?”

“I —” Harry starts, and then stops. He isn’t sure where the sentence is going. I got used to it, maybe. It’s what’s expected of me. But he speaks what feels truest: “I think I just got tired of fighting.”

“You’re worth more than it,” Draco says without meeting his eye. “You’re worth more than the entirety of the sodding Ministry.”

At first, Harry isn’t even sure he’s heard correctly. There’s no way to interpret it other than as a compliment, even if it’s heavily dipped in hatred for the Ministry.

“Well, there’s Hermione.”

Draco’s mouth plays around a little grin. “Well, the entirety of the sodding Ministry sans Granger.”

“It’s all very Snape-ish, by the way,” Harry says, unsure how else to respond. He gestures to the room at large, which is very dungeon-like in its ambiance.

“He was my godfather.”

“Is that right?” Harry asks sarcastically. “I never would have known. He certainly didn’t favor you in the slightest.”

Draco gives what might be a genuine chuckle before scooting off of the desk. He crosses over to the bookcase, touching Harry lightly on the shoulder as he passes, as though he’s a stepping stone in the middle of a raging river. It’s the smallest of things, but Harry misses a breath.

He kneels down by a small set of black drawers, rummaging through their impeccably organised contents to produce a small sachet of ochre powder. He sits back on the desk and hands it to Harry.

“Erm. Thanks?” Harry guesses.

“Powdered shell of Ashwinder egg. It’s commonly used in some healing and love potions, as well as —”

“Felix Felicis,” Harry says, surprising himself more than Draco.

“Ten points to Gryffindor,” Draco says sarcastically. “In small doses, it can increase serotonin in the brain, which is partially why it’s so effective in mood-altering potions such as those.”

He looks at Harry expectantly. Harry just gives him a bemused stare.

Draco rolls his eyes. “So give it to your little ex-wife to try in her anxiety tinctures. It could certainly mellow out any potential side effects as well.”

“That’s…” Harry stammers. “Very thoughtful of you, Draco.”

Draco just shrugs. “Highly flammable, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry says, carefully pocketing the sachet. “You know she’ll be insulted that you think she needs help with her formulas.”

“She may be,” Draco says. “But she’ll be insulted with an exceptional stock of tinctures.”

“Thank you, Draco.”

He shrugs again. “Have to keep the in-laws happy.”

They lock eyes for a bit too long. It’s just the conditioning, the way that Harry wants to reach for him, to feel the reassurance of his warmth like a hearth in the middle of a blizzard.

“I’ll be sure to let Granger know we’re both deserving of bonus points for this little extra credit session, but class is officially dismissed,” Draco says. That odd, unreadable smile is still playing at his lips, like Harry has just admitted to something without realising it. “Now, if you’ll kindly remove yourself from my flat, Potter.”

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

It’s impossible to know whether it was something Luna said, or if Draco has just burned himself out on the torture methods, but their dates slowly become less and less punishing. Hermione and Notwick continue planning some of their appearances, trotting them out to the odd charity auction or excruciating ribbon-cutting ceremony. They also attend the head Goblin Liasion Officer’s garden parties, during which they sit in the corner while Draco explains some of the more bizarre pure-blood traditions unfolding in front of them. He surprises Harry by laughing along with him at how absurd they are.

Hermione gives them free reign on the rest of their dates, and Harry continues to let Draco choose. They bicker about Quidditch while they stroll Diagon, steal tastes of one another’s food at the quirky gastropubs Draco chooses, and Harry only dozes off on Draco’s shoulder once during a stage performance of Macbeth. They ignore the gawps and glares at first, both long since becoming immune to unwanted attention. But as news of their relationship spreads, there is less and less to ignore.

Between the sophisticated bistros, dimly lit wine bars, and places where everything on the menu is impossible to pronounce and devoid of any indication as to price, they run out of tinned, mindless chatter to fill the time. Then, all that’s left to do is to actually talk. They speak of the updates to the Hogwarts staff, Luna’s shop, and the new spells they’ve been practicing like they’re still boys in the common room.

Harry learns that Draco lived in Albania for a few years after the war, and while he’s reticent on particulars of what he actually did while there, he describes the mountains, markets, and people with such detail it’s as if Harry was there with him. Harry tells him about being accelerated through Auror training so quickly he nearly missed it, and how he spent every night of those long, exhausting months fantasising about leaving it all and opening a bakery in Clovelly.

“A bakery,” Draco repeats back to him over generous pours of aged scotch at a distillery. The owner had caught Harry off guard by taking one look at them and then insisting that they drink on the house for the entire evening. “Do you even bake?”

“It’s not so much about the baking,” Harry says. “It’s just the fantasy of it.”

Draco studies him. “Some people fantasise about things which are actually exciting, you know.”

Harry laughs. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for a lifetime.”

Pansy loves the flowers, which Harry learns Draco signed from both of them.

“You should have seen the look on Daph’s face,” Pansy tells Draco conspiratorially when he and Harry meet her and Theo for drinks. “She looked like she positively wanted to murder me, and the both of you, and I think she just might if you aren’t careful.”

“Never fret,” Draco says, stroking Harry’s back. “Harry here is going to buy out the Kestrel’s stadium when her birthday comes around. Or maybe he’ll just buy her the Kestrels.”

“Then you’ll have to buy me the Harpies to make it even,” Pansy says.

“I’ll take the Arrows,” Theo says.

“Of course,” Harry says. “I’ll just sell my soul to make ends meet.”

“Well, you are dating Draco,” Pansy says, shooting him a wink.

They’re soon joined by Blaise and Daphne, who makes it very clear just how envious she is about Pansy’s gift from the lovely couple and how no one has to wait until a girl’s birthday to surprise her with some carnations once in a while.

No one takes a second look at the Slytherins as they go to the bar to order. They all seem years younger, no longer glancing over their shoulders or huddling together like they had all those weeks ago. It occurs to Harry that even Draco is seeing the surface level of the wizarding world for the first time in years — and that maybe his font of date ideas is a way of making up for lost time.

Ron and Hermione come by soon, along with Ginny and Luna. Luna immediately catches Draco alone at the bar for a long conversation that is highly animated on his end and largely consists of sympathetic nods and smiles from hers. Harry discovers that Blaise has got a job at an actual wizarding bar, and that Daphne is back to attending Quidditch games in person, which he learns about as she recounts every single score the Falcons made on the Magpies last week in such detail that even Ron starts to yawn.

Ron is reenacting Molly lecturing Charlie through the Floo after he’d been injured while raising temperamental Swedish Short-Snout pups when Draco appears. He leans down to kiss Harry on the cheek. “Theo and Blaise are dragging me out for a cig,” he says, squeezing him on the shoulder. “Don’t miss me too dearly.”

Harry nods, putting his hand atop Draco’s for a second in acknowledgement before he leaves. When he looks up, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny are staring at him like he’s just grown horns.

“What?”

Ginny laughs. “Nothing, nothing,” she says. “It’s just all very convincing sometimes.”

“Still not used to seeing it,” Ron says into his pint.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been told to sell it,” Harry grumbles. “I’m just trying to sell it.”

“To who?” Ginny asks innocently. “The three of us who know it’s an act, or to one another?”

Harry scowls as Ginny and Ron break into laughter. But the only expression on Hermione’s face is one of mild panic. It’s the same look she shoots him when Harry says something particularly stupid and Draco leans in to kiss him after laughing indulgently at his expense, or after long pub nights when Draco gets dozy and Harry wraps an arm around him so he can rest his head in the crook of Harry’s neck.

“I just don’t want you to get lost in it, Harry,” she tells him later that night after pulling him away from the others.

Harry sighs and runs a hand through his hair. It’s already enough trying to balance all of the plates: the public eye, Draco’s unpredictable temperament, the crime reports. There’s no room to try and tread carefully around Hermione’s increasing guilt, and there’s even less to consider his own at-risk psychological state.

“One of the victims died this morning,” Harry murmurs to Hermione, who drops her hand from where it’s been resting reassuringly on his forearm. “In St Mungo’s. Ellis Poole, the one they planted the cursed parchment on. I’m sure you saw the reports.”

He was a broom maker in Putney who came from a long line of Slytherins. Death Eaters had forcefully used his home as a safehouse during the war, leaving it ransacked and nearly killing his wife in the process. Apparently, this was enough to make him a target.

Someone had snuck a cursed scroll of parchment onto the desk in his shop right before it closed last week. When he touched it, it had unspooled and bound his wrists, legs, and throat, leaving him to slowly suffocate until his assistant found him the next morning. He’d been so close to the brink of death by the time he was found that the Healers couldn’t do anything about it. Harry hadn’t been able to bring himself to look at the crime scene photographs.

“But it’s improving so much,” Hermione says. “The stretches between attacks are getting longer and longer. They’ll end entirely soon, I know it,” she says fiercely. “You can’t take it all on, Harry.”

“You do,” Harry points out, smiling sadly at her. “Besides, I’m going to be fine, Hermione.” He looks over to where Draco is sitting with Blaise and Daphne. Draco looks up from the conversation, glancing at him across the room as if he could sense Harry was talking about him. Harry turns back to her. “It’s just Draco Malfoy.”

*

Harry and Draco’s briefings with Hermione have become routine: she updates them on the improving crime stats, informs them of any appearances they’ll need to make, and sometimes suggests a date or two, but largely lets them take control. Their meetings with Notwick are always significantly more miserable.

Draco seems to share Harry’s sense of dread. He sits stiffly in his chair, angled away from Harry as Notwick prattles through her excessive niceties and applauds their progress. Hermione doesn’t seem capable of sitting right now, instead pacing behind Notwick as she speaks.

“So, things are going well,” Harry summarises warily at the first break in Notwick’s diatribing. “And we haven’t killed each other yet.”

“Very well observed, Auror Potter,” Notwick says with a thin smile. “And I imagine you and Mr Malfoy have already guessed at the fact that Director Granger and I have an additional request to make of you.”

She glances at Hermione, who seems particularly engaged with her fingernails, before proceeding. “It’s true that the two of you have done exceptional work thus far, and the reduced tension between wizarding communities is empirically evident.”

“But?”

Hermione finally looks at him, a pinched expression on her face. “Do either of you read the papers?” she asks. “I owl you briefings on them every morning.”

“I’m sort of allergic to the press, Hermione,” Harry says. “And I’m sure Draco —”

“They’re starting to see right through it,” Draco interrupts.

Hermione nods gratefully in his direction, though he doesn’t meet her eye. It’s starting to feel like everyone in the room is in on some secret that Harry doesn’t understand.

“There has been an unfortunate increase in speculation about the stability of the relationship,” Notwick says. “Though it began at a tabloid level, the Daily Prophet has recently corroborated some of the rumours.”

Hermione produces a copy of the Prophet and hands it to Harry. They’ve been granted a column on the front page whose headline reads Trouble In Elysium? underscored by: Unlikely Fairy-Tale Romance Between Harry Potter and Former Death Eater Draco Malfoy Appears to Be Unravelling At The Seams.

Below it is a photograph of Draco and Harry taken from a distance. They’re standing in the back of a crowded bar, partially obscured by other patrons. Harry is very clearly in the middle of telling Draco off about something or other. Draco looks exceedingly cross and rolls his eyes dramatically.

Harry grimaces. There’s really no good way to interpret it.

“This sort of thing was inevitable,” he says defensively. “People in relationships fight all the time.”

“I know,” Hermione says patiently. “We knew it was going to happen. But it’s adding to more overt speculation in tabloids that things are about to go up in flames.”

“They believe us to both be on manic streaks of self-destruction,” Draco adds unhelpfully. “Could you imagine that?”

“This type of press is very harmful to the narrative we’ve all worked so hard to maintain,” Notwick says, casting a stern look in Draco’s direction. “This relationship is meant to be a symbol of unity and forgiveness. Surely you can understand why these types of lovers' quarrels could potentially indicate that extending such forgiveness to the fallen parts of the wizarding world could be misguided.”

Harry rubs at his temples. “So we’ll be more careful,” he says. “We’ll assume we’re being watched at all times. We’ll ramp up the lovey looks.” He knows that this isn’t about them at all — it’s about the people who need to be protected. But he can’t keep the edge of exasperation out of his voice. It feels like he’s already giving as much as he can.

Hermione gives him a pitying smile. “I know you’re trying, Harry. You both are,” she adds. “But I don’t think it’s realistic to expect this sort of thing to stop, even though you are getting along better now.”

There’s something uncomfortable about her acknowledgement of it, and he and Draco both shift a bit in their seats.

Notwick tents her fingers at her desk, fixing them with one of her intense, feline stares.

“Unfortunately, Director Granger and I have exhausted numerous potential solutions to the problem at hand. However, there is only one we can agree would significantly alleviate this most significant of concerns.” She turns to Hermione, who suddenly looks faint. “Director Granger, perhaps the idea would feel more amenable coming from you.”

“Just —” Harry snaps. “Someone.”

Draco huffs an exasperated sigh. “They want us to get engaged.”

Hermione looks at him like she’s seen a ghost. “Yes.”

“Well-spotted,” Notwick says. “We believe that this could alleviate interpretations of the relationship as unstable, or short-term, or — manic, as Mr Malfoy so astutely worded it.”

Harry hears about every third word she says. His head is spinning. It feels like the revelation of something he knew was coming in some dark, distant recess of his mind, something he’d been denying from the very beginning, the destination they were doomed to arrive at.

There’s an expectant length of silence. Most likely, Harry is the only one surprised by this update.

“I’m —” Harry stammers. It’s the only thing he can think to say, the thing he feels he needs to say, the line that he needs to draw. “I’m not going to marry him.”

Draco raises his eyes to the ceiling, where they stay fixed as if there’s something very intriguing scrawled upon it.

Hermione looks visibly relieved by their lack of immediate shouting. “You won’t have to,” she says hurriedly. “That won’t have to happen. You have my word.”

Harry nods, trying to slow his breathing. He trusts Hermione — she wouldn’t say that without meaning it. At least, he thinks she wouldn’t.

“Okay,” he says slowly as his mind slowly wraps around the idea, the misery of it, the inevitability. “Won’t calling it off eventually look worse?”

“Some engagements last a long time,” Hermione says. “Ron and I were engaged for two years.”

Harry feels nauseated just hearing that, and it must show on his face. “I’m not saying I anticipate this lasting two more years,” Hermione adds hastily. “I’m just saying I don’t think we need to be overly concerned with that just yet. We can keep our focus on the immediate for now, which means doing what we can to keep people safe.”

Harry indulges in a groan so guttural it’s like he’s trying to exorcise something from his body. He takes his glasses off and scrubs his face, finding with disappointment when he replaces them that all of this is still really happening and is not a particularly unpleasant dream. “So, I’m sure you have a romantic proposal planned out.”

“Actually, no. I, erm, fought against that,” Hermione says, glancing at the ever-placid Notwick. “We decided it would be believable for the proposal to have taken place in private, and we can take it public with an engagement party.”

Harry sighs. “I don’t think I have another gala in me, Hermione.”

Hermione shakes her head. “That would be uncharacteristic, anyway. I’m already planning it out. I promise it will be as painless as possible. You can wear your trainers.”

“However, we also believe it would be prudent to pre-empt the press’s reaction,” Notwick interrupts. “And, as such, we have arranged for the event to be featured in next month’s cover story of Witch Weekly.”

“You’re kidding,” Harry says immediately. “Witch Weekly?” The only thing Draco hates more than the press is speaking to the press.

“It’s just a short interview, Harry,” Hermione says. “We’ll extensively prep you on your stories and give you some quotes. And then there’s also a —” she hesitates, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Teeny tiny photoshoot with The Celestial.”

“Hermione.”

“Unfortunately, there’s really no alternative, Auror Potter,” Notwick says. “It’s crucial not only that we’re able to set the narrative at this juncture, but that we remain in the good graces of the outlets that control it.”

“That we remain in their good graces,” Harry snaps.

“I know this isn’t easy,” Hermione says, offering a familiar platitude that has come to be meaningless over the last few months. “But I believe this may be the home stretch. If we can get enough attention with this engagement, we may not have to rely so much on public appearances to keep you in the back of people’s minds.”

“Fewer dates,” Harry translates.

“Potentially, yes.” She turns to Draco with an expression of patient maternity she seems to have reserved for him lately. “You’re very quiet today, Draco,” she says. “Is everything alright?”

He gives her a withering look. “I’ve truly never been happier a day in my life, Granger, thank you for asking.”

Hermione looks stricken. Her voice loses its affectionate note. “Will you be able to fulfill the assignment?”

“It would really save us all a lot of time and energy if you’d stop acting as though I have any say in the matter.”

Hermione purses her lips, sizing him up. “You two can take the week off,” she says finally, without taking her eyes off of him. “We’ll start coaching on Monday.”

*

Harry always dreads the long walk from Hermione’s office in the Public Relations wing to the Ministry Apparition points. They tend to want to kill each other the most after being free to bicker in private during their briefings, which Hermione schedules sporadically, so it can appear Draco is simply popping by the Ministry to visit Harry — as the loving, needy boyfriend that he is.

Unfortunately, it’s also the time that requires the highest level of decorum, as they pass by Ministry officials and Harry’s peers, including the rare Auror who, like Matthias Pearse, would be more than happy to see Draco bound in a holding cell for the rest of his life.

By some gracious stroke of luck, they catch an otherwise empty lift to the Apparition points during the Ministry’s bustling lunch hour. Harry expects a silent, fuming journey to the Apparition point, but Draco turns to him immediately.

“You have figured out that we’re absolutely f*cked, haven’t you?”

Harry doesn’t really have the energy for this. The only way he’s been keeping himself sane is by not thinking about how f*cked they are.

“I’m aware,” he says, breathing out the low sigh that’s been furled inside of him since the moment they stepped into Notwick’s office. “But I’m sure we can still arrange a mutual Obliviation once all of this ends.”

Draco barks a cruel laugh. “When this ends,” he repeats scornfully, as if he’s ensuring he’s heard correctly. “Haven’t you got it through your thick skull yet, Potter? This is never going to end.”

Harry glances through the window of the glass lift as they pass from story to story. As always, people pause as they pass, eager to be first-hand witnesses to the relationship of the century.

There’s nothing subtle about the fury in Draco's body language right now. He corners Harry into the side of the lift, hooks an arm around his neck, and teases Harry’s collar in an uncannily convincing portrayal of adoration.

“You won’t let yourself see it because it’s your pretty, clever, unflinchingly Gryffindor Granger at the helm of this sinking ship,” he whispers as he caresses Harry’s cheek. He’s close, so close, his body flush against Harry’s, his lips drawing near as if in anticipation of a kiss.

“But she’s no different from the rest of them. They’ll always find a way to get what they want out of you, and once you’re sucked dry, they’ll throw you onto the discard pile just like all of the mighty heroes that came before you.”

Harry struggles to stay focused as Draco’s fingers move to comb gently through his hair. It’s a very confusing conversation.

“Hermione isn’t like that.”

“She doesn’t want to be,” Draco purrs. “But she will be. Did you spend nearly this much time with her before she needed something from you?”

“She’s —” Harry stammers. He pulls his head back away from Draco’s touch so he can think again. “She works hard, Malfoy. You haven’t got any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Terminally loyal, Potter, as always. And if you don’t think she knows exactly what she’s doing, then there really isn’t any hope for you at all.”

“Get off of me,” Harry growls, trying to look as unrepulsed as possible as he twists away — but not trying very hard.

“They’ll get bored of me eventually,” Draco hisses as the lift settles at the highest floor. “But by the time you finally accept that no one here actually cares about you — not even Granger — you’ll have less of your soul intact than the sods rotting in Azkaban.”

The lift’s ancient doors labour open to reveal a thick crowd of people waiting to step in. A small pause of recognition ripples through the crowd, and Harry realises it looks like he’s plotting the best way to murder his boyfriend. He attempts to soften his face into something that might be charitably interpreted as enamourment, and Draco smirks slightly at the transparency of it.

“Think of me fondly, my darling,” Draco says. He leans in to kiss Harry’s unrelenting lips and then turns to sweep through the murmuring crowd.

*

Harry lasts less than half of a day in his flat before he starts to panic. After having Draco’s words playing over and over in his mind for hours, paired with the thought of the engagement — another engagement — the sight of Hermione’s owl perched at his window makes him flinch. It’s a short letter, asking him if he wants to join her and Luna for drinks that evening, but he can’t help but feel as though she’s trying to check his pulse.

It’s true what Draco said, when he lets himself think about it: he never spent this much time with her before all of it started. Maybe her workload was easier on this campaign, or maybe she just needed to make sure that her primary operative wasn’t spending his week off drowning himself in Firewhisky or finally acting on his plans to flee the country.

He doesn’t reply to her. Instead, he goes to Ginny’s.

Ginny doesn’t make him talk about it. Instead, she plies him with firefly rum and homemade curry, and the evening turns into the morning. She sets him up in her spare room and puts him to work in her greenhouse picking angry orange weeds that spark small snaps of flame he can feel through his fireproof gloves.

It feels incredible to finally be away from London for a while, to finally be free of the perpetual feeling of being watched. Ginny has always been the person who made him feel the most normal when everything around him was entirely mad.

The morning before he’s due back in London, Ginny finds him at her kitchen table almost pulling his hair out over a copy of the Prophet. It includes an opinion column about his and Draco’s latest appearances entitled Harry Potter’s Newest Romance Headed for Nuptials or Nosedive? and is, as always, completely absurd. He’d awoken at three in the morning, hurled into wakefulness with the incessant buzzing of anxious thoughts.

“You know, you can tell her no,” Ginny tells him after he finally explains why he’s been even more miserable than usual. “You don’t have to do it. You don’t have to do any of it.”

It’s painful to consider quitting, especially because he knows he’s well within his rights to do so. He’s already dedicated half his life to defeating Voldemort, after all — at what point did it become unfair for people to keep asking more and more of him, to give up more of himself, even if it was for the greater good?

At what point had he given enough?

Harry is always hit with great floods of guilt for even allowing those types of thoughts to pass through his mind. But Ginny has always been one to prioritise her own happiness: the life she had made for herself showed it.

“I want to do it,” Harry says.

He doesn’t allow himself to wonder whether it’s true. It’s all over Ginny’s face that she doesn’t buy it for a second, but she doesn’t push it.

Instead, she squeezes his shoulder and puts the kettle on. “Suppose we might as well get started for the day,” she says. “I’ll have you feeding the Zingalogs in the greenhouse.” She shoots him a cautious look. “How are your slimeball evading skills, by the way? Unrelated.”

Harry chuckles. “Might have picked a thing or two up avoiding Bludgers.” He gets out a frying pan and lights the hob before rummaging through her fridge for eggs and bacon. “Maybe best to have some coffee instead of tea.”

Ginny pauses beside him, looking very transfixed by her kettle. “Did I mention,” she says without taking her eyes off of it. “Luna and I are — well.” She turns to him. “I worry that this might go to your head.”

The words reach Harry slowly in his sleep-addled state. He cracks an egg into the sizzling pan and watches it slowly turn opaque around the edges. He cracks another. Then another. Then another.

“There are only two of us, there, Harry.”

He’d known it was coming, of course. He’d been encouraging it from the beginning. They were an incredible match — so much better than he and Ginny ever were, and not only because she wasn’t interested in men.

“Harry?”

He finally turns to her with a sigh. “Ron will want to be your best man, of course, but that’s always a little too obvious, isn’t it? Not to mention all of the inter-Weasley arguing there will be that you didn’t pick one of the others. Best to go with someone outside of the family.”

“Shut up,” Ginny says, giving him a shove. She springs up to grab her cafetière and fill it with water, lithe with relief. “We’ve barely started dating. We’re not going to beat you down the aisle.”

Harry winces a bit at the joke, but lets it roll off of him. “It’s amazing, Gin,” he says as they work about the hob in slow synchronicity. “I’m so glad to hear it.”

“It’s okay if it’s a little weird, too,” Ginny says. “Neither of us have really been serious with anyone since we split up. I mean, elaborate political scheme ‘serious’ aside. I get it if it’s weird.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not weird,” he says honestly. “I’m not jealous. I don’t think…” He pauses as he plates up their breakfasts, and Ginny pours two cups of magically-expedited coffee.

“I mean, I’m over you,” Harry says as they sit across from one another.

“You always did know what a girl wanted to hear, Harry,” Ginny scoffs.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I think I… It’s taken me longer to get over the idea of it all, more than anything.”

Ginny chews a piece of bacon. “Don’t think mum is over that, either. She’ll marry you off to Charlie if it means getting you into the family.”

Harry laughs. “I mean, you know. A partner, a house, maybe a few kids. It’s all I ever thought about when everything was so bad. Like I was working towards it. Earning it, maybe.” He spears an egg, finding his appetite has suddenly gone off. “I never thought I’d still be caught up in all of this a decade later.”

Draco’s words pass through his mind again. “With no end in sight,” Harry adds quietly.

Ginny looks at him with such pity that he wishes he hadn’t said anything at all. “f*ck, Harry.”

“Yeah.”

They eat in a slight stupor, and Harry can’t taste much. The sunrise illuminates the room slowly, like a dim candle, painting the entire kitchen with a bluish glaze.

“Think about it,” Ginny says when she stands to tidy up. “About saying no. And if you need my help, I’m here.” She squeezes his hand. “I don’t think Hermione can kill her own sister-in-law.”

*

Harry does think about it. He thinks about it while he’s learning what Zingalogs are — evil, shrewish aphid sprites that secrete a highly potent nerve relaxer and spit purplish venom at anyone who dares collect it. He thinks about it as he casts carefully split Aguamentis to water Ginny’s expanding field of crops. He thinks about it as he tills a plot of scraggly, dying roots, untangling and unearthing them to make room for new life.

And, despite himself, he thinks of Draco. Unlike him, Draco doesn’t have a choice — unless he wants to retreat even deeper into dark obscurity than he had before. Neither of them had ever had much choice. They’d both had so much demanded of them before they were old enough to understand what they were doing.

He knows there will be a stack of letters waiting for him when he gets back to London: briefings on their blissful betrothal, clippings from the Prophet, and maybe even more warily curious check-ins from his uninformed friends who thought Harry had really gone off his rocker. It makes him want to stay at Ginny’s forever. Maybe she could build him an underground bunker beneath her cottage.

The day grows long, and Luna comes by with a gift she's made especially for Harry: a box of golden, rum-filled chocolate Snitches that she charmed to buzz about animatedly the second she opens the box. They move to the living room for a nightcap, and every now and then they reach up to snatch a chocolate Snitch out of the air. Harry wonders, not for the first time, why every day of his life can’t be like this.

“Stay the night,” Ginny tells him hours later, as Luna snores soundly on her shoulder. “You can Floo straight to the Ministry tomorrow morning.”

Harry knows he should spend the night at his own flat, or the abrupt transition back to the hellscape of his life might actually put him in the grave.

“Or don’t go back ever,” Ginny adds with a small shrug of one shoulder, careful not to wake Luna. “Because f*ck them.”

“‘f*ck them’ is actually one of the best points you’ve made this week.”

“I am a woman of few words.”

Harry should go back to London, but his lids are growing heavy with his sleepless night and his long day in the field — and the rum Snitches didn’t really help. Sleep is just beginning to pull him under when the room illuminates with blue light.

Hermione’s spritely otter of a Patronus shocks all of them into perfect wakefulness.

“Harry,” her voice comes frantically. “I’ve been trying to Floo you. Ron said you might be at Ginny’s, but —”

Ginny glances at him guiltily. “I may have shut off my Floo.”

“Ginny.”

“Harry, you need to come back to London immediately. There’s been another attack,” Hermione’s voice is tight, clipped with panic. “It’s Pansy. She’s in St Mungo’s.”

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Harry has never been happy to be in St Mungo’s, but he’s always found waking up confused and bedridden to be much easier than visiting those who were. He never knows what to do with his hands, nor all of the thoughts in his head.

Hermione leads him to the protective wing, where witnesses and sensitive cases are kept. Though it lacks the chaotic, clinical nature of the other wards, the combination of the sharp smell of antiseptic, the unsettling energy of frantic magic, and the aromas of strong and confusing potions make his head throb.

Hermione doesn’t speak to him as they wind down the long corridors of the hospital. Whether she’s been silenced by anxiety or anger, he isn’t sure.

Pansy has a private room within the wing. She slumbers heavily under a thick, crimson blanket. Her hair is carefully groomed and her arms lie still at her sides, her breathing so light it’s as if she’s no more than a life-sized doll. Harry can immediately tell that she’s been put to sleep with a potion, but he also knows better than to think her peaceful appearance indicates anything about her actual condition.

Draco is folded up on a small sofa right next to her bed, clasping her hand with both of his. Unlike Pansy, he looks like he hasn’t slept in years. He doesn’t look up when they arrive.

Harry stops at the threshold of the room, finding it impossible to cross further into it. “What happened?”

“Someone tampered with the Portkey she takes to work,” Hermione says stiffly. “When she used it, she wound up cornered in Wyre Forest.”

“I know that trick,” Harry says with a grimace.

Hermione acts as though she hasn’t heard him, keeping her eyes fixed on Pansy. “There were three of them — three witches. Her coworkers. They bound her to a tree and tortured her for —” she pauses as a choked sound escapes her lips, which she attempts to cover by clearing her throat. “Two days. In shifts. Then they left her there to die.”

She straightens, finally turning to Harry. “Luckily, their methods made it exceedingly simple to find their identities, and they’re currently awaiting trial.”

“They didn’t care if they were caught.”

“No,” Hermione says. “It would appear not. One of them was the niece of Marlene McKinnon, an Order member who was murdered by Death Eaters in the First War.”

“When Pansy was an infant,” Harry murmurs.

Hermione nods. “These attacks aren’t motivated by logic. They never were, really. They’re just senseless.”

Something about the fire in her eyes explains so much to Harry. She’d spent her entire life being victim to the same thing: senseless hatred. It was no wonder she found it impossible to stand by and watch it befall others.

“I thought that things were improving,” Hermione says, cutting through his thoughts. She finally turns to Harry, letting the veil fall, the pain cross her face. “They were. They are. But — Pansy is so close to Draco. And he’s untouchable now because of you, but the rest of them —” She pushes fresh tears out of her eyes, and Harry takes her hand in his. His hand shakes with adrenaline and anger.

“We should have assigned her a guard,” Hermione says. She lets out a choked laugh. “We offered, of course. But she wasn’t having it.”

“Don’t do that, Hermione,” Harry says. “Don’t blame yourself.”

Hermione presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. When she drops them, her careful Ministry composure has returned, though her bleary red eyes give her away.

“You can’t disappear like that, Harry. I really needed you.”

Harry’s stomach sinks. She isn’t asking him as a Ministry official. She’s asking him as his best friend.

“I’m sorry, Hermione.”

She nods, turning back to the bed. “She’s expected to make a full recovery,” she says. “But there are parts of it you can’t recover from.”

A chill runs down Harry’s spine. He can’t picture Pansy there, bound to the tree, bruised and blood-drenched. He can only imagine Hermione.

“How is he?”

Hermione glances at him before turning to Draco. “Perfectly imperceptible, as always. In fact,” she adds, looking at her watch, “I think now you’re here, I’ll run to get him something to eat. He hasn’t been doing much of that lately.”

“Sure,” Harry says. “I’ll be here.”

She pulls him into a tight hug, releasing one long, shuddering breath as he strokes her hair. “It’ll be alright, Hermione,” he says, hoping he can convince himself as well. “It’ll be alright.”

She smiles sadly at him when she pulls away, and walks out of the room.

Harry turns back to Pansy’s bed. If Hermione had told him that Draco had been sitting next to it for a year, he’d believe it. He’s visibly fighting sleep, eyes lidded and red, and it’s the first time Harry has seen his hair anything less than impeccably placed; it looks tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it for hours.

Harry sits next to him on the sofa. Draco pulls his hands away from Pansy, but doesn’t move otherwise.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” Harry says. He has to force himself to say something so that the silence doesn’t crush them under its weight. But he finds that his words ring true; he isn’t sure what help he can offer Draco, or what help Draco would even accept, but he wants to try.

“This hasn’t got anything to do with you,” Draco says.

“Of course it has.”

They watch Pansy in silence for a few moments, her slow, steady, robotic breathing. Her bedside is filled with potions and tinctures, as well as a vase of pristine yellow roses.

“You can sleep, if you like,” Harry says. “I’ll be here.”

It’s a hypocritical offer. If it was Hermione or Ron in the bed, Harry wouldn’t dare bat an eye. Draco ignores it, anyway.

“It’s meant for me, of course,” he says after a stretch of silence. “A message. Or a warning.”

“Stop,” Harry says. “Don’t. You can’t let yourself do that.”

Draco grimaces. “Even you can’t try to say it isn’t true.”

“You can’t let yourself.”

Draco finally turns to him with narrowed eyes. It’s the first emotion he’s expressed since Harry arrived, and he understands it immediately: the way anger is always easiest to access. “You haven’t got a single clue what you’re talking about.”

Despite the dour mood, Harry chuckles. “If you weren’t aware, quite a lot of people were killed and tortured because Voldemort couldn’t get to me.”

Draco gives him a begrudging look before turning back to Pansy. “She always was the most stubborn wretch,” he says. “I should have insisted she accept protection.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Harry says. “I’m sure they cut the Portkey off after a single use. An Auror wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”

“That is very reassuring.”

“You’re doing everything you can.”

Something breaks in Draco then, like Harry finally stacked one weight too many on top of him, and everything crumbled beneath it. He drops his head into his hands. “Then why is it still happening?”

Harry reaches out before he even processes it. He winds an arm around Draco’s shoulder, and Draco leans into him immediately, the way he has countless times in public. Harry tries to steady his breaths, to make them long and soothing, and eventually Draco’s fall into the same rhythm.

“It’ll be okay,” Harry says into his hair. “We’ll get it sorted. It’ll be okay.”

Draco’s voice comes out low and hushed. “I don’t know how much longer I can take it.”

Harry hasn’t spent much time considering the toll it all must take on Draco — to watch his friends and peers be picked off one by one. He seems to spend a great deal of energy appearing to be unmoved by just about everything. Right now, Harry feels a little stupid for ever falling for it.

Harry reaches up to stroke his silky hair. When Draco doesn’t immediately push him away, he cards his fingers through it. It’s a gesture Draco has made so many times, but Harry has never indulged his curiosity enough to mimic it. But he finds that his hair is precisely as soft as it looks. Draco lets out a tired little breath as Harry works, combing his hair back into some semblance of order, then finds he can’t stop.

“Where the hell were you?” Draco says into his side, his tone softer than Harry has ever heard it — and maybe even a little needy. “Granger was losing her mind,” he adds quickly.

“Little Berkhamsted,” Harry says. “With Ginny.”

“Oh.”

“And Luna,” Harry adds hastily. “They’re — they’re seeing each other now.”

“Oh,” Draco repeats. Harry doesn’t allow himself to wonder if the softening of his voice is relief. “Is Hogwarts even capable of producing heterosexuals?”

Harry snorts. “You know, the way Ron talks about how fit some of the Falmouth Falcons are, I wonder that quite often, myself.”

Harry drops his hand, and Draco shuffles against him. Harry thinks he’s going to stand up or push him away, but Draco just settles in closer. He lays his cheek against Harry’s chest, and Harry drops one arm to his waist and pulls him close with the other.

“You may be wildly unprofessional, but at least you’re consistent,” Draco mumbles.

“Ginny didn’t tell me she turned off her Floo,” Harry says defensively. “And I don’t think you actually want to discuss which one of us is more professional.”

“Shove off, Potter,” Draco murmurs, his voice fading. Harry peeks down at him to see that his eyes are drooping. He looks back to Pansy and waits until Draco’s breaths grow long and rhythmic like hers as he slips into a reluctant sleep.

*

Harry doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until his dreams are pierced by the sound of someone squealing.

He and Draco startle and push away from each other on the sofa. Pansy gawks at them from her bed, pushed up onto her hands like a little girl who’s just learned her first charm.

“Cuddling!” she exclaims with either excitement or anger. “I’ve nearly died and you gits are cuddling!”

Draco stands, checking his pocket watch groggily before rubbing Pansy’s shoulder and wedging a pillow behind her back. “Don’t excite yourself, you ridiculous beast. You’re going to pop a stitch.”

“You would be so lucky, Draco,” she exclaims. “Then maybe we’d all forget the miraculous sight of you cuddling with Harry sodding Potter!”

Draco opens his mouth, but like Harry, he seems incapable of finding any words that could deny the truth.

