Chapter Text

ACT I

Harry Potter desperately needed a light. He was weaving through alleyways in the Muggle part of London—Soho, to be exact—completely sloshed but with still enough sense in him to refrain from using magic to light his cigarette. The last time he had slipped up, Kingsley had laid into him with enough venom that Harry was sure he was about to be stripped of his Auror badge.

He approached the Gentlemen’s Club from the side alley. It was one of the only clubs in the city that still allowed smoking indoors, and when Harry discovered it the previous weekend, he had been impressed by the lavish leather furnishings, dim lighting, and nooks and crannies that were easy to disappear into. This wasn’t a club full of beautiful young things looking to dance, get rowdy, and get laid. It was a place where older businessmen could wheel and deal—or, as in Harry’s case, get absolutely smashed and sulk in a dark corner without being cut off by the bartender or bothered by a single soul. Best of all, it was an establishment where Harry was absolutely guaranteed to be the only wizard in attendance.

A lit cigarette at the end of the alley caught Harry’s eye. A long, lanky silhouetted figure was leaning against the brick wall by the dumpsters, smoking. Harry hurried over. As he approached, he could tell by the man’s uniform that he was waitstaff at the club: he wore a crisp white button-up rolled up to the elbows, a black vest and tie, a gray apron over black slacks, and shiny black loafers.

“Got a light?” Harry asked, rummaging about in his jacket for his smashed pack of cigarettes.

The man huffed out a soft laugh. “Are you a wizard, or aren’t you?”

The line reminded Harry so much of Hermione that his stomach clenched. He looked up sharply—the back of his neck prickling with shock and apprehension—to see a familiar face observing him with amusement. His sharp cheekbones, slightly upturned nose, and pointed chin were the same as they had always been. His hair was still white-blonde, but longer and loose—not slicked back severely the way it had always been in school—and falling into one of his gray-blue eyes. One of his ears was crowded with delicate platinum hoops, and—most shocking of all—his bottom lip boasted a matching ring. Still, Harry almost didn’t believe it until his eyes dropped to the man’s left foreman, sleeve rolled up to display the Dark Mark, black and vivid as it had been the day it was burned into his skin.

It was him.

Draco fucking Malfoy.

Malfoy stubbed out his cigarette on the brick wall behind him and dropped the roach into his vest pocket. He glanced to the left and the right—checking to make sure they were alone—and then snapped his fingers. A flame appeared between his thumb and forefinger. He leaned forward, and Harry could see the dark circles under his eyes and the subtle age lines beside his mouth. The flame cast strange shadows on his face and made the Dark Mark dance on his pale skin. It had been ten years since he’d last seen Draco Malfoy.

At a loss for what else to do or say, Harry leaned forward and took the light, a strange frission rippling up his arms as he did so. Malfoy smelled like tobacco and a cologne that was tantalizingly green and fresh. As Harry took his first pull, Malfoy shook out the flame between his fingers and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed and one foot braced against the bricks. “Never got the hang of wandless magic, did you?”

It was a familiar Malfoy dig, but there was no heat behind it. A smile played around his lips, but his eyes were hard. 

“Malfoy,” Harry finally managed. “What the fuck are you doing—here?”

The half-smile dropped off Malfoy’s face instantly. “We both know why you’re here,” he said, ice in his voice. “Been waiting for your turn, have you?” 

“What?” Harry asked, genuinely lost. Malfoy was pointedly looking away from him now, towards the mouth of the alley. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry insisted.

“If you say so,” Malfoy said flatly, pushing off the wall. “I’ll see you inside, Potter.” He opened a service door that Harry hadn’t noticed before and vanished in the belly of the Gentlemen’s Club.

***

Harry stood in the alley, watching the door Malfoy had just slipped through, taking deep drags of his cigarette and trying to process what had just happened. He had just seen Draco Malfoy. In Muggle London. He was—apparently—a waiter at the Gentlemen’s Club. And he had a lip ring. If that wasn’t a sign from the universe that he should turn around, head home, and try to dry out before his shift in the morning, Harry didn’t know what was. But Harry had never been any good at listening to signs. 

He ground the roach out under his heel and went around the corner to the entrance of the Club. It was a discreet black door guarded by a bouncer who waved Harry in after he presented the badge that he had charmed to look like a Muggle ID.

As he slipped into the dim and smoky atmosphere of the club, he tried to remember everything he could about what the Malfoys had been up to since the war. It was admittedly little, as he hadn’t so much as touched a Daily Prophet in years, and only kept up with the former Death Eaters to the extent that he was required to for work. As far as he knew, Lucius was still in Azkaban, serving a life sentence, and Narcissa had died of some illness shortly after her pardon. Despite the fact that Harry had testified for Draco, he had been sentenced to two years. After being released, he had vanished from the public eye. Harry had often wondered where he was and what he was up to, but he had always imagined him swanning around a derelict Malfoy Manor in an emerald green dressing gown, or entertaining socialites at a luxe apartment in Paris. Whatever this was was beyond his wildest imaginings.

As Harry gave his coat to the attendant, he had a momentary mental image of Malfoy as he had been at his trial: clad in a brown jumpsuit that hung off his undernourished frame, chained hand and foot to a chair before the Wizengamot, a tremor in his hands. He had refused to speak on his own behalf or to look at Harry during his testimony. At the time, it had enraged Harry. After everything Malfoy had done—after letting the Death Eaters into a fucking children’s school—he couldn’t muster up so much as a speck of gratitude for Harry? Not even a simple nod for the man who had saved his life, not to mention the entire fucking wizarding world? For the man who Malfoy had bullied for years? But then again, everything had enraged Harry at the time. That was before he took up drinking. Now the memory just made him sad.

He wound his way through the small rooms of the club, keeping an eye out for Malfoy but trying not to be too obvious about it. The smell of stale smoke, liquor, and leather soothed him, and he relished the anonymity of the dimly lit rooms, illuminated only by the uplighting behind the various bars and the banker lamps on the tables. Squashy leather armchairs and shelves of unread books crowded the rooms, as did small groups of older men in impeccable suits, smoking cigars and swirling whisky and laughing quietly to themselves. It was a scene out of a period film, and it reminded Harry pleasantly of Hogwarts while being as far away from the real thing as possible. Upon his first visit, Harry had been worried that he would stick out in his jeans, trainers, and bomber jacket, but he quickly learned that young money occasionally frequented the Gentlemen’s Club as well—pale, clean-shaven tech boys in baseball caps and puffy vests—so Harry didn’t look as conspicuous as he had feared.

He found an armchair in the back corner across from the bar, where he had a view of the whole central room. He watched as the dark-haired man at the bar mixed drinks and served the men on the stools. Harry was itching for a whisky, but he didn’t want to give up his chair, so he lit another cigarette. A couple of waiters swept into and out of the room, trays of drinks in their hands, but none with a head of shockingly blonde hair.

Harry was on his second cigarette when, finally, Draco emerged from a swinging door behind the bar. If he noticed Harry, he didn’t acknowledge him. He approached a table full of gray-haired men: professors, by the looks of their pipes and elbow-patches. He kept his hands clasped behind his back and took their orders without using a pad. He smiled and chatted with the men, white teeth gleaming in the dim light and his eyebrow arched with humor or flirtation. At one point, one of the men caught Malfoy by the bicep, and rather than hexing him within an inch of his life, Malfoy just leaned in while the man whispered something in his ear, and then laughed at his joke. It made anger boil in Harry’s gut for reasons he couldn’t possibly explain. 

Harry watched as Malfoy worked his way around the room, taking orders and bringing drinks back on trays, uncorking and pouring wine with a precise, expert flourish that was the only familiar thing about his behavior. A man at the table closest to Harry slipped a tenner into Malfoy’s back pocket as he leaned over to pour his glass of red. Malfoy beamed at the man and winked, but when he turned, the smile dropped off his face and Harry could see a red flush high on his cheekbones. Malfoy rushed away and vanished behind the bar.

Harry had decided that Malfoy was clearly going to ignore him all night and that he might as well make his way to the bar when Malfoy pushed the swinging door open and came across the room towards him.

Harry’s heart pounded as he approached. Unlike all the other men in the room, Malfoy didn’t offer him a warm look or flirtatious wink, but fixed him with an icy, sarcastic smile.  “And what can I get you, sir?” he purred in a faux-deferential tone.

A million questions raced through Harry’s head. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you putting these lechers on their asses? Can we talk? Why do you have a lip ring?  

Instead, he opened his mouth and said, “Uh…” 

Malfoy let him fumble, a familiar smirk tugging up the corner of his mouth. “May I suggest the house white?” he said in a voice smooth as a river rock. “People say it’s absolutely magical.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the joke. “Sure. Fine,” he said, and then Malfoy was gone again.

Harry jiggled his leg, anxiously smoking his cigarette down the filter and trying to think of what to say when Malfoy came back.

A minute later, Malfoy swept back into the room, carrying a bottle of white and a glass in one hand. A white cloth was draped over his other arm. He set the glass down on the table beside Harry, uncorked the bottle, and filled it halfway with a flourish.

“Malfoy, can we talk?” Harry burst out.

Malfoy finally looked at him, a spark of anger in his eyes. He looked over his shoulder and then learned in close, filling Harry’s nostrils with the heady scent of his cologne. “If you’re here on official business, then you can show me your badge,” he hissed. “And I’ll remind you that this is a Muggle club and it would be in your interests not to make a scene.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry loudly whispered back. “I’m not here on—on business, and I have no intention of making a scene.”

“Then what do you want?” Malfoy asked, the anger in his face deflating into genuine confusion.

“Can we just—” Harry sputtered. “Can we just go somewhere private?

There was a tense beat of silence in which Malfoy’s face went slack with shock, and something close to hurt crept in. Then his whole body coiled up and he snatched back the wine bottle, his face incandescent with fury. “It’s not that kind of club,” he spat, and swept across the room and back behind the bar. 

It was only after the door stopped swinging behind him that Harry realized what he had said. “Fuuuuuck,” he whispered, dropping his head into his hands.

***

Draco shouldered open the wine cellar door and power-walked past the dusty racks of vintage bottles, ignoring a young, new waiter who looked up and said “Hey!...” as he stormed past, no doubt wanting help in locating an obscure and obscenely expensive vintage. 

He yanked open the door to the walk-in fridge at the back of the cellar and let it swing shut behind him, one hand balling into a fist and his head falling back, welcoming the icy blast of air on the sweaty skin of his exposed neck. He realized he was still holding the bottle of white in his other hand, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than a long, obliviating swallow of it. His elbow twitched as he entertained and then quickly rejected the impulse. The last thing he needed tonight was to lose his job—not when Dawlish was watching him like a hawk, desperate for Draco to slip up. Instead Draco dug his fingernails deeply into the flesh of his palm, before he could do something stupid, like cry.

When he had first seen Potter coming towards him down the alley, his heart had leapt in a brief, stupid, hopeful impulse that he thought he had long since crushed. He half hoped and half feared that Potter had taken over for Dawlish: hoped because no one could possibly be worse than Dawlish, and feared because Potter had as much reason to hate him as Dawlish did, if not more—and hatred from Potter would be so much harder to bear. But then Potter had feigned ignorance and Draco’s heart had sank. He’d never thought of Potter as a player of games—he’d never had the patience, the wit, or the cruelty for that—but perhaps he had changed since the war. Perhaps he had grown embittered. Draco certainly had. 

And then—just as Draco was beginning to believe that Potter was actually here on coincidence—he had—propositioned him, no different from the worst of his customers. Draco couldn’t tell if Potter had come seeking him specifically, in an attempt to humiliate him, or if he had done it on a whim, not caring whether it was Draco or some whore he picked up on the street. Draco couldn’t decide which option hurt worse.

His pulse was slowing and he was trying to summon up the courage to go back out there and face Potter when the fridge door swung open. He whirled around with a “Piss off” on the tip of his tongue, expecting to see the new kid, but it was Anthony who stood in the doorway with a sickeningly sympathetic expression on his face. They were far from close, but the older bartender had always been kind to Draco, and was the first man to rush to the defense of any waiter when a client overstepped their bounds.

“Alright, lad?” he asked. 

Draco pasted a weak smile on his face and put the house white back on its shelf. “Alright,” he replied. “Just proper hungover this evening.” 

It was a weak lie, but he knew Anthony wouldn’t press him.

When Draco returned to the floor, Potter was gone.

Chapter Text

Draco trudged up the three flights of stairs to his flat in a drab, brutalist building in Tower Hamlets. It was an hour on the tube on a good night, but this particular evening, Draco had nodded off and missed his stop and was forced to double back for five blocks.

He fumbled for his keys, one arm full of styrofoam containers of leftover hors d'oeuvres that Anthony had pressed on him, and finally got the sticky lock to turn. He kicked off his shoes and deposited the leftovers in the fridge, not bothering to turn on the light, planning to fall into bed and sink into sweet oblivion as soon as he possibly could.

Behind him, a voice said, “Hello, Draco.”

Draco spun around, his hand going to his back pocket in an aborted attempt to reach for his wand; a habit that he hadn’t been able to kick in ten years without it.

The lights flickered on to reveal Dawlish sitting on the shabby couch by the window that Draco had picked off the roadside when he first moved in. 

Heart pounding in his throat, furious that he had allowed Dawlish to startle him, Draco crossed his arms to hide his shaking hands and leaned against the fridge, trying to look casual. Based on Dawlish’s smirk, he was failing.

“Your wife finally kick you out, did she?” Draco drawled. “I’m afraid you can’t kip here on account of me loathing you almost as much as she does.”

Dawlish put his muddy boots up on the coffee table and leaned back with his hands behind his head. Draco ground his teeth together.

Since his release, Draco had been subject to random home inspections and interrogations by auror after auror. The element of surprise was key—as though at any moment they might find him raising inferi in his bathtub or spiking muggle cocktails with basilisk venom. Their justification for this terrorism was his skills in occlumency and veritserum evasion, which the surprise inspections were meant to mitigate. But Draco was coming to believe that their true purpose was to drive him to jump off his fire escape.

Despite this, most of Draco’s parole supervisors so far had been fairly predictable. They were either hangdog veterans who kept to strict schedules they had been keeping since the seventies or fresh faces who were terrified of putting a wrong foot—and possibly of Draco himself—and therefore didn’t overly interfere. All that changed when Dawlish was assigned to his case.

A broad-shouldered, red-faced man in his late thirties, Dawlish had spent most of the war under the imperius curse; lost a younger brother in the Battle of Hogwarts; and had been removed from active duty after his subsequent breakdown. He eventually took up a guard posting at Azkaban, where he had first encountered Draco.

Draco had been practically catatonic during his early days at Azkaban, and even more so after his mother died shortly into his sentence. Still, Dawlish had a way of getting under his skin: manhandling him during transfers, “forgetting” or spitting in his rations, and assigning him the most unpleasant cellmates imaginable.

Finally, after a particularly ill-timed remark about his mother, Draco had snapped, “I didn’t kill your sodding brother! Arthur Dawlish was so fucking thick he would have offed himself by tripping over his shoelaces into an open sewer sooner or later, so you should count yourself lucky he died a war hero instead!”

Dawlish, who was escorting him to the medical wing for pneumonia at the time, had grabbed him by the back of his neck, forced him to his knees, and bashed his head into the cement floor. Draco still had a faint scar on his forehead from the incident. (He thought it much more distinguished-looking than Saint Potter’s, for what it was worth). Dawlish had been reprimanded and moved off of Draco’s cell block, but apparently no-one at the Ministry had any qualms about him serving as Draco’s parole officer now, and Draco was smarter than to make a complaint.

Dawlish ignored Draco’s admittedly sub-par barb about his wife and said, “Don’t worry yourself, I won’t be here long. I’ve already completed the inspection.” He smirked and opened his hands, and Draco took a look around his bedsit for the first time.

His kitchen cabinets were open and emptied. Draco had learned weeks ago not to keep anything breakable where Dawlish could find it, but his plastic cups and bowls and plates were strewn all over the floor. His bags of pasta and cereal and rice had all been torn open and emptied out. His standing closet was overturned and his clothing doused with a sticky substance—shampoo, by the smell of it. The books on the shelves by the couch had had pages ripped out by the handful. Draco had gotten sloppy and checked out eight books at once. He would have to switch library branches again—the clerks were going to flag him as a reseller if he admitted to “misplacing” yet another batch of books.

Draco shoved down the impulse to strangle Dawlish with his bare hands. He assessed the damage with a cool gaze, then flicked his eyes back to the auror. “I’m afraid I’ve seen far worse tantrums from toddlers. Next time try coloring the walls or fingerpainting the sofa if you want to impress me.”

Dawlish was unfazed. He patted the couch cushion beside him and smiled at Draco. Draco stayed still as long as he dared, then stiffly uncurled his arms and moved to sit on the edge of the couch, as far away from Dawlish as possible. He held out a small vial of clear liquid. Draco snatched it up, uncorked it, and choked it down, not allowing the bitterness of the foul liquid to show on his face. 

His limbs went warm and numb as the veritaserum flooded his bloodstream. Draco hated this feeling more than anything in the world: the looseness, the fuzziness, the burning desire to please and to spill out his deepest, darkest, secrets to whoever so much as asked. It made him feel vulnerable and pliable and utterly, wretchedly defenseless. He gripped the edge of the couch cushion and reminded himself that—one way or another—it would be over soon.

Dawlish had the questions memorized. “Have you broken the terms of your parole?”

“No,” Draco ground out.

“Have you broken any laws of the land, whether wizarding or Muggle?”

Draco wrestled with himself for a moment, and then hissed, “Yes.”

“Oh?” Dawlish asked with faux interest. “Elaborate.”

“I smoked a spliff,” Draco said flatly. “Twice.”

“And?”

“I jaywalked. At least six times.” 

“Anything else?” Dawlish asked sweetly.

“I illegally downloaded The Fame by Lady Gaga onto my iPod,” Draco said, blushing high into his hairline. He had to stop doing this shit.

“Who the fuck is Lady Gaga?” scoffed Dawlish.

“She’s an up-and-coming electronic/dance artist who is best known for the singles “Just Dance” and “Poker Face” off her debut album, The Fame, which was released on—” 

“Christ, it was rhetorical, shut the fuck up.” 

Draco’s jaw snapped closed.

“Have you violated the statute of secrecy?”

“No,” Draco said. 

“One last question.” Dawlish leaned in close and Draco stared stoically ahead, focusing his whole being on not giving Dawlish a reaction. “Are you a nasty, murdering faggot who gets off too easy every day that he walks through this world alive and free?” 

“I never murdered anyone,” Draco whispered. 

“But?”

Draco clenched his teeth together until every nerve in his jaw sang, but there was nothing for it. “But—I’m—I’m—a queer. And I got off easy,” he whispered. That much, he did believe.

“That’s all I needed to hear,” Dawlish said, slapping his knees and standing up, casual as a neighbor who had popped round for a cup of tea.

“I’ll add these violations to the term of your parole. ’Till next time, Malfoy,” he said with a wink, then turned on his heel and disapparated.

Draco rushed to the bathroom and retched into the toilet. The veritaserum always upset his stomach, in large part because Dawlish insisted on making him drink a full vial every time. Half the Ministry's annual operating budget must go towards his veritaserum allotment, and the thought of that—that the Ministry thought him so cunning—gave Draco a dull thrill. He caught his breath, washed out his mouth, and then uselessly, stupidly bolted the front door. There were at least six deadbolts, padlocks, and chains on the door now. He compulsively added a new lock every few months, although he knew it wouldn’t make any difference. 

The possibility of sleep completely banished, and the prospect of righting his flat too depressing, Draco opened the window beside his couch and crawled out onto the fire escape. He lay on his back, chain-smoking, watching a sky barren of stars and contemplating running for the millionth time. If he was braver, he would be long gone by now, hitchhiking across Europe, assuming all kinds of quirky false identities and getting up to marvelous hijinks while being pursued by the blundering aurors, who could never quite catch up. In your shoes, Potter would be long gone, a treacherous voice whispered in his ear. But he wasn’t Potter. He had never been brave, and the thought of returning to Azkaban paralyzed him every time. As small and pathetic and humiliating as his life had become, anything was better than that. Anything.

After a while, Lady Di padded up the stairs and curled up on his chest. Draco stubbed out his cigarette; she hated the smell of them. He scratched her cheek until she fell asleep, purring, and after a while, Draco did too.

 ***

Harry had chugged his glass of white wine as fast as he possibly could, slapped a tenner on the table, and hurried out the door, the bouncer giving him a strange look as he went. He made a beeline for the much louder, younger, more colorful club across the street and did four shots of sambuca in a row. The bartender denied him a fifth. It did nothing to erase the burning shame in his belly when he thought of what he had said to Malfoy.

He made his way to the narrow alley behind the club and apparated to Grimmauld Place. Miraculously, he didn’t splinch himself, although Hermione kept telling him it was only a matter of time, and he knew she was right.

He grabbed a handful of floo powder from the dish on the shelf above the kitchen fireplace, tossed it into the flames, and slurred, “Ron and ’Mione’s!”

The flames turned green. He stepped through them into Ron and Hermione’s living room.

The first thing he heard was Hermione’s scream; then he saw her and Ron jump apart from each other on the couch. The lights were dimmed and they each had a glass of red wine on the coffee table.

“Er…” Harry said.

“Jesus, mate, you have got to stop doing that,” Ron said.

Smoothing her hair, Hermione said, a little breathlessly, “We’re happy to see you though—it’s been ages and ages! We’ve been owling you.” 

“Right,” said Harry, feeling like an idiot. But he was here now, and he couldn’t keep this to himself. He sat between Ron and Hermione and dropped his head into his hands.

“I just saw Malfoy,” he said. “He’s a waiter at a Muggle club. And I think I accidentally—er—like—tried to pick him up?”

“Mate…” Ron breathed.

“I didn’t mean to!” Harry interjected. “He just thought I did. I think. Also, he has a lip ring.”

He looked up, expecting Ron and Hermione to look as shocked as he was and to be bursting with follow-up questions. Instead, they looked at him with very little surprise— and something uncomfortably close to pity.

Harry stood up and leaned against the mantlepiece.

“What do you want us to say, Harry?” Hermione said patiently, and Harry wanted to die.

“Have you considered…just…leaving him alone for once?” Ron said.

“God, I don’t know!” Harry burst out. “I just—I was just surprised, is all. What the fuck is he doing in a muggle club?”

“Well, I think he can’t use magic until his parole is up,” Hermione said slowly. “He got a ten year parole, right? So that’s two left. No one really knows what happened to him after Azkaban, but it makes sense to me that he got a muggle job.” 

“How do you know that?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“I read the paper, Harry,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “And I’ve kept up with my coworkers since I left the Ministry, you know.”

Harry was feeling worse and worse. “And what about the—the lip ring?”

Ron snorted and Hermione gave him a warning look.

Ron tried and failed to keep a straight face. “I mean…why do you think, Harry? Come on,” he said.

Harry flushed beetroot red. He had thought of that. What he couldn’t admit was that he wanted to hear someone else say it, out loud: that Draco Malfoy was gay.

“It makes sense that you’re in shock, Harry,” Hermione said patiently. “You haven’t seen him in ten years and then he turns up in a context you’re not expecting—and in the muggle world, no less! Seeing him again must have unearthed a lot of complicated feelings from the war.” 

Ron snorted at the word “feelings” and Hermione gave him another death glare.

“Thanks, Hermione, but I don’t need a therapist,” Harry said with an eye-roll. “I just thought you two might be interested, is all. Guess I was wrong.”

“Want to stay for a movie?” Hermione asked, and Ron not-so-subtly shook his head at her.

“No thanks, I’m knackered,” Harry lied. “Sorry to interrupt.”

As he ducked back through the fireplace, the shame in his belly now magnified by ten, he heard Ron say, “We have got to put a bell on him.” 

***

Harry managed to stay away for a week. He told himself that he was just going back to apologize, and that that would be the end of it, and then he could sleep again and work again and get drunk again without thinking of sodding Malfoy and his bloody fucking lip ring. 

He returned to the Gentlemen’s Club on a damp Tuesday evening and smoked a handful of fags by the dumpster, but Draco didn’t turn up. Steeling himself, he ground the final butt beneath his heel, went inside, and took a seat at the bar.

“What can I get you, sir?” the dark-haired bartender asked. He was tan, lean but well-built, and older—maybe in his early forties.

“Er—vodka tonic, I suppose,” Harry said, craning his neck around, but Draco was nowhere to be seen. He might not be working today. Or Harry might have missed his shift. He told himself to be patient, and to pace himself so that he wasn’t sloshed in case Malfoy did show up.

Three vodka tonics later, he was filling out a crossword someone had left behind on the bar when he looked up and saw Malfoy staring coolly back at him.

“Oh—hi!” Harry said. When Malfoy said nothing in response, Harry blurted out, “I didn’t know you worked the bar.”

Draco indicated his head towards the bartender, who was fetching a bottle from the shelf. “Anthony’s training me,” he said flatly.

“Listen—” They both said it at the same time.

After a brief and awkward pause, Malfoy continued. “I really hope you’re not here to make trouble for me,” he said. His affect was so flat and tired-sounding it discomfited Harry. Whatever Malfoy had been feeling when they were in school—be it triumph, rage, or loathing, he had always been so animated. 

“I’m not, Malfoy, I swear to Merlin,” Harry insisted. Malfoy rolled his eyes at the expression.

“I came to apologize for being such a knob the other day,” he continued. “I promise I’m not like—watching you, like sixth year or anything, and I didn’t mean to—er, imply, that, like—” Harry was blushing furiously and cursing those vodka tonics. He had never been articulate, and drinking made it so much worse. 

But across from him, Malfoy was smiling in a half-snide, half-amused sort of way. “That I’m a massive poof?” he supplied, inspecting his nails, which Harry suddenly noticed sported a clear coat of polish. “And that you want to give me money to get your rocks off?”

“Merlin, Malfoy,” Harry muttered, dropping his head in his hands.

“I think you mean ‘Jesus.’ When in Rome,” Malfoy said with a shrug. “You couldn’t afford me anyway,” he said loftily. He swept away to the back of the bar. Harry couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

He watched as Malfoy took orders, wearing an unnatural, movie-star smile: pouring, mixing, shaking, and stirring drinks with a hypnotic kind of grace. Harry watched the corded muscles in his arms as he shook a dirty martini, the Dark Mark looking for all the world like any ordinary young man’s edgy, vaguely regrettable tattoo. He was still tall and lean and vaguely pinched looking, but his shoulders and arms had filled out since school. Aware he was staring, Harry went back to his crossword.

Eventually Malfoy worked his way back to Harry. “Christ, you reek,” he said, and Harry met his eyes. “Gone lush, have you?” he asked snidely.

Harry just stared at him. Malfoy seemed to realize he had hit uncomfortably close to the truth and cut his eyes away, adjusting the dishcloth on his shoulder.

“Listen, it’s no business of mine,” he finally said, “But if you’re going to drink, you may as well enjoy it. Vodka tonics are shite. What do you like, Potter? I’m trying to broaden my repertoire.”

“Er—I don’t really know. I’ll drink anything, honestly,” Harry said, and then realized how that sounded. He flushed and looked down at his lap. 

“I’ll make you something,” Malfoy said after a beat.

Five minutes later, Malfoy was back with a pale green cocktail in a martini glass, a thin layer of white foam on the top and a lime round perched on the rim. He watched as Harry took a sip.

“God, that’s awful,” Harry spluttered. 

Malfoy rolled his eyes and reached for the glass, but Harry blocked his hand. “No!” he said hurriedly. “I’ll keep it. What’s in this, anyway?” 

“Gin, lime juice, simple syrup, and soda water,” Malfoy said. “I take it it’s too sour for your taste?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry admitted. 

“Figures,” Malfoy said disdainfully.

Harry was still trying to figure out what that meant when Malfoy returned with a creamy, pale concoction that had what looked like cinnamon sprinkled on top.

Harry took a sip under Malfoy’s watchful eye, trying not to make a face or dribble on his shirt or do anything else stupid. It was creamy, chocolatey, and delicious.

“It’s really good,” Harry said. Malfoy arched his eyebrow. “But I don’t think I could drink more than one of these,” he admitted.

“Hm,” Malfoy said, and walked off.

Minutes later, he returned with a vivid lavender drink garnished with a maraschino cherry. 

Harry took a sip. It was smooth, aromatic, refreshing, and unlike anything he had ever tasted before. “God, what is that?” Harry breathed.

Malfoy crossed his arms and smirked, looking pleased. “That’s an Aviation. It’s gin, lemon, maraschino liqueur, and crème de violette. It’s a vintage American cocktail. I never pegged you as a man of taste, Potter.”

“A lot’s changed since you knew me,” Harry said. He meant it to be cheeky, but it came out sad instead, and when he caught Malfoy’s eyes there was an expression in them that was terrifyingly serious and knowing. They assessed each other for a moment, and then Malfoy tossed his dishcloth over his shoulder.

“Go home to your Weasel and dry, out, Potter,” he said, turning his back. “I won’t be an enabler.”

Harry was dismissed. He was careful to leave a sizeable tip—but not so sizeable as to be weird—flushed and confused and drunk off his tits.

He wished all the way home that he’d had the courage to tell Malfoy that he wasn’t with Ginny anymore.

***

On Monday, Harry spent his morning tracking down and reading Malfoy’s file. Robards had put him on desk duty years ago, when his drinking was really out of control. Though Harry was more functional now, he no longer had the ambition or desire to get back in the field, and Robards was perfectly content to keep him on as a sort of departmental mascot he could occasionally trot out at Ministry functions and name-drop in press releases. Harry didn’t need the gold, and Hermione was always telling him to take a break or else find something he was really passionate about, but Harry couldn’t let go of the job yet. A: because it would mean admitting that his entire life post-war had been a waste of time, and B: because he had no idea what he wanted to do with the rest of it. So Harry was largely left to his own devices at work, and today he was glad he had stayed on and could read Malfoy’s files.

He sat behind his desk with a self-stirring cup of tea at his side and the file spread out in front of him, feeling slightly guilty but telling himself that as an auror, he might have had occasion to review Malfoy’s file in the ordinary course of his work anyway.

Most of the file was no surprise to him. Malfoy had been acquitted of the attempted murder of Dumbledore (largely due to Harry’s eyewitness testimony), but was sentenced to ten years for aiding and abetting a terroristic organization. The sentence had been reduced to three years due to his age, and a year further for good behavior, so in the end he had only served two.

There was a medical file from his time in Azkaban that had been almost entirely redacted. Harry was desperately curious, but he wasn’t about to request access from Robards or Kingsley just to snoop. He flipped the page and found Malfoy’s compassionate release request for his mother’s funeral, a year and a half into his sentence.

Harry had been there; the memory flooded back. Narcissa’s funeral had been held at a drab crematorium in Knockturn Alley. In the lobby, Harry had timidly approached Malfoy, who was flanked by two grim-faced Aurors, and looked very small in his oversized, clearly borrowed suit.

“I’m sorry about your mum, Malfoy,” Harry had said. When Malfoy just glared at him with red-rimmed eyes, Harry mumbled, “She saved my life, you know. She saved all of ours. I’m really grateful.”

He met Malfoy’s sunken eyes and was surprised to see pure fury blazing in them. “My mother lied to the Dark Lord to save me,” Malfoy hissed, “Her son, her only child, not Saint Harry Potter and his merry band of heroes. And believe it or not, I loved her beyond the small role she played in your hero’s journey, you self-centered twat!”

Malfoy took a step forward, as though he were about to continue, but the aurors flanked him tightly and Malfoy deflated, looking down at his scuffed shoes.

Harry fled the premises, feeling sick and ashamed.

After his release from Azkaban, Malfoy’s parole had been supervised by a rotating cast of aurors; most recently John Dawlish. His residential addresses were redacted, but he had evidently lived in the muggle world all that time, working as a busboy and eventually as a waiter at a string of restaurants. The job at the Gentlemen’s Club was his longest held by far, Malfoy having been there for over a year.

There was a knock on his office door. Harry hurriedly shut the file and stuffed it into a desk drawer. “Come in!” he called breathlessly.

***

Harry spent every Saturday night that month at the Gentlemen’s Club, careful to overlap with Malfoy’s shift. He always ordered Avitations, and Malfoy somehow always cut him off at the exact moment he crossed the line from tipsy to visibly drunk. It was better than drinking alone in the dark kitchen at Grimmauld Place, and it meant that he was no longer turning up to the Weasley Sunday roasts embarrassingly hungover.

He was careful not to monopolize Malfoy’s time, but in small moments, Harry felt that Malfoy was warming to him: making jokes that weren’t always at Harry’s expense (although those were certainly in the mix, as well) and smiling at him on occasion—not in the cruel way he had in school, or the false way he smiled at the other patrons, but in the warm, shy, there-and-gone-again way he smiled at Anthony. Once, at the end of the night, he even pressed a box of canapes on Harry that he said were going to be thrown out anyway.

The last Saturday of the month, Harry showed up with the intention of asking Malfoy out for coffee. His heart was hammering in his chest—a feeling he would interrogate later, when he’d had a few drinks in him. Because of his nerves, he arrived later than he usually did. The club was packed, and much louder and rowdier than usual.

Harry slid into his usual seat at the bar and Anthony greeted him with a nod.

“Alright, mate?” Harry asked.

Anthony nodded. “Draco’s not working the bar tonight.”

“That’s alright,” Harry said quickly, self-conscious of seeming too eager. Anthony carefully watched the way he behaved around Malfoy, and Harry had a feeling he could see right through him. “I’ll have an Aviation, thanks.”

While Anthony’s back was turned, Harry glanced around and spotted Malfoy hurrying across the room with a tray of champagne flutes, looking flushed and tired.

When Anthony came back with his drink, Harry asked, “Busy night?”

“Oh, aye,” Anthony said with a long-suffering glance to the heavens. “It’s some finance bloke’s thirtieth birthday.”

Harry had just opened his mouth to reply when Anthony stiffened, his gaze fixed on something behind Harry’s shoulder.

Harry turned in his seat and immediately saw what Anthony was frowning at. Malfoy, holding the full champagne tray in front of him like a barrier, was backed up against a bookshelf, a tall bloke in an impeccably tailored suit leaning in close and murmuring flirtatiously into his ear. The man’s eyes were drooping; he was clearly wasted. Malfoy’s usual customer-service smile was faltering, and his eyes were darting back and forth.

Malfoy edged away from him, but the man caught his elbow. The moment the man touched him, the conciliatory expression dropped off of Malfoy’s face. He locked eyes with the man and said something Harry couldn’t hear over the music, but that was no doubt vicious and cutting, if Harry knew him at all. 

The man immediately recoiled, but just as Malfoy smirked in victory, the man picked up a champagne glass and smashed it back against the tray. Malfoy tried to twist away, but he was too slow, and as the glass shattered, it sliced open his right hand. He dropped the tray; it clattered onto the floor with the sound of tinkling glass and sloshing liquid. The surrounding patrons went silent.

Harry was out of his seat before he could think twice, but Anthony had already leapt around the bar and charged ahead of him.

Malfoy caught his right hand, which was now gushing blood, and backed away—his face horribly pale and shell-shocked—just as Anthony caught up to the pair. He gave the man a rough shove and shouted, “OUT. NOW.”

A bouncer appeared from nowhere and escorted the man to the door.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt him!” the man protested loudly. “He provoked me! You shoulda heard what he said about my mum—”

Harry watched helplessly as Anthony put an arm around Malfoy’s shoulders and swept him back to the kitchen.

Another server hurried to the scene and started sweeping up the broken glass as the hubbub resumed.

Harry could do nothing but make his way to the alley and hope that Malfoy would show up. After ten minutes of anxious pacing, the service door swung open and Malfoy appeared. After an initial look of surprise at Harry’s presence, Malfoy leaned against the door and lit a cigarette. A bandage was wrapped tightly around his right hand, and Harry noticed that his left hand shook as he summoned the flame.

“Enjoy the show, Potter?” Malfoy asked, not looking at him. The remark lacked the sharp edges of his usual snark.

“No, fuck, Malfoy,” Harry said earnestly. “Are you okay? That bloke was a right cunt.”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Malfoy said lightly, still not looking at Harry. “Anthony patched me up and let me have some whisky and the manager gave me a double break, so.”

“Let me at least heal it,” Harry said, slipping his wand out from under his sleeve. “You can put the bandage back on, the muggles won’t notice.” 

Malfoy’s gaze dropped to the wand and he froze. Harry realized at that moment that he had made a huge mistake.

“Is that—my wand?” Malfoy asked breathlessly, not taking his eyes off it.

“Shit, Malfoy, I didn’t mean—” 

“Have you been using it all this time?” Harry wished he could unhear the tremor in Malfoy’s voice.

“Yeah,” Harry said, so desperate to explain that his words came tumbling out, one after the other. “Yeah, I kept waiting for you to ask for it back, but you never did, it responded to me so well, and my wand broke during the war, and I guess I got used to yours, and I just thought I could take care of it until you were out of Azkaban, and I—”

“It responds to you, does it?” Draco asked, his voice ice. His cigarette was burning down to ash. “I suppose it’s happy to have a superior master, is it? Should I be honored that Wonder Boy has deigned to use a Death Eater scum’s filthy wand?”

“Take it,” Harry said desperately, stepping forward and holding out the wand.

Malfoy recoiled as if he were a vampire and it were a cross. “Haven’t you heard from your auror pals, Potter?” he snarled. “I can’t. I’m crippled. A magical eunuch.”

“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” Harry said desperately. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“You never do,” Malfoy said, his voice shaking with cold fury. “But I know exactly what your angle is. It gets you off to see me so humbled, doesn’t it? Exiled from the real world, working a shitty, humiliating job where I get propositioned and assaulted by customers, eating kitchen scraps for dinner every night. And as the cherry on top, I’m forced to serve my worst enemy hand and foot with a smile, while he flaunts the wand he stole from me. And all the while you’re telling yourself how saintly you are for gracing the likes of me with your presence.”

“No—no, that’s not it,” Harry breathed.

Malfoy dropped his cigarette and took a step forward, looming over Harry, so close that Harry could smell whisky on his breath and see tears standing in his eyes.

“And don’t think I don’t know about your massive gay crisis, Potter,” he snarled. “I’m not going to be your hate-fuck fantasy. I’m not going to be your little experiment before you go crawling back to your conventional life. I’m not going to hold your hand and braid your hair just because you don’t want to burden your real friends with your issues.”

Malfoy wrenched open the service door and looked over his shoulder at Harry. “If you set foot in my workplace again, I’ll have Anthony throw you out on your ear. Find another establishment to be a useless drunkard in. And every time you look at my wand, please remember how much I loathe you.” 

He swept through the door and vanished down the corridor.

Harry stood in the alley for a long time, staring at the place where Malfoy had been, Malfoy’s wand hanging uselessly from his hand.

Chapter Text

Harry went home and drank himself to sleep. He skipped the Sunday roast at the Weasley’s the next evening. Monday came and he didn’t go into the office. He didn’t go in the rest of the week, either, knowing full well that no one would miss him and that Robards wouldn’t bother imposing any consequences.

He paced the rooms of Grimmauld House, replaying his last conversation with Malfoy over and over again in his mind, thinking of things he should have said, should have done, should have changed. He imagined himself catching Malfoy’s hand before he could disappear down that dark corridor and out of his life forever; imagined himself saying something that would make Malfoy stay.

Some nights he imagined that he had given Malfoy’s wand back the night they first met in the alley—or even sooner, that he had sought him out after the final battle and returned it then. He imagined that he had never taken Malfoy’s wand at all, and had instead taken him away from the Manor that day. He remembered the recognition in Malfoy’s eyes as they knelt face to face, the naked fear they displayed when Lucius asked him to identify Harry, the tremble in Draco’s voice when he said “I can’t be sure.” He remembered the flash he’d had of Malfoy writhing on the ground before Voldemort in the aftermath. He hadn’t cared, at the time, too busy digging Dobby’s grave. He remembered Malfoy’s arms tight around his waist as they flew through the burning Room of Requirement. 

He imagined that he’d visited Malfoy in the hospital wing after casting the Sectumsempra curse, but could never imagine the words of an apology that would be enough, that would make Malfoy forgive him. He imagined that he’d never thrown the curse at all. He imagined that he’d shaken the hand Malfoy had offered him when they’d met for the very first time in Madam Malkin’s. Would anything be different if he had?

He thought about all this as he tried not to think about how the words gay crisis had sounded as they fell out of Malfoy’s mouth. When he did, his cheeks burned with shame, because if Malfoy knew, who else?

He remembered what Ginny had said to him during their final, tearful fight— “Are you even attracted to me? Be honest!” 

“God, Gin, does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!”

“I don’t even know if I—I can feel what you want me to feel, about anyone! I’m broken, Gin—maybe something broke in me during the war, or maybe it was broken all along. But it’s not about you. I think you’re gorgeous, I think you’re brilliant. I love you, I love your family. I want to have one of our own. We’re good together—isn’t that enough?”

Ginny had shook her head, tears in her eyes, and Harry had been furious. He couldn’t understand why all that they had still wasn’t enough for her.

But when he remembered how Malfoy’s forearms looked with his sleeves rolled up, how his lip ring glittered when he smirked, how his lips closed around a cigarette, he thought maybe he understood now.

Ron came through the fireplace the next Sunday evening. He took one look around the place—empty bottles everywhere, ashtrays overflowing, and Harry, unshowered, on the couch—and ducked back into the fireplace. He returned with Hermione moments later.

They sat on either side of him. Hermione pulled his head into her lap and Harry cried like he hadn’t since the end of the war.

“I messed things up with Malfoy. He hates me,” he was finally able to gasp.

“And that’s…er…new?” Ron asked.

Harry could feel rather than see Hermione shoot Ron a look.

“That’s not exactly what I mean,” Harry finally whispered. “I mean…I mean I think—that I’m gay.”

Hermione and Ron didn’t say a thing; they didn’t have to. They were utterly unsurprised. It was Harry’s worst fear made manifest.

But when he woke to the pale morning light streaming through the window they were both draped over him, snoring softly.

***

Things got a little better, after that. Harry started going into work more often, stopped drinking so much. He even showed up to Sunday roast a couple of times (but only when he knew that Ginny was playing Quidditch abroad). He spent a lot of nights walking around Soho, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back to the club, or even to loiter in the alley in hopes that Malfoy would show up. Malfoy didn’t want to see him, and for the first time in his life, Harry felt he deserved to have his wishes respected.

He didn’t tell anyone else about being gay. He didn’t think there was anything to tell, yet. Hermione disagreed; she awkwardly pressed books and films on him, which Harry didn’t mind, and even offered to do Harry’s hair or take him shopping, which he shut down fast and hard. He wasn’t interested in any of that. What he couldn’t tell Hermione was that all he was interested in was Malfoy. Hermione thought it was an unhealthy fixation, that he was avoiding confronting his identity by obsessing over Malfoy instead. But he’d been obsessing over Malfoy since he was eleven. He didn’t know what being gay even was, other than that. Well, that, and the shame of being “A flaming faggot if I’ve ever seen one,” as Uncle Vernon had once remarked loudly in a restaurant about a fellow patron. 

But Ron and Hermione’s acceptance had eased something tight and painful in Harry’s chest, a knot he hadn’t even known was there, tangled up as it was with all of the other knots that had been forming ever since the day he was made an orphan.

Ron had given Harry Dean Thomas’s address after he came out. The idea of being set up on a gay playdate with Dean had mortified Harry, but a few weeks later, he was pacing the dark hallways of Grimmauld Place on a Saturday night with the knowledge deep in his bones that if he didn’t find a distraction he would end up back at the Gentlemen’s Club. So Harry owled him.

Dean stumbled through the floo an hour later, already drunk and thrilled to see Harry.

“Long time no see!” he crowed. “Welcome to the club, mate, about damn time!”

He made Harry change his outfit three times, finally approving a muggle band t-shirt, an oversized red and black checkered flannel, his tightest blue jeans, and his whitest pair of sneakers. Dean ripped holes in the knees of Harry’s jeans despite his feeble protests. He attacked Harry’s hair with mousse and hairspray, but it just got wilder and wilder until Dean finally gave up and shoved a black beanie over it.

Dean apparated them to a muggle bar in Soho named, embarrassingly, The Bulge. Inside, it was humid and packed, the dance floor crowded with bodies pulsing to loud, electronic music, everything lit up with green and purple lights. It smelled like liquor and hairspray and cigarettes. Everyone looked so confident, so joyful, so stylish, so sexy. Harry felt like an ogre.

Dean quickly peeled off, spotting some friends of his on the dance floor, and Harry shouldered his way to the bar and ordered two shots of sambuca, desperate to catch up to Dean’s level of drunkenness. After he downed the shots, he ordered a beer and then looked around, cursing himself. No one else was drinking beer. He stuck out like a sore thumb.

Harry was scanning the dance floor for Dean, palms sweaty and regretting he had ever come, when his eyes snagged on a head of white-blonde hair.

The man’s head was canted back in ecstasy, his back against the wall, arms wrapped around the shoulders of the much taller, broader man who was sucking on his neck. The blonde twined his leg around the man’s calf. Harry flushed and looked away, not wanting to stare. Against his will, his eyes skittered back to the couple. The hair had reminded him so much of—

The blonde had tilted his head off the wall. He was looking directly at Harry now, grey eyes wide with surprise. They locked eyes.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck. It was him—it was definitely him. Draco fucking Malfoy.

Malfoy quickly mastered the expression on his face. He smirked over the bigger man’s shoulder, and then, very deliberately, removed his hand from the man’s neck and raised his middle finger at Harry. He made the same gesture with his other hand, maintaining eye contact with Harry the whole time. The man continued to suck on Malfoy’s neck, hands against the wall on either side of his head, oblivious. All of the blood in Harry’s body rushed to his dick. He abandoned his beer at the bar and pushed his way through the crowd and out into the blessedly cold night air, angry and embarrassed and painfully hard.

Harry had only made it a block down the street when a hand on his shoulder startled a gasp out of him. He whirled around and was suddenly face-to-face with a furious Malfoy. Harry opened his mouth to say—what, he didn’t know—but froze as he took Malfoy in.

There was glitter on Malfoy’s face. It was smeared across his nose and cheekbones, and his eyes were smudged with dark liner. There was mousse in his hair, and it was tousled and full, like he had just rolled out of bed. His lips were shiny and slick, maybe with lip gloss, or maybe—oh god—with that man’s saliva. He was wearing a ripped Evanescence T-shirt, the tightest black jeans Harry had ever seen with a studded belt, and fingerless fishnet gloves.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Harry blurted out.

Malfoy’s chest was heaving. He must have pushed that guy off him and run down the street after Harry, a thought which briefly made Harry feel like he was flying. He came down to earth when Malfoy pointed a finger at his chest and snarled, “Didn’t I tell you to leave me the hell alone?”

“Excuse me,” Harry said hotly, “You’re the one who just came running down the street after me like a psycho! I was trying to leave you alone!”

“So why were you in the club in the first place?” Malfoy demanded.

“Because I’m GAY!” Harry shouted, startling a passing couple, who speed-walked down the sidewalk away from them. “As you so kindly pointed out the last time we spoke! News flash, not everything is about you! And as far as I know you don’t own all the gay clubs in Great Britain, so I’ll be damned if you’ll tell me where I can and can’t go!”

For what Harry was pretty sure was the first time in his life, Malfoy didn’t come back with a snappy retort. He just stood there, gaping back at Harry, the skin beneath the glitter gone pink.

“You’re…you’re gay?” he asked breathlessly.

“That’s what I said,” Harry mumbled, kicking at the sidewalk. “It’s not like you didn’t know,” he added, somewhat bitterly.

“Yeah, but…” Malfoy pushed his hair back and glanced to the side. Then he seemed to recover his composure and smirked at Harry. “I never thought you’d actually have the balls to admit it.” 

“What can I say, Malfoy,” Harry said dryly. “I’m a Gryffindor.” 

Malfoy’s mouth twisted into a half smile. Harry smiled back at him. The moment stretched out. Harry was on the brink of saying something—anything—to keep Malfoy smiling at him, but then Malfoy shoved his hands in his pockets, the expression dropping off his face.

“As long as you stay away from the blokes I’m pulling, it’s nothing to me,” he said, his voice suddenly cool and distant again. He stepped into Harry’s space and looked imperiously down his long nose at him. “I like them tall, dark, and handsome. And more importantly, rich.”

Harry was about to say just how far away that was from his type, when he thought the better of it. He clicked his teeth together, his face going red with mortification.

“They’ll be out of your league, anyway,” Malfoy said with a snide smile. “But if you must intrude on my hunting grounds, kindly refrain from dressing like the puniest lumberjack in the world next time.” 

Malfoy turned on his heel, then looked back over his shoulder, disdain dripping from his voice. “It’s embarrassing. If anyone asks I’ll be forced to pretend I don’t know you.”

He strode back towards the club, his zippered boots clicking, leaving Harry fuming on the sidewalk.

***

Draco had been lonely a long time, but the weeks after he barred Harry from the club had been some of the loneliest.

Living in the muggle world meant never being known, by anyone. Yes, he had coworkers he went out for drinks with, and a rotating cast of hookups, and neighbors he was friendly with, but he always had to pull away the moment they began getting too close. Because if they got too close, the questions began, questions he couldn’t answer: Where’d you go to school? What did you study? Play any sports? What do your parents do? What’s your tattoo mean? Get too close, and the gaps in his knowledge would start to show: his ignorance of muggle history, television shows, and music, his inability to drive, the way he still flinched at toasters popping and car horns and the way he had trouble working CD players and mobiles and televisions. And not the least of it, he couldn’t risk bringing anyone home for the fear that Dawlish would show up and blow it all to pieces.

But Draco had learned to be content with surface pleasantries and one-night-stands and Lady Di purring in his lap. He’d learned to be grateful for each day without pain and bloodshed and terror, to numb his loneliness with weed and exhaustion and books.

And then Potter had to ask for a light. He’d dropped back into Draco’s life like Dorothy in Oz, intense and bright and magnetic as he’d always been. Draco had come to believe that his experience of Potter at school had been vivid the way everything is vivid when you’re a teenager, but ten years on he was the same as he’d always been, with those searing green eyes and that boyish, nervous energy and the way he had of making you feel like the only person in the world when he turned his focus on you. Draco had always thrilled to that attention as a boy, and so he became very good at getting it. Even being loathed was preferable to being ignored.

Against his will, Draco had found himself looking forward to their weekly interactions at the bar, because even though Potter knew—better than anyone—his crimes and his weaknesses and his failures, at least he knew him. Draco would rather be scorned than forgotten. And with Potter around, Draco found it easier to be his old self, because it was what Potter expected of him: proud and polished and witty and cutting. Untouchable, like he used to be. Safe, like he used to be. 

But when Potter had witnessed his humiliating injury, and Draco had watched his own wand slip out of Potter’s sleeve, the illusion had been broken—crushingly so. Draco wasn’t who he used to be, and Potter wasn’t his friend, and he had been so contemptibly weak and stupid for letting himself forget that, for rolling over for Potter at the slightest hint of friendliness like an abandoned dog.

Draco’s nightmares became more frequent, after that. He’d wake up sweating and shaking and screaming—or more often, trying to—and as his heartbeat slowed and the sweat cooled he tried to feel grateful, as he used to, that he was relatively safe in his own bed, and not at the table with the Dark Lord or chained in his cell in Azkaban or in the Room of Requirement; not burning alive or weeping over the damned cabinet or forced to his knees or sliced open in the sixth floor bathroom. Things could be a lot worse.

But the more years that accumulated between Draco and the war, the louder became the treacherous voice in the back of his mind that whispered, Things could be a lot better, too.

So when he’d seen Potter—astonishingly—in his favorite cruising spot, he’d lost control and run after him, half of him wanting to stop him from walking out of his life again and half of him wanting to sock him in the jaw, just to feel something. 

Now Draco shouldered his way back into the club, more forcefully than he needed to, hating himself for losing control over Potter yet again and determined to get blackout drunk and go home with the tall bloke, even if he was a sloppy kisser.

Draco had worked his way halfway around the room when he found himself face to face with Dean Thomas. It was so unexpected that Draco couldn’t process what he was seeing at first—why this bloke looked so familiar. He could see his own shock—followed by dawning recognition—mirrored in Dean’s eyes. The last time he had locked eyes with Dean Thomas was in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor. It came back in a flash: Dean filthy and bloodied, staring through the bars at Draco with a mixture of shock and pity, his own face burning with humiliation.

Dean stepped forward, whether to deliver a curse, an insult, or a blow, Draco wasn’t sure, but he was too much of a coward to stick around and get what he deserved. Perhaps he could have been brave and borne his comeuppance if Potter weren’t skulking about, but Draco would be damned if he let Wonder Boy witness yet another of his endless humiliations.

Draco turned and desperately shouldered his way back through the crowd, which suddenly felt absolutely suffocating. What the hell were all of these Gryffindors doing in his favorite club? The entire wizarding world was their oyster—could Draco have nothing of his own?

He was nearly at the door when a hand wrapped around his wrist and Draco flinched back, hard.

“Where’d you go, baby?” Sloppy Kisser asked. “We were having such a good time.”

“Were we?” Draco snapped, yanking his wrist free. “I thought it was rather like trying to snog a spitting camel.”

The man’s face fell. Draco shoved down a twinge of guilt as he stalked past him and pushed open the door, vanishing into the night before any more bloody Gryffindors could jump out from behind a bush to cock-block him.

  ***

Harry wrestled with himself on the sidewalk for several long minutes, and then finally decided that he wasn’t going to go home with his tail between his legs just because Malfoy was being an arsehole.

He kept an eye out for Malfoy as he made his way back into the club, but didn’t see him anywhere.

“Harry!” Dean shouted, waving his arms. Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry made his way over to Dean, who had acquired a pair of shutter shades since Harry had last seen him. “The weirdest thing just happened,” he shouted into Harry’s ear. “I just saw Malfoy! Like, Draco Malfoy! In the twinkiest outfit you’ve ever seen!”

Dean paused when Harry didn’t look as surprised as he expected, so Harry shouted back, “Yeah, I’ve actually—er—seen him around the neighborhood before.”

“Oh yeah? You talk to him at all?” Dean asked. “I tried to say hello but he, like, ran off.”

“Weird,” Harry said. 

“If you see him again, let me know, yeah?” Dean said. “I’d like to talk to him.”

“Sure,” Harry said, trying to ignore the disappointment sinking like a lead balloon in his chest.

Harry dealt with it the way he always dealt with his feelings—by drinking. An hour later, he was completely legless, dancing with Dean and his friends and scream-singing to “I Kissed a Girl.” Everyone seemed to know the words except for Harry, but he picked it up by the second chorus.

An hour till closing, Harry was necking a skinny blonde in a bathroom stall. He was drunk enough that he could pretend he was Malfoy, and sober enough to feel guilty for pretending. The man—Colin—smelled like Fireball, not fancy cologne; he was shorter than Harry, not taller; and his hair was spiked up, not soft and falling into his eyes; but his lips were soft and he made sweet little sounds when Harry put his teeth on his skin.

The man started fumbling with Harry’s belt buckle, and Harry’s hand met his. Suddenly, it was all happening too fast. A month ago he didn’t even know he was gay, and now a man was about to get him off in the bathroom stall of a club named The Bulge.

“Don’t worry, I’m good at this,” Colin smiled, sinking to his knees. He took Harry in his mouth, but Harry was fully in his head now. After a few excruciatingly awkward minutes, it was clear that he wasn’t going to get more than half-hard.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, stuffing himself back into his pants, his cheeks burning, suddenly feeling—absurdly—like he might cry.

“It’s alright, love,” Colin said. “Whisky dick, yeah? Happens to us all. Here,” he said, standing up and pulling out his phone, “Give me your number.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, rushing out of the stall. “I—I have to go.”

He left poor Colin in the stall and spent the night curled up on the bathroom floor at Grimmauld Place, vomiting into the toilet, cursing the moment he had asked Malfoy for a light and everything that had happened since. 

Chapter Text

It was a long time before Dean was able to convince Harry to go back to the club. He wasn’t sure who he was more afraid of running into—Malfoy or Colin. But another string of lonely weeks wore him down, in the end. They pregamed at Grimmauld Place, which helped, a little, and Harry got dressed in the same outfit he’d worn last time, ignoring Dean’s offers to lend him something, anything else. It was clean: that should be good enough, and who was he trying to impress, anyway? But he couldn’t help the niggling voice in his ear that told him Draco had been right: he really did look like a lumberjack.

It was all going fine, at first. Harry was buzzed enough to take the edge off, but not as sloppy as he’d been last time. He was watching the crowd and nursing a cider, working his way up to dancing, relieved that both Malfoy and Colin were nowhere to be seen.

And then someone grabbed his elbow. “Famous Harry Potter,” a familiar voice drawled.

Harry spun around so fast his neck cracked. The first thing he noticed was how huge Malfoy’s pupils were. The second was how warm his hand was. Harry had always imagined that Malfoy would feel as cold as he looked, like a marble statue, but his fingers were warm and calloused.  

“Slumming it in a gay dive,” Malfoy slurred. “If only I’d had this material to work with in school.”

Malfoy was dressed like he had just come off a shift, minus the apron and vest. His tie was undone and draped around his neck. The top buttons of his shirt were open and his cheeks and nose were bright pink.

An older, bearded man came up behind him, and Malfoy turned.

“Reggie,” he slurred, throwing an arm over Harry’s head and around his shoulders, nearly whacking his nose in the process. “Please meet my arch rival, Harry Potter.”

“Er—hi,” Reggie said, looking annoyed.

“I was a prick to him in school,” Malfoy said, staring directly into Harry’s eyes, his pupils eerily large and his eyes unblinking. “I made fun of his dead parents. And called his friends slurs. I even formed an anti-fan club about him in fourth year. I made badges and everything. I would feel worse if it hadn’t been so funny. Potter never had a sense of humor, though.”

“Er—” Harry said. The words He wasn’t that bad were on the tip of his tongue, but Harry couldn’t speak them. Malfoy had been that bad—and worse.

“It’s alright though,” Malfoy continued, the amber drink in his hand sloshing on the floor as he swayed back and forth. “He had the last laugh. Got the gold, the glory, the girl—well, minus the girl—so I don’t feel too badly.”

Harry had no idea what to say. He stood there awkwardly while Reggie pulled on Draco’s free arm. 

“Let’s get out of here. Nice to meet you, pal,” he said, with a curt nod towards Harry.

Malfoy ignored him. “I used to think having an arch rival was very interesting and romantic,” he said, still staring at Harry. “Now I think it’s really shite, actually. I thought it was a game. But he thought it was real. He even tried to kill me once.”

The blood left Harry’s face all at once. Is that what he thought?  “Jesus, Malfoy,” he breathed. “That’s not—”

All at once, Malfoy vomited bile onto Harry’s shoes. 

“Fuck!” Reggie swore, jumping back. The crowd gasped and parted around them. Harry caught Malfoy by the biceps as he pitched forward.

“Fuck, Malfoy, you alright?”

“I only had two,” Malfoy whimpered, looking down at the floor with watery eyes, and then Reggie was pulling him back and wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

“Sorry about that, mate,” he said to Harry with a nod. “Let’s get you home, love.” He steered Malfoy away and vanished into the crowd.