“He’s right, Pans,” Hermione says. To Harry’s deep mortification, she seems to have been seated on the other side of the room for quite some time. She stands by Pansy’s bed and uncorks a mercurial potion, which she pours into a small cup and pushes into Pansy’s hand. “Sit back. You need to rest.”

“But who could rest at a time like this?” Pansy cries. “And I’m told there’s going to be a wedding!”

“Christ, does nearly being murdered do nothing to staunch your indefatigable hyperactivity?” Draco grumbles.

“A wedding! Dray, if I’m not your best man I’ll have you strung up to a tree for two days.”

“There isn’t going to be any wedding, Pansy,” Draco says with a glower. “And I’m beginning to wonder if we need a Mind Healer in here.”

“Drink,” Hermione says, nodding at the potion in Pansy’s hand.

Pansy tosses it back like a shot, shudders against the taste, then reanimates. “Excuse me if I’d rather discuss my best friend’s engagement than pick at the deep psychological wounds of being nearly tortured to death that have yet to even begin to heal,” Pansy says bitterly, and Draco looks scolded.

Hermione takes the cup from her hands. “How are you feeling, Pansy? There’s a Healer on the way to check on you.”

“Peachy,” Pansy says, glancing around at all of their expectant faces. She crosses her arms and a flicker of pain passes through her eyes, her voice dropping to a murmur. “I think I’d really rather not discuss it right now.”

“That’s perfectly alright,” Hermione says, rubbing her shoulder. “You’ll be expected to give your testimony, but I can arrange for it to be written, if you prefer.”

Pansy’s face twists in discomfort. Harry can almost see her trying to push all of the memories back down into the recesses of her mind where they can’t access her for now — he’s all too familiar with the process.

She grabs Draco’s hand, and he immediately begins drawing anxious circles into it with his thumb. “How long has this been going on?” she demands. “When were you going to tell me?”

Draco huffs. “What on earth are you talking about?”

She yanks her hand free to gesture chaotically with both of them. “You being in love with Potter!”

Harry’s face goes very warm. Hermione looks to the ceiling. Draco, as always, manages to maintain perfect composure. “You’re loopy from all of the potions.”

“I’m not hallucinating, Draco,” she says. “I know what I saw. So does ‘Mione.”

Hermione tries to stuff down a laugh. She turns to her bag, from which she produces some sandwiches. “It’s a little chilly in this room, that’s all,” she says, pushing one into Draco’s hand. “Eat,” she says sternly, and hands the other to Harry.

The Healer comes by to check on Pansy, during which time she appears to be physically pained by her inability to harass them about their wedding for twenty minutes. The Healer administers a few potions and one supremely complex-looking spell that requires a lengthy incantation and ornate wand gestures. When she finishes, she instructs Pansy to please rest as much as possible until she’s released, because Pansy has been fidgeting the entire time.

“Oh, I wasn’t sure whether it was actually true,” the Healer says, eyeing Harry and Draco as she packs up her cart to leave the room. “But it’s so obvious in person. Such a handsome couple.”

When she leaves, Pansy just grins at them like a cat peering at a bowl of cream.

*

As an apology for unintentionally marooning him in her cottage, Ginny offers it up as the venue for the engagement party. Pansy spends the week at Ginny’s to help prepare, and she and Luna look after her while she regains her strength. Harry isn’t sure exactly how their friendship formed so quickly, but he has a feeling their shared gossip about him and Draco didn’t hurt.

The three of them spend the entire week decorating Ginny’s home with vine-covered trellises and low-hanging orbs and, to Harry’s chagrin, interwoven red and green streamers. “Interhouse unity!” Pansy chips when Harry tries to object.

While they work, Hermione spends the week coaching Harry and Draco on their story. “It’s fine to stay vague, but be sure you’re familiar with the details in case you’re pressed,” she tells them during one of their sessions.

“I still don’t see why he has to be the one to have proposed,” Draco says. He’s been chattier than usual during their recent meetings, as though he and Pansy are both on the same regime of healing and Pepper-Up Potions. “I’m not some bashful wallflower.”

“When did that happen?” Harry prods, earning a withering look.

“It just fits the narrative better, Draco,” Hermione says. “It makes it appear that Harry is head over heels. As for rings —”

“Rings? Hermione —”

Hermione gives an exasperated huff. “I know they aren’t your usual style, Harry, but it’s a good opportunity for there to be a physical reminder of the engagement.” She frowns. “You can take it off when you’re alone.”

“Well, I’ll be picking them out,” Draco says testily. “I”m not walking around with some cheap, piddly trinket. I have heirlooms, you know.”

“Erm — right,” Hermione says with a bemused chuckle. “Whatever you like. Just be sure to have them on before the engagement party.”

Draco takes Harry back to his flat afterwards to procure said heirlooms. It looks a bit more lived-in than last time Harry saw it — shoes left by the front door, a cloak draped over the arm of his sofa, and a stack of dishes in the sink.

He leads Harry into his bedroom, which is surprisingly sparse. But then, Harry imagines he spends most of his time in the dark room Draco showed him last time.

Draco drops to his knees to open the bottom drawer of his wardrobe, lifting out a small black box. He then performs a complex-looking charm on it before laying his hand flat across the surface before it unlocks. Within it is a small collection of neatly organised gold, silver, and emerald pieces.

“I can assure you that none of these pieces are currently cursed,” he says as if reading Harry’s mind.

Harry sits on the floor next to him as Draco thumbs through the ring compartment. He twists some of the pieces thoughtfully — silver bands with shimmering jewels and thick, mighty rings that look like they’ve belonged to kings. He pulls out a simple black band and hands it to Harry, who turns it over in his fingers. It’s embedded with a thousand tiny gemstones that glimmer with a shock of blood red crimson light when caught by the sunlight filtering through Draco’s window.

“I believe that’s the most Gryffindor piece I have to offer.”

“Right,” Harry says, eyeing the box, which probably has thousands of Galleons worth of heirlooms within. Harry cautiously pulls out a band that’s pure, transcendent silver and whose inside is lined with glimmering emerald.

“Not that this box isn’t all very Slytherin,” he says. “But this seems to suit you.”

He hands it to Draco, who turns it over in his fingers. “Good choice,” he says. “This belonged to Walburga. She’d positively hate me wearing it in my betrothal to a half-blood.”

“She’d hate it more if I did,” Harry says. When Draco raises an eyebrow, he adds, “It would make more sense for you to wear the Gryffindor one, anyway, wouldn’t it?”

Draco hums before taking Harry’s hand. He slides the silver ring onto it, then casts a quick charm so it fits snugly. Harry takes Draco’s hand in turn, slipping the crimson ring onto it and finding that it fits perfectly.

Draco watches as Harry lifts his hand slightly, inspecting the way the dark ring looks on his slender fingers, so stark against his cool, pale hand. Then he looks down at his own hand, where the silver glints against his own warm brown skin.

Harry remembers himself and drops Draco’s hand. “Did you ever think you’d get married?”

“We aren’t getting married, Potter.”

Harry laughs. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“But — no,” Draco says. “Well, yes, of course I did — as a boy. As an only son at the end of a pure-blood line. It’s hardly optional.”

“Your parents pushed you to.”

“Of course,” Draco says. “I was expected to produce an heir. But it would never be anything like a real marriage.” He seems to surprise himself with a laugh, inspecting the ring on his hand as though he’s never seen it before. “Why, I imagine it would have been arranged quite like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. He realises he’s never said it before, though he’s felt it so many times. “I know how miserable all of this is.”

Draco shrugs. “I find some small relief knowing it’s equally miserable for you.”

“I think it’s more miserable for me,” Harry says, careful to keep his voice light. “You’ve seen to that.”

“It’s what I do best.”

Harry can hardly believe Draco is acknowledging it. He feels like if he makes any sudden movements, all of this might unwind before him and they’ll devolve into a shouting match.

He also finds — confusingly, so confusingly — that it’s nearly impossible now to resist reaching out. It’s as if having been away from Draco for a week has left a vacuum that would normally be filled with passing touches and familiar warmth and varying lengths of kisses — always longest after long nights out at pubs when they were both a little tipsy and seemed to forget themselves.

Draco stares at him curiously, as though he’s a potion that just curdled and burned. “Harry,” he says slowly.

There’s something surreal about it, being addressed like that in private. Harry’s mind feels cottony. “Yeah?”

“I think you should go.”

Harry twists the ring on his finger as he studies Draco, the indecipherable expression on his face — perhaps a whisper of impatience, but maybe a trace of pain.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I think you’re right.”

And he goes.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Harry, Hermione, and Pansy all stay at Ginny’s the night before the engagement party, having worked late into the night — Hermione and Harry on last-minute coaching and Ginny and Pansy on finishing decor. As always, Hermione is less worried about Draco’s ability to maintain composure under pressure than Harry’s — which is lucky, because Draco doesn’t come around once.

Hermione attempts to dress Harry when the day turns to evening — this time, in a collared green shirt that doesn’t suit him at all. He immediately tops it with one of Sirius’s old leather jackets, despite Hermione’s increasing chagrin.

The party begins at six, and Draco strolls through the Floo at quarter til.

“You absolute arse.” Pansy scowls at him immediately. “Of course you look like that.”

Harry looks up from where Hermione is fussing with his collar. Draco does look like that: he’s as manicured as usual in a skin-tight black turtleneck and equally tight charcoal trousers, over which he wears a dark crimson cloak, nearly black. He has his hair tied up in a half knot, its silver sheen and his pale skin almost shining against all of the darkness.

As usual, he acts like Harry doesn’t exist.

“Maybe it’s best if we wait for a few people to arrive before you two come out,” Hermione says, peering out onto the patio. “That way you can make a bit of an appearance. The Witch Weekly reporter will be here soon, so make sure you’re mingling by then. Pans, will you help me re-charm some of the floral arrangements?”

The girls slowly filter out into the gardens as guests begin appearing at the Apparition point right outside. When it’s clear they’re out of earshot, Harry reaches above Ginny’s refrigerator for her Firewhisky stash and pulls two tumblers out without needing to ask whether Draco wants a drink. His unspoken question is answered when Draco appears next to him, holding one of the glasses as Harry pours.

“It should all be downhill after this, I hope,” Harry offers optimistically. It’s impossible to know what kind of temperament Draco is going to have tonight, but he’ll do anything he can to keep him out of his head for the evening, even if it means playing exceptionally nice.

“Ever the optimist,” Draco says. He chuckles as he watches Harry down his drink in one gulp before sipping his own.

“Don’t tell Hermione,” Harry says, pouring another.

Harry watches Pansy and Ginny bicker over the hors d'oeuvres just outside as Hermione greets some of the Ministry guests. “What do you think you’ll do once it’s all over?” he asks.

“You’re still convinced there’s an end date to this,” Draco observes under his breath, sitting at the table across from him. When Harry refuses to acknowledge this, he goes on: “Not sure. Quite likely I’ll return to my dastardly ways and resume my post as a general blight against humanity.”

“You don’t need to,” Harry says, though he’s immediately aware that this is not the light, amicable conversation he was aiming for. “You have money.”

“Is that the impression you’re under, Potter?” Draco asks. “Is that why I live in a broom closet?”

“What about all that jewellery?”

Draco shrugs. “It’s all my mother’s. I only keep the personal pieces because she feels they’re safer with me,” he says. “I — I won’t accept any of her money. Any of theirs.”

Draco is being honest with Harry — maybe even vulnerable. But Harry can hardly hear it. “So it’s better to make ends meet by keeping the Dark Arts alive?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“Gods,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. “You can f*ck off with all of the hero talk already.”

Harry groans. This is all already a disaster. “I just don’t know why you insist on having such a complex about it.”

Draco lets out a spiteful laugh. “Is the textbook example of a saviour complex honestly saying that to me right now?”

Harry puts his drink down a little harder than he means to. “I haven’t got a bloody saviour complex.”

“You haven’t allowed yourself to enjoy a single day of your life since the war ended,” Draco says, his hand visibly clenching around his glass. “You’re perpetually in search of new ways to martyr yourself.”

“I must really love being a martyr if I’m willing to put up with you.”

Draco sizes him up with ire before looking out at the gathering crowd. “You’re the one seeking out self-torture. I’m just giving you what you want.”

“I’m only trying to help you and your friends,” Harry says, hearing his voice rise. Draco is unflinchingly calm as always, and, as always, it makes Harry want to throw his glass across the room.

“Convincing.”

Harry pushes out from his seat. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t actually care about any of us,” Draco says. “You never have. It took Granger and her stupid department to beg you. You knew it was happening and didn’t lift a finger until then.” The icy glare he pins Harry with makes it clear that this is something he’s been wanting to say for some time now.

“You were just as happy to let us all die,” Draco says. “You think we deserve it.”

Suddenly, the anger floods out from Harry’s chest. “I don’t think you deserve it.”

It’s as if all of his fury has been transmuted into Draco. “Stop f*cking lying, Potter,” he snarls. “The second you’re dismissed, you’ll go back to your pretty little life with your pretty little friends and your pretty little ex-wife, all of whom are finding ridiculous ways to distract themselves from how pathetically miserable they are, just like you.”

“And I suppose your life will be so much more fulfilling, constantly having to look over your shoulder while you help people kill each other,” Harry growls.

“At least I’m honest with myself about who I am.”

“You’re right,” Harry says. “I can’t wait for this to be over. I can’t wait to forget I ever met you.”

Draco looks at him with such hatred that Harry almost feels it strike him across the face. It’s an acrimony the likes of which Harry hasn’t seen since Hogwarts.

“Well, that’s one thing we can absolutely agree on.”

“Oh, loverboys!” Pansy coos as she bursts into the kitchen, leaving the double doors open so the party can flow in and out of the cottage. “It’s showtime!”

As if by magic, the fury melts off of Draco’s face, replaced with an expression of ardent love and admiration. It’s such a rapid transition that Harry’s mind has to scurry to catch up.

“Well, darling,” he says, watching as Harry tries as best he can to push the murderous expression off of his face. “I suppose there’s no use having all this love if we can’t share it with the world.”

He threads his fingers through Harry’s, and they’re off.

*

Though the guest list includes a plethora of Ministry officials, Quidditch celebrities, and the important colleagues Hermione insisted they invite, Harry finds with great relief that he’s able to spend most of the night with his actual friends.

It’s the first time he’s seen most of them in months, if not years. Neville is teaching Herbology at Hogwarts this term, and he and Hannah are eager to show off photos of their honeymoon in Peru. Dean, Seamus, and Daphne spend hours monopolising Ron for details on all their favorite Quidditch players, especially those who are currently standing across the yard. The entire Weasley clan is in attendance, George having provided all of the pyrotechnics for the night, to Hermione’s great despair. Mercifully, either Ron or Ginny let the nature of the engagement slip to Molly, who went on to tell all of her children — so Harry receives only shooting looks of pity instead of interrogations over how he wound up engaged to a Malfoy.

As he accepts countless cheers and slightly confused congratulations, Harry doesn’t allow himself to think about the inevitable: the fact that this is soon to be his second very public engagement to be called off. He’s survived it once, but at this point, he isn’t sure he can blame the papers for wondering as to his mental state. This one will be worse, though. He’d proposed to Ginny quietly before it even occurred to him to buy a ring, and neither of them were the type for big parties like this.

At some point, Hermione approaches him with a thoroughly-cowed Draco on her arm. She smiles at him sweetly. “Harry, I do believe you may have misplaced your fiancé,” she says. “I couldn’t imagine any other reason why I haven’t seen the two of you together, even once, for the past two hours.”

“I’ve been making the rounds,” Harry says.

“You’ve been debating Seamus about last week’s Cannons match for thirty minutes straight,” Hermione says, dropping Draco off like a reluctant child and turning back into the crowd.

As if magnetised, Draco immediately reaches out to wrap a hand around Harry’s waist. “I hope you haven’t suffered too greatly in my absence, my love.”

“Oh, you know how I just detest being away from you,” Harry says, returning his falsely loving gaze and pulling him in for a very hateful kiss.

He looks up to realise they’re being watched attentively by the Witch Weekly reporter, Jaxon Gaffney. Hermione was insistent that they get some facetime in with him so they could stay on top of the narrative, and Harry knows it’s only a matter of time before she pushes them bodily towards him if they don’t do it themselves. So when Gaffney makes his way over to them, Harry resists his natural urge to flee.

“Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy,” Gaffney says, shaking each of their hands in turn. He’s a tall man with thick, black hair and a smartly-fitted blue shirt. “Though I expect one of those names will be changing soon. I’m a reporter with Witch Weekly. I was so pleased Hermione extended the invitation.”

“Harry is fine,” Harry says, trying not to look stiff, as Hermione had incessantly requested. “And I think I’ve rubbed off on Draco enough to endure slightly less than high court formalities. Why don’t we get a drink?”

Gaffney proves to be exactly the type of reporter that Harry hates the most. He doesn’t touch a quill or notepad all night and does away with formal questions, relying on casual conversation to get all of the quotes he needs. Harry used to fall for it all the time, being charmed enough to let his guard down, only to discover that his offhanded remarks or murmured comments had made it to the front page the following day.

“So,” Gaffney says after he gets through the basics: the proposal story (private, intimate), the engagement rings (sentimental heirlooms), the wedding plans (still ongoing), and even a few pointed questions about a potential growing family that Harry and Draco both rapidly shake their heads at before he can finish his sentence. “I understand your relationship began after an Auror mission. Does that ever make the power dynamic a little strange?”

“I’m sure you’ll find it isn’t the first time I’ve been saved by Harry,” Draco says, giving Harry a playful nudge. “We’re used to it by now. I think saving people is all he knows how to do at this point.”

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“It’s no secret that you two are quite the unexpected pair,” Gaffney presses. “How do you think you’d react as seventeen year olds if you’d got a glimpse of the future?”

Harry shakes his head immediately. “I’m sure I wouldn’t have believed it,” he says, trying to sound as ambivalent as possible. “I can hardly believe it now.” He hesitates. “But once we’d got over the shock of it all, I don’t think it would be that surprising. There was always an intensity between us. I think we just needed time to figure it out.”

Draco shoots him an unreadable glance. Whether it’s because of Harry’s answer or the fact that he’s repurposed Draco’s manipulation tactics isn’t clear.

“The intensity,” Gaffney repeats. “That’s what draws our readers so much to the relationship, I think — the peaks and valleys.”

“Well,” Harry says cautiously. “We’re still doing a bit of figuring out.”

Gaffney laughs. “No, no, I understand,” he says with a smile that Harry might not spot as false if he hadn’t met a million reporters like him. “It’s a natural part of any relationship.”

He turns to Draco. “The Auror mission report where you and Harry met has yet to be declassified, as I’m sure you know,” he says. “But there’s a great deal of speculation about your involvement in… less than savoury dealings since the war ended.”

“My classmate and close friend Daphne Greengrass worked as a waitress in the south of Italy for two years after the War,” Draco says, stiffening. “I recall reading reports in your very publication at the time that she was working with the Macnairs in a revenge plot that was never substantiated.”

“We at Witch Weekly try to vet our sources as thoroughly as possible, but we’re clear to indicate when we lack conclusive proof,” Gaffney says without missing a beat, casting a charming smile between the two of them. “So how is it that you keep yourself busy, then, while Harry is working with the Ministry?”

“The way any pretty pure-blood housewife would,” Draco says, falling back into his element. “Learning skills I’ll never use, tending my rose gardens, and having tea with the Queen.”

Gaffney laughs, and he touches a hand to Draco’s elbow for a fraction of a second as if unthinkingly. “I’m sure she’d delight in your company.”

“He’s being humble,” Harry cuts in, watching Gaffney’s hand drop back down to his side. “He’s quite an ardent student of just about everything you could think of.” He turns to Draco and winds an errant lock of fine hair behind his ear. “He’s really quite clever.”

“It doesn’t go unnoticed,” Gaffney says, his eyes lingering on Draco for a bit too long before they snap back to Harry. “And we’re celebrating your engagement less than two years after your split from Ginevra Weasley,” he says. “But considering she’s our lovely hostess, I take it you two are on amicable terms.”

Harry doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s one of my closest friends.”

“There was speculation that you would be wedded off to a Parkinson or Greengrass yourself,” Gaffney says to Draco. “Was there a great deal of surprise when your friends and loved ones discovered this would not be the case?”

Draco shrugs. “I believe most everyone I know had rid themselves of the idea that I might marry a woman before I even sat my N.E.W.T.s”

Gaffney laughs again. “You know, there was running speculation about it in the newsroom for years,” he says conspiratorially. “The dashing, mysterious, wounded Draco Malfoy only surfacing every few years to give a sultry glare to the Prophet. I believe we had one of the photographs posted on the refrigerator in the staff room.”

“So honoured to provide such quality entertainment,” Draco says mildly.

“Only to be snatched up by the one and only Harry Potter,” Gaffney says, glancing at Harry before returning his intense gaze back to Draco, who has a smile dancing about his lips like he’s trying not to laugh. “Such a disappointment. But then, who could compete?”

“Forgive me,” Harry interjects when he can’t take it anymore. He’s careful to return Gaffney’s charming smile, to act as if it’s nothing more than a joke. “But are you flirting with my fiancé right in front of me?”

Gaffney blinks at him, his smile wavering only for a moment before he laughs. “I should know better than to think Harry Potter would be anything less than possessive,” he says. “I’m just trying to get a full picture of the relationship.”

Gaffney moves onto other topics, asking about the colour arrangement for the wedding — could they expect more crimson and emerald, or perhaps a sprinkling of gold and silver? — but Draco’s eyes linger on Harry as they talk. Harry can’t place what’s behind them, and he doesn’t have the energy to try.

*

As the evening continues, it grows alarmingly close to feeling like an actual engagement party. After Gaffney departs, Harry and Draco find their way into their usual rhythm. They weave in and out of the crowd, sharing quippy, canned tidbits about the proposal to friends and strangers and even some of the Aurors, who are spellbound by Draco’s retelling of a time Harry fell off of his broom during a Quidditch match because he thought a passing finch was the Snitch.

Harry is relieved to see that Draco’s entire crew has arrived: Blaise, Theo, Daphne, and a few others keep him occupied long enough for Harry to spend time with his own friends. But nearly every time he looks up from his conversation, he catches Draco staring at him across the garden — zoning out of his own conversations and gazing at Harry with that unreadable expression on his face.

Harry figures Draco is passing the time by imagining plunging him into a cauldron of acid.

“Oh, by the way,” Ginny says to Draco when she catches them together a few hours later. “The anxiety relief tinctures are flying off of the shelves. We call them Stressless Start. Breaking into the exhausted mum demographic has really expanded our clientele.”

“I believe Ginevra here is attempting to thank me,” Draco says to Harry as if Ginny isn’t there.

“Thank you!” Ginny laughs. “Maybe I’m gullible, but I’m beginning to suspect you’re not nearly as much of a pompous tosser as you’d have us believe.”

“Oh, no,” Harry interjects cooly. “He most certainly is.”

Draco grumbles something to himself, but when he walks off to where Luna is beckoning him from across the room, his hand lingers on Harry’s arm before he goes.

“He’s a ruin, actually,” Harry murmurs.

Ginny raises her eyebrows “I thought you two were getting on better lately. We all noticed it.”

“We were,” Harry says. “But he’s in a f*cking mood. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Well, I’m sure it goes in both directions,” Ginny says. “It always has.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Calm down, calm down,” Ginny says, glancing over her shoulder to ensure no one is witnessing Harry having a small meltdown in the middle of his own engagement party. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just get through the rest of the night. You’re almost done.” She kisses him on the cheek before abandoning him with his thoughts.

Harry feels a hand on his shoulder the second she walks off. “Harry,” a familiar voice sounds behind him. He turns to see Cho with her other hand on her very round belly. He immediately walks her to an empty table where they can sit. “I’ve been wanting to catch you,” she says. “I always knew you were popular, but wow. This is really something.”

“I’m glad you came,” Harry says, feeling himself calm just from the sound of her soothing voice. He and Cho had started exchanging owls after the war ended; it was one of many relationships that only stood to improve after they got older and had some time to figure themselves out. He wasn’t very good at keeping in touch with anyone these days, but he was on her Christmas card list, and Luna occasionally gave him dutiful updates about her growing family.

“I told Alex we’d just pop in and say hi, but it’s hard to tear him away from these sorts of things.” She nods over to her husband, a Muggle man who Harry spies watching a raucous Weasley game of Gobstones with great rapture.

Cho is glowing, and the love in her face when she looks over at her husband is almost palpable, like the warmth of a childhood blanket. Despite being surrounded by dozens of people who love him, just seeing that look in her eye makes Harry feel lonelier than ever.

“How are you?” Harry asks. “When’s this little one due?”

“Yeah, alright,” Cho says. “She’s coming in two months — can you imagine? I’m still not sure I should be allowed to have her.”

“You’re going to be brilliant,” Harry says. “You both will.”

“Well, we’ll see,” Cho replies with a knowing look. “He thought learning about magic was hard. Wait until he learns about nappies and baby sick.”

She watches Alex and George double over with laughter as Ron wipes his face free of bright green Gobstone goo. Hermione takes Ron’s chin in her hand, looking down at him with a mixture of pity and delight before clearing it with a charm.

It was getting harder to see all of it: his friends pairing off, settling down, and slowing the pace of their lives all around him. They deserved it so much — a reprieve from everything they’d done and witnessed far too young.

But Harry can’t always push down the envy that prickles beneath his skin. Watching Ginny finally work things out with Luna wasn’t easy. It was a version of the happy ending he’d always wanted, while his own was laid out in falsehoods, hatred, and deceit.

“Well, we’ll have to be going soon. I have to get the both of them in bed,” Cho says, beckoning to Alex and rubbing her stomach. “But I just wanted to say congratulations. Really. You deserve it. I’m so pleased for the both of you.”

“I know it’s a little strange,” Harry says, because the thought seems to be dancing through her eyes.

Cho laughs. “Well, you always were a little strange, Harry. I don’t think you can surprise me much anymore.”

She turns her eyes to the large window of Ginny’s cottage, within which Draco and Blaise are listening attentively to Luna spin a yarn that involves wild hand gestures and very animated expressions. As if feeling Harry’s gaze, Draco looks up for a brief moment and gives him that peculiar look, which Harry decides must just be him fighting back a glare, before he turns back to Luna.

“Anyway, it isn’t so surprising, considering what the two of you had back at Hogwarts.”

Harry’s eyes whip back to her. “What do you mean?”

Cho looks caught off guard. “I only meant —” she starts cautiously. “Well, I suppose most of us always thought there was something going on between the two of you, the way you were always looking at each other like you were trying to perform Legilimency.”

Harry tries not to let the discomfort show on his face. He isn’t sure how many more times he can hear this kind of observation, so openly given now that his friends thought the rivalry of their youth was just a meandering path to romance and not… very, very confusing.

“We were confused,” Harry says glumly, echoing his thoughts.

Cho doesn’t notice. She smiles, looking down at the ring glinting off of Harry’s finger. “We all were. But I’m glad you found your way back together. You’ve earned it.” She breathes a long sigh in the language of survivors. “After all of this, Rowena, Harry — if anyone’s earned it, you have.”

It’s earnest, and loving, and true. But when Cho says it, it feels like a curse.

When Harry looks back through the window, Draco has disappeared. He scans the crowd briefly for a shock of crimson and white before Draco appears right beside him, as if he’s Apparated.

“So good of you to come, Cho,” Draco says. “Are you enjoying your evening?”

“Oh — Draco, hi,” Cho says. “I was just telling Harry what a lovely party it’s been.”

“Yes,” Draco says, as though he hasn’t heard her. “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed my fiancé? I’m afraid it’s quite urgent.”

Cho looks a little startled. “Of course,” she says as Harry helps her labour out of her chair. “I just needed to be leaving anyway. Thanks so much for inviting us.” She squeezes Harry’s hand. “Hey. Return my owls once in a while, alright?”

Draco watches the exchange with mild irritation. It’s very unlike him to be this uncomposed around others, and Harry’s already exasperated by the thought of whatever he’s in store for: no doubt he’s been doing something wrong, and he’s about to hear all about it. Or maybe Draco has overdosed on niceties and simply wants to take his frustrations out on him.

As Cho joins the group of Gobstone spectators, Draco takes Harry by the wrist and guides him back towards the cottage. Drags him, really; Draco’s steps are quick and urgent as he ignores the inquisitive glances thrown in their direction, including a particularly worried look from Hermione. Harry knows this won’t look good from the outside, but at least it’s not his fault this time.

Draco leads him through the thinning crowd inside of the cottage and turns on him. “f*ck,” he says, his eyes passing over the handful of guests still gathered at the kitchen table, who are participating in what appears to be a convoluted and very messy drinking game led by Pansy. “You know her house. Where can we get some privacy?”

Harry hesitates. Draco looks — well, he looks mental, angry and antsy, shifting on his feet. “Well?” Draco snaps.

“Erm,” Harry says, leading him down the corridor. “She has a spare room just here.” He opens the second door they pass, and Draco herds him into it with a shove.

Harry lets out a groan as he hears Draco click the lock behind them. “Godric, what is it this time?” he says, returning Draco’s glare. “Have you come to have another go at me?”

“Something like that,” Draco murmurs.

Draco glares at him, his silver eyes glinting in the dark room. They lock onto Harry’s briefly before passing down his body and up again. Harry freezes, finally recognising the expression that’s been flashing on Draco’s face all night.

It’s lust.

Harry registers it seconds before Draco shoves him into the wall and crushes their lips together. He grabs Harry’s waist with a grip tight enough to leave bruises. His lips are desperate and unrelenting and furious, and when Harry’s mouth stills against his in shock, Draco pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites. Hard.

“f*ck,” Harry gasps. It’s the only sound he can produce. “f*ck, Malfoy. What the f*ck.”

“You’re insufferable,” Draco says, winding his fingers through Harry’s hair and tightening them hard, pinning Harry in place as he opens his mouth against his neck and sucks a burning trail of kisses against his throat.

Draco pulls back, and now the raging want he’s been shooting Harry all evening is perfectly clear in his lustful glare. Without taking his fingers out of Harry’s hair, he winds his other hand down and yanks Harry’s shirt out from his trousers, making short, hasty work of his belt.

“You were actually jealous,” Draco hisses as his nimble fingers work. “Of an idiotic reporter for Witch sodding Weekly. Do you have any idea how pathetic you are?”

“I wasn’t,” Harry gasps as Draco returns his fiery, livid, impossible kisses to Harry’s neck, sucking a bite onto his collarbone. “I’m not.”

“Shut up,” Draco growls. “Shut up.”

Harry shuts up. Draco drops his hand out of his hair and reconnects their lips while Harry’s brain finally catches up with what’s actually happening.

What’s happening, which is that Draco is using two frantic hands to undo Harry’s flies without breaking his desperate kisses. He slips a cold hand into Harry’s trousers, finding him hard and ready.

Harry gasps a short, cutting breath when Draco wraps his fingers around his co*ck, his mind going blank at the contact.

“Ah,” Draco says victoriously against his lips.

“f*ck you,” Harry breathes, and then: “Draco.”

Draco lets out a cruel chuckle, holding Harry’s rigid erection without showing any intent of putting it to use. Harry ruts desperately into his hand, and Draco releases a low, sardonic: “Oh, pet.”

He starts to work Harry’s length with slow, maddening strokes. Harry can feel himself come apart at the seams immediately, forgetting the party, the engagement, the fake relationship, and everything except for Draco’s twisting fingers and trying to remember to breathe.

Harry grabs for him, pulling him back into a kiss before reaching for his belt. Draco bats his hand away, pinning Harry’s wrist to the wall with a crushing grip.

“You’re so easy, Potter,” Draco says against his neck. He speeds up his strokes, and Harry’s laboured breaths increase with the rhythm. “You’ve always been so easy.”

“f*ck,” Harry says around a half-swallowed moan, “you.”

Harry frees his hand and winds them both through Draco’s fine, soft hair, kissing him until he grows so close that he can’t even coordinate his lips. Draco has him pinned against the wall with his body, the side of his face pressed up against Harry’s as he looks down to watch himself work.

“f*ck,” Draco breathes at the sight of it. Harry thinks he might lose it. He shuts his eyes tight and ruts again into Draco’s hand, which finally increases in pace.

“You want this,” Draco whispers, a curse that winds its way into Harry’s unfettered mind. “Look how much you want me. How much you’ve always wanted me, my hand on your co*ck.”

He squeezes lightly as if to remind Harry of what’s happening. Harry lets out a low, animalistic sound, somewhere between a growl and a moan. “Yes,” he hears himself hiss.

“Shh, shh,” Draco whispers, pressing a light kiss to Harry’s temple. “We wouldn’t want any of our lovely guests knowing you’re in here falling apart, now would we?”

Another breathy “Draco” escapes from Harry’s lips unbidden. Draco presses his free hand against Harry’s mouth, silencing him as he amps up his pace even more. Harry whimpers against it, his knees buckling as he grows closer and closer to the edge. He bites down on Draco’s hand mercilessly, and Draco grunts, pushing his body harder against him, his hand working in artful, twisting strokes.

“That’s it,” he says. “Come for me, darling. Give it to me,” he breathes into Harry’s neck. “I want it.”

Harry sucks in another icy breath as his release coils low in his abdomen. Draco crushes his lips into another kiss, stroking Harry through his blinding, shuddering org*sm.

“Yes,” Draco whispers into the kiss as Harry comes with a low groan. Draco’s words turn into nonsense as he kisses Harry’s jaw and cheek and throat. “That’s it,” he says. “You’re so good. You’re so good for me, Harry, so good.”

Draco finally stills his hand when Harry whimpers at the wave of sensitivity. He drops his hand from Harry’s mouth, and they stay like that as their breaths slowly deepen, Draco pinning him into the wall, his hand loosely gripping Harry’s softening co*ck.

Harry shivers when he finally pulls away. He blinks hard and rapidly in the darkness as if he’s just woken up from a dream.

“Oh, love,” Draco says when he finally straightens, letting out a disappointed sigh. “Such a mess.” He casts a Cleaning Charm on his hand and repockets his wand. “Do clean yourself up a bit; we have reputations to uphold, after all.”

He combs his hands through his hair, expertly returning it to its usual pristine state as Harry attempts to catch his evasive breaths. His mind swirls with the millions of chaotic thoughts that were cleared from it by the dark throes of lust. He wants to spit another f*ck you or shove off, but that ground seems to have been extensively covered already — and he finds he doesn’t really have the fire for it.

Draco leans in and kisses Harry on the cheek. Then, as if he can’t resist the temptation, Draco reconnects their lips for one last long, slow, dangerous kiss.

“Don’t be too long, love,” he says. “You know how I just can’t stand to be apart from you.”

He turns and slips out of the door, leaving Harry to try to figure out what the f*ck just happened.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Harry charms himself clean, but he’s far too hazy to do more than the bare minimum. When he emerges from Ginny’s spare room after indulging in several minutes of sitting, confused, in the dark, he’s still in a daze. He makes a slow beeline for her kitchen counter, which has been turned into a makeshift bar for the engagement party.

He’s poured himself a very generous glass of rum and downed nearly half of it when Ginny appears beside him. She puts one hand on his shoulder and takes the rum away from him with the other. She glances over at the table of raucous Slytherins while she leads a very pliant Harry onto an empty sofa away from the crowd.

“Harry,” Ginny says sweetly, making an earnest but ultimately hopeless attempt to comb his hair into submission with her fingers. “Would you care to explain to me why you currently have sex hair?”

“I don’t have sex hair,” Harry says stupidly. He grabs his drink from the coffee table and downs it before she can protest.

“You always did go loopy after we shagged,” Ginny sighs. “There,” she says, pulling her hands away to look at her work. “That’s the best I can do, but maybe try not to look so blissed out. It’s not subtle.”

“I’m not blissed out,” Harry grumbles.

Draco appears by the table of Slytherins and drops into a seat beside Luna. He catches Harry watching, and his lips twist into a devilish smile. He shoots Harry a wink before folding into the conversation.

Ginny stares at him with concern. “Harry…”

“f*ck,” Harry says for the millionth time that night, feeling the rum loosen his tense muscles and his wound up mind. “f*ck, Gin. Is it that obvious?”

Ginny snickers. “Well, the two of you tore through here like there were a million Galleons up for grabs in my storage room and then came out five minutes apart, as if that would throw anyone off the trail.” She glances up at his hair. “I don’t know if I’d have suspected anything if you hadn’t come out looking like the poster boy for getting your brains shagged out.”