“Wait—” Panic suddenly gripped Harry’s chest. He shook as much of the bile as he could off of his shoes and followed them out the side door.

He found Malfoy slumped against the wall of the alleyway, Reggie leaning in towards him, his knee between both of Malfoy’s.

“We can’t go to mine,” Malfoy was saying.

“That’s alright, love,” Reggie said. “We can go to mine. I’ll take care of you.” He shot Harry an irritated look as he came into view. “Listen, mate, can you hash out your boyhood rivalry another time? Can’t you see we’re busy?”

“I can see that he’s sick and in no fit state,” Harry said hotly.

“It’s a club,” Reggie said, squaring up to Harry. “He’s been drinking. That’s the point. And it’s no business of yours, so back the fuck off, mate.”

“Boys, boys, no need to fight over little old me,” Malfoy cooed, batting his eyelashes and pressing a hand to his chest.

“I’m taking you home,” Harry said firmly to Malfoy. 

“The hell you are,” Reggie said, moving towards Harry.

“Mercy me,” Malfoy said, fanning himself like a lady in a period drama.

It had been a long time since Harry was in a physical brawl, but Reggie was slow and drunk. He took a swing at Harry and Harry ducked, casting a quick tripping jinx as he went down. Reggie was sprawled out on the ground in an instant.

Harry took Malfoy by the elbow and hauled him down the alley and around the corner while Reggie moaned on the pavement.

As soon as they were at the end of the block, Malfoy clumsily pushed Harry up against a wall, wrapping his arms around his neck. “Congratulations Harry Potter,” he murmured in a sickly sweet voice. “You saved me from the big bad man. The winner gets to take me home and ravish me.”

“I don’t want to ravish you,” Harry mumbled, shaking him off, his mind screaming LIAR!

“Are you still fighting it?” Malfoy said, his voice changing. Now it was horribly soft and earnest. “I see the way you look at me.” He was toying with Harry’s collar now. His eyelashes were darker than his hair, Harry suddenly noticed—and so long they cast a shadow on his cheeks.

“There’s no shame in it. It doesn’t mean you like me. Hatred can be a big turn on, don’t you know anything?” Malfoy tugged on Harry’s collar and put his mouth to his ear, his breath hot and wet. “You can even punish me, if you want to,” he breathed. “I like to be punished. It’s okay. You can play the hero and I can play the villain, like we used to. It can be our little secret. I don’t have anyone left to tell.”

“Jesus, Malfoy, stop—stop!” Harry shoved Malfoy off him, harder than he meant to, his stomach churning and his dick horrifyingly hard. 

Malfoy stumbled back, looking hurt. He crossed his arms and looked away. When he looked back at Harry, his voice was hard and cold. “You have to be getting something out of this, Potter. And if you’re trying to play the big damn hero, you’re about twelve years too late,” he spat.

He stalked down the sidewalk. Harry was too stunned to move for a long moment. Finally, he jogged down the sidewalk after him, anger boiling in his stomach.

“What, would you have rather gone home with that prick?” Harry demanded when he caught up.

“Why not?” Malfoy said dully. “It’s better than going home alone. It’s loads better than being your pity project.” He suddenly swayed and caught himself with one arm against a wall.

“He drugged you, Malfoy,” Harry said.

“You think I don’t know that?” Malfoy snapped.

“What’s your address?”

Malfoy recovered and continued down the street. “There’s a tube stop around the corner. Leave me alone, Potter.” 

He turned the corner and then stopped in his tracks. He stared at the sidewalk, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“There’s no tube stop here, Malfoy,” Harry said. “Just give me your address and let me apparate you home. Please.” 

“If we apparate I’m going to yak on your shoes again,” Malfoy finally whispered.

Harry grimaced at his damp shoes. “I’m afraid that ship has already sailed.”

Malfoy pressed his palms over his eyes, and when he spoke his voice was wobbly. “I just want to have a humiliating moment—just one—without you showing up and making it so much worse.”

Harry finally pried the address out of Malfoy. He looped their arms together and stepped into thin air. All the neon lights on the street swirled together, and Harry’s whole body felt squeezed tight and then turned inside out. A moment later, they landed on firm ground.

True to his word, Malfoy immediately stumbled to his knees and vomited again.

Harry looked around. They were in the drab, carpeted hallway of an apartment building. It smelled like cigarette smoke and mildew. Before Harry could process the scene, the door across the way swung open and an older Black woman in a brightly patterned nightdress, matching head wrap, and slippers was standing in the doorway.

Harry was about to apologize for the scene when she strode over and shoved a finger in his chest. “What are you doing to this young man?” she demanded in a Jamaican accent. “Are you a cop? You have to show me your badge if you are a cop. Or are you just a rapist? Is this what turns you on, big man, this poor sick boy puking his guts up on the carpet?”

“It’s alright, Dorothy,” Malfoy croaked up from the floor. “I know him.”

Dorothy looked Harry up and down, seemingly deeply unimpressed. “You never bring boys home anymore,” she said to Malfoy, her voice dripping with suspicion. “This is not the way.”

“No, he’s—he’s—” Malfoy hesitated and glanced up at Harry

“I’m a friend,” Harry said quickly. 

“Come over and let me make you some ginger tea, yes?” Dorothy said softly, crouching next to Malfoy and rubbing his back.

“No, it’s alright,” Malfoy said, wobbling to a standing position with her help. “I just want to go to bed. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

Dorothy cast Harry another suspicious glance. Malfoy followed her gaze and said, “He’s not a—he’s really okay. I’ll come see you for teatime tomorrow, alright?”

“...Fine,” Dorothy finally said. “But if anything happens, just yell. Bang on the wall. I will hear you, okay dear?” Dorothy patted Malfoy’s cheek and finally returned to her own apartment, casting Harry one last glare over her shoulder as she went. Harry hovered awkwardly in the hallway while Malfoy struggled with his keys, not wanting to leave but not wanting to invite himself in, either. But then Malfoy shouldered open the door, slapped on the light, and Harry gasped.

It looked like a tornado had torn through the apartment. The contents of the fridge were smashed across the tile. All of the kitchen cabinets had been emptied. The coffee table and bookshelf were overturned. The glass in a huge framed portrait of some woman in a tiara Harry didn’t recognize had been smashed, and it was hanging crookedly on the wall.

“Jesus, Malfoy, what the hell happened?” Harry asked, stepping into the studio.

Malfoy ignored him, looking utterly unsurprised. He closed the door behind Harry and started slamming the deadbolts shut. Harry counted at least six of them, astonished. Then Malfoy dragged a wooden chair from the living room and braced it beneath the doorknob.

Harry watched in uneasy silence as Malfoy made his way to the bed in the corner, yanking off his shoes and belt as he went. 

Malfoy sank heavily onto the bed and gripped the edge of the mattress, looking at the floor. A long, heavy silence stretched between them. Harry was just about to offer to leave when Malfoy spoke.

“I don’t want to be alone—like this—if he comes back,” he rasped. He looked up at Harry, then looked down at the floor again. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“I’ll stay,” Harry breathed. “If that’s alright. If you want me to.”

Malfoy closed his eyes. “Alright,” he finally said. He rolled onto his side and was asleep within minutes. 

***

Harry tried to tidy up at first, but every attempt to put the flat to rights—whether magical or manual—made Malfoy twitch in his sleep at the noise. So he gave up, and cleared a space on the couch that gave him a clear view of both Malfoy and the door. He dimmed the lights with a flick of his wand.

Harry picked idly through a pile of shredded books on the cushion beside him. They were all muggle novels with titles he didn’t recognize. The Secret History. Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. The Persian Boy. Maurice. Crush. 

A rustle behind his head sent Harry’s heart racing. He whipped around to find himself face to face with a long-haired white cat that was slinking through the open window. It hopped onto the arm of the couch and gave Harry an exploratory sniff. Deeming him uninteresting, it made its way over to Malfoy on the mattress, curling up in the pit of his knees. Malfoy instinctively curled his body more tightly around it.

Harry tipped his head against the back of the couch and tried to come to grips with everything that had just happened. In the last hour, Malfoy had been drugged, attempted to go home with the man who had drugged him, come onto Harry, vomited on him not once, but twice, and gone home to a completely trashed apartment without blinking an eye. He had an extremely protective elderly neighbor and, apparently, a cat. And to cap it all off, he’d asked Harry to stay the night—sort of.

At first, Harry thought that Reggie must have trashed the apartment, but he’d gotten the distinct impression that he and Malfoy had only met that night. An uneasy feeling was building in Harry’s gut—an instinct that Malfoy’s life, not to mention the twisted labyrinth of his mind, were quicksand that he had just stepped into, and it was too late to extricate himself.

A muffled noise from the bed caught Harry’s attention. Malfoy was twitching again. His breath came faster and faster, until he was panting. The cat, irritated, hopped off the mattress and slinked under the bed.

Malfoy shot up with a cry, then slapped a hand over his mouth. His eyes were open but unseeing. After a moment, he lowered a shaking hand. “Who’s there?” he whispered. “Ed?”

Harry cleared his throat, then winced at the noise. “It’s just me, Malfoy,” he said quietly, standing up and slowly approaching the bed. He knelt awkwardly on the floor beside it.

Malfoy’s eyes were still huge and vague; Harry couldn’t tell if he was asleep or awake. He slowly lowered himself back onto the pillow and stared at Harry for a long moment, his breath gradually slowing. Finally, he whispered, “Are you as good as everyone says you are? Or is it just pretend?”

Harry had no idea how to answer that. Malfoy seemed to be waiting, so finally he said, “Er, I try to be—good. But I make a lot of mistakes. Like anybody else.”

Malfoy was still looking at him. His eyes were in shadow, his expression inscrutable. “You can go back to sleep,” Harry whispered. “I won’t let anything bad happen tonight.”

After a moment, Malfoy’s eyes closed. His face and hands relaxed, and he was asleep within minutes.

Chapter Text

When Harry awoke, pale sunlight was streaming through the curtains and his neck was sore from being canted against the back of Malfoy’s couch. A white cat was curled up in his lap, and from the bed, Malfoy was staring at him with a strange expression on his face.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured, rubbing his eyes, not sure what he was apologizing for. “Was I snoring or something?”

“Don’t move too much, or she’ll scratch,” Malfoy warned.

At school, Malfoy had never had a button or a hair out of place. With the sheets pooling around his legs, his eyes puffy, his clothes wrinkled, and his hair wild, he looked like an entirely different person. He must have noticed Harry staring, because he gathered the sheets more tightly around himself and cut his eyes away.

“I don’t remember much about last night,” Malfoy lied, the tips of his ears going red.

Harry decided to let him maintain the facade. “Some prick drugged you at the club,” he said. “I took you home, and your apartment was all smashed up, so—so I stayed. Just in case the guy came back,” he added quickly. “Who the hell was it, anyway?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and flopped back against the pillows. “Don’t play games, Potter,” he said. His voice was raw, exhausted.

“I don’t play games,” Harry said stubbornly, thinking—but not saying—That’s your thing.

“Oh yeah?” Malfoy shot Harry a glare. “Then how can you not know what goes on in your own bloody department?”

“An auror did this?” Harry said, his heart sinking into his stomach. In the cold light of day, Malfoy’s flat looked even worse. Not a single drawer, shelf, or surface had been spared.

“Yes, it was a bloody auror,” Malfoy spat, pushing himself up to a sitting position. “Drop the act, Potter. Are you the good cop and Dawlish the bad cop? Is that it?”

“Dawlish did this?” Harry said, sitting up so straight that the cat—true to Malfoy’s warning—swiped at his sleeve. “Fuck, Malfoy, I already told you—I’m not, like, after you. This isn’t school anymore! And this—” he gestured around the destroyed room— “Is bloody fucked up! This isn’t the first time, is it? Have you told anyone?”

Malfoy barked out a laugh. “Are you really that naive?” he said nastily. “Who would I tell? What would I say? ‘Help, help, the noble aurors aren’t being gentle enough with the war criminal!’”

“I can—” 

“Don’t get involved, Potter.” Malfoy said. He twisted his hands together and looked down at his lap. Harry could almost see the wheels in his mind turning. Suddenly, his posture softened, and he leaned back against the cushions.

“Alright,” he said, looking up at Harry from under his eyelashes, his voice turning silky. “So you’re not here on business. Then it’s pleasure. Come over here and let me get you off,” he said, patting the mattress beside him. “One good turn deserves another, doesn’t it?”

“Jesus, Malfoy!” Harry leapt to his feet, sending the cat skittering across the room. “Not everything’s a bloody transaction!”

“It is!” Malfoy snarled, his whole body coiling up. “Either you’re upfront about the price or you’re not. But nothing is free.”

“Come on,” he said softly, turning on a dime again. “We both know you want it. It’s a boyhood fantasy; the most natural thing in the world. You’ll get it out of your system, I’ll get it out of mine, and then we can both get back to our normal lives. I’ll make it so good. I’ll never tell anyone. Even if I did, they wouldn’t believe me. And then you can go back to your Weasel and think of me fondly while you make beautiful bouncing babies.”

“I don’t WANT that!” Harry exploded, throwing his arms in the air. “You don’t know anything about me! Ginny and I broke up before I even knew I was gay! I don’t want babies, I can barely take care of myself! I don’t have a clue what’s going on at the ministry because I got put on desk duty ages ago for being a fucking alkie screwup! And I don’t know what’s going through your twisted mind, either, but I’m not trying to get one over on you or playing games or trying to get in your pants! Sometimes people are just decent, did you ever consider that?!”

By the end of his speech, Harry’s chest was heaving. Malfoy was looking at him like a deer in headlights.

His cheeks burning, Harry turned on his heel and said gruffly, “I’m going to fix your place up now if you don’t mind.”

He worked in silence, refusing to look at Malfoy. With a few flourishes of his wand, he sent the pots and pans flying back in the cabinets, righted the table and chairs, scourgified Malfoy’s clothing and returned it to his closet, repaired the books and sent them flying into the bookshelf, and vanished the spilled food on the kitchen floor. He repaired the crack in the framed poster and, with a final flick of his wand, straightened it on the wall.

Harry turned to see Malfoy looking at him with something horribly raw on his face—like grief and wonder and fear all mixed together. He self-consciously stuffed his—Malfoy’s—wand back in his pocket.

Malfoy climbed out of bed. With a swoop of his arm, the sheets and covers jumped up and neatly tucked themselves in, and the pillows scooted into place at the head of the bed.

“Wow,” Harry breathed. He’d only ever seen Dumbledore do wandless magic like that.

“It’s really not that difficult, Potter,” Malfoy said, his face going pink. “All you have to do is relinquish your wand to your worst enemy for ten years and learn out of necessity.” 

“Is that what I am?” Harry said in a sudden rush of bravery. Malfoy’s lips parted, just a little. 

“What if I don’t want to be?” Harry took a step closer. “What if I want to be friends?”

“Why?” Malfoy demanded, crossing his arms.

“Because I want to,” Harry said stubbornly.

“You already had your chance,” Malfoy snapped. He looked down at his feet. “And it’s not that easy. For me,” he added.

“Then let’s start small,” Harry said. “Can I take you out to breakfast?”

Malfoy eyed him for a long moment. “No.”

“We’ll go somewhere nice.”

“No.”

“I’ll pay.”

“No.”

Harry crossed his arms and waited.

After a long moment, Malfoy sighed. “Fine. Don’t make me regret this, Potter.”

Harry snorted. “How can you regret breakfast?”

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth tugged up. Harry grinned, triumphant.

“Now get out,” Malfoy said, the smile dropping off his face. “I have to shower. Meet me at the brunch place across the street. And get me a cappuccino, extra foam, two sugars, and a mimosa.”

He strode into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered.  

***

Draco tried to rally in the shower, but the aftereffects of whatever Reggie had slipped into his whisky sour were hitting him hard. He dry-heaved once and had to sit down to wash his hair, but got it done in the end.

He had a brief moment of panic over what to wear before telling himself it didn’t matter. He certainly wasn’t trying to impress Potter, who walked around in duct-taped shoes and holey shirts. But Draco never went anywhere without looking smart, so he settled on a black tee, straight-fitting black trousers, Chelsea boots, and an oversized camel cardigan. Finally, he clasped a genuine leather watch around his wrist that he’d discovered at a charity shop.

Potter was sitting in a booth by the window, drumming his fingers against his thigh and looking wildly uncomfortable. Draco slid into the seat across from him, unable to help his smile at the cappuccino and mimosa he had requested.

“Thanks,” he said.

Draco drank a glass of water, half the mimosa, and a sip of the cappuccino, trying to pace himself but failing. His throat was dry and there was a pounding headache building behind one eye. He picked up the menu and quickly put it down again. His hands were shaky with nausea.

Potter was staring at him.

“What?” Draco asked, suspicious.

“We match,” Potter said, pointing first to Draco’s forehead scar and then his own, a goofy smile on his face.

“Ah,” Draco said. “I rather think my scar is more distinguished, don’t you?” he said airily, pushing his hair out of his face. His scar ran straight from his hairline through the center of his left eyebrow, terminating just above his eye socket. “I’ve often thought it makes me look like a villain in a film.”

“What happened?” Harry asked.

“Always so tactful,” Draco said dryly. “My head had an encounter with a concrete floor. In Azkaban.” 

“Shit,” Harry muttered, looking away.

“Yes, that’s what I said too.”

They sat in silence for a beat, inspecting the menu.

“Have you been here before?” Harry asked. 

“No. But I’ve always wanted to come.” Draco sometimes watched the people at the outdoor tables in the warmer months, trying to imagine what their lives were like, what they were laughing about, how they knew each other. Envying anyone who wasn’t him.

The waitress came and took their orders. Harry ordered a staggering amount of food: eggs, sausages, bacon, hash browns, fried tomato, beans, a fruit cup, and a biscuit. Draco ordered benedict lox.

They sat in an almost companionable silence for a while, watching through the grimy window as pedestrians hurried by. Draco’s brain was screaming at him to be alert, to figure out Potter’s next move before he made it, to think three steps ahead. But his body was so tired. And what did he have left to lose, anyway?

The food came blessedly quickly. Draco’s hands were still a little shaky, and his stomach cramping with hunger, but he tried to eat as slowly and elegantly as he could. He didn’t want Potter to notice how desperate he was.

Potter ate in the same barbaric way he always had in school—slumped over, elbows on the table, eating with his hands at every opportunity, and cutting with the side of his fork instead of using his knife.

“Did your mother never teach you table manners?” Draco joked.

Potter looked up at him, shock and hurt in his face.

Draco dropped his fork and knife with a clatter. “Fuck,” he said haltingly. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it to be a dig. I’m sorry.”

“That’s a phrase I never thought I’d hear you say,” Harry said cautiously.

“Yes, well,” Draco said tightly, looking down at his plate, his cheeks burning. “Believe it or not, I have matured since age twelve. And now that my own mother is gone—”  

His throat clogged up for a moment. He had to blink hard a few times to push back the tears. “I didn’t understand—back then. The weight of my words.” When he chanced a look up, Harry’s face had gone horribly soft.

“I appreciate that,” he said. It sounded honest.

Draco picked up his knife and fork, regaining his composure. “But if I start listing all the things I’m sorry about, we’ll be here all day. So.”

“There’s a lot I’m sorry about too,” Potter said quickly. “I—” 

“Let’s not,” Draco cut in, a bit desperately. “Please?”

“Alright.” 

Wanting to break the tension, Draco dabbed his mouth with his napkin and said, “So. Potter. What do you do when you’re not stalking me all around muggle London?”

Instead of rolling his eyes, as Draco had expected, Potter smiled.

“What?” Draco snapped.

“The way you say my name. Like you’re spitting it out. It’s funny.”

“Pottah.”

“Just like that,” Harry laughed.

Draco smiled helplessly. “If I’d known it amused you, I would have stopped years ago.”

“Do you like being called Malfoy?” Harry asked.

Draco took a sip of his coffee. “Not really,” he admitted. “Malfoy is my father.”

A heavy silence fell between them. To Draco’s relief, Harry didn’t ask about Lucius. Instead, he looked out the window for a moment with his brow furrowed, contemplative. Then Harry met Draco's gaze and offered him a small, impish smile. “Should I call you Draco instead?”

“That’s bloody bizarre,” Draco muttered, his cheeks coloring. “But. Alright.”

“Draco,” Harry said slowly, trying it out. He laughed. “That is bloody bizarre.” 

Chapter Text

Draco slowly climbed the three flights to his flat, feeling full, sleepy, and more than slightly dazed from his strange meal with Harry Potter. Whatever savior fantasy Potter was indulging, Draco had decided he was happy to play along if it meant more meals like that.

But he wasn’t quite ready to admit that perhaps the contentment he felt in this moment was about more than the hot food and the cocktails and the coffee—it was the easy sunshine that Potter radiated when he was relaxed, the warm golden glow that had always followed him and his friends around at school. Draco has been so jealous of that, growing up: their closeness, their easiness, the warmth and laughter and loyalty that Potter inspired. And now, years too late, after Draco thought he had finally swallowed his jealousy for good, Potter had decided to shine his light on him.

It couldn’t possibly last. Potter would get bored and turn his attention on another, more deserving casualty of the war once he had gotten Draco out of his system. It was probably residual guilt from the sectumsempra curse, or misplaced loyalty to Narcissa. But for however long it lasted, Draco had decided he was done fighting it. If someone wanted to take care of him, who was he to say no? Pride had never gotten him anywhere. A man in his position took anything he could get, no matter how undeserving he was, no matter how many strings were attached.

He wanted to check in with Dorothy—to reassure her that Potter hadn’t murdered him in the night—but he needed to feed Lady Di first. He had forgotten to this morning in his rush to meet Potter at the restaurant. Draco turned the key in the lock, trying to remember which cabinet Potter had spelled the canned cat food to.

The moment Draco pushed the door open, a strong hand wrapped around his bicep and yanked him inside. He yelped and stumbled into a broad, scarlet-robed chest. Fuck. 

Dawlish wrapped his hand around Draco’s other arm and shoved him so hard against the door it slammed shut. Stupid, stupid, stupid to let his guard down, Draco thought to himself with a rush of helpless fury. But it was hopeless either way. What good were Draco’s instincts, his suspicion, his sharpness, if he had no way of defending himself? So he used the only tool he had left: his wit.

“Push me up against the wall, why don’t you,” he purred, arching his neck back suggestively.

Dawlish withdrew in disgust and Draco sneered, triumphant.

“I paid you a little visit last night,” Dawlish said, “But no one was home. Out slagging around, were you?”

“That’s right,” Draco said easily. “And I reckon I get more head than you do, so who’s the real loser between us?” 

Dawlish smiled and pressed his wand to the side of Draco’s throat, ignoring his barb. “Imagine my surprise,” he said slowly, “When I stop by hours later to find your flat in perfect condition—almost like…magic. You stupid fucking fairy. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Draco swallowed, hoping Dawlish wouldn’t notice his pulse racing in his throat.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said through his teeth.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Dawlish pulled Draco over to the couch and pushed him down onto it, pulling a vial of veritaserum out of his robes. For once, Draco drank it down willingly.

The familiar warm, loose, honest feeling washed over his body. Draco was struck by how much it felt like being with Harry. But Dawlish’s presence poisoned the feeling, made it weak, humiliating, vulnerable.

Draco swallowed down his nausea while Dawlish stood before him, too close, stance wide and arms crossed.

“Have you broken the terms of your parole by possessing or using a wand or other magic-channeling object?” 

“No,” Draco said emphatically.

“Then how have you put your flat back together so quickly?”

Draco’s mind was racing—or trying to—but the potion made it feel like he was struggling through sludge. He didn’t think he and Potter were doing anything wrong, but he had the distinct feeling he was walking into a trap. Dawlish would take any excuse to add to his parole. And—more than that—he had to grudgingly admit that he didn’t want to betray whatever fragile trust he and Harry had begun to build.

“I had help,” he was forced to admit.

“From who?” Dawlish demanded.

“Just a—a friend.”

“And who is this friend?”

“What business is it of yours?” Draco snapped. “I haven’t broken the terms of my parole. I haven’t used any magic. If you want to know every detail of my private life, you’ll have to keep on fantasizing.”

“Who is this friend?” Dawlish demanded.

“An old classmate.”

“Christ, you bugger, just tell me his name!” 

Draco clenched his teeth together until the muscles in his jaw jumped. But direct commands were the hardest to evade. “...Harry Potter,” he finally whispered, miserably.

Dawlish looked astonished for a moment, and then he let out a nasty laugh. “That can’t be true. What on earth would Harry Potter want with the likes of you?”

“I don’t know,” Draco ground out.

“What, did you shag him? Slip him a love potion or something?”

“No,” Draco said, cheeks burning.

“Then why would he…?” Dawlish gestured around at the pristine flat.

Draco glared up at him with hatred in his eyes. “Because he’s a decent fucking person who doesn’t get off on other peoples’ pain.”

“That’s enough,” Dawlish growled, a tinge of worry starting to creep into his expression. Draco seized on it.

“He’s up the chain of command from you, isn’t he?” he said nastily. “He was furious when I told him an auror trashed my flat. Maybe I’ll tell him it was you. Maybe he already knows.”

Dawlish lunged forward and seized the front of Draco’s shirt, yanking him to his feet. “You’re deluded if you think Harry Potter gives a shit what happens to you,” he snarled. “You’re dirt on the bottom of his shoe. Just because you’re the current object of his pity, doesn’t mean anything. And don’t forget who’s in charge here. You think your life is difficult now? I can make it so much worse.” 

Without breaking eye contact, Dawlish whipped his wand towards the framed poster of Diana. The glass shattered explosively. Draco flinched at the sound, hating himself.

The sound of scrabbling claws on the hardwood floor caught both of their attention. Draco watched in horror as Lady Di skittered out from under the armchair beneath the poster. He lunged towards her, but Dawlish was faster. He sent Lady Di levitating with a flick of his wand and grabbed her out of the air by the scruff of her neck.

“You fucking CUNT!” Draco screamed, reaching towards the cat. Dawlish held him back with his other arm, braced in front of Draco’s chest like a shield. Draco struggled against it desperately, reaching for Di, but he had never learned how to fight without a wand. He was quick in a duel and quick with words, but both skills were utterly useless to him now. If there was one thing Draco could still use to his advantage, though, it was fighting dirty. Before he could think the better of it, he dug his fingernails into Dawlish’s arm and sank his teeth, as hard as he could, into his skin.

Dawlish roared out in pain and rage. He pulled his arm back, Draco still clinging on, and knocked him on the side of his head with his fist, as hard as he could manage.

Draco was sent sprawling back onto the couch, his head ringing.

Red-faced and panting, Dawlish turned his wand on Lady Di, who had managed to wrap her front paws around his wrist and was kicking at his arm with her back feet. Her frantic yowls sent a spike of pain through Draco’s heart. They were both utterly helpless. There was nothing else for it.

“Please,” he said.

“Please what?” Dawlish smirked.

“Don’t hurt her,” Draco begged.

“That depends on you, Malfoy,” Dawlish said, grimacing as he struggled to keep his hold on Lady Di. “Keep Potter out of our business, drop the bitchy attitude, cooperate with my interrogations, and maybe I’ll leave your little pet alone. Or maybe I won’t. But either way, it’s up to me. I don’t negotiate with war criminals. That’s the beauty of our arrangement, isn’t it?”

He dropped the cat. She landed on all fours, and Dawlish tried for a kick, but she darted under the couch before his boot could make contact.

“But you should know you have bigger problems than your little cat,” Dawlish said, triumphantly holding up his arms, which were both dripping with blood and covered in scratches. “Your little outburst today has proven that you’re too dangerous to remain free. And I’ll be going directly to the Head of the Auror Office with that recommendation.”

Before Draco could beg or bargain, before he could say a word, Dawlish turned on his heel and apparted away with a loud pop.

Draco dropped to all fours and peered under the couch. Lady Di was curled up in the far corner, staring reproachfully at him with glowing eyes. 

“He’s gone,” Draco whispered. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby. He’s gone.” 

He tried coaxing her out with treats, toys, and a can of wet food, but she wouldn’t budge. Finally, Draco gave up.

He curled up on the couch and wrapped his arms around his chest, weeping silently. He had been so stupid to believe that maybe—just maybe—he had a chance at some temporary happiness. To believe that punishment wouldn’t follow. Potter couldn’t help him out of this now, even if he wanted to.

Draco decided that he wouldn’t struggle when the aurors came for him. He wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. He would be stoic. He would be brave.

But his resolve crumbled the moment the first loud pop announced Dawlish’s return. He was flanked by two other grim-faced aurors. Draco began to shake so hard his teeth chattered. He shrank back into the corner of the couch, holding his arms up protectively.

“No,” he said through numb lips as they reached for him. “No, no no, please—”

He remembered Azkaban in flashes. The cold so brutal it made his joints ache. The constant nausea. The helplessness, hopelessness, and despair as the dementors closed in. The memories they’d forced him to relive, over and over and over again. He’d read that Kingsley had done away with dementors at Azkaban, but he didn’t believe it. There would always be exceptions for people like him. He wouldn’t survive it this time around. And now that he knew what to expect, he didn’t want to.

A pathetic gasp escaped his lips as he was dragged to his feet, and one of the men chuckled. Draco cursed himself. He should have run while he’d had the chance. He struggled wildly against the hands holding him, frantic as an animal caught in a trap. But it was no use. His arms were wrenched behind his back and his wrists locked into cuffs. Another auror patted him down while Dawlish watched, a triumphant glint in his eye, relishing Draco’s obvious terror.

In that instant, as he locked eyes with Dawlish, rage overtook fear. Draco aimed a hard kick at his knee. It made contact with a satisfying thud, and Dawlish’s leg buckled. He went down onto one knee with an “oof” as Draco cackled hysterically. 

The auror who had handcuffed Draco shoved him to his knees. The other man dealt him a blow to the face.

“See what I mean?” Dawlish panted. “Absolutely feral, that one.”

“You want to see feral?” Draco snarled. He sank his teeth into the hand holding his shoulder down, and then everything went dark.

***

Harry was having an excellent morning. He woke up on time, made coffee, and put on a nice sweater. He decided to walk to the Ministry, for once—it was nearly an hour’s walk, but he was feeling unusually energetic and it was a bright, crisp, perfect day.

By the time he got to his office, he was pink-cheeked and feeling like he might actually have a productive day.

And then Kingsley’s assistant—a severe woman named Ramona—tapped on the frame of his open door. “Potter,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you. The Minister would like a word.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He followed Ramona down the winding hallways and up several flights in the elevator, casting his mind over the past week or so and trying to pinpoint his latest infraction. Unfortunately, there were several to choose from. His efforts towards being a good employee had only started—well—a couple hours ago, if he was being honest.

Ramona led him through the office foyer, where she had a desk, and knocked on Kingsley’s door before opening it. “Potter’s here,” she announced.

“Come in,” Kingsley said. “And close the door behind you, please.”

Harry did so. He approached Kingsley’s desk—a massive, blunt teak thing—and hovered nervously in front of the only chair. Kingsley gestured for him to sit.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” he said. “I hear you’ve been spending time with Draco Malfoy.”

That was not what Harry was expecting to hear. “I—what? How do you know?” 

“Dawlish informed me.”

“Dawlish…?” Harry was rapidly trying to connect the dots but coming up empty.

“Malfoy’s parole officer,” Kingsley said with forced patience. “It came up during an interrogation.” 

“Alright,” Harry said slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “What’s this about, then? What did he say?”

“It’s not so much about what he said as it is about the unique situation you find yourself in,” Kingsley said. “I have to admit I never expected you to form a personal relationship with Draco Malfoy.”

“It’s not exactly—a—a relationship,” Harry stuttered. “We’ve just—bumped into each other a few times. And yeah. We’re friendly, I guess. Is that a problem?”

“No, not at all,” Kingsley said, pulling out some files. “In fact, I think it gives us a unique advantage in this instance.”

“What instance?” Harry’s nerves were increasing by the moment.

Kingsley opened the top file and shoved it forward. “Remember him?”

Harry pulled the file towards him. Pinned to the first page was a moving photograph of a good-looking, dark-haired man with a long, straight nose and an aristocratic set to his mouth. He was smirking into the camera, his eyes dark and intense. The photograph was labeled “Edwin Selwyn.”

“I guess. A little,” Harry said. “Death Eater?”

Kingsley gave Harry a skeptical look over his glasses. “Yes. In fact, you were the auror who arrested him.”

Harry flushed and shrank a bit in his seat. There had been a years-long clean-up period after the war, when the remaining Death Eaters went underground and had to be systematically rounded up. Kingsley had allowed him to go into the field while he was still a trainee. His single-minded determination and unquenchable rage made him an asset, initially—and the Prophet loved to splash photos of these dramatic arrests across the front page—but later incidents of excessive force eventually did more harm than good, and he’d been quietly removed from the clean-up team. He’d been drunk for most of that period, but still functional enough that nobody noticed. That would come later. His memories of that time were fuzzy.  

“Oh. Er—yeah, course I remember him,” Harry lied. Kingsley let it slide.

“He was one of Voldemort’s most trusted followers, particularly towards the end of the war,” he explained. “In fact, he so rarely left Voldemort’s side that our intel on his war-time activities is highly limited. We were never able to conclusively pin any murders on him—just the slaughter of the Forbidden Forest werewolf pack—so he got a short sentence for cruelty to non-human magical creatures. And now, by the end of the year, he’ll be up for parole from Azkaban.”

Harry was still confused. “What does all of this have to do with Malfoy?”

“Malfoy was closer to Selwyn than anyone else, during the war,” Kingsley said. “But we never got any actionable testimony out of him. As you know, he’s quite adept at evading truth serum. But if you can convince him to testify as an eyewitness to any major crimes committed by Selwyn, we’ll have grounds to retry him and prevent his parole—put him behind bars for good this time.”

“Why do you think Malfoy knows more than he’s letting on?” Harry asked.

Dawlish pulled off his glasses and looked Harry in the eye. “He and Selwyn spent most of the war sequestered in Malfoy Manor, with Voldemort and the rest of his inner circle. Their closeness was remarked on by a number of other Death Eaters during interrogations. There’s no doubt that Malfoy knows a lot more than he’s saying. The trouble is, we don't even know the right questions to ask. Our interrogations went nowhere. But believe me—if anyone can help us get to Selwyn, it’s Malfoy.”

“Let me get this straight,” Harry said. “You think Malfoy’s been covering for Selwyn for the last ten years, and you want me to pretend to be his friend and get him to admit it?”

Kingsley opened his hands. “I wouldn’t put it in those terms, but, essentially, yes.”

“That’s fucked. I’m not doing it.” Harry crossed his arms. 

“Harry,” Kingsley said patiently. “If Malfoy is innocent, you might be the only auror who’s willing to give him a fair shake. If he’s not, well, then the consequences of his actions are his own.”

Harry shook his head, feeling like a stubborn child, but everything in his body was revolting at the idea of getting close to Malfoy, only to gather evidence on him and this Selwyn character. It was slimy. He wasn’t doing it.

Kingsley sighed. “Listen, Harry. Malfoy’s in a lot of trouble right now. He attacked multiple aurors.”

“What?!” Harry exclaimed.

“Yes. He bit them. Hard enough to draw blood, in fact.”

Harry’s jaw dropped.

“They’ve all been interrogated. Take a look.”

Kingsley pushed another file towards him. Harry scanned the top page of the interview transcripts quickly. “Are you kidding me? Dawlish threatened his cat. And you’re seriously blaming Malfoy for biting him?”

Kingsley sighed heavily. “It’s not about blame, Harry. It’s about optics.”

“Fuck optics,” Harry blurted out. 

Kingsley ignored him. “Dawlish is on the warpath. He’s already spread this story around to half the Ministry. The one-sided version, of course. But it looks very bad if an ex-Death Eater violently attacks multiple aurors and gets off without so much as a slap on the wrist. It makes the Ministry look weak. If I can explain to Dawlish why we need to keep Malfoy free, I can put a lid on this.”

“Just put a lid on it now!” Harry exclaimed. “You can’t seriously be considering punishing Malfoy for defending his cat! Are you not worried about the optics of one of your aurors being a fucking psychopath?!” 

“Harry,” Kingsley snapped. “Malfoy is in ministry custody at this very moment. And he resisted arrest, so not only has he violated his parole, but he’s looking at another stint in Azkaban.” Harry was up on his feet again before he could think.

“He’s WHAT?!”

“You have two choices,” Kingsley said calmly. “You can agree to help me with Selwyn’s case, and I’ll discharge Malfoy as soon as you leave this office. Or I need to make a tough decision about his fate—and you might not like the outcome.” 

Harry balled his hands into fists. His breath was coming hard and fast. But it wasn’t even a choice.

“Fine,” he snapped, snatching up the files. “But for the record, I think this is fucked.”

“Noted,” Kingsley said dryly.

Harry stalked towards the door. His hand was on the doorknob when Kingsley called, “Potter?” 

Harry turned.

“Please take my recommendation to be careful,” he said. “I don’t believe Mr. Malfoy is the man you think he is.”

Harry wrenched open the door and slammed it shut, stalking past Ramona, who was totally unphased by the commotion.

He took the elevator to the basement floor. Harry hated the basement. It was where he had had his disciplinary hearing for underage magic in fifth year. It was where Umbridge had held her sham trials for muggle-borns during the war. It was where he had been forced to testify in trial after trial after trial, reliving every death, every crime, every atrocity that the war had borne. He hadn’t been down here in years. The moment the elevator opened he broke out into a cold sweat.

Harry sped-walked down the damp, dark stone hall towards the containment cells. The auror-in-training at the front desk let him pass without a word, a deer-in-headlights expression on her face. Harry hated when people looked at him like he was a ghost, or a god.

“I’m here for Malfoy,” he said.

She pressed the key into his hand without a word.

Harry stalked down the row of cells, empty now, save for a lanky figure curled up in the corner of the last cell on the right.

Malfoy raised his head, and his face went through a comical number of expressions in no more than a second. First he met Harry’s eyes with a reflexive sneer, then his face opened in surprise as recognition washed over him, and finally he settled on narrowed eyes and a hard, suspicious set to his mouth.

Harry approached the cell. Malfoy looked awful. He was wearing the same clothes he'd had on at brunch, but his sweater was gone, and his T-shirt had been torn around the collar. Dark bruises bloomed at his temple and cheekbone. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark bags beneath them.

Kingsley’s warning stirred in the back of Harry’s brain. What if he was right? What if Malfoy wasn’t the man he thought he was? Sure, they had shared a meal and a few cocktails together. But Harry didn’t know him at all, when it came right down to it.

“You look like shit,” Harry said without thinking.

“At least it’s a change for me,” Malfoy sneered. “You always look like shit.” 

When Harry didn’t react, Malfoy changed tacks.

“Come on,” he said. “Out with it. Let’s hear your I’m-very-disappointed-in-you, I-thought-you-were-a-changed-man, Azkaban-ought-to-teach-you-a-lesson speech.”

“Nah,” Harry said, producing the key. “Let’s go.” 

Malfoy stood up as Harry pushed the barred door open. “Is this a joke?” he asked stiffly, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Nope,” Harry said. “Your circumstances were extenuating. By which I mean, Dawlish was a right cunt to threaten your cat.”

When Malfoy didn’t make a move, Harry turned and walked down the hall. After a moment, he heard Malfoy’s footsteps trailing behind him. He gave the key back to the guard and turned to Malfoy. “Did they take any of your belongings?” he asked.

Malfoy shook his head.

“Good. Come on.”

They were halfway down the main corridor when Harry heard Malfoy stop in his tracks. He looked back at Malfoy, whose face had gone white. When he turned, he realized why—Dawlish had just come around the corner.

“Escorting this one to Azkaban personally?” Dawlish asked Harry with a smirk.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Harry strode up to him and said, “Dawlish. I hear a cat and a wandless wizard clawed the shit out of you. And that it took three of you to arrest one of him.”

Dawlish opened his mouth, outraged, then turned to Malfoy. Harry side-stepped in front of him before he could make a single move. “I wouldn’t keep spreading that story around, if I were you.” Harry smiled. “It’s pretty funny, honestly. But man to man, it makes you sound like a pussy. Cheers, mate,” he said.

He clapped Dawlish on the shoulder and strode down the hallway. After a moment, Malfoy’s footsteps followed behind him.

“Cunt,” Harry heard him whisper as he passed Dawlish.

***

Draco was uncharacteristically subdued as Harry led him out of the Ministry and apparated them to the garage bin shed behind his apartment complex (“It’s uncouth to apparate directly into someone’s home,” is the only thing he said to Harry). He didn’t even protest as Harry accompanied him up the three flights of stairs to his front door.

The moment Draco’s key rattled in the lock, the door across the hall burst open and an elderly woman—Dorothy, Harry remembered—hustled across the hallway as fast as she could manage and seized Draco by the shoulders.

“What did they do to you?” she exclaimed, patting his arms up and down, putting her fingers to his bruises, and peering into his exhausted eyes. “I heard screaming in your flat—voices of many men! I banged on the door but nobody answered, and by the time I got the super to open the door, they had taken you away!”

“It’s alright, Dorothy,” Draco muttered. “It was just a misunderstanding.” His gaze flicked to Harry, embarrassment in his eyes, and Dorothy took this as her cue.

“I knew you could not be trusted!” she said, whirling on him furiously. “I could smell a cop the minute I saw you!”

Harry took a step back, surprised by the depth of his offense. Did he really look like a cop?

To his surprise, Draco cracked a smile. “Nah, leave him alone Dorothy. He’s not a cop. He’s rather well-connected, though, and helped get me out of a spot of trouble. I’m alright—really.”

Dorothy’s expression turned sly, her attitude changing on a dime. “Ohhh, a rich one, hmm?” she asked, looking at Harry over the top of her glasses. 

Draco grinned wickedly behind Dorothy’s shoulder as Harry’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Lavishly so,” Draco said.

Dorothy beamed. “Well, then you are a good friend for Draco here. You should spend some of that money on him. This boy doesn’t have two pennies to rub together. But he has very fine taste, you will see! Clothes, food, wine, jewelry, art, furniture—everything! A very good eye. The only thing he does not have is money. He is a very charming boy. Good posture, good manners— ”

Now it was Draco’s turn to look embarrassed. “Alright, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” he said quickly. “I’ll pop by later. Ta, Dot.”

Dorothy winked at them as Draco pulled Harry inside. “You have a nice afternoon, boys!” she called. “And put some cream on that bruise!”

By the time Harry shut the door behind him, Draco had thrown himself dramatically onto the couch, his arm over his eyes.

After an awkward beat or two of silence, Draco croaked, “Why are you still here.”

Harry shuffled his feet. “Er—is concern not enough of a reason?”

“Is this your kink?”

“Excuse me?” Harry spluttered.

“It’s very common, you know,” Draco said, his voice flat, arm still draped over his eyes. “That’s why you turn up like clockwork whenever I’m at my lowest. I don’t know how you always know where to find me. But that’s it, isn’t it?”

“God, Draco, I thought we already had this conversation,” Harry said. “Not everything is a trick. I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

He felt like the biggest piece of shit in the world. Yesterday, it hadn’t been a lie. Today, thanks to Kingsley, it was. “Can I make myself a cup of tea?” he asked, desperate to change the subject. He made his way to the kitchenette without waiting for an answer. 

“Fine,” Draco grumbled.

Harry filled the kettle and put it on the stove. He found two chipped mugs and a canister of teabags in a cupboard. He dropped one into each mug and leaned against the counter.

As the kettle began to hiss, Malfoy’s cat squeezed its way out from beneath the couch—with some amount of difficulty, due to its size. It hopped onto the cushions and picked its way carefully up onto Draco’s chest, compressing itself into a loaf once it got there.

Draco finally took his arm off his face and opened his eyes. “Hi, baby,” he said softly, stroking the cat between its ears.

The look in his eyes and the soft tone of his voice were entirely foreign to Harry. He realized, again, and with a pang this time, how little he truly knew Draco Malfoy.

“She alright?” Harry asked.

“Yeah,” Draco said with a smile. “Dawlish came off worse than her, in the end.”

They shared a chuckle at that.

“Listen, Draco,” Harry said after a moment. It still felt strange to say his first name. “I’m really sorry about—everything with Dawlish.”

“If you start in on a ‘not all aurors’ speech, Potter, I am going to toss you out the fucking window,” Draco snapped. His vehemence startled Lady Di, who leaped onto the back of the couch. He sat up and put his head in his hands.

Harry opened his mouth, a denial forming, but realized that that was exactly what he had been about to say. “Fair enough,” he said. “But let me ask one thing. I’m fairly sure I can convince Kingsley to reassign your supervising officer. Would you want that?”

Draco eyed him flatly. “Reassigned to who?”

“To me.”

Draco thought for a moment. Then his eyes glittered. “So this has been the long game,” he said, rearranging his limbs in a suggestive manner, fluttering his eyelashes at Harry. “Your golden opportunity to interrogate me under truth serum. There’s no need for all that, Potter, ask me anything. I’ll tell you. I’m not shy. Want to know if I take it up the arse? My favorite positions? If I wear knickers? Want to know if I’ve ever wanked to fantasies of the Chosen One?”

Harry threw his hands in the air. “Christ, you’re one suspicious bastard,” he snapped. “It must be fucking exhausting to be you.”

“It is,” Draco muttered under his breath.

Luckily, at that moment, the kettle sang. Harry poured the tea and made himself a cuppa, with lots of milk and no sugar. He surprised himself by remembering how Draco took his tea, having spent years glaring at him across the Great Hall at mealtimes: with a splash of milk and lots of sugar.

He brought the teas over and set Draco’s on the coffee table, settling himself into an armchair.

Draco wrapped his hands around the mug and stared into the steam. “Fine,” he grumbled, not looking at Harry. “If nothing else it’ll be a change of pace.”

“Good,” Harry said. “I’ll put the request in.”

Draco took a sip. He looked back down at the cup and then over at Harry, a strange expression forming on his face. “Thanks,” he said stiffly. “For the cuppa.”

Harry smiled in response. Draco started to return it, the corner of his mouth lifting, but looked away at the last moment.

Harry found himself staring once again at the poster of the beautiful woman in the tiara. The glass in the frame had been smashed out once again, and lay strewn across the floor. Hot anger wrapped a fist around his heart.

“Mind if I?” he asked Draco, pulling out his wand.

Draco shrugged, not even looking at him.

Harry waved his wand and the glass soared back into place, filling the air with a tinkling sound. The gaps between the fragments sealed with a snap, and the frame was good as new.

“Who is she?” Harry asked.

Draco looked at him, an expression of shock on his face. “You don’t know?” he asked.

Harry shrugged.

“But you’re—you grew up with…muggles.”

“That was a long time ago,” Harry said.

“That’s Princess Diana,” Draco said. “She was the Princess of Wales. Until she died very young, in a car crash.”

“Why do you have a poster of her on your wall?”

“Dorothy gave it to me,” Draco said.

“No, I mean—what do you like about her?”

“Oh,” Draco said. He put his mug down and set the spoon to stirring itself with a flick of his fingers. “I suppose… A lot of people loved her. She was beautiful, of course, but also very kind. Very genuine. She married the Prince young and her whole life was controlled by the palace. She grew up an aristocrat and had practically been bred to be his bride. But in the end she didn’t let the Crown run her life. She divorced the Prince and raised her own children. She did a lot of charity work. She was one of the only people in the world at the time who would touch a person with AIDs. I didn’t—a lot of people didn’t realize, before she did it—that you could leave the aristocracy. That abandoning tradition was not only possible, but beneficial. That you could thrive outside of it.”

Draco abruptly cut himself off and looked away. It was perhaps the longest unbroken speech Harry had ever heard him give, and he found himself touched by all that Draco had—perhaps unintentionally—revealed.

“You should rest,” Harry said, standing up. “Assuming the reassignment goes through, what time should I come back next week?”

Draco looked up at him suspiciously. “That’s not how this works, Potter. You’re supposed to turn up when I least expect it and terrorize me.”

“That’s how it’s going to work, from now on,” Harry said firmly.

Draco looked back down into his tea. “I suppose…Wednesday afternoons.”

“Alright,” Harry said, dropping his mug in the sink. “Wednesdays it is then.”

Draco was still staring gloomily into his tea as Harry shut the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Draco was in a mood. He’d been in a mood all week. He wasn’t sleeping, sitting bolt upright at every 3 a.m. clank of the radiator and groan of the pipes, convinced that the aurors had returned to cart him off to Azkaban for real this time. At work, he refused to play along with the customers’ jokes and overtures, behaving so sullenly with them and snapping at the other servers so often that mild-mannered Anthony had to pull him aside and give him a stern talking-to about his behavior. Draco didn’t want to go home after work and be alone in that apartment where he was a sitting duck, but neither could he bear to stand elbow-to-elbow in a crowded club, let alone go home with someone and let them touch him more intimately. Instead, he wandered the London streets after work, chain-smoking and killing time, often walking along the Thames until his feet ached and blistered and bled. Then he’d come home, fall into a restless sleep, and do it all again the next day.

On Wednesday morning, Draco woke early and lay in bed for hours, tossing and turning until Lady Di’s insistent yowls for breakfast dragged him to the kitchen. After he’d fed her, he was too nauseous to eat and too keyed up to shower, so instead he did what he often did when he was anxious: cleaned his flat from top to bottom. 

Draco had never had to clean a thing—with or without magic—until they let him out of Azkaban and he’d moved into his first muggle flat. It was a steep learning curve in those early years. He’d put soap on his windows, dish soap in the dishwasher, and even burned his lungs with toxic fumes after mixing bleach and ammonia. But there was little that Draco hated more than mess, so he’d had to learn.

After the flat was sparkling, he still had hours to kill before work. His shift didn’t start until six p.m. Potter hadn’t been in touch, and Draco didn’t know when he was going to turn up—or if he even would. He’d realized too late that there was no way for them to communicate—Potter didn’t have a mobile, and he wasn’t likely to send an owl to Draco’s window.

Draco tried to read, but it hurt his eyes to focus on the letters—he’d suffered from regular headaches since Dawlish had bashed his head in. Instead he paced and smoked and brooded, afraid of Potter turning up and afraid that he wouldn’t.

He was terrified that he’d been lulled into a false sense of security by Potter’s friendliness. He’d been secretly hoping all these weeks, stupid as it was, that Potter wanted to fuck him. He’d been sure he would try after he’d swooped in and rescued Draco at the club that night, and was both strangely relieved and more than a little disappointed when he hadn’t made a move.

But now that Potter had rejected multiple overtures from Draco, and maneuvered his way into becoming his parole officer, he was afraid he’d misunderstood the kind of power Potter wanted over him. What if Harry turned up at the door in his red auror robes instead of his trainers, and called him “Malfoy” instead of “Draco,” his bright smile replaced by a cruel smirk? Draco had stupidly, easily revealed his sexuality to Harry, his friendship with Dorothy and his love for his cat. Harry could use this knowledge to twist the knife, to ask Draco any number of humiliating questions, and Draco would have no choice but to answer. He was relieved to be rid of Dawlish, truly—but this was a new type of cruelty. To be under the thumb of his childhood rival, his childhood crush, the boy who’d saved everyone—except for him. Potter knew Draco’s shameful history, his weaknesses and vulnerabilities and fears. Draco would be stupid to underestimate him. He’d almost killed him once, hadn’t he? The more Draco thought about it, the higher his breath sat in his chest, and the more urgently he wanted to run.

Finally, at one p.m. sharp, there was a gentle tap at the door.

Draco undid all of his locks and chains and cracked the door. Sure enough, there was Potter, dressed in a hoodie, oversized denim jeans, and a pair of scruffy Converse. No matter how old they got, Potter still dressed like a teenager. 

He felt a moment of relief that Potter wasn’t in his official robes, but must have still had a thunderous look on his face, because Potter looked slightly taken aback.

“Er…hi,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“No point in asking, is there,” Draco said icily.

“Um…thanks,” Potter said awkwardly, sliding past Draco. “The reassignment was approved,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Yes. I’d gathered,” Draco said, shutting the door behind him.

“Oookay. Shall we get started then?” Harry gestured towards the living area.

Draco sat on the couch and Harry on the armchair. He fished around in his jeans pocket and produced a small, silvery vial of veritaserum.

“I’ll let you…” he said, trailing off, sliding the vial across the coffee table towards Draco.

Harry was playing it casually, but once Draco drank the veritaserum, then he would truly be at his mercy. If Harry was going to switch up on him, it would be then. Draco could hear his heart beating in his ears. He snatched the vial up, uncorked it, and tossed it back in a mouthful, struggling not to make a face as the peppery liquid went down. He just wanted to get this over with.

When he looked back at Harry, his eyes were wide, his mouth gaping open. Draco realized, too late, that he’d miscalculated.

“What the fuck?!” Harry exclaimed. “Why the hell’d you drink the whole thing? That’s like—a hundred doses!”

The potion was like snakes in Draco’s stomach. It made him nauseous at the best of times, but on an empty stomach, with his anxiety up to eleven and Potter staring at him with a mixture of pity and revulsion, it took everything in him not to hurl. Humiliation crawled up his throat.

“Why do you fucking think?” he snapped, the truth spilling out of him before he could even attempt to stop it. “Because Dawlish made me drink the whole fucking thing! Every fucking time!”

“What the hell,” Potter breathed. “Why would he do that?”

“Christ, were you born yesterday?!” Draco exploded, bursting up out of his seat. “How can you possibly be so naive after living through a whole fucking war? I shouldn’t have to explain to you that people like to hurt each other! That’s it! It’s that fucking simple! Wipe that stupid, surprised look off your face, I can’t stand it!” Draco’s eyes were suddenly watering, whether because of the potion or for another reason, he didn’t care to examine. 

Harry’s expression had turned thunderous. “Not everyone—” 

Draco couldn’t stomach any Savior’s sanctimony from Harry, not right now, while he sat in his flat, empowered to drug and interrogate him and haul him off the Azkaban if he put so much as a single toe out of line. “YES, EVERYONE!” he shouted, pointing his finger in Harry’s face. “Even YOU! Especially you! Fuck, I know that better than anyone, don’t I? I have the fucking scars on my body to prove it!” he snarled, gesturing to his chest.

Draco was shaking. He curled his arms protectively around himself, but it felt like his body was glass and he was going to shatter all over the floor. He felt dangerously out of control. A week’s worth—or years, if he was honest—of dread and terror was coming to a head. Every passing thought fell right out of his mouth, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

Now it was Harry’s turn to look watery-eyed. He took a step towards Draco, his hand hovering in the air, but when Draco took a step back, he stilled. “Fuck, Draco—” he whispered. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I didn’t know—” 

“I don’t want to hear it!” Draco shouted, his tone creeping towards hysteria. “I don’t want to be—” Fuck. He couldn’t say it. The potion wouldn’t let him say it. Friends. “I don’t want to be—” he tried again. “FUCK! What do you want from me? Just take it and leave me the fuck alone! I can’t stand the waiting!”

Draco began to pace frantically around the room, clawing at his arms.

“Draco—calm down,” Harry said, putting his hands out in a pacifying gesture. “Fuck, fuck—hang on.” Harry picked up the vial of veritaserum. There were still a few drops at the bottom. Before Draco could react, Harry shook them into his mouth.

He swallowed heavily and grimaced. “Draco, listen,” he said. He followed Draco across the room. As Draco tried to turn away, Harry stepped in front of him. “Look at my eyes.” He pointed to them.

Against his will, Draco looked. Harry’s pupils were huge, as his own must be. It wasn’t a trick. He really had taken it. 

“Listen, I know we have a really fucked up history,” Harry said, speaking so quickly he was slurring a bit. “We both did a lot of things we regret. Starting with the sectumsempra spell. I didn’t know what it would do, I swear. That doesn’t make it okay and I was really fucking stupid to cast it, but if I had known, I swear I wouldn’t have done it. I was angry, but I didn’t—I don’t—want you to suffer like that. And I’ve regretted it every day since.” 

Harry made an aborted little movement, like he was going to touch Draco, but ran a hand through his hair instead, making it even wilder than it already was. “And I know it’s like, probably inappropriate and weird to say, especially now that I’m your parole officer, but I just—I just like you, okay?”

His tone was painfully earnest. Draco desperately wanted to believe him. But he couldn’t. He scoffed and turned away, and Harry followed, his eye contact so piercing Draco couldn’t bear to match it. “I think you’re smart, and witty, and interesting,” Harry insisted.

Draco began to pace again, and Harry followed doggedly after him, trying to catch his eye. “It’s clear you’ve grown a lot since school and I think you’ve been dealt a shitty hand and I admire you. You’re more well-adjusted than I am and my life’s been a piece of cake since the war, but I still can’t handle it. Everyone’s moved on and is playing happy families or advancing their careers, but I just can’t. I can’t move on. I can’t get over everything—hell, I can’t get over anything that happened. I drink and I have nightmares and sometimes I can’t leave the house and I just think about it, all the fucking time. And I think you’re one of the only people who might understand. Because you’re not allowed to move on.”

Draco had stopped pacing at some point and was now standing in the middle of the flat, panting. His heart had lifted traitorously at Potter’s earnest speech, but he couldn’t let his defenses down just yet. He crossed his arms and said, “So you want to be friends because I’m the only person you know who’s as pathetic as you. Gee, I’m flattered, Potter.” 

To his surprise, Harry snorted. “If there was an award for putting the worst possible spin on everything…” He shook his head.

Then his face turned serious again. “Look, Draco,” Harry said earnestly. “I don’t want to force it. If you don’t want to be friends, just say the word and I’ll back off. I know I haven’t been—very good at backing off. In the past.”

Draco snorted. “That’s an understatement,” he muttered.

“But I will, this time, if you ask me to. I mean it.”

Draco bit his lip. He wrestled with himself for a long moment. But in the end, he could say nothing but the truth. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said, carefully. “But Potter…we can’t. We just can’t. Can’t you see that? There’s too much history, too much bad blood. We’d be forever apologizing for things and carrying resentments and tripping over landmines. There’s like—a million elephants in the room.”

“Well…” Potter said slowly. “I’m not saying it won’t be hard, and awkward, and weird, at first. But suppose we just took it…one elephant at a time?”

There was a beat or two of silence. Then Draco burst out laughing.

At first Potter looked affronted. “What?” he demanded. “What did I say?” 

Tears were already so close to the surface that soon they were streaming down Draco’s face. He had to sit on the floor and put his head in his hands. “Potter,” he gasped. “That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

At that, Potter began to laugh too, bent double, hands on his knees.

When they finally quieted down, Potter plopped down onto the floor beside him, a nervous smile on his face. He gently nudged Draco’s shoulder with his own. “So…was that a yes or a no, then?”

Draco looked over at him—Harry’s face was so close to his own, his stomach flipped. He let out a long-suffering sigh, but couldn’t help the smile that curled his lips at the end of it. Potter had worn him down once again. “Fine,” he said. “One stupid fucking elephant at a time.” 

 ***

After their blow-up, Harry was mentally and physically exhausted—and more than a little woozy from the veritaserum. And he’d just swallowed a few drops—he could only imagine how Draco felt. He’d skipped breakfast and lunch, too nervous at the prospect of seeing Draco again to eat, and now he felt like he was going to hurl if he didn’t get some food in him immediately. He suggested they go out to a late lunch. Draco stiffly demurred at first, but Harry wouldn’t let it go—Draco was so pale and hollow-eyed that Harry felt quite sure he wasn’t getting enough to eat. Finally, Harry intuited that Draco was worried about his ability to pay. It was a complete turnabout from his haughty demands at their last meal; Harry truly never knew what to expect from him. Finally, Draco agreed after Harry insisted that he would charge the lunch as a work expense.

Draco went into the bathroom to change. Harry perched on the edge of the armchair and stroked Lady Di—who was fascinated by the scent of his shoes—while listening uncomfortably to the muffled sounds of Draco retching into the toilet. He couldn’t believe that Draco had been ingesting that much veritaserum, every week, for god knows how long. His teeth clenched when he thought about it—about Dawlish, and Draco, sick on the stuff, at his mercy. He wondered what else Dawlish had done to him. There were still fading bruises on his face from the arrest the previous week. Harry desperately wanted to heal him, but wasn’t about to repeat the mistake he'd made in the alleyway all those weeks ago. Half of him wanted to barge into the bathroom, shake the answers out of Draco, and then go find Dawlish and kill him. But the sane half of him won out.

Finally, Draco emerged dressed in black jeans, sleek black boots, and an oversized argyle jumper. Together with his long, loose fringe and his piercings, it was such a far cry from the neat waistcoats and slick hair of his school days that Harry wasn’t sure he would have recognized him if they'd passed on the street. (But another part of him whispered that he would have recognized Draco anywhere, in any context, even if he was in disguise, or decades older, or in another body entirely.)

They walked in silence down the street to a diner that Draco had suggested. It was small and grimy, with checkered tiled floors, an aluminum counter, and cracked leather booths. Harry was surprised that Draco had recommended a place so far from posh, but when he opened the menu, he realized why. They exclusively served hearty, traditional English fare that put him in mind of Hogwarts: pasties, shepherd’s pie, beef wellington, Yorkshire pudding, toad-in-the-hole, steak and kidney pie, roast, and bangers and mash.

Harry put his menu down. “I’m famished,” he said. “What say I just order one of everything and we share?”

Draco peered suspiciously over the top of his menu at Harry. “Trying to fatten me up, are you?” he said. “So this is your kink.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “You do look well peaky,” he said. “But that’s not it, no.”

“I suppose you’ve always been a glutton,” Draco said, without malice. “Ever since school.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Harry said. “It’s probably because I didn’t get enough to eat growing up.”

Draco looked alarmed. “You—what? What do you mean?” he asked, lowering his menu. 

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I thought everyone knew,” he muttered.

Draco avoided Harry’s eyes. “I mean, there were stories,” he said. “About you living in a cupboard and other such nonsense. But there were a lot of stories about you. Kids said you were Merlin traveling backwards through time, or Dumbledore’s son, or that you could turn into a snake, or whatever. I didn’t believe any of it.”

Harry laughed. “I didn’t know any of that. The cupboard thing was true, though.”

Draco almost choked on his water. “What?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. The potion was still thrumming through his veins, lowering all of his barriers, urging him to a level of openness and honesty that for once didn’t feel frightening—it felt wonderfully cathartic. “My aunt and uncle made me sleep in a cupboard under the stairs until I was twelve,” he said. “They hated magic, and so they hated me. It got worse after I started doing it accidentally. They never told me I was a wizard, so I had no idea what was happening to me. The first time it happened I was being chased by Dudley and his friends, and I flew up onto the roof to escape them.”

Draco’s eyes were growing rounder and rounder. Harry lost his nerve and tried to backpedal. “They weren’t—” the word Abusive got caught in his throat. “Er—they didn’t—” Hit me got stuck in his throat as well.

Draco was looking more and more alarmed by the moment. Blood rushed into Harry’s face as he tried to weave between the restrictions of the serum.

“They weren’t often physical,” he finally stammered. “Except for Dudley and his friends,  I suppose. But it was hard, growing up without enough to eat and without clothes that fit and without…” The unspoken word, Love, hung heavy in the air between them.

He looked down at his menu again, avoiding Draco’s eyes, a curious mixture of euphoria and shame crawling up his throat.

When Draco spoke, his words were laced with loathing. “And then you came to school, where you were supposed to finally be free of them. And instead I took their place.”

“Er, it’s alright,” Harry said awkwardly. “It’s in the past anyway.”

“Harry,” Draco said stiffly, and Harry’s heart sang. Had Draco ever called him Harry before? “I don’t offer this as an excuse, but if you’d like an explanation…”

“Alright,” Harry said eagerly.

Draco placed both hands flat on the table, taking a long moment to choose his words. Finally, he said, “When you first came to Hogwarts, all I saw was a famous little boy that everyone admired. My father told me to get close to you. I didn’t know why he asked, but back then I would have done anything to please him. I was desperate to make him proud, and already so homesick, so when you rejected my handshake, it meant that I’d already failed—myself, my father, and my family. I’d barely been five minutes at school, and I’d failed. And I couldn’t understand why. So I hated you. And then later—”

Draco suddenly broke off, blushing, as the waitress approached.

The waitresses’ eyebrows shot up into her hairline as Harry rattled off half the menu. She poured them each a cup of coffee and hurried off.

An awkward silence descended over the table. Harry desperately wanted to know what Draco had been about to say, but the moment had passed. As Harry watched him pour milk into his coffee, rip open several sugar packets, dump them in, and stir, he remembered, with a pang, how in his element Draco had always been with magic. For Harry, magic was still about saying the right words and pointing his wand in the right direction. But Draco had always performed it naturally, effortlessly; like breathing. At mealtimes, without interrupting whatever yarn of triumph he was spinning for his cronies, he would enchant his spoon to stir his tea, his knife to butter his bread, and the plate of sausages to float its way over to him. He didn’t need to use words half the time. He treated his wand like it was an extension of his own arm. 

“Do you ever miss magic?” Harry blurted out.

“All the time,” Draco said simply.

“Sorry, that was a stupid question,” Harry muttered. “Of course you do.”

Draco wrapped his hands around his mug and looked out the window. “It was harder, in the beginning,” he said after a moment of thought. “I couldn’t do anything for myself without it. I was totally helpless. Totally defenseless. It felt like missing a limb. Or being cast onto a deserted island to die. I didn’t want to live without it, actually, for a long time.”

Draco blushed and looked down as he realized what he had said, but he kept speaking as though he couldn’t help himself. “But now it’s more like—it feels like a warm, childhood fantasy. Like a comforting story I tell myself to make life more bearable. I still wake up in the middle of the night, sometimes, panicking, terrified that it was all a dream. That’s why I got so good at wandless casting, you know—it’s not like my little tricks actually save time or are more convenient, especially when I’m surrounded by muggles most of the time. I just—need to remind myself, sometimes. That I still can. That it was all real.”

A long silence hung between them. “That’s exactly how I felt, every summer at the Dursleys,” Harry offered eventually. “I was so afraid that I’d dreamed it all up. That Hogwarts wouldn’t be waiting for me in September.”

Draco laughed bitterly. “Of course you did,” he said.

The fragile, wistful mood between them broke. Harry bristled. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

Draco sighed. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at you. It just reminds me. When I was in Azkaban, I came up with a theory.” He looked up at Harry, his cheeks suddenly red. He studied Harry’s face, then looked back down at his coffee and pressed on. “The theory is that Harry Potter is some kind of deity or angel sent down to Earth to test me. And every single one of those tests, I failed—and was punished for in turn. I made fun of your dead parents; ergo my mother dies. I dress up like a Dementor to frighten you; I spend two years with them in Azkaban. I make fun of your forehead scar; I get my own. You were exiled from magic every summer; now it’s my turn.”

“Alright, I’m flattered that you think I’m an angel,” Harry said—Draco rolled his eyes— “But come on, Draco. You being a bully and a prick as a kid doesn’t mean you deserved any of that. None of that’s equivalent. At all.”

Instead of being mollified, Draco shook his head dismissively. “Is your memory so short?” he asked tiredly, brushing his fingers along his left forearm. Harry could practically see beneath his sleeve to where the Dark Mark lurked, curled and evil and waiting. “If only being a bully was the worst thing I’d done. Spare me your platitudes, Potter. I know what I am.”

At that moment, the waitress turned up with the first round of dishes.

Harry desperately wanted to refute what Draco had said, but he couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t the wrong thing; that wouldn’t make Draco bristle.

They ate in awkward silence for a while. Draco was avoiding Harry’s eyes, and for once, Harry was glad, because he could watch him unashamedly, hungrily, the way he always wanted to. Draco’s posture was immaculate, as it had always been, back straight and head held high. He used his knife and fork delicately, the way Harry imagined the queen did. But despite his rigid posture, he didn’t look out of place amongst the cracked leather booths and the bar stools and the sticky tiled floor. He looked more at home in the muggle world than Harry felt, and it was strange. He was both infinitely changed and exactly as Harry remembered.

Harry watched the way Draco tucked his hair behind his ear when it fell in his face, the way his jumper exposed a bit of collar bone when he learned forward to take a bite, the way his overlong sleeves hid his knuckles from view and Draco had to keep shaking them back. His piercings and his homey sweater made him look softer and harder all at once. For the first time, he looked not like an enemy or a cold, distant marble statue, but like someone Harry could touch. Someone Harry desperately, achingly wanted to touch. He wondered if Draco really did all of those things he’d said so tauntingly last week—taking it up the arse, wearing knickers, or—god—wanking to fantasies of him.   

Harry’s cock jumped, and he felt a rush of gratitude that there was a tabletop between them. To stop his brain from spiraling down this train of thought, he blurted out the first thing he could think of. “What do you miss most? About magic, I mean.”

He expected Draco to say potions, or dueling, but Draco closed his eyes and said, without hesitation, “Flying.”

Harry smiled, suddenly feeling a warm rush of nostalgia for their boyhood quidditch rivalry. It felt so far away now, like it had all happened a hundred years ago. Winning the Cup used to be his biggest priority. He remembered Draco’s sleek green uniform, the way his cheeks turned red in the wind as he leaned over his broom, almost flat against the wood. He’d always been faster than Harry, might have even been a better Seeker, too, if he’d stopped taunting Harry long enough to keep his eyes on the snitch. Harry wondered when Draco had last flown, before realizing—with a lurch—that it might well have been with him, in the burning Room of Requirement. 

“Want to take a spin on my Firebolt?” he offered, hopefully. “After we’ve eaten?”

Draco slowly put his knife and fork down. “I have work,” he said reluctantly.

“What time do you get off your shift?” Harry asked.

“Midnight.”

“Alright. I’ll pick you up then?”

Draco hesitated, glancing up at him from beneath his pale eyelashes. “Do you mean it?” he asked.

Harry nodded. “‘Course.”

Draco smiled slowly. “Alright,” he said. “That’d be ace.”

Harry beamed back at him, unable to hide his excitement. They were going to go flying—together—in just a few short hours. If he didn't know any better, he'd think it was a date.

He didn’t want to alarm Draco by appearing too eager. So he stifled his excitement and his urge to dance with the waitress as she passed by and tucked back into his food enthusiastically. But in Harry's head, the countdown was already ticking.

Chapter Text

Draco floated through his shift, hardly feeling the ache in his heels and biceps as he swept across the bar, lugging crates of wine for Anthony and pouring drinks and bussing tables and running endless trays of cocktails back and forth. He tried to bring himself back down to earth. Maybe Harry would forget. Maybe the offer had been a cruel taunt in the first place. It had been so long since he’d flown that maybe he’d pitch right off the broomstick and humiliate himself. The hours ticked by, even more slowly than usual, but finally Draco pulled his apron off and dropped it in the laundry bag in the kitchen.

He checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his vest, then buttoned it back up again. He was covered in a thin sheen of sweat; he cursed himself for forgetting to bring deodorant. He splashed some water on his face and it dripped down his neck, washing some of the concealer away, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He folded his sleeves up to his elbows and ran his fingers through his hair.

Anthony paused by the bathroom doorway on his way out and smiled at Draco. “Got a date?” he asked.

“No,” Draco said emphatically, pulling his hands out of his hair as if scalded. He hurried out of the bathroom, retrieved his satchel from his locker, and shouldered his way through the back door.

He looked down the alley, steeling himself to be disappointed, but there Harry was, leaning against a dumpster with his arms folded, grinning like an idiot. He looked more handsome than he had any right to in those ratty clothes and ridiculous round glasses, his hair windswept and wild. He wasn’t Draco’s type, or more accurately, shouldn’t be. But not even Draco was immune to that effortless golden boy charm. Harry’s sharp green eyes were fixed on Draco, pinning him in the beam of his full attention. Draco had yearned to be the focus of that attention all his life, but now that he had it, he was overwhelmed—he could barely look Harry in the eye.   

His Firebolt was propped up beside him. It wasn’t the one Draco remembered from school—it must have been a newer model. Draco realized, with a pang, that in the eight years he’d been out of the wizarding world, he must have missed half a dozen new models. His last broomstick had been one of the Nimbus 2001s his father had bought for the whole Slytherin team in second year, back when he had still cared about Draco’s performance in Quidditch. Draco hadn’t ridden it since fifth year. He didn’t even know where it was.

“Are you mad?” he asked, to cover his pleasure. “This is a muggle neighborhood.”

Harry shrugged, still smiling. “No one will look twice at a broomstick in an alley. I’ll make sure no one’s looking when we take off.”

Draco crept forward, suddenly shy. “What kind of broom is that?” he asked.

“Oh,” Harry said, glancing at it. “It’s the Firebolt 3. I replaced my old one after seventh year, after it—you know.”

Draco nodded. He didn’t know, but he wasn’t surprised to learn that Harry’s beloved Firebolt had been yet another casualty of the war.

“So, er—” Harry scratched the back of his head, suddenly looking horribly awkward. “Want to go for a spin?” he held the broom out, and Draco suddenly realized that he was offering him a turn on it, alone.

Draco stepped back, shaking his head. “Oh no, I—I couldn’t.”

“It’s alright,” Harry said, still holding it out. “I trust you.”

A sudden warmth flooded into Draco’s cheeks at that, but he said, “No, it’s not that. I—I haven’t flown in ten years.”

They looked into each other’s eyes, and it felt like yesterday—but also a million years ago—that Draco would have rather died than admitted fear or weakness to Harry.

“Oh,” Harry said. “Right. Well—hop on, then.”

He mounted the broom and looked back at Draco.

Draco still hesitated. “It’s really alright?”

“Of course,” Harry said, gesturing with his head. “Come on.”

Draco mounted the broom behind Harry, his breath suddenly coming very fast. He hesitated for a moment, and then, gingerly, wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist.

Not a moment later, the Firebolt soared into the dark sky, smooth and fast and straight—like—like magic, Draco thought, absurdly. He had to tighten his grip around Harry’s waist to avoid falling off the back of the broom, and he couldn’t repress the delighted laugh that bubbled up his throat.

Harry cast him a glance over his shoulder, his lips quirked in a smile.

The flashing neon signs and bright lights of Soho sparkled beneath them. Buses and taxis trundled along the road like toys. The air up here was breathtakingly cold, and the stars were so much brighter above the glare of the city lights.

Draco had worried that he would be afraid, after all these years. He’d never been good with heights, and learning how to fly had been a frightening experience when he was little, much to the dismay of his father. But when he finally got the hang of it, soaring so high above the Manor garden that Lucius shrunk to the size of a doll beneath him, flying so far that he could no longer hear his scolding—that sense of freedom was what he’d spent all those years chasing on the Quidditch pitch.

And now, it was like he had never dismounted. Harry leaned forward and put on a burst of speed, and Draco was forced to press his whole chest into Harry’s back to hang on. Harry dove across the landscape with astonishing agility, the lights of traffic blurring beneath them, Draco’s hair whipping and eyes watering in the wind. He laughed again, grateful that the roar of the wind concealed his glee.

He didn’t know where Harry was taking them, and didn’t care. He wanted to fly away with him, go somewhere, anywhere—and never come back.

“You okay back there?” Harry called over the wind. Draco could only nod.

The tip of his nose was ice cold, and after several long minutes of restraining himself, Draco gave in, and pressed his face against Harry’s shoulder. His sweater was scratchy but warm, and he could feel Harry’s lungs expanding and contracting with every breath. He smelled of wood chips, and cigarettes, and a deodorant that was slightly spicy and musky. The last time he had pressed his body against Harry’s like this, they were escaping the Fiendfyre, the smoke choking his lungs and Crabbe’s screams as he burned to death rending the air. Draco firmly put that thought out of his mind. He was going to enjoy this, for however long it lasted.

Much too soon, Harry pointed the nose of the broomstick downwards, and Draco realized that they were above his grey, boxy apartment building.

In a burst of boldness, Draco put his mouth to Harry’s ear, and whispered, “Not yet.”

He was gratified when Harry’s ear turned bright red.

Harry cast Draco a cheeky half smile over his shoulder, and turned the broom back towards the street in a wide arc. He whispered something under his breath, and Draco felt his skin tingle as the familiar sensation of a disillusionment charm cloaked them both.

“Hang on,” Harry said. To Draco’s surprise, Harry tipped the nose of the broom down at a sharp angle, sending it hurtling towards the street at high speed. Draco shrieked and pressed his face against Harry’s shoulder, his stomach flipping.

When he was brave enough to peek, they were speeding between a pair of doubledecker buses, just barely enough room between them to safely fit.

Harry steered them through traffic, down bustling main streets and then through a maze of tiny alleyways, just barely dodging shop signs and clotheslines and balconies, keeping their speed steady the whole time. Finally, the mouth of the street opened up, and they were soaring over the Thames, their shoes just barely skimming the surface of the water.

“Want to go for a swim?” Harry shouted over the wind, and he twisted the broom into a barrel roll, Draco just barely managing to hang on and avoid being dunked in the river.

“You’re mad!” Draco shouted, and Harry laughed in response.

They soared over cargo ships, around pleasure boats, beneath bridges. Harry dove directly over a gaggle of geese, which took to the air with them in an explosion of wings and a riot of honking. Harry even did a loop around the London Eye, which was lit up with a million neon lights and crowded with open-mouthed tourists.

Harry only turned towards home when Draco began to shiver uncontrollably against his shoulder.

He kept them at a higher elevation on the way back, taking the most direct route. He sped towards Draco’s building, slowing their descent only at the last moment and touching down on the fire escape with the precision of a seeker. He got off first, and held the broom steady for Draco.

Draco’s stomach felt like it was full of fizzy champagne. His legs were wobbly, and he stumbled a little when he dismounted, his muscles unused to flying. Harry caught him around the waist. Draco put his arms around Harry’s shoulders, and suddenly their faces were unbearably close, and he was laughing, his breath clouding Harry’s glasses, and Harry was laughing too.

It was stupid, it was reckless, it was sure to end in heartbreak, but Draco couldn’t help it. He would never get a chance like this again, and he had wanted to kiss Harry Potter for half of his life.

He tilted his head down—Harry was ever so slightly shorter—and kissed him.

Harry’s lips were warm and chapped and it was a beautiful, perfect moment, and Draco waited for it to end. He waited for Harry to recoil in disgust, or push him backwards, or shove him to his knees. But instead, Harry parted his lips, and sought Draco’s tongue with his own. His mouth was wet and hot, so hot, and Harry squeezed Draco by the waist until his toes lifted off the fire escape, and arousal licked through Draco’s belly like he hadn’t felt in years.

Finally, they pulled away, panting, and looked at each other, Draco’s amazement and sudden shyness reflected in Harry’s eyes. Again he waited for the moment to end, for reality to come crashing back down.

But it didn’t. Not yet, anyway. So Draco took Harry’s hand, and pulled him through the window into his apartment.

***

Harry was afraid to blink, afraid to breathe, in case he broke the spell. Draco’s fingers were long and cold, and his skin rougher than Harry had imagined it would be. Harry let Draco pull him through the window and lead him to the bed.

Draco pushed gently on Harry’s shoulders, and Harry obligingly sat on the edge of the mattress. Then Draco knelt down on the floor, looking up at Harry through his eyelashes. Draco’s hair and clothes were rumpled and disorderly from the wind, as wild as Harry had ever seen them, making him look as though he’d already been ravished. His cheeks were pink and wind whipped, his grey eyes bright. Harry suddenly felt dizzy. His blood was pumping through his body so powerfully he could hear it, and he couldn’t deny this was like one of his fantasies come to life, but things were moving so fast.

“Draco,” he said, his voice husky, but Draco whispered, “Hush. Let me take care of you.”

Draco unbuckled Harry’s belt and unzipped his trousers—slowly, ever so slowly—still gazing up at him.

He reached into Harry’s pants and pulled out his cock, which was already painfully hard. Draco paused for a moment, looking down at it, his eyelashes fluttering. He let out a shaky breath, then swallowed, and leaned in.

Draco gave it a few lingering strokes and licked the underside from base to tip, swirling his tongue around the head. Harry could feel Draco’s lip ring, cold against his sensitive skin, and was suddenly afraid he was going to come embarrassingly early.

But then Draco smiled coyly up at Harry and said, in a strange, breathy voice, “It’s so big, I’m almost frightened.”

He leaned in towards Harry’s cock again, but Harry grabbed one of his shoulders, and Draco looked up, his expression almost hurt. “Mal—Draco, wait. This isn’t—”

“Tell me what you want me to do,” Draco said, still in that strange, soft voice. “And I’ll do it. Tell me what to say. I can be anything you want me to be.”

“That’s not—” Harry’s erection was starting to wilt.

“I’m not shy,” Draco insisted. “Anything you want. Try me—I won’t be shocked. You can even obliviate me after, if you want to.”

“Obliv—what the fuck?!” Harry exclaimed, stuffing his limp cock back in his pants and scrambling back across the bed. 

Draco sat back on his heels. Now he definitely looked hurt, and more than a little confused.

“Why are you being so weird?” Harry blurted out.

Draco’s face transformed from hurt to angry. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

“There!” Harry said, pointing wildly at Draco’s face. “There you are!” 

“What are you talking about?” Draco demanded, slapping Harry’s hand away.

“You were like—acting, or something,” Harry said, exasperated. 

“Well I’m sorry no one’s ever tried to seduce you before, Potter, but that’s sort of how it goes,” Draco snapped, blushing bright red.

“You don’t need to seduce me,” Harry said. “I’m already—listen, can you just—be yourself?”

Draco looked so lost for a moment, it wrung Harry’s heart. Then he snapped back into himself and snarled, “I'm sorry, would you rather I was spitting slurs between mouthfuls of cock? If you’re after a hate-fuck modeled on our school days, just say so! Do you have a necktie on-hand? Want to tie me to the bedpost?” Draco pressed his wrists together and thrust them savagely at Harry.

“No, no!” Harry said desperately. The magic of the moment was slipping between his fingers, and he would do anything to save it. “Here—come here,” he said, holding out his hands. “Will you get off the floor?”

Draco reluctantly took Harry’s hands and allowed himself to be pulled onto the bed. He wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes, but his body was pliable as Harry pulled him closer across the mattress. 

“Can we just—” Harry grasped for words, his heart sinking. He had always been so bad at knowing what to say with Ginny, everything he tried only making her more and more upset. Harry squeezed Draco’s hands. “I just really liked kissing you,” he said lamely.  

Draco still wouldn’t look at Harry, but he leaned in, and Harry took his face in his hands, and they were kissing again, but slower, deeper. It was quiet in Draco’s flat, except for the ticking of the clock and the creak of the radiators, and the soft sound of Draco’s lips against his. Draco threw his arms around Harry’s shoulders, and relaxed into him more and more with every breath, until Harry had to grip his waist tightly to keep them both upright. Draco's tongue was slick and hot and every brush of it made Harry feel like he was melting. Harry would have kept his lips on Draco’s forever, but they had to come up for air eventually. He pressed his forehead to Draco’s and rubbed his thumbs against the side of his neck. The smell of his cologne—green roses—was intoxicating, this close, and though Draco’s hands were cold, his throat and mouth were scalding hot.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since I first saw you in the alleyway,” Harry breathed, finally pulling away.

“I’ve wanted you to do that to me since third year,” Draco said, playing with the bedspread. 

“Wait—what? Are you serious?” Harry said.

Draco looked up at him, laughing at the thunderstruck expression on Harry’s face. “Obviously,” he drawled. “Why do you think I was such a prick to you in school? Not all of us were able to maintain the facade of heterosexuality well into adulthood.”

He tucked a bit of hair behind his ear, a sweet, endearing gesture, and as his hand lingered by his throat, Harry noticed something strange. There was something—glistening, on Draco’s neck, like silver thread.

He leaned in to get a closer look, and Draco reared back, alarmed.

“What’s that on your neck?” Harry asked.

Draco blanched horribly, and Harry wished he could just shut the fuck up sometimes. He was always putting his foot in it.

Draco’s hand hovered near his throat, then he shoved it firmly under his thigh and looked away. “Just a stupid, teenage mistake that left a permanent mark,” he said in a clipped, tight voice. “One of many.”

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

But his eyes lingered on the silver threads, which he now realized were woven into a kind of slender celtic knot, a pattern that repeated in a ring around Draco’s throat. It was beautiful, but eerie, and Harry could tell—by the knot in his gut that he sometimes got—that it was dark magic.

Then Draco’s throat bobbed again, and Harry realized he was staring.

“Sorry,” he said again.

Draco stood abruptly, moving into the kitchenette. “Do you want a drink?” he asked, rummaging around the cupboard for some glasses.

“Sure,” Harry said, trailing behind him, and then added, “But you can like, keep it simple. You don’t need to mix anything for me tonight.”

“Scotch it is then!” Draco said, a little frantically, taking down a half-empty bottle of Famous Grouse from the tall cabinet.

After they each had a glass in hand, Draco put a jazz vinyl on a record player that he retrieved—rather bizarrely—from under the sink. They sat on the couch together and drank their whisky and smoked, and slowly, the awkwardness dissipated, and the magic they had shared on the broomstick and the fire escape crept back in.

They chatted about lots of things, mostly Quidditch and the best bars in Soho and other fluff. Their conversations were interrupted by several long make-out sessions—each one less tentative and more enthusiastic than the last. They came up to the edge of something more several times, but Draco had clearly turned too shy to initiate again, and Harry was afraid to, not knowing what he would do or say if Draco got that dull, glassy look in his eyes again, and put on the breathy baby voice. So they left it at that.

When they were both too tired to continue, Draco put his head in Harry’s lap. Harry felt as proud and disbelieving as though a particularly choosy cat had decided to settle in his lap. The moonlight was reflecting off of Draco’s hair—platinum blonde, even in adulthood, and just as shiny as it had always been, but softer now; touchable. Harry tentatively reached out. When Draco didn’t shy away, Harry carded his fingers through the hair above his ear. It was soft, so soft, and heavy, like silk. Draco leaned into his touch, and Harry ran his fingers through his hair again and again. Draco shuddered as Harry began to scratch his scalp, then exhaled slowly, his whole body relaxing. Harry wondered when Draco had last been touched with such tenderness.

Draco fell asleep just before dawn. Harry took the still-burning cigarette from Draco’s limp hand and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the end table. Lady Di crawled in through the window and curled up on Draco’s stomach. Harry slumped down on the couch with his head against the backrest, careful not to jostle Draco or the cat and wake them.

His last thought before he joined them in sleep was about the strange, sinister chain on Draco’s neck, and where he had learned to act so fawning.

Chapter Text

ACT II

 A cage went in search of a bird.

—Franz Kafka

That moment on the Astronomy Tower—the moment Draco lowered his wand, hand shaking, Yaxley and Greyback jeering behind him, Dumbledore’s sad, solemn eyes boring into his own, his useless offer of help, come far too late, ringing in Draco’s ears—he knew he was a dead man walking. 

But no, if he really thought about it, he had known his fate from the moment the Dark Lord had appointed him the impossible task, ten months earlier. Only hours previous, his father not only failed to retrieve the prophecy, but had been captured by the aurors, along with ten other members of the Dark Lord’s inner circle.

The Dark Lord had returned to the Manor, furious. He gathered the remaining Death Eaters in the great hall and, for the first time, tortured Draco personally—a screaming Narcissa held back by Yaxley. After, Draco lay panting and twitching on the floor, the cold marble against his cheek the only relief, thinking that he could stand the pain if only his mother would just stop screaming.

The Dark Lord’s footsteps—quiet and precise—came towards him. He bent down and Draco tried not to curl up with fear, tried to be brave for his mother. The Dark Lord’s long, pale hand reached towards Draco, and he flinched back, but Voldemort only stroked his cheek, his skin ice-cold and supernaturally smooth.

“My dear boy,” he murmured. “You understand why I had to punish you, don’t you?”

Draco nodded, struggling to a seated position, his arms shaking beneath him.

“Good,” the Dark Lord murmured, straightening up. “Your father has disappointed me greatly. But I am merciful, and I will offer you a chance to do what he could not. Will you take it?”

Draco glanced at his mother, whose expression was so crumpled, so ruined, she was almost unrecognizable.

“Answer me,” Voldemort hissed.

Draco looked back down at the floor. “Yes, my Lord,” he said. “Yes, I’ll do anything, please.” 

The Dark Lord stepped backwards and surveyed the remaining Death Eaters, huddled against the edges of the room, each of them hardly blinking, hardly breathing. 

“You will kill Dumbledore,” he said in a voice that echoed through the hall. “Before the year is out.”

Draco’s head shot up. He met the Dark Lord’s red eyes for just a moment, then cut his gaze away, unable to bear the delighted malice in his expression.

Some of the assembled group began to chuckle. It was plain to everyone: this was a suicide mission, intended to punish him and his mother for Lucius’s failure. He had no chance.

“If you are successful,” the Dark Lord said, “You shall be forgiven, and honored above all others. But if you fail…”

“I won’t fail,” Draco said, trying desperately to believe it.

The Dark Lord arched an eyebrow. “Then you accept your task?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Draco whispered.

“Good boy,” Voldemort said softly. Draco tried not to react. “Give me your arm.”

Draco took a deep breath. He knew what was coming. He held out his left arm. Voldemort bent down and pushed Draco’s sleeve up past his elbow, a gesture so intimate it made Draco shudder. With his bone-white wand, he traced an intricate series of symbols in the air just above Draco’s forearm. Then he locked his other hand around Draco’s wrist, met his eyes with a sickening smile, and pressed his wand into Draco’s skin.

For the second time that day, Draco began to scream.

***

What Draco had neglected to consider was what his life would become if he survived the failure of his mission. As he knelt before Greyback in the dark fourth-floor corridor of the Manor, the werewolf’s fist in his hair, his wand against Draco’s neck, he realized that the Dark Lord sparing his life wasn’t the act of mercy he had imagined it to be.

Draco’s hand scrabbled across the floor for the wand Greyback had kicked away. He flexed his fingers, trying to summon it wordlessly, but only succeeded in making it jump against the floorboards. Fenrir stomped on his hand and Draco gave a muffled cry. He chanced a glance down the corridor. His parents’ bedroom was just down the hall. He couldn’t decide which would be worse: mother and father hearing his cries for help and ignoring them, knowing that there was nothing they could do, or them attempting a rescue and seeing Draco so debased.

He decided to keep silent. He didn’t want to see the look on Lucius’s face if he found his only son on his knees before another man. Draco couldn’t bear the humiliation.

Greyback removed his foot from Draco’s hand. “Undo my belt, boy,” he growled.

Draco knew it was coming, but tears still pricked his eyes. “Please,” he begged. “Please, anything else.”

Fenrir only laughed. “There’s nothing else you can offer me,” he said. “Undo my belt or I’ll take your mother in your place.”

Draco reached up with trembling hands. As slowly as he could manage, he undid Fenrir’s belt.

“Keep going,” he grunted.

Draco undid the button. Then the zipper. His arms felt strange, like they were floating. He had a hysterical urge to laugh. He told himself that maybe it was just a dream.

Then, abruptly, his scalp was released. The relief only lasted for a moment before Greyback slapped him hard across the face. Draco rocked to the side and caught himself with one hand, his ear ringing and jaw aching.

“Stop stalling and suck me,” Fenrir commanded. “Last chance before I go down the hall.”

With his numb, weightless fingers, Draco pulled Fenrir’s cock out of his undergarments. It was already hard. He took a deep breath, but Fenrir was done waiting. He wrapped his fist in Draco’s hair once again and pushed his cock against Draco’s lips, where it stalled against his clenched teeth. He wrenched Draco’s hair with a grunt of disapproval, and Draco had to force himself to open his teeth and let Greyback in.

Draco felt his mind separate from his body, his senses dulling as Greyback began to rut into his mouth. After what could have been moments, or an hour—Draco didn’t know and no longer cared, watching the scene as he was from a corner of the hallway ceiling, Fenrir gave a savage thrust, his cock hitting the back of Draco’s throat, and his mouth was suddenly filled with a warm, slippery, salty substance. He was too relieved to be disgusted. Draco was abruptly shoved off the werewolf’s cock, landing on his side. He pushed himself up onto his hands, spitting and gagging on the werewolf’s come.

He became dimly aware that someone—a man—was shouting, arguing with Greyback. All Draco could see of him were his shiny dress shoes. The man shoved Greyback by his shoulders, and the werewolf lunged at him in response, but the man pulled his wand, hissing something under his breath. After a tense standoff, Greyback finally stalked off, growling. 

Suddenly, the pair of shiny dress shoes turned towards him. Draco began to scrabble backwards on his hands and feet. He didn’t know who it was, and he didn’t want to find out: he wanted to sink into the floorboards and die. Before he could get very far, a pair of strong hands seized his biceps and Draco flinched back.

A smooth, tenor voice quite unlike Greyback’s murmured, “Hey, it’s alright, it’s alright. He’s gone. He’s gone, you hear?”

A large hand offered him a white silk handkerchief. The initials E. S. were embroidered in the corner in silver thread. Draco realized, with a flush of shame, that a thread of semen was still dribbling down his chin. He took the handkerchief and wiped his chin, and, with a monumental effort, managed to look up into the face of his rescuer.

A solemn male face stared back at him, eyes pinched at the corners and mouth turned down. He had a long, straight nose, full lips, and deep brown, wavy hair that matched his eyes. Edwin Selwyn, Draco recalled, from somewhere deep in his memory. Selwyn and Draco had only interacted a handful of times since the return of the Dark Lord, but the Selwyns were old family friends. They had used to come to the Manor for dinner on occasion when Draco was younger, and he knew Lucius thought highly of them.

“Let’s get you out of the corridor, alright?” Selwyn said. He held out a hand and pulled Draco to his feet. Draco found that he could barely stand; his legs were jelly. Selwyn gripped him firmly by the biceps, wrapping one arm around Draco’s back, and hurried him down the hallway. He smelled of gin and lilac, Draco thought dimly.

Selwyn led him down the stairs and into one of the rooms on the opposite wing of the third floor; a rarely used guest suite.

The door had barely snicked shut behind them when Draco melted to the floor, back against the door, arms around his knees. He was suddenly unable to take a breath, aborted pants and whimpers escaping from between his clenched teeth.

A warm hand rubbed circles on his shoulder. “Breathe through it. Just breathe,” Selwyn said, demonstrating a deep, slow inhale and exhale, and eventually Draco was able to copy him.

When his breath came back, so did the tears, streaming silently down his face. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered, over and over, not quite sure what he was sorry for but knowing that he must have done something unforgivable to end up in that hallway with Greyback.

Edwin waved away Draco’s apologies and brought him a glass of water. He gave Draco his bed and slept on the couch, that night. As Draco pulled the heavy, green velvet curtains of the four-poster bed shut around him, he felt safe for the first time in months, and thought that he had been rescued.

***

Draco woke to the dawn light, half-remembered nightmares slipping through his mind like sand in a sieve. Selwyn was already up and dressed, and looking at him intently through one of the curtains, which had been thrown open.

Draco hurriedly sat up and gathered the sheets around his lap, clenching the fabric tightly in his fists. His jaw ached and his mouth tasted foul. His scalp and cheek were sore and he could feel that his bottom lip was cracked down the center. He shrank under Edwin’s calm appraisal, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Instead, Selwyn said, “Would you like some coffee?”

Draco didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. He wouldn’t accept a thing from Selwyn until he knew the conditions.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, and then winced at the sound of his voice, rough and raw and shredded.

“Do what?” Selwyn asked, placing a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside table, then sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Help me,” Draco croaked.

Selwyn reached slowly towards Draco’s face, telegraphing his movements, and Draco forced himself not to flinch. But Selwyn only touched the bruise on Draco’s cheek, ever so gently.

“Because you’re beautiful,” he said. “I’ve always thought so. And I hate to see beautiful things being broken.”

Draco recoiled, slapping Selwyn’s hand away. “I’m not a fucking vase,” he snarled, consequences be damned.

But Selwyn only laughed, his straight white teeth gleaming. “And because of that,” he said. “Your feistiness. Your brattiness. It’s endearing, you know.” 

Draco crossed his arms, a pit opening up at the bottom of his stomach. “I’m not a faggot, if that’s where you’re going with this,” he lied, with as much ice as he could muster.

“You’re not? I am,” Selwyn said, shrugging easily. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know. It doesn’t make you any less of a man.” 

Draco could only stare, the gears in his mind jamming up. For a pureblood man to so easily acknowledge faggotry—much less admit—that he—Draco couldn’t have been more surprised if Selwyn had told him he was a purple pygmy puff.

“I’m not—I’m not like him,” he spat, unable to help the tremor in his voice.

Selwyn took a sip of his own coffee. “Neither am I,” he said. “But it’s wrongheaded to consider Greyback a representative example. He’s not an invert—he’s a mad dog who’ll rape anything that moves—man, woman, or beast.” Disgust dripped from his tone.

Draco was unable to repress a shudder.

“What do you want in return, Selwyn?” he asked, unable to bear the waiting any longer.

“Nothing unpleasant,” Selwyn said. “Why don’t you stick with me and find out? And please—call me Edwin.”

“And if I say no?” Draco challenged him.

“It’s up to you, of course,” Edwin said with a shrug. “But I’m offering you protection, something last night made very clear to me that you can’t do without. Think about it.”

He went to the wardrobe and took out a towel, tossing it onto the bed. “But first things first,” he said. “Why don’t you take a shower? You reek of wet dog.”

***

When Draco came out of the shower, he saw that Edwin had left a silky, emerald green dressing gown out for him. Having no other choice—his old clothes had vanished—he put it on. It smelled like Selwyn—of gin and lilac. He looked in the foggy mirror. The dressing gown was a stark contrast to the black suits he usually wore around the Manor, buttoned up to his throat, like armor. The gown fell just above his knees, and he felt exposed by the amount of leg that was visible without his usual socks and garters. Together with his damp, lank hair, it made him look softer, younger. More spoiled. More relaxed. Although it made him feel vulnerable, he didn’t dislike the way it looked, and he had decided that Edwin was at least forthright and unlikely to be violent.

He came out of the bathroom and hovered self-consciously in the doorway. Edwin was lounging in an armchair in the sitting area, reading the Daily Prophet. He put it down and smiled when he saw Draco. “Feel better?” he asked.

Draco only crossed his arms and gave Edwin a glare. Edwin simply smiled and said, “Breakfast?”

He rang the bell over the door with a wave of his wand, and a moment later, Mipsy appeared in the room with a crack, carrying a large tray. She left it on the table and bowed low, shuffling backwards, then vanished just as quickly as she had come.

Edwin sat at the table and lifted the lids of the dishes to reveal eggs, sausages, stewed tomatoes and mushrooms, and toast. A pot each of tea and coffee also sat steaming on the table.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Edwin asked, glancing up as he began serving himself a plate.

“Don’t you have anything proper for me to wear?” Draco asked coldly.

Edwin shrugged. “Afraid not. You’re so skinny you’d be swimming in my clothes. Speaking of, come and eat.”

Draco hesitated a moment longer, but then Edwin said, a touch more sharply, “If you’d like to change properly, you’re welcome to go back to your own room. I’m not keeping you here.”

It wasn’t a hard choice; Draco could only imagine what would become of him if he ventured down the hall in only his dressing gown, with Greyback still roaming free. He took a seat and began filling up his own plate, surprised to discover that his appetite—so diminished lately—had come roaring back with full force.

Edwin’s apartment had a good view of the gardens—overgrown and wild with no house elves left to care for them, half of the fountains no longer functioning, but still lovely. The suite was one of the finer ones, the bedroom adjoined by a bathroom and a dressing room, and on the other side, a large, pleasantly furnished sitting room that included the breakfast table, a fireplace, and several bookshelves. Edwin got up at some point to put a mellow '40s record on the Victrola, but otherwise they ate in silence. It was—almost normal. Draco found himself relaxing in a way he hadn’t in months.

After Mipsy had cleared the empty plates away, Edwin led Draco into a cushy armchair by the fire and went to the bar cart. He poured two tumblers of whisky and handed one to him.

“It’s ten in the morning,” Draco scoffed.

“And it’s just what you need, after last night. Don’t you think?” Edwin asked, sympathy in his eyes.

Draco cut his eyes away and gripped his tumbler tightly. “I don’t need your pity,” he hissed.

“It’s not pity,” Edwin said, sitting in the opposite chair and taking a sip of his whisky. “It’s rather closer to righteous anger, I would say.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked suspiciously.

“I mean that Greyback had no right to touch you,” Edwin said, leaning forward in his chair, a sudden intensity in his voice that shocked Draco. “You’re a pureblood. And not only that, but a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. A Malfoy. Lucius’s heir. A beast like Greyback is not fit to lick your shoes, let alone treat you with such—depravity.”

Draco just stared back at him, astonished, an unfamiliar feeling flooding into his chest, a flush blooming on his temples. Edwin leaned back again.

“He and the rest of them may have forgotten who you are, but I never have. And while I would never question our Dark Lord’s judgment, they would do well to remember that it’s Lucius’s failure, not your own, that you are being punished for.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Draco muttered, looking down into his glass. “I couldn’t—I didn’t kill Dumbledore.”

“So?” Edwin shrugged easily. “You gave the Dark Lord the key to Hogwarts itself. Once you fixed the Vanishing Cabinet, Dumbledore was a dead man. What does it matter which of us cast the killing curse?”

“Why all the flattery?” Draco asked, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes.

“It’s not flattery,” Edwin said easily. “It’s the truth.”

Draco flushed and looked down into his glass.

They drank in silence, letting the record wind down. The whisky warmed and loosened Draco’s limbs, and he melted further and further into the armchair. It felt so good to be clean, to be full, to feel relatively safe and relaxed. Edwin was a particular favorite of the Dark Lord’s—young and handsome and passionate and a ruthless true believer. No one would dare harm him if Edwin didn’t want them to.

Edwin’s intense eyes skimmed over Draco appraisingly. Draco’s skin prickled. He shivered and pulled the gown closer around his body. 

“Do you remember me? When I used to come to dinner at the Manor?” Edwin asked, looking at Draco over the top of his glass.

“A little,” Draco said. “Mother and Father had a lot of guests back then.”

“I remember you,” Edwin said, and smiled. “A serious little boy with impeccable table manners and immaculate little clothes. Able to keep up with the adults in conversation no matter the topic, but with a tongue so sharp he’d sometimes get sent to his room before the dessert course.”

Draco smiled a little at the memory; it was a comfort to know that Edwin was a family friend, from a family his mother and father had respected enough to consider regular dinner guests. Edwin would remember, then, what the Malfoy name had used to mean, the respect it had used to command before he and his father fell out of favor. It was almost like meeting someone from home, except—as Draco remembered with a sickening lurch—he was home. It just wasn’t the home he remembered.

Draco studied Edwin’s face. His eyes were dark and intelligent, his brows were thick but carefully shaped. His hair was immaculate, but wavy enough to look dashing. He had a strong jaw and a clean-shaven face. He was, Draco decided, really quite handsome.

By the time the record had finished and Edwin stood to lift the needle, Draco was half asleep.

When Edwin knelt in front of his armchair, Draco recoiled back. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Showing you how a Malfoy should be treated,” Edwin said softly, putting a hand on Draco’s thigh. “If you’ll let me.”

Draco froze for a moment, considering. But Edwin’s eyes were warm and kind, and his touch was gentle, and Draco was so, so tired of fighting. As a response, he leaned back in the chair. Edwin gently pried his knees apart, kissing a trail up the inside of his thigh. Draco gripped the armrests, trying not to squirm beneath his touch.

Edwin reached under the green dressing gown. He started with his hand. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, stroking Draco’s cock up and down. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

It felt—good, but overwhelming. Draco couldn’t help but fidget. He pressed a hand over his mouth, trying not to cry out. After a minute, Edwin pinned Draco’s hips to the chair with strong hands, and Draco was still at last.

By the time he took Draco’s cock in his mouth, Draco had his hands twisted in Edwin’s hair, his neck canted back, panting.

When Draco came—after just a few minutes—in Edwin’s mouth, he humiliated himself by bursting, suddenly and unexpectedly, into heaving sobs.

But Edwin didn’t say a word. He just pulled Draco into his arms, and stroked his hair, and kissed his eyelids, his cheeks, his tears. His chest was broad, and Draco felt small in his embrace; safe and cared for like he hadn’t felt since he was a very young boy.   

Chapter Text

That night—and every night for the next week—Edwin slept on the couch, leaving the bed to Draco. Draco only returned to his old room once, to pack his clothing and toiletries.

He and Edwin kept close at mealtimes and in meetings, and with Edwin by his side, encased in the protective bubble of authority he gave off, Draco was able to hold his head higher; look the other Death Eaters in the eyes; stare down his nose at them with the same cold sneer he always used to wear. The others gave them sidelong looks, and Draco knew there was bound to be talk, but no one dared say anything to Edwin’s face.

Draco was deliberately avoiding his parents. Even before Edwin, every conversation with them was fraught with landmines. It was best to maintain the illusion that he was managing, to avoid upsetting his mother and enraging his father.

Edwin didn’t touch him again, and Draco was both relieved and trepidacious. He was ashamed of his reaction to their first sexual encounter, but he tucked the memory of the pleasure and care Edwin had shown him close to his heart. He wanted to know what Edwin expected of him, but he dared not ask.

Was Edwin going to expect him to perform, when he hadn't so much as kissed another boy before? Draco had had vague, shameful dreams of boys fucking him in the past. Boys from school; Theo and Blaise and—and Potter. Especially Potter. Draco had been deeply humiliated whenever he woke up hard, and at breakfast, when his eyes wandered over to the Gryffindor table, lingering on Potter as he wolfed down his food and laughed with Weasley and Granger. He felt unbearably disgusted with himself, for not only wanting to unnaturally debase himself, but to do it for his worst enemy. It confirmed something Draco had always suspected: that there was something fundamentally rotten at the core of him.  

Being touched by another man had always been his most secret desire—one he never intended to act upon. But now that he was being presented with an actual opportunity, he felt both thrilled and terribly frightened. After a lifetime of yearning, his fantasies might finally be realized. But he didn't think he was quite ready. His dreams had only ever been vague. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to take...that inside of him. Suddenly, the vast age difference between him and Edwin felt intimidating rather than comforting. No, he definitely wasn't ready—not for that. But if Edwin wanted to take Draco in his mouth again...the thought made arousal curl in his belly.

In the end, Edwin only made him wait a week.

Draco was lounging in bed in his dressing gown, pretending to read a book about small-batch potioneering. He usually slept in his underwear, but didn’t want to be so exposed in front of Edwin. And he couldn’t help but relish the way Edwin’s eyes raked appraisingly over his body when he wore the gown.

The mattress dipped behind him, and he turned to see Edwin slipping between the curtains, stark naked.

Draco sat up quickly and scooted towards the edge of the bed, putting the book down. “I can—” he began.

“No—stay,” Edwin said, holding up a hand, a wry smile on his face. “I hope you didn’t think I’d sleep on the couch forever.”

Draco shook his head, his heart suddenly pounding very fast.

Edwin laughed. “You don’t have to look like a frightened rabbit,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Draco crossed his arms and scowled. “Maybe not, but I know you want something from me.”

“Of course I do,” Edwin said, putting a warm hand on Draco’s thigh. “I’m very fond of you, but I’m no Good Samaritan. You don’t expect me to take you under my wing out of the kindness of my heart, do you?”

After a moment, Draco slowly shook his head.

“Of course not,” Edwin said. “All I’m asking for is a fair exchange. Is that so terrible?”

“Exchange of what?” Draco asked, hating himself when his voice wobbled.

Edwin just looked at him with his warm, dark eyes. “Don’t you know?” he asked.

Draco looked down at his knees, his face burning. “It’s—it’s—degrading,” he said at last. “Humiliating. And painful.”

When Draco chanced a glance up, Edwin’s mouth was twisted, his dark eyes flashing. “What a juvenile perspective,” he said, with such scorn in his voice that Draco shivered. “I think submitting to another man is an act of incredible courage and trust. It’s one of the most noble things you can do.”

“Is it?” Draco snapped. “Why don’t you do it yourself, then?”

Edwin laughed. “I admire those who can, but I’m simply not that kind of man. You, on the other hand—” he touched Draco’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Look at you. You’re beautiful. You were made for it.”

When Draco didn’t react, Edwin dropped his hand. “Like I said, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I’m not going to force you. But if you’re not interested, I’d like the privacy of my own room back. As fond of you as I am, I won’t be celibate. I can have anyone I want, and I won’t want you looking on. I may be a sodomite, but I’m no exhibitionist.” He laughed again.

It wasn’t a choice at all. And Edwin was gentle, and Draco was lonely. It would be nothing like Greyback, Draco told himself, as he inched towards Edwin, his pulse fluttering in his throat.

When he was close enough for Edwin to touch, he caught Draco by the back of the head, whispered, “There’s a good boy,” and kissed him. 

They kissed open-mouthed, long and slow and deep. Edwin’s mouth was hot and wet. Draco had never been kissed like that before. His only prior experience was an awkward peck with Pansy in fourth year. He’d avoided her for months afterwards. By the time Edwin pulled away, Draco was breathless, flushed, his cock already half hard.

Edwin took Draco in his hand and stroked him up and down, laughing when Draco arched into his touch.

“Gorgeous,” he murmured, and Draco flushed even deeper.

When Draco was on the brink of coming—too aroused to be embarrassed any longer, thrusting into Edwin’s hand—Edwin pulled away, placing a kiss on Draco’s neck.

“Not yet,” he said with a chuckle.

Edwin sat back and admired Draco for a moment, his eyes raking up and down Draco’s body. “Take off your dressing gown,” he said. 

Draco fumbled with the knot in the sash and let the gown slide down his shoulders, feeling frighteningly exposed. Goosebumps rose up and down his arms.

“Now lie down,” Edwin ordered. “On your front.”

Draco did, his heart rate spiking and his cock wilting. He put his head on his arms and tried not to tremble. He didn’t think he was ready for this.

No—he knew he wasn’t ready.

Edwin ran a warm hand down the length of his back and over his arse, squeezing it gently. “Like I said, it’s not going to hurt. No need to work yourself up over it. It’s only sex.”

Draco had to repress a sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. Only sex? To a pureblood, everything was sex—who should be having it, when, where, and with whom, and who shouldn’t—and a man sleeping with another man? That was unthinkable. Yet here he was.

Edwin stood up. Draco heard him rummaging around in a drawer. The mattress dipped again as Edwin sat back down behind him.

“I’m going to prepare you,” he said. “You’ll like it. Spread your legs wider for me.”

Draco did. He buried his face in the bedspread so that Edwin couldn’t see his expression, twisted up with fear.

He flinched as Edwin’s finger—lubed up with a warm, sticky substance—traced its way around his opening. Slowly, slowly, Edwin pressed his finger inside, and Draco couldn’t help but lurch forward, clenching his teeth and fisting the bedspread against the dull, burning pain.

“That’s it,” Edwin whispered. “You’re doing so well. That was the hardest part.” 

He moved his finger in and out, slowly at first, and then faster. He stopped once to retrieve more cream, and then slid two fingers into Draco’s arse. The pleasure was slow to build, but once it did, the pain faded, and an unfamiliar feeling began to permeate Draco’s whole body. When Edwin crooked his fingers just right, Draco had to muffle his moans against his pillow. Eventually, Draco’s cock began hardening again, and stuffing down his shame, he began pressing back into Edwin’s fingers, seeking the most pleasurable angle and depth.

Edwin laughed. “What did I tell you?” he said, leaning over Draco’s back, his voice rumbling in his ear. “You were made for this.”

Edwin abruptly pulled his fingers out and stood up, and Draco let all his muscles relax.

“On your hands and knees,” Edwin said. “And scoot to the end of the bed.”

Draco obeyed, trying desperately not to think about what his father and mother, what his friends would think of him if they could see him in this moment.

Edwin leaned down and kissed a line down Draco’s back. 

Draco gasped as Edwin wrapped a hand around his cock. Again, Edwin teased him, pumping his cock slowly at first, and then faster, as Draco grew painfully hard. When Draco felt like he was about to come, the head of Edwin’s cock pressed against his opening, and he flinched away, his erection wilting again.

Edwin steadied Draco with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Be brave,” he said. “I said you’ll like it. Don’t you trust me?”

Draco nodded, unable to speak.

When Edwin thrust into him, Draco couldn’t help but cry out, all of the air leaving his lungs. As when Edwin fingered him, it was a dull, burning pain—but so much more intense this time, like being punched on the inside. 

But then Edwin put his hand back on Draco’s cock, and the pleasure of that competed against the pain. Draco slowly felt his whole body heat as he got used to the sensation of Edwin’s cock in his arse, the stretch and the pressure, and when Edwin tilted his hips higher, little electric shocks shot up his spine. Edwin went slow at first, but he picked up the pace, and soon Draco was slamming back against him, his arousal crowding out the pain, the shame, the fear. Draco couldn’t hold back his moans, this time.

Edwin chuckled. “If I’d known you were this easy, I wouldn’t have spent so much time preparing you,” he said.

A part of Draco wanted to protest, but Edwin leaned over him, his chest flat against Draco’s back. He slipped his fingers into Draco’s mouth. His fingers tasted bitter and salty, and Draco sucked on them reflexively. With his other hand, Edwin thumbed the head of Draco’s hard cock. 

“Come for me, kitten,” he whispered, and slammed his cock, once, twice, three times into Draco’s arsehole, his thighs slapping against Draco’s.

Draco did, moaning and spurting on the sheets as he felt Edwin’s hot come pulsing inside of him.

He collapsed on the mattress, shaky and sweaty and ashamed and elated and confused. Edwin collapsed on top of him. He stroked Draco’s hair and kissed his eyelids. Draco was ashamed to realize that tears were leaking down his cheeks.

“You were so good,” Edwin whispered. “So brave. I’m so proud of you, Draco. Was it good for you?”

Draco nodded. He meant it. It had been frightening—and painful—but in the end, it felt better than he had dared to imagine. 

“I promised you, didn’t I?” Edwin said with a smile. “I don’t break my promises.” 

***

Not many days after that, Mipsy appeared in the apartment with a message for Draco: Lucius wanted to see him.

Draco’s heart sank into the bottom of his stomach. He got dressed in his finest black suit and shoes, hands shaking as he did up his shirt buttons and cufflinks. He combed his hair back and slicked it with gel, the way his father preferred.

With fragments of excuses, denials, and apologies running through his head like ticker tape, he walked down the hallway to his parents’ room like he was walking to the guillotine.

The bedroom was dark; the air stale. It took Draco’s eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, he saw his father sitting rigid in a chair by his large teak writing desk, his cane clutched tightly in both of his hands. 

Draco approached. This was the other reason he had been avoiding his father: he couldn’t bear to see Lucius’s lank, greasy hair, sunken eyes, and sallow skin. His hands were trembling, and he hadn’t shaved in days. The surface of the desk was strewn with empty wine bottles and half-full goblets. Azkaban had changed him; Lucius had aged twenty years in the last two.

But he still had impeccable posture, and a commanding voice, and was still able to strike fear into Draco’s heart with only a word.

“You called for me, father?” Draco said stiffly, balling his hands into fists.

Lucius nodded. “I did.” He wouldn’t look at Draco. He got straight to the point. “I hear you have been spending time with Edwin Selwyn.”

Draco knew it was coming, but his heart was still seized by an icy hand. “Father—please listen—it’s not what you think,” he said desperately. “Let me explain.”

Lucius raised a hand, and Draco fell silent.

“There is no need,” he said. “I am not here to reprimand you. In fact—” his mouth twisted, as though he had smelled something unspeakably foul. “In fact,” he continued after a long moment, “I called you here to tell you that I think it would be wise for you to stay close to Edwin.”

Draco was struck speechless. It was the last thing he had expected his father to say. Lucius still wouldn’t look at him.

“Edwin is a particular favorite of the Dark Lord’s,” Lucius continued, “And the other Death Eaters not only fear but respect him. He will be able to protect you in a way—” his mouth twisted again—“In a way that I no longer can.”

Finally, Lucius looked at his son. His eyes were bloodshot, his expression flat. “There is nothing—shameful,” he said in a halting voice, sounding as if he believed the very opposite, “About doing what is necessary in order to survive, until you are in a position to take power back. You must do—whatever it takes—to stay in Edwin’s good favor. Do you understand me?”

Draco did. He should feel relieved—that his father wasn’t angry, that he not only understood, but was encouraging him. But instead, a tidal wave of rage surged up inside of him.

This was the man who had knocked him across the face with his cane when he tried on his mother’s lipstick as a child. This was the man who told him he looked like a girl when he grew his hair out, and forcibly cut it while Draco sobbed. Who mocked fashionable men they passed in Diagon Alley as sodomites, inverts, foul and filthy and perverted degenerates. Who told Draco that if he’d spawned a child like that he would disinherit them in a heartbeat. Who drilled into Draco that his first and greatest duty was to marry a pureblood woman and produce an heir to carry on the Malfoy name.

But there was almost nothing Draco was better at than repressing his anger towards his father. So he swallowed his rage, and said, in a quiet voice, “Is there no other way?”

Lucius looked away. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, trailing it down to the stubble on his chin. “Not that I can see,” he said.

He looked so tired, so broken, that Draco’s anger washed away and was replaced by fear.

“Father—” he said in a quavering voice. “Daddy—”

“You may go,” Lucius said, turning back to his desk.

So Draco went, back down the hallway to Edwin’s chambers.

Chapter Text

After Draco received Lucius’s blessing, Edwin became more open with his affections. In meetings in the dining room, with the Dark Lord at the head of the table and Nagini twining through their legs beneath it, Edwin would lay a hand on Draco’s thigh. And as they walked through the long corridors together, he’d rest a hand on the small of Draco’s back, or steer him by the shoulder.

At first, it embarrassed Draco horribly—made him feel small, ashamed, naked. But soon he noticed that Edwin’s touch didn’t draw the attention of the other Death Eaters the way he had feared it would. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Peoples’ eyes would skate right on past him. No one ever addressed him directly anymore, and he was rarely called upon to perform tasks of any kind for the Dark Lord. Even the Dark Lord himself—who so loved taunting Draco—had moved on to other targets. Part of Draco was humiliated, to be treated as invisible, insignificant, unworthy—but the greater part was relieved to be left alone at last.