“I haven’t —”

“Sure, sure,” Ginny says. “We can talk about it later if you like. Are you alright?”

“Never better,” Harry says glumly.

Ginny’s eyes narrow. “He’s still f*cking with you, then?”

“Literally, now, it would seem.”

“Is it too much?” Ginny asks, her voice growing serious. “Because you don’t have to put up with it. Don’t forget that.”

“I know,” Harry says, shaking his head. “It’s not too much. I can handle him.”

“If you’re sure,” Ginny says ambivalently, scanning his face before glancing back to the party. Things are finally winding down, all of the Ministry and celebrity guests having long since left. Now, most everyone in attendance is from their Hogwarts classes, and it’s turning more into a house party than anything resembling a formal event. Harry could easily sneak out, but that would absolutely be letting Draco win.

With relief, Harry spots Ron and Hermione sitting out in the courtyard. He can’t handle Hermione finding out about this.

“Well, it certainly authenticates things for the nonbelievers,” Ginny adds hopefully before squeezing Harry’s knee. “Keep your head above water,” she says. “As best you can. He’s still just a git. You don’t have to pay him any mind.”

“That’s a little hard when he’s got his hand wrapped around my —”

“I don’t actually need all the details,” Ginny says with a smirk, and stands. “Anyway, I believe we’ve entered into the part of the night where we’re allowed to get drunk.”

Harry moves through the remainder of the evening unable to shake free from his haze. He finds Ron and Hermione in the courtyard and latches on, finding with relief that Hermione now seems less concerned about him and Draco being apart. The three of them get to spend some time alone for the first time in ages.

“Anyway, I’m not saying he’s, like, an Adonis or anything, I’m only saying I want notes on his training routine,” Ron says a little drunkenly of the Tornado’s Seeker, Leif Holm, who left an hour prior. “I mean, normally, Seekers are spritely little things, but he’s right bulky.”

Harry and Hermione exchange a bemused smile, and Ron looks between them defensively. “What?!”

“I think it’s gone really well, Harry,” Hermione says, running her hand up and down Ron’s arm. “I’m really pleased. I hope you are, too.” She reaches out to comb at Harry’s stubborn hair.

“Yeah, well, you only get engaged twice,” Harry sighs.

“Third time’s the charm?” Ron offers unhelpfully.

“It’s really incredible to see everyone getting on so well,” Hermione says, looking inside to where the remaining attendees have gathered.

It’s become something of a Hogwarts reunion. Dean and Neville are playing an elaborate and very competitive drinking game against Theo and Blaise which they all appear to be losing. Luna and Ginny are folded into each other on the sofa, gossipping with Daphne and Pansy and a few others from their year.

He spots Draco, who appears to be giving a very intense lecture to Lavender Brown and a few Hufflepuffs, who seem rapturously engaged.

He looks to be very in his element. He must be talking about medieval torture methods.

“Interhouse unity,” Harry mumbles.

“Did you know that Theo Nott bakes?” Ron says. “He actually mixes ingredients in bowls and then puts them in the oven and decorates them. With frosting. And sprinkles.”

“I think we understand the general concept of baking, Ronald,” Hermione says patiently.

“Says he wants to open a shop on Diagon one day. I gave him Luna’s information, told him she could help him out.”

“That wouldn’t have been possible six months ago,” Hermione says, looking at Harry pointedly. “He wouldn’t even be dreaming of it.”

“Well, sometimes new interests strike us when we least expect them,” Harry says, knowing full well he’s being difficult. But he spies Theo through the window, his long sleeves unable to fully hide the scars that peek out at his collarbone and neck, the one that winds across his face.

“Oh, give yourself credit for something once in your life,” Ron says, his voice thick with drink. “Always such a martyr.”

Harry hides his grimace with a sip of Firewhisky. “It is sort of incredible, once you get over how weird it is,” he admits. “It feels like things are how they should have been back in school.”

“It’s amazing, Harry,” Hermione says. “You should be proud.”

“You should,” Harry says. “None of this would be happening without you.”

“Or Malfoy,” Ron says. “He’s the biggest surprise of them all, isn’t he? Not half-bad to listen to when you get him on something besides the interactions of potions ingredients.”

“And you seem to be getting along so much better,” Hermione adds. She looks a bit sleepy and tipsy herself, tired out from all of her hard work. “I’ve been so worried about you. I know how he gets under your skin, but it does seem like he’s worn himself out a bit.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I guess you could say that.”

Ron and Hermione exchange one of their telepathic looks. “Is he still getting in your head?” Hermione asks cautiously.

If he were even one more drink on, Harry might have blurted out that no, Draco was not getting into his head, he was only getting into his pants. But he’s sober enough to know he should probably wait to figure out what the hell is going on before he tells them, lest he endure even more of Hermione’s contagious and unbearable guilt.

“I’m fine,” Harry says. “We’re fine.”

“It’s getting a bit chilly,” Hermione says, nodding. “Maybe we could go in for a bit, and then we can find some excuse to get you out of here. We’ll take care of the tidying up.”

“Will we?” Ron says as they stand. “Some of us have very important early morning Portkeys.”

“Eleven is not the early morning, sweetheart.”

When they go inside, Harry is careful to keep his gaze from returning to Draco, who stands in a small group listening to Neville and Hannah detail the various plants and herbs they collected while honeymooning in Peru. Ginny spots him and waves him over, scooting over so there’s room on the sofa next to her and Luna.

“Harry!” Daphne exclaims when he settles in. She is very obviously drunk and sprawled out on the floor in front of the sofa opposite them. “I was just telling Padma here that she’s got it all wrong about the two of you. She thinks you’re going to go up in flames.”

“Daphne!” Padma cries, shooting her a glare. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen them interact in his life, and now they already seem to be best friends.

Padma turns to Harry. “I was not saying that, Harry,” she tells him. “I was just saying that the two of you always seemed a little — erm —”

“Unpredictable,” Ginny supplies.

Harry surprises himself with a laugh. “You’re not wrong,” he says, ignoring Ginny’s knowing gaze. “I think that’s what keeps it interesting.”

“He means the makeup sex is tops,” Daphne says to Padma. Pansy snorts so hard into her drink it’s as if she’s choked.

“What?!” Daphne says indignantly when Harry flushes. “You can’t tell me it wouldn’t be bloody brilliant, all of that pent-up aggression from Hogwarts.”

“I’ve never had makeup sex,” Luna says wonderously from beside Ginny. Harry can’t really tell if she’s drunk or just being Luna, but he’s glad for the distraction.

Ginny laughs and pats her knee affectionately. “I’m sure we’ll get there one day.”

The crowd in the kitchen continues to dwindle as some of their classmates wave their goodbyes, and the remaining group begins to migrate into the living room. Ron and Hermione return with fresh drinks and curl up into an armchair together.

“What are we talking about?” Theo asks as he joins the group.

“The happy couple’s sex life!” Daphne blurts.

Ron lets out a belly laugh, and Hermione’s eyes widen. “I hardly think Harry wants to get into that right now,” she says with a spark of panic.

Draco winds in from the kitchen holding two bottles of Ginny’s peach cider. “Get into what?”

Harry wants to die right there on the spot. Draco hands him one of the ciders and drops onto the sofa, nestling his way alongside Harry. He wraps a possessive arm around his waist and rests his head into the crook of Harry’s neck. Harry suddenly feels like he’s on fire.

Harry wants to wriggle out of his grip, but Draco’s presence is warm and familiar. He brushes Harry’s mess of hair away from his temple and plants a kiss there. Harry shifts a bit, as subtly as possible, but Draco’s grip is like a vice. “Hi, love,” Draco murmurs. “I’ve missed you.”

He realises that everyone is staring at them. Most look like they’re about to burst into laughter, but Daphne and Padma look like they’ve just tuned into the most romantic film in existence. Ron buries his face into Hermione’s shoulder and indulges in a muffled but no less raucous fit of laughter. Harry tries his best to look like he doesn’t want to combust, but he’s sure it isn’t convincing.

“Daphne is absolutely dying to know what Potter is like in bed,” Pansy supplies, leaning forward onto her hands.

“That’s not true!” Daphne says, elbowing her. “I’m also dying to know what Draco is like in bed.”

“Is this really the sort of conversation you have at engagement parties?” Harry says. He can feel Draco shake with silent laughter against his back.

“In the name of interhouse unity!” Pansy exclaims, punching a triumphant hand into the air.

Harry glowers. “This isn’t a Hogwarts common room.”

“Is it not?” Pansy says, gesturing around to where old and new friends huddle together by firelight, under blankets, sprawled on pillows, and in each other’s arms.

Harry shakes his head. For the first time in his life, he wishes that Draco would just say something, but he just laughs quietly again and nips very conspicuously at Harry’s earlobe, which doesn’t help the situation in the slightest.

“Maybe seeing as we’re all full grown adults, we can leave the gossip to the tabloids,” Harry says, turning his head slightly away from Draco’s warm breath.

“You are positively no fun,” Daphne says, crossing her arms.

“By all means, let your imaginations run wild,” Draco says from behind him. “We certainly had to for years.”

Though Dean and Seamus try to muffle their snickering, Ron doesn’t attempt to hide his fit of laughter. “Is that assignment optional?”

“Bloody strange,” Dean says, shaking his head incredulously. “It never stops being so bloody strange.”

“Oh, but you honestly can’t say it’s surprising,” Lavender says, dropping onto the floor next to Padma with fresh drinks for her and Daphne. “We practically had bets going about it in the Hufflepuff common room for years.”

“Even Professor Flitwick asked me about it, once,” Luna chimes in.

“Was everyone openly gossiping about us back at Hogwarts, then?” Harry grumbles.

“Yeah,” Neville says sheepishly, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with Dean and Seamus. “I think it’s safe to say that’s the case.”

Harry looks incredulously to Ron and Hermione for support, but they both suddenly find the ceiling very enrapturing.

“It wasn’t —” Hermione says, a grin flickering at her lips. “Well, we didn’t have any bets going.”

“We absolutely did,” Seamus interjects. “Neville still owes me ten Galleons. He thought they’d be shagging before we graduated.”

“I’m still not convinced that they weren’t,” Theo says. “Especially in sixth year. It’s like they were constantly eye-f*cking, just like they’ve been doing all night.”

“I think they’ve been f*cking with more than just their eyes tonight,” Blaise murmurs, peering down into his drink with feigned innocence.

The room breaks into a chorus of laughter. To Harry’s terror, no one seems surprised in the slightest. He knows they were the furthest thing from subtle, and it doesn’t help that no one can keep a bloody secret for more than thirty seconds. Draco’s loud snort, paired with the fact that neither of them immediately deny it, doesn’t help things.

Ron and Hermione seem to be the only ones who were not privy to this information, judging by the way they both stare at him with an upsetting mixture of surprise, confusion, and hurt.

“Godric, you people are animals,” Ginny says, casting a concerned look at Harry. “Can’t you see he’s about to burst into flames?”

Harry thinks he very well might, but it’s hard to think at all. Draco leans his warm face into Harry’s neck as he watches the conversation unfold with amusem*nt, winding a lock of Harry’s hair through his fingers as if unconsciously. It’s making it a little hard to breathe.

Ginny successfully guides the conversation back into safe waters, firmly, if a bit tactlessly, while Hermione and Ron visibly try to work the consternation off of their faces. Harry tries to steady his breathing to no avail.

The conversation slowly shifts into speculation about who else from their class was shagging over the years. Daphne launches into a story of a drunken three-way she had with Theo and Pansy in their seventh year, including generous amounts of detail and frequent clarifications from the other two, who listen attentively to make sure she gets the story right. “No, no,” Pansy interrupts at some point. “I was on top at that point — Theo was just watching.”

Harry wants nothing more than to shove Draco away, to throw him off and cast the most venomous Stinging Hex he can muster.

… But a small, insistent part of him also wants to turn around and shove him into the sofa to finish what they started earlier.

Harry sucks in a long breath. He’s drunk. Or at least he needs to convince himself he is so that maybe this will all make a bit of sense.

“Relax, my love,” Draco coos into his ear once the group is distracted. “Look at you. You’re all wound up.” He runs a hand up Harry’s chest. “And on our special night of all nights.”

He brings his hand up to Harry’s jaw, turning his face slightly so he can brush their lips together. It’s not needy or cloying like usual; it’s just a gentle, affectionate kiss — one that might even be reassuring if Harry didn’t know any better. It’s the casual kind of kiss he sees Ron and Hermione exchange sometimes, loving and familiar and comfortable, and Harry lets himself sink into it.

When the group finally runs out of speculation about which of the Hogwarts professors were shagging in secret — Lockhart surely made his way down the roster, it's decided — Draco speaks up. “I actually have it on good authority that Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood had a particularly salacious pre-match ritual,” he says. “To soothe the jitters.”

“Would that good authority happen to be your rampant imagination?” Harry grumbles ruefully, unable to stop himself.

Draco just pinches him playfully on the side as others begin to corroborate this juicy bit of gossip. When the attention is away from them again, he kisses Harry’s neck, eliciting a shiver.

“I wasn’t wasting my imagination on them,” Draco says, his voice nothing but a low, hot rumble in Harry’s ear.

Harry springs up from the sofa. Everyone’s eyes fly to him immediately.

“Alright there, mate?” Ron asks.

“Just — erm,” Harry stammers, ignoring Draco’s incessantly clinging hand as it strokes his forearm in the performance of soothing reassurance. “Need a top up.”

Ron follows him into the kitchen, swiftly followed by Ginny. “Leave him, leave him,” she says immediately. “He doesn’t need to hear it from you right now.”

“You knew about this?” Ron asks her incredulously as Harry fills a large glass with water and downs it before refilling it again.

“Should I have sent you an owl?” Ginny snaps in a hushed voice. A ripple of laughter breaks out from the living room. “Let him be.”

“When did all of this start, anyway?” Ron asks. He’s clearly trying to keep his face blank, but his eyes bore into Harry’s.

Harry makes a show of looking at his watch. “Dunno,” he says. “Three hours ago?”

“Oh,” Ron says, his eyes widening. “Oh.”

“Hermione is going to lose it,” Harry says, tangling his fingers into his hair.

“Stop worrying about everyone else,” Ginny says. “Hermione will be fine. Ronald will be fine,” she adds, shooting him a glare. She looks over her shoulder as Draco approaches, all crimson and black and silver.

“Oh, I see we’re all on Potter Patrol tonight,” he says over Harry’s immediate groan. “How lovely.”

“f*ck off, Malfoy,” Ron hisses. “Can’t you leave him alone for five minutes?”

“Would look awfully suspicious if I didn’t come tend to my quite obviously distressed fiancé, now, wouldn’t it?” Draco says. He puts a hand on Harry’s back, stroking it gently, even though everyone in the room knows it’s all fake. It’s comforting and confusing in equal measure. Harry wants to shrug him off. He should, but he doesn’t.

“If you hurt him,” Ginny growls. “I don’t care whose protection you’re under.”

Draco lets out a snide laugh. “He’s not some fading flower in need of protection, Weasley,” he says. “I think he can take care of himself.”

“I’m right here,” Harry barks, forgetting himself momentarily before casting a glance towards the living room. Mercifully, the conversation seems to carry on unimpeded.

Hermione appears at the threshold of the room, and Harry lets out another low groan, because now it’s becoming an ordeal.

“I don’t need to know what’s going on,” Hermione says, her Ministry official demeanour dialed up. “But I think we should get you home, Harry.”

“I’ll take him,” Draco says.

“Like hell,” Ron growls. “You’ve done enough tonight.”

Draco smirks a bit. “I am something of a giver,” he says, drumming his fingers against Harry’s back. Harry finally shrugs out from under his touch. “Besides, it simply wouldn’t do to leave separately. It would look quite odd from an optics standpoint, wouldn’t you agree, Hermione?”

“f*ck optics,” Ginny says.

“It’s fine,” Harry cuts in, sick of being fought over like the last piece of treacle tart. “I’m fine. We’ll go. We’ll say our goodbyes and go.”

Hermione looks at him warily. “If you’re sure,” she says. “I hate to ask — but Draco is right. It would look peculiar.”

“It’s fine,” Harry repeats. “We’ll Floo together and split up from there.”

“I can come round as soon as we’re done here,” Ron says protectively.

Draco rolls his eyes and returns to the living room. Harry suddenly has three pairs of worried eyes on him.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he says again. “It’s fine. He’s just f*cking with me. I’m used to it.”

“Go get some rest,” Hermione says quietly, squeezing his hand. “You’ve been brilliant tonight. You’ve earned a break,” she says. “Really, Harry. You deserve it.”

*

Harry and Draco receive a chorus of boos when they announce they’ll be departing for the night. Pansy throws a pillow that misses Draco’s face by mere inches.

There’s a flurry of hugs, kisses, and murmured congratulations, even a firm handshake from Blaise. But if Harry had to guess, the rest of them aren’t going anywhere soon: Ginny and Luna are brewing a pot of mulled wine on the stove, and Pansy loudly announces the game of the night will be spin the bottle as she raises one of Ginny’s empty cider bottles above her head.

Seamus finally releases Draco from his third lecture about the repercussions he can expect if he ever so much as thinks about hurting Harry, and they step into the Floo.

“Right then,” Draco says with a wink. “Mine or yours?”

Harry tries to remember the state he’s left his flat in, but he quickly realises how trapped he’d feel within Draco’s cramped, dark walls right now. He makes his spontaneous decision seconds after throwing the Floo powder.

They spill out into Harry’s flat. Draco immediately looks around with scrutinising eyes. It’s small but lived in, dense with photographs of his friends. There are stacks of paperwork he’s been meaning to get to and dishes piled in the sink that he’s mostly forgotten about. The large window in his living room overlooks the rooftops of the buildings in the neighborhood he’s hidden away in.

“You can go now,” Harry says immediately, dropping down to pull his shoes off. He wants to peel every layer of his stuffy clothes off and run a scalding hot bath and maybe never get out of it.

Draco doesn’t seem to hear him. He glances down at Harry’s sofa, which has had a pile of cloaks thrown over the armrest for upwards of two weeks, and then peers at the framed picture of Harry’s parents that hangs above it. They spin and kiss and cuddle in a demonstration of deep, passionate love that Harry can’t bear to look at right now.

“Cozy,” Draco says.

“Malfoy, please f*ck off.”

Draco turns to face him. “What did you do with Grimmauld Place?”

“It’s hardly any of your business.”

“It was my family’s home,” Draco says coolly.

“It was,” Harry says. “Now it’s mine.”

“But you don’t live there.”

“Very well-spotted.”

Draco continues surveying Harry’s flat. Harry considers how difficult it might be to lift him overhead and throw him through the Floo, or maybe out the window.

“It always was such a dreary place,” Draco says after a moment.

“Well, then maybe your tastes are genetic,” Harry says. “I’m going to ask you to leave one more time.”

Draco turns back to look at him, an uninhibited smirk painted on his face. “And then what? What next?”

Harry sighs. “I’m not doing this,” he says, pulling the silver engagement ring off and dropping it onto his counter. “Sleep on the bloody floor for all I care.”

Draco seems visibly deflated by his inability to rile Harry up. On another night, Harry might already have pinned him to the floor — though whether to punch him or snog him, he couldn’t say — but tonight he’s too exhausted for any of it.

“Your Gryffindors are quite the entertaining bunch,” Draco says. “Dreadfully gullible, of course, but then I suppose you do play the lovesick role quite convincingly.”

“Why are you still here?” Harry asks, shrugging his jacket off and hanging it up, even though he’d normally just add it to the growing pile on the sofa. “What could you possibly want from me that you haven’t already got?”

“And your little ex-wife makes such a lovely couple with Luna,” Draco continues.

He means it to hurt. But Harry just blinks at him as realisation washes over him.

“You’re jealous,” Harry says.

Draco glares at him immediately. Despite his exhaustion, despite wanting nothing more than to sleep for three days straight, a grin spreads across Harry’s face. “You’re jealous,” he repeats. “You’re actually jealous.”

It feels like the proof he’s been waiting for has finally risen to the surface, a small sliver of certitude in a sea of confusion. That Draco was latching onto more than just an opportunity to psychologically torture him. It was more than lust. He was jealous.

Draco rolls his eyes, but he’s quickly losing his usual composure. “You’re one to talk,” he says. “If only you could see the way you shot daggers at that reporter the second he touched me.”

Harry shakes his head, unwilling to cede any ground. “No. This is deeper than that,” he says. “You hate to see me with her. You hate to see us together. Even though we split up ages ago. That’s how jealous you are. You’re jealous we were ever together.”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “The only thing I envy about Weasley is her ability to run away from you while she could.”

“Sure, sure,” Harry says. “That’s why it bothered you so much when you found out I was staying with her. That’s why you look like you’ve smelled something rotten every time I so much as mention her name. You think I still love her. And it kills you.”

“I don’t care about your childish crushes on the terminally unavailable, Potter,” Draco says. “Though it is pathetic to watch.”

Harry hums. He drops onto his sofa, suddenly a lot less concerned with kicking Draco out of his flat. Draco swoops around to glare down at him.

He’s livid. It’s all over his face. Harry loves it.

“You’re in love with me,” Harry says.

Draco freezes. He’s clearly caught off guard, but his face reveals nothing. “You wish, Potter,” he says, his voice a curse, his eyes glimmering with rage. He looks so much like he did that first night, chained up in the basem*nt of the Ministry, like he was trying to kill Harry with his glare alone. It’s unadulterated hatred, but now Harry realises that it’s also uninhibited lust.

But it’s more than even that. It’s desire.

“You’re in love with me,” Harry says again.

The words hang between them in the air like a mist. Draco just stands there, frozen and furious. Harry rarely sees him at such a loss for words — and he wouldn’t be, were it not true.

But it is true. Harry can see it so clearly now: the bold confessions under the guise of teasing torture. The possessiveness, the inability to leave Harry alone for more than a short while. The way he was so needy for Harry’s approval, raged so much at the idea that Harry spurned him and his friends. The way his touch betrayed him, so needy, so incessant, so unbelieving.

“Of course you think that,” Draco finally says. “You’d believe everyone is in love with you, the Great Saviour. There never was a man so insufferably self-involved.”

“I don’t believe everyone is in love with me,” Harry says pleasantly. “Just that you are.”

“Not every bloke who’s ever pulled you off is in love with you,” Draco sneers. “Or do you still get owls from that thuggish Arrows Chaser?”

Harry scoffs. “He was a terrible lay,” he says. “Are you jealous of him, as well?”

“I’m not —” Draco stammers furiously. “f*ck off.”

“Look at you,” Harry says pityingly. “You’re all wound up.”

Draco slams his hands down onto Harry’s coffee table, leaning in to return Harry’s unwavering, amused gaze with one of raw ire and disgust.

“If you can honestly believe I’d ever have feelings for you, you’re more pathetic than I ever thought possible. You’re nothing but a spineless coward,” he spits. “Too afraid to stand up to the Ministry. Too afraid to stand up to Granger. Too afraid to do anything with yourself other than smile, and wave, and watch everyone you know settle down while you pine after your glory days until you fade into obscurity alone.”

Harry just shrugs. “What do you reckon is more sad?” he asks. “The fact that you’re so pathetically in love with me, or the fact that you’ve convinced yourself I would ever want you back?”

Draco’s face falls slack. He straightens.

“Believe what you want, Potter,” he says coldly. “You can wait and see just how in love with you I really am when this is finally over and you’re truly alone.”

Then, with a loud crack, he Disapparates.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Hermione spills into Harry’s office a half hour before they’re meant to meet on Monday morning.

“I didn’t want to bother you over the weekend,” she says by way of greeting. “I know you needed rest. But have you heard from Draco?”

“Erm — no,” Harry says, pulling his feet off of his desk and dropping the copy of The Celestial Molly sent him, where Ron had a three-word quote in the feature on The Cannons’ uniform redesigns. He’d spent the entire weekend holed up in his flat with his Floo shut off to everyone except for Hermione and Ron, sleeping and taking long baths and trying to forget every single second of the engagement party.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Hermione says. “It’s only — I tried to reach him over the weekend, just to — well, I wasn’t able to get a hold of him. He usually returns my owls within the hour.”

“You wanted to see him?” Harry asks.

Hermione looks a little strained. “Well, I — I wanted to check on you as well, but I knew you needed space.”

“You wanted to check on him?” Harry says incredulously.

“He’s not a Hippogriff, Harry,” Hermione says. “He has emotions.”

“I know that,” Harry says. “I just didn’t know that you were so concerned with them.”

Hermione sighs. She drops into the chair across from him. “I’m starting to worry that this is becoming too much for the two of you.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Harry says, picking up The Celestial and pretending to be very engrossed in an article about the latest cloak trends.

“It’s just —”

“Really, Hermione, it’s nothing.”

Hermione purses her lips. “I don’t think the two of you sleeping together is nothing,” she says quietly. “It’s starting to feel as though the lines are becoming very, very blurred. Harry, I’m worried about the both of you.”

“We didn’t sleep together,” Harry says, growing very warm. When Hermione fixes him with an exasperated look, he hastens: “There may have been some —” he swallows hard. “It was just — blowing off some steam. It was stupid.”

“Well, I don’t think the details need to make it into the formal reports,” Hermione says. “I only wish I’d known sooner. I could have given you two more time apart if you needed it.” She gives him a cautious look. “Or maybe you’d want less time apart.”

Harry shakes his head immediately. “It really isn’t like that, Hermione,” he says. “And besides — didn’t Ron tell you? It hadn’t happened before that night. I would have told you if it had.”

“Would you have?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “Well, I think so. I don’t know,” he sighs. “It’s all a bit confusing.”

Hermione’s face softens. “I know it’s confusing. And I wish I could afford you two some more distance. But everything is sort of coming to a head right now. The Celestial photoshoot is on Friday.”

Harry looks at the magazine on his desk. He had forgotten about — or perhaps repressed — the photoshoot.

“So in the meantime, I’m doing what I can to keep you two sane. Did he seem alright, after you left the party?”

“He seemed bloody mental,” Harry says. “He always seems bloody mental.”

“And he didn’t stay the night?”

“Hermione.”

“I just have to ask!” Hermione says. “I can’t help it. I’m worried we’re in too deep.”

“Well, there’s not much we can do about it now, is there?” Harry says sourly.

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

She looks entirely miserable. Harry laughs a bit at her pout. “No, Hermione,” he says. “None of this is your fault. It’s not your fault he’s a raving lunatic. Or that I am, apparently, for that matter.”

Hermione gives him a reluctant smile. “It’s why I love you.”

But her face doesn’t remain placid for long. It twists back into her usual expression, wavering somewhere between caution and worry.

“It’s okay, you know, Harry. If you are — I mean, if you do —”

“I don’t,” Harry says immediately. He’s known for some time this conversation was coming, but that doesn’t help him squirm any less. “I don’t have feelings for him. It’s not like that. He’s Draco Malfoy.”

“It’s very convincing, sometimes,” Hermione presses. “The way you look at him.”

Harry groans. “Why is everyone so convinced that we’re in love all of a sudden?”

“It’s not all of a sudden,” Hermione says. “Weren’t you listening? At the party?”

“I was trying not to.”

Hermione sighs, her exasperation fading into patience, the way she always looked at him at Hogwarts when he needed help mastering tricky charms. “No one was fabricating those memories, Harry,” she says. “Only sharing them now they think it’s safe to.”

Harry shrugs and tries his best not to glare at her. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s not like that,” she says. “I’m not saying I want you to be with him. I just want you to know that you can talk to me if it ever feels like it’s too much. Would you? Please?”

“It’s not too much, Hermione,” Harry says. “It’s fine. I can handle it. And he can, too.”

“I hope you’re right,” she says, standing. “Well, Ron is home this week. Are you free tonight? Let us make you dinner. Just the three of us. Does that sound alright?”

Just the thought of it makes all of the tension fall from Harry’s body. “It sounds incredible.”

“Lovely,” Hermione says with a smile that can’t quite overpower the anxiety in her eyes. “See you in twenty.”

*

Twenty minutes pass, and Harry eventually trudges down to Notwick’s office. Thirty minutes pass, then forty, and Draco still hasn’t shown up.

Notwick seems unconcerned about this, as unflappable as always. Hermione, on the other hand, seems to be bearing the entire weight of the world on her shoulders.

“He can’t disappear now,” she says, pacing behind Notwick. “We were always worried he might. But he wouldn’t — not now.” She turns to Harry. “Would he?”

“Maybe he forgot,” Harry offers unhelpfully.

“He never forgets,” Hermione says. “He’s always on time to our meetings.”

“What about the owl?” Harry asks. When Hermione just gives him an exhausted look of confusion, he adds, “Don’t you require him to send an owl linked to his location daily?”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione says impatiently. “I haven’t required him to do that since the first month. I trust him,” she adds, though her face shows that she may be beginning to regret it.

“You understand how important of a week this is for us, of course,” Notwick tells Harry, as if it’s his personal fault that Draco hasn’t showed. “Imagine what a terrible impression it might make on The Celestial were we to cancel due to missing half of the happy couple.”

“It won’t come to that,” Hermione says, pushing her fingers through her hair. “He’ll show. He’ll show.”

He doesn’t show. The air in the office grows increasingly tense, Hermione pacing enough to power a small steam engine as Notwick’s carefully placed composure slips into a glower. Harry offers up half-hearted consolations to Hermione: “Maybe he’s hungover,” and “Maybe he’s mixed his days up,” and one particularly optimistic “Maybe he’s been eaten by a dragon.”

It’s all Harry can do to keep his mind from investigating what really may have happened. Maybe Draco’s got in over his head with the Dark Magic he hides away in his flat. Maybe he’s finally crossed a Dark Wizard who could overpower him. Maybe he really has fled the country. But eventually, he runs out of theories to distract himself from the most obvious.

Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe Harry’s hurt him.

They wait an hour, then two, and then Notwick unceremoniously dismisses them to prepare for her next meeting. Harry and Hermione get lunch at a nearby café, and Harry is relieved to be in public, where Hermione can’t openly monologue about the numerous potential explanations for Draco’s disappearance.

She postpones their dinner plans.

On Tuesday, Hermione attempts to coach him solo for the photoshoot, but it devolves quickly into more anxious monologuing, and she sends him home. On Wednesday, they don’t even bother waiting around.

Normally, having time away from the campaign feels like returning to Hogwarts after a long summer at the Dursleys'. But Harry finds himself too racked with nervous energy to even sit still at his flat. He tries to tell himself that it’s just Hermione’s nerves rubbing off on him, but there’s something else to it. It’s something that he tries to distract himself from with aimless broom rides and absent conversations with Ron and, when he eventually stoops low enough, actually cleaning his flat. But it remains there underneath it all: the creeping worry, the guilt.

He knows there’s a very strong chance that Draco has simply decided to add Hermione to his list of torture victims. He knows that Draco can take care of himself — he’s done so for years without Harry’s help. He knows the odds are that Draco is perfectly safe somewhere, brooding and drawing up new plans to make Harry miserable. But he also knows that there’s a chance Harry has got to him in a way that he hasn’t before — a way he didn’t know was possible.

After the party, it felt like Harry was winning the war. Now Harry realises that if there is a war, they’re both losing.

He goes by Neville and Hannah’s that afternoon to help de-gnome the garden of their new house. They’ve also enlisted Dean, Blaise, and Theo, who comes bearing eclairs. But all anyone wants to talk about is the wedding, which makes Harry feel sick for new, confusing reasons, and he finds an excuse to leave as soon as they’re finished.

He stops by Luna’s shop afterwards, unable to stay in his resoundingly empty flat for a second longer. When he finds the shop empty, Harry peeks into the back where he spots Luna and Ginny involved in some complex business dealings that greatly resemble snogging.

“A customer!” Luna coos when she spots Harry trying to flee.

They close the shop early and order takeaway curry, which they eat on the hardwood floor, watching people amble by on the street as the sun sets. Ginny tells him about a new breed of caterpillars she’s been raising whose empty cocoons can be boiled down to create a potent migraine-relieving serum. Luna shows him the new hair ribbons she’s been making that change colour to reveal what type of snack the wearer is in the mood for.

Luna waits until Ginny goes into the back to check on her brewing to fix Harry with a soft smile. “How’s Draco?”

Harry tries to hide his grimace. “Good question,” he says, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Haven’t been able to spend much time together this week. He’s been a little busy.”

“Is that so?” Luna asks pleasantly.

Harry starts to sweat. He curses himself for thinking for a second he’d be able to endure Luna’s piercing eyes right now, with the number of anxiety-ridden thoughts sloshing around in his mind at any moment.

“You’re fighting,” Luna says. It isn’t a question.

Harry winces. “Maybe.”

“That’s okay, Harry,” she says. “I think it’s perfectly inevitable. You haven’t quite finished resisting each another yet.”

Harry laughs. “Luna, we’re engaged.”

Luna looks down at the ring on Harry’s finger with a curious smile. Harry balls his hand into a fist. “I know,” she says. “But there’s still a reluctance to it. I think it might be some time before you’re really ready to admit how much you love each other.”

“We’re getting married,” Harry says. “I think he knows.”

“I think you’ve admitted it to one another,” Luna says. “But I wonder if you’ve admitted it to yourselves.”

Ginny returns from the back and drops down next to Luna. Luna threads her fingers through Ginny’s on her knee without taking her eyes off of Harry.

“Draco is quite good at hiding when he’s hurt,” Luna says, as if reading his mind. “You mustn't let yourself fall for it.”

Suddenly, Harry can’t seem to find his appetite.

*

Hermione Floos into his flat first thing Thursday morning.

“I need you to find him, Harry,” she says, appearing in his bedroom like a spectre before the sun has even risen. He grabs for his glasses and looks at his clock. It’s 6:15. This is probably as late as Hermione managed to wait.

He brews an abrasively strong pot of coffee and Hermione fries some eggs and sausages. She eats ravenously, like she’s forgotten to for days. “I’ve asked Pansy and owled the others,” she says. “None of them even know where he lives. He doesn’t seem to keep company often.”

“I know where he lives,” Harry says, realising it at that moment.

“Harry,” Hermione says desperately. “Maybe you could have mentioned this… earlier this week?”

“I’ve only Side-Alonged there,” he says. “I don’t have his address. It would be weird to just show up in his flat. I’m sure he has wards.”

“The Celestial is expecting you both at three tomorrow. I frankly don’t care what’s weird or not anymore,” she says. “Do you think you know it well enough to Apparate?”

Harry puts down his fork. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“Try,” Hermione pleads.

Harry waits a few hours, holding out hope that Draco will miraculously show up and spare him whatever awkwardness he’s surely in store for. When noon rolls by, he finally tries to Apparate — concentrating hard on what he remembers of the flat’s ambiance, its dark walls, its emerald accents, the way it was all so very Draco.

He expects to be pushed back by the familiar barrier of Anti-Apparition wards. Instead, there are only the disorienting twists and pulls of Apparition, and he slowly registers Draco’s flat as it takes shape around him.

Draco is nowhere in sight. Harry steps cautiously through the small living room and peers into the kitchen.

The kettle is on.

“Oh, good,” Draco’s voice sounds from behind him. “You’re here.”

Harry isn’t sure what he expected. But Draco in a worn jumper and a pair of jogging bottoms is not it. His hair is pulled up onto the top of his head in the shortest poof of a ponytail, and despite looking a bit more casual than usual, he’s perfectly composed, and perfectly alive.

Draco flicks his wand, and two sets of equally ornate robes drop down from the door frame where they were hanging. “Maybe you can help me decide,” he says, pressing a finger into his lips as he looks at them. “I’ve always been partial to emeralds, of course, but perhaps that’s a bit on the nose. And the cerulean really brings out my eyes.” He turns to Harry. “What do you think, darling?”

Harry gawks at him, his blood roiling. It’s anger that’s burning beneath his skin, he has no doubt about it — but there’s something else as well that’s flooding through him. Relief.

“Where have you been?”

Draco turns the kettle off and gives him an innocent look. “Why, I’ve been right here, love, waiting to be called upon by my ruggedly handsome and perfectly sane fiancé.” He levitates one set of robes in front of himself, peering down at it, and then switches it with the other. “I simply can’t decide. I’ve been so nervous about our big day.”

“You can torture me all you like, but you don’t have to drag Hermione into it,” Harry growls.

Draco’s act falls from his face. “What, like she’s dragged me into this?”

“She’s been a wreck all week,” he says. “She thought something happened to you.”