He spent most days alone in Edwin’s apartment, reading his books in peace while Edwin was in meetings or on missions for the Dark Lord. All Edwin expected in return was that when he came to bed, Draco would be there waiting for him. As evening came on, anticipatory, nervous butterflies would start to swarm in Draco’s stomach, and his anxiety would ratchet higher and higher until Edwin swept into the room, already shucking off his cloak and fixing Draco with hunger in his eyes. But the sex got a little better each time, a little less painful; and Draco lived for the afterglow, when Edwin would wrap Draco in his arms and pull him into his warm, broad chest, telling him he was beautiful.

 ***

One afternoon, Edwin returned to the apartment early, his robes billowing behind him, and said, “Let’s go for a walk.”

Draco sat up like a shot in bed. “Really?” he asked eagerly.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been outdoors. It wasn’t exactly forbidden, but he hadn’t wanted to risk it. Not only could he miss a summons from the Dark Lord if he strayed too far, but there were too many secluded corners in the garden: the hedge maze, the shade of the allée, inside the labyrinth. If someone cornered him, there would be no hope of escape. It wasn’t worth the risk.

Edwin led him down the stairs and through the back veranda doors. The sunlight and warm, fresh air washed over Draco like a revelation, and he breathed in deeply. He had almost forgotten it was late summer. The air in the Manor was cold and dry, and black curtains had been drawn over nearly every window since the Dark Lord’s arrival.

Draco almost immediately realized he was dressed all wrong. He shucked off his robes and suit coat, leaving them in a heap on the veranda. He pushed up his shirt sleeves, casting a shy glance at Edwin as he did so, but Edwin only laughed, and took him by the hand.

“Show me all your favorite spots,” he said.

Draco led him down the central avenue, through the allée, past the fish pond, and around the gazebo, pointing out various landscaping features and unusual plants while Edwin nodded appreciatively. The gardens were much overgrown—all of the landscaping elves having fled the premises months ago—but still beautiful in the full bloom of August.

Halfway down the lawn, Edwin repositioned Draco’s hand so that it rested in the crook of his elbow, as though he were escorting Draco to a fancy ball.

Draco gave him a shy look. “It’s almost as if you’re courting me,” he teased.

Edwin stopped in his tracks, and Draco’s heart skipped a beat, fearing he had overstepped, but Edwin only caught Draco’s free hand in his own. He raised it to his lips, and kissed it, not once breaking eye contact. Draco blushed so deeply he felt as though he were on fire.

“But that’s exactly what I’m doing,” Edwin murmured. “You’re the Malfoy heir,” he emphasized, as they continued down the lawn. “Did you think I wouldn’t court you properly?”

For once, Draco was struck speechless, his whole body filling with a warm glow. Maybe he wasn’t just a kept boy, after all. Maybe Edwin was truly looking for a partner, an equal; someone to spend the rest of his life with. In response, he could only squeeze Edwin’s arm a little tighter.

Draco led Edwin to the peacock hutch at the far edge of the lawn. The hutch was empty, the peacocks roaming free across the grass, pecking idly in the dirt for worms and bugs.

“Poor things,” Draco murmured. “I don’t think anyone’s been feeding them.”

Edwin said nothing, but rummaged about in his breast pocket and produced a dried kernel of corn. He presented it to Draco with a smile, and, like a stage magician, placed it in Draco’s hand and theatrically multiplied it, until the handful of corn kernels was overflowing. They sat there on the grass, tossing corn to the peacocks, who came running on their skinny little legs when they realized there were treats afoot.

“So you just walk around with corn in your pocket everywhere you go?” Draco teased.

Edwin’s eyes twinkled at him. “You forget, I’m a great lover of peacocks myself. We have them in droves at the family estate down in Brighton. Haven’t you noticed the stuffed peacock in my apartment?”

Draco nodded. It was a gorgeous, pure-white bird on a tall stand in the sitting room, its tail so long it touched the floor—difficult to miss.

“That’s Candide,” Edwin said, a fond, nostalgic look in his eyes. "He was my special favorite growing up. I had him stuffed before he got too old and sick, so that I could always remember him in his glory.”

Draco’s heart squeezed a bit as he thought of his boyhood owl, Ulysses. He wouldn’t have wanted Ulysses stuffed—especially before his time was up—but the white peacock in Edwin’s chambers was very beautiful. Edwin was clearly a person who loved hard, for a long time. He was loyal. If Draco could become as beloved as Candide, surely Edwin would love him and keep him safe—maybe even forever.

Draco laid his head in Edwin’s lap. He closed his eyes, letting the sunlight play on his face as it danced through the leaves, listening to the peacocks scratching contentedly in the dirt. He could smell Edwin’s sharp, piney cologne and feel the warmth of his skin through his trousers. Edwin gently stroked his hair and, after a long while, began to speak.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked softly.

“Mm,” Draco replied sleepily.

Edwin ran his thumb along Draco’s temple. “When I was growing up, I never imagined that I’d be able to properly court another man, the pureblood way. My parents are—well, like your Lucius, I suppose. They prefer my elder brother."

Edwin’s voice turned harder. “He betrayed the Dark Lord in the first war—fled to France with his mudblood wife like the cowards they are. And even still my parents prefer him. They mean to leave him the family estate, simply because they think I can’t produce an heir. I’ve had to work twice as hard as that traitor to win their favor. I’m as much a traditionalist as anyone in that house”—he jerked his head back towards the Manor—“but what pureblood society has forgotten is that what we are is tradition. Dating back to ancient times. Like Achilles. Like Alexander the Great. But the Dark Lord understands this. He doesn’t care what we are, as long as we’re loyal. Because of him, you and I won’t have to hide who we are anymore.”

Draco opened his eyes to see Edwin’s boring into his, his dark hair falling in his face and the sun behind his head turning the individual strands golden.

“Could we really live openly?” Draco asked, wonder suffusing his voice. “I can’t even imagine. My father…”

“Forget Lucius, forget my parents and their close-mindedness,” Edwin said passionately. “In the world the Dark Lord will make, we’ll be kings, you and I. No one will be able to tell us what to do. We’ll be free.”

Edwin leaned down and kissed him deeply. Draco kept his eyes open, wanting to remember this moment.

“I want to give you the future you deserve, Draco,” Edwin said when he pulled away.

But there was a question niggling at the back of Draco’s mind. “You said you could have anyone, that first night. So—why me?”

Edwin cradled Draco’s face between his hands and leaned down, his eyes flashing with intensity, a triumphant smile playing at his lips. 

“Darling, I could have anyone, but I only want you. You’re perfect, you know that? It’s a miracle that we managed to find each other. Think of it, Draco,” he said. “Both of us inverts, both loyal to the Dark Lord, both from upstanding, pureblooded families. What are the odds? But it’s more than that—look at yourself.”

Draco flushed all over his body. Perfect, he repeated to himself, wonderingly. To his father, he’d always been a disappointment. But to Edwin, he was perfect. It was intoxicating.

“You’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Edwin said. “And you’re stylish, and accomplished, and clever.”

Edwin’s lips curled again. “There are inverts who can pretend, who can fumble through for the sake of an heir. But you’re not one of those, are you, pet? You fucked yourself on my cock the first time we laid together. I know you, and you could never be with a woman. You couldn’t fool a soul; even for a moment. No, you were made for me, and me alone.”

Draco squirmed. Part of him was deeply embarrassed—if he was that obvious, surely everyone knew the truth of him, as he’d always feared—but maybe that didn’t matter. If Edwin loved him, maybe nothing else mattered.

“Think of it,” Edwin said urgently. We can bring the old tradition back as we usher in a new order, at the Dark Lord’s right hand side. We can be like Hadrian and Antinous.” 

“Yes,” Draco breathed. “Yes, I want that.” 

This time he surged up to meet Edwin’s lips. Draco wrapped his arms around Edwin, pushing him down onto the lawn. They lay in the tall grass, their bodies twined around each other, until twilight.

Draco had never imagined that the world he lived in could be so changed. That he could be so loved—and openly. That a future without fear, secrecy, and shame could be within reach. He resolved that afternoon that he would face whatever came next with courage—for Edwin.

***

It was late morning, buttery sunlight spilling onto the white sheets. Draco loved how Edwin kept his curtains open; the single, small rebellion against the Dark Lord he seemed to allow himself. Edwin had woken Draco up with a coffee, and now they were lying against the pillows, Edwin playing with Draco’s hair.

“When did you know?” Edwin asked softly. “That you are what you are.”

Draco shifted onto his back, his arms behind his head. It sent an electric thrill through his body, that Edwin was so open and frank about such things. But a lifetime of ingrained repression and shame still wouldn’t allow him to look Edwin in the face while he spoke about it.

“I always knew that something was different about me—wrong with me,” he began. “I think Father must have suspected from very early on, because he was always criticizing the way I walked, the way I spoke, the way I dressed and wore my hair. But I had no idea I liked men—in fact, quite the opposite. I was terrified of them, because somehow, they knew the truth about me, too, and hated me for it. My only friends were girls until I got to Hogwarts. I think I was the last to know. Is that very strange?”

He chanced a glance at Edwin. Edwin shook his head, his hand still in Draco’s hair, a small, sad smile on his face. “I don’t think so,” he said. “When did you realize?”

Draco turned back to face the ceiling. “There was no one big moment,” he said. “Just a lot of small ones. There was this one boy band—the Broomstick Clique. Do you remember them?”

Edwin laughed. “No, I suspect I’m too old for them.” 

“I was obsessed with the lead guitarist—Taran. I had his posters all over my bedroom wall until Father made me take them down. I knew then that the way I felt about him wasn’t—how I was supposed to feel. And then when I started at Hogwarts, I began having—wet dreams about—er—Theodore Knott.”

Edwin burst into laughter. “Theodore Knott? As in Philip Knott’s son? The old bag who’s across the hall as we speak?”

“Yes,” Draco said anxiously. “You mustn’t tell him, please.” 

Edwin sat up and made as if to head down the hall and knock on Nott’s door while Draco pulled at his arm, laughing.

They fell back onto the pillows, Draco turning to face Edwin. “There was one more thing,” he said. “You’re going to think me mad, though.”

“I couldn’t,” Edwin said warmly.

Draco hesitated, biting his lip. Edwin had been so accepting, so encouraging; surely he would be safe to admit this sort of thing to? 

“As much as we were rivals,” Draco confessed, “I always thought Harry Potter was so fit, and I hated him for it. I had more dreams about him than anyone. You actually reminded me a bit…”

Draco faltered. Edwin’s face had turned to stone. Edwin sat up and Draco scrambled upright as well, his heart racing.

“Wait—” he said tremulously, “I’m sorry, Ed. Please don’t be angry, it was—it was a long time ago. And nothing ever—”

Edwin gripped Draco by the back of his neck and pulled him close.

“Shut up. Listen to me very carefully,” Edwin said through his teeth. “Never mention that boy’s name again. If the Dark Lord knew, if he had even an inkling of what you just said to me, he would kill you in a heartbeat, and I would be powerless to stop him. Don’t think of Harry Potter again. Banish him from your mind. If you can’t manage that, I’ll obliviate you if I have to. This—attraction—it never happened. Do you understand me?”

Draco nodded frantically, his heart racing rabbit fast.

Edwin’s grip on his neck tightened until it was painful. “This is war, Draco,” he emphasized. "You’re a grown man. A soldier. It’s long past time you cast these childish fantasies and sympathies aside. Harry Potter thwarted the Dark Lord once, and it cannot be allowed to happen again. If he lives, we lose everything. Each other, the new world the Dark Lord seeks to build, and likely our very lives.” 

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the intensity in Edwin’s eyes.

“Anyone who wants anything less for Potter than a painful death is a traitor,” Edwin said. “Harry Potter has to die. Do you understand me? We cannot live while he survives.”

He finally released Draco, who drew back trembling. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “It was only—”

“Forget it,” Edwin said, waving his hand in a dismissal. “Let’s not speak of it again.”

But that night, Edwin traced the faint, silvery scars on Draco’s chest. He had asked about them on their second or third night together, and Edwin had kissed each one, swearing that he would murder Harry Potter himself if he didn’t already belong to the Dark Lord.

But now, he pulled on Draco’s shoulder, his lip curling in disgust. “On your front,” he said in a cold voice. “I don’t want to look at them.”

Draco obeyed.

***

One night, weeks into their arrangement, Draco had had a particularly bad day. Edwin had been a little moodier since Draco’s foolish disclosure, and it was putting him on edge. He’d been up all night, with one nightmare after another, and he was certain he was coming down with the cold that had been spreading around the Manor all week. He couldn’t even concentrate enough to read, the words swimming in front of his eyes.

Mipsy brought him tea and toast in bed. She had always had a soft spot for Draco, but her mothering seemed to be in full force lately. They could only ever chat for a few minutes before she was called away again. As the house-elf in charge of the skeleton crew that had remained when the Dark Lord descended, she rarely had a moment to spare.

Draco had just fallen back into a shallow sleep when Edwin returned for the evening. The sound of the door shutting jerked him back into wakefulness. He lay still, listening to the soft sounds of rustling fabric as Edwin undressed, hoping Edwin would think him asleep.

“I know you’re not asleep,” Edwin said in an amused tone.

Draco opened his eyes and glared at him. “I’d like to be,” he snapped.

Edwin fell into bed behind Draco and pulled him close. “Oh, but I have other ideas,” he purred. Draco could feel Edwin’s hard cock pressing against his thigh.

“I’m not in the mood, Edwin,” Draco spat, unable to control the impatience in his tone.

Edwin drew away, and Draco braced himself.

But a blow or a curse didn’t follow. Edwin merely said, in a mild tone, “Well if that’s the way you feel, you can sleep alone tonight.”

Draco froze, an icy hand curling around his heart. He had to play his next move exactly right. He rolled over to face Edwin and slung a leg over him, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Besides, I thought you said you liked me bratty,” he said with a smirk.

Edwin rolled onto his back, and looked up at the ceiling, his face stony. Unmoved. “There’s a difference between bratty and ungrateful,” he said.

It wasn’t working—Draco needed to up the ante, he thought desperately. “I’m sorry, Ed,” he purred, inching closer, but not quite daring to touch him again. He sat up on his knees and let his dressing gown fall off of one shoulder.

“Would you forgive me if I let you punish me?” he asked in a sweet, coquettish tone.

There was a horrible, sinking moment in which Draco thought he had miscalculated. It wasn’t something they’d done before, but Draco had spent every night with Edwin for weeks, and he had a very full picture of what he enjoyed—and what he was likely to enjoy—in bed.

It was the right thing to do. Edwin’s eyes lit up. He sat up, caught Draco by the chin, and said, “Why don’t we try it out and see what happens?” His grip on Draco’s chin tightened, and he tilted his face up. “Open your mouth,” he whispered.

Draco obeyed.

“Are you going to take what you’re given?” Edwin purred.

Draco nodded, his pulse beating rapidly in his throat.

“Stick out your tongue.”

Draco let his tongue rest on his bottom lip, feeling terribly anxious. A dark little thrill ran through his body.

Edwin leaned in, his lips curled up in a catlike grin, and spat in Draco’s mouth. Draco jerked in Edwin’s grip from the shock of it, his cheeks turning bright red.

“Now swallow,” Edwin commanded.

Draco obeyed. A hot, ashamed tear trickled down his cheek, but he couldn’t help the way his body shivered and his cock grew heavy.

Edwin noticed too. “It’s not really a punishment if you enjoy it this much, is it, pet?” he said teasingly. “I’ll have to take a different tack.”

Edwin dragged an armless wooden chair from the kitchenette into the bedroom. He stripped off his underwear and lounged on the chair, wearing only his undershirt and socks. He guided Draco over his knees, with Draco’s chest on one leg and his groin on the other. Draco was a bit tall for the position to be comfortable—his knees and hands touched the floor—but he tried his best to balance.

“Are you ready?” Edwin asked softly, and Draco nodded.

The first blow wasn’t painful. It wasn’t comfortable, and stung a little, but Edwin’s hand was light. But the pain built and magnified with every blow, Edwin careful to strike him in the exact same spot each time. At the tenth blow, Draco’s breath was coming a little faster. At the twentieth, his cock had started to harden, rubbing against Edwin’s leg as he lurched forward with every slap. By the thirtieth, he was crying, and rutting against Edwin’s leg. At the fiftieth blow, he came on Edwin’s leg with a sob, and Edwin finally let him sink to the floor between his knees.

Draco looked down at the floor, ashamed, his arse burning, hoping that Edwin wouldn’t realize that his tears weren’t only from pain and humiliation, but anger.

Edwin gently caught his chin and lifted it. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” he asked.

Draco shook his head, but then—afraid that Edwin would use this admission as license to incorporate this kind of thing more regularly into their sex life—admitted softly, “I don’t do very well with pain.”

“I know, kitten,” Edwin said sympathetically. “And that’s why I won’t give you more than you can handle. I’ll only punish you when you really deserve it. Does that sound fair?”

Draco nodded.

“Speaking of fair,” Edwin said, shifting forward in his chair with a smirk, pulling Draco in by the back of his head, “Won’t you finish me?”

When Draco finally drew back, a string of cum sliding down his chin, Edwin gave him a sympathetic look, taking in Draco’s glassy eyes and flushed cheeks.

“You look awful, pet,” he cooed. He pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped Draco’s chin. “Are you coming down with that nasty cold? Get into bed and I’ll have Mipsy make up a hot toddy for you.”

***

Edwin didn’t punish Draco for a long time, after that; he didn’t need to. Draco did his best to never give Edwin a reason. He had learned his lesson. As long as he was good and obedient, Edwin remained gentlemanly, fond, affectionate.

It was fair, Draco told himself. He had nothing to complain about. He could be good.

All he had to do was be good. 

Chapter Text

As much as Draco’s association with Edwin had rendered him invisible, irrelevant, unimportant—when the Dark Lord wanted an audience, wanted to make a spectacle, no one was exempt. Not even him.

For the first time in weeks, Draco was seated at the huge, teak dining room table, but not in his usual place beside his parents at the far end. Tonight, he was near the head of the table, with only Edwin between himself and the Dark Lord. Determined to avoid eye contact with everybody, he stared resolutely at the dark, polished wood, in which the firelight was reflected—as well as the ghastly body of Charity Burbage. She was suspended directly above his head, upside down, rotating slowly, like a pig on a spit. He glanced up at her every few minutes, unable to help himself.

Edwin placed a steadying hand on Draco’s thigh, and Draco couldn’t help but jump a little. He looked up as Snape and Yaxley entered the room. Snape sat down directly across from him, at Voldemort’s right hand. Snape glanced down the table at Lucius and Narcissa, and then his eyes flicked back to Draco, a small frown at his mouth. Draco ducked his head before Snape could catch his eye—not sure what he would see in Snape’s expression, but knowing it couldn’t be good. 

Draco focused on breathing, and counting the seconds, and the warm, comforting weight of Edwin’s hand. They were talking of Potter, again. They were always talking of Potter. Draco couldn’t help but notice that each time his name was mentioned, Edwin gripped his leg a little tighter.

And then the Dark Lord spoke his father’s name.

“Your wand, Lucius,” he hissed. “I require your wand.”

Draco looked up to behold his father’s gaunt, pale face, an undercurrent of rage and humiliation running beneath the terror in his eyes. Lucius’s hand shook as he reached into his robe and passed his wand down the table to the Dark Lord. A chuckle traveled around the table—the other Death Eaters relishing in his humiliation—but Edwin stayed silent, Draco noticed, with a fierce swell of gratitude. He looked back down at the table before the Dark Lord could see his mutinous expression.

“I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you?” the Dark Lord was saying. “But I have noticed that you and your family seem less happy of late…what is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?”

Draco’s heart leapt into his throat. He grabbed at Edwin’s hand on his leg and squeezed it like a lifeline as his father muttered faint and unconvincing apologies.

A drop of blood splattered onto the table, and Draco was unable to stop himself from looking up again at Mrs. Burbage’s body; her bloody mouth and broken teeth. As he tore his gaze away, his eyes involuntarily skittered to the Dark Lord. Nagini had twined herself up the Dark Lord’s chair and across his shoulders. Her forked tongue flickered out. For a wild moment, Draco thought that her beady little eyes were fixed directly on him, glinting with hunger. Draco hurriedly looked back down at the table and cursed himself for having so little self-control.

Bellatrix managed to mollify the Dark Lord, and Draco breathed a sigh of relief as his attention moved away from the Malfoys. But moments later, the sound of his own name from the Dark Lord’s lips grabbed his attention like a hand around his throat.

“What say you, Draco?” the Dark Lord asked in a mocking tone. “Will you babysit the cubs?”

Draco hadn’t been listening. He didn’t know what they were talking about—what the right response was. Cubs? Was the Dark Lord planning to give him to Greyback? Feed him to his werewolf pack? Desperate, he tried to catch his father’s eye, but Lucius stared stonily ahead, ignoring him. His mother, on the other hand, gave him the tiniest head shake, and Draco took that as his cue to stay silent. He looked back down at the table. There could be no right answer, of course. The Dark Lord was merely taunting him.

And then, the Dark Lord used his father’s wand to revive Mrs. Burbage. She began twisting in her bonds, shrieking, pleading for Snape to help her. Draco squeezed Edwin’s hand with a vice grip and dug the fingernails of his other hand into his wrist, trying desperately not to show fear or revulsion on his face. But it was a losing battle.

The Dark Lord once again addressed Draco, his voice warped and distant sounding, as though he were speaking from the bottom of a deep well. “Do you recognize our guest, Draco?” he asked.

He did, of course. Although he hadn’t taken her classes, Hogwarts was a small school, and he had encountered Mrs. Burbage at meals and in the hallways plenty of times. He had used to make fun of her habit of wearing digital Muggle watches, which never told the proper time, corrupted as they were by the intensity of Hogwarts’ magic. A memory which now twisted in his gut like a hot knife.

But Draco shook his head. The idea of Mrs. Burbage recognizing him—and begging him to help her, like Snape—or worse, not bothering, believing that he was relishing in this, was too awful to bear.

The Dark Lord’s voice once again grew muffled, fading into the background of Draco’s perception. He was giving another speech. He was always giving speeches. Draco didn’t know how Edwin and the rest of them sat so patiently in their seats, as though Mrs. Burbage’s blood wasn’t steadily dripping from her mouth onto the table, plink, plink, plink, collecting in a small pool, trickling down the grain, towards him—

The next thing Draco knew, there was a flash of vivid green light, and he was on the floor. For a long moment that was both exhilarating and horrifying, he thought that the curse had been aimed at him; that he was dead. But then he saw Mrs. Burbage’s body on the table, her eyes and mouth wide open.

Suddenly, Edwin was crouched down beside him, gripping Draco’s forearm tightly. “Go back to our room and wait for me there,” he ordered in a low voice.

But Draco couldn’t move. Nagini was slithering across the table, towards the body, her mouth open and fangs glistening in the firelight, and it was going to eat her, actually going to eat her, swallow her whole, at the dining room table where Draco had eaten birthday cake and Christmas goose and—

Draco became aware that the side of his face stung, that his gaze was pointed towards the floor. He dimly realized, with no particular emotion, that Edwin had slapped him.

“Go. Now,” Edwin said again, and Draco did, running out of the room like it was on fire, but unable to avoid a final glimpse of Nagini sliding her maw around Mrs. Burbage’s head, her fangs leaving twin bloody trails in the skin of her forehead.

As soon as he stumbled into Edwin’s bathroom, Draco sank to his knees, heaving and retching bile into the toilet. He was still there, sobbing, his forehead on the seat, when Edwin came back. Draco had no idea how long it had been.

Draco braced himself, turning away, expecting Edwin to be furious over his childish meltdown, but Edwin only gathered him in his arms. Draco sobbed with renewed anguish into his chest.

“I don’t want this,” he eventually heaved. “I never wanted this. I want out, I can’t be here anymore, I can’t, you have to help me, please help me—” 

“Draco,” Edwin said firmly, his chest vibrating against Draco’s. “There is nowhere you can run that the Dark Lord won’t find you. The moment you leave this house, you will have signed your own death warrant.”

“I don’t care,” Draco sobbed, hitting Edwin’s chest weakly with his fists. “I don’t care, I can’t do this anymore, I can’t.”

“I knew you were too delicate for such work,” Edwin murmured, stroking his hair. “I told the Dark Lord as much myself. But it won’t always be like this. Once we’re in power, once the dirty work is finished, it’ll all be worth it, you’ll see. And until then, I’ll protect you. I’ll take care of you, kitten.”

“I need you, Edwin,” Draco sobbed into his shoulder. “I need you, please help me. You have to help me.”

“I will,” Edwin murmured. “I’m here. I’ll protect you. I’ll take care of you. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, darling.” Edwin kissed Draco on the forehead, on his swollen eyelids, on his damp cheeks, then held him, rocking slowly back and forth.

And in that moment, Draco believed him. 

***

The week following, the Manor was alive with preparations. Edwin was nearly always huddled up with the Dark Lord and a handful of other key followers in the dining room, or practicing dueling in the gardens, or away on reconnaissance. Draco understood that the Dark Lord was strategizing a key mission. Edwin didn’t divulge any details, and Draco didn’t ask. He was perfectly content to stay holed up in his chambers until Edwin crawled between the sheets every evening, safe from the bodies and bloodshed and the snakes that haunted his nightmares.

When the moment finally came, Edwin bent him into a deep kiss and swept off, looking very gallant in his billowing black travel cloak. Draco paced the walls of his chambers like a caged tiger, taking books off the shelves and putting them back again, unable to focus. He ran a bath and then drained it, deciding that he shouldn’t be in the bath if—when Edwin came back, trying not to think about what would happen to him should Edwin fail to return, trying not to imagine the Dark Lord deeming him weak and useless without Edwin’s protection, and feeding him to the snake.

Finally, just before dawn, there was a tap on the window. Draco, who was dozing in a chair by the fire, shot upright and went to the sill.

Behind the glass, there was a phantom: a figure in billowing, black robes suspended in the air. A steel mask molded to the contours of its face leered at him in the gloom. Draco hesitated. The phantom reached forward to tap on the glass again, and Draco, reluctantly, unlatched the window and pushed it open.

“Edwin?” he asked in a quavering voice, searching the mask for any identifiable details; for a glimpse of Edwin’s brown eyes behind the mask. But the eyes were in shadow, the hair was covered by a hood, and the hands wrapped around the broom were sheathed in black leather.

The figure dismounted onto the window seat and hopped gracefully on the carpet, casting its broom aside.

Draco stumbled back, his heart in his throat. 

“What, don’t you recognize your own Edwin?” he chuckled, his voice tinny behind the mask.

Relief washed over Draco in a warm wave. “Ed, you’re alright!” he cried, rushing forward into his arms with such force that Edwin stumbled back half a step before gripping Draco firmly around the biceps. Draco reached up on his tip-toes and planted a quick kiss on the mask, the steel lips beaten into a permanent grimace. The metal was cold against his skin. 

Edwin’s eyes glittered through the holes in the mask. “Eager little thing, aren’t you?” he chuckled.

He reached up to rip off his mask and tossed it to the floor, the hood falling back to reveal his dark waves. Edwin wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist and bent him into a deep kiss. His heavy travel robes smelled of fresh evening air and, faintly, of smoke. Electricity zapped in Draco’s belly, and when they finally came up for air, he was breathless.

“Darling, you’ll never believe it,” Edwin exclaimed, holding Draco at arm’s length. His nose and cheeks were flushed, his hair wild from the wind.

“I led the Dark Lord straight to Harry Potter. We almost had him!”

Draco’s stomach plunged. With considerable effort, he managed to keep his face neutral.

“Almost?” he asked.

“Yes,” Edwin said, a line appearing between his brow. “There were decoys, six of them, polyjuiced to look like him. But our sources proved reliable, and the Dark Lord killed Mad-Eye Moody, the old bastard! And not only that—”

Edwin reached into his breast pocket and pulled forth a long, white feather, speckled with black dots.

He held it out to Draco, who took it hesitantly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I got Potter’s bird,” Edwin said, his face beaming with pride.

Draco’s heart plunged into his stomach.

“That’s how close we were,” Edwin said proudly. “I found this feather on my cloak and tucked it away as a souvenir for you.”

Draco’s fingers tightened around the feather, his throat suddenly closing up as he thought of his own owl, Ulysses. He’d woken up one morning at the end of fifth year to find his stiff body on the windowsill. He’d been with Draco nearly his whole life, and although Draco knew he was getting up there in years, he’d never imagined that Ulysses would leave him while he was still at Hogwarts.

And he remembered Hedwig so vividly—one of the largest and most beautiful owls he’d ever seen. It had always been easy to pick her out across the Great Hall, and where she was, Potter was also. Sometimes Draco would spot them from a distance in the owlry or by the lake, Hedwig resting on Potter’s forearm, Potter stroking her downy feathers.

It didn’t seem right—she was an innocent. Draco could hear the voice of his father in his head, scolding him for such sentimentality. It was war, and she was only an owl, after all. It was good that Edwin had proven himself to the Dark Lord. Edwin’s status was what kept Draco safe. He should be grateful.

But as he spun the feather around between his fingers, he felt nothing but grief, and a tinge of fear—not on his own behalf, for once—that he didn’t want to examine further.

Draco threw his arms around Edwin again. He didn’t want him to see his face. “I’m so glad you’re alright,” he murmured.

“I only wish we could have rid the world of that upstart little halfbreed once and for all,” Edwin said darkly, clutching Draco tighter as he spoke. His chin rested atop Draco’s head, his throat rumbling against Draco’s ear. “I had a clear shot. If he didn’t belong to the Dark Lord, I would have taken it.”

Draco couldn’t help it. He thought of Potter’s vivid green eyes going dark, and he shuddered.

“You poor thing,” Edwin cooed, “I wasn’t thinking. You must be cold.” He closed the window behind him and fixed Draco with a hungry smile.

“Let me warm you up,” he said, walking Draco backwards to the bed, slipping the dressing gown off his shoulders as he did so.

Edwin took him with his cloak and gloves still on. Draco closed his eyes and tried not to think of birds falling out of the sky, the sickly green glow of the killing curse rending the air like lightning, and Potter, somewhere out there still, hunted like an animal.

***

Draco had never seen the Dark Lord angrier than after he failed to capture Harry Potter at the Weasley wedding. Nearly all of the Death Eaters had joined him on the mission, and when Edwin returned to their apartment, pale and shaken and exhausted, Draco realized they had failed. He felt a brief moment of elation that he buried deep inside of himself, and the feeling was quickly overcome by dread as the Dark Lord made his rage known.

He and Edwin held each other as the Dark Lord vented his rage on the Death Eaters one by one. Edwin periodically cast muffliato charms that weren’t quite powerful enough to drown out the endless screams. Draco cried and clung to Edwin when there was a knock on the door that signaled his turn. But Edwin gently pushed Draco away, his face pale but his chin bravely set and his posture proud.

“Don’t cry, kitten,” he said softly, cupping Draco’s face in one hand. “I’ll be all right. We have failed and failure means punishment. It’s only fair. It’s unpleasant, but nothing to get yourself worked up over, is it?”

Draco couldn’t understand how Edwin could be so brave and composed in the face of torture. He hated himself in that moment—despised his weakness and his fear. He wiped his eyes and nodded, raising his chin, and Edwin pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead.

“Good boy,” he murmured. “Be brave for me.”

The moment Edwin closed the door behind him, Draco threw himself on the bed and curled around Edwin’s pillow, inhaling the comforting scent of gin and lavender. He didn’t cast another muffliato—telling himself that if Edwin could bear the cruciatus, he could at least bear the sound of his screams. But when they began, Draco curled into a tight ball around the pillow and sobbed. 

After what felt like an eternity, Edwin stumbled back through the door, his hair and robes disheveled, his lips pressed tightly together, his limbs shaking.

Draco helped him into bed and brought him pain potions, tea, and water, removed his shoes and belt, put a washcloth to his head, and fussed over him until Edwin gently chided him, saying, “Enough, I’m not a sickly child,” and pulled him close.

Draco sniffled into his neck as Edwin stroked his hair, and for the first time, he whispered, “I love you, Edwin. I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too, darling,” Edwin murmured. “More than you know.” 

***

It wasn’t long after that that Edwin left Draco alone.

The Dark Lord had selected Edwin, along with a small handful of his most trusted followers, to track down Harry Potter and deliver the boy to him. Edwin didn’t know when he would return. It could be days, weeks, or even months. 

The fucked endlessly in the last few days before his departure, Edwin murmuring promises and assurances into Draco’s ear. Edwin was certain that his status among the Death Eaters would protect Draco in his absence. He heavily warded his apartments before he left, and instructed Draco to sleep nowhere else and let no one into his rooms. But the closer his departure drew, the thicker grew the barbed vines around Draco’s heart. He didn’t share Edwin’s confidence in his untouchability.

Draco’s greatest, most private fear was that Edwin wouldn’t return alive at all. What would become of him then? Who would claim him? And would it be worse to be claimed by a single Death Eater, or to be at the mercy of them all? He tried to strategize, to think through contingency plans. The smart thing would be to select the most tolerable Death Eater and start laying some groundwood with them—nothing overtly romantic, maintaining plausible deniability in case word got back to Edwin—but planting seeds in case he needed to sprout them later. But every time Draco tried to imagine who would be the gentlest, he ended up sick with dread and fear, because the truth was none of them would be a fraction as kind as Edwin. And then he felt ashamed, for only thinking of himself, for having so little faith in Edwin’s ability, for plotting to betray him before he had even left the Manor. 

Draco couldn’t sleep, and when he did, he woke from nightmares that turned into panic attacks. At first, Edwin was sympathetic, but after a few days of this, he lost patience and started administering Draco increasingly large quantities of Dreamless Sleep each evening. 

When the time finally came, Edwin pulled Draco close and gave him a long, deep, romantic kiss that sent electricity down all of his limbs, kindled heat in his belly, and squeezed a fist around his heart.

“I swear I’ll come back to you, my love,” Edwin said when he pulled back, gazing into Draco’s tear-filled eyes. “I’ll return with Harry Potter in chains, for the Dark Lord to dispose of as he sees fit. And then victory will be ours. I will be at the right hand of the Dark Lord, and you at mine, and Potter won’t be between us any more.”

Draco looked at the floor, worried that his eyes would betray his unease. “Please,” he said. “Please come back to me, Ed.”

“Be brave, darling,” Edwin said with a final kiss to his forehead, and then he was gone. 

Draco was determined not to leave the apartment unless he was forced to by the Dark Lord himself. He read, listened to records, drank industrial quantities of tea and coffee, and paced around the rooms like a caged animal, staying awake as long as he possibly could, then drinking Dreamless Sleep when he could fight sleep no longer. He quickly lost track of the days, too afraid to even open the blackout curtains in Edwin’s absence.

It wasn’t long until he ran out of potion. Mipsy wasn’t able to obtain any more, and Draco wasn’t willing to risk a trip to the potions lab in the basement to brew a new batch, as much as he longed to. Draco stayed up for nearly eighteen hours after that, but finally succumbed to sleep while curled up in Edwin’s armchair, his half-read novel slipping out of his hand.

He dreamed that he was back at the dining room table. Only this time, it wasn’t Charity Burbage suspended in the air above it—it was Harry Potter. Draco stared up in horror as Harry’s upside-down body slowly rotated, until finally, they were face to face.

“Help me, Draco,” Harry begged. “Please. Please, he’s going to kill me.”

“I can’t,” Draco whimpered, as Harry’s blood dripped onto the table. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I can’t. Please believe me.”

But Harry’s face slipped out of Draco’s view as he rotated back into the shadows. When his body turned to Draco once again, his face was contorted with betrayal, with hatred. “I should have known,” Harry said. “You always did want me dead.”

“I don’t, I don’t,” Draco sobbed. “I never did, I swear. But there’s nothing I can do. I’m not brave like you. He’d kill me, he’d kill my parents.”

There was a flash of green light, and Harry’s body thudded heavily to the table, his glasses flying off and skittering away.

Draco whirled around to see—not the Dark Lord, but Edwin, his wand out and a look of triumph on his face.

“I did it for you, kitten,” he said in a sickeningly sweet voice, then wrapped his arm around Draco’s chest, pulling him against his body. “Now watch.” 

Nagini slithered down the table towards Harry, unhinging her jaw. But Harry was still alive, Draco realized, with a sickening lurch of his heart—alive and staring him in the eyes, tears pouring down his cheeks and into his ears. He looked so different without his glasses—so young. 

“I see you for who you truly are,” Harry said. “I always have. You’re a coward, Draco Malfoy.”

 Nagini lunged, and Draco woke up screaming.

Chapter Text

Draco knew it was only a matter of time before he would be summoned by the Dark Lord and forced to leave Edwin’s room, alone. But still, when he heard a light tap at the door one afternoon, his insides turned to ice.

He threw on a suit jacket and a belt and steeled himself, arranging his face into a sneer and tilting his chin up with bravado he did not feel. But when he cracked open the door—

Narcissa stood on the other side.

They practically fell into each other’s arms. “Mummy,” Draco whispered into her hair, which smelled as it always had—of peppermint.

He tried to stem the tears, but they were flowing openly down his face when they finally broke apart.

Narcissa swiped a thumb across his cheek, her expression crumpled.

“I’m alright, Mum,” Draco said, trying to smile to drive the message home, but not quite managing it. “Edwin’s—” he faltered as he realized that he had never admitted—even obliquely—his homosexuality to his mother. But there was nothing for it now; she knew, and in far more detail than Draco had ever wished her to. “Edwin’s taking care of me. Truly.”

“That was supposed to be my job,” Narcissa whispered. “But I failed you.”

Draco put her hand to his cheek. He could only shake his head, the lump in his throat too big to speak around.

Narcissa sighed. She ran a cool hand through Draco’s hair, smoothing it down, and absentmindedly straightened the lapel of his suit, the way she did when she was worried and distracted; the way she used to on the platform at King’s Cross every September, both of them holding back tears.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “But we must go. The Dark Lord has summoned us—all of us.”

They walked through the familiar corridors hand in hand, breaking apart without a word just before they reached the dining room, knowing intuitively that any affection shown between them would just make each of them easier targets. It was half the reason Draco had been avoiding her all these weeks—that, and because he had dreaded the inevitable discussion of Edwin.

They were the last to arrive. All of the Death Eaters were arrayed silently around the Dark Lord, who held court at the head of the table, his pale skin gleaming in the semi-darkness. The curtains were closed and the firelight cast long shadows, although it was barely midafternoon. A soft whispering sound told him that Nagini was slithering beneath the table. Draco froze on the threshold for a long, sickening moment, unsure what was expected of him. Should he sit in his old place, between his parents? Or was he supposed to return to the seat he had taken beside Edwin at the last meeting, when he had so humiliated himself?

He hesitated just a few seconds too long, catching the attention of the Dark Lord.

“Ah! Draco,” he said with false geniality. “Come sit beside me.”

Draco walked the length of the dining room as if he was walking the plank.

The Dark Lord patted the seat beside him and Draco sat down stiffly. Bellatrix cast him a sharp look—jealous, doubtless, that she had not been invited to sit beside the Dark Lord.

“Are you feeling better, dear boy?” the Dark Lord cooed, snaking a cold yet powerful arm around his shoulders. It took everything inside of Draco not to visibly shudder. He closed his eyes and nodded.

“Poor Draco had a terrible fit of emotion the last time we were all gathered here,” the Dark Lord said to the assembly, in a tone of cloying false sympathy. “And over a muggle-lover, no less.”

A soft chuckle traveled around the table.

“I confess I was disappointed he turned out to be so weak, in the end.” The arm around Draco’s shoulder tightened. The Dark Lord was practically hissing in his ear now. Draco could do nothing but keep his eyes shut tight and try not to tremble, vomit, or otherwise further embarrass himself.

“But it’s no great surprise, is it?” the Dark Lord said. “Inferior trees bear inferior fruit, after all.”

There was another round of laughter, louder this time. Draco dared to open his eyes,  and at the far end of the table saw his mother’s face, pale and stoic, and his father’s, flushed with fury. Lucius shifted in his seat, but Narcissa gripped his arm beneath the table, and he deflated once more.

“Still, everyone who is pure of blood and loyal to me is good for something,” the Dark Lord continued. “We all have a part to play, no matter how small. And Draco here serves his use well as Selwyn’s boy, does he not?”

A third round of laughter, even more boisterous, and with a lewd undercurrent, this time. Draco looked away from his parents, flushing with humiliation. He could see Greyback out of the corner of his eye, laughing loudest of them all. Draco’s gaze skittered away from him, down the table, and he accidentally caught Dolohov’s eye instead. Dolohov gave Draco a wink, so subtle Draco knew it was for him alone. He jerked his head away, and that’s when he noticed his Uncle Rodolphus, observing him curiously. Rodolphus looked thoughtful, calculating; his dark eyes studying Draco as though he were seeing him for the first time. Draco’s heart flipped.

Bellatrix must have noticed the look on his face, for she turned to her husband and hissed something in his ear, and Rodolphus abruptly broke eye contact with Draco. Draco looked down at the table, studying the dark grain as though he would be tested on it later. His whole body felt numb. Cold sweat was beading on the back of his neck. He wished he could sink into the floor. He wished he had Potter’s invisibility cloak. And he wished, desperately, that Edwin would stride into the room at that very moment, his robes billowing behind him, and remind everyone who Draco belonged to.

He’d never imagined that anyone in the Manor besides himself, Edwin, and possibly Greyback could be inverted, let alone his own uncle. Or did it not even matter whether a man was inverted when he’d been at war and deprived of female company for so many long months? Perhaps all that mattered was that Draco was the youngest and most vulnerable person in the Manor by far; someone who wouldn’t fight back, someone who wouldn’t be defended. He thought he’d been protecting himself by aligning himself with Edwin, but what if it was the other way around? What if his association with Edwin had established Draco as fuckable and easy, putting him in an even worse position than he’d been in at the start?

Whatever the truth, Draco had been right; the longer he was absent, the less Edwin’s protection meant.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. Draco could not have recounted a single word that was spoken when they were finally dismissed, hours later, and he stumbled out of the room. He could sense his mother trying to catch his attention, but he picked up his pace to avoid her. He couldn’t face anyone right now—least of all her. He wanted nothing more than to return to the safety of the warded rooms, to his and Edwin’s bed, where he could be alone with his shame.

He had almost reached it when a hand wrapped around his bicep and pulled him into an alcove. 

Draco stared up into the black eyes of Fenrir Greyback. He reached for his wand, but Greyback knocked it out of his hand and grabbed his wrist with a strong grip, his fingernails black and long like claws.

“You know what I was thinking at the table today?” Greyback growled. “That you were mine before you were ever Selwyn’s. Weren’t you, boy? And he stole you right out from under me. But Selwyn’s not here anymore—and we have unfinished business.”

“Don’t touch me,” Draco said in a quavering voice, struggling against Greyback’s grip. “I’ll tell Edwin, and he’ll—he’ll—”

Greyback released Draco’s bicep and grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head back so that he was forced to meet Greyback’s eyes. “He’ll what?” he cooed mockingly. “You think Selwyn gives a damn what happens to you when he’s not here? You’re just an empty hole; and I do hate to see opportunity wasted.”

Greybreak leaned in, his breath like rancid meat. Draco closed his eyes; too afraid to even struggle.

“No,” he said. “No, please—” There was a high-pitched humming sound in his ears and his heart was beating so fast he couldn’t breathe. He tried to make himself leave his body, the way he had last time. But he couldn’t. And unlike last time, there would be no Edwin to the rescue. 

Greyback released his wrist and pawed at Draco’s belt.

“Please,” Draco whispered reflexively. “Please—”

Greyback undid Draco’s belt one-handed and shoved his clawed hand down the back of his pants. “Heard you like it up the arse now, you little slag,” he growled, reaching a finger towards Draco’s hole.

That, at last, broke through the part of Draco that had frozen solid. He twisted away, his scalp burning with the pain, desperate to get free even if it meant leaving a handful of his hair in Greyback’s claws.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light, and the hand in his hair fell away. He stumbled back as Greyback crashed to the ground like a felled tree, hurriedly doing up his belt with shaking hands.

Behind him stood Bellatrix. She put a foot on Greyback’s chest, whose eyes were rolling furiously in their sockets.

Bellatrix leaned in and hissed, “Stay away from Draco. He’s Selwyn’s boy, and how do you think he’ll react when he finds out you’ve ruined him? Selwyn is indispensable to the Dark Lord, and you’re nothing more than a filthy, half-breed thug.” Bellatrix dug the heel of her boot into Greyback’s chest for emphasis. “You don’t want to get on his bad side. Or mine, for that matter.”

She turned and gave Draco an unimpressed up-and-down glance, no doubt observing his rumpled clothing and flushed skin with disgust. “Have some self-respect,” she scoffed. “Your keeper may not be here, but you’re still a Malfoy—and more importantly, a Black. Imagine how your mother would feel if she knew you were consorting with such filthy scum.”

She gave Greyback a parting kick in the ribs.

“Aunt Bella,” Draco protested, mortified—betrayed, even—that she thought he wanted this. “It wasn’t—I didn’t—” 

But Bellatrix had already turned her back on him. “Back to your room,” she commanded, with a flick of her fingers. “Off you go. And don’t let me catch you slutting it up with the likes of him again. ”

Draco retrieved his wand from the floor and hurried off without a backwards glance, tears of shame burning in his eyes.

***

The days without Edwin stretched on, long and dull and endless, until they were punctured by occasional moments of terror and humiliation. Draco was fortunate enough to steer clear of Greyback after that first incident, whether because of Aunt Bella’s threats or his own watchfulness, he wasn’t sure. The Dark Lord continued to invite Draco to meetings and—even worse—was more frequently using him to torture the others. He seemed to think it was doubly humiliating when Draco distributed the punishments, perhaps because he was good for so little else, and such a target of the other Death Eaters' disdain and contempt.

But there was a problem. Draco had never, to his knowledge, successfully performed the cruciatus curse. After the Dark Lord moved into the Manor before his sixth year, Lucius had insisted that he learn. Draco had spent hours practicing—on spiders, on mice, on toads and earthworms he found in the gardens. But it had never worked. Sometimes he wondered if it would have worked on Potter in the bathroom that day, if Potter hadn’t cursed him before he could finish the spell. He’d been angry enough. But anger wasn’t hatred, after all. He used to think he felt plenty of hatred—for Potter and his friends, for Dumbledore, and even—although he hardly dared admit it, even to himself—his own father. But as he came to bitterly learn, contempt, jealousy, and hurt weren’t hatred, either.

His incompetence was an open secret among the Death Eaters. The first Death Eater the Dark Lord asked him to torture was Yaxley, who, luckily for both of them, caught on pretty quickly. He hesitated for only a split second after Draco uttered the curse, then dropped to the floor, screaming and writhing quite convincingly. And he must have told the others, because ever after that, they would all play along when Draco’s curses inevitably failed. He had no illusions that they did it as a favor to him. Having survived the curse himself, he knew that he, too, would do anything to avoid it. He’d known for months that they couldn’t keep the ruse up; that he would eventually be discovered, and punished accordingly.

It was his bad luck that it came to pass when Edwin was away.

Draco was standing on the landing where the double staircase met, the Dark Lord across from him and Rowle kneeling in a shivering lump at their feet. He and Dolohov had just returned from muggle London, where they had apparently let Potter and his friends slip through their fingers yet again. The rest of the Death Eaters stood assembled at the bottom of the staircase, grim-faced and silent, Dolohov white as a sheet as he awaited his turn. Draco’s hand was slick with sweat. He readjusted his wand, afraid that it would fly out of his grip as he attempted the spell.

“Draco,” the Dark Lord purred, in a faux-polite tone. “If you’ll do the honors?”

Draco raised his arm; tried not to let the fear show on his face. “Crucio,” he said, loudly enough that Rowle would hear the cue.

But Rowle didn’t move. He simply quivered at the Dark Lord’s feet.

Draco’s heart began to beat frantically in his chest.

“Crucio,” he repeated, even louder this time. Rowle must have forgotten—the terror likely eclipsing all else.

Draco tried a third time. “Cruc—” but the curse died in his throat, his wand shaking as he lowered it. The game was up. It was too late. An even deeper silence than before had fallen across the room.

Draco’s ears began to ring as he looked up into Voldemort’s red eyes, shining with rage and glee and malice.

“What’s this?” he asked softly, stepping over Rowle’s now prone body, his long robes whispering against the marble. “Lucius’s boy, unable to perform this most basic of curses?”

Draco’s vision tunneled as the Dark Lord stared down into his face. Before he could even think about dropping to his knees, apologizing, begging, kissing his feet, anything—a fiery burst of pain exploded across his cheek and Draco was tumbling down the marble staircase. He was vaguely aware of the sound of a woman screaming as he fell. He raised his arms to protect his head, but by the time he reached the bottom, he was battered and breathless, pain radiating from his knees, his elbows, his head. He had only just lifted himself to shaking hands and knees when a kick to his ribs had him crying out and crumpling to the floor again.

The Dark Lord had followed him down the stairs, and now he addressed the other Death Eaters, who were trying very hard not to visibly shrink away from him, his tone and pitch rising as he spoke.

“But that is no great surprise, is it? That the whelp is weak. Incompetent. No, what surprises me is the betrayal—from so many of my most trusted friends and allies. It pains me deeply, that you have all lied to me. And for what? To escape a little temporary pain?”

Draco was too afraid to even think. He just moved, dragging himself across the floor on his forearms, his body having split apart from his mind. But he had crawled no more than a few feet when the Dark Lord’s bare foot landed squarely on the back of his neck, pinning him in place.

“Am I not just?” he continued. “Am I not fair?” There was a murmur of denial from the crowd.

“As I thought,” he said. “There is no escaping me. There is no escaping justice. And you will all have yours. But first—the whelp. I know that Selwyn finds him—entertaining. But I am not sure he’s worth the trouble he’s caused me. What say you all?”

There was another murmur—of assent, this time—and then a loud, sickening thud, and a moment of silence.

“Oh dear,” the Dark Lord said, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. “Narcissa will miss the fun. What a shame.”

Draco closed his eyes, relief seeping through all of his limbs. At least his mother would not have to watch him die.

The weight on his neck lifted, but in its place, a thick rope shot from the Dark Lord’s wand and wrapped around his throat. Draco struggled to his knees, pulling the rope away from his airpipe with both hands. For a moment of sheer, blinding terror, he believed that the Dark Lord was going to hang him from the crystal chandelier.

But instead, he said, “Here, boy,” in a cruel voice, and tugged on the other end of the rope. Draco could do nothing but crawl forward on all fours, eyes on the marble floor, trying desperately to shut out the laughter of the others, until he knelt at the Dark Lord’s feet.

The Dark Lord bent down until they were face to face. Draco couldn’t look him in the eye. He had flushed bright red and was blinking back tears of humiliation. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that after this—if there was an after—his father would never again love him the same way.

“Why so shy, Draco?” the Dark Lord purred. “From what Edwin tells us, you’re far from coy when you debase yourself for him.”

Draco closed his eyes, letting the tears roll down his cheeks, trying to make himself believe that the Dark Lord was lying. Surely Edwin wouldn’t mock him before the others in such a—personal way—would he? 

“What punishment do you think fits your crime, young Draco?” the Dark Lord asked thoughtfully, tracing his wand down Draco’s face. 

Draco hesitated. “Wh-whatever you think I deserve, my Lord,” he whispered in a cracked and broken voice.

“What a diplomatic answer,” the Dark Lord said, amused. “Let’s start with each of the men you failed to punish, and let them punish you as they see fit.”

Draco heard the shuffle of boots and robes as a line formed. He didn’t look up. He didn’t want to know. He tried to prepare himself, but when the first curse hit, he remembered that nothing on earth could ever prepare one for the pain.

He toppled over immediately, his head cracking against the marble floor and his back arching as he screamed. He writhed around on the ground, trying to curl around the pain, trying to wrench away from it, but there was no escaping it. It seemed to go on forever. When the curse finally lifted, he went limp against the tile. And that was just the first.

As the men tortured him one by one, he screamed until his voice gave out, until the vessels in his eyes popped and turned his scleras red, until he bit deeply into his tongue and drooled out blood, until he ripped his own arms bloody with his fingernails. He prayed for unconsciousness, for insanity, for death, for anything that would make it stop. But the Dark Lord was not merciful.

Finally, as he lay limp and panting on the ground between torturers, tears and snot running down his face, a familiar set of boots stepped into his line of vision. He dimly heard the curse, and his body jerked and twitched as the pain came, but he did not even scream—the spell was weak, and the sensation over quickly.

“Daddy?” he croaked, peering upwards.

Lucius’s outline swam into view, but Draco’s vision had blurred with blood, and he could not discern the expression on his father’s face.

“Again,” the Dark Lord commanded.

“C-crucio,” Lucius whispered, his voice trembling, and this time, Draco didn’t feel so much as a whisper pass over his skin.

“Pathetic,” the Dark Lord hissed. “This is why even purity of blood is not enough to ensure a truly great wizard. One failure in the otherwise noble house breeds more failure. Even old family trees need to be pruned, after all.”

The Dark Lord turned to address the crowd. “And how better to prune a fruitless branch than with the severing charm?”

He turned back to Draco.

Draco’s heart lifted. It was almost over.

The Dark Lord tugged on the rope around his neck. “Kneel,” he commanded. “Meet your death with the dignity you did not have in life.”

Draco obeyed, struggling to an upright position, all the muscles in his body still trembling uncontrollably from the aftershocks of the curse. The Dark Lord wrenched the rope upwards until Draco’s knees were just barely skimming the floor. His muscles were spasming and twitching so erratically he could do nothing but dangle there, head lolling, the rope around his neck slowly but surely cutting off his air as it supported the weight of his whole body.

Time seemed to slow down as the Dark Lord lifted his wand. Draco met his eyes without fear this time, without any emotion at all, except perhaps relief.

He became dimly aware of the sound of running footsteps in the background, but didn’t spare them a second thought.

“Diffindo,” the Dark Lord whispered, and at the very last moment, Draco closed his eyes.

“No!” a familiar voice screamed.

Instead of a sharp, cutting, final pain, Draco felt a dull twinge in his ribs and shoulder as he was knocked to the ground, the pressure on his throat suddenly lifting and breath entering his lungs with a great gasp. He opened his eyes to find himself pinned to the marble by a tall, dark-haired man in a grey waistcoat and flowing silver robes.

“Edwin?” he croaked.

Edwin turned to look at him. The left side of his face was drenched with blood.

“Oh god—Edwin!” Draco tried to struggle upright, but couldn't even get his elbows beneath him.

“How very romantic,” the Dark Lord cooed. Edwin heaved himself off of Draco’s prone body and knelt at the Dark Lord’s feet, bowing his head.

“Spare him, my Lord,” Edwin said. “Please.”

“Such a noble act,” the Dark Lord said mockingly. “But is it nobility? Or is it defiance?”

“Whatever wrong he has committed, let me make it right,” Edwin pleaded.

“Oh, but I’m not sure you can,” the Dark Lord said regretfully. “He has deceived me, and there is no higher treason.”

Edwin cast a desperate glance back at Draco, his eyes swimming with all the pain Draco could no longer feel, his mind and body utterly spent.

There was a heavy silence as the Dark Lord paced back and forth in front of Edwin. “Still—love is a powerful emotion, is it not?” he said finally. “I’ve had to learn that the hard way. And emotions—and appetites—do run high, during wartime. So I will indulge you.”

Edwin raised his head, the side of his face that Draco could see—the uninjured side—painted with shock and hope.

“If you can win the loyalty of the werewolf pack in the Forbidden Forest,” the Dark Lord said, “I will keep your little toy intact.”

Draco cringed. It was a suicide mission—not even Greyback and his pack had been able to win over the Forbidden Forest pack.

But Edwin didn’t even hesitate. “My Lord, consider it done,” he said.

“Such confidence,” the Dark Lord sneered. “But as you wish.” He flicked a dismissive hand at Edwin. “You may attend to your traitorous whore. But keep him out of my sight until your mission is concluded—however it may end.”

The hall was dead silent as Edwin gently removed the rope from around Draco’s neck. He lifted his limp body in a bridal hold and carried him up the stairs. Draco lolled his head against Edwin’s warm chest, listening to the rapid thumping of his heart.

A droplet of blood spattered onto Draco’s cheek, and he looked up anxiously at Edwin’s dripping face, reaching a weak hand towards his cheek.

“Ed,” he whispered tremulously. “You’re hurt.”

“Hush,” Edwin whispered, pressing Draco’s head gently to his chest. “It’s all right. I said I was going to take care of you, didn’t I?”

Draco’s last thought, before he lost consciousness, was that Edwin’s waistcoat smelled of gin and lavender. 

Chapter Text

The first thing Draco noticed was that his tongue felt huge in his mouth—it was swollen and dry, and clinging to his soft palette. As he swam into full awareness, every part of his body seemed to light up in pain in turn: his head, his ribs, his shoulder, his knees, his throat. 

He cracked his eyelids, but the sun was painfully bright, and his vision blurry, so he closed them again. A warm hand brushed his forehead, and he flinched back, his eyes flying wide.

“Shh, it’s just me,” a smooth, male voice murmured.

“Ed?” Draco said—or tried to—but it came out as a croak.

Fragments of memory were beginning to float back to him—the staircase—the malice in Voldemort’s red eyes—the rope around his throat—Edwin’s face, covered in blood—

“Ed!” Draco wheezed again, struggling to sit up, but a hand pushed down on his chest.

“Easy,” the voice said, as Draco finally managed to focus his eyes.

Edwin was sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in a traveling cloak and boots, his hair messy and loose—and over his left eye, white bandages tinged pink with blood, and a black eyepatch.

“Merlin,” Draco breathed. “Your eye, Edwin.”

Edwin cupped a gentle hand around Draco’s cheek.

“It’s my fault,” Draco rushed to say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—” His eyes filled with burning tears as the memory of his shame, his failure, rushed back into his mind. “I didn’t mean to deceive the Dark Lord, I swear. I just—I just can’t—”

“I know, pet,” Edwin murmured sympathetically. “I know. Don’t cry. I’m alright—your father patched me up. I might not even lose my vision, if I’m lucky.” He absentmindedly wiped away one of Draco’s tears with his thumb.

“But you have to go to the Forbidden Forest,” Draco whimpered. “It’s a death sentence.”

Edwin only looked amused. “Do you really think so little of me?” he asked. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve. You don’t have to worry, pet.”

But Draco turned his face into the pillow, inconsolable.

“I have to go now, darling,” Edwin whispered. “I just wanted to stay until you were awake. Be good for me. Stay in here and out of the Dark Lord’s way.  I’ll try not to be too long.”

Edwin kissed him on the forehead, and then he was gone.

Draco fell back into a restless sleep. 

When he next awoke, it was to the smell of peppermint, and a cool, familiar hand carding through his hair. He opened his eyes to see his mother gazing down at him, her face red and puffy, eyes bloodshot. His head was resting in her lap. 

“I’m sorry, Mummy,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, little dragon,” she replied, her voice thick. “It’s I who should apologize.”

Draco clumsily reached his hand towards her, and she grabbed it, squeezing it gently. “But I promise you,” she said, in a low, dark tone that made the hair on Draco’s neck stand up, “I won’t stand by and watch you be hurt any longer. I’m going to save you. If you can hold on just a little longer, I’ll find a way to protect you. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Draco opened his mouth to speak, to reassure her that he was fine, like he always did, but instead, a helpless little sob fell out. He wasn’t fine. He couldn’t imagine ever being okay again, and he wished more than anything that he could travel back in time, that he could be ten years old again and running to his parents’ room after a nightmare. Narcissa would follow him back to his bedroom, as Lucius had a strict rule against Draco sleeping in their bed, saying it was a bad habit for a boy his age to have. Narcissa would crawl into bed with him, and hold him and tell him it would be all right, and he would believe her.