“Oh, to be so devoutly loved and worried after,” Draco says, returning to his stupid fake pleasantries. “One must never forget how lucky they are to have such incredible friends who care about them very much with positively no ulterior motives.”

Harry is finding it harder and harder to find valid points from which to defend his best friend. “It wasn’t just about the Ministry,” he says. “She’s been worried about you.”

“She’ll have you believe that, won’t she?” Draco says, dropping the robes, which continue to levitate in place beside him. “I suppose you believe she’s genuinely worried about you as well.”

“Not this again,” Harry groans.

“Well, excuse me for being concerned about you,” Draco sneers. “I am so very in love with you, after all.”

The words hang between them like the levitating robes. That same kindling of complete, utter hatred from the night of the party brims in Draco’s eyes. Harry returns his glare, cursing every moment he wasted worrying about him.

“So that’s what this is about,” Harry says. “You’ve been punishing me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco says, brushing past Harry to walk into his bedroom. Harry follows and finds him rummaging through a drawer to pull out a few ruffly neck ties. “I’m so petrified the colours will clash,” he adds thoughtfully.

“They’re going to dress us, Draco,” Harry says. “You know that. You’d have been reminded of it if you showed up to meetings this week.”

Draco pouts. “Well, that’s not fun,” he says. “This one is Flareworm silk. Do you know how expensive that is?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “We need to go to the Ministry. Hermione has an entire week’s worth of sh*t to unload on us that I can’t be the sole recipient of anymore.”

Draco closes the distance between them. Harry shivers when he loops an arm around his neck and curls a cool finger beneath his collar. “Oh, she won’t be too cross, will she? My dashing, brooding, and perfectly-tempered fiancé will protect me from her fiery wrath, won’t he?”

“You are bloody unrelenting,” Harry says, shrugging out of his arms. “Where do you get off?”

“Not in the same places that you do, it would seem,” Draco says innocently. “Or weren’t you there?”

He smirks triumphantly when Harry flushes.

“Oh f*ck you,” is all Harry can think to say.

“Well, someone ought to,” Draco says pitifully, returning to his wardrobe to fuss with his accessories more.

Harry flushes even deeper. He hates how quickly Draco was able to get the upper hand again — he’d forgotten how impenetrable he was, how willing he was to fight dirty.

“Come on,” Harry grumbles. “Hermione has hours of coaching to get through.”

Draco shrugs, looking between two equally ridiculous pocket watches. “I don’t believe I’m interested.”

“I hardly think it’s optional.”

Draco looks up at him. “Don’t you?”

Harry falters, suddenly guilt-stricken. “Well — I —”

Draco drops the watches and walks back over to Harry with none of his previous affection. “You really believe I’m still only doing this to avoid criminal charges.”

His eyes are resentful, but there’s something else in his voice. It’s the faintest note of what Luna had told Harry to watch for: hurt.

Harry doesn’t reply, but his wavering seems to be answer enough. Draco’s shoulders slump slightly, like all of the life has been sucked out of him. He suddenly looks just as exhausted as Harry feels. He walks out of the room, and Harry wordlessly follows him back into his kitchen like a lost dog.

“You can go now, Potter,” he says. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll owl your precious little Granger so she doesn’t combust. I’m sure we’ll both be dragged out for some last-minute cramming, just the way she likes it.”

Harry studies him, but he’s as unreadable as usual. After Draco indulges in a few more moments of glaring, he rolls his eyes.

“Granger arranged for all of my charges to be dropped less than two weeks into this little affair,” he says. “I shouldn’t be so surprised she didn’t tell you. She must know that misaligned power dynamics really get you hot.”

Harry blinks. “She did?”

“You may have felt perfectly comfortable pushing around an unwilling participant,” Draco says. “But Granger actually has a moral compass, it would seem.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Harry bites out.

Draco gives a disaffected huff. “You honestly thought that I’ve only been complying all this time because I had to,” he says. “Because I was forced to. Not because I actually care about what’s been happening.”

He leans against his counter and crosses his arms as Harry falters. For once, there’s no anger beneath his words, no fury. He just looks disappointed, which Harry finds is much, much worse.

“I didn’t know.”

“No, of course you didn’t,” Draco says. “And it hadn’t occurred to you to ask, either. You were perfectly content with the arrangement, and perfectly content to continue making me out to be a cold, villainous monster.”

“You’ve hardly done much to suggest otherwise,” Harry murmurs.

“Well, I know how much you enjoy your little roles,” Draco says. “Potter, the hero. Malfoy, the villain. Far be it from me to shake your entire world view.”

Harry frowns. He can hear himself, can hear how he’s sounded this entire conversation — touchy and bratty and cruel for no reason. It’s one of few, fleeting moments when Draco is trying to communicate something deeper than surface-level, and Harry can barely hear it over his own shame.

He tries to catch himself, to resist his natural instinct to fight, to hurt — because despite what he once thought, it isn’t pleasant to see Draco like this. “It — it isn’t like that,” he says. “I don’t look at you that way, Draco.”

“But you obviously do, Potter,” Draco sighs. “And at this point I don’t believe you’ll ever stop.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t, is it?” Draco says. “But I suppose I don’t care what’s fair, dastardly criminal that I am.”

Harry shakes his head. “Whatever, Malfoy,” he says. “Whatever you need to tell yourself. Just show up today, because I’m not going to hunt you down.”

He Disapparates before he has to hear another word.

*

It takes Hermione about half an hour to get through her anxiety-riddled diatribe before they can even begin the coaching. Draco stares at her expressionlessly as she paces and frets.

“I was so worried about you, Draco,” she says, though her voice betrays more anger than concern. “With what happened to Pansy — I wasn’t sure if you were alright.” Harry has been feeling enough like a rotten excuse for a human since their last conversation, but this makes him feel even worse.

“I know how to take care of myself,” Draco says stubbornly. “Even when I’m not around my court-appointed fiancé for protection.”

The meeting stretches on for hours, despite presenting little new information. By this point, the two of them already have the fake lovebird act down to second nature. Draco doesn’t look at him once the entire time, which Harry is used to, but it feels different now. Unlike the loathing energy he usually radiates, he just seems tired, like he’s just waiting for all of it to be over.

Harry isn’t sure why it bothers him so much to see Draco like this. If anything, he’s finally got what he wanted from the start: a break from the snippy comments and some easy, if reluctant, compliance.

But when Hermione finally dismisses them and they make their way to the Apparition point, Harry doesn’t let himself think about it. He just reaches out to catch him by the arm.

“Draco, look,” he says, dropping his hand after Draco looks at it like it’s burning into him. “I didn’t mean to be an arse to you.”

Draco keeps staring at his arm where Harry touched him for a long moment, as though he’s trying to decide whether he wants to reply. “I believe it happens naturally for you,” he says, finally looking at Harry.

Harry glances over his shoulder. They’ve stopped in the Atrium, and the bustling foot traffic of a busy afternoon has begun to pick up, flooding the space with curious eyes. He takes a step closer. “Okay, I know I was an arse,” he says. “But I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Draco’s expression remains completely unreadable. “You didn’t hurt me.”

Harry studies him, and then nods. “Good.”

“But of course you meant to.”

Harry hesitates, and then chuckles uncomfortably. “Yeah, maybe I did,” he says. “But you have, too.”

“Lovely,” Draco says. “Now, if you’re quite finished using me to clear your guilty conscience —”

“Why, if it isn’t the loverboys,” a low voice calls from behind Harry. He turns to see Matthias Pearse looming behind him in his red Auror robes, a nasty smile on his lips. “Forgive me for failing to congratulate you on your happy news. Potter,” he says, nodding at Harry. “And it’s always such a pleasure to see you lurking the halls of the Ministry, Malfoy.”

“We’ll be sure to send you a personalised invitation,” Harry mumbles.

“I do wish I could chat,” Pearse says. “But the department has mountains of paperwork after finally taking out a potions-smuggling ring. You remember it, don’t you?” Pearse says, looking at Harry. “Paperwork?”

“Always a pleasure, Pearse,” Harry bites out.

“I’ll be sure to send along your regards to the holding cell, Malfoy,” Pearse says as he stalks off. “I’m sure we’ve got some of your friends.”

Draco stares after Pearse as he disappears in a streak of red into the crowded corridor. It’s not like Draco to go down without a fight, even if it is for the sake of keeping up appearances. It makes Harry’s stomach hurt. He wishes Draco would yell or scream or hex something, maybe him. Anything would be better than this.

“Ignore him,” Harry says, if only to break the silence. “He’s a dying breed.”

He squeezes Draco’s forearm lightly, and Draco just looks at him blankly. But when Harry drops his hand, Draco catches his pinky around his for a few short seconds, as if reflexively, as if he doesn’t know he’s doing it. Then, he lets go.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and disappears into the bustling crowd before Harry can stop him.

*

When they arrive for the photoshoot the next day, it’s immediately clear to Harry why Hermione and Notwick chose The Celestial to work with for the engagement story. It’s leagues more professional than what he would expect from Witch Weekly, and their interviewer is mercifully unflirtatious.

“It’s a little on the nose,” Draco mumbles as they prepare for the shoot. Really, most of their job is standing around while a team of stylists prod them, pulling at their hair and casting subtle sheens of makeup that make their cheekbones shine.

It is a little on the nose. Harry is dressed in dazzling golden-yellow robes that sparkle at his slightest movement as if they’re made of pure light. Draco is cloaked in the darkest of blues, not unlike the robes he wore to the Ministry gala. But his outfit is accented with shimmers of silver in its intricate, iridescent embroidery and glistening cuffs.

They do what they can with Harry’s hair, styling it neatly without compromising its unrelenting volume. Draco’s is pulled up neatly in a stylish knot that’s tied off with a deep blue ribbon that drops down to his shoulders.

Harry can’t be sure whether they’ve done something to his hair that makes it so much more shiny, or done something to his eyes to make them so much more bright. He can’t be sure whether his features have always fallen into that confusing space between sharp and soft, or whether they’ve done something to pinken his lips.

All he knows is that Draco looks like a work of art, and it is very, very distracting.

Draco moves through the day without his usual touches. Harry is thrown off, finding himself expecting a warm hand on his neck or confusing-but-grounding fingers woven through his as they finish preparing. But Draco hardly speaks to him and seems content to do the absolute bare minimum to keep up appearances.

A young witch bustles in to restock the refreshments table, and she flies over to them the moment there’s a break in the grooming.

“Oh, it’s just miraculous,” she says, taking them both in. She casts a glance over her shoulder and then produces a notepad and quill from her pocket. “I got Harry’s ages ago,” she tells Draco. “But would you mind?”

Draco glances over at him warily, and Harry just grins. “Welcome to the magical world of the infamous,” he says as Draco scrawls his flourishing autograph into the witch’s notepad.

A long-haired, bearded wizard approaches with a small case. He opens it to reveal the finishing touch: two ornate pieces that levitate above their heads like halos. For Harry, a gleaming ring that emits bright bands of golden rays. For Draco, a crescent of shining silver light.

Harry had assumed that the theme was day and night, but he discovers that he was wrong. He’s the sun, Harry realises; Draco is the moon.

Draco seems immediately enamoured by the headpieces despite his usual ability to ridicule just about anything. He watches in wonder as the man charms Harry’s piece above his head, casting his brown skin in hues of bronze and gold. When the man affixes Draco’s with the same spellwork, his fair skin and hair glisten in shades of white and silver as if they have a light all their own. Harry’s breath catches in his throat.

“You look incredible,” Harry tells him after the wizard nods and walks away. He says it because it’s true, and because it seems to be what Draco is thinking of him right now. He says it because he can’t bear it, Draco looking at him like that, like he’s the last antidote to a poison brewing in his veins. Like he’s bespelled. Like he’s in love.

Draco scoffs a little, but it’s clear he knows it’s true. He takes his wand out and points it between Harry’s eyes.

“I don’t think this is a great place to kill me,” Harry says.

“Shut up,” Draco says, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Hold still.”

Harry feels the cool ripple of magic at the bridge of his nose and temples when Draco casts. He pulls his glasses off to look at them; he hasn’t changed the shape or style, but has charmed the frames to be the same shock of golden light as his headpiece.

“You’d think with all of these people, someone would pay the most basic attention to detail,” he mumbles.

They move into the studio, which has been enchanted into a vast, empty night sky. Distant stars and planets twinkle around the room from what appears to be millions of miles away. The second they enter, Hermione looks like she’s about to burst into tears.

“Oh, isn’t it so beautiful?” she says, her eyes a little teary. Harry knows she’s just exhausted, but she seems to be beside herself.

The photographer — a tall, muscular witch with lavender hair — manipulates them around like dolls within the space as she shoots. They’re photographed in every possible angle, every possible way they can be entangled in one another’s arms. Harry has always been stiff and uncomfortable with things like this, which is why he’s steadfastly avoided them for years. But he finds it’s easy to work against Draco’s languorous, elegant movements, to stay calm under the reassurance of his touch, to hold him close and watch him glow and forget, if only for brief moments, that there are any cameras at all.

“We’d love some shots of you kissing, if that’s alright,” the photographer tells them. “It can be a little uncomfortable for any couple, but it helps if you try to forget about the cameras and just do what comes naturally.”

Harry hesitates, and the photographer shakes her head slightly. “It’s alright if you’re not comfortable with it,” she says. “Though I think it would be marvelous for this cover.” Hermione peers at them from the corner, her arms crossed in apprehension.

“We can manage,” Draco says, running a hand up Harry’s collar. “Relax, my love,” he murmurs only to him. “Just let me lead.”

Harry has never been particularly good at letting people lead, but the photographer resets the shot anyway. The second Draco loops his hands around his neck, Harry’s hands find their way to his waist instinctively.

“Alright, boys,” the photographer says. “Show us what you’ve got.”

Despite it being for a photoshoot, Draco’s kiss isn’t showy or flashy; it’s gentle, and patient, and sweet. Harry feels his thoughts beginning to drop out of his mind one by one until all he knows is Draco, his light nibbles at Harry’s bottom lip, his fingers working their way maddeningly into the groomed hair at Harry’s nape, the way he kisses like he’s trying to communicate, to show Harry something, or to prove something. Harry hardly registers the flashes of the camera, hardly registers anything in the room except Draco, bathed in silver and gold and soft but steady beneath his touch.

They pull apart for a moment, and when Draco looks at him, his eyes glimmer with a silver light brighter than anything else in the room. Draco cradles his jaw, brushes his thumb lightly against his bottom lip.

“The Golden Boy, right here before me,” he says, so quietly. “I couldn’t begin to believe it.”

Harry can’t think, and he can hardly breathe, and he can’t bear to not be kissing him for a moment longer. He takes Draco’s face gently in his hands and reconnects their lips. The room illuminates with the bright light of the camera’s flash, and Harry knows immediately they’ve just got the shot.

*

Hermione actually does indulge in a bit of weepiness after they wrap. “It was just so artful,” she says as the stylists pick at them in reverse, peeling away pieces of their ridiculous outfits layer by layer until Harry finally starts to feel like himself again. “I’m so glad we chose to work with them. I’ve already looked at some of the proofs, and they’re incredibly tasteful.”

She wipes her eyes. “You were both incredible,” she says. “This is going to be incredible. I don’t see how anyone could see the way you look at each other and not be moved.” Her eyebrows raise as if she’s just heard herself. “I mean, it’s just very convincing,” she whispers hastily as Harry’s stomach twists.

They’re relieved of all other elements of their outfits, and thenthe long-haired wizard returns with the case for the halos.

“You know, both of my children were killed in the war,” he says as he gingerly removes the pieces. “Not a day passes when I don’t think of them, and about whether I should have fought alongside them.” He levitates the halos carefully back into the box. “There is enough suffering in this world,” he says. “I believe it’s time for a bit of light.”

He places the box into Draco’s hands. “I created them specially for the two of you,” he says as Draco stares down at the case. “Please keep them as thanks for everything you’ve done.”

As the wizard walks off, Harry and Draco stare at each other like they’ve just been tasked with caring for a small child. Hermione appears immediately, taking Harry by the elbow and guiding them from the room as if they’re a ticking time bomb. “Let’s get you two out of here.”

Harry hadn't realised that night had fallen until they finally step out of the building. Draco continues to glow under the soft light of the street lamp, a bit shimmery from the makeup, everything about him a stark shock of silver and white against the evening sky.

Harry doesn’t realise that he’s staring until Hermione clears her throat.

“Why don’t you both come by for dinner?” she says. “To make up for me cancelling on you earlier this week, Harry.”

Harry glances at Draco, who looks back at him expressionlessly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that sounds great. I’m free.”

Draco turns to Hermione. “When’s our next meeting scheduled?”

Hermione blinks at him, caught off guard. “Oh, erm,” she stammers. “I believe it’s Tuesday at three.”

Draco nods to her. “I’ll greatly await delighting in your company then,” he says. He Disapparates immediately, leaving Harry and Hermione bewildered in the street.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Harry is miserable at the very thought of returning to his flat alone, so he takes Hermione up on her offer of dinner. Luna and Ginny join them, a few bottles of apricot cider and Luna’s lentil loaf in tow. It’s the first time he’s been around friends just for the sake of it and not for the campaign in what feels like ages, and for as long as he’s able to keep Draco out of his mind, it feels like home.

It doesn’t last very long.

“How’s Draco?” Luna asks the minute they sit down to eat, eyeing him with those massive doe eyes. “I was so hoping he’d be able to make it tonight.”

“He’s fine,” Harry says, exhausted by having to keep up the ruse even among his closest friends. “It was a long day today. I think he was just tired.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Ginny goes red.

“I told her,” she says, pretending to be very interested in her roasted potatoes. “I told her, okay?” she exclaims defensively when all of their eyes dart to her, Hermione’s looking particularly exasperated. “How was I not supposed to tell her?!”

“Ginny…” Hermione starts.

“You told Ron!” Ginny says. “He’s hardly a Ministry official!”

“Hey!” Ron says. “At least I can keep a secret.”

“You told mum about it three hours after Hermione told you!”

“Only because I didn’t want her to think Harry was having a nervous breakdown!” Ron shouts.

“Okay, okay,” Hermione says. “It’s fine. I’m sorry, Luna,” she says, turning to her. “I don’t want you to think any of us think you’re untrustworthy.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Luna says. “Besides, I knew before Ginny told me.”

Everyone’s eyes zip over to her. “You did?” Ginny asks.

“Of course,” Luna says. “Draco would have told me immediately if it was true. He tells me everything.”

“He does?” Harry asks.

“Of course,” Luna says again, thoughtfully. “Maybe not everything. But most things. We’re great friends, Harry. He’s an incredible wizard.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Well — erm — yeah. He is.”

“And he’s so very fond of you, Harry.”

Harry dodges Ron and Hermione’s looks. “Yeah, I reckoned as much.”

“But you’re not getting on very well right now,” Luna says.

“No,” Harry admits. He glances around the table, where everyone seems to be holding their breath as they stare at him. “It’s been a little complicated.”

“Because you’re both so stubborn.”

Harry blinks at her. “Thank you, Luna, that’s very helpful.”

“She’s not wrong,” Ron says.

“Right,” Harry says. “Does anyone else have notes about my general demeanour they’d like to share?”

“Is there a word count maximum?” Ginny asks. “I want to make sure I prioritise my time correctly.”

“Maybe it would help to spend some time together outside of the campaign,” Hermione says. “I mean, when you aren’t being forced to.”

Harry sighs at his plate. “I don’t think he’d really go for that.”

“Oh, but I think he would, Harry!” Luna says cheerfully. “He might need to be nudged into it a touch, but I’m happy to help out if you need.”

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t go for it,” Harry says, though he knows he’s proving Luna’s point about his stubbornness. He fiddles with the ring on his finger. Just the sensation of it, cool against his skin, used to make him ill. Now he finds himself twisting and tapping at it often as if magnetized.

“Besides, I don’t know what we would do,” Harry says. “We’ve done everything already — just… not real.”

“Well, surely you must have something in common that isn’t brooding,” Ginny says.

“No, we really don’t,” Harry says. Then he thinks. “Well, there’s Quidditch.” He shrugs. “We both played at Hogwarts. We both still follow it, even though he has dreadful opinions about the state of the Tornadoes’ defence.”

“It’s rubbish,” Ron says.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him!”

Hermione turns to Ron, putting a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Ronald.”

He stares at her for a moment. “Oh, yeah,” he says, as if suddenly remembering he’s a professional Quidditch player. “We play in England next week. I could set you up in the family box.”

Harry thinks about it. It doesn’t sound dreadful. He hasn’t been able to see Ron play all season because of how insane his life has been, and in the worst case scenario, he can ignore Draco all night and enjoy the match.

“Maybe it would be better if it wasn’t just us,” he says. “He might feel less cornered. And that way if we kill each other there will be witnesses.”

“I love Quidditch,” Luna says.

Ron laughs. “Sure, bring the lot of them,” he says. “We’re playing the Wasps, and their Beater is out with a wrist injury. They don’t stand a chance.”

“Famous last words,” Ginny mumbles.

Ron flips her off.

*

Luna helps Harry with the washing up after they eat, while Ginny tells Ron and Hermione an elaborate story about a repeat customer who brings six squirrels on leashes with her every time, each of them a different colour of the rainbow.

“He is very fond of you, you know,” Luna says. Sometimes her directness can be a little disorientating, but Harry appreciates it now. But he finds that he feels no vindication about Luna spilling Draco’s guts to him. Maybe a few months ago, it would have felt like a very useful pawn in an elaborate game of chess. Right now, it just makes him feel guilty.

“He was always asking about you after the war,” she says. “Not directly, of course, that wouldn’t suit him. But finding ways to bring you up as if it was a riddle. He thought he was being clever, but it was always very transparent.”

Harry’s Scouring Charm comes out a little too strong and he almost breaks one of Hermione’s plates.

“He acts as though nothing hurts him,” Luna says. “It’s a very convincing ruse. Most people fall for it, in fact.”

“But not you,” Harry says.

Luna smiles at him. “I also don’t fall for yours.”

“Mine?”

She nods. “Neither of you like to show when you’ve been hurt, or what you really want. You’re two sides of the same Galleon, really.”

“I don’t want anything,” Harry says. “I don’t want anything from him.”

Luna gives him a little smile and stacks the plates neatly on the side of the sink.

*

When Harry arrives for their next briefing, Draco is already sitting in his usual chair across from Hermione’s desk. It looks like they’ve both been there for a while. Harry immediately spies a small stack of The Celestial on her desk.

The kiss didn’t make the cover. It’s worse. It’s a photograph of the moments leading up to it — Draco caressing Harry’s face, the intensity of their gazes leaping off of the page. They’re looking at each other like there’s no one else in the room, or, as they revolve around each other in the expansive backdrop of star-flecked space, like there’s no one else in the universe.

Draco looks completely, utterly in love.

But so does Harry.

Harry hands his copy back to Hermione. Draco keeps staring down at his with positively no expression on his face at all.

“We’re both so pleased, Grimartha and I,” Hermione says. “You should be, too. In fact,” she says, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret, “I truly believe that this may be over much sooner than anticipated. We’re in the home stretch.”

Draco keeps staring at the bloody photo. Staring and staring.

When the meeting ends, Harry stops him in an empty corridor on the way to the Apparition point. “What are you doing this Saturday?”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Draco says. “Probably dabbling in a bit of blood magic, summoning eldritch demons to unleash upon innocents, and then torturing some very sad orphans.”

“Right,” Harry says. “Come with me to Ron’s match. We’re all going.”

Draco looks suspicious immediately, as if Harry is trying to lure him into a trap — which, maybe he is. “Why?”

“Well, generally one observes as the match unfolds with some degree of interest in the victor. Said victor proceeds on in the championship, you see, until eventually —”

“Granger and Notwick didn’t mention any Quidditch match.”

“It’s not for them,” Harry says. “It’s a private box. It’ll just be us. I mean, erm, and Hermione and Neville, I think, and Luna, too. And Ginny,” he adds, fumbling slightly over her name. “But it’s not for the campaign. It’s just for fun.” He’s talking too much. “You can invite Daphne. Or Blaise, or Theo. Or all of them. It’s a big box.”

Draco frowns. “Are you asking me on a date, Potter?”

Harry shakes his head and turns to keep walking. “Forget it.”

Draco catches up to him, and walks alongside him in silence for a few paces. “The Wasps’ Beater is out on injury,” he says eventually. “They’ve replaced him with some scrawny thing fresh out of Durmstrang. They’re going to get thrashed by the Cannons.”

Harry pauses in the corridor. “Do I hear you perhaps showing faith in Ron Weasley’s Quidditch skills?”

Draco studies him apprehensively. “If I don’t take Daphne, she’ll have me strung up by my ankles. But then we’ll have to listen to Daphne talk all evening, unless I take Pansy to distract her, in which case we’ll have to listen to both of them talk all evening.”

“It is heartwarming how much you love your friends.”

Draco keeps on staring at him through narrowed eyes, as though he’s waiting for Harry to reveal that it was all an underwhelming prank.

“You don’t have to come,” Harry says. “We’re all going anyway.”

“Granger put you up to this,” Draco says. The traces of mirth that were in his eyes fades at the realisation. “She wants us to play nice.”

Harry’s composure falters. “It’s all the same to me if you come or not,” he says. “I was only offering.”

“You really know how to charm a fellow.”

“I’ve learned from the best.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “But only because if Daphne catches wind of this, she’ll kill me.”

“Temper your enthusiasm,” Harry says, and they finish the walk to the Apparition point in silence.

*

Harry has forgotten how well located the Cannons' family box is, and because it’s expected to be such an easy win, they have it entirely to themselves. Ginny loses her voice before the match even starts, yelling as the Cannons run drills out on the pitch. She has a lot of commentary on Ron’s form, apparently, and he throws her a few very unbrotherly gestures as he swoops past.

Daphne and Pansy are inordinately early, dressed from head to toe in bright orange Cannons attire with only the smallest traces of irony.

“I’m partial to the Kestrels, myself, of course,” Daphne tells Harry when he gawks at them. “But we have to show our support for Ron.”

Ron swoops by at that moment and Daphne jolts over to the balustrade, whooping and hollering with just as much genuine excitement as Ginny. Harry still hasn’t got it into his head that they’re all friends, really actually friends.

“He’s always late to everything,” Pansy says, giving Harry a wink. “Don’t fret.”

Draco is late. By the time he arrives, the match has already been underway for ten minutes. Draco greets him with a casual embrace from behind, resting his chin in the crook of Harry’s neck, and Harry almost shivers.

“You’re late,” Harry says without looking away from the pitch.

“The match started ten minutes ago. Has McPherson already caught the Snitch?” Draco murmurs into his shoulder.

“Not yet,” Harry says. “And you’re meant to be rooting for the Cannons.”

Harry turns to face him, but Draco has already strolled off to join Pansy and Daphne.

Luckily, it seems that the only thing that can successfully distract Harry from Draco’s confusing antics is Quidditch. Ron is in exceptional form all night, as if he’s been bolstered by the increasingly manic energy coming from the box. It doesn’t take long before Harry gets swept up in Ginny and Daphne’s contagious excitement, and he loses himself in the chaos of it. After an hour of watching the Cannons rack up score after score, it breaks out pouring rain.

“We’ll be here all night,” Ginny says after Ron bats away another Quaffle. “They’re never going to catch the Snitch in this weather.”

“Too bad there isn’t anything to drink,” Pansy says. “Oh, wait!” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a veritable liquor cabinet’s worth of tiny bottles and begins unshrinking them. “There absolutely is!”

Drinking hasn’t worked out very well for Harry lately, so he nurses a very diluted rum and co*ke for most of the evening, despite Pansy’s frequent attempts to top him up. At some point, he drops into a seat next to Hermione, who has her arms crossed against the sudden chill.

“Ron’s going to be a terror tonight,” Hermione says. “When they win by so much, he turns into an absolute lunatic.” Her eyes narrow a bit in concern. “Are you having fun?”

Her glance across the box betrays her thoughts, as well as Harry’s. Draco is off in the corner with Pansy, engaged in what appears to be a very captivating conversation — if a little intense. Neither of them seem to know they’re at a Quidditch game at all.

“Not as much fun as Ron,” Harry says as they watch him do a complicated backflip to beat away a Quaffle.

“The Detwell Dip!” Daphne cries as Ron zooms past the booth, saluting Daphne as he zips by. Harry snorts, but Hermione doesn’t take her eyes off of him.

“Things seem a little strange lately,” she presses. “Strange in a different way than usual.”

“Yeah,” Harry confesses. “I suppose I’m just not used to having such a long reprieve from being tortured.”

When he looks back up at Draco, he catches him and Pansy glancing at him unsubtly. He pries his eyes away as quickly as possible, twisting the ring on his finger absently.

“You’re both acting like you’re too shy to ask each other to the Yule Ball,” Hermione says.

Harry sighs. “It’s all a bit confusing.”

“I know,” Hermione says gently. “But if you don’t think he’s having an identical conversation with Pansy right now, then you really are hopeless.”

Harry leans forward in his seat and drops his head into his hands. He has no idea when it became like this, when Draco stopped repelling him and started pulling him in, as if their magnetic alignments have shifted. He has no idea what’s sprawled out before them; he only knows that the waters they’ve begun to tread feel very, very dangerous.

“Be honest,” he says when he straightens. “Was this all an elaborate matchmaking ruse?”

“Yes,” Hermione says. “I’ve poured untold amounts of time and energy into pairing you off with Draco Malfoy. I frankly can’t believe it took you this long to realise.”

She laughs, but doesn’t take her eyes off of him. “But then — I don’t know, Harry. I suppose I knew you two wouldn’t have to act that much.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry says miserably.

“Just talk to him,” Hermione says gently.

“But I hate him,” Harry grumbles. “And he definitely hates me.”

“I know,” she says with a smile. “Isn’t that part of it?”

“Harry! Potter!” a cry comes from across the room. When Harry looks up, Daphne is glaring at him from where she’s pushed in between Draco and Pansy. She looks incensed by something, and it isn’t long before Neville and Ginny appear in the group to see what all the fuss is about.

Hermione and Harry walk over. Draco gives him a resigned look and reaches out when Harry approaches, hooking an arm around his waist. Harry puts an arm on his back and feels grounded immediately. He tries not to think about why.

“Daphne has some resentments about our marital status,” Draco says.

“Draco has just informed me that you haven’t even set a date yet,” Daphne exclaims in a flurry of orange movement. “How long are you going to make us wait to see you down the aisle? If the wedding is anything like that absurdly stupid and also beautiful cover for The Celestial, I would like to reserve tickets for my mum and sister.”

“It isn’t a parade, Daph,” Pansy says. “They don’t sell tickets.”

“Perhaps they should,” Luna says, appearing beside Ginny. “They could make a million Galleons.”

“Oh, don’t hurry them,” Hermione says. “Ron and I were engaged for two years before we got married.”

“Hannah and I were engaged for six weeks,” Neville says. He shrugs when Harry casts him a panicked glance. “We didn’t want to wait.”

“See, that’s romantic,” Daphne says. “Where’s your sense of urgency, Potter? Don’t you know what a prize you’ve got on your hands?” She pinches Draco’s cheek before he bats her away. “You wouldn’t want this dreamy catch to slip away, now would you?”

“No,” Harry says, glancing at Draco. “I certainly wouldn’t.”

“Well, you can hold your breath until you turn blue, Greengrass,” Draco says. “I have my work cut out for me. I’m not letting this fumbling prat anywhere near the wedding plans. Can you imagine what a disaster it would be?”

“Oh, don’t let that hold you up,” Pansy says devilishly. “Gin and I can help with all of it. The engagement party was only the most beautiful event of the decade.”

“Oh, maybe,” Draco says devilishly. “Or maybe we’ll just elope.”

“You used to be so fun, Dray,” Daphne says, crossing her arms to pout. “Now I feel like you Disillusion every part of your life from us. I mean, honestly, you once described shagging the head of the Floo Network Authority with such detail that I felt like I had a co*ck and was right there shagging him myself. Now you’re about to walk down the aisle, and I haven’t heard so much as a bloody handjob story.”

Harry has spent the whole evening wondering what it would take for Draco to look at him for more than two minutes at a time. Now, he knows that all it takes is this: Harry flushing red and stammering as their friends laugh at him with complete abandon. Hermione’s eyebrows fly up in surprise as she puts two and two together.

Draco leans into him immediately, putting a possessive hand on his chest. “Does it not content you to know that my fiancé and I are perfectly content with our sex lives, you insatiable wretch?”

Daphne turns to Pansy with a grin. “Did you hear that, Pans?” she says. “Potter’s hung.”

“Merlin, not this again,” Harry says. He ignores the traitorous peals of laughter and walks back to the railing. The rain is dying down, and the Cannons are up by over one hundred points. He spies Ron, who is starting to look a little bored as he bats away another Quaffle.

Draco appears next to him and leans against the railing, but Harry is already distracted.

“They’re f*cking —” Harry shouts out onto the pitch where the Cannons' Chaser has just made one of the laziest passes he’s ever seen, which was immediately intercepted by the Wasps. “Are you —” he stammers as the Wasps' Chaser delivers it for a successful score. “Godric.”

He glances over to catch Draco staring at him with a bemused smile before he turns back to the pitch. “They’d have to lose this match and next week’s against the Tornadoes to drop in the rankings,” Draco says. “Of course, they’ll be kept on their toes by the Tornadoes’ defence.”

“The Tornadoes’ defence is completely rubbish, Draco, I’ve been trying to —” Harry starts. His thought is interrupted when Ron misses a perfectly easy keep when the Bludger whips past him, because apparently the Beaters are taking catnaps. “Ridiculous,” Harry says. “They’re absolutely not bothering anymore.”

“You really never outgrew that competitive streak, did you?”

“It’s just sloppy.”

“There’s no way they’ll lose.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says, gesturing maniacally out at the pitch. Ron gets it; he appears to be giving his Beater an earful right now. “It’s just bad sportsmanship.”

Draco bursts a laugh. “Adorable,” he says. “Deep breaths, love.” He winds an arm around Harry’s shoulder. Harry doesn’t let himself question why he feels himself steadying immediately. He just lets it happen.

“Your friends are terrors,” Harry mumbles, remembering himself.

“Just don’t listen to them,” Draco says. “I hardly think they listen to themselves half the time.”

He pushes a kiss into Harry’s shoulder. There’s absolutely no one looking at them.

The Cannons' Seeker, Nadia Musa, zips around the pitch, unmissable with her shock of bright turquoise hair that clashes with her robes. Harry thinks she might have the Snitch in sight, but he groans immediately when she slows to a halt beside one of the Chasers and launches into what had better be a very important conversation. “This is a joke.”

“Harry,” Draco says slowly, staring at him as Harry watches the Bludger zip past the box. “Harry,” he says again, and Harry hears it from a mile away. “Can you actually hear a word I’m saying right now?”

“Something very interesting and insightful, I’m quite sure,” Harry says. “Oh for f*ck’s sake —”

“You’re just a twelve-year-old boy in the body of a grown man,” Draco says.

“Yeah,” Harry says without taking his eyes off the pitch. “You’re right… I actually think Musa is just taking a pleasure cruise at this point. She’s not even looking up from her broom handle.”

“I could say anything in the world right now and you wouldn’t hear it.”

The Wasps' Beater scores an impeccable goal. Harry throws his head back and groans. “They could come back, you know. It happens more often than you’d think. Just three years ago the Kestrels lost to the Harpies after a four-hundred-point lead.”

“Which would make this the opportune time to tell you that you were right.”

“Yeah, I usually am,” Harry says. He glances at Draco, and then turns back to the pitch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Draco finally looks away from him, but twists a lock of Harry’s hair between his fingers. “I think maybe you do.”

Harry can spy the Snitch glimmering against the rain, just over Ron’s unwitting head. But suddenly it all feels like it’s happening very far away.

“You were right,” Draco says again. “That night in your flat. You were right about it. What you said.”

Harry turns to him, his words from that night ringing through his mind, the only ones Draco could be referring to. You’re in love with me.

Harry shrugs out from under his touch. “Funny.”

“I’m not being funny,” Draco says. There’s a stupid little smile on his face, like he’s laughing at some joke Harry isn’t privy to.

“Aren’t you tired of the mind games yet?” Harry snaps.

“It isn’t a mind game,” Draco says. His expression seems to indicate otherwise. It’s not cruel and twisted like it usually is, but it also doesn’t appear to be very deeply enamoured. He just looks like Harry’s told him a very long joke, and Draco has finally understood the punch line.