Narcissa seemed to read his mind. She kicked off her shoes and slid under the covers, holding Draco while endless tears slipped down his cheeks, until he fell back into an exhausted sleep.

When he next awoke, he was alone. The light had changed, and the room was awash in the blue of twilight.

Draco struggled to a sitting position—his head throbbing—and gingerly put his feet on the floor, noticing as he did that someone had stripped him down to a T-shirt and underwear. He stumbled to the bathroom and braced his arms on the sink.

The reflection in the mirror shocked him. The whites of his eyes were full of blood. A deep purple bruise covered his left cheek, from eyebrow to chin. His bottom lip had split, and a raw, red-and-purple ring circled the entire circumference of his throat. He touched it gingerly.

He had intended to shower, but the trip to the bathroom left him too exhausted to do anything but use the toilet and go back to bed.

The next few days passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Narcissa was as attentive as Draco would allow her to be, but he was loath to burden her more than he already did—and besides, she had Lucius to take care of too, and Draco couldn’t help but notice how gaunt and weak his father looked lately, how heavily he leaned on his cane. But Mipsy was very doting, bringing him pain potions and bruise cream and lots of bone broth, tea, and toast.

Draco spent a lot of time in the window seat, looking out at the garden, fiddling with the Slytherin house ring he still wore. The leaves were changing, and the weather had turned cloudy and drizzly. He tried not to think about Edwin, but inevitably did—wondering where he was, if he was hungry, cold, in pain—alive—and how it would feel if he never came back—if his death was Draco’s fault; on his conscience until the end of his days.

Edwin was all he had left. There was no chance of redemption for Draco in the Dark Lord’s eyes, and the other Death Eaters must hate him more than ever after being the cause of their disgrace and punishment. Even his own father couldn’t stand the sight of him. His mother tried to assure him that Lucius was just in pain, just needed time, and had doted on him before he awoke—but Draco knew the truth. Their relationship was irreparably broken. His father would never again look at him without seeing an invert, a whore, a kept boy, a weak and pathetic excuse of a wizard who had failed every task the Dark Lord had ever set him and brought shame upon the Malfoy name. 

Edwin had to come back. He just had to.

***

Weeks passed in this way, and then a month, and then Draco stopped keeping track. He was losing his appetite, bathing less, spending whole days in bed, and turning his mother away when she came to visit him. He regretted that he hadn’t worked out a way to contact Edwin before he left—he supposed an owl flying to and from his location would draw too much attention. But there were other ways to communicate—fire calls, enchanted twin objects, and the like, and Draco wished that Edwin had thought of a way to at least let Draco know he was alive.

It was a grey, snowy morning—the first of the season—when Edwin came back. 

He came into the room in a rush, smelling of snow and sap and woodsmoke.

“Edwin!” Draco cried.

They fell into each other’s arms, Draco sobbing tears of relief and joy. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back,” he choked out.

“I told you I’d be back, pet,” Edwin said, laughing. “You didn’t believe me?”

Draco pulled back to reply, but froze as he took in Edwin’s face for the first time. The eyepatch and bandages were gone, but in their place was a white, ridged scar running in a straight line from the middle of his forehead to an inch below his eye, bisecting his eyelid. And his eye—his eye was cloudy and filmed-over, the rich brown iris dulled.

“Merlin,” Draco stammered. He reached up to gently trace the scar with his index finger, then cupped Edwin’s cheek. “Your eye. It’s—can you see?”

“Not quite as well as I used to,” Edwin admitted. He put a hand over Draco’s and turned his head to kiss Draco’s palm. “But never mind that. Look—”

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a massive tangle of grey, furry tendrils, and Draco was nonplussed for a moment, thinking it a mink coat.

“What is it?” he asked, as Edwin pressed the fur into his hands.

“The werewolves,” he said. “They couldn’t be won over, in the end. So I dispatched them instead.”

Draco realized that he was holding a bundle of severed wolf tails. There was blood crusted onto the stumps, and the fur smelled of iron and wet dog. He dropped it, repulsed, and Edwin laughed.

“You wrinkle your nose now,” he teased, “But I’ll have them turned into a magnificent cloak for you,” he promised. “One worthy of your place beside me.”

Edwin caught Draco in his arms and they fell onto the bed together. Draco looked into Edwin’s eyes, one familiar and one utterly changed. Guilt throbbed in his chest, but he tried to push it down and bask in the knowledge that Edwin was safe. “I’m so happy you’re home,” he said.

They kissed, slowly at first, and then more passionately. Draco pinned Edwin’s leg between his own and pushed up against him, feeling himself getting hard and desperate. He was pent up, after spending so long alone. He wanted to feel Edwin inside of him, wanted to lose himself in the sensation such that he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to worry, not now that Edwin was back. But as Draco fumbled at Edwin’s belt buckle, Edwin broke the kiss and gently pushed him away.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” he said, clasping Draco’s hands, his eyes shining. “Darling—the Dark Lord is greatly pleased with me. I’ve won his favor, and by extension, he’s agreed to let your past transgressions be past. He’s promised to reward me—us. It is a great honor.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked. 

Edwin kissed him again and gave him a dazzling smile that went right to the pit of Draco’s stomach. “Put on your best clothes and I’ll show you.”

Draco put on his dress robes: a white shirt, waistcoat, and bowtie, black slacks and shoes, and flowing, silver heirloom robes. He hadn’t worn his dress robes since the Yule Ball—a lifetime ago—and he felt very young and silly in them. He was weak with relief that Edwin had returned safely, and his enthusiasm was contagious, but Draco wished he would just tell him what awaited. The thought of facing the Dark Lord again—no matter how pleased he was with Edwin—made him want to sick up.

As Draco was putting the finishing touches on his hair, Edwin appeared in the mirror behind him, wearing his own dress robes, which were black velvet. He laughed and wrapped his hands around Draco’s waist, resting his chin atop Draco’s head. “You look like Candide, all dressed up in white,” he teased, nodding to the stuffed white peacock in the corner of the room. “My two beauties.”

Draco smiled shyly. “Help me with my cufflinks?” he asked.

Edwin did, and then wrapped one arm around Draco’s waist and the other around his neck and kissed him deeply, bending him backwards as he did so. Draco was flushed as he came up for air, his stomach full of butterflies. He wished that they could fall into bed together and forget the Dark Lord, forget all the rest of it.

Edwin took his hand and led him through the corridors, listing for Draco everything that he had missed about him, and Draco was so starry-eyed he temporarily forgot to be nervous. 

That changed the moment they entered the dining room. It was so transformed that Draco almost didn’t realize where they were. The curtains over the floor-to-ceiling windows had been thrown open, and weak winter sunlight illuminated the room. The furniture had been removed, the carpet rolled up and away. The fire had been extinguished, and in its place were a dozen pillar candles, complimented by floating ones that reminded Draco painfully of the Great Hall. And most strikingly, garlands of ivy and white roses were draped over the fireplace, on the windowsills, and wound around the curtain rods.

The Death Eaters were assembled, and the Dark Lord, at the head of the room, in front of the fireplace, spread his arms in welcome.

Draco froze in his tracks. He had a wild thought—that it looked like it was decorated for—a wedding.

Edwin escorted him to the front of the room. Draco kept his eyes on his shoes, closing them when they reached the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord put one hand on Draco’s shoulder and one hand on Edwin’s.

“It is not often that I admit to errors of judgment,” the Dark Lord began, addressing the assembled crowd. “But I will confess that I had no expectation of Edwin’s success when I sent him to the Forbidden Forest all those weeks ago. And yet, he has returned with the happy news of the demise of the treasonous werewolf pack there. When they declined his generous offer of an alliance with me, he slew them, by his own hands. Such achievement deserves a reward, and I am nothing if not generous with those who obey me. So take this as a lesson—that if you serve me well, I will grant you your heart’s deepest desire. Edwin, take Draco’s hands.”

They turned to face each other. Edwin clasped Draco’s hands and beamed at him. Draco smiled stiffly back and glanced into the audience, searching for his mother and father, hoping that their faces would tell him what was about to happen. He caught a glimpse of them, huddled together towards the back of the room. His mother was looking back at him, stone-faced, eyes red-rimmed, in her best midnight blue robes. Draco could see her digging the point-cut black diamond of her wedding ring into her palm—a sign of weakness she only showed when she was absolutely beside herself. But his father was looking away, his mouth twisted and his hand gripping his cane so hard his knuckles were white.

Draco looked back at Edwin, his heart beating fast, and tried to trust in Edwin’s conviction that this was a great honor. But a traitorous voice in his head urged him to run.

“Edwin Selwyn,” the Dark Lord was saying, his voice a parody of warmth. “Do you swear to take Draco Lucius Malfoy as your ward?”

“I so swear,” Edwin said.

Draco watched in wonder as a thin, glittering silver thread emerged from the Dark Lord’s wand and wrapped around his and Edwin’s clasped hands.

“Do you swear to protect, guide, and provide for the care of young Draco?”

 “I so swear.”

A second thread twined around their hands.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” the Dark Lord said. “Do you swear your honor, fealty, obedience and life to Edwin Selwyn, as long as he shall live?”

“I so swear,” Draco said, trying to sound sure.

A third thread undulated from the tip of the Dark Lord’s wand, joining the strands around their hands. Draco startled as the completed chain floated towards his neck, and wrapped around it. It tingled as it touched his skin, cool and little prickly as it tightened, and then the sensation faded.

“I hereby affirm the concubinage of Draco Lucius Malfoy to Edwin Selwyn, and all the rights, responsibilities, and consequences that it entails,” the Dark Lord intoned. “Edwin, you may claim what is yours.” 

Edwin pulled Draco in, and Draco went stiff. It was one thing being intimate with Edwin behind closed doors, but he was so used to hiding that kissing a man in front of his parents—in front of Aunt Bella—in front of the Dark Lord—felt unimaginable.

“It’s just me,” Edwin whispered, his eyes warm and sparkling, and Draco closed his eyes and managed to relax into the kiss. There was a stiff round of applause.

There was a brief reception after, in which Draco clung to Edwin’s arm while he circulated, regaling the other Death Eaters with tales of his heroism in the Forbidden Forest while Draco sipped on champagne, avoiding the eyes of the men at whose feet he’d writhed in anguish only weeks before.

Draco’s mother kissed him stiffly on each cheek and murmured a toneless congratulations, but his father had vanished as soon as the ceremony was concluded.

Draco was relieved when he and Edwin finally retired to their chambers.

Edwin was buoyant. “What did I tell you?” he said, pouring himself a drink from the barcart. “Things are changing, for people like us. When I was your age, I could have never imagined having a binding ceremony with another man, in front of the Dark Lord himself, no less. Never.” 

Draco accepted the glass Edwin handed him. His smile must not have been convincing, because Edwin frowned and said, “What’s eating you, pet?”

“Nothing,” Draco said quickly. He should be grateful—he knew he should be grateful. The binding ceremony had turned his relationship with Edwin from a shameful secret into a formal, committed relationship; one that was fit to be celebrated in front of his parents, the Dark Lord, and all of his followers. Edwin had found the Dark Lord’s favor, and redeemed them both in the process. Edwin loved him—had lost an eye for him. Edwin would protect him. But in spite of all that, there was a pit in the very center of his stomach.

“I know by your face,” Edwin pressed. “This should be the happiest day of your life.”

“It’s only,” Draco said, trying to choose his words carefully. “Why did he say—concubine. Instead of husband.”

There was a long silence, and then Edwin laughed, as if Draco was a child who had just asked who hung the moon.

“Sweet boy,” he said, pulling Draco into his lap on the armchair. “You’re more of a romantic than I had ever imagined. There’s no shame in being what we are, but that doesn’t trump basic biology, does it?” he said patronizingly. “I still need an heir, and lovely as you are, you can’t give me that.”

“So—what?” Draco said, cheeks flushing, his temper rising despite his best efforts. “You’re going to have a wife? And I’ll just be—what? Second fiddle? Your whore on the side? Forever?”

Edwin went dead silent, his eyes shuttering dangerously. “I hope you don’t mean that,” he said quietly. “After these last weeks, do I really still have to prove my love to you?”

He took Draco’s hand and pressed it to his left eye. “Do I have to give up more than I have already?” he asked meaningfully.

Draco’s face crumpled and he buried his head in Edwin’s neck, overcome with shame. “No, of course not,” he babbled. “I’m sorry, Ed. I’m sorry. I love you. Thank you for today. I’m just jealous. Forgive me.” 

Edwin kissed Draco’s hair. “You’re forgiven,” he said. “I find your jealousy rather endearing, in small quantities. Now—let’s enjoy tonight.”

***

Later, after Edwin had fucked him boneless, Draco stumbled into the bathroom.

In the mirror, he noticed for the first time the pale silver, barely-there thread that formed a celtic knot around his neck, and wondered—acid rising up his throat—just what he had agreed to.

Chapter Text

The next few days were a blur of ecstasy. With Edwin back, Draco was sleeping better, smiling more easily, taking care of his appearance again. He was coming around to the idea of the bond, reminding himself that it would keep him safe and loved not only during the war, but long after. He wouldn’t have to hide anymore. He wouldn’t have to spend his life in service to the Dark Lord, but rather in service to a man who loved him—who had proved he would die for him. His life would be comfortable. Easy. And after the last few years, that was more than he could wish for—wasn’t it?

Edwin was sweeter than ever, worshipping his body with his hands and mouth and murmuring praise into Draco’s ear as they fucked in every corner of the apartment: on the bed, the chaise lounge, and the armchair, in the bath, and even up against the bookshelves. Draco had missed this—the intimacy, the attention, the way his brain only ever turned off in the heat of the moment. He had gotten used to being fucked by Edwin daily, but when he was away Draco had been too scared to even masturbate—irrationally afraid that someone would burst in and take it as an invitation.

On the fourth day after the ceremony, Draco woke to the sensation of Edwin’s erection against his arse. They fucked slowly and sleepily, and after, when they were flushed and panting between the sheets, Edwin said, trailing his finger across Draco’s bottom lip, “I’ll miss that, when I’m away.”

“You’re going away?” Draco asked, his brows creasing.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, pet, but there’s a war on,” Edwin said patiently. “And now that I’m at the Dark Lord’s right hand, he requires me more than ever.”

“When will you be back?” Draco asked, curling his hands against Edwin’s chest.

“That I can’t say,” Edwin confessed. “But it won’t always be like this, kitten. Once the war is over, I’ll take you home to my estate, away from all of this. The gardens aren’t quite as large as these, but they’re beautiful, in their own way. We’ll keep peacocks and I’ll buy you all the pretty things you want. And we’ll always be together, then.”

Draco buried himself in Edwin’s neck. Edwin rubbed his back. “There’s one more thing,” he said, his throat vibrating against Draco’s head.

“Hm?” Draco asked.

“The bond,” Edwin said casually. “It’s designed to ensure your loyalty. So while I’m away, you may start to feel some physical effects.”

Draco cracked his eyes open and pulled away, searching Edwin’s face. “Like?” 

“Oh, fatigue, nausea, headache, that sort of thing. Nothing that will cause lasting harm, and all of which will be reversed by proximity to me.”

“Is it the same for you?” Draco asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. Knowing the answer.

Edwin shook his head, yawning.

Draco pressed his face back into Edwin’s chest to hide his expression. In that moment, he felt something ugly rising up his throat, constricting his chest. Something he didn’t want to admit to—didn’t want to name.

***

After Edwin left, with a deep, final kiss and a reminder to “Be good for me, kitten,” Draco began to feel ill almost immediately.

It started with a crushing fatigue that sent him back to bed before he could even manage to get dressed. He fell into a feverish doze, unable to tell if he was dreaming or simply awake and delirious. He saw shadows under the door and in the corners of the room. He thought that he could hear the dry whisper of Nagini, slithering her way beneath the bed, and once, he even imagined he saw the Dark Lord’s red, slitted eyes peering at him from between the bed curtains.

When he finally swam into awareness, it was fully dark. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his whole body shaking with effort. He couldn’t remember feeling so weak and sick in his entire life. 

He stumbled to the bathroom and thirstily scooped water into his mouth from the tap, his throat dry and burning. His head pounded furiously, like a skewer had been forced through one temple and out the other. When he glanced up and met his reflection in the mirror, the silver thread around his throat shimmered in the moonlight through the window. For a brief moment, he thought he could feel it constrict around his throat, ever so slightly—unable to tell if it was real or imagined.

Before he could think, before he was even aware of what he was feeling, Draco picked up the heavy, marble soapdish and hurled it with full force at the mirror. The glass shattered into the sink, shards skittering across the floor, behind the toilet, and out into the bedroom. Draco stalked across the glass, uncaring, and made a beeline to the barcart: its glittering tumblers and expensive bottles of whisky, brandy, and wine.

He picked up a crystal goblet and hurled it against the wall, where it exploded with a satisfying smash. He made his way methodically through the goblets, smashing them against the opposite wall one at a time, then moved onto the tumblers.

He wanted to hurt someone. Wreck something. Scream until his throat gave out. He was so tired of being afraid. Of being helpless. Of being weak and pathetic and contemptible. He wanted to smash his way out of this fucking apartment; out of his body; out of the prison his life had become.

He missed Hogwarts. He missed his friends, his classes. He missed the lake and the happy buzz of the Great Hall at mealtimes and the cozy four-poster bed in which he had always felt so safe. But most of all, he missed himself. He hadn’t felt remotely like himself since the end of fifth year. He wished more than anything that he could go back in time and tell his fifteen-year-old self not to go home that summer, to stay with Blaise or Pansy and then return to Hogwarts and never look back; never meet the Dark Lord; never get the Dark Mark or catch Greyback’s eye or anything else that followed. To stay a normal student, safe and protected at Hogwarts, worried only about homework and crushes and Quiddich and petty rivalries.

But it was too late. He had made too many mistakes, and he couldn’t ever be that person again. Draco had to live with what he had become.

After he’d broken each and every glass, he grabbed a bottle of wine, but he was too weak to even lift it. It slipped through his fingers and rolled onto the floor and under a chair. He bent at the waist, hands around his middle like he was holding his insides in, crying so hard he dropped to his knees on the field of broken glass and didn’t even feel it.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Edwin was gone; that he bound himself to Draco without even telling him what it meant. It wasn’t fair that the Dark Lord had invaded his childhood home and marked his body forever. It wasn’t fair that his father couldn’t look him in the eye and that his mother couldn’t protect him, and it wasn’t fair that some nights he saw shadows under the door and couldn’t sleep, afraid it was Greyback waiting for his opportunity. 

After Draco had wrung himself dry, he looked dazedly around at the wreckage, the pain in the soles of his feet finally beginning to register. The fear that Edwin would return—having forgotten some crucial item—and discover what Draco had done turned his veins to ice.

He picked the shards of glass out of his feet and knees as best he could. He managed to repair a tumbler or two with his wand, but he was so, so tired, and his head ached, and he was beginning to feel nauseous.

He was still sitting listlessly among the wreckage when Mipsy apparated into the room, holding a tray of tea and sandwiches.

“Master Draco!” she exclaimed. “What has happened?”

“I’m sorry, Mipsy,” Draco said miserably. “I’ve made a terrible mess.”

Mipsy put the tray down on the table and gingerly approached Draco, picking her way between the shards. She patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, which made the tears return. Draco put his hands over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said tremulously.

“It’s nothing that can’t be fixed, Master Draco,” Mipsy said sympathetically.

“I wish that were true,” Draco replied, wiping his face.

They worked in silence for a while, Draco using his wand and Mipsy using the curious, wandless magic of house elves. But when Draco got to his feet and made his way to the bathroom to fix the mirror, he stumbled, suddenly dizzy, and had to catch himself against the wall.

“Master Draco!” Mipsy exclaimed. “Your feet—they’re bleeding!” 

Draco looked behind him and saw the blood that he had trailed across the carpet.

“I will call Lady Narcissa,” Mipsy said.

“No,” Draco said forcefully. He didn’t want his mother to see that he’d thrown a tantrum like a spoiled child. She had bigger things to worry about.

“At least get into bed and let me finish tidying up, Master Draco,” Mipsy said anxiously. “If I may, you are not looking well.” 

Draco limped over to the bed and sat down, casting a quick episkey spell on his feet and knees. He’d always been shite at healing spells, but he managed to at least close the wounds.

“Thank you, Mipsy,” he mumbled.

He crawled under the covers and drifted into an uneasy, feverish sleep, soothed by the gentle tinkle of Mipsy repairing the glassware.

***

The longer Edwin was gone, the weaker Draco grew. He spent most of his time in bed, feverish, struggling to get enough liquids down. He was losing weight rapidly, and some days he only awoke when his mother or Mipsy urged him to eat or drink something—anything.

When he was strong enough to feel anything at all, he brooded over the bond magic, trying to remember what he had learned about it in his youth. Nothing of the kind had been taught at Hogwarts, of course; it was old, dark magic—the kind that one read about in fairy stories but that was seldom practiced in the modern world, even amongst the most traditional sorts of wizards. Draco supposed that the bond sickness was designed to keep women from straying in arranged marriages; to foster dependence and force proximity—maybe even to encourage consummation and childbirth. He wondered if he was the first man to ever experience it. He wondered if he knew so little about it because it was typically a woman’s burden; and, like all the trials of pureblood women, never spoken of, especially in the company of men. He tried to be grateful that sickness was a relatively mild condition of the bond; he’d heard of bonds that punished those who strayed with infertility, disfigurement, or even death.

But he wasn’t grateful. He was angry. He wondered how anyone could possibly think it was a good idea, when the bond had increased his resentment tenfold. When he had actually been in love, been happy, before it.

And he wondered why Edwin didn’t trust him, when Draco had never strayed, never even thought about straying. 

But deep down, he knew the answer. It was because of Harry Potter. Because of one stupid, throwaway comment Draco had made about a fleeting crush from years ago. It was absurd, Draco thought to himself. Nothing could ever happen between them, not in a thousand lifetimes. And besides, he thought, with a confusing twist in his gut—even if Harry Potter lived to the end of the war, which was impossible, Draco would likely never see him again. They’d chosen divergent paths. And, more and more these days, Draco was convinced that he’d chosen wrong.

His only consolation was the books on the shelves. He read very slowly these days, falling asleep often and rereading sentences when his brain fogged over. But reading about other worlds was the only thing that kept him sane when his own was unbearable. Having read all of the books with their spines out on the shelves—most of them concerning potioneering, wizarding history, genealogy, and the dark arts—he made a curious discovery. Lined up neatly behind the books that faced out was a treasure trove of muggle novels. Draco had no idea who had stashed them there, or when. Edwin’s chambers had been a rarely used guest room in Draco’s youth, and the books seemed old. Most had been published at least a hundred years prior.

Ordinarily, Draco never would have touched a muggle book, but he was desperate for stimulation. And he quickly discovered that fiction—a rather spare and neglected genre amongst wizards—was far more effective at taking his mind off his situation. He read Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Bleak House, The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Stories, Brideshead Revisited, The Woman in White, Orlando, and The Well of Loneliness, among others, always careful to return each book to its hiding place when he was finished. He was quite sure that Edwin would not approve of his new hobby.

Occasionally, Edwin would return for a few hours, or even a day or two. Draco treasured these moments, when he was pain-free and clear-headed and showered with affection. But as the months stretched on, Edwin’s visits grew briefer, fewer, and farther between. And when he was able to return, he was brooding and preoccupied. The missions, Draco gathered, were not going well. Harry Potter continued to evade capture, and although they had obtained full control of the Ministry and Hogwarts, the Dark Lord was growing increasingly angry for reasons no one fully understood.

One frigid January night, Draco awoke to the sound of the bedroom door slamming shut. He struggled to a sitting position, heart pounding, a towering, shadowy figure looming over him in the dark. He fumbled for the light on the bedside table, flicking it on to reveal—Edwin.

“Thank god,” Draco breathed. And then—as he took in Edwin’s dirty, bloody robes and thunderous expression, he added, “Ed, what happened? You look awful.”

Edwin ignored him, making a beeline for the barcart. He poured himself a couple fingers of whisky and tossed it back in one long gulp. He poured another glass. Dread was beginning to coil in Draco’s belly.

“You want to know what happened?” Edwin snarled, finally turning on him. “Loony Lovegood and your little boyfriend laid a trap for us.”

“What?” Draco asked, still muddled from sleep, scrambling to understand so that he would know the right thing to say. “Luna…?”

“Not that little bitch, she’s been locked up downstairs for weeks,” Edwin said. “Her father. He told us that he had Harry Potter, that he’d trade him for the girl.”

Draco shifted uneasily. He hadn’t even known that Luna was in the Manor. What had she done? Who else was locked up in the dungeons?

“They laid a trap?” Draco asked.

“Yeah,” Edwin grunted. “Lovegood and Potter blew up the fucking house with us in it. Travers and I barely made it out alive, and then the Dark Lord practically finished the job they started.” 

Draco raked his eyes anxiously over the plaster dust on Edwin’s clothing, noting for the first time that the whites of his eyes were bloody—a sure sign of torture. 

Edwin tossed back the second glass of whisky, then, without missing a beat, hurled the tumbler full force against the wall. Draco jumped, and his heart—which had slowed when he realized the nighttime intruder was not Greyback—sped up once more.

“Ed,” Draco said, patting the bed, trying for coquettish, “Why don’t you come back to bed and let me…” The rest of the sentence died in his throat as he realized his raspy, phlegmy voice was the farthest thing from seductive. It always took an hour or so for his symptoms to fully dissipate after Edwin returned.

When Edwin turned to look at him, his eyes were full of disgust. “You’re filthy,” he said. 

Draco flushed. He could only imagine what he looked like. His sleeping clothes were drenched in sweat, his cheeks red with fever, and his hair greasy and mussed.

But it was too cruel of Edwin to blame Draco for this. “Well, what do you expect?” he snapped. “You’re never here, and the magic that makes me sick was your brilliant idea—”

Draco snapped his mouth shut as Edwin stalked over, rage in his eyes. 

“You ungrateful little bitch,” he sneered. Draco scrabbled back across the bed as Edwin reached for him. Why had he antagonized him when he knew he was already angry? How stupid could a person be?

Edwin grabbed Draco by the waist and pulled him down the bed, his fingers digging painfully into Draco’s ribs. He straddled Draco’s body, one knee on either side of his hips, and Draco went boneless beneath him.

“Don’t be a coward,” Edwin said, rolling his eyes at Draco’s obvious terror. “I’m not going to hurt you. But you know I can’t let blatant disrespect go unpunished.” 

Edwin lifted one knee off of him. “Clothes off. On your front,” he ordered.

Draco scrambled to obey. He undressed and lay on his front, skin pimpling in the cold nighttime air, heart thudding so hard it was difficult to breathe. Behind him he heard Edwin unbuckle his belt and slide it off. He squeezed his eyes shut and balled his hands into the sheets. Angry tears slipped down his cheeks before he even felt the first strike.

Edwin didn’t hold back. Draco marked ten strikes before he stopped counting. By the end, he was sobbing, his arse cheeks on fire. The moment Edwin dropped the belt to the floor, he slammed into Draco, his cock already painfully hard. Without any lubrication or preparation, it was agonizing. Draco cried harder as Edwin fucked into him, but some part of him was still too proud to beg—not over this—and blessedly, Edwin finished quickly.

After, Edwin held him close. He kissed away Draco’s tears and murmured apologies into his hair. 

“I hate seeing you like this,” he cooed. “Why do you have to ask for it, huh? It doesn’t have to be this way. I know it’s hard being apart. It’s hard on me, too. What can I do to make it easier on you?”

Delirious with pain and fever, Draco could only huff out a sardonic laugh before drifting into unconsciousness.

***

Draco surfaced—as if from the bottom of a deep, silent well—to the sound of a fist pounding on the door. He was too tired to register anything other than annoyance. A woman’s voice was calling his name, but he ignored her, turning away and putting a pillow over his head. Eventually, she went away, and he tumbled back into the abyss.

***

The next time he surfaced, it was to the sound of his mother on the other side of the door, begging him to let her in. Edwin had warded the doors so that they were extraordinarily difficult to open from the outside.

“Go away,” Draco rasped, his voice so wrecked it was hardly audible, even to himself. He cleared his throat and said, a little louder, “Go away, Mummy, I’m fine.”

He would rather die than let her see what Edwin had done to him.

His energy sapped from merely raising his voice, he once more drifted into darkness.

***

The third time he swam into consciousness, a cool hand was touching his forehead. Draco flinched away. “No,” he croaked.

He cracked his eyes open. A tall, male figure was standing at his bedside. Draco pushed himself up onto his elbows and started to scoot backwards, whimpering as his wounds chafed against the sheets.

“Lie back, Draco,” a commanding voice said, and a hand pressed on his chest, gently pushing him back against the pillows.

Draco went limp and curled into a loose ball on his side, hands over his head. “Please don’t, Ed,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry. I’ll be good, I promise. But I’m not ready. I’m not ready yet, please.”

He heard a muttered spell. A cool feeling washed over him, and he was gone again.

***

The final time Draco awoke, he felt more alert and clear-headed than he had in weeks—months, even. The sheets were deliciously cool against his skin. His fever must have broken. He sat up cautiously, noticing that the pain in his backside was a fraction of what it had been. Yellow, morning light was pooling on the sheets, which were dove grey instead of green. Someone had changed them. He looked down and realized that he was in fresh clothes, too—a set of matching flannel pajamas that he hadn’t worn since his school days.

Edwin must have returned. Draco turned his head, and sure enough, there was a figure in Edwin’s favorite armchair by the window, silhouetted by the sunlight.

“Ed,” Draco said cautiously. “When did you—”

The man turned in his seat, and Draco froze. His hair was longer than Edwin’s—dark and straight and greasy. His skin was sallow and his nose large and hooked.

“Professor?” Draco asked, astonished, reflexively pulling the sheets up around him. It was too bizarre, too unbelievable that Professor Snape had somehow materialized in his bedroom. He was so rarely at the Manor. In fact, Draco hadn’t seen him since the night Charity Burbage was killed.

Snape stood and approached the bed. There was a long, anticipatory silence. Draco didn’t know whether to rebuke him or throw his arms around him.

Finally, Snape said, slowly and deliberately, “I am glad to see that you are feeling well again. Your condition was—severe.”

Draco blushed a deep red as the reality of the situation washed over him. Snape had healed him. Snape had broken through the warded door, changed the sheets, changed his clothes, seen—

“What right do you have to come barging into my rooms?” Draco snapped, suddenly humiliated beyond words. “I don’t need you sticking your giant nose into my business, any more than I did last year. Now kindly—”

“Draco,” Snape intoned with the quiet yet chilling authority he’d always held as a teacher. Against his will, Draco fell silent. “You’re in over your head,” Snape emphasized. “This is a situation a boy your age has no business being in.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m neither your student nor underage, professor,” Draco spat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, and what Edwin and I—”

“I’ve come to take you back to Hogwarts,” Snape cut in, stunning Draco into silence.

“You—you can’t,” Draco said uncertainly, after a long moment. “Edwin would—and you’ve seen what the bond—”

“Your—situation—” Snape said, disgust dripping from his tone, “Is unsustainable. Bonds can be broken. And I think you’ll find that the Dark Lord values my opinion more highly than even Selwyn’s.”

Draco fiddled anxiously with the sheets. His heart was lifting in spite of itself, like a hundred pound weight had been removed.

“Could—could I really?” he asked softly. “If I wanted to?”

He tried to imagine it: playing Quidditch again; writing essays with his friends in the common room; watching the steam rise off a perfectly brewed potion; spending weekends drinking Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. For five years, that was his everyday. He’d taken it for granted, like the changing of the seasons. Now, it was a distant, golden dream—just out of reach.

“If you wanted to what?” a voice thundered from the opposite end of the room. Draco whipped his head around. Edwin was standing in the doorway, his lips pressed together and his brow furrowed. He shot a glare at Snape, who turned to face him, raising his chin.

Draco looked back and forth between them, heart rate rising, feeling terribly vulnerable and exposed in his pajamas.

“I’m taking Draco with me back to Hogwarts,” Snape said, staring down his nose at Edwin, contempt in his eyes. “He’s a child, and he should be in school.”

“Like hell you are,” Edwin snarled. “He’s a grown man who’s made his own choices. He chose to bind himself to me. He loves me. And I won’t let you haul him back to that pathetic excuse of a school. If you cared about him you would understand that nowhere is safer than here, with the Dark Lord. With me.”

“With you?” Snape sneered. “You almost killed him!”

“You speak of things you know nothing about,” Edwin snarled. “Now if you don’t leave my quarters this instant, things will get uglier than even your sorry face.”

Snape glared at Edwin for a long moment, then cast a brief glance at Draco, his eyes unreadable. “I will remain at the Manor until tomorrow morning. Come find me,” he said, then swept out of the room, his robes billowing behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Edwin dropped to his knees beside the bed. He grabbed Draco’s wrists. Draco flinched back instinctively, startled to see that there were tears standing in Edwin’s eyes. “Are you alright? Did he hurt you?” Edwin asked.

Draco wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that question, coming from Edwin, but he merely shook his head.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” Edwin said. “I’m sorry I got—carried away, last night. I was on my way back with medicine—look,” he said, and emptied his bag onto the bedspread. Sure enough, vials of dittany, murtlap essence, and dreamless sleep rolled across the sheets.

Edwin sat on the bed next to Draco and took his face in his hands, gently stroking his cheekbones with his thumbs, his intense, brown eyes boring into Draco’s. “I love you. More than anything. You know that, right?” he said. Draco could do nothing but nod.

“And you know things won’t always be this way, don’t you?” Edwin entreated. “This war is the hardest thing we’ll ever have to face—the greatest test of our love. And afterwards, everything will be different. Better. I swear it.”

Draco looked down at the bedspread. Summoned up his courage. Swallowed. “But what if—what if I did go back to school?” he asked quietly. “Just to take my N.E.W.T.S.”

Edwin pulled away and laughed. “Whatever for?” he asked. “Draco, I don’t think you understand how much things are going to change. After the war, you’ll be a national hero. You can do anything, be anything you want. You won’t need a silly exam to open doors for you. And darling—”

Edwin’s brow furrowed, and he clutched Draco’s hands tightly. “What do you think life will be like for you at that school? Are you really foolish enough to believe that it will be like the happy school days of your childhood? No, Hogwarts is full of mudbloods and blood traitors who don’t understand—who will hate you. Who will try to hurt you. Kill you. And I won’t be there to protect you. And if you think Snape has your best interests at heart, you’re painfully naive.” Edwin’s expression darked. “We were at Hogwarts together, and I remember how he felt about people like us. He loathes us. He wants to drive us apart because he thinks we’re degenerates. You mustn’t believe his lies. We’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Edwin pulled Draco close, squeezing him tightly. Draco tried very, very hard to be still, tried not to flinch away from Edwin’s touch. “I need you,” Edwin said, his voice strained and rough, his stubble scratching at Draco’s neck. “I’d die for you, Draco. Haven’t I shown you that? Haven’t I earned your love? Promise me you won’t let him drive us apart. Please.”

Draco wanted to believe everything Edwin was saying—that he was sorry, that he loved him, that everything would be different, after the war. And part of him did. But an even larger part would do anything—anything to avoid making him angry again.

And besides, Edwin was right. It was too late. Things had changed too much. He could never go back to Hogwarts. He could never be who he had been before.

“I promise,” Draco whispered.

Chapter Text

It had rained overnight, turning the snow to gray slush. Draco sat in the windowseat, staring out at the drab, damp gardens, tracing the paths of raindrops down the glass.

For once, Edwin hadn’t left early to attend to business with the Dark Lord; instead, he was reading in his favorite armchair by the fire. Draco could feel Edwin’s eyes on the back of his neck, but he pretended not to notice.

At noon sharp, the door to the back terrace was thrown open and the bat-like figure of Snape strode across the lawn. He had always been rigidly punctual. Draco wondered if Snape had been waiting for him; if he had used the back entrance knowing that he would pass directly underneath Draco’s window.

When he was halfway down the lawn, Snape stopped and looked up at his window. He stood there like a statue, his traveling cloak fluttering in the wind.

It was as if he was giving Draco one last chance to go with him.

Draco startled as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Edwin holding out a cup of tea for him. 

Draco took the teacup and slowly rose from the window seat. Edwin pulled the curtains shut behind him, obscuring Snape from view.

The tea tasted sour in Draco’s mouth.

Edwin stayed glued to Draco’s side for the next few days. But it wasn’t so bad. With Edwin close by, he felt healthier than he had in weeks, and was sleeping and breathing more easily. Edwin was as kind and doting as he’d been just after the bond ceremony. He rubbed murtlap essence into Draco’s wounds every night. They took long, hot baths together, slept until noon, and lay in bed together, Edwin stroking Draco’s hair as he read aloud to him (wizarding books only, of course). And Edwin’s touch had turned gentle again; as though he’d never hurt Draco; as though he’d never dream of it. And Draco knew, deep down, that it would remain that way as long as he was good. He only had to be good. But it was getting harder and harder. Draco had the traitorous thought that maybe he didn’t want to be Edwin’s good boy anymore. 

But on the fourth day, Edwin announced that he had a meeting to attend with the Dark Lord, and that Draco was to come with him.

“Can’t I just stay here?” Draco asked, putting down his book, watching as Edwin dressed himself.

“You’re not safe here, anymore,” Edwin said sadly. “I blame myself that Snape was able to break the wards and find you in such a vulnerable state. Who knows what he would’ve done to you if I hadn’t arrived when I did.”

Draco couldn’t help himself; he let loose a snort. “Snape’s not—no,” he said. “It’s not like that—at all.” The very thought was absurd.

Edwin only arched an eyebrow as he tied his cravat. “I see how he watches you in meetings,” he said. “I know how he hounded you in your sixth year. Sometimes I forget how naive you are.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Only a few days previous, Edwin had accused Snape of being a raging homophobe. He wanted to tell Edwin to get his story straight. But instead he said, “Whatever you say, Ed.”

Edwin caught his eye in the wardrobe mirror. “Draco,” he said, a hard edge to his voice.

Draco’s stomach swooped. He had become too comfortable, too complacent these last few days. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, this tone not entirely sincere—but fortunately, Edwin let it go.

Draco reluctantly dressed and followed Edwin into the dining room, his guts twisting.

The Dark Lord and the rest of the inner circle were already seated—Bellatrix, Macnair, Pettigrew, and Yaxley.

“Ah,” the Dark Lord said, his face lighting up when he saw Draco. “The happy couple emerges from the love nest at last.”

Draco flushed and looked down at his feet as the others chuckled.

Edwin approached the table, Draco following at his heels, but the Dark Lord held up a hand. “I won’t deny my most faithful servant his plaything,” he said.

Bellatrix glowered at Edwin.

“But neither can I permit the whelp to listen in as we discuss matters of great importance—not when his treason is such a fresh wound.”

Draco was relieved. He turned to go, but the Dark Lord said, “Wait. You may keep him here if you obscure his senses.”

The hair on the back of Draco’s neck stood up as Edwin turned to him.

He guided Draco over to his customary chair, but the Dark Lord said, “Ah, ah. I’m afraid only my most loyal servants may sit at the table with me.”

“I’ll go back to the rooms,” Draco whispered. “Please, Ed, nothing bad will happen, I promise.”

Edwin only put a hand on Draco’s shoulder and said, “Trust me.”

He gently pushed Draco down until he was kneeling on the floor beside Edwin’s chair.

Edwin gripped Draco’s chin and cast an unfamiliar spell directly at his face. Draco managed to keep from flinching, but only just. As soon as Edwin had finished the incantation, his vision blurred. He could see light from the fire and the vague outline of shapes beneath the table, but nothing more.

Then Edwin uttered another spell, and his hearing was abruptly muffled. He could perceive that voices were speaking, but couldn’t make out a word, as if he were listening in from the other side of a heavy door.

Draco knelt on the hard floor, deaf and blind, shivering with cold and fear. Occasionally, a hand would touch his hair, or his shoulder, and he would flinch away—hoping it was Edwin, but unable to know for sure.

Without his senses to ground him, time stretched out like taffy. It could have been minutes, or hours. Either way, it felt like an eternity. Finally, he leaned his cheek against Edwin’s thigh, desperate for some comfort, for something to ground him. He stared ahead with glassy, unseeing eyes and let Edwin stroke his hair. 

He had never felt less human in his entire life. He might as well be a dog; a toy; a piece of furniture. Like weeds pushing up through pavement, he felt seeds of hatred towards Edwin sprouting in his heart.

But the moment he felt the vibration of footsteps nearby, or the touch of a cloak against his back, they withered beneath the fear, and he pressed his face into Edwin’s thigh like a frightened animal seeking comfort. Edwin placed a hand loosely on his neck, thumbing at the collar marks. Draco was utterly helpless without him.

***

The next few weeks passed in a blur. The detachment that Draco felt in the Dark Lord’s meetings followed him out of the dining room, and he found himself drifting passively through the days. The endless, racing thoughts he had always been plagued by floated away, as did any fleeting emotions that bubbled to the surface. Although his sense of touch was unaffected by Edwin’s sense-obscuring spells, he found that that was altered, too. These days, when Edwin fucked him, he barely felt a thing. Draco slept unless he was being fucked or dragged to another meeting. 

But then Edwin left on another mission. Draco still fell ill whenever Edwin traveled beyond the bond’s boundaries, but this time Edwin had at least left him with pain potions, fever reducers, and pepper-ups that kept the fever and the worst of the symptoms at bay. What was far worse was that Edwin had altered the wards so that Draco could neither leave nor let anyone else in. The only person the wards allowed in was Mipsy, who would bring him his meals (only twice daily, as Edwin worried that the confinement would cause Draco to put on weight).

At first, Draco didn’t mind so much. It was nice to be alone. He was growing tired of Edwin, who had become incredibly clingy and doting of late. He supposed he should be more afraid of him, after the belting, but it was as though he had hit a ceiling and could produce no more fear. In its place was left a sort of dull annoyance.

But the weeks stretched on, and still Edwin didn’t return. After Draco had finally finished all of the books on the shelves—both wizarding and muggle—the panic began to set in. He tried every spell he could think of to break the wards: unlocking charms, shield penetrating charms, disenchantments, shrinking charms, and more, but Edwin’s magic was strong.

He had placed powerful muffling charms around the doorway, so that Draco couldn’t even speak to his mother. Sometimes she would come by and slip her fingers under the doorframe. He would lie on the floor and squeeze them as hard as he could, like she was a life raft. But she could never stay long.

Draco wished that she could save him, like she had promised she would, but he knew it was wishful thinking. She was just as powerless as he. He knew that she was the one who had begged Snape to break down Edwin’s wards that night. He had smelled her lingering scent on his pillow after he awoke. He wondered if his father had come to see him too—and wondered, with a dull twist of humiliation, how much they had seen. How much they really knew. But the feeling was weak and fleeting. It wasn’t as though it mattered anymore, not when his humanity was slipping through his fingers with every passing day. In his darker moments, he wondered how much longer he even had to live. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to survive another episode of Edwin’s anger, and surely he couldn’t fend off Edwin’s displeasure forever. 

Draco sat at the window for hours, sometimes, looking down into the snow-blanketed garden. Edwin had spelled the curtains shut, after he’d caught Draco looking at Snape. Draco hadn’t managed to break the wards around the door, but he had at least managed to spell open the curtains again. Sometimes he fantasized about smashing through the glass and breaking his fall from the second floor with a cushioning charm. But he wasn’t quite desperate enough for that, yet—as afraid of the attention it was sure to draw from the others as he was of Edwin’s reaction. 

He begged Mipsy to bring him more books to read, but she was under strict instructions from Edwin not to deliver anything but food and medicinal potions. Draco insisted so vehemently one day that he made her cry. He stopped asking after that.

So Draco reread his books. He took long baths. He drank until he was sick. He stared at the wallpaper until it began to move before his eyes; until he began to see strange patterns in it. He wept, sometimes, but there was no point with no one to hear him, so his crying jags were brief.

When Edwin had been gone for a month, Draco stopped eating. Mipsy tearfully begged him to have just a little toast or broth, but he pulled the covers over his head and refused. He figured Edwin had to come back after that; he was quite sure Mipsy was reporting Draco’s activities back to him.

But his pathetic hunger strike lasted only three days before he broke, and Edwin didn’t come.

***

Edwin's mission did end, eventually, but by that time Draco was past the point of caring. Shortly after his return, Draco found himself once again kneeling beside Edwin on the floorboards of the dining room, eyesight blurred and hearing muffled.

The meeting was running long. How long, he had no way of knowing, but his knees were aching and the floorboards were frigid in the height of winter. He kept shifting, sitting up on the balls on his feet and then back down, trying to mitigate the pressure on his joints, but nothing helped. Against his better judgment, he sighed. Loudly.

Edwin’s hand snaked around Draco’s neck. He expected a comforting stroke, but instead, Edwin shoved his gloved hand against Draco’s mouth, hard, catching Draco’s neck in the crook of his elbow and pinning his head against his thigh.

The message was clear: Stop shifting around. Be quiet. You’re drawing attention. You’re embarrassing me.

Hatred boiled up in Draco’s heart. He was tired of feeling like a naughty child. He was tired of being pushed around and tired of having choices made for him and tired of being dragged around behind Edwin like a dog on a leash.

Before he could think the better of it, he nipped at Edwin’s hand with his teeth, hard.

He didn’t even have time to brace himself before Edwin responded by shoving his gloved fingers into Draco’s mouth, forcing him into stillness. Draco gagged around them as Edwin stroked his fingers roughly down his throat. 

He could do nothing. So he sat like a dog at Edwin’s lap, and seethed. He hated the war. He hated everyone in this room. He wished that they would all fall down dead. Even Edwin. No—especially Edwin. He wished he could grab his mother by the hand and run away from this place, never to return. 

Suddenly, he felt rather than heard a commotion. Something pitter-pattered against the back of Draco’s robes. The floorboards vibrated as the Death Eaters pushed their chairs back and stood up. He saw flashes of light, and heard muffled shouts. Edwin’s hand abruptly dropped away and Draco sucked in a deep breath, the taste of sweat and leather heavy in his mouth.

An object landed on his knuckles. He couldn’t see it, but he picked it up with his other hand—and promptly sliced his palm open. It was a shard of glass.

Draco knelt frozen on the ground, half in terror and half in elation. Were they under attack? Had the Order come? Was he about to be rescued—or killed?

Before he could decide which outcome he preferred, something thick and smooth and muscular wrapped around his waist—and squeezed. The breath left Draco’s lungs all at once, and the thing seemed to grow, twining its way up and around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides with a pressure like iron bands. It was only when scales brushed against his bare wrist that Draco realized—with a flash of dizzying terror—that it was Nagini. She was squeezing the life out of him. He whimpered as she reached his shoulders and he felt two cold, sharp points of pressure against his neck—her fangs. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to prepare for the worst. At least it would be over soon.

But two breathless moments later, the pressure around his chest lifted and the coils dropped away, thudding heavily to the floor and dragging across his lap as Nagini slithered away. Hands grasped him firmly under his armpits, hauled him to his feet, and hurried him out the door. Draco followed along passively. Without his senses, he had no way of knowing who it was, and barely cared. They wound through the corridors and then there was a change in the light, and Draco was thrown bodily through a doorway. When he hit the ground, his vision and hearing suddenly returned, and Edwin was looming over him, his face livid.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snarled. “I thought we were under attack! You could have injured someone—injured the Dark Lord himself!”

“What are you talking about?” Draco protested, scrambling away until his back was against the wall. “I don’t even know what happened.”

“You blew out all the windows in the dining room!” Edwin shouted, stepping forward. 

“I—I what?” Draco said, genuinely stunned. “I didn’t mean to.”   

“Like a child throwing a tantrum,” Edwin said contemptuously. “You’re far too old for uncontrolled magical outbursts, Draco.”

Draco struggled to his feet, anger overtaking the shame. “Well I’m sorry I don’t enjoy sitting at your feet for hours on end like a fucking lapdog, blind and deaf!” he spat. “And if you don’t want me fidgeting you could at least cast a bloody fucking cushioning charm!”

Draco was expecting it, but the slap Edwin delivered across his face was so hard it made him stumble. He caught himself on a sidetable, sending a crystal ashtray skittering onto the floor.

“I’m the Dark Lord’s right hand!” Edwin shouted. “There’s a war on! I have actual responsibilities and actual risks to contend with—so I’m dreadfully sorry if I can’t attend to your every whim and comfort every hour of the day!”

“Comfort?” Draco said incredulously, a harsh laugh on his lips. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was so comfortable between the belting and the bond sickness and the sensory deprivation and being locked in your room for months on end!”

“If that’s how you feel you can go!” Edwin shouted, pointing towards the door. “I’ve never forced you!”  

They stared at each other, cheeks flushed and chests rising up and down. It was technically true; Edwin hadn’t forced Draco. But neither had he left him any other options. After a long and furious staring contest, Draco finally looked down at his shoes, defeated. He could never walk away, and they both knew it.

***

Draco’s one small consolation was that the sex got better, after that. One evening, he was on his back for a change, listlessly watching Edwin’s chest rock back and forth as he fucked him. Edwin was pumping and panting furiously, but Draco’s dick was limp, and he was unmoved. He simply lay there and waited for it to be over.

Perhaps his detachment was less noticeable when he was on his front, because Edwin didn’t usually mind—but this time, Draco was abruptly roused from his reverie by a stinging slap to the face.

“What the hell was that for?” he asked, looking up at Edwin with outrage. 

“Look alive, will you?” Edwin said contemptuously. “It’s like fucking a dead fish. Or a corpse.”

With a mixture of elation and horror, Draco felt arousal stir inside of him. He so rarely felt wide awake these days that even the shock of a slap was preferable to the numbness.

Edwin must have noticed, too, because he wrapped a hand around Draco’s half-hard cock and squeezed viciously. “Oh?” he said with a smile. “I see I have a masochist on my hands. Why didn’t you tell me, kitten?” He purred. “I can give you what you want.”

Draco was too shocked to protest. He didn’t even know if a denial would be the truth. But when Edwin pressed their bodies together and wrapped a hand in his hair, yanking it painfully by the roots and moaning into his skin, biting the place between Draco’s neck and shoulder, he lost himself in the sensation for the first time in ages, and they both came quickly after that, panting.

Chapter Text

Spring was coming, and with it, rain. Draco spent hours on the windowseat each afternoon, listlessly watching as it melted away the lingering patches of snow and sent the peacocks running for shelter. Though Edwin rarely left the Manor these days, Draco felt as poorly as he had at the height of his bond sickness. His head ached incessantly, and he was too fatigued to even read most of the time. He split his time between the bed and the windowseat, only leaving their rooms when Edwin took him along to meetings with the Dark Lord. He spent most of those meetings dozing with his cheek on Edwin’s thigh.

On days when Draco had a little more energy, he and Edwin were irritable and snappy with each other. Draco hadn’t had a single moment alone in weeks, and had resorted to spending hours in the bath to escape him. Edwin was fucking him harder and more frequently than ever, slapping Draco awake if he dozed off mid-coitus.

But he was still gentle, sometimes—he’d taken to personally making Draco a cup of tea every morning, and doted on him when his headaches were especially bad: running him baths and massaging his scalp and even reading aloud to him. (He preferred wizarding Roman history, which usually sent Draco right to sleep.)

One morning, Draco was sitting at the little round table in the kitchenette, watching scraps of grey clouds scudding across the sky. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, and the wind was picking up. After their habitual morning intercourse, Draco had thrown on briefs and his dressing gown, and Edwin was at the counter brewing Draco his usual cup of tea.

A flash of light in his periphery caught Draco’s eye, and he glanced at Edwin. At first he thought it was just the light reflecting off his signet ring, but then he saw it—the tiny, silver vial that Edwin had just slipped back into his sleeve.

Draco’s heart thudded hard—once, twice.

Edwin turned with a smile and placed the teacup on its saucer in front of Draco: with a splash of milk and plenty of sugar, just the way he liked it.

“What the hell was that?” Draco blurted out before he could think the better of it.

Edwin didn’t even look at him. “What on earth do you mean?” he asked crisply, sitting down at the table and shaking open the Daily Prophet.

Draco’s hands had begun to tremble. “You—you put something in my tea,” he accused.

Edwin cast him a disdainful glance, as though Draco were pointing out the painfully obvious.

The pieces fell into place all at once. “You’ve been putting something in my tea for weeks,” Draco said numbly. “Every morning. That’s why—that’s why I’m still sick, even though we’re together.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Edwin scoffed. “It’s a light sedative, nothing to pitch a fit over.”

Draco had the sudden urge to lunge across the table and grab Edwin by the throat. Instead he gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.

“How—how fucking dare—” he said through clenched teeth.

Edwin slapped his newspaper down on the table and finally looked at Draco, his eyes flashing with menace. “I wouldn’t have to do if you weren’t such a fucking embarrassment,” he hissed. “Uncontrolled magic in the Dark Lord’s meetings—hunger strikes—open insubordination—do I have to go on? It’s for your own good, kitten. Now shut up and drink your tea.”

Draco was so angry he could hardly see. He couldn’t draw breath. He was so violently sick of this man that he couldn’t bring himself to care about consequences anymore—all that mattered was that he find a way to disobey Edwin, punish him, hurt him, even if only in the most trivial of ways. He locked eyes with Edwin and inched the teacup off the edge of the table, like a petulant cat. It fell to the ground with a smash, china shards skittering under the furniture and tea staining the floorboards.

“Oops,” he said slowly, arching an eyebrow, unable to help the smirk forming on his face.

Draco enjoyed a moment of exhilarating, terrifying triumph, and then Edwin was on him.

The wind was knocked out of him as Edwin lunged across the table and tackled him out of his chair, cutlery and condiments and furniture flying. Draco’s head hit the floorboards, painfully hard. He didn’t even have time to draw breath before Edwin was wrapping his hands around his throat, leather gloves creaking, his pupils huge and face red with rage.

“You nasty—little—bitch,” he snarled, flecks of spittle landing on Draco’s face. “After all I’ve done for you. After all I’ve given you. I saved you. You owe me everything. I defied the Dark Lord for you. I lost an eye for you.” Edwin lifted Draco by the throat and cracked his head against the floor for emphasis. Draco cried out, unable to tear his eyes from Edwin’s. Veins were bulging in his forehead, his mouth locked in a terrifying grimace. He looked like a madman. Edwin drew a heaving breath and said, “I’ve kept you in safety and comfort while you mewled and complained and wallowed in your own pathetic, impotent self-pity. Without me you would have been passed from one man to another, used and abused until they finally wore you out and cast you aside. Well, I’m beginning to think I’ve been played for a fool,” he said, leaning down until he and Draco were practically nose to nose. “Maybe Greyback had the right idea after all.”

Draco’s vision was greying out when Edwin finally released him. But he only had time to suck in a single heaving, painful breath before Edwin grabbed him by the arm and hauled him onto his feet. He pushed Draco through the door, letting him fall on his face in the hallway before yanking him to his feet again.

A few doors opened, the commotion having garnered attention, and Draco realized with a sickening swoop of his stomach that he was wearing nothing more than his briefs and dressing gown.

He ducked his head in shame as jeers and laughter echoed around the corridor, trying in vain to pull his gown closed with his free arm.

“Finally grown tired of your boy, Edwin?” a voice jeered.

“Let me have a crack at him,” said another. “I’ll fix his attitude right quick!”

They were nearly down the hall before Draco could draw enough breath to speak. “Ed—please,” he croaked, but it was useless.

Edwin dragged him down a flight of stairs, then another, then another. Draco realized with a fresh stab of horror that they were headed towards the cellar. He dug his heels in, struggling against Edwin’s grip on his wrist, but the sedatives had made him weak.

“No,” he begged. “No, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Edwin yanked open the door to the cellar—heavy oak with iron accents—and threw Draco down the stairs with force.

There was a terrifying, weightless moment before Draco landed heavily halfway down the stone steps, the breath knocked out of him once more. He brought his hands up to cover his head as he rolled down the rest of the steps, before finally coming to a stop on the freezing cold stone floor.

As Edwin’s boots sounded heavily on the steps behind him, Draco struggled to his elbows—and locked eyes with a familiar face.

It was Dean Thomas. His wrists were tied together with rope and secured to an iron ring on the floor, and he was peering at Draco, squinting in the sudden light from the open door. His hair was unkempt, his face covered in dried blood.

The last time they had locked eyes came back in a flash: Dean filthy and bloodied, flanked on either side by Snatchers, glaring at Draco with a mixture of loathing and disgust, and Lucius in his ear, asking for the boy’s name. Draco had identified him, not knowing whether he was condemning Dean to imprisonment or death or something even worse.

A second figure behind Dean slowly came into focus as Draco’s eyes adjusted to the dark. It was Luna—her long, bright blonde hair unmistakable, even as dirty and matted as it was. With them was also a goblin Draco didn’t recognize, but before he had time to comprehend what he was seeing, Edwin had reached him.

He knelt down and pulled Draco’s head up by his hair. Draco couldn’t help his quiet whimper. Edwin slapped him hard—first on one cheek, then the other. He leaned in and spoke softly into his ear, contempt dripping from his tone.

“I’ve been too indulgent with you,” he hissed. “My affection for you has made me weak. You’ve abused my leniency one too many times, and now you’ve gone too far.”

Draco tried to shake his head, but it only made the pain in his scalp worse, and Edwin wasn’t listening.

“This is what you want after all, isn’t it, kitten?” he asked, his voice mocking. “You want me to leave you down here, at the mercy of Greyback and the others. You play the blushing ingenue, but I know that’s an act. You’re a slut for it, aren’t you?” he leaned in closer, until his lips were practically touching Draco’s ear. “And you’re sick of me anyway. You think I don’t know that? You feel stifled. You want to be rid of me. Well—I’ve always given you what you wanted, pet, and this time won’t be the exception. You’re free of me. There. How’s that?”

Edwin stood, dragging Draco across the floor by his hair while Draco scrabbled against his arm, trying in vain to relieve the pressure on his scalp. He realized, with blinding terror, that Edwin was taking him towards an iron ring set into the floor.

“You and your school chums can catch up on old times,” he said nastily.

For a moment, Draco considered not struggling, wondered if anything would be better than being with Edwin—even being imprisoned with people who had every reason to hate him. But then he realized that without Edwin’s protection, he would be at Greyback’s mercy. He could come down here, and there would be no one to stop him from raping Draco for real this time. No Edwin, no Aunt Bella. Maybe he’d bring his whole pack, let all of them have a go at Draco one by one, before turning him, or clawing him to shreds as the grand finale. 

He'd thought that he was ready for death. He’d thought that it would be better than staying with Edwin. But he wasn't. He was a coward to his core, and he didn't want to die. Not like that, anyway. So as Edwin reached the iron ring, Draco broke.

“Please don’t,” he croaked, struggling to his knees. “Please, Edwin, I’m sorry.” Tears began rolling down his face. “I won’t defy you again, I swear. Just please—please don’t leave me here.”