He takes Harry by the waist and kisses him on the cheek. Then, as if taking the fact that Harry hasn’t thrown him bodily over the balustrade as permission, he takes Harry’s face in his hands and kisses his lips — long and slow, like there was never an act at all. Long and slow, like they have all the time in the world.

Musa catches the Snitch. The match ends, and everyone in the box rushes to the banisters as the entire stadium explodes into deafening cheers.

Harry misses the entire thing.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Hermione was right. Ron is an absolute terror after The Cannons’ win.

The entire team goes out for drinks on Diagon afterward, and Ron drags them all along. Harry starts the night with Butterbeers, but quickly switches to Firewhisky. Draco has returned to his usual form, only exponentially more needy and cloyingly affectionate, and it’s a bit hard to process sober.

Draco rubs circles into Harry’s hand with his thumb while they watch Daphne give notes to each of the Cannons' players with unrelenting vigor. Harry can’t determine what has Draco’s affections dialed up, and if it’s for the benefit of the pub’s other patrons, or their friends, or whether it’s all just for Harry.

Ron emerges from the bustling crowd of orange jerseys looking like he’s just witnessed a crime. “That Greengrass is really something,” he says. “Do you know, I actually think that was a more productive post-match dressing-down than I usually get from Captain Chafik.”

Harry loves nights like these, when Ron is ten times more famous than he is. He hasn’t been able to say a word to him all night, and Ron has yet to buy a single drink. “You were brilliant,” Harry says, clapping him on the shoulder. “When you blocked that fake pass from Orr and Redmond, Ginny and I lost it.”

“That’s news to me,” Ron says. “She just had a shopping list of all the scores I didn’t block.”

“It’s a short list. You were in fantastic form.”

Draco releases an incredulous laugh next to him. “That’s about my limit of the Weasley fan club for the night, I believe,” he says. “Brilliant match,” he says earnestly to Ron before walking off to where Pansy is very openly flirting with Seeker Nadia Musa, leaning across the table towards her.

“You seem to be having a fantastic night,” Ron says.

“Well, yeah,” Harry says. “It was a fantastic game.”

Ron grins, bubbling with a mixture of post-victory giddiness and booze. “Harry, the two of you are acting like lovesick puppies.”

Harry takes a long sip of his drink. “Well, that’s sort of the idea.”

Ron shakes his head. “I think I can tell when my best mate is acting.”

“Maybe I’ve just got really good at it.”

That stupid smiles doesn’t drop from Ron’s face. “Sure.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Hermione.”

“I think there’s a reason for that,” Ron says curiously. “I seem to recall a marriage certificate or something?”

Ginny appears by Ron’s side, wearing a tall Chudley Cannons hat, complete with miniature cannons that shoot out sparks every few minutes. “Ron, I forgot to mention the score from Hector Suwan you missed,” she says, her cheeks almost as red as her hair with excitement and drink. “That’s nine. Mum will be so disappointed.”

“I’ll be sure to let her down easy about our 290-point victory,” Ron says before another stranger puts a drink in his hand and leads him away with a torrent of praise and adoration.

“I have to keep it all from getting to his head somehow,” she tells Harry. “He doesn’t know it, but it’s for his own good.”

“I think that ship may have sailed,” Harry says, watching as Ron is plowed over by a few witches who hug and kiss him before pushing autograph books into his hands.

“Speaking of sailing ships,” Ginny says. “What is going on between the two of you?” She casts a look over to Draco, where the group has been joined by Luna and a few other Cannons players. Pansy scowls at Draco’s unintentional co*ck blocking, and Harry can already see the rant brewing behind her eyes.

“Nothing’s going on,” Harry says. “Business as usual.”

“You usually look like you want to shrivel up and die when he’s all over you like this,” Ginny says bluntly, rocking back and forth with a glimmer of glee in her eye. “I mean, it’s subtle. You’re a good actor, Harry, but I know how to read you.”

Harry laughs despite himself. “I actually don’t need notes on my match, Gin.”

“You never looked at me the way you’ve been looking at him tonight,” Ginny says, sobering up momentarily. “I mean, it’s just an observation.”

Harry suddenly feels a little ill.

Ginny laughs. “You look like I’ve just drowned a Niffler in front of you.”

“You know, all of you have a lot of opinions tonight,” Harry mumbles into his drink.

“Hey, Harry,” a voice cuts in. Cannons’ Captain Zahra Chafik appears behind Ginny and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Hi, Gin.”

“Zahra,” Ginny says, making space for her at the table. “Please tell me you’re going to yell at Ron for missing nine keeps tonight. You simply have to keep him in line.”

Zahra laughs. “That’s actually remarkably low for such a long match, Ginny,” she says. “Go easy on him. He played a great game.”

“You all did,” Harry says. “Well done.”

Zahra looks at Harry like he hasn’t realised he’s just told a joke. “It’s very kind of you to lie, Harry, but I know you know the sport better than that. Don’t worry — they’re going to get an earful next practice.”

Harry laughs. “Okay, maybe they lost some of their footing midway through,” he says. “It was a long match.”

“Would have been shorter if Weasley kept his mind on the pitch,” Ginny calls over her shoulder as Luna sweeps her away to the raucous table of his friends. Draco is the only one who appears to have not lost his mind. He watches quietly from the corner as Daphne stands on a chair and hollers something about properly handling a broomstick that sends Pansy and Musa folding over each other in a very handsy fit of laughter.

“Your friends are a riot,” Zahra says. “I don’t remember the last time there was this much energy at a post-game pub night.”

“They have a lot of steam to blow off,” Harry says, watching as Draco slips away from the table and disappears into the crowd.

“I have to say, it’s been a little strange reading about your engagement,” Zahra says, glancing at the ring on Harry’s hand as if checking to make sure it was true. “It’s not a relationship I would have predicted.”

“Nor me,” Harry says.

Zahra pins him with her gaze. “You know, my older sister nearly died in the war,” she says quietly. “She ran communications between the Ministry and some of the members of the resistance. I know it’s not really pub talk, but they nearly drove her mad with the Cruciatus Curse when they intercepted her. You know — the same side as the people you break bread with now.”

“They were children,” Harry starts. “They’ve all done so much to make up for it. They’ve changed so much.”

“I know,” Zahra says, putting up an apologetic hand. “I know that. But it was hard for me to get past, hard for me to even see those types walking around free. It’s the strangest thing, but my sister never struggled with it the way that I did.”

Harry nods, thinking of the way that Hermione moved on from it all years before he and Ron had.

“Anyway,” Zahra says after a long drink. “I suppose when I first heard about you and him, it was confusing. But even Ron and Ginny were defending him at every turn. And then when it came out that you were engaged, I figured I must have had the entire story wrong, because there’s no way you’d be involved with someone anything less than worthy.”

“He is,” Harry says, finding he believes it. “Worthy. Of so much.”

“I know,” Zahra says again. “It’s sort of incredible to watch. I’m working on it myself.” They both watch as Ginny makes a ring with her arms above her head and Daphne throws a crumpled up napkin through it. The entire table breaks into cheers like they’ve just single-handedly won the Quidditch Cup.

“How do you do it, though?” Zahra asks, her voice soft. “Forgive him?”

Harry turns to her. “It’s simple,” he says, shrugging. “I love him.”

Zahra studies him for a moment, and Harry meets her gaze without wavering.

“So your advice is to date a Slytherin.”

Harry laughs. “Maybe you can ask your Seeker how it works out for her,” he says. Across the pub, Nasa has her arm around Pansy’s shoulder, as if they’ve been a couple for years.

“Yeah, didn’t see that one coming either,” Zahra says. “I think I’ll investigate. Good seeing you, Harry,” she says, bumping against his shoulder before venturing into the insanity taking place across the room.

Harry turns to look for Ron in the crowd, but he immediately spots Draco only a few paces away, staring at him with two drinks in his hand as if petrified. He looks like he’s been there for a while. He has one of those unreadable expressions on his face as he walks over to Harry and puts the drinks on the table.

“Erm, hi,” Harry says, because it looks like Draco has lost his ability to speak. “Alright there?”

“Peachy.” He goes on staring at Harry like his hair is on fire.

Harry sucks in a breath. “Okay,” he grumbles. “Maybe at least tell me what I’ve done to piss you off this time?”

He doesn’t. Instead, he grabs Harry by his collar and crashes their lips together, pulling Harry tight against him, one hand curled through his hair and the other holding him close by his back. Harry reacts reflexively, grabbing Draco’s waist and getting lost in the chaos of his lips, forgetting momentarily that they’re standing in the middle of a crowded pub.

Draco has forgotten as well, judging by the way he lowers his kisses against Harry’s neck, holding him so tightly that it may actually leave bruises. “You absolute disaster of a human being,” he murmurs against Harry’s throat. “You hopeless idiot. You ridiculous fool. You’re in love with me.”

Harry pulls back. “It’s not becoming to eavesdrop, Malfoy.”

Draco smirks. “Draco.”

“We’re meant to be engaged,” Harry mumbles, though it’s hard to string sentences together when Draco resumes kissing his throat as if possessed. “Of course I have to tell her that. It’s sort of the point of the whole thing.”

“Sure,” Draco says, releasing Harry from his grip. “Whatever you need to say.”

For a second, Harry thinks that Draco might stalk off. Instead, he grabs Harry by the wrist and pulls him away from the table. It takes Harry’s mind a few stumbling paces to catch up to what’s going on, how things wound up the last time this happened.

Draco weaves through the crowd with such urgency it’s like he thinks he’ll die if he can’t get Harry alone immediately. They manage to remain undeterred by the busy staff as he pulls Harry into the back of the pub, opens the first door they pass, and shoves him into it.

Harry’s mind spins as Draco locks the door and then locks it again with a charm. “You have a thing for storage rooms,” Harry says thickly, looking around in the darkness at the shelves of food and equipment.

Draco turns to him with such intensity that his gaze almost seems murderous. “You’re in love with me.”

“I’m not in love with you,” Harry says.

Draco takes Harry’s face in his hands and kisses him. Despite his frantic energy mere moments ago, his kiss is soft and tender. He holds Harry gently in place as though worried he’ll disappear under his touch. Harry thinks his heart may beat out of his chest.

“I’m not in love with you,” Harry says again when Draco pulls away. It’s distinctly less convincing. “Maybe we’re just drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Draco says. “Are you drunk?”

Harry shakes his head slowly. “No.”

Draco presses him up against the wall. With restored lunacy, he kisses Harry desperately and reaches down to work his flies.

“Merlin,” Harry says, pushing him off. “You’ve actually lost your sodding mind.”

“I must have,” Draco says, leaning back in to kiss Harry’s cheek, his hair. “Look at me. I’ve actually fallen in love with the most catastrophic man to ever exist.”

Hearing him say that makes Harry understand why Draco has been acting so insane. Harry grabs him by the collar and spins them around, pushing Draco’s back into the wall a bit too hard. “What did you just say?”

Draco gives a little shrug, a soft smile playing at his lips. “Oh, don’t make me say it again.”

Draco stares at Harry while his mind catches up, running his tongue slowly across his own bottom lip. Harry draws his wand and casts a Burning Jinx on the door handle for good measure.

“There’s my valiant hero,” Draco says. His words melt into a moan when Harry pins him against the wall with a furious kiss and pushes his hip against Draco’s groin. “f*ck,” he hisses. Harry can feel his throat vibrate against his lips as he lays a trail of kisses down Draco’s neck.

Harry’s entire body is suddenly alight with insatiable need, like it’s something that’s been brewing within him from the very beginning, only now set ablaze by an errant spark. He winds a chaotic hand through Draco’s perfect hair and uses the other to palm the growing bulge pushing against his ever-so-tight trousers. Draco’s immediate moan throws Harry off of his rhythm, and he blinks everything back into focus: the night, the room, Draco squirming beneath his touch.

“Salazar,” Draco whispers as he winds a hand under Harry’s shirt, a shock of cool fingers running against his skin. “Don’t be a f*cking tease.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and drops down to his knees. Draco lets out a small sound of surprise as Harry works to undo his belt in a frenzy. When he finally yanks Draco’s trousers down to his hips, his co*ck springs free, hard and ready.

Harry stares at it for a second, and then he hears himself laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Harry says, glancing up to where Draco is looking at him with murderous intent. “It’s just that, of course you have this pretty, perfect prick.”

Draco scoffs. “Flattery isn’t going to —”

Harry takes it in his hand and draws a single, lazy stroke up its length. Draco’s breath hitches, and then he glares down with newfound fury.

“You utter —” Draco starts, but his words are swallowed with a moan as Harry gives him another torturously slow stroke.

“What?” Harry says innocently. “I thought this was how you liked it.”

“Harry,” Draco whines. “Please.”

Harry has never seen Draco so uncomposed, so needy, so messy, and he’s nearly deafened by the blood rushing through his ears. He takes Draco’s co*ck in a firm hand and then wraps his lips around the rest. He can feel Draco’s hips jerk as he whimpers, and Harry can’t imagine he’s like this — so supple and desperate — with anyone else. This isn’t something Draco merely wants. It’s something he needs.

Harry drops his hand, taking Draco by the waist before swallowing him down until his nose brushes against the springy blond curls at the base of his co*ck.

“f*ck,” Draco whispers above him, light and airy, closer to wonder than anything resembling lust. “Harry.”

He threads his fingers through Harry’s hair as Harry works his shaft with his lips and tongue, looping his fingers around the base to meet his mouth halfway as he bobs up and down Draco’s length. Draco starts making helpless little sounds above him, fiery pants and pleading little mewls, and all Harry knows is that he’s desperate for those sounds, desperate to bring Draco closer and closer to this secret, trembling place Harry never even dared fantasise about.

“Harry,” Draco says, sucking in a sharp breath and tightening his fingers in Harry’s hair. “I’m going to — I’m not going to last —”

Harry pulls off of Draco’s co*ck to work it slowly with his hand. He stares up at him, his eyes half-lidded and unseeing, until Draco finally looks down to meet his gaze.

“Give it to me, darling,” Harry says. “I want it.”

Draco scoffs a weak laugh. “You absolute —”

But he never finishes the thought. Harry takes him down to the hilt in one motion, tears springing into his eyes as he quickens his pace. He loses himself in it, too — Draco’s rich, heady scent, the tangle of indistinguishable thoughts humming quietly in his head, his own growing, nearly painful arousal.

Somewhere in a very distant part of his mind, Harry realises that they never cast a Muffliato on the room. Anyone outside could easily hear the desperate, unhinged, unbelievable sounds Draco is making above him with rapidly increasing volume, and that makes Harry feel even crazier.

Draco lets out a gasp. “I’m —” he breathes. But Harry can already tell from the way the muscles in his thighs are clenching, the way his moans have been replaced by the soft, breathy sounds of bliss. Harry runs a hand up his waist, scratching back down with the faintest pressure of nails on skin as he takes Draco deeper.

Draco’s entire body trembles as he comes into the back of Harry’s throat with a guttural moan. Harry swallows it down, letting Draco thrust lightly into his mouth through his shuddering org*sm, desperate for every drop of him, every inch, every taste. Draco’s fingers slacken in his hair, and the softest, faintest, “Harry,” sounds from above him, awe-stricken, reverent.

Draco has hardly finished when he yanks Harry up by his collar. He pulls him into a hungry kiss, pushing his tongue into Harry’s mouth as if desperate to taste any lingering trace of himself. Harry shivers as Draco works in a grateful frenzy, sucking and nipping his way up and down Harry’s jaw and throat. It’s as if he’s lost control of his body, lost his control of language and can only communicate through desperate kisses and deep, shuddering breaths.

“Merlin, Draco,” Harry says as soon as the warm mess of his mind will allow him to string words together. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Draco says against his throat. “No. I want you. I want you.” He reconnects their lips, taking Harry by the collar as he pulls him deeper into the room. “Here. Now,” he says. “In me. Please.”

Harry looks around, sobering a bit as he blinks into the darkness of the room. Draco backs into a small table in the corner and sits atop it, spreading his legs and pulling Harry in between them.

“Here?” Harry says dully.

“Now,” Draco says, working to undo Harry’s flies. “Harry. Please.”

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely.”

Draco pushes Harry’s trousers down around his knees. “Shut. The f*ck. Up. Potter.”

“I thought we were playing nice, Malfoy,” Harry says with a smirk. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of this, Draco so desperate for him, so needy. He won’t allow himself to question when this might ever happen again, if it will ever happen again, and he wants to get every last drop of it before it disappears.

His words seem to snap Draco out of it. “Your co*ck isn’t the gods’ gift to humanity, Potter.”

“I seem to recall you feeling differently about it last time.”

“Harry,” Draco says, peeling his boxers down. “Are you going to f*ck me or not?”

Then Draco has a hand around him, stroking him with vengefully slow, languorous movement. Something snaps in Harry — maybe it’s Draco’s hand around his co*ck, but maybe it’s the pools of uninhibited desire in Draco’s eyes when they lock onto his. Harry sucks in a breath. “f*ck.”

“That is the general idea.”

Harry kisses him, pushing him further down onto the table, but their movement is constricted by the trousers wrapped around their thighs. Harry reaches down to free Draco’s legs, his hands fumbling and his mind ablaze with need. In the next instant, both of them are naked from the waist down.

Draco pushes up onto his hands. “Did you just —”

Harry pants down at him, hardly registering the ripple of magic that passed down his body like a warm breeze.

“Sometimes it just happens.”

“Are you telling me you sometimes perform accidental sex magic?” Draco asks, his voice mocking for a moment before it drops off into a heady mumble as he wraps his fingers back around Harry’s co*ck. “That might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“So it is the gods’ gift to humanity, is that what you’re saying?” Harry breathes.

“Shut up,” Draco says, pulling him into another kiss.

Harry leans down over him, and Draco loops his arms around his neck. Harry tries to find grounding in Draco’s lips, against his throat, and his hot breath against his ear, but he can quickly feel himself coming apart at the seams. “Can you do the spell?” Draco whispers.

Harry nods and summons his wand. He casts into his hand, filling it with lubricant, and grips himself, hissing slightly at the sensation on his rigid co*ck. Draco kisses him patiently through it, sucking small bites into his collarbone as Harry nudges his legs further apart. He drops his wand and reaches down to press a slick finger into Draco without preamble.

“f*ck,” Draco says. “f*ck.”

Harry works slowly in and out of him, gazing down in silent awe as his finger slips through the tight ring of heat. The sight of it alone makes him momentarily forget how to breathe. “Alright?”

“I’m not some blushing virgin, Potter,” Draco says, though his face is flushed pink. “You can —”

Harry pulls out almost entirely and then pushes back in with two fingers. Draco whimpers, his spent co*ck twitching as it reawakens. “More.”

“My, aren’t we needy,” Harry murmurs. Draco growls, digging his fingers hard into Harry’s shoulders until he pushes a third finger in. Then he drops his head back onto the table, squeezing his eyes shut as Harry stretches his reluctant opening. Harry angles deeper and Draco lets out a light, almost anguished cry when Harry’s fingers brush against his prostate.

Harry grips Draco by the waist with his free hand as he continues pushing into that angle, staring down to watch himself work in the darkness. Draco’s hand grip Harry’s forearms, lightly guiding Harry into him as he draws in shaky breaths.

Draco opens his eyes after a few more thrusts. “Are you still there?” he says with an amused, heavily-lidded smile.

Harry realises he has no idea how long he’s been going at it, forgetting even the aching of his own co*ck as he watches his fingers slide in and out of Draco.

“I’d love to experience that legendary dick before I die of old age.”

Draco shudders when Harry slowly pulls out. He lines his co*ck up with Draco’s opening, leaning down to kiss him as he strokes its head up and down Draco’s hole until he growls. “Tease,” he hisses, wriggling impatiently.

“Consider it payback,” Harry murmurs against his lips, and then pushes in.

Harry’s vision blurs as Draco’s body slowly gives way to him, slick and hot and tight as though he were made for him alone. Harry’s breath catches as he slows to a pause less than halfway in, watching Draco’s face twist as he lets out a low moan beneath him. Draco’s eyes lock onto him, piercing him with an unwavering gaze, the same intense lust and desire from the engagement party now spread so clearly across his face.

Harry pushes in a little deeper, a moan shaking his own throat. He leans over to kiss Draco slowly as he adjusts with a strained breath. He thrusts back in at a torturously slow pace until he can feel the soft curve of Draco’s arse against his hips. He needs this now, but also wants it to last a lifetime. And, judging by Draco’s uncharacteristic patience, he feels the same.

“Please,” Draco whines against Harry’s open mouth. “Please. I’m ready. Please.”

Harry leans back and takes him by the hips, as slow as he can handle without losing himself. He wants to feel every inch of Draco as his body grips him, to savour every second of the addled dream they’ve stumbled into. He finds an angle that makes Draco hiss and then moan beneath him and then continues thrusting into it, increasing his pace as he hears low growling sounds escape from his own lips.

“Christ, Harry, gods,” Draco breathes, slipping his hands beneath Harry’s shirt and tracing a chill down his chest. “More. Harder.”

Harry grabs for his wrists without breaking his rhythm, pinning them on the table above Draco’s head. He knows he isn’t going to last long, not with Draco shutting his eyes tightly again like he’s leaving his body, and making those faces like he’s losing his mind.

He drops his face into the crook of Draco’s neck, his thrusts growing more and more chaotic as he grows close. “Yes, Harry,” Draco whispers into his ear between moans of his own. “Right — there — f*ck.”

Harry sucks hard on Draco’s neck, reaching down for his co*ck and stroking it in time with his movements. Draco shakes hard underneath him, letting out such a guttural moan that Harry almost fears he’s going to break him. A whimper escapes Harry’s throat.

Draco opens his eyes and winds the fingers of his newly freed hand into Harry’s hair. “Come for me, Harry,” he whispers with no trace of his usual irony. “Come for me, love.”

Harry’s org*sm rolls through him like a wave of thunder, and he groans against Draco’s neck as he spills inside him. “That’s it,” Draco says in a low whisper, pressing kisses into Harry’s hair as his thrusts grow more and more uncoordinated. “That’s — oh — You’re so good, Harry. You’re so good.”

His babbling is cut short by a shaky moan as he comes into Harry’s hand, his quick strokes growing slick with come as they ride out their org*sms in gasping, panting synchronicity.

When Draco’s moaning is interrupted by a groan of discomfort, Harry stops and drops his weight down onto him. Draco wraps his arms around him, and Harry can feel Draco’s heart pounding against his chest as their breathing begins to return to normal. Draco kisses Harry’s cheek and temple with lazy tenderness.

“f*ck,” Harry whispers against his clammy neck.

“f*ck,” Draco sighs in agreement.

They lie like that for a few moments in silence, their heavy breaths the only sound in the room. Harry could fall asleep right there, knowing nothing but the warmth of Draco’s body beneath him, his cool lips against his skin, and the truth of what was happening spilling out from them, forming its own warm, confusing presence in the room.

But after a few more moments of listening to Draco’s heartbeat, his breaths, his delirious little sighs, reality creeps in like an unwanted guest in the back of Harry’s mind.

Harry lifts up and slips his softening co*ck out of Draco. Draco whimpers against Harry’s groan, and then throws the crook of his elbow over his eyes as he continues to catch his breath. It’s dark in the room, but it’s still obscene to see him like that, exposed and spent and vulnerable in ways Harry never imagined he could be.

Harry stands and Summons their trousers. He throws Draco’s onto the table next to him before stepping into his own. Something in the familiar motion of it throws him off, makes it feel like it was just a quickie, or maybe something dark and confusing like that last time.

Harry turns away to lift the charms on the door handle. He doesn’t know whether this Draco will still be there when he turns back, or if he’ll have been replaced again by the cruel facade of him, laughing and sneering, telling Harry he’s so weak, so gullible to have fallen for it again. But in Harry’s stark post-climax clarity, the possibility of all of it being genuine is almost harder to bear.

Draco’s words from earlier swirl in his mind: You’re in love with me. You’re in love with me.

Harry turns as Draco fastens his belt. He seems to have sobered up a bit himself, a small frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You know, normally men try to be a subtle when they think the sex was rubbish,” he says, the half-hearted humor in his tone unable to cover the ruefulness beneath it. “At least, I’d imagine so. It’s never actually happened to me.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “We should probably get back out there.”

“Why?” Draco asks, his frown deepening. “So your precious Granger and Weasley don’t know we’ve actually shagged?”

Harry shakes his head, suddenly feeling exhausted. “It isn’t like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Draco snaps. He’s already beginning to look like his usual self, his eyes narrowed in disdain.

Harry sighs. He crosses back over to him, finding it surprisingly easy to take him by the waist — his hands have always betrayed him like that. Draco crosses his arms, looking up at him with a familiar mixture of annoyance and exhaustion.

“I don’t know what it’s like,” Harry says honestly. “Frankly, I’m not sure who you’re going to be when we go back out there.”

Draco scowls for a moment, but then it drops from his face. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Harry chuckles with relief. It’s the most Draco has really acknowledged the torture he’s put Harry through. He also looks very pouty right now, and it’s very cute.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “It’s been a little hellish for me these past months.”

“Oh, well, it’s been a stroll through Honeydukes for me,” Draco grumbles.

Harry drops his hands and takes a step back, making a fruitless effort to comb his hair into submission with his fingers so it might be slightly less obvious what they’ve been doing. He already knows it’s hopeless. “At least I haven’t been actively trying to break your brain,” he says, unable to keep the spite out of his voice.

“You think this has been easy for me,” Draco says flatly, tucking in his shirt.

“No, I’m just saying I haven’t been purposefully trying to make you miserable.”

“So you’ve just been accidentally making me miserable.”

Harry’s bewildered expression only makes Draco angrier. “What did I do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco says. “Maybe it was your revulsion towards me from the first day at the Ministry. Or your acting like you’d rather throw yourself into the mouth of the giant squid than to be seen on the arm of a Death Eater. Or the way you react with unrestrained glee the second that Granger mentions so much as the possibility of you being freed from my repulsive little claws.”

Harry shakes his head, the ever-familiar bloom of anger growing in his chest. Now it’s mixed with something heavier: guilt.

“I’m not doing this right now,” he mumbles.

“Or that,” Draco says, standing from the table. “The way you act like I’m not worthy of your time. Like I’m just something stuck to the bottom of your boot.”

Harry tries to catch his anger before it clouds his judgement, which is what usually happens. For the first time, Draco is telling him how he feels directly, and not through a kaleidoscope of lies. He isn’t sure if this will keep happening after they step through the door. He isn’t sure if it will ever happen again.

For his part, Draco makes no effort to hide his ire. But his hair is still a mess of misplaced blond locks, and his cheeks are still flushed. Harry bites his lip and tries not to laugh at him.

“Draco,” he says, combing his fingers through Draco’s soft hair until it looks somewhat presentable. “Can we at least talk somewhere other than a bloody storage room?”

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Despite the raucous energy of the pub, no one is distracted or drunk enough to miss what’s happened between Harry and Draco. Ginny positively moons at Harry as they pass her and Luna.

“You!” Daphne shrieks at Draco, scurrying up to him the minute they resurface. “Are you really going to shag in a bloody bathroom stall and still not give me any details?”

“It wasn’t in a bathroom stall,” Harry says. Hermione and Ron give him stunned looks from their table.

Pansy appears, wearing Nadia Musa’s Quidditch cloak. “Dray,” she cries, her hand splayed against her collar in shock. “Have you actually bedded Harry Potter?” She wavers tipsily for a moment, and then hastily adds: “I mean, again? In a bar? And not for the first time? Because you’re engaged?”

They evade as many questions as possible and manage to find a small booth in the corner of the pub where their friends slowly forget about them. Harry gets them some mead, and Draco downs a third of his immediately. He looks a little peaky and leaves ample space between them, which is how Harry knows he’s finally getting to the truth of things.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Harry says. “I’m sorry if I did.”

Draco taps arhythmically against his pint glass.

“Well, maybe I did mean to sometimes,” Harry says. “But only because you were driving me insane.”

Draco goes on staring into the middle distance.

“I don’t think you’re worthless,” Harry pushes. “I don’t see you as a Death Eater, or even a former Death Eater. I think you’re brilliant. It took me too long to notice.”

“You always were slow on the uptake.”

Harry shakes his head with a small smile. “This is the part where you apologise for very intentionally making me miserable for the better part of a year.”

Draco frowns. “I’m not actually certain I’ve finished yet.”

“Fantastic,” Harry says. “I have that to look forward to.”

Draco looks back out over at the pub. “You do still see me as a Death Eater.”

“I don’t,” Harry says, unable to keep the waver out of his voice.

“Save it,” Draco says. “It’s not convincing. You don’t even believe it yourself.”

Harry’s fingers tighten around his drink. The conversation is feeling lopsided already, but he tries to tamp down the first sparks of his frustration. Draco’s antics have left him confused, embarrassed, and exhausted for months, but it’s starting to feel petty compared to what Draco has gone through.

He sighs. “You have a room full of contraband and illegal magical practises in your flat,” Harry says. “It doesn’t help the not-Death Eater image.”

Something dark flashes through Draco’s eyes, something that makes Harry feel like he doesn’t actually know him at all. He looks at Harry briefly with a scrutinising gaze, and then his face falls slightly as he looks away.

“I’ve always been an extremely skillful potioneer,” Draco says. “It’s been a large part of my life since I was a boy, and I excelled at the art while attending Hogwarts, as I’m sure you can recall. I always envisioned myself climbing through the ranks and maybe even taking over the professorship at Hogwarts.”

He glances at Harry as if to make sure he’s listening. Harry doesn’t interrupt.

“I was put on probation after the trials, as you know, which ended after two years. I spent that time on some independent studies, and then applied for a few apprenticeships when I was at the liberty of doing so.”

He hesitates. “Well, I didn’t apply for a few apprenticeships, actually. I applied for virtually every apprenticeship in the whole of Europe. And despite having more technical skills and understanding of the craft than some of the mentors themselves, not a single one was willing to take me on. Most of them didn’t even send responses to my applications.” He chuckles darkly. “The ones who did were very happy to articulate exactly how they felt my skills would be best used, with one being so kind as to attach the recipe for the Death Potion in her rejection.”

“Merlin,” Harry mutters. “That’s awful.” He puts his hand atop Draco’s, but Draco pulls it away, dropping it beneath the table.

“Meanwhile, I seem to recall you and your ilk indulging in a victory lap or two.”

Harry winces. “They weren’t victory laps,” he says. “I hated being trotted out for all of those ridiculous ceremonies. All they did was sensationalise things I’ve been trying to forget for years.”

“I understand that now,” Draco says, shaking his head. “Maybe I understood it then, on some level. But it wasn’t easy to watch while I was being spit on and howled at and attacked in the streets. It became clear that I was nothing but a harrowing reminder of the depths of humanity’s evil, and so, eventually, I figured I might as well give people what they wanted.”

Harry’s mouth has gone dry. If words existed that could begin to express how unjust it all was, he certainly can’t find them. “You didn’t deserve it.”

Draco catches Harry’s eye, gives the smallest shake of his head. “Didn’t I?”

“No more than I deserve the ridiculous hero status,” Harry says. “Neither of us are those people anymore. Neither of us ever were those people.”

Draco’s face hardens into a familiar expression: one of disdain, only slightly tempered. “You saw me the same way everyone else did.”

“Draco,” Harry says softly. “I didn’t.”

“Maybe not to that degree,” he says. “But you also didn’t believe until quite recently that I would so much as lift a finger to protect even those closest to me unless forced to by the Ministry.”

He shakes his head before Harry can object. “Don’t bother,” he says. “Granger’s little scheme has certainly paid off, anyway. I wouldn’t have gone along with it if I didn’t think it would.” His voice lowers, that expression of exhaustion crossing his face. “But I wouldn’t have survived long enough to see it without the Dark Arts.”

Harry wants to believe it’s as simple as that — survival. But he can’t shake the memories of Draco’s snarling face spread across the Prophet, or the familiar ease with which he moved through the darkness of the small room in his flat, the way it all seemed to shroud him like a well-fitted cloak.

“You’re drawn to them,” Harry says.

“No,” Draco says immediately. “But I understand them. I’ve been surrounded by them all my life. And, like potions, they are unforgiving towards mistake-makers and rule-breakers.”

“But things have changed,” Harry says. “You could easily find other work now. It’s not as if you still need to use them.”

Draco presses his lips into a disappointed line. “I haven’t been using them,” he says. “Not since this started.”

Harry hesitates. “But I saw you,” he says. “That potion. In your flat.”

“Oh,” Draco says, as if just remembering. “Audrey. She’s more of a pet than a potion. She acts as something of a ward against a few particularly nasty curses that some of my dear friends and colleagues may have tried to cast upon me. She’s perfectly sweet, aside from the blood-drinking.”

Harry laughs nervously. “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Draco sighs into his half-empty pint contemplatively, and then pushes it away. “I did hear you call for me, you know,” he says. “After my trial.”

Harry stares at him. “Why didn’t you stop?”

Draco looks up at him. “You were… But then, all of you were…” He lets out a long exhale. “You had just finished your Auror training. Strutting about the Ministry in those ridiculous red robes. You were at the beginning of so much. You had finally got everything you wanted.”

“I had not,” Harry says. “Of course I hadn’t.”

“And you looked at me with such pity — you, and Granger, and Weasley, and everyone who testified. Like I was a child who had got in over my head and not someone who was old enough to know better.”

“We —” Harry stammers. “We didn’t want the Wizengamot to put you away. Were we just supposed to let them throw you in Azkaban?”

Draco smiles at him ironically. “Ever the martyr.”

“I only wanted to return your wand,” Harry says.

“I know that. I knew that,” Draco says. “But I couldn’t bear to have you look at me with all that pity and contempt.” His face softens into something unreadable. “You hated me, do you know? Just like the rest of them. You really hated me.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He takes Draco’s reluctant hand firmly in his. He knows that trying to deny it will only make things worse. “You hated me, too.”

“I suppose I did,” Draco says with a mirthless laugh.

“I don’t now, though,” Harry says.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Well, I should hope not, seeing as you’ve just had your prick inside of me.”

Harry stammers, and Draco finally scoots nearer to him. Harry drapes an arm over his shoulder and Draco leans into him, relaxing into his side, leaning into the crook of his neck. He’s done it so many times, but it’s never been like this.

“Salazar, this is a mess,” Draco murmurs.

Harry chuckles. “Yeah. It is.”

“They’re going to end this ruinous campaign soon, anyway, and then you’ll be rid of me.”

“I don’t want to be,” Harry says, burying his face in Draco’s hair. “Unless this entire night has just been an elaborate ruse to destroy what small amount of sanity I have left.”

Draco leans away to look at him with a smile, admiring his handiwork. “I’ve really f*cked with your head, haven’t I?”

“You have no idea,” Harry says miserably. “I’m not even sure —” he says, faltering a bit. “What made you decide to finally tell me? At the match.”

Draco hums, leaning back into Harry. He takes his hand, inspecting it thoughtfully, the way their fingers fit together. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I had just had enough of your torture.”

“Mine?”

“It’s gone both ways,” Draco says. “You always seemed to hate me so much, and then you would look at me with these ridiculous doe eyes, like you wanted me so badly you were going to cry.”

“f*ck,” Harry mumbles. “That’s embarrassing.”

“It is very embarrassing.”

Harry strokes Draco’s hair, trying to let it all wash over him as he glances around the pub. Ron is sitting with Pansy and Musa, no doubt trying to warn both of them of all the ways they’re doomed to ruin each other’s lives. Ginny and Hermione are watching while Daphne and Luna attempt to turn the middle of the pub into a dance floor.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Harry says eventually.

“What’s that?” Draco asks warily.

“Talking,” Harry says. He’s a bit stupefied by it still, by this person sitting next to him who looks just like the man who’s been making him miserable for months, but who’s acting so differently. “Meaning the things we say.”

He kisses Draco’s hair. It’s still a little tousled from before, and an unfortunate thought passes through his mind.

“Is it going to be like this tomorrow?” he asks.

Draco doesn’t respond for a long moment. Harry doesn’t particularly want to think about it either; there doesn’t seem to be any possibility of a future where the two of them can go even a day without trying to kill one another, even if they are shagging. Even if they are…

Well, maybe not in love, but maybe something.

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

*

Draco’s usual spark returns to him as the evening winds down. The motions of it are familiar: the little pecks, the stolen kisses, his hand never straying far from Harry’s. But they communicate something different now — or maybe they communicate the same thing, and Harry’s finally learned how to hear it.