Edwin’s face was an inscrutable mask, hidden in shadow. “How many chances have I given you, kitten?” he asked patiently. “I don’t believe you anymore.”

“I’ll do anything,” Draco said, squeezing his eyes shut, trying desperately to pretend that Dean and Luna weren’t just over his shoulder, witness to his humiliation—weren’t more than likely relishing in it.

“All I ask is obedience,” Edwin said, deathly calm. “All I ask is that you honor the vows you made to me.”

“I will,” Draco whispered, rising to his feet as Edwin reluctantly released his hair. He wrapped his arms around Edwin’s neck, desperately kissing his throat, his collarbone, his jaw. “I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll drink the tea. I’ll behave. I’ll be your good boy again, I promise.” 

Against his will, Draco met Dean’s eye across Edwin’s shoulder. Dean was staring at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. Draco felt anger coil in his belly. How dare a mudblood in a cage pity him?

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face into Edwin’s shoulder. He shivered and snuggled up to him, desperate, but Edwin grabbed Draco’s shoulders and held him at arm's length, regarding him sharply with his good eye. It wasn’t enough, Draco realized, his heart sinking. He had to do better if he wanted to get out of here. He needed to prove that he could be obedient. Coquettish. Sweet and pliable. Good. 

So he swallowed his shame and anger and tried to be what Edwin wanted him to be. He fluttered his eyelashes and shivered again, making a show of it this time. He tried to pull his dressing gown back over his exposed chest, and let it fall open again. He looked up at Edwin from under his eyelashes, pouted a little, and let his voice get high and breathy. "Please, Ed, it's cold."

Edwin sighed heavily, still staring at Draco, and Draco’s heart pounded in his throat. Finally, Edwin loosened his grip, gently rubbing his hands up and down Draco’s arms. He tied Draco’s dressing gown shut for him, cinching it tightly around his waist. “You’ve always been my weakness, pet,” he said, his voice almost regretful. “I’ve always gone against my better judgment for you. Damn me, but I’ll do it one last time. For you.”

He ran a finger down the side of Draco’s face, caressing his jaw. His coaxed Draco’s lips open with his thumb and shoved two gloved fingers in, fucking his throat for a few strokes. Draco let his eyes roll up into his head and released a breathy moan.

Draco was desperately relieved that it had worked, that he was going to survive, until Edwin began unbuckling his belt. He heard Luna gasp, and with a surge of nausea, remembered where he was.

Edwin pushed down on Draco’s head until he was back on his knees.

“Wait—” Draco breathed. “Just, please, not—” His eyes cut to Dean and Luna again. They were clutching each other now, Luna’s eyes wide and horrified. Dean’s mouth was set in a grimace as he tried to shield Luna’s view with his body. Edwin followed Draco’s gaze and laughed.

“Suddenly you’re shy?” he said nastily. “On account of a handful of mudbloods and halfbreeds?”

Draco stared at the floor, out of ideas, the ebbing adrenaline reminding him that every bone in his body ached. He was at Edwin’s mercy. There was an agonizing silence, but finally, Edwin buckled his belt again. Draco sagged against the flagstones with relief.

“Fine,” Edwin said. “I know better, but I’ll indulge you—if only for my own comfort.”

He helped Draco to his feet and led him up the stairs. Draco could feel Dean and Luna’s eyes on his back, and wanted to die. 

***

That night, Draco couldn’t sleep. He lay curled up in Edwin’s arms, face puffy from crying, arse burning and knees sore. He watched Edwin breathing, his handsome, aristocratic face deceptively angelic in sleep. The touch of his warm, large hands on Draco’s back made his skin crawl. He sank into a half-dream, half fantasy about climbing atop Edwin’s broad chest and wringing his neck; or plunging a knife into his heart and watching him come awake, bleeding and gasping, his face warped with horror and disbelief.

Slowly, slowly, Draco pulled free of Edwin’s arms, freezing every time Edwin so much as twitched a muscle. After an eternity, Draco slipped free of him and disentangled himself from the covers. He stood at the end of the bed, watching Edwin, his face like porcelain in the moonlight, until he was sure he had sunk back into a deep sleep.

He glanced at his wand on the bedside table, but quickly dismissed it. He had never been strong enough to cast an Unforgivable.

Draco padded silently to the little counter that ran behind the breakfast table, running his eyes past the teapot and teacups, the napkins, the butter and the jam, until finally they landed on the cutlery. The little teaspoons were nestled beside the soup spoons, which were catty corner to the forks.

But the knives—from the sharp steak knives all the way down to the innocuous butter knives—had been removed. Draco had no idea when; he hadn’t noticed their absence.

Edwin knew his mind better than he knew it himself.

Draco stood there for several minutes, letting a mixture of relief and crushing disappointment melt through his limbs, and then went back to bed.

He curled up on the mattress as far away from Edwin as he could manage, and rolled over to face the wall.

Chapter Text

Edwin went away again a few weeks before Easter. Draco didn’t bother asking where; he didn’t care anymore, and Edwin wouldn’t have told him anyway. The Dark Lord and most of the other Death Eaters went with him. It came as a relief. Draco could wake up every morning without Edwin’s arms around him like a vice, confident that a day free of pain and sex would follow. He luxuriated in his precious solitude. He ate when he wanted and bathed when he wanted and slept when he wanted, which was most of the time.

He was fatigued and ill from the bond sickness, and because Mipsy was drugging his morning tea in Edwin’s stead. Draco didn’t blame her. He knew how severe the consequences of disobeying Edwin were. He was desperately lonely, of course, but anything was better than the pain and the fear. He felt like a caged panther, no longer wishing for escape, having long forgotten what true freedom was. He was comfortable and safe in his enclosure, and that was enough. He wished it could stay like this forever.

But then Harry Potter came to the Manor.

On a frigid evening in March, Draco was reading by the fire when he heard a knock at the door. He sat up straight in his armchair, nausea crawling up his throat, his copy of Wide Sargasso Sea falling into his lap. Edwin wouldn’t knock. Was it Greyback? Or even Rodolphus or Dolohov, finally come to claim him in Edwin’s absence?

Relief seeped into his limbs when he heard a soft, feminine voice whisper, “Draco?”

It was his mother.

Draco leapt out of the chair and threw open the door, surprised to find that the wards allowed him to. He stopped short when he saw his father just behind Narcissa’s shoulder, staring resolutely at the carpet. Although he and his mother had snatched brief moments here and there when they could, he hadn’t so much as glimpsed his father in months. Had Lucius had the power to break the wards all along, as the rightful owner of the Manor? Draco tucked that thought away before he could inspect it too closely.

He pulled his ever-present dressing gown tightly over his chest, flushing with shame. He couldn’t imagine how disgraceful he must look in their eyes. His confinement had made him pale and weak, and he’d been too fatigued to bathe for many days.

“Mummy?” he whispered.

Narcissa took his hands, concerned eyes raking over his body. But then she squeezed them and met Draco’s eyes, putting on a brave smile. “I’m afraid you’ve been summoned, my dear. Aunt Bella has need of you.”

Draco’s stomach plunged, and it must have shown on his face because Narcissa said soothingly, “You’ve done nothing wrong. Don’t worry.”

Her assurance staved off panic, but trepidation remained. Draco gestured over his shoulder with his chin and said, “I need to—”

“Of course,” Narcissa replied. With a glance down either end of the hallway, she stepped over the threshold. Lucius, to Draco’s shock, followed after her. 

Draco pulled his clothes out of the wardrobe as quickly as he could, opting for the conservative black suit that would cover as much of his body of possible, all too aware of his parents standing awkwardly behind him, no doubt taking in the single bed, the divided wardrobe, the twin places at the breakfast table, and all the other signs of his cohabitation with Edwin. 

He took his clothes behind the folding screen and managed to pull on his trousers and shirt. But his hands were shaking too hard to do up any of the buttons. He must have been moving too slowly, because Narcissa called softly, “Are you all right back there, love?” 

Draco couldn’t answer, his throat closing up with shame. But he was grateful when Narcissa—efficiently and without embarrassment—came behind the screen and helped him do up his buttons and cufflinks and put on his jacket. She even tied his shoes for him, to Draco’s eternal mortification. His father was stiff and silent, refusing to look Draco in the eye. 

Silently, he followed his parents down the hallway. Towards the bottom of the first staircase, he stumbled on the stairs, pitching forward precariously, but Narcissa caught him by the arm before he fell. To Draco’s shock, his father reached forward and steadied his other arm, his hand warm and strong at Draco’s elbow.

Draco felt a prickle in the back of his eyes at his father’s touch, at the way his parents flanked him protectively, the way they had always used to. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed them—missed feeling precious, prized, loved. He had never questioned their love for him growing up, not for an instant, even when his father was disappointed in him. But of course, Edwin had taken that security away, the way he had taken everything else away, and replaced it with only himself. He let his parents support him all the way to the great hall. At the threshold, they silently drew away, and Draco was bereaved but grateful. He didn’t know what he was in for, but he knew it was crucial not to show any weakness.

There was a ragged assemblage of people in the great hall. Snatchers, he realized, bearing captives. They arrived from time to time, and Draco was often called upon to identify Hogwarts students and staff before they were carted off to the Ministry prison, the cellar below, or worse. It was just about the only thing he was good for in the war effort. It gave him no pleasure, but it was usually over quickly and relatively painless—at least for him. Draco realized—with a shiver of fear creeping up his back—that Greyback was among the Snatchers, leering at him.

His Aunt Bella turned, her eyes sparking with manic delight. “They say they’ve got Potter,” she said gleefully.

Draco, his heart pumping blood painfully hard through his limbs, gingerly approached the group, careful to keep his distance from Greyback.

The werewolf and his team of Snatchers flanked three painfully familiar figures: Weasley, red-headed and gangly as he’d always been, though considerably thinner and more ragged than Draco remembered; Granger, her hair wild and her face dreadfully pale; and a horribly misshapen person kneeling between them. The skin of the man’s face was swollen, pink, and painfully tight, his eyes nearly disappearing beneath the bulging folds of skin. He had jet black hair and was wearing round glasses and a dirty flannel. The face looked nothing like Potter, but Draco’s heart began to beat rapidly beneath his jacket all the same. Who else would be traveling with Weasley and Granger? Who else would wear those ridiculous glasses?

Bella grabbed the man by the hair and wrenched his head back, digging her wand into the side of his neck. He grunted softly, and Draco winced sympathetically, his scalp still sore from Edwin’s attentions.

“Well?” Bella asked, breathing hard.

"I can't be sure," Draco said faintly, cutting his eyes away. He couldn’t bear to look—couldn’t bear to see the man’s eyes turn cold with loathing when they met his.

Lucius approached Draco, and leaned in closely. His hot breath smelled of wine. Draco winced as Lucius wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “Draco,” he murmured into his ear, his voice gentle and entreating. “Look closely, son. If we are the ones to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiven.”

Lucius turned so that they were face to face, actually meeting Draco’s eyes. His pale blue eyes were sunken, desperate, almost mad-looking. For a brief moment, hot, bitter hurt stung behind Draco’s eyes. It was the first time his father had spoken to him or looked directly at him in a year.

“All will be as it was,” Lucius emphasized. “Do you understand?”

Draco swallowed and nodded. He allowed himself to imagine it, for a brief, shining moment: his family’s honor restored, his father tall and proud and scathing again, the worry lines on his mother’s face erased. With Harry in the Dark Lord’s clutches, maybe this awful war would finally be over, and his father could have his pride back, his wand back, maybe even his home back. If they delivered Potter to the Dark Lord, would his father have the power to release him from Edwin? Could Draco’s body, could his life be his own again? But then Draco swallowed, and once again, it was as if he could feel the pressure of the chain around his neck, although he knew that was impossible. The fantasy vanished almost as quickly as it was born. It was a lie. He knew that now. He was bound to Edwin for life, the Dark Lord did not forgive, and things could never again be how they were before.

"Now, we won't be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mr. Malfoy?" Greyback said menacingly.

Lucius’s face twisted with anger. Without removing his grip on Draco’s neck, he growled, his voice rising to a shout, “You dare speak to me like that in my own home?!”

Draco flinched away, and Narcissa stepped out of the shadows to guide Lucius back, whispering soothing words.

Bella ignored them, fixated on the man on the floor. She grabbed Draco by the hand and led him over to the kneeling figure. “Don’t be shy sweetie, come over,” she said in a sickly sweet voice. Like Lucius, she leaned in close, whispering in Draco’s ear. “Now, if this isn’t who we think it is, Draco, and we call him, he’ll kill us all. We need to be absolutely sure.” She pushed down on Draco’s shoulders until he and the captive were kneeling, eye to eye.

“What’s wrong with his face, anyway?” Bella asked the nearest Snatcher.

“He came to us like that,” he replied. “Something he picked up in the forest, I reckon.”

“Or he ran into a stinging jinx,” Bella muttered. 

Draco reluctantly dragged his gaze to the man’s face, unable to put it off any longer. Please don’t be him, please don’t be him. But when they locked eyes, Harry Potter was staring back. A shiver ran through Draco’s entire body. Even behind the swollen and puffy flesh, it was obvious. It was him. Of course it was him. Draco had known from the moment he had entered the room. He would know those bright, fierce green eyes anywhere, through any disguise, no matter how long they had been apart. He had been afraid to encounter hatred in Harry’s eyes, but as he studied them, he saw only terror and resignation—and somehow that was so much worse. It was as though Harry was absolutely certain that there was no hope for escape now, that in meeting Draco he had met his doom.

Draco felt as though the room were spinning around him. The omnipresent fatigue of his bond sickness had lifted, and for the first time in months, he was not only wide awake, but alert—electrified. The colors in the drab, dark hall looked brighter. The breath in his lungs felt ice cold. He wanted desperately to speak to Harry, but he couldn’t—and even if he could, he didn’t know what he would say. But he tried to speak with his eyes, to tell Harry that he—he didn’t know what. That he didn’t want to be here either. That he didn’t wish harm on him, not anymore. That he needed to be rescued too. In that moment, he wished more than anything that he could go back in time to when they were eleven, when they first met, so that he could be kinder, so that he could become Harry’s friend, make the right choices, choose the right side. Because Draco suddenly had the realization—clear as a bell—that though Harry was bloodied, terrified, and in the clutches of his worst enemies, he was in the right place, and Draco in the wrong one.

But there was nothing he could do. He had made his mistakes long ago, and he had to live with them now.

Well, that wasn’t quite true—there was one thing he could do.

Narcissa approached Draco and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Draco got to his feet, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Harry’s.

"I can’t be sure," he repeated firmly. He cut his eyes down to the floor and let his mother guide him to the fireplace, hoping that his face wouldn’t give him away. He’d always been such a bad liar.

He felt a rush of relief that Edwin wasn’t there. Edwin would have known. And Edwin might have killed him for looking at Harry the way he just did, might have killed them both, the Dark Lord’s wrath be damned.

What happened next happened very fast—one of the Snatchers was holding a sword, and then Aunt Bella was screaming, and suddenly the room was alight with red and green curses, rumbling with the force of them as Bella dueled Greyback and the Snatchers. To Draco’s shock, his father—still wandless—threw his body between Draco and Narcissa and the action. For a moment, Draco let himself relish in his father’s protection—let himself wonder why Lucius hadn’t thrown himself between Draco and Greyback, or Draco and Edwin all those months ago. He had missed his father, he realized—missed this version of him he remembered from childhood, fiercely protective and willing to stand between Draco and threats both large and small.

It was over quickly, and by the end of it, most of the Snatchers had been driven from the house, the ones remaining maimed or stunned on the marble floor. But Greyback had been spared, to Draco’s disappointment.

Aunt Bella ordered the werewolf to escort Harry and Ron down to the cellars, but to leave Hermione behind.

"Reckon she'll let me have a bit of the girl when she's finished with her?" Greyback crooned as he forced the boys along the corridor. "I'd say I'll get a bite or two, wouldn't you, ginger?"

Draco’s stomach turned over and he drew even closer behind his father as Bellatrix began to torture Hermione. Narcissa gripped his wrist so tightly it was painful, and he was grateful for the distraction. His father stood before them both. Draco tried to keep his eyes focused on his father’s broad shoulder, and when Bella wrenched a particularly agonized scream out of Granger, Draco pressed his forehead against it, gratified that Lucius didn’t move away or scold him. He tried to make his mind go somewhere else, where he couldn’t hear her sobbing and begging and Bella’s taunting and Weasley’s outraged screams from the cellars, but he was stuck in this moment, stuck in the hall, thick with the stink of fear and anguish.

Draco looked anywhere but at Hermione writhing on the floor, compulsively glancing at the doorway every minute, bracing himself for the moment when Greyback would return and do to her what he had tried to do to Draco.

Damn him, but he was a coward. He didn’t want to watch her die. He didn’t want Granger to die thinking he hated her for being a Mudblood. He didn’t want Weasley to die, either. And he especially didn’t want him to—

It had been bad enough when it was a woman he hardly knew. He didn’t know how he’d bear the slaughter of his classmates.

Just as Bellatrix offered Hermione up to Greyback, Harry and Ron burst into the room, jinxes flying, and Draco’s heart lifted.

But within a matter of moments, Bella had her knife to Hermione’s throat, and Harry and Ron were dropping their wands.

“Well, well, well, look who we have here,” Bella breathed. “It’s Harry Potter. He’s all bright and shiny and new again.”

Draco followed her eyes, and there he was—the swelling had melted away to reveal the Harry that he remembered, gaunter but just as powerful, green eyes blazing with righteous anger, chest heaving, hair wild. Against his will, a surge of elation rushed through his chest.

“Draco, pick up their wands!” Bella ordered, exhilarated, pressing her wand to her Dark Mark. “The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death approaches!"

Draco obeyed her and picked up the wands, and then it all happened very fast. There was a grinding noise, and then a terrible crash, and Draco thought the Dark Lord had come, that he had killed not only Harry Potter, but the rest of them too, in his exuberance.

Sharp pain tore through his cheeks, his chin, his forehead, and he doubled over, clutching his face, blood pouring out from between his fingers. He realized, dimly, that the Dark Lord wasn’t here yet after all—that the chandelier had fallen instead, shards of crystal exploding into every corner of the room.

The sound of running footsteps grew louder, before Draco could react, a hand was wresting the wands out of his grip, including his own. He blinked through the blood and realized it was Harry. He struggled for a moment, but his hand was slippery with blood, and Harry had always been stronger. Their eyes met again. Harry’s jaw was set, his face shining with bravery and determination. What am I fighting him for? Draco thought to himself. Deliberately, he slackened his grip on the wands, let Harry yank them out of his hand. As Harry bounded away, Draco wondered if Harry knew what he had done, or would even care if he did.

Take me with you! he wanted to call after him, but Draco stayed silent. He was too cowardly, too prideful. And deep down, he knew that he didn’t deserve to be rescued.

Draco watched with a grim thrill as Harry used the wands to stun Greyback, and then his mother was pulling him to the edge of the room, as far away from the fighting as she could get them. She brushed shards of crystal off of Draco’s shoulders, picked them out of his hair.

And then, there was a great pop, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione were gone. 

Their absence felt like the loss of Draco’s last hope, and he realized all at once what he had done. By refusing to identify Harry and delaying the Dark Lord’s arrival—by letting Harry escape with the wands—Draco had condemned not only himself, but his parents to a slow and painful death. He felt sick with terror and regret. His knees began to quiver as though his body could no longer hold itself up.

Suddenly, Lucius was lunging towards Draco, his eyes filled with rage, and Draco choked as he was pinned to the wall, his father’s cane across his neck.

“You fool!” Lucius bellowed. “You’ve condemned us all!” He looked stark raving mad, his eyes bloodshot, his teeth clenched.

Draco’s father had hit him before, struck him with his hand and his glove and his cane, but it had always been a measured, deliberate act of discipline. Draco had never seen him out of control like this, had never had his father raise a hand to him in anger when he wasn’t expecting it. For the first time in his life, Draco was afraid that his father meant him serious harm. He thought of Edwin, of his belt and the cellar, and he began to shake as blood dripped into his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, daddy,” Draco rasped, the pressure of the cane cutting off his air. “Please, I’m sorry.”

When Lucius met Draco’s terrified eyes, his expression crumpled. He dropped his cane and brushed Draco’s hair off his forehead, smearing the blood on his temples. He cupped his son’s face. Draco flinched weakly away.

“My boy,” he said in a tremulous voice. “My darling boy. I—”

In another moment, the lights dimmed and the room filled with black smoke. The Dark Lord had arrived.

Lucius pressed a kiss to Draco’s temple and turned to face the Dark Lord, Narcissa taking her place beside Draco.

When the Dark Lord realized that Potter had slipped through his fingers once again, he let loose a cry of rage. His slitted, blood-red eyes locked on Draco’s. Lucius threw his body in front of his son’s, but it wasn’t enough.

White hot pain erupted throughout Draco’s entire body, and it was all he knew for a long, long time.

***

When awareness finally returned to Draco, it was with great surprise, and no small measure of disappointment. A familiar set of arms was half-carrying, half-dragging him down the hallway. Draco groaned and let his chin fall back onto his chest, and Edwin gave him a final, particularly vicious yank through a doorway.

Draco crumpled onto the floor of their apartment, his nerves still alight and pain sparking through his limbs.

Edwin’s face came into view, his brow furrowed and his face thunderously angry. But he took Draco’s chin gently between his fingers, and healed the cuts on his face, and Draco allowed himself a brief moment of hope that Edwin’s anger was on his behalf.

That hope was shattered when Edwin—still holding his chin—slapped him hard on one cheek, then the other.

Draco’s eyes welled up, more out of hurt than pain. After the torture he’d endured, Edwin’s hands were barely a blip on the radar.

Edwin stood and began to stride back and forth across the room, his robes billowing behind him.

“My parents,” Draco croaked, his throat impossibly dry. “Are they—?”

“You think that matters now?” Edwin snarled. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he demanded, slamming his fist against the bedpost for emphasis. “Harry Potter was here, in this very house, and all you had to do, all you had to do was identify him, and summon the Dark Lord, and then this wretched war could be over at last, and you and your family be the heroes. But no—no—”

“I couldn’t be sure,” Draco whispered. “I didn’t mean—” 

Edwin whirled around and kicked Draco hard in the ribs. He crumpled to the floor with a whimper. Edwin bent down, grabbed a handful of his hair and hissed, “I don’t believe that for a second. Everyone else knew it was Potter, but you, who went to school with him for six fucking years, couldn’t be sure? No. You—you bitch. You filthy, traitorous slag—you only think with your hole, don’t you?”

He slammed Draco’s head against the floorboards and stood up, towering over him as Draco caught his breath and struggled to his knees.

“What did you think would happen?” Edwin asked mockingly. “Did you think that Harry Potter would thank you? That he would take you away like a knight in shining armor? Or worse—did you think he would fuck you? You’re an ever bigger fool than I thought if you believe Harry Potter wouldn’t slit your throat and rape your dead body the minute he got a chance.” He leaned down, grasped a handful of Draco’s hair and roared into his face, “This is war, why won’t that idea get through your thick head? You let your stupid, fucking childhood wet dreams ruin us all!” Edwin slammed Draco’s head into the wardrobe for emphasis, then continued his pacing.

“So what if I did?” Draco cried, his mouth overtaking his mind. A year of humiliation, fear, pain, and anger suddenly bubbled up inside of him, and he didn’t care what happened next. He just wanted it to be over—one way or another. 

“Because as far as I can recall,” Draco said, “Harry Potter never threatened to lock me up in a cellar. He never roped me into a lifelong fucking contract I knew nothing about. He never drugged me or choked me or whipped me or—or—”

“Or what, kitten?” Edwin hissed, leaning down again. “Fucked you when you were begging for it? Want to add that to the list of my crimes? You didn’t seem to mind all those nights when you were moaning and writhing beneath me like the slut you are.”

Draco could offer no response to that. It was true—but it felt unfair in a way he could never figure out how to express. Tears were spilling down his face now. He knew it was pathetic, but he couldn’t stop the flow of them. He struggled to his feet and backed away into the sitting room, Edwin matching him step for step.

“I was a virgin before I met you,” Draco retorted. “So if I’m a slut, it’s because you made me one!”

Edwin scoffed. “Don’t lie, Draco,” he said. “You were tainted and used up before I ever got to you.”

“No,” Draco protested. “That was—that wasn’t my choice,” he said weakly.

“As if anyone could rape you,” Edwin said nastily. “You’re always gagging for it, aren’t you, pet? I may have deflowered you, but it was Fenrir that filled you up first. You should feel lucky that we’re so uniquely suited for each other, otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered claiming you, damaged as you are.”

“You lied,” Draco said, through heaving sobs as his back hit the bookshelf. “You lied about everything. You said you would protect me. You said you loved me. You said I had nothing to be ashamed of, and that you’d give me the life I deserved, and that—that we—”

Edwin was smiling, shaking his head as he closed in on Draco like a predator. “Oh, Draco,” he said softly. “That was before you showed yourself for what you really are. Weak. Traitorous. Rebellious. Whorish. How could I have someone like that at my right hand? I gave you so many chances, and you rejected them all. You should be grateful that I even allow someone like you to warm my bed. You should be dead for what you’ve done. You should be kissing my feet for the mercy I’ve shown you.”

Draco lunged at Edwin with a cry of impotent rage, but Edwin caught him by the wrists easily, and in that moment Draco bitterly regretted allowing Harry to take his wand. He was utterly defenseless without it. Edwin kneed Draco in the stomach, still smiling, and Draco went down with an Oof, all the air leaving his lungs at once. 

Edwin climbed on top of Draco, knees on either side of his torso, and reached down to undo his own belt. “You always bring your suffering on yourself, kitten. Shut up and do what you do best and I’ll allow you to live.”

Panic greyed out the edges of Draco’s vision. As Edwin reached for him, Draco turned his head, pressing the side of his face into the floorboards. Edwin grabbed his jaw with strong fingers and squeezed, trying to force it open, but Draco kept his teeth clenched so tight he felt they would shatter.

“Stop—struggling,” Edwin hissed. He reached a thumb between Draco’s lips, and Draco resisted at first, but then thought the better of it. He let Edwin’s thumb in, then his first two fingers, and bit down as hard as he could until he tasted blood. Edwin yowled and wrenched his hand free.

“You feral little cocksucking faggot,” he snarled, cradling his bloody fingers.

Draco tried to twist his body up and away, but Edwin grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back down. He slammed Draco’s head against the floorboards, then slapped him across the face with his good hand.

“If you don’t struggle, it won’t have to hurt,” he said through clenched teeth.

But Draco was done believing his lies. He reared up and butted Edwin in the head, as hard as he could. Pain exploded in his skull and silver stars burst across his vision.

Edwin fell back, crying out in pain and surprise, and as he did his wand fell out of his sleeve and clattered across the floorboards.

Draco lunged for it. Edwin saw what he was up to too late; Draco was faster. Draco grabbed the wand, rose, and scrambled backwards until he was up against the opposite wall.

As Edwin struggled to his feet and slowly approached, Draco raised the wand, suddenly quite sure that all the hate inside of him would be enough to power fifty Unforgivables.

But Edwin only laughed. “Oh, kitten,” he said in a mocking tone. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t,” Draco said. He tried for cool confidence, but his voice was shaking.

“The reason is wrapped around your throat,” Edwin said, putting his good hand on the back of the armchair, panting with exertion.

“What do you mean?” Draco demanded.

“Have you so quickly forgotten the vows you made to me?” Edwin said with a smirk. “You pledged your honor, fealty, obedience—and your life.”

A horrible, sick feeling was crawling up Draco’s throat. The stars in his vision were sparking brighter than ever. His limbs felt like jelly.

“What does that fucking mean, Edwin?” he shouted, keeping the wand trained on him.

“Are you going to make me spell it out for you?” Edwin said. “I truly thought you were cleverer than that. But I guess you had me fooled.”

He took another step towards Draco, smiling now. “The moment I die—you die. Have you forgotten your own vows to me? ‘I, Draco Malfoy, swear my honor, fealty, obedience and life to Edwin Selwyn, as long as he shall live,’” he quoted. “It’s as long as I shall live. Not as long as you shall live. What did you think that meant, pet?” he asked, his tone a mockery of patience.

The wand in Draco’s hand was shaking. “You’re lying,” he said.

Edwin shrugged. “Believe me or not, it’s up to you. But any book on bond magic will tell you so. Ask the Dark Lord yourself, if you dare. But is an attempt on my life really worth the gamble?”

Draco put a hand to his throat, as though he could feel the silver chain that was tattooed there. His other arm began to slowly lower.

Edwin closed the gap between them and pulled the wand out of his grasp. Draco let it go without a fight. He slid down the wall, sinking to the floor.

Edwin crouched down, level with Draco, and leaned in close. He cupped a hand to Draco’s face and stroked his temple, a horrible parody of tenderness. “Don’t look so blue,” he said softly. “Without me, you’d be dead in no time anyway. This way, you don’t have to suffer before you go.”

“I hate you,” Draco said, putting his hands to his face as hot tears once more burned in his eyes.

“I don’t care,” Edwin hissed. “Hate me or not—you’re mine.”

“Why can’t you let me go?” Draco whispered. “Why won’t you just let me die?”

“Because, pet,” Edwin cooed. “You’re going to repay me for all the trouble you’ve caused today.”

Edwin fisted a hand in Draco’s hair and dragged him to the bed.

Draco didn’t struggle. He wished more than anything that he could have been brave enough to go with Harry.

Chapter Text

ACT III

PYLADES: I'll take care of you.

ORESTES: It's rotten work.

PYLADES: Not to me. Not if it's you.

—An Oresteia, (trans.) Anne Carson

Harry was floating in a goldfish bowl, and someone was tapping on the glass. He became aware that he was dreaming, and tried to swim away from the tapping finger, wanting to stay asleep a little longer, but the bowl was small, and there was nowhere to escape the noise.

He groaned awake. His neck ached. His breath smelled of cigarettes, and his head pounded. His legs were sore and tingly. He felt like absolute shit. Harry stretched, yawned, and looked down at his lap.

He realized with a swoop of his stomach why his thighs were so heavy.

Draco Malfoy was asleep on his lap, his pale face practically angelic in the morning light.

It all came back to Harry in a dizzying rush. Last night, he had soared over the rooftops of London with Draco clinging to his waist like his life depended on it, his chest warm against Harry’s back, his cold nose buried in Harry’s shoulder. Then, on the fire escape, they had kissed like they were Romeo and Juliet on the balcony, a miraculous, breathtaking, paradigm-shifting kiss. They’d even come close to something more—but in the end, they’d simply talked and smoked the night away, kissed the night away, and fallen asleep in each other’s arms. 

A part of him still couldn’t believe it. He was in Draco Malfoy’s apartment. He had spent the night. Draco’s gorgeous, precious head was resting in his lap like a gift.

But Harry was distracted by the continued tapping noise over his shoulder. Why hadn’t it faded away with the dream?

He craned his neck around and came face-to-face with a spotted little brown-and-white owl on the other side of the window. It was holding an envelope bearing the official Ministry seal in its beak.

“Shit,” Harry said.

He looked down at Draco. He was still sleeping, his skin nearly translucent in the morning light. Harry could even see tiny blue veins in his eyelids. There were dark bags under his eyes and his lips were full, and now, Harry knew, as soft as they—

TAP TAP TAP

“God!” Harry exclaimed. “I’m coming!”

He lifted Draco’s head as gently as he could manage and awkwardly wiggled out from underneath him, carefully wedging a pillow in his place.

He opened the window and the owl hopped inside. Harry tore open the letter with his thumb and quickly read the message within:

Auror Potter,

This letter is to inform you that it has been over 12 hours since your appointment with your parolee DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY and you have not communicated your status to your department head. Per article 3.a. in the field & street safety departmental handbook, reinforcements will be deployed to ensure your safety unless you respond to this message in the negative and report to your department head at once.

Sincerely,
First Secretary Maude McGovern
On behalf of the British Auror Office

“Shit, shit,” Harry muttered. “Got a quill?” he asked the owl. The owl raised its talon, to which a self-inking quill had been affixed.

Harry turned the parchment over and scribbled on the back.

All fine. Lost track of time, sorry, be in soon. 
—Harry 

He was distracted by a clatter and a hissing noise. Lady Di had hopped up onto the endtable, knocking the ashtray onto the floor. Her back was arched and her tail bushed and sticking straight up. The owl just blinked back at her coolly.

The commotion must have woken Draco as well. He was sitting up on the couch, his face puffy and clothes rumpled, gazing at the owl with a mixture of wonder and longing.

“An eagle owl,” he whispered. “Like Ulysses.”

Harry had forgotten the name of Draco’s owl—or had never known it in the first place. He was struck, once again, but how little he truly knew about Draco Malfoy.

He hurriedly attached the letter to the owl’s leg. It hopped back through the window and took off, Lady Di bounding onto the fire escape after it.

Harry turned back to Malfoy, who still looked half-asleep. It was so endearing it was like a pain in his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said. “I have to run. I forgot to update the ministry and it’s already—” He glanced at the stove clock. 10:43am. “Shit,” he said.

He didn’t want to leave Draco like this. He felt like a tosser, rushing off like it was the walk of shame after a hookup (Although isn’t that exactly what this was? he asked himself), but he had no choice. The last thing he wanted was aurors banging down the door of Draco’s apartment.

Draco blinked up at him. Harry was overwhelmed with an almost violent desire to tackle him back into the pillows, to kiss him so hard it hurt, to hug all of the air out of his lungs.

Instead, he cupped Draco’s face in his hands, and sort of—squished his cheeks up into his eyes.

Oh god. What had he done? Why was he so awkward??

Harry kissed Draco on the forehead, as if that would make it any less weird, and then crawled out the window, hopped onto his broom, and took off, scaring Lady Di back through the window as he did so.

***

Harry was red-faced and panting by the time he made it down all of the hallways and up the four floors to Kingsley’s office. Ramona in the foyer shot him a dirty look but didn’t stop him as he threw open the door.

“Sorry I didn’t check in,” Harry said, coming to a halt before the big teak desk and catching his breath. “I—er—forgot,” he explained, lamely. 

Kingsley cast Harry a hard look over his half moon glasses. “Is that right,” he said dryly. “That sounds like a problem for your department head.”

Harry threw himself in a chair and groaned. “But I hate Robards,” he said. “He sprouts mung beans in his desk drawer and he always has coffee breath.”

Kingsley took his glasses off and sighed heavily. “Harry, you do know you’re the only person in the Ministry who can get away with speaking to me like this?”

Harry shrugged moodily. He hated being reminded that he hadn’t earned his position at the Ministry. Sometimes he thought that Kingsley expedited his auror training after the war just so he could hold it over Harry’s head for the rest of his life.

“Robards was supposed to brief you on Selwyn this morning,” Kingsley said.

“Yeah, I, er, overslept and missed it,” Harry said. “Sorry.”

Kingsley just stared back at him, expressionless.

Heat started to creep up Harry’s neck. Did Kingsley know, just by looking at him? was his wild, paranoid thought. Did he have a hickey? Was his fly down? He tried to sneak a glance at his crotch. Kingsley’s eyebrows shot up and Harry’s face turned beet-red. 

“Look, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed, unable to bear the silence any longer. “Can you just brief me, since I’m here anyway?”

“For you, Harry,” Kingsley said in a tone of forced patience. “Anything for you.”

He pulled out a copy of Selwyn’s file, which Harry remembered guiltily he hadn’t read yet, and then a second file, this one bright red. Both files were quite slim.

“This is your classified mission dossier,” Kingsley emphasized, as though Harry had forgotten what the red folder indicated. “There are more details within, but the jist of it is this: in order to keep Selwyn behind bars, we need to dig up previously undiscovered evidence pertaining to his crimes in the war, evidence significant enough to delay his parole and initiate a retrial. Our best bet is the eyewitness testimony of Malfoy, whose close relationship with Selwyn during the war means he’s bound to have witnessed something we can use.

“The problem is, we can’t subpoena Malfoy and force him to testify unless we can convince the court that we have good reason to believe he has the information we want. And that’s where you come in. Malofy’s testimony at the time of Selwyn’s trial was useless—both because of his skill in evading truth serum and because we didn’t know the right questions to ask. Since that time, we’ve learned a lot more about Selwyn’s activities during the war. Here’s what he’s suspected of: firstly, slaughtering muggles in the Millenium Bridge terror attack.”

Kinglsey laid a brief sheet in front of Harry. A photo of the bridge twisting like a rope and then collapsing into the Thames stared up at him.

“Second, the murder of Colin Creevey in the Battle of Hogwarts.”

Kingsley laid a second brief down on the desk. A photograph of Colin Creevey was pinned to it. Colin was taking a photograph of the photographer with his enormous flashbulb camera and laughing. He was missing a tooth. The victims of the war looked younger to Harry with every passing year. It made him want to drink.

“And thirdly,” Kingsley finished, “the murder of two aurors as he was evading arrest.”

He laid two briefs with accompanying photographs down before Harry. With a guilty pang, Harry realized he didn’t recognize either of the slain aurors, although he’d already been working for the Ministry at the time of their death. It was during a mission he hadn’t been on, but he remembered the aftermath—and the funerals—quite vividly. Why couldn’t he remember their faces?

“Your job,” Kingsley explained, “Is to use your personal relationship with Malfoy to find out whether he was present for any of these events, either as a perpetrator or as a witness. Any information about Selwyn’s other associates and possible hideouts will be helpful too, in case they open up other fruitful angles for the prosecution. You don’t even need to unearth the details—a simple admission from Malfoy will be enough to subpoena.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Sir,” he said hesitantly. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“We don’t expect you to head up the case after such a long absence from fieldwork,” Kingsley said reassuringly. “You can leave that in Robards’ capable hands. All I need from you is enough information to justify subpoenaing Malfoy as a witness to one or more of these crimes.”

“No, it’s not that,” Harry said. “It’s—it just—it just feels wrong,” he finished, frustrated that he couldn’t articulate it better. “To befriend him and pump him for information on the sly. Can’t I just tell him what we’re trying to do?”

Kingsley was shaking his head before Harry had even finished the sentence. “We absolutely cannot risk that, Harry,” he said seriously. “If Malfoy were to send advance warning back to Selwyn or one of his associates, it could blow up the whole investigation. If Malfoy has time to prepare himself for court, he could evade truth serum that much more effectively, or even corroborate a false narrative with other witnesses. We need to preserve the element of surprise.” 

Harry couldn’t tell Kingsley half of what he was thinking—that he couldn’t betray Draco, not when he was only beginning to gain his trust, not when Draco had so clearly been hurt before. He couldn’t tell Kingsley that he wanted to shelter Draco from all of it, from probing aurors and painful memories and the grim-faced Wizengamot, to keep him safe in his cozy apartment with Lady Di forever. He couldn’t tell Kingsley that although he had no evidence whatsoever, he simply couldn’t believe that Draco had been party to any of those horrible crimes. So instead he crossed his arms and sank lower in his chair, aware that he looked childish and petulant.

“Look, Harry,” Kingsley said, leaning over his desk, hands folded earnestly. “I understand. This kind of work, it doesn’t feel brave and heroic. It’s not running around pointing your wand at the bad guys, like you’re used to doing. It’s boring, it’s a slog, and it can feel slimy and underhanded. But this is the hard, messy, unglamorous work that’s necessary in dispensing justice. Do you want Selwyn back on the streets? Free to slaughter more muggles, to spread his poisonous agenda and muster all the other Death Eaters who got off scot-free?”

Harry shook his head, chastened.

“It’s one small injustice in service of a much greater justice,” Kingsley said. “And I wouldn’t even call it that. If Malfoy’s testimony proves substantive, it might even earn him a shortened parole. Everybody wins. Can I count on you?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered, defeated.

“There’s a good boy,” Kingsley said, brightening up. “Now get out of my office before Ramona has a heart attack, I’m late for my next meeting.”

***

Harry white-knuckled his way through the rest of the day. He read the files three times each, trying to find something that he could use as a casual opening into a conversation with Draco, but he couldn’t focus. He kept flashing back to the feel of Draco’s arms around his waist, the sound of his laughter in his ear, the taste of whisky and cigarettes on his tongue. He found himself buoyed by the memories in spite of how chastened and childish Kingsley had made him feel, in spite of his deep unease about his mission. It was a heroic struggle not to hop on his broom and fly all the way back to Draco’s apartment, and he only restrained himself because he knew Draco would be at work already. But he felt like he would explode if he didn’t at least tell someone about it: and there was only one person he could tell.

After a grindingly slow six hours, Harry threw the files in his bag and took the Floo straight to Ron and Hermione’s.

The lights were off, but he could hear footsteps upstairs.

“Hello?” he called.

“Up here!” Hermione answered. “I’m in the library!”

Harry took the stairs two at a time and burst into the library. It was a cramped, round little room with built-in shelves and towering stacks of books on the floor, but it was cozy. Hermione had squeezed a squashy armchair and a rickety desk in, and she did much of her research and writing there. 

Hermione was on the stepstool, taking down a massive tome from a high shelf.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, turning.

Harry was grinning ear to ear. He knew he looked like an idiot, but he didn’t care.

“What?” she asked with a laugh, hopping off the step-stool.

“Draco–and-I-kissed,” he blurted out. “I mean, he kissed me first and then I kissed him back and then he—”

Hermione’s expression had turned from smiling to horrified. She put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Harry,” she said. “You didn’t.”

Hermione’s history with Draco came back to him all at once. The slurs—the punch—the buck teeth—that terrible, terrible day in the Manor. Harry deflated.

“Fuck, Hermione,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think how you would feel.”

“No, Harry, that’s not it,” Hermione said with a sigh. She placed the book on top of one of the precarious towers and crossed her arms. “Or—that’s not all of it.”

“Oh?” Harry said. Then his heart fell out the bottom of his stomach. “You don’t mean—”

“Oh, no, Harry, it’s not about you being gay either!” she said, holding up her hands placatingly.

“Then…”

“God, Harry, I love you but sometimes you’re the stupidest man on the planet,” Hermione exclaimed. “You’re his parole officer now! It’s completely inappropriate! The power imbalance is totally skewed, not to mention it’s against Ministry regulations.”

Harry stubbornly crossed his arms. Hermione seemed to be reading his mind, because she said, “I know you’ve never given a rip about the rules, but Harry, think this through—how do you think he’ll feel once he finds out that the Minister of Magic’s ordered you to pump him for information on the sly?”

“Oh my god,” Harry said, finally getting it. “I’m such an idiot. He’ll think I was manipulating him—that it wasn’t real.” 

He slumped down in the armchair and put his head in his hands. “Fuck, Hermione, what do I do?”

She perched on the armrest and rubbed his back sympathetically. “You have to end it,” she said. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“But I really, really like him, Hermione,” Harry said, horrified to hear a catch in his voice.

Hermione pulled him close and rested her cheek against the top of his head. She smelled like cinnamon and quill ink, and her Weasley sweater was warm but unbearably scratchy.

“I know, Harry. But it just isn’t the right time.”

“When is the right time?” Harry asked petulantly. “How long do we have to wait to be happy? I feel like I’ve been waiting since the end of the war.”

I feel like I’ve been waiting since I lived under the cupboard at the Dursleys, he wanted to say, but that thought felt too private for even Hermione to hear.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said with a sigh. “I just don’t know.”

***

After Harry left Hermione, he apparated into the little pen that held the dumpsters outside Draco’s apartment. He sprinted up the four flights to Draco’s doorway, and then stood there for a moment, hands on his knees, trying to get his breath back.

He knocked on the door and waited for several minutes, but no one answered.

The door behind him creaked open, and Dorothy peered in the hallway.

“If you are looking for Draco, he’s at work this time of night,” she said, giving Harry a skeptical once-over, her eyes lingering on the holes in the knees of his jeans. “He expecting you?”

“Er—no,” Harry said, feeling like an idiot. He just realized that he had no idea what Draco’s schedule was, or how he might feel about Harry turning up uninvited.

“I can pass a message along if you like,” Dorothy added.

“Thanks,” Harry said, suddenly realizing that he had no way of contacting Draco—he doubted he’d appreciate another owl tapping at his window in his muggle neighborhood. “Can you—can you just tell him not to worry about anything? That I’ll be back Wednesday and we can talk then?”

Dorothy gave him a curt nod and closed the door.

Harry heard the latch click.

***

Harry spent the whole week writing and deleting speeches in his head; trying to work out how to explain to Draco that he cared for him, that he wanted him so badly, but that it wasn’t the right time. How could he say that didn’t want to put Draco in a bad position, and that if Draco was willing to wait, Harry was willing to wait, too, without making it sound like Harry had any kind of claim over him? They’d only spent one night together, after all—what if it hadn’t meant to Draco what it had meant to Harry? What if it had been just a casual hookup to him, and Harry was being presumptuous? What if Draco wasn’t willing to wait, and Harry was about to throw away his once chance with Draco forever? What if they were never again able to recapture the magic they had shared on the fire escape? What if Draco found out about Selwyn’s case and never forgave him? Thoughts like that had Harry waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

But when Draco opened his apartment door on Wednesday at 4pm, and gave Harry a cold stare down the length of his nose that transported him all the way back to first year, every last thought flew out of Harry’s head like a great, honking flock of migrating geese.

“Er—” he said.

“Articulate as ever, Potter,” Draco said dryly, standing aside to let him in. 

Draco was dressed more casually than Harry had ever seen him, in black jeans, an oversized, slightly pilled grey sweater with a relaxed turtleneck, and sleeves that drowned his hands. His feet were bare.

“Did you get my message?”

Draco just folded his arms and stared coolly at Harry. “What message?”

“The one I left with Dorothy.”

“She just told me you’d be here today. Which I already knew, seeing as our little meetings are government-mandated. So.”

Harry felt his shoulders slumping. He’d been afraid of this. He knew he should have come earlier, but he hadn’t wanted Draco to feel hemmed in, with Harry turning up at all hours and banging on the door. But he should have known that leaving Draco alone too long with his thoughts—with his overactive mind—was sure to end badly.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier,” Harry said, following Draco to the living area. Draco flopped into an armchair and slung his feet over the armrest. He picked at a thread in his sweater, deliberately avoiding Harry’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to like, leaving you hanging the way I did, and I—"

“Potter. Don’t,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “Stop stammering and hedging like I’m a girl you ditched at the dance. I get it. You wanted to see what it was like, and so did I, so let’s just leave it at that. It was a one-time mistake. I know we’re not courting. I don’t expect anything from you, and I swear I’ll keep my mouth shut about Harry Potter’s scandalous gay dalliance, so can we just get on with the interrogation?”

“No,” Harry said, crestfallen, sinking into the couch. “It wasn’t a mistake,” he insisted. “I mean, it was, but not because—” Harry ran a hand through his hair, all of the arguments he had mustered melting away like sand through a sieve. “Draco, I’m your parole officer. I should never have kissed you like that.”

“I kissed you first,” Draco muttered, still avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“Okay, but I kissed back,” Harry said. “And I wanted to. And it was—god, it was—incredible.”

Draco blushed, very slightly, around his temples.

“But I have your freedom in my hands, and I shouldn’t have done it. I hope you don’t think that you have to do—that kind of thing to get a fair shake from me. I would never let our past get in the way of—”

“Wait, that’s what you’ve gotten yourself in a twist about?” Draco said incredulously, sitting up straight and planting his feet on the floor. “Bloody workplace ethics?”

“It’s not just that,” Harry insisted, feeling the balance of the conversation tip. This was not the reaction he’d been expecting. “There’s a power imbalance. It’s completely inappropriate!” He heard himself parroting Hermione, and hoped that Draco didn’t hear it too. “I’m an auror, your parole officer. You don’t even have a wand, and every time I see you I have to dose you with fucking truth serum!”

Draco was smiling now, like a cat who’d caught a mouse. He stood up and walked slowly over to Harry on the couch. He leaned over him, putting his arms on either side of Harry’s head.

Harry didn’t know what would be worse, staring at Draco’s crotch or his face, so he looked Draco square in the chest, and tried to keep his breathing even. He smelled like a fascinating blend of highbrow cologne and cheap laundry detergent.

“I see,” Draco said, fluttering his eyelashes. His voice turned sickly sweet, a parody of the fawning way he’d acted the previous week. “You’re the big, bad auror and I’m the helpless convict at your mercy. I couldn’t possibly be expected to make my own decisions in such a situation, could I? I’m practically obligated to fuck you, aren’t I?”

He knelt on the couch, his knees on either side of Harry’s lap, and leaned in, his breath ghosting against Harry’s neck.

“Lucky for you that’s what I’m into, then, isn’t it?” he purred into Harry’s ear.

“Draco—wait,” Harry said, his hands hovering awkwardly in front of him. This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. He pressed his body back into the couch, hoping to god that Draco couldn’t see his erection through his trousers.

“Oh, knock it off, Potter,” Draco said, sitting back and rolling his eyes again. “I know you like to think of yourself as some towering dispenser of justice, but honestly, I find you about as intimidating as a wet napkin.”

Harry didn’t know how to respond to that. He’d arrived at the apartment full of shame and regret and apologies, resolving not to let himself lose his head and take advantage of Draco again. But now everything had turned upside down, and all of Harry’s counterarguments were crumbling before his eyes, and he was so aroused he could hardly think.

Draco raked his eyes down Harry’s body, biting his lip. He slowly slipped a hand into Harry’s jacket, sliding his hand across his chest. Harry didn’t realize what he was after until he pulled out the little vial of veritaserum Harry kept in an inner pocket. He uncorked it and let a few drops fall onto his tongue, maintaining eye contact with Harry all the while.

“But if you’re so worried,” he whispered, leaning in, “I’ll make the playing field more even.”

He opened Harry’s mouth with his, and thrust his tongue in, and then Harry was tasting the peppery burst of the veritaserum and the hot, sweet, animal taste of Draco’s mouth. Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck and plunged his tongue even deeper, and Harry saw stars.

He buried his hands in Draco’s soft hair and pulled him closer, and when they finally pulled away, both panting, Draco wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smirked.

“Abstain if you want, Potter,” he said, dismounting and sinking onto the couch beside Harry. He pulled a crumpled packet from his pocket and retrieved a cigarette. He conjured a flame with a snap of his fingers and lit it, so casually and gracefully that Harry’s dick jumped.

“But don’t do it on my account,” he said, through a puff of smoke. He gave Harry a sardonic smile. “You couldn’t corrupt me if you tried. It’s far too late for that.” 

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say. So, as usual, he opted for the thickest possible answer. “I can’t remember the questions I’m supposed to ask you.”

Draco threw his head back and laughed, and Harry’s heart soared. He could count the number of times he’d seen Draco genuinely laugh, or even smile, on one hand. He wanted to make him laugh like that, unselfconsciously, again and again.

“God, how have you possibly managed to stay on the force this long?” Draco chuckled.

“I’m basically a mascot,” Harry replied, and there it was—the sweet, sleepy sense of his guard coming down, the desire to bare his heart and soul thrumming through his veins. The veritaserum was kicking in. “Nice to trot out on special occasions, but fundamentally useless. They wanted me on the force so badly after the war they let me into the auror academy even though I didn’t have the marks. I even got to skip most of the qualifying exams.”

Draco let out a noise of disgust. “Typical,” he scoffed. “Potter’s the exception to everything. Rules have never applied to you, have they?”

It sounded so much like the old Draco that Harry’s feelings were almost hurt, but then Draco flopped across the couch, his head on the opposite armrest, and shoved his feet into Harry’s lap.

Harry ran a finger up his long, bony arch, then retracted his hand just as quickly. “Oi!” he said. “Your feet are freezing!” 

“Warm them up, then,” Draco said cheekily, wiggling his toes and taking another drag of his cigarette.

Harry shook his head, but put a hand around the pale, slender arch of Draco’s foot, running a thumb up and down his soft skin. Draco’s leg jerked a bit, and Harry looked at him questioningly.

“Ticklish,” he admitted. “Don’t take advantage.”

“That depends on if you behave,” Harry joked, shocked by his own boldness, and enjoyed the answering flush that bloomed on Draco’s temples.

“Why don’t we just play twenty questions, then?” Draco asked, clearly deflecting. “But since you’re so concerned about fairness, I get to ask you every other question.”

“I don’t think that’s how that game works,” Harry said. 

Draco shrugged and blew a puff of smoke up at the ceiling.

“Have-you-really-liked-me-since-third-year?” Harry blurted out.

Draco burst into peals of laughter again, so violently that cigarette ash fell onto his sweater. “Please tell me some poor sod at the ministry is going to have to read these interview transcripts. Have you been stewing over that all week?” he asked, brushing the ash off his sweater.

“Yes,” Harry said, honestly.

Draco took another drag, considering how to respond. “I didn’t like you, exactly,” he finally said. “We were rivals. I was so jealous of you—your fame, your popularity, your talent, the loyalty you inspired. But I thought you were proper fit, with your wild hair and your green eyes and—stop that!”

Draco kicked him, and Harry realized he was grinning.

“I hated myself for being attracted to you, so I turned that hatred back onto you,” Draco said, sobering up. “I thought if I hated you hard enough, if I was nasty enough, the feelings would go away. Fake it ’till you make it, as they say. But they didn’t. My turn,” Draco said abruptly, stubbing out his cigarette on the coffee table ashtray. “So what triggered your gay crisis? How long have you known?”

Harry thought for a moment, gently kneading Draco’s foot, strangely gratified whenever Draco twitched or jerked beneath his touch. “There’s some stuff from my childhood that makes more sense, now that I think about it,” Harry. “How I never really felt right with girls. My first kiss was awful. And I used to get—y’know—boners in the Quidditch pitch locker rooms, and I never knew why.”

Draco snorted. “Been there,” he quipped.

“But I didn’t really put it together until I saw you again, outside the Gentleman’s Club,” Harry said.

There was a sudden, deathly silence. When Harry looked over, Draco had gone pale and still.

“Draco?” he asked, alarmed.

Draco yanked his feet away and sat up, looking horrified.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, desperately. “You can’t put that on me!”

Harry was lost. “What?” he asked. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I can’t be held responsible for turning the fucking Chosen One gay!” Draco said somewhat hysterically.

“You didn’t ‘turn me’ anything,” Harry said irritably. No one had dared call him the Chosen One to his face in many years, and it instantly got his back up.

“But it’s all wrong,” Draco said miserably. “You’re not supposed to be gay.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Harry demanded, outraged. He shot to his feet, his hands curling into fists. Talking to Draco was like being in a dunk tank. One minute they were laughing and snuggling and getting along, and the next he was plunged into icy cold water, and it was second year again, and they were at each other’s throats.

“I mean it’s all wrong,” Draco insisted. “You’re Gryffindor, I’m Slytherin. You’re brave, I’m cowardly. I’m a queer, and you’re—normal,” he finished.

“I think I’ve had enough of people telling me what I’m supposed to be for one lifetime, thanks,” Harry said, acidly.

“You don’t get it,” Draco said, clearly frustrated.

“Clearly, I don’t,” Harry snapped.

“It’s not like being sorted into a House,” Draco insisted, almost angry, now. “It’s not a membership badge. It’s a fucking—target on your back. Potter. Do you have any idea what your life is going to be like once people find out?” He leaned forward, trying to meet Harry’s eyes, and Harry saw frightened sincerity in them. It was so out of character for Draco it extinguished all the anger in Harry like a candle being snuffed.

“I guess I hadn’t really thought about it,” Harry mumbled. He sank back onto the couch.

“’Course not,” Draco said with a huff of disgust. But now Harry could hear his tone for what it was—an act, an ironic layer over a very real fear. “You just blundered in.”

“I am a Gryffindor,” Harry said lightly, trying to salvage the mood.

“All I’m trying to say, Harry,” Draco said, his expression painfully earnest once again, “Is that—if you can live a normal life—do it. I would in a heartbeat if I could. This lifestyle—it’s hard. It’s painful. It’s dangerous. Just—think it through, okay? Don’t charge in recklessly like you always do. You like girls, too, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I mean—I liked Ginny, as a person. I thought she was beautiful and brave and smart and funny. But I didn’t—feel the way that she felt, about me. That—that spark, or attraction. I didn’t even realize what I was supposed to feel, and that it was missing, until—” 

He glanced at Draco, whose expression had softened.

“I’m not ruling it out, that I could feel—the right way—with another girl. A different girl,” Harry said. “But I don’t want that. I want—” You, he wanted to say. 

Draco was looking at him with an expression Harry couldn’t decipher. “Alright,” he finally said, trying for a playful smile, but there was something shuttered in his eyes. “You can use me for now. I’m discreet. And rather a good lay, or so I’ve been told. But one day you’ll find your hero’s happy ending.”

Harry didn’t say anything. What he wanted to say was, I want you to be my happy ending. But that would be an absolutely barking mad thing to say.

Besides, he’d come here to end things with Draco, not make declarations of love. Why did he keep forgetting that? 

“My turn,” he said instead. “Why did you get your lip pierced?”

Draco snorted. “Really?” he said. “Out of all possibilities, that’s the question you’re burning to ask?” He lay back down, nudging his toe against Harry’s thigh. Harry pulled his feet back into his lap and squeezed them, grateful for the truce.

“I suppose I wanted to do something that would make my father furious,” Draco drawled.

“Does he know?” Harry asked. “About—you know.”

Draco’s mouth twisted. “In a way. He’s suspected since I was little. I always found it—challenging. To hide. But if you’re asking if he knows I slut it up at Muggle clubs, the answer is no.” He smiled sardonically at Harry. “I suppose the lip ring is my way of saying without saying.”

“Do you visit him? In Azkaban?”

“Not your turn,” Draco reminded him. He took a deep breath, and asked, “Why did you come back for me? In the Fiendfyre.”

“What the hell kind of a question is that?” Harry said, offended.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Spare me the heroics, Potter. It was a war and I was your enemy.”

“Yeah, but—you were different. You were a teenager,” Harry said.

“I was a Death Eater.”

“Still,” Harry said stubbornly. “I didn’t want you to fucking—burn to death!”

“But it was okay if Crabbe died.” Draco shot Harry an unreadable look out the corner of his eyes.

“No, it wasn’t okay!” Harry said. “I looked for him, but I couldn’t—I’m sorry,” he breathed. Harry tried not to think about the Fiendfyre often: the unbearable heat, the smoke in his lungs, the sinking in his gut as he searched fruitlessly for Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle amid the flames. The panic as Malfoy’s sweaty hand slipped out of his grip. Malfoy’s arms so tight around his waist that Harry could scarcely breathe.

“Don’t apologize, Potter,” Draco mumbled, fiddling with his sweater cuffs.

“What about you?” Harry asked. “Why did you tell the others not to kill me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter,” Draco said, but there was no heat in it. “It was self-preservation more than anything else.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were the only hope of defeating the—him. And I don’t think I’d have…lasted much longer. If he’d won.”

Harry opened his mouth, but Draco kicked him. “Not your turn,” he said. “And I don’t want to talk about the war.”

“You brought it up!” Harry accused.

Draco kicked Harry again.

Harry grabbed Draco’s ankles and yanked him down the couch.

“Oi!” Draco said, laughing and trying to pull his legs away.

When they had settled down, Harry said, “I don’t understand. You were on Voldemort’s side—” he ignored Draco’s shudder at the name— “So why wouldn’t you—”

Draco abruptly launched himself into Harry’s lap, yanked him forward by the collar, and kissed him.

When he pulled away, he said, “I don’t—want to talk—about the war,” punctuating every phrase with a kiss on Harry’s neck.

“Is this your way of evading difficult conversations?” Harry asked, breathless.

“Yes,” Draco whispered. “Sometimes.” 

Harry’s body was suddenly hot and tight with the need to feel Draco’s skin against his. He tugged at the bottom of Draco’s sweater, and Draco obligingly raised his arms, letting Harry pull his sweater and shirt off together.

Harry ran his hands down Draco’s shoulders, so much broader and more muscled than he remembered them being. Draco was unbuttoning Harry’s shirt and kissing each patch of skin that he exposed. Harry ran his hands down Draco’s chest—and then froze. The smooth expanse of Draco’s skin had turned bumpy and knotted beneath his touch.

He pulled away, holding Draco back by his biceps, staring at his chest in horror. It was covered with dozens of thin, pin-straight, intersecting scars. They were slightly raised, and so faded they were almost white.

The horrible scene in the bathroom came back to him so vividly it was like Harry had been thrust into a Pensieve: the splashing of the burst pipes, Moaning Myrtle’s piercing screams, and Draco, blood spurting from his chest and his face, twitching on the damp floor like a dying fish, his blood staining the water. The numbness in Harry’s limbs as he knelt beside Draco, who whimpered and twitched away from him. Harry’s hands hovering uselessly above him, wishing more desperately than he ever had for a Time-Turner, for the ability to take the previous ten seconds back.

“What—what the fuck,” Harry breathed, unable to hear his eyes away from the horrible marks. “I thought you didn’t scar. I thought Snape—” 

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s rude to stare, Potter?” Draco snapped, standing and snatching up his clothes.

“But—there aren’t any on your face,” Harry said.

“Yes, well, Snape figured it’d be worse for my face to be deformed, so he dealt with that first,” Draco said savagely, yanking his sweater back on. “Pomfrey didn’t have enough Dittany for the rest of me in time.”

“I’m so—” 

Draco whirled around. “If you apologize I’m going to hex—I’m going to toss you out the fucking window,” he snarled. “What did I tell you about elephants? It’s your own goddamn handiwork, so wipe that idiotic look of surprise off your face.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” Draco hissed.

Harry felt sick. He wanted to wrap Draco in his arms and never let go, but he was also so ashamed that he wanted to sink into the floor. He couldn’t look him in the eye.

“I should go,” Harry said numbly, picking up his bag.

Draco just stood there, arms crossed, cheeks bright red, glaring at the ground. 

Harry took a step towards him, but Draco stepped back. It was killing Harry not to be able to apologize properly, to touch him, to coax looseness and tenderness back into his body, to make him smile the way he had just minutes ago.

“Same time next week?” he added, desperate to hear Draco confirm that this wasn’t the end—that whatever fragile thing they had wasn’t over as soon as it had begun.

Draco just looked away.

Harry couldn’t say he was sorry, so he didn’t say anything as he walked out the door, leaving Draco standing alone in the middle of the living room.

***

After he got home, Harry shut himself in the upstairs sitting room at Grimmauld Place and went on the worst binge he’d had in years. He sat in front of fire with a case of Firewhiskey that he’d asked Kreacher to procure, determined to drink himself into oblivion.

He considered Floo-calling Ron and Hermione—he’d promised them he would the next time things got really bad—but he couldn’t face it. He was too ashamed. He couldn’t admit to Hermione that he’d failed, once again, to keep a professional distance from Draco. And the sectumsempra scars were worse—so much worse. Draco had mentioned the scars before, but Harry hadn’t imagined that they would be so horrifically violent and numerous. He felt like a monster. He was a monster. He’d mutilated Draco, and hadn’t given so much as a thought to what he’d done in years—to the scars, to Draco’s terror and anguish, to how close he had come to death. And for what? Because Harry couldn’t leave him alone, even at his most vulnerable? How was his current fixation with him any different? It was going to end in heartbreak, or worse. It had to.

Harry didn’t leave the house except to go into the office all week, showing up late and spending his days with the office door shut, trying to conceal his drunkenness. He couldn’t concentrate on the investigation. His heart wasn’t in it. It made him feel doubly vile to know that he was deceiving Draco on top of everything he’d already done to him.

He was forced to face, more potently than he had since the end of the war, the fundamental truth of his life: that he destroyed everything he touched. The best thing—the only thing he could do for a person he loved—was to leave them alone.

Chapter Text

When Wednesday came around again, for the first time since they’d reconnected, Harry was dreading seeing Draco again. How could he look him in the eye knowing what he’d done to him in the sixth-floor bathroom all those years ago? Knowing what he was still doing to him as a parole officer and intelligence agent for Kingsley? Although Harry knew he deserved it, he didn’t think he’d be able to bear Draco’s coldness and rejection, not now, not again, when they’d come so far. But Harry had ruined it, the way he ruined everything, and Draco had retreated back behind his fortress walls. And now that Harry knew what Draco’s smile looked like, how his genuine laugh sounded, how warm his lips and hands were, he’d be painfully aware of everything he was missing.  

He knocked quietly on the door to Draco’s flat, hoping that Dorothy wouldn’t hear him and poke her head into the hallway. He had a hunch she was the type of person who could read the guilt on his face.

There was no answer, so Harry knocked again, more loudly. 

“Draco?” he called.

There was no reply, except for a scraping sound, and a thump, as if someone was moving furniture.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Draco? You alright in there?” he called a little louder.

There was a muffled curse, and the sound of rapid footsteps, and then Draco threw open the door.

His hair was disheveled, and not in the artful way it usually was. His eyes were red-rimmed and his sweater looked like it was covered in dust. Harry peered around him into the apartment, worried that someone else was there.

“You alright, Draco?” he asked.

Draco’s lip curled, and he looked as though he were preparing a standard Malfoy comeback, but then, all at once, his expression sagged. He swallowed thickly. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked anxiously, stepping towards Draco, wanting so badly to touch him reassuringly but not daring to.

“It’s Lady Di,” Draco said, his voice wobbly. “She hasn’t drank or eaten in two days. I can’t get her to come out from under the couch. I don’t know what to do. I can’t help her without magic.”

“Okay,” Harry said, trying to protect calm and assurance through his tone. “Okay. Can you show me?”

Draco led Harry over to the couch, which was angled sharply away from the wall. Harry knelt down, flipped up the couch skirt and peered beneath. All he could see of Lady Di were her round, glowing eyes in the far back corner.

Harry sat up on his knees and looked at Draco. “Do you know what’s wrong with her? Like, was she injured, or anything? Any other unusual behavior?”

Draco shook his head, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. “She was normal, and then all of a sudden she wasn’t. No injury that I can see. She’s been really lethargic, too, and hisses when I try to pick her up. I mean, not that she normally doesn’t but—she’s in pain. I can tell.” 

“Alright,” Harry said, briskly. He could feel himself snapping in action mode. Finally, he thought, a problem of Draco’s that he could actually help solve. “I’m shite at healing spells, ’specially on animals, and since we don’t know what’s wrong I wouldn’t even know where to start. I think we should take her to a veterinarian.”

“I can’t,” Draco said in a clipped voice.

“Why not?” Harry asked, struggling to his feet.

“I haven’t the money,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “I already called them for an estimate.”

“Draco—don’t worry about it,” Harry said.

“How can you possibly expect me not to—” Draco snapped.

“No,” Harry cut in. “I mean I’ll pay for it. Please let me.”

Draco looked down at his shoes, clearly wrestling between his concern for Lady Di and his pride. “I’ll pay you back,” he finally murmured.

Harry waved it off. “Don’t bother. I have a mountain of gold just gathering dust in a Gringotts vault.”

Draco gave him a nasty look. Harry’s cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. He changed the subject. “Do you have a carrier?” he asked.

Draco dragged a pet taxi out from under his bed. It was actually painted like a yellow taxicab, with wheels and windows and everything.

“Cute,” Harry said.

Draco rolled his eyes. “It belonged to her previous owner. Now if you move the couch, I’ll try to grab her. She’s going to scratch, so let me just get the oven mitts—”

“Levicorpus,” Harry said, pointing his wand at the couch. Lady Di floated out from beneath it and hovered in the air in front of them, twisting and yowling. With a sweep of his wand, he sent her flying into the pet taxi. The gate closed behind her with a click.

He looked over at Draco, who was staring at him with a mixture of amazement and fury.

“We should probably take a cab,” Harry said, before Draco could say something cutting. “I don’t think she’d like my broom or apparition much.”

Draco drew himself up straight and nodded, as if he’d decided that all of this was his idea. He lifted up the pet taxi and swept out of the apartment without another word to Harry.

In the cab, Draco stuck his fingers through the grate and whispered softly to Lady Di as she sniffed his fingertips. “We’re going to see the kitty doctor, and she’ll find out what’s wrong and she’ll make you feel better. Alright? We’ll be there soon, love. Just hang on.”

Absurdly, Harry felt his throat closing up. He looked out the window at the traffic and swallowed hard until the feeling passed.

When they arrived at the cramped, shabby little veterinarian’s office, the vet techs whisked the carrier into the back and instructed Harry and Draco to have a seat in the waiting area.

Draco crossed his arms and pointedly looked out the window, away from Harry. Harry wanted desperately to talk about what had happened between them the previous week, but he knew that if he tried Draco would bite his head off. It wasn’t a good time.

Instead, he said, “How long have you had Lady Di?”

Draco shifted in his seat, clearly trying to decide whether to talk to him or not. “About a year,” he finally said. “But I’ve known her for longer. Her last owner was my neighbor, an older woman. Maggie. Lady Di used to come in through my window and visit, sometimes. Her name was Princess Fluffykins then. Which I hated, obviously. But I liked her. Then when Maggie died, I adopted her. Or rather, she adopted me. She just started showing up every night, and that was that.”

“You seem to really care for her.”

“Shocked, are you?” Draco snapped. “That the—” he looked around, to make sure they couldn’t be overheard, and then hissed, “that the Death Eater is capable of human emotion? That I haven’t turned the cat into a bloody rug yet?”

“No, no, that’s not what I—” Harry protested desperately, holding his hands up in front of him in a gesture of surrender.

Draco waved off Harry’s denial before he could even finish it. He tipped his head back against the plastic chair and rubbed his hands up and down his face. “Forget it,” he said, sniffling. “I’m just—I’m just really worried about her.”

“I know,” Harry whispered. He gently touched Draco’s shoulder, and when he didn’t recoil, squeezed it.

It wasn’t much longer before the vet came out with the diagnosis: Lady Di had two rotten teeth that needed pulling. She was to be kept overnight for the surgery but was very likely to make a full recovery. Harry put his muggle card on file with the vet and they took a cab back to Draco’s apartment.

“I really am—grateful, Potter,” Draco said in the cab, sounding as if it pained him to say it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said. “I’m glad she’s going to be okay.”

They lapsed into silence for a while. The ice between them had thawed, a bit, but Draco still had his walls up. Harry was afraid that if he didn’t take his chance now, the mortar between the bricks would harden and he wouldn’t get another one.

“About last week—”

“Potter—”

“No, just listen,” Harry insisted, “And then we never have to talk about it again. I’m sorry I freaked out, when I saw—when I saw them. I was just—caught off guard. And I panicked and shut down and left you with all of that, which I shouldn’t have done. And I shouldn’t have done what I did in the first place, which I know I’ve said already, but I’ll say it as many times as—”

“I get it, Potter,” Draco said tiredly. He looked down at his lap, fiddling with a ring on his finger, clearly thinking something through. “It just—doesn’t seem fair. For you to think them ugly, when you made me that way.”

“Oh my god,” Harry breathed, his stomach plunging. He turned in his seat to fully face Draco. “Is that what you think? No, Draco, no no no—” He took Draco’s hands in both of his own and squeezed them, and Draco, miraculously, let him.

“You’re beautiful. Nothing could ever change that. It’s just that, when I saw them, I was so, so ashamed that I’d never given a thought to your scars when you have to live with them every day. I was so ashamed of what I’d done. And you can ask me again on veritaserum if you want, and I’ll tell you that you’re beautiful to me, every time.”

The tip of Draco’s nose had turned pink. He was looking down at their clasped hands. “You can’t feel ashamed every time you look at my body,” he whispered. “Or this isn’t going to work.”

Beneath all of his guilt and shame, Harry felt a rush of euphoria. This, this, this—the word echoed in his mind. It was an acknowledgement that there was something between them still, something that could maybe be salvaged. And forget Hermione, forget Kingsley, forget all of them. No matter how foolish it might be, Harry knew in his bones that there was no staying away from Draco. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t strong enough. But he would do everything in his power to do right by him.

“I want this to work,” Harry breathed, squeezing Draco’s hands. “I can’t promise that I won’t—hate myself, when I think about it, but I won’t put those feelings on you again. I promise.”

The taxi pulled into the alley beside Draco’s building.

“Want to come in for a cuppa?” Draco asked, finally looking cautiously up at Harry. 

***

Draco made himself and Harry a pot of tea and served it at the kitchen table in teacups that were a bit chipped and worse for the wear, but which he proudly proclaimed were genuine, English-made bone china.

Harry was starting to feel nauseous and sweaty from the comedown—he hadn’t had a drink since a shot he took at breakfast that morning. He took a flask from his jacket and splashed a bit of whisky into his teacup, earning a raised eyebrow from Draco, but he refrained from commenting, to Harry’s eternal gratitude. 

They finished the pot in a companionable silence. “I notice you didn’t dose my cup,” Draco finally said. “Are you going to interrogate me? Or can you still not remember the questions you’re supposed to ask?” A teasing smile played on his lips.

“Let’s not and say we did,” Harry said, and Draco grinned at that. “Are you hungry?”

“I have leftovers,” Draco said slowly, his face falling, glancing towards the fridge. “I’m afraid I don’t have any—”

“I’m ordering Indian,” Harry cut in. “And I’m paying. Do you like Indian?”

Draco hesitated, then nodded.

“I’ll order for us, then,” Harry said.

He ordered a feast, knowing that Draco could keep the leftovers: curry, biryani, vindaloo, korma, naan, samosas, and kebabs, with plenty of raita, chutney, and achar on the side. 

Draco ate elegantly as he always had. He sat up straight, chewed each bite thoroughly, and used utensils even for the samosas and kebabs. But Harry noticed how much he packed away, and how his ears turned red when he dug into a portion of the vindaloo.

“I can’t tolerate spice very well,” Draco admitted. “But I do enjoy it.”

“Did you have cats before Lady Di?” Harry asked between bites of kebab.

“Not officially,” Draco said. “Father didn’t like animals in the house. But when I was little there was a barn cat in the stables I grew fond of, and when she got pregnant, I smuggled her into my closet. She gave birth on my good robes. Father was furious. Mipsy and Dobby—” he looked up at Harry cautiously, realizing he had intruded on a sensitive topic, but Harry nodded at him to continue. “They took the mother and the kittens into the kitchens, and sheltered them until they were big enough to go back outside.”

Harry smiled. It throbbed something in his chest to think of Draco and Dobby sharing a pleasant experience together.

“What about you?” Draco asked Harry.

“No pets for me,” Harry said. “My aunt and uncle would never have let me. Hedwig was my first. And last, I suppose.”

“You never got another owl?” Draco asked softly.

Harry shook his head, suddenly not trusting himself to speak.

“I lost my Ulysses in fifth year,” Draco said after a long, heavy moment. “I never got another one, either. He wasn’t replaceable, and by that time I was too distracted anyhow, by—everything.” His bottom lip started to quiver.

Draco put his utensils down and covered his eyes. “What if Lady Di doesn’t wake up,” he said tremulously. “She’s not a young cat, and something could go wrong, and—I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, wiping his eyes savagely. “I hate how easily I cry. I can never control myself. Father hated it, too. It makes everything worse.”

Harry reached beneath the table and put a hand on Draco’s knee, rubbing his thumb back and forth, trying to think of something comforting to say. “I can’t cry,” he blurted out. “I think I’m too dead inside. I just get mad and drink.”

Draco burst out laughing, doubled over with his hands still on his face. Harry laughed along with him, and it only made Draco cry harder, even as he laughed uncontrollably.

He finally sat up and wiped his face. “I’m sorry, Potter,” he said, still chuckling. “It’s not funny.”

“That’s alright,” Harry said, smiling too.

Draco eventually stood to pack away the leftovers, and Harry hovered awkwardly in the kitchen, dreading going home alone to his dark, empty house and the half-empty case of Firewhisky that awaited him. 

“Can I stay the night?” he blurted out.

Draco gave Harry a sidelong look as he closed the fridge. “I’m not exactly in the mood, Potter,” he said cautiously.

“No, god, we don’t have to do anything,” Harry clarified quickly. “I just don’t want to leave you alone like this. We can go pick up Lady Di first thing in the morning. And honestly, if I go home I’ll just keep drinking.”

“Alright,” Draco said after a moment. “But if you have another meltdown over my scars—or ask a single question about anything that’s on my body, period—I’ll smother you with a pillow.”

“Deal,” Harry said eagerly. 

It was awkward, at first—changing in the bathroom and using Draco’s spare toothbrush, trying to decide how undressed to get for bed. He settled on a T-shirt and boxers and then waited under the sheets for Draco while he washed his face.

Draco padded out of the bathroom in a matching silk pajama set. He slid under the sheets and cuddled up against Harry, head on his shoulder and Harry’s arm around him, as naturally as if they did this every night.

Harry slid his other hand up Draco’s shirt—slowly—giving him a chance to object if he wanted to—and ran his thumb across Draco’s scars, trying to telegraph his thoughts into Draco’s mind: beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Draco shivered a bit and exhaled shakily, his breath ghosting across Harry’s chest. He nuzzled his cold nose into Harry’s neck and Harry squeezed him even tighter. He felt as giddy as if they were back on his Firebolt together, soaring above the twinkling lights of London, the rest of the world having fallen away beneath them. This was the only thing that mattered.

He struggled to stay awake, wanting to preserve this golden moment as long as possible, but within minutes he had slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Chapter Text

Harry was deliciously, deliriously hard. He wrapped his arms tight around the body in his bed and rocked his dick back and forth on the firm backside pressed against him. It was a wonderful dream. He deliberately kept his mind blank, wanting to stay asleep for as long as possible, but then the body ground back against his crotch, slow and rhythmic, and a breathy moan wormed its way into his ear. Harry’s eyes, against his will, fluttered open.

“Can’t even wait for me to wake up, can you?” a soft voice murmured.

The world was blurry without his glasses, and for a moment Harry couldn’t place himself. The bedsheets were the wrong color. The lamp wasn’t casting the usual shadows. And the body in his arms had a shock of white-blonde hair—

Draco. Oh god. It all came back to Harry at once. He was in Draco’s flat. He had spent the night. They had cuddled each other to sleep.

Draco turned to face Harry, wrapping his arms around his neck. His cheeks were flushed. He didn’t meet Harry’s eye, instead looking down and fluttering his eyelashes. “If I’d known you’d want to use me, I would have prepared myself last night,” he murmured seductively. “If you can’t wait, you’ll have to take my mouth instead.”

Harry leapt away as if scalded, tangling himself in the sheets and practically falling out of bed in his haste to get away from Draco.

“Breakfast!” he blurted out as he jumped to his feet and disentangled himself. “Shall I? Any requests?” Without waiting for an answer, he rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

Harry leaned back against the door, breathing hard. He was so painfully erect his hand strayed towards his pants, but he thought the better of it. The walls were so thin. He just couldn’t. So instead he leaned against the sink and gripped the edge of the porcelain, thinking unsexy thoughts—toenail clippings—blue cheese—not washing your hands after a shit—until his boner finally deflated.

Harry may not have been able to stay away from Draco, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to sleep with him, either—not when Draco seemed determined to keep up the creepy sex-worker act. But damn if keeping his hands off of Draco wasn’t one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do, especially when Draco was making himself so soft and open and touchable. In that moment, Harry almost missed the frequent erectile dysfunction he’d suffered in the days before Draco came back into his life and turbo-charged his sex drive. A limp dick would make his current predicament a hell of a lot easier. 

Harry hurriedly brushed his teeth and dressed. He flew out the apartment door without even looking back. 

When he returned twenty minutes later toting two coffees and breakfast sandwiches, feeling significantly calmer, Draco was dressed and making the bed as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them.

“Thanks,” he said, as Harry handed him his coffee.

“What time will Lady Di be ready?” Harry asked.

“They just called,” Draco said, beaming. “We can get her at ten. They said she did great.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, grinning back at him. “Oh, hang on—” he said, remembering the last time he’d spent the night at Draco’s house after a parole meeting. “I have to check in with the Department before they sound the alarm again.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I suppose famous Harry Potter doesn’t have to go into the office on time,” he quipped.

It was a line straight out of twelve-year-old Draco’s mouth. Harry couldn’t help but crack a smile, and after a moment, Draco snorted and smiled back. It made Harry’s heart flip.  

He pulled his wand out and cast a patronus. The great, shining stag took up most of the living room. “Tell Kingsley all’s well and I’ll be in by eleven or so,” Harry instructed it.

The stag bowed, and then leapt out the window and bounded across the fire escape before vanishing into the distance.

When he turned, Draco was staring at the place the patronus had been with wide eyes, his mouth open slightly with shock.

“Did you honestly just use a patronus to send an ordinary message?” he breathed. “Like it’s a bloody owl?”

“It comes in handy in a pinch,” Harry said, shrugging.

“Do you have any idea how mad that is?” Draco insisted. “It’s like using the killing curse on a fly. Or apparating three steps away.”

“What’s the big deal?” Harry asked.

“What’s the big deal,” Draco repeated, brushing past him on his way to the kitchen. “God. Bloody showoff.”  

Harry didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or flattered, so he changed the subject. “Shall we eat and then fetch Lady Di?”

Lady Di was cranky and wobbly from the aftereffects of the anesthesia, but otherwise recovering well. Once she and Draco were settled at home, Harry reluctantly said his goodbyes. Draco was so engrossed in coaxing her out of the carrier, cooing and praising her and arranging a bed of blankets for her on the couch, that he barely noticed Harry’s exit. Harry felt a pang of jealousy and then chided himself—pathetic to be jealous of a cat.

***

Harry strolled into Kingsley’s office. Ramona didn’t object for once and just tiredly waved him through.

WIthout even looking up from the parchment on his desk, Kingsley said, “Robards.”

“Mung beans,” Harry replied, plopping into a chair. “And Robards would need to run this past you in any case.”

Kingsley sighed heavily, removing his glasses and tucking them into his robes. He folded his hands on his desk and looked at Harry. “What can I do for you, Potter?”

“I want a stop to the automatic check-ins,” Harry said. “If I’m going to get close to D—to Malfoy,” he corrected, “Close enough to get the information without him suspecting, our time together can’t be interrupted. I can’t be yanked out of his apartment every morning, it ruins the flow of things.”

Kingsley raised his eyebrows so high they practically disappeared into his hat, and Harry flushed deep red once he’d realized what he’d said.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Kingsley said, emphasizing each word, “That you’ve been sleeping with Draco Malfoy?”

“No, no, no,” Harry had frantically, waving his hands in denial. “I mean, I’ve been sleeping over, once or twice, but we’re not sleeping together, god.” It wasn’t even a lie, but it felt like one.

“You’ve been having sleepovers with Draco Malfoy.” 

“Yes.”

“Like a pair of thirteen-year-old girls.”

“Yes,” Harry said stubbornly, crossing his arms.

Kingsley sighed once again, kneading his forehead, and Harry braced himself for another lecture. Kingsley always made him feel like a naughty student rather than a full-grown man and officer of the law.

“If you want to drop the check-ins, that’s fine by me,” Kingsley finally said. “If anyone on the force can handle himself, it’s you. But listen, Harry,” Kingsley said seriously, leaning in. He shook his head, looking down at his desk again. “This is—an uncomfortable topic, to say the least. But I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t warn you. So I shall say it once and then I hope we shall never have to speak of it again.”

“What is it?” Harry asked anxiously. The suspense was tying knots in his gut.

“Malfoy has a long history of—shall we say—making inappropriate advances towards his parole officers,” Kingsley explained delicately. “From the time of his arrest until much more recently. Given your—complicated history, I didn’t even think to mention it, before. I don’t have to worry about that with you two—do I?”

Harry flashed back to this morning—to the way Draco’s arse had felt against his cock—to the moan he had let out—and felt his face flush.

Kingsley was looking at him, one eyebrow raised, and Harry scrambled for an answer. He forced out a laugh, and said, “God, no. I mean—you know how much we hated each other in school.”

“I thought you two were friendly now,” Kingsley said skeptically. 

“We are,” Harry said quickly. “Just—not that friendly.” He was starting to sweat, aware that he was babbling but unable to stop. “And—it’s not like I’m gay or anything,” he added with an uncomfortable chuckle. “So even if—you know, anything, like, happened—it wouldn’t matter! Right? It wouldn’t matter! Because—”

Harry fell silent before he could dig himself into an even deeper hole. 

Luckily, after a long and awkward moment, Kingsley seemed to accept this. “Of course not,” he said with a little chuckle of his own. “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything. I just want to avoid any—unpleasantness. I would hate for you to be caught off guard by his…tendencies. Just keep both eyes open when you’re with him, will you?”

“I will, sir,” Harry said, suddenly desperate to be out of this conversation, out of this room.

He stood to go, but Kingsley lowered a hand. “Just one minute, Harry,” he said. Harry sank grudgingly back down into the chair.

“I’m willing to concede to you on the auto check-ins, but you have to give me something in return. It’s been weeks,” Kingsley said. “Is there truly nothing you’ve learned about Draco Malfoy in all that time? Over the course of all your interrogations?”

I’ve learned that he likes spicy food, but can’t tolerate it well, Harry wanted to say. I’ve learned that he sleeps in silky pajamas. He loves his cat but he hasn’t got the money to take her to the vet. He got a lip piercing to spite his dad. His body is covered in scars that I put there. He acts bitchy and seductive but I can sense that underneath he’s fragile, and so lonely. He’s the most beautiful when he’s laughing. I’ve learned that I’m even more obsessed with him now than I was in sixth year.

But of course, Harry couldn’t say any of that. So instead he crossed his arms like a sulky child.

“I need you to start taking this seriously, Potter,” Kingsley said sternly. 

“I am taking it seriously, sir,” Harry protested. “I promise. I’m gaining his trust. I’ll get results, but—it’s taking a lot of time. More than I thought.”

“Hm,” Kingsley said, steepling his fingers, unconvinced.

“You know how Malfoy is,” Harry said, trying for jocular, and the joke seemed to work.

Kingsley huffed out a laugh. “If he’s anything like his father, I know just what you mean,” he said dryly. “Slippery little weasel.”

“Yeah.” Harry laughed uncomfortably. His stomach twisted. He felt like the vilest traitor in the world.

“Alright,” Kingsley finally said. “Have it your way.”

“I won’t let you down, sir,” Harry promised.

Kingsley dismissed him, and Harry made a beeline to the fourth floor men’s bathroom. He locked himself in a stall and pulled a half-pint flask of firewhisky out of his coat. He chugged a quarter of it, desperate not only to drown the shame of what he’d said about Draco, what he’d said about himself, but the image of Draco wrapping his arms around Dawlish, around half a dozen other aurors before him. Was it true, what Kingsley had said? Was Harry being played—was he just another in a long line of aurors Draco came onto for favors?

But no—Harry just couldn’t square it with the Draco who cried over his cat; whose only friend seemed to be his elderly neighbor; who had grabbed Harry’s hand once and asked him to stay the night, his pupils dilated and eyes wide with fear.

He needed to get these answers about Selwyn, and get Draco out from under the Ministry’s thumb, so that he could stop sneaking around and figure out what the fuck he was actually doing with Draco Malfoy.

***

Harry fumbled his way through the rest of the workday, sneaking sips of his flask with the office door closed and reviewing paperwork until his eyes swam. By the end of the day he was so drunk he thought he was hallucinating when an owl arrived at his desk with a letter that read:

Come over. I need help.
—D. Malfoy

Harry stumbled out of the ministry and apparted into the bin storage shed behind Draco’s apartment complex so fast he thought he would splinch himself. He crashed up the stairs and banged on the door, wand out and heart pounding, terrified visions swimming through his head of Draco cornered by Dawlish or a violent hookup, beaten and bloody and alone. 

The door swung open and Draco said, “Thank god you’re here. Lady Di won’t take her antibiotics.”

“Her—antibiotics?” Harry gasped, red-faced and panting. He put his hands on his knees and waited for the stitch in his side to abate. “Are you fucking kidding me? Where did you even get an owl from?”

Draco crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, clearly amused. “I’ve been feeding that ministry owl treats. She comes back on occasion, looking for more. Did you run here?”

“Yes, I fucking ran here!” Harry snapped. “You sent me a cryptic owl that just said HELP!”

Draco pursed his lips, clearly trying not to smile. “Come in, then. She’s hiding under the bed.”

“Lemme just—” Harry’s stomach roiled. The firewhisky in his belly was not mixing well with the physical exertion and the panic. He ran into Draco’s bathroom and heaved into the toilet. He didn’t even have time to close the door.

When he was finished, he looked up, red with shame, and met Draco’s shocked eyes in the mirror. “Are you drunk?” Draco asked. 

Harry let his miserable expression speak for itself.

“Never mind,” Draco said, looking away. “There’s mouthwash behind the mirror.” He closed the door behind him, giving Harry privacy. He was grateful.

He brushed his teeth with the toothbrush Draco had given him the night before, trying not to think about the fact that he apparently had a toothbrush at Draco’s flat now, and how cozy it looked next to Draco’s in the caddy. He suddenly realized that Draco’s toothbrush was green and he’d given Harry a red one, and he barked out a laugh. He used the mouthwash, then leaned over the sink, trying to compose himself, humiliated beyond words. He lingered as long as he could in the bathroom, but to Draco’s credit, when Harry emerged, he pretended as though nothing had happened.

Harry levitated Ladi Di out from her hiding place under the bed, but the spell did nothing to protect him from her claws. After several failed attempts and an armful of scratches, he managed to hold her mouth open while Draco tried to force the liquid antibiotics down her throat. One syringe splattered all over her fur, but the second mostly made its way down. As soon as Harry released her, she hurried across the room and out onto the fire escape, her belly and tail low to the ground.

“She needs her medicine twice a day,” Draco said, his face pale and chest heaving.

“Fuck,” Harry panted.

“For ten days.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

They sat sprawled on the floor for a while, recovering. Harry was sweaty from the exertion, his arm was bleeding, and though he had washed his mouth he was sure Draco could smell the booze seeping out of his pores. “Er—do you mind if I use your shower?” he asked.

Draco gave him a sidelong look, but said. “Alright. I only have the one towel, though.”

“That’s okay,” Harry said hurriedly. “I can spell myself dry.”

“Right,” Draco said, a twinge of bitterness in his voice. Harry’s wand—Draco’s—suddenly felt hot in his sleeve.

Harry closed the bathroom door behind him. He agonized over the lock for a minute, but decided not to lock it. He didn’t think Draco would come bursting in, and he didn’t want him to think that he didn’t trust him. He shucked off his clothes and turned on the water. After running for several minutes, it was still only lukewarm, but Harry figured that was as good as it was going to get. He stepped into the stall and was confronted by an array of muggle cosmetics: conditioner, shampoo, body wash, gel, shaving cream, face wash, body oil, exfoliant, lotion, and many more he couldn’t even identify. He plucked the body wash off the shelf and rubbed his whole body and face with it. It smelled powerfully of roses—of Draco. Harry felt his cock beginning to harden and he hurriedly pinched his arm to quell the sensation. He was not going to jerk off in Draco’s shower.

Harry spelled his skin dry and put his clothes back on. His hair was still soaking wet—the drying spell would take forever, thick as it was—but he avoided Draco’s towel like the plague, fearing that towel-sharing was too intimate and sure that Draco would kick up a fuss about Harry making more laundry for him.

He walked into the living room, his hair dripping onto his shoulders, and heard a loud, dramatic gasp. Harry startled and looked down at his body—had he forgotten a piece of clothing?

When he looked back up, Draco was hovering around his head, taking damp locks of hair between his fingers. Harry avoided his eyes, highly conscious that their faces were only inches apart. “My god, Potter, your hair is curly! Why didn’t you ever say?”

“What?” Harry said. “No it’s not.”

Draco dangled a lock of hair in front of Harry’s eyes, and Harry practically went cross-eyed trying to see it.

“That—” he said—“is a perfect ‘S’ curl. Are you blind?”

“It doesn’t stay like that,” Harry said. “When I brush it out, it all goes—”

“You brush it?!” Draco exclaimed, like Harry had said something truly scandalous.

“Er—doesn’t everyone?”

“Oh my god, Potter.” Draco closed his eyes, clearly pained. When he opened them again, they were flashing with excitement. “I’m going to fix your hair. No—I’m going to change your life! Don’t go anywhere.”

Draco swept across the room and out the front door. Harry slumped onto an armchair, feeling irrationally hurt and sulky. The words “fix your hair” had never ended well for him. He had flashbacks to Aunt Petunia brushing his hair so hard she pulled half of it out of his scalp, only for it to look even wilder by the time she was done. Then there was the time she had practically buzzed his head, leaving only his fringe to cover his scar, until it all grew back the very next day.

The walls were so thin that Harry could hear when Draco knocked on Dorothy’s door. “Dot,” he said excitedly. “I need help. I’m going to style Potter’s hair.”

“Thank god!” Dorothy cried. “Wait here. I’ll get my Cantu.”

Several minutes later, Draco bustled back with an armful of creams and gels and a big, bulky hairdryer that looked like a claw. He dumped all of it on the kitchen counter and beckoned to Harry. “Come on. We have to wash your hair.” 

“I just washed my hair,” Harry protested, although he hadn’t really.

“But you haven’t clarified it, have you?”

“Uh—” Harry hadn’t a clue what that meant.

“What kind of shampoo do you use?” Draco asked.

“Er—it’s like a 3-in-1 thing from Tesco,” Harry admitted.

“Three?” Draco said blankly, not comprehending. “Three what?”

“Shampoo, conditioner, and body wash,” Harry mumbled.

Draco just closed his eyes, and kept them closed for a long moment, breathing deeply through his nose.

Harry stood there in silence, chastened.

“Come along,” Draco finally said, and Harry followed him into the kitchen like a scolded dog. “We have so much work to do.” 

Harry had no idea what that meant, but he slouched obediently over. Draco sat him on a kitchen stool with his head resting on the edge of the sink, his neck cushioned by a handful of tea towels.

He startled a bit when Draco reached for his glasses, but he merely took them off, folded them, and set them gently on the counter. “So they don’t get wet,” he said, and something in Harry’s belly fluttered.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut as Draco unwound the spray hose and started to soak his hair. The water was warm, and Draco was careful not to get any on his face.

Draco’s fingers began to card their way through his hair, and then, all at once, they stopped.

Harry cracked an eye open, Draco’s pale face swimming in his vision, but he was unable to discern his expression without his glasses on.

“Why is your face like that?”

“Like what?” Harry asked mulishly.

“All—screwed up,” Draco said. Then, so softly it embarrassed Harry, he said, “It’s not going to hurt. I’ll be gentle.”

“I know,” Harry said gruffly, but when Draco’s fingers tangled back into his hair, he did feel more relaxed. They were gentle. The warm water, the massage of Draco’s long fingers, and the soft hush of the tap had practically soothed him to sleep by the time they were finished.

Draco talked him through the steps: first, he clarified Harry’s hair twice with special shampoo to get rid of any excess buildup. He detangled it very gently with his fingers. Then, he raked handfuls of conditioner through it, and squeezed water into Harry’s locks one handful at a time, washing away most but not all of the product.

Once that was finished, he had Harry sit up and flip his hair over. Draco squeezed handful after handful of gel into it until Harry’s neck started to ache. “Don’t you think you might be overdoing it?” he asked.

“No,” Draco said firmly.

Once he’d washed the gel off his hands, he went at Harry’s head with the frightening, claw-shaped hairdryer, starting with his roots and then piling the ends in the claw.

Finally, Draco took Harry by the hand and pulled him into the bathroom. 

Harry stared back at his reflection in the mirror. To his shock, heaps of shiny, wet-looking black curls haloed around his head. But they were tight and stiff—like ramen noodles.

“I look like I’m in a nineties boyband,” he blurted out, vaguely horrified.

Draco just rolled his eyes. “We’re not done yet, you idiot.”

Facing Harry, Draco put hands in Harry’s hair and shook out the roots, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Harry was once again struck by the proximity of their faces, trying not to look at Draco’s eyes or his lips. He settled on his nose, the straight line of it that turned up slightly at the end, the tip just barely pink.

Draco poured an oily looking substance into his hands and rubbed them together. He asked Harry to flip his head upside down one last time and he crunched Harry’s curls between his oily hands.

Finally, he said, “Okay. Look up.”

Harry did, and once more, he stared at his reflection in shock. The curls had survived Draco’s latest attack, but now they were full, and soft, and glossy. He touched a curl over his forehead, gently. It felt as soft as it looked. He pulled on it, and when it sproinged back into place, he and Draco both laughed.

“Who knew you could actually clean up okay.” Draco crossed his arms, looking smug. "You look half-decent."

“I always just thought it was messy,” Harry said. He was astonished by the transformation.

“That’s what happens when you brush curly hair,” Draco said. “A mess.”

“I never knew.” Harry tilted his head back and forth in the mirror, still marveling. “How didn’t I know?”

“I’m guessing your guardians never taught you how to care for it,” Draco said gently, a statement more than a question.

“No,” Harry admitted. “They didn’t teach me a lot of things.” He looked down, away from his reflection in the mirror, embarrassed by the sympathy in Draco’s tone. “My dad had curly hair,” he blurted out after a moment. “I’ve seen it. In pictures, and stuff. I thought I just didn’t inherit it from him.”

“He must have been very handsome,” Draco said, smiling a little.

Harry cut his eyes away before Draco could see the tears welling up.

It didn’t work. “I thought you were dead inside,” Draco said dryly.

Harry looked up, shocked, into Draco’s smirking face. “Shut up,” he said, giving him a playful push.

Draco stumbled back, laughing, and then Harry had his face between his hands. He wanted to kiss him hard, push him up against the wall, make him gasp. But he managed to restrain himself, and instead gave him a gentle kiss on the corner of the mouth. Draco was blushing furiously. He looked down at Harry over the tip of his nose, his pale eyelashes fluttering. His lips curved into a brilliant, blinding smile. 

Harry was so fucked.

***

Harry stayed for dinner. He didn’t ask, nor did Draco offer; he simply ordered another Indian takeaway once they got hungry. It was frightening how easily they were falling into habits like this; how natural it felt to spend every waking moment together.

They were nearing the bottom of a bottle of wine—cuddled up on the couch with Lady Di glowering at them from beneath the coffee table—when Harry summoned up enough courage to blurt out, “I think my dad would’ve been ashamed of me.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Draco asked, after a beat of stunned silence. “The Chosen One? The savior of the wizarding world? Not likely,” he scoffed.

Harry shook his head. “No, not that. It’s—I’ve seen how he felt. About—gay people.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked.

“Er,” Harry began, “Snape was teaching me occlumency, in fifth year.”

“You’re an occlumens?” Draco asked, sitting up straight.

“No,” Harry admitted. “I was pretty bollocks at it, actually.”

“Ah.” Draco looked down at his nails and smirked. “Not everyone has the talent, I suppose,” he said airily.

“Shut up,” Harry said, checking Draco with his shoulder. Draco laughed. “Anyway, during one of our lessons, I noticed his penseive and, er, I went into it.”

“You went into a pensieve uninvited?!” Draco exclaimed, clearly scandalized.

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. I know it was stupid,” he admitted.

“Entitled prat,” Draco muttered, and Harry tried to pretend it didn’t sting.

“Anyway, I saw a memory—of my dad. And his friends. They were bullying Snape. Hexing him, hanging him upside down in the air, and like—undressing him. My dad—my dad called him a faggot. Said he was as bent as they come. Said he’d probably love nothing more than to drop trou in front of all the boys.”

Harry swallowed heavily, chanced a glance at Draco. He looked sad. “I don’t think he was,” Draco murmured.

“That’s not the point,” Harry insisted. “The point is, my dad would’ve been ashamed of me.”

“For being gay?” Draco scoffed. “Because he threw a slur at what—sixteen? Not that I’m defending what he did, but—”

“Does it matter?” Harry interrupted, frustrated. “Not everyone is a prick at sixteen. I would have never—”

He glanced at Draco. Draco was looking down at his lap, picking at his thumb with his other hand. “You don’t believe people can change?” His tone was light, but Harry felt the weight of the question.

Harry’s heart dropped. “No—no, of course I do,” he breathed.

Draco finally looked up, gave him a wry smile. “If your father was anything like you, I’m sure he would’ve just wanted you to be happy.”

For the second time that day, tears pricked Harry’s eyes. To hide his expression, he threw himself down into Draco’s lap, and Draco startled, splashing some wine on the couch. “Oi!” he said, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassed. But a moment later, he felt Draco’s long, cool fingers carding tentatively through his hair.

“I don’t want to mess up your curls,” Draco murmured.

“I don’t care,” Harry said into the blanket. “You can do them again tomorrow.”

“Does that mean you’re staying the night?” Draco teased.

“I want to,” he breathed.

“But?”

“But—I shouldn’t.”

“This again,” Draco said. Harry could imagine him rolling his eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m very discreet.”

Harry sat up all at once, upsetting Draco’s wine glass again. “I wish you’d stop saying stuff like that!” he burst out.

Draco looked shocked and wary. He carefully put his wine glass on the table. Harry twisted his hands together, ashamed of frightening Draco and frustrated that he didn’t know how to say what he felt. “You’re talking like I’m—like I’m worried about getting away with something. Like I’m worried about what people will think.”

“Aren’t you?” Draco said, raising an eyebrow. “You were just worrying about what your dad would think, and no offense, but he’s not even alive…”

“That’s not the point,” Harry insisted.

“Whatever the point is, I’m missing it,” Draco snapped. Then his expression changed, so rapidly it was dizzying. “All I’m trying to say is,” he continued in a sickly sweet voice, inching towards Harry across the couch, “I’ll do anything you want. It’ll be our little secret. You don’t have to worry.”

Harry scooted away. “You’re doing it again!” he accused. “You’re being weird! What about what you want?”

“I want you,” Draco purred in Harry’s ear. He nipped his earlobe, sending a shiver through his skin. “Whatever you’ll give me.”

“I’d give you anything,” Harry said earnestly, wrapping his hands around Draco’s waist. “I’d give you whatever you wanted.”

“Well I want your cock in my mouth,” Draco purred.

He slid onto the floor, pushing himself between Harry’s legs, and mouthed at his cock beneath his jeans.

“Don’t you want me?” he asked, looking up at Harry with pleading grey eyes.

Is this what Kingsley meant? A traitorous voice whispered in Harry’s ear, but Harry brushed the thought aside. His cock was hard, and they wanted each other, and he wasn’t sure they could keep their hands off each other for one moment longer. “Yes,” he breathed. “But Draco, only if you’re absolutely sure?”

Draco nodded.

“Say it, please?” Harry pleaded, and Draco rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” he snapped, “How much clearer do I have to make myself?”

Harry laughed. There he was—that was undeniably the true Draco, and Harry was reassured.

He carded a hand through Draco’s silky soft hair and trailed a thumb down his face, touching it to his plush bottom lip. Draco leaned forward and took Harry’s thumb in his mouth, sucking on it, maintaining eye contact.

Harry sucked in a long breath. The blood was thrumming through his body so fast it was almost painful. There was a rushing sound in his ears. Draco’s mouth was hot and tight around his thumb. He slipped his index finger in, and Draco sucked it down. Harry’s free hand slipped down to his own waist, hovering at the button of his jeans. He pushed his middle finger past the barrier of Draco’s lips, and Draco swallowed around his fingers, once, twice, his throat bobbing. Harry’s cock jumped. He undid the button of his jeans, one-handed, fumbling a bit. He stroked his fingers deeper down Draco’s throat, Draco’s eyes fluttering closed with pleasure. Harry could feel the vibrations of Draco’s throat around him as he moaned. He was so hard it was painful, now—he was desperate to finally get Draco’s soft, hot mouth on him. He looked down, shakily undoing the zip of his jeans, thrusting his fingers into and out of Draco’s mouth, moving faster now.

But when he looked back up, Draco was no longer looking at him, no longer swallowing around his fingers. His mouth was slack and limp. His eyes were wide and glassy, and rather than looking up at Harry, he was gazing into the middle distance.

Horrified, Harry yanked his fingers out of Draco’s mouth, a little too rough, did up his fly and button with shaking hands, and dried his fingers off on his jeans. Draco simply sat and stared with empty eyes, his head lolling on Harry’s knee.

“Draco,” Harry said tremulously, gently stroking Draco’s cheek with his thumb. “Draco, where’d you go? I’m right here.” It was frightening, how empty and limp Draco looked. Harry had never seen him so vacant. “You’re in your apartment. Lady Di is hiding under the coffee table because we gave her antibiotics. You fixed my hair and put, like, a metric fuckton of gel in it but it looks brilliant now.”

Draco shivered a little, and then lifted his head, blinking rapidly, still avoiding Harry’s gaze but alert now. Harry helped him onto the couch, and Draco curled up under the blanket and leaned against him.

“Where did you go?” Harry asked softly, putting an arm around him and rubbing his shoulder.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco said, his voice icy.

“Draco. Come on,” Harry said. “I’m not the most observant person. And I’m shite at—relationships,” he cringed, but didn’t know what else to call it. “But I’m not an idiot. I know when something’s off. And it’s like you’re working from a script, sometimes, only I don’t know what part you’re playing, or what part I’m supposed to play. And from what I’ve seen, it’s not a part I’m much interested in playing. I’m absolutely terrified that I’m hurting you, or that I’m going to hurt you, and that when I do, you won’t tell me to stop.”

“You’re not hurting me,” Draco said in a clipped voice. “I’m a grown man and I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions. If you don’t want me, just say so.” 

“I do want you,” Harry insisted. “So much. You have no idea. But I have no idea what’s going through your head. We can’t do this unless you let me in.”

Draco was quiet for so long that Harry thought he was giving him the silent treatment. Harry had grabbed his hand, and was gently rubbing his knuckles.

But, finally, Draco said, in a brittle voice, “I have—an ex. It was a—formative relationship. He’s older.”

He was silent again, for so long that Harry had to prompt him. “When was this?”

Draco paused for a long, tense moment. Harry held his breath.

“It started the summer after sixth year.”

A rock dropped into the bottom of Harry’s stomach. “Was it someone at the Manor?” he asked.

“Yes,” Draco admitted.

“How much older was he, exactly?” Harry asked, his throat dry, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Um. He was thirty-two, then, I think.” Draco’s voice was nearly a whisper.

Harry did the math in his head, and his blood turned to ice. He’d been such a fool—it had been right under his nose, this whole time. He remembered Kingsley saying, Malfoy was closer to Selwyn than anyone else, during the war. And Their closeness was remarked on by a number of other Death Eaters. And finally, horribly, he remembered Draco’s quiet voice the night he was drugged, the first time Harry stayed over, his pupils huge and frightened in the darkness. “Ed?” he had breathed.

Draco’s hand was around his own neck, now—around the strange, silver chain tattoo that Harry had noticed the first night they’d kissed, and the aura of sinister, pulsing magic it gave off. A stupid, teenage mistake, he’d called it.

It was him. It had to be.

Edwin Selwyn.

Chapter Text

No matter how much Harry hinted and prodded, Draco refused to say another word about Selwyn for the rest of the right, and Harry didn’t want to push him, not while Draco was clearly in a fragile state. They cuddled on the couch until the wine made them sleepy, at which point they moved to the bed. Harry had to gently shake off a few more advances, but Draco was pliable when tipsy, and easily redirected.

Draco was asleep within moments, but Harry stayed up for hours, staring at the ceiling, wishing he had Selwyn’s files on him so that he could pore over them and pick out all the clues he’d missed before. Finally, he dozed, and fell into an uneasy dream about a mazelike Malfoy Manor, and chasing a shadowy figure who was always just around the corner.

He awoke to Draco smiling sleepily at him. The morning sunlight was shining golden through his hair. He looked so angelic that Harry almost let the subject lie, not wanting to see the smile fall off his face. But then Draco surged forward, took Harry’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

In a great feat of willpower, Harry took Draco by the wrists and gently pushed him back. “We have to talk about what happened last night.”

The smile was wiped clean from Draco’s face, just as Harry had feared. “Do we?” he snapped, sitting up and crossing his arms.

“Yes,” Harry insisted, sitting up and trying to meet his eye, but Draco wouldn’t look at him.

“Draco, that was—that was really scary,” Harry entreated. “You just went somewhere, somewhere I couldn’t reach you at all, somewhere you couldn’t make decisions or understand what was happening to you. That can’t happen again. I won’t let it happen again, but I don’t know what I did wrong. Can you just…help me out a bit? Please?”

Draco sighed heavily and scrubbed his hands across his face. He dropped his hands in his lap and sighed again, looking up at the ceiling so that he wouldn’t have to look at Harry. “I think it was…” he finally said. “You looked down, for a moment or two. And I couldn’t see your face. And sometimes, when I can’t see someone’s face, I get…unstuck. In time. And instead I remember—” He fell silent for a long moment.

“Your ex?” Harry prompted gently.

Draco gave him a sharp look. “No,” he said. “No. We are not going there.”

“Draco, I—”

“No!” Draco said, somewhat hysterically, scrambling out of bed and standing up. The sheets fell off him in a pile on the floor. “That’s none of your business! Just because we’re hooking up—barely, no thanks to you, and you’ve apparently moved yourself into my flat, does not mean you have any right to interrogate me about my life or my past!”

Harry’s stomach twisted with guilt at the word “interrogate.” It was truer than Draco knew. “I’m not trying to interrogate you, I just—I just want to help,” he pleaded.

“I don’t need your bloody help, or your pity for that matter,” Draco snarled. “And if you can’t treat me like an adult who’d been taking care of himself for years before you charged in on your white fucking horse, then I don’t want you here anymore.” He threw a wild arm towards the door as he said it.

Harry’s heart was pounding in his throat. He had no idea how all of this had escalated so quickly. His arms were hovering in the air, reaching helplessly out towards Draco.

“Draco, please—”

His panic must have shown on his face, because Draco softened, just a bit. He knelt on the mattress and took Harry’s outstretched hands in his own. “It was a moment of weakness,” he said softly. “It’s something I never would have told you, otherwise. Please don’t take advantage.”

“I won’t,” Harry said in a strangled voice. Liar, he accused himself. Liar! “But Draco,” he asked, “Can you at least tell me if—if you become unstuck? So that I can help. So that I don’t hurt you.”

“Alright,” Draco finally conceded. “But only if you can agree to trust me when I tell you that I want you. I’m not a child, or an invalid. If I tell you that I want something—that I want you—I mean it. I won’t have you thinking you can decide for me. Whether I’m ready or not is up to me.”

“Alright,” Harry whispered. “I promise.”

Draco melted into him, his arms around Harry’s shoulders and his cheek resting on the top of Harry’s head. Harry held him tightly by the waist, his ear pressed to Draco’s chest. He could hear his heart beating, rabbit-fast, could feel the warmth of his body, could smell his deodorant and detergent.

What was he going to do now? Harry asked himself. How could he get the answers he needed about Selwyn without Draco’s help? And how could he possibly choose between protecting Draco, and the risk of losing him forever? 

Draco broke him out of his spiraling thoughts with a brisk pat on the back. “If you’ve finished agonizing over my virtue,” he said crisply, “Best grab your wand and the oven mitts. We have a cat to catch.”

Harry tipped his head back and groaned.

“Only nine more days!” Draco added brightly.

After Lady Di was medicated and Harry’s latest wounds were patched up, he made an excuse about an early meeting and headed directly to Ron and Hermione’s. Ron would be at the joke shop, but since Hermione had completed her latest advanced degree, she conducted most of her research and writing at home.

“Hermione!” Harry called as he stumbled through the floo. He thundered up the stairs and burst into Hermione’s office, startling her into upsetting her teacup.

“Harry,” she exclaimed, spelling her tea back into its cup. When she looked back up at him, she gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god. Your hair—”

Harry touched it self-consciously.

“It looks amazing!” she said, walking around him to admire it from all angles. “What on earth did you do to it?”

“Oh, erm—I’ll explain later,” Harry said, not wanting to admit to his continued relationship with Draco just yet.

“And where have you been?” Hermione asked. “Ron and I have been trying to get ahold of you for days! We dropped by Grimmauld Place and sent owls and everything.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Sorry. I’ve been—working. I’ve been working a lot. Which is why I need to see you—I have to ask you about something.”

He suddenly realized how unsettled Hermione looked and paused.

“So you haven’t read any of the letters?” she asked.

“No,” Harry said, worried now. “What was in them?”

Hermione wrung her hands together, casting a glance at the door. “Well—Ron and I wanted to tell you together, but—”

“Now you’re making me nervous,” Harry said. “Just tell me!” 

“Oh Harry, we’re pregnant!” Hermione burst out, throwing her arms around him.

“Oh—oh Hermione, that’s brilliant,” Harry said, trying to sound like he meant it. He lifted his arms and hugged her back.

Hermione pulled away and smiled at him, and Harry smiled back, even as he realized that his heart was sinking. He’d known this was coming; had known it was inevitable since her and Ron’s first kiss back in seventh year. But it was going to change everything, just like their kiss had. It had never been the same since then. They loved Harry, he knew they did, and it was his fault that he had pulled away in the past few years. But after they got together, he just didn’t feel…as essential. Now not only would Harry be the third wheel, but they’d have another person to take care of, and less time for him than ever. This made Hermione an official, permanent member of the Weasley clan, connected by blood. They were all family, now—and he wasn’t. He never would be, now that he’d broken things off with Ginny. He knew these thoughts were juvenile, and selfish, and he tried to shake them away—but the shame of them sank into the pit of his stomach.

Hermione babbled on about the due date and the names they were thinking of and whether they should find out the gender in advance, and Harry tried to be as enthusiastic as possible.

But finally, over the fresh cups of tea she had fetched, Hermione said, “So what did you want to ask me about anyway?”

“Oh, er—” Harry scratched his head. “It’s about Dr—it’s about Malfoy, actually.”

Hermione gave him a knowing look. “How did your talk go?”

Harry’s guilty expression said it all.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, crestfallen. “You didn’t end things, did you?”

“It didn’t come up,” Harry protested.

“Come up?! Harry, you have to bring it up,” Hermione exclaimed. “Oh my god,” she said, her face changing as she realized. “Is that where you’ve been spending all your time lately? With Malfoy?”

“It’s not like that,” Harry said quickly. “We haven’t even slept together yet.”

“Yet?!” Hermione slumped down in her chair. “Oh Harry,” she said, her disappointed tone going straight to Harry’s conscience.

“That’s not actually what I wanted to talk about,” Harry said, eager to change the subject. “This is important. Hermione, he said something about an ex. Someone who was at the Manor during the war. I think it was Edwin Selwyn. He’s the only one who makes sense, who was the right age.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, bringing a hand to her mouth. “Oh. Wasn’t he…? How old would he have been then?”

“Thirty-two,” Harry said vehemently.

“That’s awful,” Hermione said in a hushed tone. 

“There’s something else,” Harry said. “Draco’s got like a—a thing around his neck. It looks like a little silver chain, but it’s imprinted on his skin, like a tattoo or something. I just get this feeling from it—that it’s really dark magic. I think it’s got to do with Selwyn somehow.”

Hermione looked thoughtful. “It sounds like bond magic,” she said, standing up and taking a book off the shelf. “It’s sort of like an unbreakable vow, but historically it’s been used between a witch and a wizard as a sort of marriage vow, but with consequences if any of the promises between them are broken.”

“A marriage vow?” Harry exclaimed, aghast. “You think Draco married Selwyn?”

“Not necessarily,” Hermione said, flipping through the pages. “It doesn’t have to be a romantic vow. It was typically was one, of course, but it could also be used to bind servants to their masters.”

“What kind of—consequences do you mean?” Harry asked.

“It’s up to the people who are taking the vow,” Hermione said. “It could be anything. But it was often a dark curse—or even infertility—as a consequence for infidelity. It was most commonly used in arranged marriages, as a means of keeping the woman trapped. Quite barbaric, really.”

“But is it illegal?” Harry asked. “Because if it is, that could be evidence enough to bring new charges against Selwyn. He definitely wasn’t convicted on this bond thing.”

“Bond magic is very uncommon these days,” Hermione said. “It’s very old, and powerful. It was commonly used in aristocratic wizarding families. Most pureblood families had developed distinct versions of bond spells, and were very secretive about them. It’s difficult to get any concrete information about them without access to their family archives, many of which were destroyed in the war. It fell out of fashion because it was considered too—punitive. Not very romantic, you have to admit. But it’s not illegal—I’m sorry, Harry. The bond is only formed by mutual assent. And even if Malfoy was coerced into taking the bond, it would be next to impossible to prove that kind of thing, even if he were willing to testify against Selwyn.”

“There has to be something I can pin on him,” Harry said, standing up. “Thanks, Hermione. I’ve got to talk to Kingsley.”

“Harry, wait,” Hermione said as he turned to go. “Won’t you join us at the Burrow for dinner tonight? We’re celebrating. The whole family will be there.”

“Oh. ’Course,” Harry said with a smile, wondering with a sinking feeling if the “whole family” included Ginny. “See you tonight, then.”

***

“Sir,” Harry panted as he burst into Kingsley’s office, “I’ve learned something. About Selwyn.”

Kingsley, who was eating a croissant, gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

“I think that he and Draco used to be together,” Harry said, not bothering to sit. “Like—sexually together. He hasn’t admitted it, exactly, but the ages line up. I don’t know who else it could have been.”

Kingsley finished his croissant and brushed the crumbs off his fingers. “I suspected that might be the case,” he said.

“You—you did?” Harry asked, thunderstruck.

“Potter, they shared a room at Malfoy Manor for a year,” Kingsley said dryly. “I’m not naive.” 

Harry paused for a moment. Had they really shared a room for that long? He needed to reread all of the paperwork. He felt foolish, and yes, naive, and more than a little dismayed that Kingsley hadn’t thought to share this crucial piece of information earlier.

“But isn’t that something we can pin on Selwyn?” Harry said desperately. “He was so much older. Draco was barely eighteen. And I think he—I think he hurt him,” he said. His stomach twisted as he said it. He hadn’t quite realized he thought so until he said it, but he believed it unquestioningly, and speaking it aloud felt like a betrayal to Draco, somehow. “Something really bad happened between them. Draco’s scared of him. I can just tell.”

“I’m sorry, Potter,” Kingsley said. “Even if Malfoy was willing to talk—and he certainly wasn’t when he was last in custody—a little domestic squabble won’t be enough to keep Selwyn in Azkaban.”

“But he was eighteen!” Harry protested.

“Eighteen is of age,” Kingsley said. “It may be—distasteful, but it’s far from illegal. And as for your—hunch about the nature of their relationship, there’s no evidence. Even if there were, a rape or battery conviction isn’t going to be enough to keep Selwyn behind bars for more than a few years. We’ll need evidence of a much more serious offense to keep him away permanently. ”

“How can you be so casual about this?” Harry said heatedly.