Eventually, Pansy and Musa disappear. Daphne falls asleep in a booth on Luna’s shoulder while Ginny nearly dozes on the other, and half of the Cannons team has already called it a night.

“Well, you boys seem to be getting along splendidly,” Hermione says, pulling on her jacket as she waits for Ron to finish his goodbyes. She gives them a goofy smile and looks pointedly at their hands, which are entangled on the table.

“Wasn’t that the assignment, Granger?” Draco asks innocently.

“Oh yes, yes, of course,” Hermione says, attempting to flatten Harry’s hair. “The assignment, of course.”

She disappears to pry Ron away from his remaining teammates, and Harry and Draco push out from their table.

Harry takes him by the waist. “Come back to mine,” he whispers into his ear, too greedy or nervous to let the mystifying night end just yet.

“Why, Potter,” Draco says, pulling away. “I hardly think that’s an appropriate advance to make to your coworker.”

“Fine,” Harry says. “Then don’t.”

Draco kisses him. “Very impressive reverse psychology,” he says. “I see I’ve rubbed off on you a lot.”

“You could rub off on me more if you like.”

Draco’s face twists. “Vile. Is that what it’s going to be like with you? Like dating a teenage boy?”

Harry laughs, bewildered and elated at the mere thought of the word dating being used to describe whatever the hell it is they’re doing. “Probably,” he says. “I’ve been called emotionally stunted more than a few times in my life. At least once by you.”

Hermione returns with Ron, who jabs a finger at Harry immediately. “You,” he says. “Have a fat lot of explaining to do, young man.”

“Sounds great,” Harry says. “How much detail would you like?”

“Actually, do you know what? Nevermind,” Ron says melodically, leading them to the door.

It’s a brisk night, and Draco huddles into him when they step outside. The patio tables still swim with a blur of bar patrons in orange jerseys, many of whom immediately crowd around Ron as he emerges.

Hermione huffs, and Draco pats her shoulder. “I understand it,” he says. “It isn’t easy dating a celebrity.”

As they watch Ron make lackluster attempts to peel away from his adoring fans, a sudden movement catches Harry’s eye — a flurry of dark robes woven through the bright crowd.

Harry hears Luna and Ginny’s voices chattering behind them as they emerge from the pub. Ginny puts a hand on his back to get his attention, but Harry doesn’t turn. He can feel Draco’s curious gaze on him, his fingers tightening in his, and he says something that Harry doesn’t register as he scans the sea of orange for a ripple of black.

A shock of violet light slices through the crowd. Harry’s hand drops reflexively to his wand, but he isn’t fast enough. The curse is expertly aimed and quick as lightning.

The blast hits Draco square in the chest. His fingers are wrent out of Harry’s as the force throws him bodily against the window of the pub.

The crash of shattering glass is split by Daphne and Pansy’s shrieks of terror. The crowd scatters into a screaming haze of chaos. Ginny and Luna drop down to Draco, still, pale skin marred by streaks of red.

Harry is pure rage.

He rips down the street, firing at the shadowed figure as it bounds away from the crowd. He fires off hexes and curses without incantations or any concern as to whether they’ll wound or kill. A curse catches the figure by the leg and singes his robes in a spark of yellow light. The figure throws a silvery Petrificus Totalus over his shoulder, his face revealed only in a blur, and stumbles enough that Harry can close the distance between them.

“Locomotor Mortis!” Harry shouts. The spell hits the back of the hooded figure, which flies forward, legs locked mid-stride. He skids across the street with a low crunch, and Harry is on top of him immediately.

Harry drops his wand and pushes the assailant onto his back, barely registering the pale, unfamiliar face before rearing back and landing a merciless punch across his jaw. He throws another and another, feeling his knuckles slicken with blood, the man’s face streaked red with the type of wrath that magic alone can’t deliver.

Harry has climbed to his feet before he even begins to process any of it. “Brachiabindo,” he casts, and glowing silver cords bind the attacker in a series of coils nearly tight enough to break the skin.

The man spits at him, teeth stained red with blood. “Death-Eater-f*cker,” he snarls. Harry kicks him onto his stomach, where he squirms like a bound pig.

Hermione and Ron catch up to him, and Ron stamps a foot on the man’s back, panting. “Who the f*ck —”

The entire street seems to be spinning. Harry doesn’t stay long enough to hear how that sentence ends, though he’s sure it’s the same one searing through his mind. He clambers back to the pub, pushing through the bright orange mayhem, stepping over glass.

He sees Pansy’s expression first, twisted in terror and anguish. She’s crouched over Draco, shaking his shoulder. His body remains stiff under her touch.

“Harry,” Ginny says behind him. “Harry.” She’s drunk. They’re all a little drunk.

Draco is unconscious and covered in blood. There are a million tiny slashes all over his face, shallow gashes cut across his arms and chest from where the shattered glass from the window has sliced him. Harry drops down and takes him into his arms. Everything feels as though it’s happening in fast forward and slow motion.

“I don’t know what hit him,” Pansy chokes out. “It could have been anything. Look at him, look —”

Harry is looking. Draco is still out cold. He thinks he’s out cold. He thinks he’s not dead.

Luna puts a warm, sober hand on Harry’s shoulder. “He could have internal bleeding, Harry,” he says. “It could be worse than it looks. He needs to be taken to St Mungo’s.”

“Don’t splinch yourself, Harry!” Ginny cries, a shock of anguished panic that hits him like a blow.

“Breathe,” Luna says behind him. “Focus.”

Harry breathes. He focuses. He gathers Draco in his arms, cold and heavy, sickly-stiff. He heaves one last, shuddering breath, and he Apparates.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

No one bothers to attempt to soothe Harry as he waits for Draco to wake in St Mungo’s. They all seem to know that the typical offerings of relax and don’t worry and rest are a waste of breath. Now that Harry is the one gazing down at Draco in a hospital bed, he knows how hypocritical all of his words had been when Pansy was recovering. Get some sleep feels out of reach. Don’t blame yourself feels downright impossible.

But he knows his friends are trying to communicate it all to him with their hugs and their touches as they rotate through the room in shifts, bleary-eyed and exhausted. The only one who stays as long as Harry is Pansy, who takes up a stubborn post in an armchair across the room and tries futilely to stay awake.

The Healer tells him Draco will make a speedy and full recovery, but Harry doesn’t believe it until Hermione tells him the same thing.

“It was some kind of Blasting Curse,” Hermione says, pushing a cup of black coffee into his hands. “But it was weak. He had some visceral wounds, but you got him here quickly enough that they were able to prevent any permanent damage. He’ll be fine, Harry. He just needs to sleep.”

Harry had watched the Healers and mediwitches work, casting complex and unfamiliar charms with their wands and their hands pressed into Draco’s flesh. They’d healed the internal damage first, while the blood from the slashes across his body drenched his face, clothes, and fingers. Hermione had looked away. She had tried to get Harry to look away. But his eyes remained locked on the bed, Draco’s body limp, cold, and pallid with magically-induced slumber.

As he sleeps now, Draco’s skin is smooth and clear like usual. But Harry can’t stop seeing him like that, drenched with inky red that pooled in the crevices of his eyes and the divot of his lips. Sliced by glass, or by Harry’s own reckless spell work. In the hospital bed, or twitching on the floor of the boy’s lavatories all those years ago, blood spilling into the overflowing water on the floor, swirling into it like a spirit.

He eventually lets Hermione guide him into a chair and clean Draco’s blood off of his skin and clothes. He barely feels the familiar chill of the Scouring Charm as it washes over him.

“Who was he?” Harry asks her after Luna and Daphne leave. The room is almost silent for the first time in hours, Draco’s faint breathing lost beneath Pansy’s gentle snores from across the room.

Harry hasn’t allowed himself to think about the attacker until now. It’s impossible to think about without it coming back in flashes, the way his Auror instincts had spurred him into the chase before he’d even thought to tend to Draco. He knows it wouldn’t have made any difference. He knows it’s what happens during battles. But it still feels wrong, no matter how many times he plays it back in his mind.

“The attacker?” he asks. “Where is he?”

“Harry,” Hermione murmurs, looking down at him. His stomach twists at the protective, worried note in her tone.

“Just tell me.”

Hermione sits in the chair next to him and looks up at Draco breathing softly for a few moments. “He’s gone.”

It hits Harry like a curse. “Gone?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Harry, it was —”

“Gone?” Harry repeats, anger rising. “How is he gone? I left him bound in the street. You and Ron were there. How did you let him —”

“We didn’t let anything, Harry,” Hermione snaps, and then her face softens. “I sent a Patronus to Robards, and he sent two Aurors to collect him.”

“And?”

“And they did. And then he was gone,” she says. “Somewhere between the pub and the Ministry, he escaped. I’m still waiting for the reports to be filed so I can see what happened.”

Harry gapes at her in incredulity and fury. “That doesn’t make any sense. A second-rate trainee would have been able to handle a transfer like that. I don’t understand it.”

“Neither do I,” Hermione says.

The calm in her tired tone only makes him angrier. “We’ll be waiting outside Robards’ office in the morning,” Harry says

“Whatever you like, Harry,” Hermione says, grounding him with a hand on his knee. “But I don’t think you’ll be leaving Draco’s side any time soon.”

Harry grimaces. She’s absolutely right.

Pansy stirs in her chair across from them. She swipes away the tears she’s been crying in her sleep. Harry feels sicker at the sight of her, locked in the distressed place between the exhaustion of a sleepless night and the too-sharp clarity of a Sobering Potion.

“Oh, wake up already, won’t you?” she murmurs to Draco crossly, stroking his hair. “I understand this is just your stupid little way of getting payback, but honestly.”

Harry stands and takes Draco’s hand in his, regretting it immediately. It’s as cold as ice.

“I’m sorry, Pansy,” he says. “I should have protected him.”

Pansy looks up at him icily. “Oh, stop that, Potter,” she snaps. “You did protect him. You protected all of us. Don’t you dare try to shoulder the blame for this, it’s perfectly unbecoming.”

“Oh,” Harry says, stricken. “Alright.”

Her face softens as she turns back to Draco. “And just when things were finally getting good,” she says. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you utter halfwits figured it out.”

Harry misses a beat, and Pansy huffs at him. “That you’re both so in love with each other, Potter, and were always just too stubborn to admit it. It’s exhausting to watch, do you know? Hermione understands.” She casts a look over to Hermione, who seems too tired to do anything but give a resigned smile.

“And then Dray goes and gets himself mangled before he can even tell me how the sex was,” she says, punctuated with a lengthy yawn. “It’s just selfish.”

Pansy succumbs to sleep within minutes of climbing back into her armchair. Hermione stands and puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“You should try to sleep, too,” she says. “I’m going to go down to the Ministry to see what I can find out.”

“Thanks, Hermione.”

She squeezes his shoulder. “Sleep.”

They both know he won’t even try.

Harry pulls the chair closer to Draco’s bed when she leaves, taking his cold hand again. The timing is awful, as Pansy said. Harry finds it hard to watch Draco sleep and know exactly which version of Draco he’s looking at. It’s not what’s important right now, but Harry can’t shake the fear that Draco will wake and push his hand away, spit cruelties at him, and laugh in his face for ever thinking there might be something real between them.

Harry tries not to think about it. Less than a day ago, they were hardly speaking. A week ago, they wanted to kill one another. A year ago, he didn’t give Draco Malfoy a passing thought. Now, some days, it feels like Draco is all there ever was.

Ron and Ginny come by bearing food that Harry can’t stomach. Luna sits for a spell, and spends most of her visit consoling a tearful Pansy, who falls back to sleep the moment Luna leaves. When the early light of morning begins to trickle into the room, Neville, Blaise, Theo, and Dean appear in a cluster of anxious energy that Harry can’t get away from quickly enough.

Draco begins to stir an hour after they leave. Harry thinks he’s imagining it at first, the way his breaths shift from something artificial to long, laboured inhales. Harry stands when Draco’s brow furrows slightly in his sleep, as if he’s in the middle of a nightmare. When his eyes finally open, his body lurches in a small jolt and he winces immediately at the movement.

Harry watches as Draco sweeps a full, unsteady breath into his lungs. His eyes flutter with the confusion of waking up after a blackout, something Harry is all too familiar with.

Draco blinks into the bright light of the hospital room and then pulls his hand out from Harry’s. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, letting out a quiet groan as he tries to sit up.

“Hey, hey,” Harry says quietly. He puts a steadying hand on Draco’s shoulder, his heart pounding. “Easy.”

Draco looks up at him with confused, narrow eyes, like he’s never seen Harry in his life, but he lets Harry guide him back down on the bed. Harry tries to look composed and comforting, but his stomach lurches.

Draco heaves another long exhale, closing his eyes and rubbing his hands against his face like he’s trying to pull himself out of a dream. He drops his hands and turns to blink at Harry with a complete lack of expression.

Cautiously, like he might catch fire, Harry reaches out and loops a lock of Draco’s hair neatly behind his ear.

Then a soft smile slowly spreads across Draco’s face, as if he’s just discovered a delicious new secret. He takes Harry’s hand in his, cool but soft. “Hi, darling.”

*

The Healers deliver an array of disgusting-looking potions and require Draco to stay a few more hours for observation. After Pansy delivers her third tearful lecture and finally goes home to sleep, Harry climbs into Draco’s bed and wraps him up in his arms. Draco shudders into him, finally warm under Harry’s touch.

Aside from brief acknowledgements of Pansy’s and the Healers' lecturing, neither of them speak for a while, as if they’re afraid of breaking a spell that’s been cast upon them. Harry tries to do what he’s realised Draco has been doing for months: communicate through his touch, by stroking Draco’s hair, pressing kisses into his temple, holding him close.

After a while, Draco turns over onto his side, his face inches from Harry’s in a bed that was absolutely not designed with two grown men in mind.

“Have you ever been sucked off in a hospital bed?”

Harry almost chokes, laughing out an entire night’s worth of relief. “No.”

“‘No,’ you haven’t been, and it’s at the top of your twisted little hero’s bucket list?”

“‘No,’ it’s not happening,” Harry says firmly. “You need to rest.”

Draco pouts. “You are absolutely no fun.”

Harry cradles his face and pulls him into a soft kiss. Draco sighs into his mouth, looping his arms around Harry’s back. When their lips part, he presses his ear to Harry’s chest as if listening for a heartbeat and runs lazy fingers through Harry’s hair.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Draco murmurs. “Mortified.”

“No,” Harry says. “Don’t be.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been blindsided like that,” Draco says. “I don’t usually let my guard down.”

“You shouldn’t have to keep it up.”

“That’s a very nice idea,” Draco sighs.

Harry waits as long as he can, but the words find their way out. “I should have protected you.”

“Christ on a broomstick,” Draco grumbles. “Can you wait at least a day before you start with the martyrdom?”

Harry pulls him closer. “Afraid not.”

“Well, it must have made for quite the dramatic scene,” Draco says. “And then to be saved by the Chosen One himself. I’m quite sure the press will eat it up. Granger will love it.”

“She won’t,” Harry says, pulling away to meet his eye. “She’s worried about you. She was here all night. She only left to — Well, erm,” he says, shifting a bit under Draco’s inquisitive gaze. “The man who attacked you. He’s gone,” he mutters. “He got away.”

Draco’s eyes narrow in anger-laced confusion. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

Harry isn’t sure whether that’s a compliment or an insult. “It doesn’t. It wasn’t,” he says, flexing his right hand, still slightly sore from its collision with flesh and bone. “I left him bound in the street with Ron and Hermione and came back to you. He escaped during the Auror transport back to the Ministry.”

Draco continues to scrutinise him in silence. Harry thinks for a moment he might be furious, but then his face falls and he just looks more tired. “It doesn’t matter,” Draco says. “For every one you put away, there will be ten more waiting to do the same thing.”

“No,” Harry says. “Things are changing.”

“I thought so, too,” Draco says quietly. It’s the first time Harry has seen him like this since Hogwarts. He tries to keep it off of his face, but he can’t, not entirely. Harry recognises it with the same protective anger that surged through him during the war, when he learned time and again that even his best efforts were not enough to keep the ones he loved safe.

It’s fear.

Draco labours up onto his hands, still a little shaky. When he glances over at his bedside table, he nearly flinches.

“What in Salazar’s name is all of that?”

Harry had forgotten all about it. Since the morning edition of the Prophet broke the news, his bedside table has grown cluttered with a collection of deliveries. As Harry stands, another owl drops an envelope at the window, and it zips inside and lands neatly on top of the stack.

The letters and gifts have overflowed onto a cart brought by a mediwitch, filled with beautifully-enchanted flowers and bubbling balloons that flash things like get well soon and keep your eye on the Snitch and leave clouds of hearts in their wake as they sway through the air. Harry picks up a box of chocolates that are shaped into small suns and moons that shimmer when they catch the light. He hands it to Draco. “You’re very popular.”

Draco looks down at the little shining chocolates like they’re a very complicated text written in ancient runes. “It’s only because I’m betrothed to the great Harry Potter.”

“I don’t know about that,” Harry says, handing him a stack of cards.

Draco sorts through them. Each of the envelopes reads Draco or Mr Malfoy in careful handwriting or flourishing calligraphy, most of them different shades of green. One of them is shaped like a little cauldron. Harry opens it.

“‘Draco,’” he reads. “‘We hope you get well soon. We miss seeing you around our bakery. You simply must come by soon to entertain us with another of your stories. We’ll send you home with whatever you like. In the meantime, please enjoy the eclairs.’”

Draco grabs another. “‘Dearest Draco,’” he reads aloud, slight awe in his tone. “‘My family and I were so distraught to hear about what happened to you. Please know that this sort of darkness does not represent the wizarding world. We hope you have a speedy recovery and enjoy the flowers. You deserve —’” he hesitates a bit. “‘You deserve to see peace and happiness just like the rest of us.’”

“They don’t even mention me,” Harry says.

Draco picks up one of the books from the bedside table, which appears to be a dreadfully boring tome on potions techniques from the Italian Renaissance. He looks enamoured by it. He looks a bit like he might cry. “How do they even know what I like?”

Harry laughs. “They’ll know everything about you by now,” he says. “It’s weird. You’ll get used to it.”

Draco looks up at him, his hands still gripping the book tightly. In his eye is a sort of wonder, an astonishment, like he’s seeing Harry for the first time in his life. It’s that look he’s given Harry so many times now, as if he has so many things to say, but the words don’t exist to say them.

Harry swoops down to wrap his arms around him, burying his face into the crook of Draco’s neck. He knows he should be gentle, but he can’t help but squeeze him lightly, pull him as close as he can as though Draco might disappear out from under his needy grip. Tears spring into Harry’s eyes unbidden. He’s exhausted.

“You bloody idiot,” he murmurs into Draco’s hair. “I was so afraid.”

“Shh, darling,” Draco whispers. He kisses Harry’s temple, stroking his hair. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here.”

He takes Harry’s face in his hands and kisses him, firmly, deeply. Harry tries to believe it. He pulls his glasses off and wipes at his eyes, and Draco pulls him closer and presses a gentle kiss onto one eyelid and then the other, and then a last on Harry’s lips before pulling back.

“We are absolutely f*cked, aren’t we?” Draco says quietly.

Harry chokes out something between a sob and a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, putting his glasses back on. “I think we are.”

He rubs at his own eyes and then looks back up at Harry with a devilish smile.

“Never fret,” he says. “We have a much more harrowing terror in store for us.”

“Brilliant,” Harry says. “What would that be?”

“We’re going to visit my mother.”

*

Harry tries his best to see the Manor like he’s slowly learning to see Draco: divorced from the way he once knew it, something that has had years of opportunity to change and grow and heal.

It isn’t easy.

Draco seems to intuit this, the way the darkness of its generational magic prickles down Harry’s spine. He leads them quickly through the expansive home and out into the garden where Narcissa sits at a table under a trellis woven with bright pink blossoms.

The entire garden blooms with flowers. There are roses, camellias, pansies, and countless others that Harry can’t identify. They’re carefully curated into rows or spilling out from vining plots, flourishing and bright in stark opposition to the pallid austerity of the Manor’s interior.

Narcissa doesn’t look the way that Harry remembers her. Maybe age has softened her, but with her flowing pink dress and gossamer shawl, the rose tucked into the silver-grey hair that curls to her shoulders, Harry might even find her to appear warm.

Draco kisses her on the cheek when she stands to greet them. “Hello, Mother,” he says. He doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand when he does it; he hasn’t let go of Harry’s hand the entire time. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m not dead.”

“Always such happy news, my love,” Narcissa says. If she’s seen the Prophet, she doesn’t seem particularly shaken by Draco’s brush with death. Perhaps, like him, she’s grown accustomed to it.

Harry extends his free hand awkwardly, but Narcissa pulls him into a light hug. “Harry Potter.”

A small parade of house-elves appear to dress the table for an elaborate, proper high tea, complete with finger sandwiches, brightly-coloured macarons, and an array of small pastries, many of which are shaped like flowers. Harry thinks about Draco’s tight, cramped flat, and all of the things he rejected to live in it. All of the ways his life could be different if he had taken the easy way out.

Narcissa frets about Draco briefly, asking about his recovery and safety, all of which he responds to evasively. It seems as though it’s a familiar conversation for them, Draco nearly dying. She reaches out to caress his face, and although the exchange is much more formal, she reminds Harry uncannily of Molly.

When it’s clear she’s got as much information as Draco will reluctantly give, she turns her penetrating gaze to Harry. “It was so good of you to come.”

“Of course,” Harry says. “I should have visited sooner, after the engagement.” He glances at Draco, whose eyes remain on Narcissa, though he holds Harry’s hand a little tighter.

Narcissa gives a tiny shake of her head. “I understand that this place does not hold pleasant memories for you.”

“It’s beautiful,” Harry says, glancing around the lush garden. “Do you tend it yourself?”

Narcissa nods. “After Lucius passed, I needed a way to busy myself. It’s such a challenge, you know, keeping so much alive without magic.” She reaches out to hold one of the blush-pink blossoms vining around the trellis between her fingers. “But I find the blooms are so much more satisfying this way.”

“Sometimes, it’s nice to know you can do things even without magic,” Harry says.

There’s a trace of surprise in Narcissa’s eyes when she smiles at him. “I believe that’s precisely it.”

Draco’s grip on his hand loosens. He peers around the garden as if he’s seeing it through a new light.

“I was surprised, of course,” Narcissa says, finally approaching the topic Harry has been dreading. “I saw so little of Draco at the time, and when he informed me of the engagement, I wasn’t sure —” Her voice trails off as she studies her son. “Well, frankly, I wasn’t sure whether I should be worried.”

Harry laughs. “I think we’ve both lost our minds a bit.”

“It’s just that he was so in love with me, Mother,” Draco says, sipping his tea daintily. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’s an absolute monstrosity of a man, you’ll find.”

Narcissa smiles. “I believe I understand it — at least in part,” she says. “I know what it’s like to love a complicated man.”

Harry isn’t sure whether she’s referring to him or Draco as complicated, and maybe that was her intention.

“Besides,” she says. “I do believe the scheme has paid off.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. Draco snickers. He pulls his hand away and props his chin up on it, looking at his mother like she’s an intricate work of art.

“Exceptionally convincing,” Narcissa says. “And with such improvements across the community. I dare say the Ministry has not seen such a successful propaganda campaign in years.”

Harry looks at Draco in shock. “You told her?”

Draco laughs. “Of course not. My mother is exceptionally clever. Didn’t you ever wonder where I got it from?” he says. “Besides, if she wasn’t already sure, you’ve just confirmed it to her yourself.”

Harry looks back at Narcissa, who gives him a smug, Draco-esque smile.

“It was all quite believable. Impeccably orchestrated, in fact,” Narcissa says. “But I know my son very well, Harry. He does not give forgiveness easily, to others or to himself.”

Draco’s smile falters.

“I don’t believe he would have considered giving you a chance without quite a significant nudge,” she says.

“Well, then I’m glad it happened,” Harry says. “It — erm. I hope you understand that it’s —” He struggles to find the words. Real? Something? Miserable and confusing and intoxicating and absolutely petrifying?

He settles on: “I love your son.”

Narcissa’s eyes lock onto his — crystal blue and sharp as a knife.

“I can see it very clearly,” she says after a moment. “Though I must say, it is a curious choice of rings,” she adds, looking pointedly at the band on Harry’s finger.

“Oh — erm — it was all just for appearances,” Harry says hastily. “I planned to return it.”

“I hope you don’t,” Narcissa says coolly.

Harry tries to hide his surprised choke behind a cough. Draco doesn’t even bother, sputtering openly into his teacup.

“Did you know, Harry — pure-blood weddings are an excruciating affair. They sometimes last up to three days,” Narcissa continues with a small smile.

“Mother,” Draco cuts in, giving Harry some much-needed relief from the firing squad. “No one’s talking about any wedding. Besides, he’s not even a pure-blood. We hardly need to bring out the Bonding Curtains.”

“What are Bonding Curtains?” Harry asks.

Draco squeezes his knee. “You don’t want to know.”

Harry had been prepared to play the familiar role of the loving, doting fiancé for Narcissa, to hide behind platitudes and sweeping declarations without any consideration for how true they were. But as the sun begins to lower in the sky, he finds that he and Draco are both toeing through the same fields of uncertainty. Narcissa is sharp-witted and does not dance around her points. She is very, very much like her son.

“Do you imagine you’ll remain in the field as an Auror for much longer?” Narcissa asks Harry as the house-elves appear to carry away their dishes. “I understand you have something of a penchant for saving others, but have you ever considered positions that may require less risk?”

“Don’t fret over him, Mother,” Draco says. “He’s survived worse than some stray jewellery thief can threaten him with.”

“I don’t mean to fret, cub,” Narcissa says. “I only wonder about Harry’s ability to remain himself after being so entangled with the Ministry. They clearly have a great deal of influence on him for him to go through with such an elaborate scheme, after all, which I can’t imagine he was particularly happy to partake in.”

“Erm — no, not at first,” Harry says, feeling continually scolded by Narcissa’s perceptive gaze. “But I don’t know. I honestly haven’t seen myself as an Auror for a long time now.”

“The Ministry works hard to establish itself as the light of the wizarding world,” Narcissa says, her eyes narrowing slightly. “But there is a darkness within those walls that I’m sure you have seen. I would only suggest you remain vigilant while within them.”

Harry nods. At one point in time, he might have perceived this as an attempt by Narcissa to manipulate him, or as a sign of her vision being clouded by her previous alliances. Now, her words roll around his mind, swirling with the truths he’s habitually brushed off over the years.

Draco claps his hands together. “Well, on that uplifting note, I believe my lovely fiancé and I must be on our way,” he says, standing. “Thank you for tea, Mother.”

Narcissa walks them through the steely interiors of her home and out the front doors. She embraces Draco warmly, kissing him and stroking his hair. Then, she turns to give Harry another hug, this time a bit tighter, and kisses him on the cheek.

“Thank you,” she says, putting a maternal hand on his shoulders. “I truly believe you can save us.”

“Merlin,” Draco exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air. “This is why the man has a saviour complex!”

*

Draco drops his hand from Harry’s the moment they pass through the gates of the Manor. They could have Apparated from the front steps, but Harry knows exactly why they haven’t. It’s the same reason Draco has pulled away, the way he seems to when things between the two of them are beginning to feel suffocatingly, incomprehensibly real.

Harry feels it, too. The past twenty-four hours have felt like a year’s worth of experiences shrunken down into a day. Though the territory they were entering into was alluring, it also felt unstable, as though the slightest misstep could plunge them into peril.

With the end of the campaign looming, there would soon be nothing gluing them together anymore. Maybe Draco was ready to f*ck off and be alone for a bit. Maybe after he spent some time away, he’d decide he’d changed his mind about all of it, that there were things about Harry he couldn’t see past, or didn’t want to.

Maybe he’d disappear. Maybe Harry would never see him again.

“You’re making that face,” Draco says.

“What face?”

“I don’t know,” Draco huffs. “That confusing one. Like you want to kiss me and then shoot off a hex.”

Harry laughs. “That sounds perfect right now, actually.”

Draco frowns at him.

Harry clears his throat. “Actually, I should go down to the Ministry,” he says, reality washing over him as the sun sets. “I want to speak to Robards.”

“Merlin,” Draco says, crossing his arms. “It’s always something.”

Harry furrows his brow. “I want to know who attacked you,” he says. “So I can kill him.”

“No,” Draco says. “You want to get away from me.”

Harry blinks at him. Draco looks angry in such a familiar way, and it makes Harry bristle instinctively. But beneath the surface, Harry can pick out something softer, something he’s only just learned how to read. Hurt.

“We have spent quite a lot of time together since yesterday,” Harry says gently.

Draco chews on his lip. “Is it too much?”

“No,” Harry says immediately. “I just wasn’t sure if it was — too much for you.”

“It’s not too much for me.”

Harry pockets his hands. “Look at us,” he says, grinning. “Talking. Like adults.”

“Oh, I don’t want to have any more feelings talks, Potter,” Draco groans.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Then what do you want to do?”

Draco’s mouth curls into a mischievous smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

The evening sun is still trickling into the windows of Harry’s flat when he Side-Alongs them. He drops down onto his sofa immediately, hit with a wave of physical exhaustion that’s nothing compared to the psychological. He hasn’t slept more than a few hours since the night before, crammed in a hospital bed next to a snoozing Draco.

Draco looks down at him with an odd curiosity before glancing around Harry’s flat as though he’s never seen it before. Memories of the last time Draco intruded here after the engagement party push into Harry’s mind — how different he was then, how dark his presence was in the room, how badly Harry wanted him to leave. That was less than a month ago.

Harry holds his hands out. Draco walks over obediently and straddles him on the sofa, pushing Harry’s hair out of his face.

“Have you ever cleaned this place in your life?” he asks. “You know, there are charms for cleaning dishes. You don’t have to use your hands.”

“I’ll be sure to file that little tidbit away.”

He thinks Draco might kiss him, but he doesn’t. He just stares into his eyes for a bit, his brow knitting slightly as if he’s suddenly confused who he’s looking at.

“Anyone home in there?” Harry asks after this becomes uncomfortable. He runs his hands up Draco’s thighs.

A chill passes down Harry’s spine as Draco’s fingers weave lightly through his hair. “Just trying to convince myself it’s real.”

Harry kisses him. Draco is uncharacteristically hesitant, his kiss careful and stilled. Harry cradles his jaw and gently parts Draco’s lips with his, slipping a tongue into his mouth to slowly explore until Draco finally softens, letting out a quiet moan.

Harry pulls away with a chuckle. “This doesn’t seem like your usual speed.”

“Well, we’re hardly in a storage cupboard,” Draco says, fingers light at Harry’s collar. “Though the decor is certainly similar.”

Harry’s thumbs rub circles on Draco’s hips. He can’t seem to shake Draco out of it, all of that staring, like he’s trapped in a daydream. “We can just rest tonight, if you like,” he says. “You’ve had a long few days.”

Draco finally snaps out of it. “If you think I’m not going to have you on every surface of this dingy flat, Potter, I have some genuine concerns about the functioning of your mental faculties.”

“Very romantic,” Harry says. Draco climbs off of him, and Harry leads them to his bedroom. “Maybe let’s start with the obvious surface.”

Draco doesn’t have as many opinions about Harry’s untidy bedroom, probably because he doesn’t really see it. He pushes Harry down onto his unmade bed to climb atop him, and though he doesn’t cease that maddening staring, he at least starts working Harry’s flies while he does it.

Harry squeezes his arse, and Draco growls, leaning over to nibble at Harry’s neck. He runs a cool hand under Harry’s shirt, and Harry shivers beneath his exploratory touch. It’s light to the point of reverence, and it’s also far too slow.

Harry reaches down to palm the thickening heat in Draco’s trousers. He moans against Harry’s neck, and Harry takes advantage of his disorientation to roll on top of him.

“Christ,” Harry says, his voice low as realisation floods him. “You’ve wanted me.”

It’s all so clear now, so ridiculous that he didn’t suspect it from the beginning. He works Draco’s flies open quickly, his painfully stiff co*ck only confirming his suspicions.

“You’ve wanted me this whole time,” Harry murmurs, stroking Draco as he kisses his throat, which vibrates with a moan. “You’ve always wanted me.”

“Merlin,” Draco says, his fingers digging into Harry’s back. “You always were slow on the uptake.”

Harry pulls off his shoes and trousers before helping Draco out of his. Draco watches with a heavy-lidded awe until Harry climbs back on top of him.

Harry tightens his fingers into Draco’s hair, gripping him at the temple to hold him in place as he sucks on his neck. His hand fills with lubricant before he even realises he’s cast the charm. He reaches down between them and takes both of their co*cks in his hand, thrusting against Draco’s as his mind clouds with lust and need.

“Harry,” Draco breathes.

“You’ve always wanted me,” Harry repeats, thrusting again into the maddening friction, his own breaths coming untethered as he works both of their co*cks. “Christ,” he growls, unable to form full kisses against Draco’s neck as he loses himself in the intoxicating heat, the pleasure already beginning to coil in his abdomen. “How long have you wanted me?”

“So long,” Draco says between shaky breaths. His eyes are mad, like he can’t even see properly, those delicious whimpering sounds catching in the back of his throat. He squeezes Harry’s arse, arching his back to thrust against him.

Harry lets out a choked breath and drops onto an elbow. “f*ck.”

“So long,” Draco whimpers. “Like this. Just like this. So long. So badly. Harry.” He sucks in a short, surprised breath as Harry increases his pace. “Don’t stop,” he whines. “Please don’t stop.”

Harry thinks he might go insane hearing Draco babble, the way none of it makes a scrap of sense. He thinks he could get off just listening to it, to Draco trying to string together confessions of his desire, stupefied with need and pleasure. He thinks he could get off just to the thought of it, of them rutting into each other like teenagers too beside themselves with lust to get to anything else.

Draco’s whimpers turn into low, shuddering moans beneath him. “That’s it,” Harry murmurs, dropping down to nuzzle his face into the crook of Draco’s neck as he thrusts harder, works his hand faster. “That’s it.”

“Harry,” Draco pants, his voice high and unwound as he wriggles underneath him, pushing feebly into his hand, against his dripping co*ck. “Harry.”

With a choked sob, Draco spills over into Harry’s hand. Harry’s breath hitches as his own org*sm crashes into him like a rolling wave, knocking the air out of his lung as they continue thrusting frantically against each other. Draco slips his hands beneath Harry’s shirt, digging his fingernails into Harry’s back as he comes, his eyes shut tight, a moan tearing out of his throat.

Harry heaves off of him, loopy and warm. Draco covers his face with his hands, his breaths still shaky. “f*ck,” he whispers as Harry pulls him against his chest. “f*ck.”

“Right,” Harry says, his heart pounding. “Yeah. That. f*ck.”

Draco pulls his hands away from his face, soft and flushed. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

“Because we’re bloody idiots.”

“We could have been doing this all this time,” Draco says mournfully, though there’s a post-org*sm giddiness to his voice. Harry isn’t sure what all this time means: whether it means the length of the campaign, or even further back than that.

“Well, we have a lot of time to make up for,” Harry murmurs into his hair.

Draco smiles up at Harry’s ceiling for a few breaths, and then lets out a spiteful laugh. “You’re a frisky little fellow, aren’t you?”

Harry pinches him on the side. “You came as quickly as I did, you prick.”

“Well, it’s for the best,” Draco says devilishly. “Because I want you to last a long time next go.” He turns onto his side to kiss Harry’s jaw. “You know how I love to torture you.”

Harry swallows. His breaths haven’t entirely steadied when Draco pulls him in for another long, loopy kiss, pressing his body flush into Harry’s. They couldn’t even wait long enough to get their shirts off, and their clothes are sticky with come. It’s filthy and hot and unbelievable. Draco nibbles at his lower lip, and Harry feels his spent co*ck twitch ridiculously at the contact.

Draco moves without any of his usual frenzied energy. He pushes up to sitting and pulls Harry along with him. He hooks his arms around Harry’s neck, indulging in a deep, slow kiss, like he’s spilling secrets into Harry’s mouth. Harry could let him do it forever: kiss him and kiss him until everything else washes away.

Draco pulls away to finish working Harry’s shirt off. He works gently, letting his fingers brush against the muscles of Harry’s arms, the tender skin at the back of his neck and his wrists. Then he looks down at him with slight scrutiny, and Harry suddenly feels very self-conscious.

“You’re actually beautiful,” Draco finally says. “Did you know?”

“Careful,” Harry says. “You’re going to add to my complex.”

Draco, astonishingly, does not take the bait. For a man who never seems to do anything unironically, it’s surprisingly genuine. He leans in to plant adoring kisses on Harry’s throat.

Harry shakes his head and twists a lock of Draco’s fine, tousled hair between his fingers as Draco’s kisses warm his skin. “I didn’t know if I could survive it sometimes,” he says. “The way you looked.” It’s stupid to say, but it’s also true. “Even in those ridiculous robes. Even in that ridiculous costume.”

“It was ridiculous,” Draco says. “You looked like the sodding Quidditch Cup.”

“I have been told I’m quite the prize.”

Draco snorts, but Harry cuts off any quip he’s about to deliver with another kiss. He reaches to the bottom of Draco’s thin jumper, and Draco pulls away slightly, putting a staying hand on Harry’s.

His eyes glint with something Harry hasn’t seen in a while. Fear, maybe, or resentment. Images of Draco in the hospital bed float through Harry’s mind, the Healers preventing new scars while they worked around the old ones.

“Harry,” he mumbles.

“I don’t care,” Harry says. “I don’t care.”

“You might.”

“I won’t. I don’t. I want all of you.”

Draco drops his hand, but not his gaze. He watches Harry’s face intently as he pushes his fingers under Draco’s jumper, sliding it up his torso and over his head.

Harry knows about the scars. He expects them. He thought he was ready to see them, and he tries desperately to keep the fact that he wasn’t off of his face.

But Draco has always been able to see through his act.

His eyes narrow slightly as Harry sits in a slight stupor. He reaches out, trailing shaky fingers against Draco’s waist, up his abdomen, and across his chest, which is riddled with the faintest of silvery scars, nearly invisible until they catch the light.

Draco folds his forearm carefully over his chest. Harry can still see the edges of the Mark, swirling dark and angry on his arm like a blood stain. Harry doesn’t care about it, but Draco hides it anyway, protecting Harry from it, or protecting himself.

Harry pulls in a long breath and holds it. He can feel Draco’s gaze boring into him, but he loses himself a bit, his vision blurring slightly. Suddenly all of this is beginning to feel too real, too confusing, all of it at once.

“For Christ’s sake, Potter,” Draco says, his voice low with unrestrained ire. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“I can handle it,” Harry says, but he can’t pull his eyes away from the glistening scars. It gives him all away.

He finally looks up at Draco. His face is tight with anger. Harry winces.

“Save it,” Draco says. “Whatever you’re about to say, you can save it. I don’t need your pity.”

“I did this,” Harry says stupidly, tracing the deepest of the scars that cuts across Draco’s abdomen. “I did this to you. I’m sorry.”

“I said save it.”

Harry pulls his hand away. “So I can’t apologise?”

“You’re not apologising,” Draco says. “You think you are, but you’re not. You’re just indulging in your wounded little hero complex. It has nothing to do with me.”

Harry looks at him in shock. “Of course it does,” he says. “I hurt you, Draco, and I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“Well, I knew what I was doing,” Draco says. “And I did it, anyway. And all your whinging does is absolve your own conscience. I’m the one who has to live with it all. I’m the one who has to see it every day.”

There’s hurt under his fire, and Harry can feel it. He should reach out, hold him, should draw him close and try to convince Draco that he loves him despite it all, because of it all. But the way Draco looks at him with so much seething resentment shuts that part of Harry’s mind off.

“And I’m meant to be the martyr?” Harry snaps. “You won’t let anyone so much as apologise to you without self-flagellating.”

“Because I’m tired of you looking at me like that,” Draco says. “Like I’m some wounded, pathetic little child, the only person the great Chosen One couldn’t save.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry says, rubbing his temples. “I’m not trying to save you. I’m just trying to say I’m sorry for hurting you.”

“Well, you can save it,” Draco says again. “I’m not going to gaze in awe upon your shining rays of forgiveness, Potter, not like the rest of the world.”

Harry pulls his blanket up to his lap, suddenly feeling very naked. “This is a bloody mess,” he grumbles. “Maybe this is all a stupid mistake.”

Draco glares at him. Harry glares right back, his muscles tightening with irritation. He seems so unlike the Draco he was last night, or this morning, the one that softened under Harry’s touch and actually heard what he had to say.

Harry wants to strangle him.

Instead, he crashes their lips together with such unhinged force that Draco topples backwards onto the bed, moving through the stiffness of shock into a desperate clamour almost immediately. Harry grabs his wrists, pinning him into the bed as he kisses him desperately. It seems like it’s the only way Harry can communicate with him, though he isn’t sure if he’s conveying love or hatred.

“Oh my God,” Draco says when Harry lowers his frantic kisses onto his neck, working over the red patches that bloom from his previous work. “Oh my God, Potter,” he breathes. “This turns you on.”

Harry hesitates, his rhythm thrown off. Draco pushes up onto his elbows. “You absolute disaster,” he says, his voice laced with laughter and lust. “You dirty little freak.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, pushing him hard onto the bed. Draco pulls his nails down Harry’s back as he resumes his manic kissing, a light scratch that makes Harry’s head spin.

“Look at you,” Draco says, taking Harry’s co*ck, which has already begun to stiffen, to his slight embarrassment. Draco strokes it slowly back to full hardness, and a moan escapes from Harry’s lips. “The fighting turns you on. Look how hard you are for me.”

Harry spits a “f*ck you,” but there’s no heat behind it. He grabs Draco by the wrists again and pins them back above his head with one hand, finding with the other that Draco seems equally turned on by the rising tempers. “You’re one to talk.”

“Salazar,” Draco purrs airily when Harry pumps his co*ck. “We really should have been doing this the whole time.”

He wriggles under Harry’s grip as Harry strokes him with one hand, keeping Draco’s wrists pinned with the other. Draco is jelly again within moments. He shuts his eyes and releases a needy moan that makes Harry’s vision swirl.

“Harry,” Draco whines, his voice light and insane. “f*ck — f*ck me, Harry.”

Harry stops stroking, grinning down at him. “I thought you wanted this to be torturously slow.”

Draco opens his eyes to glower up at him.

“Tell me,” Harry whispers, nudging Draco’s legs open with his knee. “Tell me how much you want it.”

He leans down to kiss Draco’s neck, pausing to conjure a handful of lubricant that he uses to slick himself as he works. Draco relaxes beneath his lips, and then gasps when Harry draws a finger against his tight opening, circling it slowly.

“I’m going to kill you,” Draco growls.

“That’s not what I asked.” Harry pushes his index finger past the tight resistance of muscle, and Draco gasps.

“Alright?” Harry asks.

Draco’s cheeks are pink, and he breathes heavily as he visibly tries to remain in his body. “Don’t — baby me, Potter.”

Harry pulls his finger out and replaces it with two, pushing deeper into Draco’s tempting warmth. The sensation alone is enough to drive him mad.

“Tell me,” Harry says.

Draco sucks in a long breath, squirming with a small whine as Harry spreads his fingers inside of him.

“I want your big — fat — godly co*ck up my arse,” Draco says, but his face twists as he tries to keep pleasure off of it. “Happy?”

“No,” Harry says. When he works a third finger in, Draco finally shuts up, whimpering as Harry opens him. “And I could do this all day,” Harry adds, looking down at his fingers working in and out. “You might recall.”

Harry pushes in deeper until he hits Draco’s prostate, which he knows from the way Draco lets a reluctant moan part his lips, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. “f*ck,” Draco whines. “f*ck, Harry. I want it.”

“There we go,” Harry says, dropping down to a slow, languishing pace that has Draco shuddering beneath him. He pauses. “I do sort of want you to beg for it, though.”

“Harry,” Draco breathes, uncharacteristically obedient with desire. “Please, Harry. Please.”

“Hmmm,” Harry hums slowly. “I’ll take it into consideration.”

“Fu — Christ,” Draco snaps, sobering. He shifts back so Harry’s fingers slip out and then pushes Harry against the headboard of the bed. “You’re absolutely insufferable.”

Harry laughs into Draco’s shoulder, but it’s quickly followed by a moan when Draco wraps a hand around his co*ck. Draco reconnects their lips, kissing Harry through his fluid motions as he raises his hips, lines Harry’s co*ck up, and sinks down onto it so quickly that Harry can hardly process it in time.

“f*ck,” Harry gasps. Draco sinks halfway down onto him, so tight and so warm. Harry can’t hold a single thought in his head except for how badly he needs this, how badly he’s always needed it.

Draco presses a kiss into Harry’s temple as he lifts up again and sinks down slowly, so slowly, until he’s taken Harry down to the hilt.

Harry sees stars. An animalistic sound rumbles from his chest. “Draco.”

Draco shivers with a mixture of pleasure and laughter, kissing needily at Harry’s jaw. He continues at a maddeningly slow pace, f*cking himself onto Harry’s co*ck with expert control, grazing his teeth against Harry’s neck, and then biting down hard as he moans into Harry’s tender skin. Harry loses himself in the tight grip of Draco’s body, in Draco’s fingers winding through his hair, in the greed behind his kisses.

Blinded with his own need, Harry grabs Draco by the waist, thrusting upward into him. A moan rips through Draco’s throat like thunder. Harry holds him there, thrusting back into the same angle, desperate to see Draco in one of the only ways he understands him, consumed by pleasure.

“Draco,” Harry murmurs into his collarbone, his eyes shut tight. “I’m — I’m going to —”

Draco grabs Harry’s hands off of his waist. He sinks back down onto his co*ck so that Harry is pinned, the edge of an org*sm dissolving away. Harry lets out a whimper, and Draco breathes heavily into his ear. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we, darling?”

“Draco,” Harry whines, a plea clear in his voice. He shuts his eyes tight, sucking in a breath as he tries to step back from the edge.

“No,” Draco says. He strokes his thumb across Harry’s cheek so he opens his eyes. “No. I want to see you. I want you to see me.”

Were it anyone else, Harry might roll his eyes. But the intensity in Draco’s expression makes him quiver.

Draco kisses him hard, and then pulls back to fix Harry with a piercing gaze. He lifts up and thrusts down onto Harry slowly. Harry’s insides rage with ice and fire. He winds a hand around Draco’s co*ck, and Draco’s composure breaks slightly as he tries to swallow back a moan.

Draco presses two fingers into Harry’s parted lips, resuming his excruciatingly slow rhythm. Harry matches his pace, slowly stroking his co*ck. He can hear himself making low, growling moans every time Draco sinks back down onto him, so impossibly tight, so maddeningly hot.

He sucks hard on Draco’s fingers to stifle the insane sounds coming from deep within his throat. Draco watches him through pleasure-clouded eyes, staring at him intently, hungrily, possessively.

“You’re so good,” Draco whispers, cradling Harry’s face as he slowly f*cks himself onto Harry’s co*ck. “You’re so good for me, Harry.”

Harry almost shivers from the sheer intensity of it all, the way Draco is looking at him like he wants to sear himself into Harry’s every thought. The way Draco is getting off on it, on watching what he can do to Harry with his body alone. Harry takes him by the waist again with both hands as Draco finally increases his speed, thrusting back into him again the moment he has the leverage.

“Come for me,” Draco breathes. “Come for me, love.”

Harry gasps as his obedient org*sm rolls through him, echoing across every inch of his body. “Yes,” Draco whispers, breathy and distant. “Yes — Harry.”

Draco catches Harry’s lips with his and moans into them as he climaxes, his come landing on Harry’s chest and dribbling down his own co*ck.

Draco shudders against him. He finally stops his torturous thrusting, looping his arms around Harry’s neck and dropping his weight onto him. They sit there for what seems like forever, limp and breathless, spent and entirely blissed out. Harry graciously kisses Draco’s soft hair as their breathing slowly returns to normal and they sink further into each other.

Eventually, Draco pulls himself off of Harry and rolls next to him.

Harry takes Draco’s hand, threading their fingers together on his own chest. For some reason, despite the intensity of his release, the aftershocks of which are still rolling through him, this feels most intimate of all.

“I might actually need a Mind Healer after this,” Harry says quietly. “You might actually drive me mental.”

Draco turns to him, flushed and messy and his. “Oh, have I yet to?” he says mischievously. “Well, we’ll just have to take things even slower on our next round.”

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Somewhere amid the torturously slow and quite thorough christening of his flat, Harry arranges to meet with Hermione and Robards the following day. But when the morning sun peeks in through the window, he finds it’s excruciating to try to peel away from Draco’s arms. When he finally does, it becomes clear that Draco is not a morning person.

“Get up,” Harry says, throwing a pillow at him.

Draco takes the pillow and buries his face into it, mumbling something unsuitable for polite company.

“Is this what it’s going to be like with you?” Harry says, kissing him on the shoulder. “Like dating a teenage boy?”

It’s uncanny to perform all of the same motions as the months before, now with such different meaning behind them. Even walking through the Ministry corridors together feels new and unreal, Draco’s presence beside him warm and reassuring instead of infuriating and confusing.

Hermione is sitting across from Robards’ desk when they arrive. When she gives him a small smile at the sight of them walking in together, he knows he has a lot to fill her in on.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much information for you,” Robards says as Harry and Draco sit. “But I assure you that the Aurors who let the attacker escape have been handed down disciplinary action. They’ll be out on probation for the next month.”

“That implies there was a mistake on their end,” Harry says. “So what was the mistake?”

Robards’ eyes narrow slightly. “I understand this case is close to you, Harry,” he says. “But I don’t think I need to remind you that I am very competent in my position. I believe the proper action has been taken in this matter.”

The room is quiet for a moment.

Robards softens. “I know this isn’t easy, Harry, but sometimes these cases just end on open notes like this. It’s the nature of the work — you’ve seen it yourself. All of our most experienced Aurors were involved with a raid that night. We had to send out trainees. They made a mistake. They’re being reprimanded. I’m afraid that’s the end of the story unless the assailant resurfaces.”

“I was a trainee,” Harry says stubbornly. “I never would have let something like that happen.”

Robards smiles. “You came to the department with more experience than some of our best get in a decade.”

“It’s very disheartening, Gawain,” Hermione says. “Understanding these kinds of attacks is crucial to the work the three of us have been doing for months. It’s upsetting to see one take place so boldly and in such a public way, especially at this stage.”

“We haven’t seen another act of war vengeance in weeks,” Robards finally says. “That’s thanks to you. But the remaining resentment has to go somewhere, and sometimes it’s inevitable that fame renders you vulnerable. Harry, you understand that.”

Harry glances at Draco. He seems to be stewing on something, staring at Robards’ desk with narrowed eyes. “I do,” Harry says. “But I still want answers.”

“Alright,” Robards says, sighing. “I’ll take another look into it. In the meantime, I assure you I will personally bring you any information I get the moment it crosses my desk.”

*

Harry’s guilt from the day before is back in full force as the three of them walk in silence to Notwick’s office. But it’s mixed with a new concern as Robards’ words play back in his mind.

The entire campaign has put Draco in such a vulnerable position. There's only so much protection Harry can provide. Harry reaches for his hand while they walk, but Draco pulls away, his eyes glued to the floor.

Hermione steps behind Notwick’s desk when they enter her office. She takes a deep breath, and then her demeanour is all Ministry.

“I understand that our meeting with Robards was less than satisfactory,” Hermione says, glancing at Notwick. “But Grimartha and I have some uplifting news to share with you today.”

She looks down at Draco and Harry, both of whom look as crabby as they usually do during these meetings.

“Okay, well, no one’s in the mood,” Hermione says. “So I’ll just come out with it.” She pulls in a short breath. “We’re ready to end the campaign.”

Harry and Draco glance at one another, and then back to Hermione. It all feels a little familiar. It all feels a little sickening.

“The campaign has been a success,” Notwick says. “We’ve seen a drastic and consistent decrease in the number of attacks compared to previous years, and we’ve been able to pass protections through the Wizengamot with distinctly less resistance.”

“Draco was attacked in the street not two days ago,” Harry says flatly.

“That’s part of the consideration,” Hermione says. “You heard what Robards said. I believe we’re placing Draco in a disproportionate amount of risk at this point. The few people who are still carrying out these attacks aren’t just shooting off hexes and jinxes. They’re attacking to kill. And being in such a high profile position can only make things worse.”

“I don’t care,” Draco says immediately.

Hermione smiles at him. “Well, I know you don’t,” she says. “But Harry probably does.”

Draco turns to him with an intense gaze. Harry’s stomach twists. Hermione has echoed everything he’s been thinking.

“It’s —” Harry starts. He drops his face into his hands. “I don’t know,” he says into his fingers. “I don’t want to see you like that again.”

“I don’t want to stop until it’s finished,” Draco tells Hermione.

“There will never be an end to violence in the wizarding world,” Notwick cuts in. “Our goal has never been to eradicate it entirely, but to make efforts to reduce it as much as possible, which we believe we have accomplished.”

She gives them an amused smile. “Frankly, I am a bit surprised at this reception. I anticipated much more relief.”

Harry sits up in his chair, unable to look at Draco. It’s not relief, whatever is brewing in his stomach, tightening in his throat. It’s the fear he hasn’t been able to shake for the past few days: that the moment Draco can be rid of him, he will be. That he’ll disappear, like none of it ever happened.

“Won’t it look bad to call off the engagement?” Harry asks. “Won’t that just make things worse?”

“Engagements can last a long time,” Hermione says. “And the two of you are normally such private people. I think it would be perfectly believable for the relationship to fade into the background over time, and we have plenty of time to create a narrative before people start to ask questions.”

Hermione’s cool demeanour falters, and she looks down at her hands. “People split up all the time,” she says. “With enough distance from it, I don’t think it would undo any of our work.”

“We will still require your cooperation for a few additional months,” Notwick says. “A lingering appearance here and there while we continue to test the waters, perhaps an interview or two. But we feel confident that within the next three months, this can all be nothing but a distant memory, and you can have your freedom back.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

He hasn’t felt free in months. But he isn’t sure he felt free before this began, either.

Draco has his face propped up in his hand, staring intensely at Notwick’s desk. He leans away in his chair, putting as much distance between himself and Harry as possible.

Harry barely recognises him.

“Fine,” Harry says quietly. “That sounds fine.”

*

Draco remains silent as they leave Notwick’s office, and Hermione and Harry have to hustle behind him to match his intent pace. It’s as if he’s been folded up inside of his mind, and Harry can’t even begin to wonder what thoughts are pouring through it right now.

Draco is free now. Free to return to whatever it is he wants to do, whether that involves Harry or not.

Draco stops short once they reach an empty corridor. He turns on them in a flash.

“Granger,” he says, his jaw set. “Did you read the Prophet the day I was in St Mungo's?”

Hermione shakes her head slowly. “I was down here, and then Ron and I slept for the rest of the day. We were all exhausted.”

Draco turns to Harry expectantly, and Harry shrugs. “I really can’t read the news.” When Draco glares at him, he adds: “But I think they still deliver copies to my office.”

They walk down the corridor and huddle into Harry’s small office, where he tosses that morning’s paper aside to find the previous day’s. Draco snatches it out of his hand, studying it momentarily before turning it to show them.

Harry Potter’s Fiancé Draco Malfoy Attacked By Rogue Madman, the cover story reads. There’s a photograph of Harry down on his knees in front of the pub, Draco gathered in his arms, drenched in blood.

Harry winces at it. He exchanges a pained look with Hermione.

“So the Prophet made a sensational, exploitative headline out of our trauma,” Harry says. “What else is new?”

Draco drops the paper on Harry’s desk.

“Did you know about this, Granger?” he says.

Hermione flinches away from his glare. “What are you talking about? I told you that I didn’t read the paper yesterday.” She picks it up off the desk and studies it.

“Because if you were in on this —” Draco seethes. “If either of you were —”

Harry reaches for his shoulder. Draco shrugs him off immediately, fire in his eyes.

As Hermione scans the Prophet, her eyes slowly widen as though she’s seeing it for the first time. “No,” she says. “No, no, no.”

“Yes,” Draco says. “It’s all so transparent now.”

Harry finally registers what they’re alluding to. “You think it was a setup.”

“It’s all perfect. It’s so perfect,” Draco says. “The pathetic, tragic former Death Eater, half-murdered by a rogue madman and languishing in the arms of the saviour of the entire wizarding world.” He begins to madly pace in Harry’s tight office. “A rogue madman, I might add, who so conveniently escaped the grips of the law during his clumsy arrest, leaving no trace.”

He snatches the Prophet out of Hermione’s hands and shoves it into Harry’s chest, nearly pushing him over.

“Tell me that isn’t an incredible photograph. Tell me that isn’t gripping journalism. Tell me that wouldn’t convince swaths of people who wanted me dead to send cards and chocolates like I’m their hero. And how convenient that a photographer just happened to be at that particular pub at that very moment to capture it all.”

Harry looks down at the paper, his hands shaking.

“It all reeks of your puppeteering, Granger,” Draco says, jabbing a finger towards her. “How lucky that the curse was enough to get a stunning photograph, but not enough to kill me, lest it rest heavy on your frail little conscience. How interesting that all of the experienced Aurors were busy on a raid that very evening. How funny that you and your little hex-working colleague are perfectly happy to dismiss the campaign after one of its players was attacked on the streets. You’ve got your big finale, haven’t you?”

“I didn’t know anything about this!” Hermione exclaims shakily. “Draco, I wouldn’t — I —”

Harry turns to Hermione, who looks stricken. “Tell me that he’s wrong. Hermione. Tell me that he’s wrong.”

Draco lets out an angry, ugly laugh. “Don’t play stupid, Potter,” he says. “You’ve always been such a dreadful actor.”

“Draco, I had nothing to do with this,” Harry pleads, his stomach dropping. “I wouldn’t do this to you.”

“Well, that’s very convincing, seeing as you’ve just got everything you wanted from me,” Draco snarls. “Saviour to the masses, so long as you remain steadfastly in the spotlight. It doesn’t matter who you trample over in your path.”

“Draco,” Harry says, grabbing his wrist. Harry cradles his face firmly in his other hand, making Draco meet his eye. “I didn’t have anything to do with this. I wouldn’t. I would never.”

Draco twists away from his touch. “Of course you would,” he says. “You’d do anything your precious Ministry asks you to do, because you don’t care. You’ve never cared. It’s the same to you as if your little Ministry plant had hit me with an Avada Kedavra.”

“Draco —”

“Save it, Potter. You’ve got what you wanted. You’re free at last.”

Draco pushes past them, sweeping out of the room. Harry scrambles after him, but Hermione catches him by the arm.

“Let him go,” she chokes out. “You can’t be seen fighting like this. Not after all of our work.” Tears spill down her face. “Not here. Not now.”

“f*ck,” Harry says. They watch in silence as Draco disappears down the corridor.

*

Harry can’t look at Hermione as they take the long walk to the Ministry Floos. He knows she would never put him through this. He knows she would never do anything like this. But seeing it all spelled out like that, the way the pieces all fit together, it’s impossible to deny that it wasn’t orchestrated at some level. He can’t blame himself for doubting her.

But he can’t blame Draco for doubting him, either.

They step into the Floo together, but Harry doesn’t take them to either of their flats. He takes them straight to Ginny’s.

“Merlin,” Ginny says quietly after Harry finishes filling him in, Hermione pacing a hole in the kitchen floor. He hasn’t been able to meet Hermione’s eye, but Ginny has never struggled with confrontation.

She turns to Hermione. “Did you have any part in this?”

“Of course I didn’t,” Hermione exclaims, wiping tears from her eyes. “Of course I didn’t. I would never put him through that. I would never put Harry through that.”

“So we’re meant to believe Notwick did all of this behind your back?” Ginny presses. “That she pulled a fast one on Hermione Granger? Really?”

“If Hermione says she didn’t have anything to do with it, she didn’t have anything to do with it, Gin,” Harry says.

Hermione lets a sob out into her hand. She closes her eyes and breathes in a shaky breath. Harry guides her into a chair and puts the kettle on for tea. “It’ll be okay,” he says.

“Oh,” Hermione says. “I should be the one reassuring you.”

“Are you going after him?” Ginny asks.

“Yes,” Harry says. “Well, no. I don’t know. I think that might make things worse at this point. I don’t think he’s going to hear a thing I have to say.”

“He’s furious. I’ve never seen him so furious,” Hermione murmurs, her face still red and puffy.

“I haven’t either,” Harry says. He’s never seen Draco look so devastatingly hurt — and Harry has hurt him a lot.

“Well, you have to do something,” Ginny says. “You can’t just let them get away with this.”

Hermione shakes her head. “They won’t care,” she says. “The Ministry won’t lift a finger to protect Draco once this is over.”

“Why would Notwick even bother with the campaign if she doesn’t care about him?” Ginny demands.

“I don’t know if Grimartha’s goal was ever actually to save people,” Hermione says quietly, as if to herself. “I think she only ever wanted to run a successful campaign so she could continue climbing the Ministry ladder.” She groans, pulling at her hair. “God, how could I ever be so stupid? How could I not see it?”

“Don’t do that, Hermione,” Harry says, handing her a cup of tea. “It’s not your fault.”

Hermione looks at him miserably. “Oh, but you were finally speaking to each other,” she says. “Really speaking. You were finally really seeing one another. And now this.”

“I know,” Harry says, grimacing. “That’s the worst of it.”

“You love him,” Ginny says.

Harry looks at her. She returns his gaze fiercely. It isn’t a question.

“Yes,” Harry says.

Ginny shakes her head. “Then you’ve got to go after him.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I just don’t know how. I don’t see how he’s going to believe any of this.”

“If he loves you, he’ll believe it,” Ginny says.

“I think he won’t believe it because he loves me,” Harry says.

Ginny pauses. “God, you two are such a bloody disaster,” she says, throwing her hands in the air.

“She’s right,” Hermione says. “You should try to speak to him. The longer you wait, the more time he has to convince himself that this was fake all along.”

“Okay,” Harry says. He stands up. “Right.”

“God, you’re shaking like a leaf,” Ginny says. “Don’t bloody splinch yourself in my house.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” Harry says, but she’s right. He closes his eyes and takes in a few long breaths, trying to let the swarm of anxious thoughts in his mind settle. Then he Apparates.

*

Harry expected that Draco would ward his flat, or that he wouldn't be there when Harry arrived.

He didn’t expect Draco’s flat to be entirely empty.

There isn’t a pair of shoes in the corridor, or a book on the shelf, or a kettle on the stove. In fact, nearly all of the furniture has been cleared out. It appears that Draco has never lived there, that no one had ever lived there at all.

A chill runs down Harry’s spine, the immediate cold sweat of regret. He’d let Draco go. He hadn’t gone after him quickly enough, and now Draco has disappeared as though he never existed.

As Harry walks around the vacant flat, he can still feel the faintest traces of Draco’s magic, measured and precise. Harry knows it isn’t worth it to try the elaborately locked door at the end of the corridor, but he casts a few diagnostic charms to see what curses and charms have been placed upon it. To his surprise, not a single one gets a response.

He opens the door to find the room as empty and lifeless as the rest of the flat. Not even a scar from the sigils burned into the floor remains.

Draco has always been known for evading the public eye. He’s notorious for disappearing. If he doesn’t want Harry to ever find him again, Harry won’t. And Harry knows that if he doesn’t act quickly, he’ll never be given the chance.

*

Harry returns to Ginny’s to find Luna and Ron in the kitchen. Ron grips one of Hermione’s hands as she pushes the other through her hair. She looks just as miserable as Harry.

Luna springs up to hug him immediately. The worry on her face makes Harry’s stomach sink — seeing that even Luna’s stalwart optimism is wavering makes what little trace of hope Harry has left flicker out.

“Do you know where he goes?” Harry asks. “When he disappears?”

Luna shakes her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Harry. I think there were parts of his life that he didn’t want anyone to see.”

Harry tries to contact Pansy, but she has her Floo shut off.

“He must have told her,” he tells the rest as they wait around Ginny’s fireplace expectantly. “She must believe him.”

“Well, that means he’s in contact with people,” Hermione says. “He hasn’t gone far.”

“Yet,” Harry says.

“Is there any chance that he’ll realise he’s wrong and turn up?” Ginny asks impatiently.

“No,” Harry says with a scornful laugh. “I really don’t think so.”

“Right,” Ron says, standing. “We’ll start with the obvious. Ginny and Luna, you can take Diagon, ask around at the shops. Hermione can go down to the Ministry and see if he’s on record using any international Apparition points. Harry, you and I can start with Knockturn and go from there.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry says as the rest of them rise to their feet. “You don’t have to do that for me.”

“Of course we do,” Ginny says. “Besides, it isn’t just for your sake, Harry. It’s for his, too.”

*

Harry knows that they won’t find Draco in the cafés and pubs they used to frequent, in the potion shops on Diagon, or in the dark, seedy bars of Knockturn. Draco wouldn’t use a traceable Apparition point unless he wanted Harry to find him. As the day goes on and they run into more and more dead ends, it becomes clear that Draco doesn’t.

When Ron goes with Hermione to the Floo Network Authority, Harry goes to the Manor.

“No, I haven’t seen him,” Narcissa says sadly. “You must understand, Harry. Sometimes I don’t hear from him for years.”

Harry eventually sends his exhausted friends home, but when he returns to his flat, he just feels ill. The sheets on his bed are still uneven from where Draco had pulled them while he slept. Harry makes the bed with a flick of his wand, returning it to pristine anonymity. Then he drops down onto the floor and tightens his fingers in his hair until his shaky breaths stabilise.

Eventually, he returns to Draco’s barren flat. Even though it’s been cleared out, nothing feels emptier than Harry’s own bed right now. He sleeps on a poorly-Conjured, lumpy mattress on the cold floor next to Draco’s fireplace, and is plagued with rolling dreams of Draco — bruised and bloodied in the street, chained in seedy basem*nts, or in the arms of other men.

Sometimes, in the sleep-hazed spaces between the nightmares, Harry thinks he can hear a scuffling in the flat. But when he lights a Lumos, he finds it empty.

Harry runs out of places to search after a few days, so he searches everywhere. Hooded and scarred patrons scowl and spit at him as he and Ginny lurk in seedy corners of dimly lit pubs. Hermione helps him comb through the files of Draco’s known connections at the Ministry. Ron helps him scour emptied-out dungeons and the cleared-out safe houses of raided potions rings, still closed off for investigation. When none of it brings him closer to finding Draco, Luna plies him with soothing cups of tea made with cardamom and fennel and something that makes Harry’s mind go soft around the edges, just enough that he can sleep.

He tries Pansy again, then Blaise, Theo, and Daphne. They all have their Floos shut off to him, wards up on their flats. Draco’s got to all of them. Harry doesn’t know what Draco has told them, but it’s enough to have broken the shaky trust they’ve given Harry since the campaign began.

“It’s not that simple,” Hermione tells him when he pushes, again, for them to confront Notwick about the attack. “We need to make sure we do it carefully, or else we’ll have played all of our cards and they’ll be able to deny it all. We need proof.”

She pushes a sandwich into his hand, and a paper cup of coffee, dropping onto the floor next to him in Draco’s flat. Harry barely leaves it except to go out on his increasingly desperate searches.

“Eat,” she says. “You’re making yourself sick.”

Harry tries, but the food feels heavy in his mouth and tastes of nothing.

The small hearth in the room shines with a flash of green. Hermione and Harry both stare at it, his heart pounding through his chest. But it’s not Draco. It’s Pansy.

“Oh, lovely,” she says immediately when she sees them, hatred burning in her eyes. “Of course you arseholes are here.”

Harry and Hermione both scramble to their feet. “Pansy,” Hermione says. “Do you know where he is? Do you know if he’s safe?”

“And why should I tell you?” Pansy asks, crossing her arms. “So that you can have him nearly killed again? Or maybe it would be a prettier story if he does die this time, and then there can be a Ministry-sponsored funeral and you can put that on the cover of the Prophet as well?”

“Pansy, we didn’t have anything to do with the attack,” Harry says desperately. “We didn’t know about it. We didn’t even realise what was going on until Draco spelled it out.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient,” Pansy snaps, sounding a great deal like Draco. “Because it all seems to have worked out so well for you, Potter.”

“It hasn’t,” Harry says. He hasn’t slept for more than a few hours this week, and he feels hot and unwound and insane. “It hasn’t worked out for me, Pansy. I need him.”

There are tears in his eyes; he isn’t sure when they came. “I love him.”

Pansy’s face softens immediately. “Oh, f*ck,” she says. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

Harry lets out something between a laugh and a sob. “I need to find him.”

“Pansy,” Hermione says. “Do you know where Draco is?”

Pansy looks back and forth between their intense gazes. Then she sighs and unfolds her arms. “You really don’t understand just how much of a secretive prick the man is,” she says. “If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

*

Hermione convinces Harry to come back to her flat, where she pushes him into the shower and has a warm bowl of soup waiting for him when he gets out. Harry starts to feel a bit more solid as he eats, but he can barely hear the conversation unfolding around him.

“I don’t know why you don’t just come out with it,” Ron says. “You can threaten to expose the whole campaign as a ruse if they don’t admit to it.”

“Right, Weasley, that’s brilliant,” Pansy says. “We’ll just ruin all of that progress because f*ck all the victims, right?”

“Maybe he’s right,” Ginny says as Ron grimaces. “They’d never allow it to happen.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione says with a miserable frown. “It’s clear that Grimartha’s priorities are not what I believed them to be. Besides, she could probably stifle the press.”

“No amount of stifling would stop a story like that from breaking,” Ginny says. “Not if Harry confirms it all.”

“But I’d never do it,” Harry says. “I’d never reveal it. It would undo everything. They probably know we’ve figured it out, but it doesn’t matter. They have me cornered.”

Hermione shakes her head. “They don’t know yet,” she says. “I told Grimartha that I’ve given the two of you a few weeks off. We need proof.” She fixes Harry with a steely gaze. “We need to go to Minister Chansky.”

“What if she’s in on it, too?” Ron asks.

“I don’t believe she is,” Hermione says. “Perhaps I’ve mislaid my trust in Grimartha, but Chansky fought in both wars. She’s not like the ones who watched from the sidelines.”

“Notwick didn’t work alone,” Harry says. “Chansky could be in on it. Robards could be in on it.”

Hermione grimaces. “Maybe,” she says. “But we have to try something.”

*

Harry hardly sleeps that night, sprawled out in Draco’s flat. His dreams blend with reality as he slips further and further into the fear that something has happened, that Draco has got in over his head somewhere. Draco was always so confident in his abilities to defend himself, but Harry has seen what can happen when he lets his guard down.

A scuffling in the flat pulls Harry from a dream of Draco surrounded by dark figures in the middle of a forest, suffering Crucio after Crucio. Harry stirs and pulls his glasses on. He’s sure he’s heard something this time.

He casts a Lumos to peer around the flat, but trips over something as he stands. He reaches down to pick up a thin black box.

When he opens the box, its contents shine so brightly that they nearly blind him in the darkness. Inside are the headpieces from The Celestial's photoshoot: the glowing ring of sun, the glimmering crescent of moon.

The case shakes in Harry’s trembling hands. Draco was here. He was safe.

And he wanted nothing to do with Harry.

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

Even though Pansy is Draco’s oldest friend, Luna is the only one who ever came close to understanding him.

Harry goes by her shop right at closing time, and she smiles at him sadly from behind the counter. “Harry.”

Luna makes him tea in the back room, pours in swirling lavender cream that tastes rich and floral and makes Harry feel immediately more calm, more solid.

“You were the only one who he stayed in touch with all those years,” Harry says. “Even Pansy went longer without hearing from him. Even his mother.”

“He trusts me greatly, I suppose,” Luna says. “And I trust him. I do believe he’s safe, Harry.”

Harry knows that Draco is alright — he’d come by the flat while Harry slept. But for some dark part of him, it’s easier to accept that Draco may have been targeted than to know he’s safe and well, and never wants to see Harry again. Luna must read this on his face, because she frowns.

“I don’t know if I should give up hoping,” he says.

“Oh, not yet, Harry, not yet,” Luna says, her face realigning into a smile. “It took him years to forgive you the first time. Do you really believe he’ll do it in a week?”

“I don’t need forgiveness,” Harry says stubbornly. “I haven’t done anything to him, not this time.”

Luna ponders this. “Perhaps he knows that.”

“You think he’d still disappear if he knew?” Harry asks incredulously. “Why wouldn’t he speak to me, then?”

Luna gives a little shrug. “I’m not sure. But he’s an incredibly clever wizard, Harry. He may have thought you guilty at first, but once the anger cleared, I believe he’d be able to realise that it’s not the sort of thing you’ve ever done, or would ever do.” She peers at him over a sip of tea. “Don’t you think?”

She’s seemed worried since Draco disappeared, but Harry realises it’s not Draco she’s been concerned about.

“He left me something,” he says. “In his flat.” He hasn’t been able to tell the others; it felt too shameful, like it only served to prove Draco’s utter rejection of him. But now, Harry thinks about it a little differently — the way that Draco must have seen him sleeping fitfully, mad with desperation to find him.

Luna’s eyes twinkle. “He wants you to know he’s alright.”

“Maybe,” Harry says. “Or maybe he just wants to torture me more.”

“Do you trust him?” Luna asks.

Harry hesitates. “I don’t know,” he says. “I think so. I think I do.”

“Good,” Luna says. “Then you’re doing everything you can do.”

She kisses Harry on the cheek when they finish. He goes home to his own flat and sleeps for twelve hours straight.

*

Harry’s Ministry office has grown thick with stacks of records, backdated Prophets, case files, and anything else that could begin to point towards Draco’s whereabouts. All of the Dark wizarding communities he’d been involved with are here, all of the times he’d narrowly avoided charges since the trials, all of the places he’d been found. Harry follows every lead he can find, and they all turn up empty. Hermione helps him pour through it some evenings, though he knows she’s mostly just making sure he eats and sleeps.

“How did you find him when you started the campaign?” Harry asks, remembering that night, Draco bound in the Ministry cell. It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like it was an entirely different man.

“Oh, it’s —” Hermione says, looking down at her stack of Portkey licences. “It’s a little dirty. I’m not proud of it. It was Grimartha’s idea, not that it excuses my involvement.”

Harry gazes at her expectantly. She looks up at him and sighs.

“He was at Lucius’s grave. He’s buried in a family plot in France. It was the anniversary of his passing.”

“Christ, Hermione,” Harry says. “That’s more than a little dirty.” It’s no wonder Draco had looked at him with so much hatred in his eyes that night. He probably thought Harry was involved with that, as well.

“I know,” Hermione says quietly. “There’s a lot about it I’m not proud to have taken part in, especially now.”

Harry never thought he’d see the day that he stayed at the Ministry later than Hermione. But when the artificial sky grows dark, she squeezes his shoulder and implores him not to spend the entire night holed up in his office, leaving with a stack of records in her arms.

Harry tries to pull himself away, but he can’t. He can’t bear the thought of returning to his flat and all of the memories there. The thought of Draco’s empty flat is even more sickening.

Harry tries to keep his mind occupied so there’s no room to contemplate the message Draco was trying to send with the halos. But the more Harry thinks about it, the clearer it becomes. Draco had been saying goodbye.

A hesitant knock at his door pulls him out of his haze. Harry opens it to see a young Auror trainee, one he doesn’t recognise. She gives him a timid nod. “Robards has requested you in his office.”

Harry checks his watch as he follows her down the darkened corridor. It’s just after ten, which is hardly the time for formal meetings — unless someone’s trying to catch him off guard.

Harry pushes into Robards’ office without waiting for the trainee to catch up, and freezes immediately as if Stupefied.

Draco.

Harry doesn’t see anything else in the room, doesn’t hear the sound of the door closing behind him. He crouches to where Draco is down on his knees, his wrists bound tightly with silver cords behind his back, his face covered in blood.

“Draco,” Harry breathes, taking Draco's face in his hands. There’s a gash streaked across his brow that drips blood down his cheek, pooling around his nose and lips.

Harry doesn’t understand. He doesn’t care. He just collides his lips into Draco’s, kissing past the metallic taste of blood, past the shock, past the disbelief, until Draco’s lips are all he knows.

When Harry pulls away, Draco holds his gaze, a peculiar glint in his eye. “Hi, darling.”

“Enough with the little reunion,” an irate voice says behind them. Someone grabs Harry by the shoulder and pulls him back onto his feet.

The rest of the room slowly comes into focus as Harry’s mind reels. Auror Pearse glowers at him with contempt; Robards watches warily from behind his desk. Minister Chansky is seated in Robards' chair.

“Would anyone like to tell me what the hell is going on here?” Harry barks.

“Ever faithful to your little fiancé, Potter,” Pearse says. “Blinded by love, it would seem.”

“What happened?” Harry says. He looks back down to Draco, whose gaze falls to the floor. “What have you done to him?”

Pearse smiles mirthlessly. “Still falling for his little act, are we, Potter?” he says. “I haven’t done anything to him he didn’t deserve.”

“May we dispense with the pleasantries?” Chansky says calmly from Robards’ desk. “Auror Pearse, I would be delighted to know why I’ve been called in to see Harry Potter’s fiancé bound and bloodied in my Head Auror’s office.”

“I’ve seen this Death Eater dodge so many charges in the past decade,” Pearse says. “I’m not going to watch it happen again.”

“Charges?” Harry says. “Robards, what charges?”

Pearse glares at him. “What charges,” he hisses. “Your pretty little boyfriend here broke through about half a dozen Ministry wards crossing into the Department of Mysteries not an hour ago.”

“He was able to trespass nearly undetected by using a highly illegal Dark glamour,” Robards explains. “It’s a nasty, potent thing — works by distorting the perceptions of witnesses so they don’t understand what they’re seeing. With a long enough exposure, it’s known to drive people to madness.”

Harry looks down at him. “Draco.”

Draco won’t meet his eye.

“Unbind him,” Harry says without looking away. “Let him go.”

Pearse sneers. “This is why I wanted Minister Chansky here,” he says. “I’m done seeing this man weasel his way out of charges. I don’t care who’s idiotic enough to marry him, even if it is the great Harry Potter.”

“He wouldn’t,” Harry says. “He doesn’t use the Dark Arts. Not anymore. He’s changed.”

“Ask him yourself,” Pearse bites.

Harry drops down to his knees, taking Draco’s face in his hands firmly so he’s forced to meet Harry’s eyes. “Draco,” he says quietly, his voice quivering. “Tell me you wouldn’t. Tell me you haven’t.”

Draco returns his gaze with equal intensity. “Oh, but you know how I hate to lie to you, my love.”

Harry’s hands falter. He tries desperately to recognise him, to see the Draco he’s come to know, the one hidden beneath layers of pain and darkness. But all he can see is the hardened face of the man who was tied up in a cell all those months ago.

“I don’t even need a confession,” Pearse says. “I was there to detain him myself.”

“Then it appears the matter is settled,” Chansky says impatiently. “I’m afraid even Mr Potter’s influence can’t change things.” She turns her gaze to Harry. “Your fiancé doesn’t even deny his actions.”

Harry stands. “Draco…”

“There’s nothing to deny,” Draco says. “Auror Pearse hasn’t lied. At least, not tonight.”

Pearse nearly lunges at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” he spits. “Death Eater sc—”

Chansky stands and crosses the room, silencing Pearse immediately. “Restrain yourself, Auror Pearse, or I will. I’d be interested to know what Mr Malfoy has to say.”

She draws her wand and unbinds Draco. He glances at Harry, rubbing at his wrists as he climbs to his feet. “Thank you, Minister,” he says, dragging the back of his hand across his face, pulling a streak of blood along with it.

“If any of you recall,” Draco says, “I was attacked earlier this month outside of a crowded pub on the streets of London.”

“We all read the Prophet,” Pearse snaps.

“Auror Pearse,” Chansky warns.

“And it was so unfortunate,” Draco says, ignoring him. “When, despite there having been no indication my assailant worked in conjunction with others or had any experience evading law enforcement officials, he was able to wriggle out of the Aurors’ grip less than an hour after the attack.”

“My Aurors are a strong, well-trained force,” Robards says. “But even the most experienced make mistakes.”

“The most experienced certainly do,” Draco says. “So I can only imagine that new trainees, only two weeks out on the job, are even more likely to let perpetrators slip from their grasp.”

“I hardly see how this is relevant,” Pearse says, glowering. “It has nothing to do with his break in today, or his flagrant usage of the Dark Arts.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I feel confident that I would have been able to access the Department of Mysteries without using the Dark Arts,” he says, speaking slowly as if Pearse were an imbecilic child. “I used them because I wanted to ensure that Minister Chansky was extended an invitation to this little meeting.”

“I would be happy to know why,” Chansky says.

“Our friends at the Prophet,” Draco says. “They poetically described my attacker as —” He looks to Harry. “What was it, love?”

“Erm —” Harry stammers, eyeing him. “A rogue madman, I believe it was.”

“A rogue madman,” Draco repeats, turning back to Chansky. “A stray vigilante, perhaps — someone affected by the war, no doubt, acting alone, and with revenge on his mind. So I find it quite curious that my attacker is a man I once knew.”

He pulls a small phial from his pocket. Inside of it are several long, black hairs, along with a curled up bit of parchment. He hands it to Chansky, who opens it and unrolls the parchment, looking over it curiously.

“My attacker was a man by the name of Cyrus Dalby.” Draco says. “It was difficult to make his face out that night in the rush of the attack — as I’m quite sure you can all understand. Luckily, the Ministry keeps close records of all of their Polyjuice donors.”

Chansky puts the parchment and phial on Robards’ desk, the hairs still neatly bound together in the phial.

“Dalby was one of my repeat customers during my more active days of potion brewing — he was always partial to intoxicants,” Draco says. “Unfortunately, they saw the end of him some time ago. He’s been dead for three years.”

Understanding and relief hit Harry like a wave. Hermione had insisted they needed proof.

“Sloppy work,” Harry growls. Pearse glares at him, seething in silence.

“You mean to imply that you were attacked by someone within the Ministry,” Chansky says.

“I have no doubt,” Draco says.

“This is ludicrous,” Robards says. “What motivation would the Ministry have to attack Harry Potter’s fiancé?”

Chansky clears her throat. “Well, I imagine it would certainly help the campaign’s optics,” Chansky says calmly. “In fact, it ties off the narrative quite nicely.”

Harry isn’t surprised by Chansky’s perceptiveness, remembering Narcissa’s ability to see through the ruse so quickly. He’s as relieved as Pearse is petrified.

“I tend to agree,” Draco says coolly. “And while Robards here may not be motivated to attack said Death Eater scum, I feel quite confident that Auror Pearse would be more than happy to oblige Grimartha Notwick’s request.”

“This is absurd,” Pearse barks. “You have no evidence for such a baseless claim, you —” he catches himself, seeming to realise that his obvious repugnance for Draco is not helping his case.

“Gawain,” Chansky says, turning to him. “Did you know about Auror Pearse and Grimartha Notwick’s premeditated attack on Draco Malfoy?”

Robards eyes Pearse, who is heaving seething breaths in silence — but judging by his speechlessness, has no recourse at all. Draco has backed him into a corner.

“No,” Robards says. “Pearse and Notwick must have worked on this behind my back.”

“Mr Potter,” Chansky says. “Do you have reason to believe Director Granger may be involved with the scheme?”

Harry shakes his head immediately. “No,” he says. “Not at all.”

Harry can’t take his eyes off of Draco. He’s bruised and bloodied at the hands of Pearse’s indulgent retribution, but he’s alive. He’s triumphant.

They’ve walked right into his trap.

“Well, then I’m afraid I don’t see any alternative,” Chansky says. “Auror Pearse will be handed down disciplinary action. I would suggest a six-month probation, Gawain. As for Director Notwick —”

“No,” Harry says over Pearse’s senseless stammering.

They all look at him. There’s a glint in Draco’s eye. He takes a step closer, putting his hand on Harry’s back.

“No,” Harry says again, shaking his head. “You’ll fire the both of them. Today. Right now.”

Chansky raises an eyebrow at him. Harry is grateful that Draco thought to ensure she’d be here for this.

“Potter,” Robards says. “Let’s not jump to any —”

“No one’s jumping to anything,” Harry says. “And no one is asking, either.” He turns to Chansky. “Remove them from their positions immediately, or I’ll turn in my own resignation.”

Chansky meets his gaze, though hers is impossible to read. After a moment, she turns to Pearse, whose stammering says everything.

“I’ve put a lifetime into this department,” he spits. “I’ll not watch it be thrown away over some Death Eater and his famous little boyfriend.”

“Gawain,” Chansky finally says. “If you would kindly ensure Auror Potter has a copy of Matthias Pearse’s resignation papers on his desk by tomorrow morning. I’ll see to Grimartha Notwick’s myself.”

Robards hesitates, then nods. “Yes, Minister.”

Pearse begins to protest, but Chansky raises a staying hand.

“Auror Potter, Mr Malfoy, consider yourselves dismissed,” she says before turning to Pearse.

Harry takes Draco by the hand, leading him from the room before they have to hear another word. He finds that he simply doesn’t care.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

Harry shoves Draco into his office and shuts the door behind them. He’s struck with the familiar desire to kiss and punch Draco at the same time, and he knows it isn’t subtle.

“You’re giving me that look again,” Draco says, dropping onto Harry’s desk.

Harry cradles Draco’s face between his hands, locking onto his eyes. He can hardly parse what’s brewing inside of him: relief at seeing Draco alive and relatively unharmed; vindication against Notwick, Pearse, and the entirety of the Ministry; but, also, a sickening twist of fury.

He feels a spark of magic at his fingertips, and the blood ripples off of Draco’s face with a glimmer.

“Merlin,” Draco says, shivering. “Did you just do your accidental sex magic?”

“You disappeared,” Harry says. “You disappeared. I thought I was losing my mind, Draco. I could kill you.”

“I think you might if you’re not careful,” Draco says, pulling his face away from Harry’s touch. He takes Harry by the hand. “I’m here.”

Harry pulls his hand away. “I thought you were finished torturing me,” he says. “I spent weeks looking for you. And you knew it,” he says. “You didn’t care.”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “Of course I cared,” he says. But he can’t hold Harry’s gaze for long, and he winces away.

“You believed I would do that to you,” Harry says. “You thought I would set you up from the beginning. You thought all of this was fake.”

“I didn’t know what to believe!” Draco exclaims. “Everything was pointing to Granger, and everything was pointing to you. You have to admit, it didn’t look good.”

Harry’s scowl falters. “I know,” he says. “But you should have trusted me.”

“I’m —” Draco says, folding his arms. “Not very good at that.”

“You came to your flat while I was there.”

Draco laughs mirthlessly. “You actually slept in my flat for over a week, Potter. Have you ever been to a Mind Healer? You may have some kind of attachment issues.”

Harry scoffs. “You’re one to talk,” he says. “The first time anyone shows you any amount of commitment and you go running for the hills.”

Draco grins at him. “Did the Chosen One just say commitment?”

“It isn’t funny.”

Draco frowns. “Not with that attitude it isn’t.”

“Christ,” Harry says, pushing his hands into his hair. This all feels sickeningly familiar: Draco dodging Harry’s attempts to connect, holding him at a distance. “Can’t you take anything seriously for once in your life?”

Harry sinks into the chair across from Draco, dropping his face into his hands. “Didn’t you know I would never hurt you like that?” he murmurs. He doesn’t know what to do if Draco can’t see that by now. He doesn’t know if he can do this if Draco can’t see it.

“I did know it,” Draco says quietly. “Of course I knew it, you fumbling idiot. You’re in love with me.”

Harry looks up at him miserably. “Then why didn’t you come back?”

“Well, I did,” Draco says, shrugging. “Didn’t you get the halos? I didn’t want them to get damaged.”

“It isn’t funny,” Harry says again.

Draco looks away, angling slightly away on the desk. The distance is the only way Harry knows he’s finally getting through to him, past the layer of teasing and flirtation he’s always hidden behind.

Draco keeps his eyes locked on the floor. “Haven’t you got tired of saving me yet?”

Harry shakes his head slowly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You were so ready to do it,” Draco says. “To pull me out of the grips of some Dark Wizard or save me from some great evil.” His frown deepens into a glower. “Or from myself.”

He glances onto Harry’s desk and lets out a snort of surprise. Harry had left one of Draco’s files open, and there’s a clipping from the Prophet on top, Draco glaring out at the camera as he spills out of a Ministry courtroom. “It’s like you don’t even know you’re doing it,” he murmurs.

“I just wanted to find you,” Harry says. “I just wanted to help.”

“I know that,” Draco says. “But I can’t —”

He finally looks up to meet Harry’s gaze. “You’ve been saving me for so long, Harry. Ever since we were boys. I think I needed to do it myself this time.”

Harry studies him: that ever-familiar scowl, an almost imperceptible tremble at his lips. His blood-stained shirt, the mess of unkempt hair falling into his face. The repelling, intoxicating glimmer in his eye, something within it that Harry thinks he’ll never quite be able to place.

Harry lets out a spiteful laugh. “I don’t understand you.”

“Nor I you,” Draco says. He stands and takes Harry by the chin, and Harry can see it in his eye — the confusion, the wonder. Draco runs a hand through his hair. It’s as familiar as a dream, and as maddening as hell.

Harry pulls him down by the collar, not bothering to attempt to hide the desperation in his kiss. He stands without parting their lips, pulling him in by the waist as Draco loops his arm around Harry’s neck. It’s not enough — it’s not tight enough, it’s not close enough, and Harry wraps his arms around him, digging his fingers into Draco’s back as if he can seal them together forever.

Draco pulls away, breathless and a little red. “Whoa there, loverboy,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry laughs darkly. “How am I ever supposed to believe that?”

A soft smile plays at Draco’s lips as he pushes Harry’s hair out of his face. “I don’t know,” he says. “I suppose we’ll have to work on it together.”

*

The next morning, Harry goes down to the Ministry to find Pearse and Notwick’s resignation papers on his desk.

He hands his own resignation to Robards immediately after.

“What will you do?” Draco asks him when Harry steps out onto the streets of London to meet him. Draco had waited outside while Harry was in the Ministry, and Harry couldn’t blame him for never wanting to set foot inside of it again.

Harry tries not to be surprised to see him there, leaning against the facade of a building and casually people-watching on the street. Not vanished. Not in hiding. Just there, and his.

“I don’t know,” Harry tells him, taking his hand.

Draco hasn’t left his side since he’d turned up at the Ministry the night before. Harry tries to believe it’s true. He’d woken up before Draco that morning, flooded with awe to find him real and solid in his bed, snoring gently into Harry’s pillow. Harry had gathered him into his arms, and Draco had made a delicious little sleepy sound and huddled into Harry’s chest before falling asleep again. Harry had laid there, just holding him, listening to him breathe, and letting it all wash over him again and again.

“What about you?” Harry asks him when they finish eating lunch. They’d gone to one of the cafés they used to go on their pretend dates. But this time, it’s real. Draco’s clingy touches, his pecks on Harry’s cheek, the way he loops their pinkies together under the table — out of sight of the public, and just for them. The wizard who owned the café was thrilled to see them — mostly thrilled to see Draco — and had pushed small boxes of sweets and pastries into his hands unrelentingly before they left.

“What will you do?” Harry asks.

“I don’t know,” Draco tells him.

They walk aimlessly down Diagon Alley, going nowhere in particular, stopping occasionally to pop into shops or peer at elaborate window displays. Harry wraps an arm around Draco’s chest from behind as Draco explains why the properties of a spindly orange vine on display make it ideal for brewing Fire-Protection Potions — which Harry understands bits of. Draco draws circles into his hand as Harry leans over to look at the blue elm handle of one of the latest broomstick models.

“You cannot buy another broomstick,” Draco tells him. “You don’t use the ones you have.”

“I do,” Harry says stubbornly. “Well, I’d like to.”

So Harry digs an old Snitch out of the back of his closet, and they find an empty field to play in. As in all things, Draco plays dirty. He flies just close enough to draw Harry into a kiss or squeeze his arse, and then swoops away to catch the Snitch before Harry can register what’s happened. It works every single time.

They finally take Luna and Ginny up on their invitation for dinner. Ginny and Draco spend half of the time bickering extensively about the formulations of her tinctures, and Harry and Luna watch on with equal measures of confusion and adoration.

When they’re finally sent off with enough lentil loaf to feed five, they go back to Harry’s and last as long as they can before Draco pushes Harry down onto his sofa and starts fumbling with his flies. It’s about three minutes.

“Blast it,” Draco mutters as he lays a line of hot, desperate kisses onto Harry’s jaw and throat as he works. “Now would be an incredible time for your ridiculous sex magic, Potter.”

“Patience, darling,” Harry says breathlessly. “We have time.”

He gasps when Draco finally wraps his fingers around him, pulling one long, lazy stroke down Harry’s co*ck. “Is that right?”

Harry growls. He flips them over and pins Draco into the sofa. Draco laughs into Harry’s neck, sucking on his throat and flicking his tongue against the tender skin. Harry’s breath hitches, and when he reaches down to take off Draco’s belt, he finds that his trousers are gone.

In fact, both of them are entirely naked.

Draco pushes him back by the shoulders and laughs. “You have to be doing that on purpose.”

“This never happens to me,” Harry says. “I swear!”

After a round on the sofa, they try to move to Harry’s bed. They get as far as the floor in the living room. Then, the kitchen table. Then, the shower. By the time they’ve actually made it into the bed, Harry has lost track of time.

“You’re insatiable,” Draco says, dropping onto Harry’s chest. It’s dark in the room. It could be nine at night. It could be three in the morning.

“I’m in love,” Harry murmurs.

Draco turns onto his side to look at him in the darkness. “Do you really mean that?”

Harry frowns a little. “Of course I mean it,” he says. “Don’t you mean it?”

Draco doesn’t answer immediately. Harry can’t quite read his expression — whether he looks awestruck, or loving, or maybe afraid.

“I don’t know,” Draco finally says. “I think I do. I think I hate you as well, though.”

Harry laughs. “I understand the feeling exactly.”

Draco shoves him playfully. Harry threads his arms around his waist and pulls him close, nuzzling a kiss beneath his jaw. “It is all a bit confusing,” he says against Draco’s neck. “We did things a little out of order.”

“Getting engaged before we actually started dating, you mean,” Draco says.

Harry pulls away. “I mean — we’re not —” he stammers. “Actually engaged. Not really. Did you think we were?”

“Calm down, Potter. You look like you’ve just seen a Dementor,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. “Besides — when you decide you want to marry me, I’ll expect an actual proposal. One with fireworks. And flowers. And chocolates. Somewhere very, very expensive, and very, very public, so that Pansy and Daphne might be the first witches in recorded history to actually perish from envy.”

“Noted,” Harry says. Then he blinks. “Did you say when?”

“Well, we’ve tried every possible alternative, haven’t we?” Draco says. “I think this is it. I think we’re stuck with one another.”

Harry snorts. “That’s very romantic.”

“I suppose we should send Granger a thank-you card.”

Harry pushes himself up into a seated position and gathers Draco up in his arms. “Are you just going to live here, then?”

Draco turns over, resting his chin on Harry’s chest. He gazes up at him with a little pout. “Are you sick of me already?”

“You cleared out your flat.”

“Oh, right,” Draco says. “I don’t have much.”

“You have a lot of clothing,” Harry points out.

“Well, would it be so terrible?” Draco says. “That way if we’re doomed to kill each other, it’ll all be over sooner rather than later.”

It’s a bad idea. But then, all of this is a bad idea. Harry kisses him on the forehead.

“Stay as long as you like,” he says. “But if you burn any sigils onto my floor, I’m going to chuck you out.”

Draco snorts and lays his cheek onto Harry’s chest. “I lied to you earlier,” he says quietly. “I do know what I’ll do.”

Harry strokes his hair. “By all means, remain as cryptic as possible.”

“Well,” Draco says quietly. “Maybe it’s part of what took me so long to come back. When I left. I was working on something else as well.”

Harry steels himself. He’s already got used to the idea of Draco being here, of waking up to him here, of going to sleep with him here. He knows it’s all too fast, and he knows it’s not exactly healthy. But he isn’t sure if he can survive any amount of distance right now.

Draco seems to sense this. “Calm down, you clingy git. It’s all based in London.”

“What is?”

“A potions apprenticeship. With the Quintessence Institute. I applied for it anonymously,” he says. “And I was accepted.”

Harry springs up as if struck by lightning, flipping Draco onto his back and straddling him. He grins down at him like a loon. “Draco.”

Draco laughs, holding Harry at the waist. “You’re like a bloody golden retriever,” he says. “And to think you’d be even more impressed if you knew the first thing about contemporary potioneering. It’s a highly esteemed program, you know. It’s one of the best.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to settle for anything less,” Harry says, leaning down to kiss him. “I’m so proud of you.” Draco laughs into his mouth when Harry kisses him again before pulling back slowly. “Anonymously?”

Draco nods, a peculiar little smile on his lips.

“You think people will still reject you based on your name?” Harry asks.

Draco looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Of course not, you prat,” he says. “I wanted to ensure that I wasn’t being accepted only because of my name. Or did you forget the whole part where I’m engaged to Harry Potter?”

“I try to forget a lot of it,” Harry chuckles.

“I don’t,” Draco says, shaking his head. “You've made far too many stupid, embarassing faces for me to ever forget.”

Harry grimaces. “You’re a git.”

Draco pulls him down against his chest. Harry curls into him, listening to the gentle beat of his heart and trying his best to believe.

“Are you sure?” Draco asks after Harry loses count of his heartbeats. “About leaving the Aurors?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

“Granger will miss you.”

Harry shakes his head. “She’ll be fine. There’s recently been a big opening in the Public Relations Department.”

Draco threads his fingers through Harry’s hair. “What will you do?” he asks again.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, growing hazy with sleepiness, lost in the comfortable warmth of Draco’s arms. “Rest, I think. At least for now.”

Draco releases a low sigh, like he’d been holding his breath. Harry realises it’s what Draco had been hoping he’d say.

“You’ve earned it,” Draco says, pressing a kiss into his hair. “I’ve certainly seen to that.”

Chapter 20: Epilogue

Chapter Text

“You’re being absolutely ridiculous, Potter.”

Draco sweeps past him in the courtyard, a mist of irate emerald robes. He’s long since returned to form: cloaked in Slytherin green at all opportunities — even sporting the occasional snake pendant — and always a vision of aloof composure and perfect elegance.

He’s also a complete and utter arse.

“I’m not saying you have to drop everything for me,” Harry says. “I’m just saying it would be nice if you could be on time for anything for once in your life.”

Draco turns to face him, crossing his arms. “So you’re saying this smashing little event is more important than being prepared for my certification exam.”

“I’m only saying that maybe when you have a house full of friends waiting to see you, you could do a bit of rescheduling.”

“Excuse me for wanting to focus on my future,” Draco huffs.

Harry sighs, trying to find his patience. “Ginny and Pansy spent all day preparing for this. They want it to be special.”

Draco peers over Harry’s shoulder into Ginny and Luna’s cottage, where their friends seem perfectly content to carry on without them. “So it’s a better use of our time to stand out here and bicker, then, is it?”

“Forget it,” Harry says. He regrets saying anything at all; there’s already a glower stitched across Draco’s face. “Maybe at least try to act a little grateful.”

Draco pinches Harry’s cheek a little too hard. “You know acting is what I do best, darling.”

Harry pulls in a long breath, following him back into the cottage. It’s changed a lot in the last year; since Luna moved in, it’s been flooded with unidentifiable gadgets and dried herbs, stacked with copies of The Quibbler, and there’s always some kind of medicinal potion brewing on the stove. Ginny and Pansy have further transformed it for the occasion: unlike the stiff, polished party they’d hosted last year, this is an intimate gathering with only the people who actually matter.

Of course, that hasn't stopped Pansy from drenching the entire cottage with green and red streamers.

Harry watches as Draco makes a beeline away from him, caught immediately by Pansy, who gives him her own lecture about his punctuality. Sometimes, it’s still like this. Sometimes, Harry has no idea how he and Draco can stand to be in the same room together, let alone anything more.

Ginny appears and puts a drink into Harry’s right hand, and then grabs his left, inspecting it. “No rings this time around?”

“Not really our style,” Harry says.

“You’re going to have to tell the story at least a dozen times tonight,” she warns him.

Harry shakes his head, smiling at the memory. “There’s not much of a story,” he says. “We just sort of agreed to it.”

Ginny puts her hands on her hips. “Well, who asked who?”

Harry chuckles. “The way he’ll tell it, it was me. He’ll have you think I begged him.” He turns to spy Draco, who has been dragged into the living room and is sitting on the sofa across from Hermione and Ron. Ron appears to be delivering a series of threats that Draco parries with perfect equanimity. Hermione watches it all, smiling silently.

“Maybe I brought it up first,” Harry allows. “But he’d been dropping hints for weeks. And I guess —”

Harry hesitates, but it’s too late to backtrack. Ginny is staring at him like she’s about to explode.

“I dunno,” he says. “I guess it was getting harder and harder to imagine any kind of life without him in it.”

Ginny raises her eyebrows, smiling devilishly. “That’s good stuff,” she says. “I’m going to have to use that on Lu.”

Harry laughs. “I think we might kill each other, Gin.”

Ginny pats him on the shoulder. “Well, that’s what keeps it exciting.”

*

The party turns out to be a long night of interrogations. Harry has to explain and re-explain the fact that, no, they weren’t really engaged then, but yes, it’s actually real this time, thank you.

“Sorry, I’m still confused. Why are we doing this all again?” Harry hears Theo ask incredulously a few hours in.

Draco catches Harry’s gaze from across the room, and then rolls his eyes to Theo. “Honestly, I’m still wondering that myself.”

Hermione and Pansy’s behind-the-scenes accounts of the campaign are a very popular topic, and Harry learns a few things he’s sure Draco would rather he not know.

“He was absolutely pining the entire time,” Pansy gets out before Draco can strangle her. “But especially towards the end. All he ever wanted to talk about was ‘Potter this and Potter that.’ Did you see his face on that bloody Celestial cover? You can’t tell me that was acting.”

“Shut up, Parkinson,” Draco grumbles, but it’s half-swallowed by the laughter that breaks out in the room.

“Well, I’m just happy I can finally get the real details about the sex,” Daphne says cheerfully.

Harry grimaces. “Yeah, still not a topic for an engagement party.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Daphne says with a sweet smile. “Draco’s already given us plenty of play-by-plays. You know, Potter, you really know how to use your —”

“That’ll do, Daphne,” Draco says, chuckling as he wraps an arm around Harry’s waist. “I assure you Harry doesn’t need any pointers.” Harry has gone red, which is apparently something Draco will never tire of. He kisses Harry on the cheek.

Harry pulls away when Draco launches into a dramatic exaggeration of Harry’s non-proposal, rife with details that never actually happened, including Harry dropping to his knees to grovel. Hermione follows him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he twists open a bottle of Ginny’s plum cider.

“Are you two playing nice?” she asks, a twinkle in her eye.

“Oh, you know,” Harry says. “Trying our best.” He hands the bottle to her and opens another.

“Have you been keeping busy?” she asks. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it two weeks without the Aurors, let alone a year.”

“I wasn't, either,” Harry says, though the thought of reenlisting hasn’t crossed his mind once. “But I do what I can. Ginny loves to put me to work in the gardens, anyway. Sometimes, Draco even trusts me to stir his potions.”

“Do you know what’s next?” Hermione asks gently. She has that look in her eye Draco gets sometimes when he asks the same thing. It’s one of mild apprehension, like she’s worried Harry is going to announce some elaborate life plan instead of doing what they all know he needs to be doing: resting, relaxing, and enjoying the life he’s earned.

“More of the same, maybe,” Harry says to Hermione’s visible relief. “Though Minerva owls me once a week to remind me that I’m qualified for the Defence professorship.”

“That might be a bit of an understatement,” Hermione says. “But take your time deciding. I think a life of leisure suits you.”

They move to Ginny’s kitchen table, angling out slightly so they can watch the party unfold in the living room: all of their friends, milling about, catching up, stretching out on sofas and pillows before the fire. Content, and safe, and at peace.

“How are things in the new position?” Harry asks.

Hermione shrugs, ever humble. “It’s been a long road cleaning up the messes Notwick left,” she says. “She really had her hands in everything the Ministry does. But, you know — nothing quite as exciting as all of this was.”

“Exciting,” Harry repeats with a chuckle. “I guess you could call it that.”

“It really made a difference, you know,” Hermione says. “I know you don’t see the reports anymore, but I don’t think you have to.”

Harry looks out at the intermingling Slytherins and Gryffindors in the next room. He sees it there, but he also sees it in Draco — the way he’s slowly let his guard down, dropped the walls he had fortified between himself and the world, between himself and Harry.

Hermione gives him a coy grin. “And I suppose if you had to fall in love along the way…”

“Guess it was a price worth paying,” Harry says with a dramatic sigh. “Though I don’t know if we’ll make it down the aisle before Ron strangles him. Or vice-versa.”

“I think he’s still just wrapping his head around having a Malfoy in the family,” Hermione says. “But I think Draco supplying Bill’s monthly Wolfsbane is winning him over.”

Harry blinks at her. “Draco doing what?”

Hermione rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “I don’t know why I’m surprised he didn’t tell you,” she says. “He wouldn’t want you thinking he was doing it for you. But didn’t he tell you why he was late tonight?”

Harry shakes his head, spying Draco in the next room. “I truly do not understand that man, Hermione.”

Draco glances up from a conversation with Theo and Blaise as if he'd felt Harry’s gaze. Hermione watches Harry lock eyes with him for a moment before Draco turns back to the conversation.

“At this point, maybe it’s best to just accept that you never will,” she says, squeezing him on the shoulder as she goes to join Ron and Ginny in the living room.

Draco glances up at him again, flicking his eyes over to the door to the courtyard. Harry stands and steps out into the brisk evening, and Draco appears beside him a few moments later, leaning against the side of the cottage.

“Long night,” Harry says, reaching a hand out. Draco takes it, pulling him closer, greeting him with an impatient kiss, like he’s been waiting to do it all night.

“The actual wedding is going to be longer,” he says. “Especially if Pansy has anything to do with the planning. Or, god forbid, my mother.”

“Maybe we should just stay engaged forever,” Harry says. “Maybe if we wait long enough, they’ll all just forget about the wedding part.”

He takes Draco by the hand, walking them to the bench that looks out at Ginny’s field. A crop of blooming datura sways in the night breeze. The sky is speckled with stars, the full moon beaming down at them from above the trees.

Harry sits, and Draco leans against the arm rest, draping his legs over Harry’s lap. Harry wraps his arms around him and listens, for a few moments, to Draco’s slow, steady breathing.

“I think we should probably shag in her spare room at some point,” Draco says after a spell of silence. “Just to make sure things come full circle.”

Harry laughs. “I don’t think Ginny would appreciate that.”

“Maybe if she saw it as an engagement gift.”

“That is very romantic.”

Draco nestles into him. Harry thinks he could fall asleep right here, sedated by peace and good company, the warmth of Draco in his arms, a comfort, a curse, and forever a mystery.

“It’s going to be miserable, you know,” Draco says quietly. “All of the fanfare and the press. They aren’t going to give us a moment’s rest. It’s going to be hell.”

“I know,” Harry says.

“It’s bad enough coming from the lot of them,” Draco says, gesturing back towards the cottage with a flick of his head.

“I know,” Harry says again. It is exhausting, sometimes, trying repeatedly to explain the inexplicable to the people in his life. Some understood it, and others only pretended to. He thought Molly might have actually needed a Mind Healer right there on the spot after he finally worked up the nerve to tell her.

“But they love us,” Harry adds.

“Well, they love you.”

“They love us.”

He kisses Draco on the forehead, and Draco lifts up to catch his lips. Harry strokes his hair.

“I love you,” Harry murmurs.

“I know.”

Draco kisses Harry on the jaw, and then leans against his chest. “When do you think we should tell them?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Not for a little longer, I think.”

Draco takes his hand, circling his thumb around Harry’s ring finger. In the moonlight, Harry’s Disillusioned wedding band glints as it glimmers in and out of visibility with a sparkle of magic. Harry interlocks their fingers, and Draco’s matching band appears on his hand as a small current of magic flickers between them.

Sometimes, Harry just wants to catch a sight of it there: simple, gold, and true.

They’d considered waiting — considered actually being properly engaged and having a proper wedding, of sharing the truth of their love with each other and the world all at once.

They hadn’t considered it for long. For the first time, they had something that was theirs and theirs alone — at least for now.

The rest of the world could wait.

Chapter 21: art!

Chapter Text

Thank you so much to the miraculous artists who have done pieces for this fic:

title art by milkandhoney, also in ch. 1 (view on tumblr)

celestial photoshoot illustration by fantalf as part of fandomtrumpshate, also in ch. 11 (view on tumblr)

fic bind by emmalovesdilemmas (view on tumblr)