“I’m just being practical, Harry,” Kingsley said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”

“There’s more,” Harry said desperately. “He has this magic silver chain around his neck. I think it’s bond magic—dark magic. And I think the bond was between him and Selwyn.”

Kingsley sighed. “Once again, Potter, a bond between of-age wizards—whether dark magic is involved or not—is perfectly legal, as it’s inherently consensual.” 

“What do you mean, ‘inherently consensual’?” Harry asked. “How do you know it was consensual?”

“By the nature of the magic,” Kingsley explained. “The bond is only formed if both participants consent. I’m sorry, Potter, but none of this is actionable, nor particularly surprising.” 

“Fine,” Harry said angrily, turning on his heel. “I’ll pin something else on him, then.”

***

Harry turned up late to dinner at the Weasley’s, wanting to slip quietly into the crowd without drawing attention to himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about Selwyn and Draco and the bond. He was fuming at Kingsley, and guilty for being so distracted, for having such mixed feelings about the baby. He felt like the only thing between him and a full blown meltdown was a vat of butterbeer.

All of the siblings were there, including Bill and Charlie, and Molly had decorated the place to the nines. There were floating candles, which kept lighting the streamers on fire, and a huge banner that read, CONGRATULATIONS RON AND HERMIONE. She’d baked a feast that would rival the Hogwarts kitchen elves. It was warm and cozy and loving and everyone was beaming, Ron, Hermione and Molly particularly. It made Harry miserable. Ginny was there, as he knew she would be. Ever since their breakup two years previous she’d only come more into herself, and as happy as Harry was for her, he couldn’t help but be jealous. Her success only made his failures that much more visible. And she’d gone pro at Quidditch, something he’d always dreamed of doing but never felt he could. And now it was too late for him. Shortly after their breakup, she’d accepted a position as chaser at the Holyhead Harpies and cut her hair short, much to Molly’s dismay. She was in a new European city every week, in the best physical shape of her life, and looked absolutely radiant. Ginny was polite but distant, and they largely avoided each other. He didn’t want to bring the mood down, so he drank mug after mug of butterbeer and stood in the corner talking Quidditch with George, who seemed a little down himself, as he always did on holidays and special occasions.

After he said goodnight, Harry flew to Draco’s, wanting the fresh air and not trusting himself to apparate in his condition. He landed on the fire escape and peered in the window, but the lights were all out, and there was no sign of Draco. It was just past midnight, so Harry figured he must have been on a shift at the club. He tried the window, and when it opened, he slipped inside and sat on the couch to wait for Draco. Lady Di jumped on his lap, apparently having forgiven him for the antibiotics that morning. He smiled and stroked her as she settled in.

The next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake, and Draco was standing over him, dressed in his waiter uniform and clearly trying to suppress a smile.

“Breaking and entering now, are you?” Draco said dryly. “I’m afraid I don’t have any valuables to offer you.”

“Draco,” Harry said, sitting up and straightening his glasses. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.” 

“So I see,” Draco quipped. “Before that, did you fall into a vat of butterbeer? You reek of it.”

“Oh,” Harry said, embarrassed. Now that Draco mentioned it, the room was still spinning slightly. “I was at the Weasley’s,” he said. “They had a party for Ron and Hermione.”

“Shall I make us some coffee?” Draco said, moving to the kitchen. “I think you need it.”

Harry followed Draco to the kitchen, Lady Di leaping free of his lap, and sat at the cramped, round table. He watched as Draco put the kettle on and took the coffee down from the shelf and measured it into the French press, his long, pale fingers graceful as ever.

“So this party was a rager, then?” Draco prompted, when Harry wasn’t forthcoming.

“No,” Harry said. “I’m the only one who drank that much.” He winced when he realized how pathetic that sounded. “They’re pregnant. Ron and Hermione.”

“You say that like someone’s died,” Draco said, leaning against the counter and folding his arms. 

“It feels like it,” Harry said forcefully. “And I know that’s fucked up and selfish and awful and that I should just be happy for them. And I am, but—I’m also not. Because—because Ron and Hermione and the Weasleys are the only family I have left. But they’re a real family, and I’m just—a hanger-on. And I wanted to make it real, so badly, which is why I clung onto Ginny for so long, even after I knew we were doomed. I wanted it to be official, and forever. And—and they’ll love their baby more than they love me. Which, of course they will and they should and that’s great. But they’re growing up and I’m not and I just feel…left behind. It’s pathetic.”

“You’re right, Potter,” Draco said lightly. “That is pathetic.” 

“Fuck off!” Harry said, standing up suddenly, his chair scraping across the linoleum.

Draco pressed back into the counter, alarmed, and Harry sank back down into his chair, feeling like a piece of shit. “Sorry,” he muttered, dropping his head in his hands.

There was a long, awkward, silence, and then the kettle sang. Draco turned off the burner and poured the water into the French press. “I don’t have a family anymore if it makes you feel better,” he said finally.

“It does,” Harry said miserably. “Does that make me a horrible person?”

Draco barked out a laugh. “No,” he said. “It makes you honest.”

“So you don’t speak to your father?” Harry asked.

Draco leaned back against the counter, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “He writes. And usually I don’t write back. I see him once a year, on the anniversary of mummy’s death. But no, we don’t speak. Not about anything real.”

Draco poured the coffee. He set two cups down on the table, along with a crystal cream and sugar set, and sat opposite him.

Harry clutched his mug tightly, realizing for the first time how cold his hands were. “I’m sorry I shouted,” he said. “I—I think I have anger issues.”

That set Draco off into peals of laughter, while Harry watched him, bemused. 

“You’re one for stating the obvious, aren’t you, Potter?” Draco said.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“I mean I spent my whole childhood being the target of your anger issues,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes.

“What?” Harry scoffed. “You were the one bullying and provoking us constantly.”

“And you and your friends were the ones cursing and beating the shit out of me,” Draco replied calmly, taking a sip of his coffee. “As a group, including on the Quidditch pitch in front of the entire school. I’m not denying that I was a bigoted, bullying little shite. But my assaults were verbal. You Gryffindors were the ones who always chose to make things physical.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He had never thought about it like that. But another part of him reminded him that Draco had been awful—was it so wrong if he wanted him to admit it, just once? “What about the time you broke my nose on the train?” he finally said, mulishly.

Draco barked out a short, sardonic laugh. “You’re right,” he said. “That was the exception. My father had just gone to prison and I had just taken the Dark Mark and I was very, very angry. If you want me to apologize I will.”

“Why did you do it?” Harry blurted out.

“Stamp on your face? Or take the Dark Mark?” Draco asked in a tone of forced patience.

“The Dark Mark,” Harry muttered.

“Well,” Draco said, stirring more sugar into his coffee. “I wanted to make my father proud. And the torture was a rather powerful incentive, too.”

Harry’s whole body went cold. He had seen Draco weeping in the bathroom in sixth year; had seen visions of him forced to torture other Death Eaters; seen his obvious fear of Voldemort at the final battle. But, somehow, he’d never imagined that.  “I’m so—”

“Please, Potter, I think we’ve had enough of the maudlin for one night,” Draco said with a sigh.

“I think I’ve earned the right to be a little maudlin,” Harry snapped, anger suddenly bubbling up in his chest again.

“Oh, here we go,” Draco said. “‘Woe is me’ Potter. Tell me again how hard it is to be universally beloved and fabulously wealthy with a whole posse of friends who would die for you.” 

“They did die for me!” Harry said viciously, squeezing his mug so hard a little coffee slopped over the side. “My parents and Sirius and Lupin and Madeye and Hedwig and Tonks and Fred and Dobby and Dumbledore. All the people I loved died for me, and it’s my fault.”

“That’s interesting,” Draco said. “I rather thought it was my fault that Dumbledore died.”

“You—” Harry said, brought up short. “You couldn’t even cast the killing curse.” 

“And you did?” Draco countered, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s not the point,” Harry said miserably, putting his head in his hands. 

“Look,” Draco said, standing up and putting his mug in the sink. “We can compare scars and dissect our childhoods and agonize over our survivor’s guilt until we drop. But I’ve had a long night, and I’m tired, and you’re sloshed. Why don’t we just sleep it off? I think that’s enough elephants for one night.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I should go. I’m being a prick.”

“You are, a bit,” Draco said, coming around the table, and running a gentle hand through Harry’s hair. “But you can stay.”

Harry threw his arms around Draco’s waist, sending him off balance for a moment. He pressed his face into Draco’s stomach, his vest smelling of dishwater and liquor. After a moment, Draco tentatively put his arms around Harry’s shoulders and hugged back.

“Get in bed,” Draco said softly. “I’ll join you after I shower.”

Harry crawled between the covers and lay awake, listening to the water running, feeling nauseous and guilty. He shouldn’t have come tonight. He felt awful for yelling at Draco, for imposing on him, for bringing the stormcloud of his bad mood over Draco’s head when he already had so much on his plate. But, somehow, in the past few weeks, Draco’s flat had become his refuge, the only safe and warm place he knew. And Harry was too weak and too lonely to stay away.

When Draco joined him, soft and clean and smelling of roses, he let Harry spoon him, and the sound of his heartbeat and the warmth of his skin soothed Harry to sleep within minutes.

Chapter Text

Harry woke with the sun. He pulled the covers over his head, but was unable to go back to sleep. He felt like absolute shit. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry, and his breath smelled absolutely abysmal.

He groaned as the memory of the previous night washed over him. He’d been awful to Draco—he’d broken into his house, drunk, kept him up late after an evening shift with his self-pity, brought up the war, and even shouted at him. Harry’s stomach twisted as he remembered. An absurd thought flitted through his head; that Draco was too pretty to be shouted at.

He rolled over and came face to face with Draco, who was still sleeping peacefully. His eyelashes were long and surprisingly dark against his cheeks. His eyes moved around beneath his lids, as if he was dreaming. Harry leaned forward and kissed him gently on the nose. Draco wrinkled his nose and rolled away.

Harry decided that he had to make up for the previous night’s events. Draco had been so sweet, so dear, and Harry had been awful. And yet, Draco hadn’t let him get away with any of his usual bullshit. He’d countered every point Harry made, stood up for himself, and hadn’t let Harry spiral or wallow in self pity. He didn’t treat him like a bomb about to go off, like Ron and Hermione sometimes did. And he’d let him stay. Draco had taken care of Harry, when it was supposed to be the other way around. Harry wanted to be a better man; to be worthy of him. And he might as well start now.

He dressed as quietly as he could, brushed his teeth, and made his way down the stairs, stopping for breath at the bottom. He picked a direction, intending to walk until he found a grocer or a corner store, but Draco’s neighborhood was grey and industrial and barren. It was ten blocks before he encountered a sad little Tesco’s, and he had to stop halfway there to vomit in the bushes.

When he finally stumbled back into Draco’s apartment with the groceries, panting with exertion, Draco sat up like a shot in bed, still in his pajamas, and looked at him with surprise. 

“I thought you’d left,” he said faintly.

“Nope,” Harry panted. “Hungry?”

After he’d unloaded the groceries, he turned to see Draco hovering behind him, tousled and sleepy-eyed in nothing more than A-fronts and an oversized white T-shirt that was hanging off one shoulder. His legs were long and white and slender, with just a dusting of blonde hair. Harry wanted to bite his creamy shoulder. He whipped his head around so fast his neck cracked, and felt rather than saw Draco’s smirk behind him.

“How does a full fry-up sound?” Harry asked, distracting himself by banging pots and pans around. “I got eggs, sausages, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, and toast.”

“Let me do the coffee,” Draco said. “I’m very particular.”

They were elbow to elbow in the tiny galley kitchen. When the coffee was ready, Draco sat at the table with his mug and watched as Harry sliced up the tomatoes and mushrooms.

“You cook the Muggle way,” he observed.

“I learned when I was young,” Harry said. “I cooked breakfast most days at the Dursley’s since I was seven or eight.”

“The muggles taught you?” Draco asked.

Harry drizzled oil on the pan. “‘Teach’ is a strong word. They pretty much threw me into the deep end.”

“Is that common among muggles, to have the children cook?” Draco asked. “Since they don’t have house elves?”

Harry laughed. “No,” he said, as he dumped the vegetables into the saucepan. “I suppose you never had to cook, at the Manor.”

“No,” Draco said simply. “Mipsy and Dobby took care of all that. I learned to cook much later on.” 

“Do you like it?” Harry asked, laying the bacon on the griddle.

“Not much,” Draco admitted. “It’s a slog, without magic.”

Harry shifted guiltily at the reminder that Draco was wandless. “What will you do? After your parole?” he asked.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I doubt there’s going to be much of an after,” he said.

Harry whirled around, grease flying off of his spatula. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “You only have two years left!”

“Your naivety never fails to astound me, Potter,” Draco drawled. “I’m sure they’ll find something else to pin on me when the time comes.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but his own words came back to him, as he was leaving Kingsley’s office yesterday—I’ll pin something else on him, then.

“I won’t let that happen,” Harry said.

“Alright,” Draco said with a shrug, clearly unconvinced.

“What will you do, though?” Harry asked, suddenly anxious at the thought of Draco leaving the country, or slipping beneath the radar, never to be heard from again.

“I honestly haven’t thought that far ahead,” Draco said in a tired voice. “The wizarding world certainly won’t applaud my return. And the family money was all seized, so I haven’t even the option of lying low or going abroad. I doubt much will change for me, even if the ministry does let me go.”

“I won’t—” Harry started, but Draco cut in.

“Potter, don’t,” he said viciously. “Don’t let’s pretend this is anything more than it is. I may be the present target of your pathological need to play knight on horseback, but we both know it’s not going to last. You’ll get tired of me and move on to the next one.”

Harry deflated, the spatula dangling from his hand. I won’t, he wanted to say, I won’t ever, but Hermione’s words from the night Sirius died came back to him vividly: Harry, don't you think you've got a bit of—a—saving-people thing?

It was true—he did, not that it had ever done him any good. He hadn’t been able to save Sirius, or Cedric, or anyone who came after. They had all died anyway, all of his efforts amounting to nothing in the end. What if Draco was right? What if Harry couldn’t fix things? What if this thing between them, whatever it was, was temporary, and Harry let Draco down, like he had all the others?

He was so lost in thought that he startled a bit when Draco cupped his face. “I didn’t mean to make you upset,” Draco murmured, a crease between his eyebrows. “Let’s just—let’s just enjoy whatever this is, however long it lasts. That’s all I meant. Alright?”

He leaned in, but Harry remembered at the last minute and whipped his head to the side. “Er—I threw up. On the way to the grocery store. I should probably brush my teeth.”

“Oh my GOD, Potter,” Draco said, recoiling. “You’re disgusting. Also, the bacon is burning.”  

“Shit,” Harry said, whirling around. He started flipping the bacon while Draco laughed, and eventually Harry joined in, too.

They ate breakfast in a companionable silence. Harry devoured three plate-fulls, while Draco picked daintily at the mushrooms and fed Lady Di bits of egg from his plate. 

When they had finished, Harry put the dishes in the sink and spelled them to clean themselves. Draco looked on wistfully.

Harry hovered awkwardly at the counter, unable to think of a reason to stay but not wanting to go. He really needed to pull more paperwork on Selwyn, but the thought of it made him wilt.

Draco spared him the decision by saying, “If you’re going to stay—again—I must insist that you take a shower.”

“Alright,” Harry said, embarrassed but grateful for the invitation—or as much of one as he was going to get.

He felt loads better after the shower—the heat and the steam washing away the last vestiges of his hangover. He brushed his teeth and used copious amounts of mouthwash and Draco’s deodorant.

But when he turned to get dressed, the clothes that he had shucked off onto the floor were nowhere to be found. Harry checked all of the towel racks, beneath the sink, in every corner, but they had vanished. There was, however, a stack of Draco’s clothing on top of the laundry basket. 

He peeked out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist.

“Er—Draco?” he called. “Did you do something with my clothes?”

Draco was lounging on the couch, still in his A-fronts and oversized tee. He was smoking and reading a novel. “Oh. Yes,” he said casually. “I burned them.”

“You—what?” Harry exclaimed, thunderstruck. 

Draco smiled wickedly. “Well, I didn’t literally burn them. But I did toss them down the garbage chute.”

“Why would you do that?” Harry said, crestfallen.

“I did you a favor,” Draco said, taking a drag of his cigarette. “The jeans were ripped and ratty, the shirt you were bursting out of, and the flannel was hopelessly oversized—and not in a fashionable way.” 

“That was my last pair of jeans,” Harry protested.

“Last pair—Harry,” Draco said, sitting up straight. “Remind me again how much gold you have in Gringotts?”

“I hate shopping,” Harry said sulkily.

“Don’t pout,” Draco said. “I’ll go shopping for you. I left you something to wear in the meantime.” 

Harry reluctantly returned to the bathroom and held up the clothes that Draco had left him: a pair of grey sweatpants, a white T-shirt, socks, and—even a pair of underpants, Harry realized with a flush, although they were boxers and not the A-fronts that Draco wore. Probably wise, Harry thought to himself—he wasn’t sure he’d fit into Draco’s A-fronts. The sweatpants fit, and were even a bit long on him—but the T-shirt was snug around his biceps and pecs.

He walked tentatively into the living room, and Draco gave him a long, appraising look. “I wore it better,” he said with a smirk.

Harry laughed. “You’re such a tosser,” he said.

He sat down beside him on the couch, and within moments, Draco had pounced on him, straddling him and kissing his neck. Draco ground down onto his cock, and Harry was instantly hard. He clutched Draco by his slender waist and started to grind back before his brain caught up with him. He caught Draco by the biceps and gently pushed him away.

“Honestly, Potter, are you sure you’re even gay?” Draco snapped. “Because if you are, it’s starting to hurt my feelings.”

“What?!” Harry spluttered. “Of course I’m gay!”

“Saving yourself for marriage, then?” he asked snidely.

“No!” Harry said. “No, I just—”

“Oh, I see,” Draco said with a wicked smile, grinding down into him again. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’re into edging.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” Harry protested.

“Then what the hell is your problem?” Draco demanded. “We just talked about this! I told you to trust me when I say I want you and you agreed!” 

“I know,” Harry said, frustrated. He finally, truly trusted that Draco wanted him, that he was ready, but all of a sudden Harry didn’t feel ready. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it, on the couch on an ordinary Thursday morning. What he couldn’t say was that he was terrified of Draco’s eyes going glassy again, of his mouth going slack and his thoughts spinning a million miles away from Harry. He wanted to make sure the atmosphere was right, that Draco could never possibly mistake him for anyone else. And Hermione’s disappointed tone was still echoing in his ears. Was he a monster for even considering sleeping with Draco?

“I—it’s—it’s not ethical!” Harry finally stuttered. “I’m in a position of power over you, and Hermione said that you might think you have to fuck me or I’ll sabotage your parole or—” 

“Hermione?!” Draco exclaimed, finally leaping off of Harry’s lap. “You told Hermione about us?!”

“Er—yeah? A bit?” Harry said, scratching his head.

“What did she say?” Draco asked, sinking into the couch, looking strangely nervous and vulnerable.

“Um—not much,” Harry said. “Just that it’s a really bad idea for us to—you know.” 

“No surprise there,” Draco muttered gloomily. Then his face changed again, and he glared down at Harry. “And Hermione has to sign off on all your sexual partners, does she? Oh my god,” he gasped, sitting up straight. “Are you in a throuple with Ron and Hermione?” he asked, eyes wide. “Is that why you’re so upset about the baby?”

“What—ugh! No!” Harry exclaimed. “And she doesn’t have to sign off on anything, I just think that she’s right, in this instance.”

“Right,” Draco said sarcastically. “So it’s fine to spend every waking moment at my house, snog me, sleep in my bed, shower at my house, wear my clothes, cook me breakfast—but shagging is where you draw the line?”

Harry flushed. When Draco put it that way, it sounded delusional. “I can—I should pull back,” he said, leaning forward. “I’m sorry. I’m putting you in a really shite position, and—”

“No!” Draco exclaimed, pushing him back against the couch by the shoulders. “No, that’s bollocks and you know it. You want this. I want this. If you need me to swear it on veritaserum, I will. But we can’t keep dancing around it. I’m so pent-up I’m going to explode. I haven’t shagged anyone since we kissed and it’s the longest I’ve gone without it since Azkaban. You’re killing me, Potter,” he whined.

Harry couldn’t help the rush of pleasure at the thought that Draco had been waiting—for him.

“Alright,” he said. “Alright. I just—I just want to do this right. I want this to be—more than just a hookup.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “What do you imagine then, Potter? To ask me to the Yule ball? Stroll hand in hand down Diagon Alley, dodging tomatoes and curses from my adoring fans? Don’t be delusional.”

Harry couldn’t think of a response. Draco wasn’t wrong, exactly—but it wrung his heart to hear it. “I just—” he said, frustrated. “I want to do this right. I just want to treat you right. Is that so bad?” 

Draco was looking at him strangely—almost tenderly. “You are,” he said. “You’ve been very—sweet.”

Harry couldn’t help a blush at that. He grabbed Draco’s hand, rubbed a thumb across his knuckles. “Can I at least—can I take you on a date?”

“A date?” Draco asked, bemused.

“Y’know, like, dinner…flowers and stuff. Get to know each other.”

“Potter, we’ve known each other since we were eleven,” Draco scoffed.

“Yeah, but we were at each other’s throats at the time, if you’ll remember.”

“And is it any different now?” Draco whispered, leaning forward to nip at Harry’s neck.

Harry pulled him into a hug, breathing in the deep the scent of his skin. Draco melted into his embrace, soft and warm and malleable. 

“Very gentlemanly, Potter—” Draco finally said, pulling back, “—taking me out to dinner before you fuck me. Alright—I accept. But no more beating around the bush after that. I’m running out of patience.”

Harry tucked a strand of hair behind Draco’s ear. He cupped his face and pulled him in for a kiss on the temple. Draco’s resulting blush was the sweetest thing Harry had ever seen.

Chapter Text

Draco was working nights until Wednesday, which he had gotten into the habit of taking off each week. It sent a thrill of pleasure through Harry when he realized that it was because of him. So the date had to wait until then. In the meantime, Harry came over every morning and evening to help Draco give Lady Di her antibiotics. He’d missed a dose, once, and Draco had dramatically showed Harry the scratches on his arms and made him swear not to leave him to do it alone again.

But Harry also spent more time than usual at the Ministry, rereading and rereading the scant files on Edwin. He was frustrated; he had never before received case files that were so sparse, but when he put in requests to the archives for trial transcripts and arrest interviews, he hit wall after wall. Initially, the archival office replied to his requests with a generic response claiming that his security clearance wasn’t high enough. When he complained to Kingsley, they relented, but the transcripts he received contained so many redactions that they were practically illegible. He was so irritated that he even went to Robards, but the Head of the Auror Office assured him that the redacted details weren’t pertinent to his case, and that, even if Harry were to appeal to unseal the records, the process would take longer than they had; Selwyn would be out of prison by then.

So instead, Harry had to piece together as much of the story as he could from the trial and arrest transcripts of other Death Eaters, slowly and painstakingly making his way through the interviews of every defendant and witness who had so much as mentioned Draco or Selwyn in passing. He learned that Edwin had been convicted on eight counts of cruelty to Non-Wizard Part-Humans. He’d slaughtered a whole pack of werewolves in the Forbidden Forest who had sworn allegiance to Dumbledore. After that, he’d ascended into the highest ranks of the Death Eaters, and had stayed at Voldemort’s right hand through to the end of the war. He’d evaded capture after the final battle and spent nearly three years in hiding, until an anonymous tip led to his capture. There was nothing explicit about the relationship between him and Draco in any of the records, but now that Harry knew what he knew, he could see the allusions everywhere—references to Selwyn and Draco’s room, Selwyn and Draco’s closeness, Selwyn and Draco’s bond—which Harry now knew was literal as well as metaphorical. In the few photos that existed, photos that made Harry’s jaw clench, Selwyn always had a proprietary hand on Draco’s waist, shoulder, or even neck, and Draco looked uncharacteristically subdued, shrinking into Selwyn’s side and looking at his feet. Harry was forced to grudgingly admit that Selwyn had a dark, aristocratic beauty about him—and he was so tall that he dwarfed even Draco.

But still, he was unable to find anything that he could use as an opener with Draco. Getting any kind of information out of him, no matter how innocuous, was like catching a fish with your bare hands, and his relationship with Selwyn seemed to be the secret that he guarded more closely than anything else. Harry had to tread delicately, or he risked losing Draco’s trust. But he was getting desperate—he had to keep Selwyn away from him.

Harry’s efforts didn’t escape Draco’s notice. “You haven’t been working, have you?” he asked after they’d given Lady Di her antibiotics and were recovering on the couch. “You never seemed to give a toss about work before. You were here at all hours.”

“Er—it’s been a bit busy,” Harry said.

“Are you even submitting my parole paperwork?” Draco said. “Dawlish was always doing paperwork.”

“Er—” Harry said. Come to think of it, he was a bit behind on the paperwork.

“I suppose famous Harry Potter doesn’t have to worry about such pedestrian things,” Draco scoffed. “Why did you even become an auror, anyway? It’s not like you need the paycheck.”

Harry scratched his neck and shrugged. “It just seemed like the thing to do, I suppose. My whole life was about fighting dark wizards—I didn’t have a clue what else to do, and then Kingsley offered me the job, so…I just fell into it, I suppose.”

“Of course you didn’t even have to apply,” Draco said, rolling his eyes and flopping down on the arm of the couch, shoving his feet into Harry’s lap. “Did you even take your N.E.W.T.S.?”

“No,” Harry admitted, squeezing Draco’s cold foot.

“Typical,” Draco scoffed. Then he asked, in a tone of genuine curiosity, giving Harry an incisive look— “Do you like your job?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, truthfully. “It’s as good as any other job, I suppose.”

“I always thought you’d go pro at Quidditch,” Draco said, a bit wistfully. “You were quite good. I suppose I can finally admit that now.”

He smiled shyly at Harry, and Harry’s heart squeezed. “Speaking of,” Harry said, “Did I tell you the Chudley Cannons just won the Quidditch World Cup?”

Draco sat bolt upright. “You’re joking,” he said. “I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true,” Harry laughed. “I’ll bring you the Daily Prophet to prove it.”

“And a chocolate frog,” Draco added.

“Deal,” Harry agreed.

The next day, Harry returned with a copy of the Prophet and a whole hamper of sweets from Honeydukes. Draco’s eyes shone when he saw the hamper. He even gave Harry a kiss on the cheek. They sat on the couch and leafed through the Prophet as they worked their way through the hamper together, discarding wrappers on the floor. Draco shook his head over the Cannons and offered a running commentary on other bits of news. There was an ad for a new potion supply shop that had him excited, and a “Best Dressed” page that he got absolutely vicious over.

At one point, Draco unwrapped a chocolate frog and got Harry’s card. He laughed and laughed at the illustration, which showed Harry with a sharper jaw and much more bulging muscles than he had in real life.

Draco had finally managed to calm down when he turned a page of the newspaper and was confronted with a full spread of a half-nude charity shoot Harry had been pressured into doing just after the war.

“Oh—my—GOD!” Draco exclaimed gleefully, holding the paper away from Harry as Harry snatched at it. “So THIS is why you wanted to bring me the paper!” 

The shoot showed Harry posing shirtless on a broomstick in a variety of suggestive poses. It had been taken right after his auror training, when he was in the best shape of life. He found it highly embarrassing, as he had at the time, but he had been talked into it as the proceeds from that edition went to a good cause—rebuilding the Quidditch pitch after the war. The worst part was that he hadn’t read the fine print, which revealed that the Prophet owned the rights to the photos in perpetuity. The shoot was so popular that the newspaper ran the spread every other week for a year, and still ran it sporadically up until the present day.

The Harry in the photos flexed his muscles, kissed his bicep, and hung off the broomstick with just his legs, his arms crossed jauntily behind his head. In another photo, he was laying sideways on the broomstick, a hand behind his head and another on his crotch, winking at the reader.

Draco was howling with laughter. “Oh my god,” he said. “Look at your muscles! What happened to them? These days you have one ab, at best!”

“Give it here!” Harry said, laughing, snatching at the paper.

Draco skipped out of reach and ran through the apartment while Harry chased him. 

“No!” he exclaimed. “I’m going to frame it! I’m going to paste it above my bed! I’m going to sleep with it under my pillow!”

Harry finally caught Draco around the waist, Draco cackling as he did so.

“Give it back,” Harry said, tickling his stomach. “Give it back or I’ll tickle you to death.” 

“Fine, fine,” Draco gasped, dropping the paper. “Fine, I surrender.”

They collapsed onto the floor in a panting, giggling heap. While Draco lay helpless beneath him, Harry crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the bin.

He leaned over Draco, who was rolling on the floor, tears of laughter streaking down his face, and kissed him.

He tasted of chocolate.

Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen Draco that happy.

And then, the quiet realization that he’d never been this happy washed over him. In that moment, it was as though the war had never happened; as though Azkaban had never happened; as though the sectumsempra curse had never happened. If Harry closed his eyes, he could imagine they were the innocent eleven-year-old-boys they once had been, not so very long ago, horsing around and gobbling sweets and making each other howl with laughter. Nothing bad had happened yet.

***

On Tuesday morning, while they sprawled on the couch, recovering from the massive breakfast Harry had just made them, Draco gave Harry a sidelong look and said, “What should I wear to—tomorrow night?”

“Oh—uh…I dunno,” Harry said, caught off guard.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, what are you going to wear?”

“Um…” Harry looked down at himself. He was dressed for work, so slightly nicer than usual—in khaki trousers, a red sweater, and trainers. “Something like this, I suppose?”

Draco narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Where are we going—the zoo?”  

“No,” Harry said, affronted. “It’s—it’s somewhere nice, I swear!”

“Nando’s?”

It was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “Give me a little more credit than that. It’s Clos Maggiore, if you must know.”

Draco’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

“I am not!” Harry protested, but secretly, he was gratified by Draco’s reaction. He had been anxious that whatever restaurant he chose would not be up to Draco’s standards, and Clos Maggiore was the only nice Muggle restaurant he had ever heard of. He remembered it from years ago, when Aunt Petunia spent the whole week gushing about how her friend Yvonne’s husband had taken her to Clos Maggiore for their twentieth anniversary, clearly hinting to Uncle Vernon that she expected the same treatment on their anniversary, until Uncle Vernon snapped, “You should have married a rich podiatrist like Yvonne if you wanted to go Clos Maggiore, then!”

“Potter, that’s like—a world class restaurant!” Draco said, gaping. “You can’t show up wearing trainers, they won’t even let you in!”

“No one will even notice my trainers,” Harry protested. 

“I will,” Draco said bluntly, sticking his nose in the air. “I’ll be ashamed to be seen with you.”

“Come on, Draco,” Harry groaned. “I hate shopping.”

“Now that you’re gay you can’t dress like a slob any longer,” Draco quipped. “You’ll ruin our reputation.”

“I won’t know what to buy,” Harry said. 

Draco didn’t know it, but he had pressed on a sore spot. Harry had never been shopping, truly, in his life.  As a child, he’d worn oversized, tattered hand-me-downs from Dudley. Once he was in Hogwarts, the standard uniform had been a blessed relief—being told exactly what to wear and where to buy it, and having the clothes tailored by Madam Malkin for his own body. Even in his downtime, he’d stuck to the standard-issue sweaters, supplementing them with the occasional tees and jeans from Dudley that he had finally grown into. The auror uniform had been another relief, and ever since then, he’d coasted by with hand-me-downs from Ron and muggle clothes that he’d found in Grimmauld Place at the back of Sirius’s closet. He knew that Ron and Hermione found that morbid, but the clothes made him feel closer to Sirius, and he felt he would die of shame if he walked into a clothing store. He had no idea what to look for, what size he was, or how clothes were supposed to fit.

“I’ll come with you,” Draco pleaded. “I’ll pick out all the pieces. You won’t have to do anything except try them on. Come on, Harry, please let me.”

Draco’s eyes were shining. It was impossible to say no. “Fine,” Harry relented. “Tonight?”

“I have work tonight,” Draco said. “Let’s go now!” 

“I have work,” Harry protested. 

Draco scoffed. “You never go in to work. Besides, they wouldn’t dare sack The Chosen One.”

Harry rolled his eyes. As embarrassing as it was to admit, Draco was right. “Fine,” he said.

Minutes later, they were in a cab on their way to Harrods—Draco’s suggestion, of course.

“How do you always look so nice?” Harry blurted out. “Even though—I mean—I can’t imagine your job—I mean—” Harry snapped his mouth closed, blushing

Draco gave him a sidelong look. “Even though I’m poor now?” he said dryly. “You can say it, Potter.”

He leaned his head against the leather seat and looked out the window at the rowhomes scrolling past. “It just takes a bit of work,” he said. “I go to a lot of charity shops.” Harry didn’t miss the way his cheeks flushed when he said it. “You can get really nice pieces for very little. It’s just a matter of looking consistently and knowing which brands and fabrics to look out for. If you stick to neutrals, you can mix and match a few items to make dozens of outfits. Once you have a few high-quality staples, you can get away with the rest of your clothing being a bit shabby. And I learned to mend, the muggle way, although I have to go to cobblers for shoe repairs.”

Harry reached across the seat and squeezed Draco’s hand, his heart suddenly full of tenderness. He imagined Draco bravely sticking his chin up and swanning around the charity shops as though he were in Madam Malkin’s, proud as ever. Harry felt guilty and rotten for complaining about shopping to Draco—for walking around with holes in his trainers while his Gringotts vault sat untouched.

In the department store, Draco was in his element, musing aloud about Harry’s best colors and skin undertones; running his fingers over fabrics; dismissing various garments as cheap, tacky, garish, or loud, or else whipping them off the racks and holding them up to Harry, his eyes shining.

Harry trailed behind Draco, holding whatever was handed to him and dutifully letting Draco shoo him into the changing room at regular intervals.

Among other items, Draco approved for Harry cashmere turtlenecks in black and cream; smart trousers in wool for the winter; a green, military-style jacket; a pack of plain, white cotton v-neck tees; a black trenchcoat; Chelsea boots; black Doc Martens with the yellow stitching; a sleek, short gold chain that Harry thought made him look like a chav; and even a pair of leather pants and a jacket. Harry initially balked at those, but Draco insisted—he claimed that Harry’s ideal style was “smart casual with an alternative edge,” and many of the trousers, shoes, and jackets he selected were adorned with tasteful silver buckles and zippers and chains. He even relented after some pleading on Harry’s part and allowed him to try on some (non-holey) skinny jeans, in both black and blue. Finally, Draco selected an oversized, emerald-green wool sweater.

When Harry pulled it on, Draco met his eyes in the mirror and grinned. “Has anyone ever told you green is your color?” he asked.

“No,” Harry breathed. But even he had to admit that he looked good. The green made his eyes pop, made his skin glow. He never knew he could look—like this. Like someone handsome and confident, someone who took care of himself, someone who knew how he wanted to be seen by the world and went for it. In that moment, the ever-present shame that he always carried with him shrank, just a little. Maybe he could actually be someone that Draco would be proud to have on his arm. Maybe they could go out on a date and look like a unit, like a smart, natural couple, instead of two wildly opposed individuals. 

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Draco smirked.

“Not really,” Harry said without thinking. “The sorting hat wanted to put me in Slytherin.”

“It did?” Draco asked, his expression one of pure shock. “How’d you end up in Gryffindor, then?”

“Er—I asked it not to,” Harry said. Because of you, hung, unspoken, between them.

“Oh,” Draco said, looking away. “Of course.”

On their way to the checkout, Harry’s arms piled high with garments, he noticed Draco fingering a beautiful, pure wool Black Watch tartan scarf. After Draco moved ahead, Harry surreptitiously added it to his pile, and on their way home, in the cab, he draped it around Draco’s neck.

Draco plucked at the end of the scarf, confused, and then his eyes lit up in realization. He leaned over and pulled Harry’s face to his and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Harry beamed all the way to the door.

Chapter Text

Draco fiddled with his cuffs in the mirror, keeping one eye on the clock on his bedside table. Harry had said that he would pick him up at seven. It was 7:05, and Draco was beginning to worry that these last few blissful weeks with Harry had been one long, elaborate joke, and that he had finally reached the punchline.

Draco was wearing slim-cut brown trousers that showed his ankles, a belt with a faux-gold buckle, brown leather loafers, a crisp white popover, and a pale blue jumper that he had tied around his shoulders. He wanted to look smart, but not so smart as to feel like an idiot if it turned out Harry really was taking him to Nando’s—or planning something far worse. Draco shuddered. In spite of all the kissing and flirting and meals and evenings they’d shared, Draco still couldn’t bring himself to believe that Harry was taking him out on a date. It was too surreal, like something out of one of his childhood fantasies. He had never dared to consider that it could actually happen. The very notion of it was absurd; laughable. A cool breeze came in through the window and ruffled the curtains. Despite that, Draco was sweating. He decided to roll up his cuffs.

Just as he finished, he heard the revving of an engine. Then a loud car horn. It sounded again. And again—longer this time. 

Draco rolled his eyes. Someone must have pulled down the service road around the back of the building. He stuck his head through the window, ready to give them a piece of his mind. He leaned over the fire escape and saw a gleaming black motorcycle and a man in leather dismounting.

“It’s a service road,” Draco shouted. “There’s no outlet! Lay off the horn and go around the back, for christ’s sake!”

The man took off his helmet and shook free a head full of glossy, black curls. He looked up at Draco, his glasses glinting in the streetlights.

Draco’s jaw dropped. It was the fittest man he had ever seen in his life.

It was Harry.

“Should I come up, or…?” Harry called up.

“I’ll—” It came out as a squeak. Draco cleared his throat. “I’ll come down.”

He crawled through the window, closed it behind him, and hurried down the fire escape.

Draco became acutely aware that his knees were quivering as he approached Harry. Fucking get it together, he scolded himself.

Harry was leaning against the motorcycle in a studied-casual pose, a helmet under one arm and the other in his pocket. He was wearing his new black Chelsea boots, black slim-fit pants, a camel turtleneck jumper, a leather jacket, and even—Draco’s belly swooped at the sight—leather gloves. His curls were slightly wild from the helmet. He looked like he had crawled out of a magazine spread—or one of Draco’s teenage wet dreams.

“Where’d you get the bike?” Draco asked, his mouth dry.

“It belonged to my godfather Sirius,” Harry said, beaming at it. “It flies, too.”

“You’re flying us to Clos Maggiore?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

Harry laughed. “No. I thought I’d drive us. A little more fun than a cab. Unless you don’t want to,” he said anxiously, looking back at Draco. “If you’d rather, we can—”

“No,” Draco cut in. “No, it’s class,” he said with a smile.

Harry beamed back at him. “Oh, hang on,” he said, and shucked off a backpack he’d been wearing. He produced an extra helmet, which Draco accepted, and then a rather smushed bouquet of red roses. Draco flushed. 

“Should I take these back inside, or…?”

“Oh,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck. He laughed. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. I’ve never really been on a date before. A proper one, I mean.”

“Me neither,” Draco said without thinking, then cursed himself when Harry’s eyes went round. It was true, though. He and Edwin had hardly been off the Manor grounds. And none of his muggle hookups had taken him anywhere other than back to their flats, although a few of them had asked him out the morning after. Draco always said no. 

“Really?” Harry said. “I thought you must have been on loads, seeing as—”

Draco gave him a hard smile. “Seeing as I’m always slutting it up at clubs? Hooking up isn’t dating, Potter.” He softened at Harry’s deer-in-the-headlights expression. “But thank you for the flowers. Really. Let me just go put these in water.”

Once Draco had sorted the bouquet, he put on his helmet and mounted the bike behind Harry. 

“Hang on tight,” Harry said over his shoulder, his voice muffled behind the helmet. The engine revved loudly and the whole machine began to vibrate. Draco squeezed Harry’s waist as tightly as he dared, and then they were off, racing through the London streets.

Harry was as fast on the bike as he was on a broom, and just as confident and agile. He whipped between cars and cabs and buses, the scenery blurring. Draco hoped Harry couldn’t hear his heart thumping, couldn’t feel the butterflies in his stomach that threatened to burst forth.

Draco hooked his chin on Harry’s shoulder and squeezed him even tighter, thinking that Harry never looked quite as confident and self-assured—never as sexy—as when he was driving something. It suited him. Draco would let Harry steer him anywhere.

Draco never wanted it to end, but before long, they were pulling up to the restaurant. He dismounted, breathless and wobbly. He pulled off his helmet and shook his head. “Is my hair ruined?” he asked anxiously.

Harry reached a hand towards Draco’s hair, then seemed to realize he was wearing gloves, and dropped it. “No,” he said, yanking off his gloves. “It—you look—you look brilliant.”

He reached for Draco’s hand, but Draco shied back, his heart suddenly pounding so hard he was afraid he was going to faint.

“Harry,” he blurted out. “This is your last chance. You have to tell me—”

“What?” Harry asked, stepping forward, his beautiful green eyes filled with concern.

“You have to tell me if this is a prank,” Draco burst out. “If there’s a pack of Weasleys in the lobby who’ve jerry-rigged a bucket of pig’s blood over the door or something, I don’t know!”

Draco bit his lip. He felt like an idiot as soon as he’d said it, and like a monster when Harry’s face fell. But he had to know. He had to know if this was real, before he did something stupid—

Really stupid—

—Like fall in love with Harry Potter.

“Pig’s blood?” Harry said, incredulous. “That’s so specific…? Anyway, no! Of course not! Is that really what you think of me?”

“Well I’ve always been the exception to your high-minded principles in the past, haven’t I?” Draco snapped. 

Harry’s eyes turned round and hurt, and Draco felt like the biggest arsehole in the world. He was doing it again—he was trying to push Harry away, hurt his feelings before Harry could hurt him. Trying to cover up his fear with nastiness, the way he’d always done. And he’d made Harry so upset he was doing the puppy-dog eyes thing again. Draco couldn’t bear it when Harry made puppy-dog eyes.

“Shit,” he said, running a hand roughly through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m being a prick. I’m just nervous.”

He leaned in towards Harry, hoping Harry would close the distance between them, and sure enough, Harry wrapped him up in a giant hug. He smelled like shitty cologne. Draco closed his eyes and smiled. He’d have to get Harry onto a new fragrance. But the effort he’d so clearly made hurt Draco’s heart. He was so happy that it had somehow looped back around to sadness.

Draco realized, with a heady rush of emotion, that he didn’t actually believe this evening was going to end in a cruel prank. This whole thing with Harry was bound to come crashing down, of course—it couldn’t possibly last. Azkaban or no, his lifespan was irrevocably bound to Edwin’s. And even that aside, he was too used up and damaged and spiteful and complicated. Harry would get tired of him. Or Draco would drive him away, or Harry’s job would come between them, or—and Draco squeezed Harry even more tightly at the thought—someone would come along who actually deserved Harry. But in that moment, Draco was desperate to soak up every last bit of his affection while it was still freely given. And he really, truly believed—for the first time—that when Harry inevitably broke his heart, it wouldn’t be on purpose.

When he finally relaxed his arms, Harry gave Draco a sweet, soft kiss on the mouth before pulling away.

“Someone’s going to see,” Draco whispered, looking up and down the sidewalk at the well-dressed diners and shoppers of Covent Garden. It was unlikely they’d be hassled in such a posh part of London, at such an hour, but it was never worth the risk.

“I want them to,” Harry said, sticking his chin up stubbornly, and Draco bit his bottom lip to prevent a smile.

He let Harry lead him by the hand into the lobby—deeply nervous to be so out in the open, but unwilling to forego the comfort of Harry’s warm, strong hand.

“Table for two, under Potter,” Harry said to the host. Draco squeezed Harry’s hand. He couldn’t believe the idiot had put the reservation under his real name. There were unlikely to be other wizards here, but it was never impossible.

The host led them through a series of gorgeous, oak-paneled rooms. It was clearly an old building, pre-war, with a solid wood bar and high windows and cozy fireplaces. Real ivy adorned the arched doorways. But when the host led them into the greenhouse, Draco’s eyes went round.

The ceiling was glass, and from it hung hundreds upon hundreds of cherry blossoms in full bloom. It smelled enchanting. In the middle of the far wall, a huge, graceful stone fireplace reached the ceiling, a log fire blazing within. It reminded him so much of Hogwarts that his heart twisted. There were fairy lights and candles everywhere, and the cozy tables were accompanied by leather chairs. The restaurant's reputation preceded it—a particularly talented chef at the Gentleman’s Club had been snapped up by Clos Maggiore a few years ago—but Draco had never dreamed that it would be so—overwhelmingly romantic.

Draco’s heart began rabbiting in his chest. He suddenly felt hot, and when the host seated them and strode away, he chugged half of his water glass as gracefully as he could. He breathed deeply and avoided Harry’s eyes.

Enjoy yourself, but remember it won’t last, he reminded himself sternly. This isn’t because it’s you. This is because it’s Harry. This is how he is—how he’d be, with anyone. Don’t fantasize. Don’t get ahead of yourself. 

A memory of Edwin’s mocking voice whispered in his ear: Did you think Potter would take you away, like a knight in shining armor? Or worse—did you think he would fuck you?

But he is going to fuck me, Draco thought smugly as Harry shucked off his leather jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. His biceps were straining against the sleeves of the turtleneck that Draco had deliberately bought one size too small, knowing that Harry wouldn’t have a clue how a well-fitting jumper should look.

Harry looked at Draco with his shining green eyes and Draco’s breath caught in his throat. If Potter didn’t chicken out again, they were actually going to shag tonight. Harry would pull the too-tight jumper over his head and throw it on the floor. He would loom over Draco, smirking, and kiss him. He would pin him to the bed. He would—

“Like it?” Harry asked anxiously, looking around the dining room. “It’s supposed to be really good, but I’ve never been. And—er—I guess I wouldn’t really know either way.”

Draco tried for levity—for anything that would cut through the thick smog of romance in the air. “I’m flattered you think you need to go to so much effort to get me in bed,” he said smoothly, fluttering his eyelashes. “You shouldn’t have.”

But it was the wrong thing to say—as always. Harry’s face fell, and Draco quickly said, “No, it’s lovely. It is. Really.”

The host had left them with the wine list, and Harry picked it up and gave it a terrified glance before passing it across the table to Draco. “I think you’re going to have to order,” he said.

Draco smirked. “You’re in good hands, Potter,” he said. “Although it’s strange to be on this side of the bar.”

He scanned the wine list and settled on a bottle of ten-year Cabernet that he knew to be delicious, but was on the lower end of the selection’s prices. He didn’t want Harry to think he was after his gold—although, as soon as he thought it, he realized that “ordering the expensive wine” wouldn’t even rank in his top twenty crimes against Harry Potter.

“How many bottles shall we order?” he joked, closing the menu. “I imagine you’ll have to be close to blackout if you’re really planning on shagging an ex-Death Eater.”

Harry’s eyebrows pulled together. Draco could have kicked himself. He’d done it again. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t a dig at you. It was a dig at me.”

“I know,” Harry said quietly. “I don’t like it either way.”

“Sorry,” Draco said, cheeks flaring. He was fucking it up. He was on a date with Harry fucking Potter in the most romantic restaurant in London and he couldn’t help trying to sabotage everything, as he always did.

To give himself time to figure out how to salvage the conversation, Draco raised his water glass to his lips.

“You’re shaking,” Harry said in a hushed voice as he put the glass down. “Are you alright?”

Draco nodded, unable to speak for a moment. He was shaking so hard he was sure the whole restaurant could see. It was completely humiliating.

“I’m just—nervous,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ve never really been—in public with a man before. I don’t know how you’re playing it so casual.”

Harry’s brow crumpled with sickening levels of concern. He reached beneath the table and put his large, warm palm on Draco’s knee, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Draco’s trousers.

“I won’t let anything happen,” he said in a low, firm voice, and Draco actually believed him. He put his hand on Harry’s and gave it a squeeze.

“Not to mention—” Draco added, trying to deflect from his embarrassment, “I’m completely starstruck. I mean, you’re the Chosen One after all, the Harry Pott—” 

Harry kicked Draco under the table and he cackled. 

He could feel his hand starting to sweat against Harry’s. He yanked it away as their waiter swept over. 

“Hello, my name is André, and I’ll be serving you tonight,” he said with a big smile. “The host just informed me we’re celebrating a very special occasion!”

“We are?” Draco asked.

“Yes!” Harry cut in frantically. “Yes, our anniversary!”

“Wonderful,” André beamed. “How long have you been together?”

“We’re not together,” Draco cut in.

“Not just together, he means!” Harry announced loudly. “We’re—we’re married! It’s our first anniversary!”

Draco could practically feel his soul leaving his body. Did Harry fucking Potter really just announce their marriage to the entire restaurant? What the hell was this? Had Draco’s fears of a cruel prank been prescient?

But when he looked across the table at Harry, his face was so red and embarrassed that that couldn’t be the case. “Sorry,” he mouthed at Draco.

When Draco looked over at André, having decided to play along for the time being, his customer-service smile had been replaced by a genuine one, his eyes shining. Draco suddenly realized that he was one of them.

“That’s lovely,” André said sincerely. “Where did you go?”

Harry opened his mouth, and Draco realized that he was almost certainly about to say the wrong thing.

“Spain,” Draco cut in, smiling back at André.

“Really? I have friends who got married there last year,” he gushed.

“Oh, well done them,” Draco said, putting on his most charming smile.

“I’ll be back with a few flutes of champagne for you two lovebirds,” André said with a wink. “This isn’t part of our anniversary package, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Oh, you’re a doll,” Draco cooed.

When he turned back to Harry, Harry’s cheeks were still red and his eyes were so wide he looked as though he’d been electrocuted.

“Spain?” Harry asked softly.

“It’s legal there,” Draco said. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t know. Now, mind telling me when we got married?”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry blurted out. “I completely forgot. They were giving me a hard time about a reservation, but then they said if I bought a special occasion package they could get us in tonight, and—”

“And you chose ‘anniversary’? Was birthday not an option?” Draco teased, but he was laughing. “I spill my guts about how nervous I am and you announce to the whole restaurant that we’re fucking married?”

Harry apologized again, but he started laughing too, and soon enough they were both wheezing, trying to hide their laughter behind their napkins but failing so spectacularly that they began to draw the attention of the other patrons.

They had managed to calm down by the time the waiter came back with their champagne. Draco was wiping tears away with his napkin, but he caught a wink from André as he set the ice bucket and glasses down on the table, clearly enjoying their mirth.

“Are you gentlemen ready to order?” he asked, readying his pen.

Draco opened the menu which they had completely ignored until this moment. “What do you recommend?” he asked smoothly.

The waiter rattled off a number of specials, and Draco nodded. “Let’s do the scallops and truffles to start,” he said. “And for the main, the halibut with champagne and caviar sauce sounds divine.”

Harry was scanning his menu with genuine panic in his eyes. “Ehm—I suppose I’ll have the steak tartare,” he mumbled.

“Wait,” Draco said to the waiter, holding up a hand. “Harry,” he said patiently, “do you even know what tartare is?”

“Not exactly,” Harry said, his cheeks burning.

“It’s raw.”

“Oh,” Harry said, with a look of disgust.

Draco looked up at André with a toothy smile and said, “He’ll have the Hereford beef fillet.”

As André bustled away, Draco turned back to Harry, who had a relieved expression on his face. “You’ll love it,” he declared.

Draco poured champagne for them both and handed Harry a glass.

“What shall we toast to?” Harry asked.

“To Slytherin,” Draco said wickedly, reaching his glass towards Harry’s, but Harry pulled back with a scandalized expression.

“No!” he said, laughing.

Draco scoffed. “Still holding onto that childish rivalry, Potter? Pathetic!”

“I’ll toast to Slytherin if you toast to Gryffindor,” Harry challenged.

“Not likely,” Draco said, sticking his nose in the air. “I refuse to toast to cheaters.”

“Cheaters?!” Harry exclaimed.

“Dumbledore was so obviously biased!” Draco insisted. “What else do you call him showering Gryffindor with hundreds of bogus points in the last minute of the contest, year after year? Putting up all the Slytherin banners only to change them?”

Harry thought for a long moment. “I can see how that would have felt unfair,” he said.

He said it so seriously that Draco couldn’t help but laugh.

“To first dates,” Harry said, holding his glass up. “No wait—to us.”

“To us,” Draco muttered as their glasses clinked. “God, Potter, you’re so embarrassing. Have you always been this embarrassing?”

Harry shrugged cheerfully. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose I would,” Draco said, taking a sip of champagne. “Yes, you always have been,” he decided. “Fumbling your way through the Triwizard Tournament. Being the most famous wizard in all of Britain and still unable to pull any girls, although I suppose we can count that mystery solved. Fainting on the Quidditch pitch. Being such a poor excuse for a student you only passed your classes because Granger did all of your and Weasley’s homework.”

“How do you know about that?” Harry asked, shocked.

“Are you kidding?” Draco laughed. “You thought you were slick? It was so obvious!”

“Okay, fine,” Harry said loudly. “You know what’s more embarrassing than all of that put together? Being turned into a fucking ferret!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Draco hissed, kicking Harry under the table. He looked around furtively, trying not to laugh. “We’re in a muggle restaurant, you idiot!”

But Harry hooked his foot around Draco’s and pulled. Draco lurched forward a bit, and then he grinned wickedly. He slipped his foot out of his loafer and slowly slid it up Harry’s boot, then beneath his trousers, gratified when a flush bloomed on Harry’s cheeks.

“Behave,” Harry growled, but with a twinkle in his eye. He reached under the table with his free hand and gave Draco’s ankle a squeeze. His commanding voice went straight to Draco’s groin.

They both startled and jumped apart when the waiter approached, but he swept past them to another table. Draco hurriedly stuffed his foot back into his shoe. He smirked across his champagne glass, taking another sip. Harry copied him as a pleasant warmth coiled in Draco’s belly.

It was so nice to have someone to talk with about his school days. There was no one left from his childhood to reminisce with; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to anyone about Hogwarts, or indeed, about anything that happened before the war. He and Harry were carefully avoiding mention of sixth year on. But their early years at Hogwarts, even with all of their rivalry and dislike, now felt cast in a golden light. They had been so innocent, then. He’d been a little shit, of course—a bully—but he hadn’t yet done anything irredeemable, and it took a weight off his heart to see that his minor crimes, at least, could be laughed at by Harry Potter now.

He wished, with a painful twist, that he could go back and make all the right choices. That he could have had the foresight to become someone who could sit in a restaurant and drink champagne with Harry Potter without the sins of his past lurking just beyond the boundaries of their conversation, like so many elephants in the room. To become someone who was, if not Harry’s equal, at least not contemptible beside him—someone who could be more than a temporary experiment. But Draco chided himself. He mustn’t be selfish, or greedy—he was here with Harry now, and that was more than he deserved.

When the truffles and scallops came, they scooted their chairs closer so that they could more easily share. Harry hunched over the plate with his elbows on the table like a caveman.

“Christ, Potter, I can’t take you anywhere,” Draco scoffed. “Sit up straight. Elbows off the table.” Harry sighed dramatically, but obeyed. 

When they’d polished off the appetizers, Draco wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “So. Potter. I’ve laid myself bare to you. My third year crush. When did you start looking at me with lust in your eyes?”

Harry put his chin on his hand and looked across the table at Draco with a dreamy expression in his eyes. “Pretty much the instant I saw you outside of the Gentlemen's Club that first night.” 

Draco took another sip of champagne to hide his pleasure. As did Harry. Draco noticed that Harry had been carefully matching his pace of drinking all evening, practically sip for sip, and it warmed something in his belly to know that Harry didn’t need to be legless to spend an evening with him.

“What, do uniforms get you off or something?”

“No, I mean—I—I like it,” Harry said, flushing. “But it was—your lip ring. And the way you smoked the cigarette, and the way you smelled, and your hair and your shoulders and your forearms and…” 

Harry seemed to realize he was babbling, and shook himself.

“I am quite handsome,” Draco said with a toss of his hair, covering up his genuine delight. “And you clean up nicely,” he admitted, casting another glance over at Harry, at the way his pecs were outlined beneath his tight jumper. “See, with a neutral capsule wardrobe, even a cretin like you can put together a coherent outfit.”

“The boots pinch my feet,” Harry whined. “I only wore them because I knew you’d whinge if I wore trainers.”

“Beauty is pain,” Draco declared. He ran a finger around the rim of his glass, hesitating, and then said, “I’ll admit you looked quite fit on that motorcycle of yours.”

Then, when Harry’s chest puffed up, he added, to cut him down a peg, “Typical of you to show off like that instead of just getting a cab like a normal person.”

Harry blushed, but a sheepish grin spread across his face. He scratched the back of his neck. “Hey, can you blame me for wanting to get your arms around me again?” he asked.

Draco looked down at the tablecloth to cover his answering flush. “I suppose not,” he said airily.

When they had finished the champagne, the waiter came back with their mains and the wine Draco had selected. Draco poured the wine with a flourish.

“I love the way you do that,” Harry said dreamily. “I should come watch you work at the club more often.” 

“Get a life,” Draco quipped, unable to meet Harry’s warm gaze. 

Harry demolished his plate of beef within minutes, and then eyed Draco’s halibut hungrily until Draco fed him a bite. Harry maintained eye contact while he slid the fish off the tines of Draco’s fork with his lips, and Draco’s cock jumped. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to drag Harry into the bathroom and fall to his knees in a stall.

When the waiter took their plates away, Harry reached around the table and grabbed Draco’s hand, tangling their fingers together. When Draco darted anxious looks around the room, Harry’s eyes softened, and he slipped the white tablecloth over their clasped hands. Draco gave Harry’s hand a grateful squeeze.

Just then, André arrived with a platter of chocolates arrayed in a ring around the edge of a white dish. In the middle of the dish, it read “Happy Anniversary!” in red icing. 

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen,” André said with a wink, laying down the check before he swept away.

Mustering his courage, Draco held up a chocolate towards Harry. Harry’s eyes went wide, but he gently plucked the truffle out of Draco’s fingers with his teeth, and swallowed it down. Draco watched hungrily as his throat bobbed.

When Harry reached across the table to feed Draco a chocolate, Draco took it along with Harry’s thumb. He sucked it down before Harry pulled back, scandalized. “I thought you were shy,” he said in a hushed voice, glancing around the room, wiping his thumb off on his trousers.

“I am,” Draco said. “But I’m also tipsy. And I want you to fuck me.” 

Harry flushed. “Okay,” he said in a deliciously low voice. “Want to get out of here?”

“Yes,” Draco breathed.

“Let’s go,” Harry said. “But I’m taking these chocolates with us.”

After leaving a sizeable tip, they stumbled out into the night air. The evening had turned cold and blowy. Even after pulling his jumper over his head, Draco was shivering a bit as they walked down the block towards the motorcycle.

“Take my jacket,” Harry said, shrugging it off. Draco started to protest, but Harry wrapped it around his shoulders.

Distracted by the gesture, and a little bit tipsy, Draco stumbled over a lip of the sidewalk, and Harry squeezed Draco against his side. “Steady on,” he said. He was so big and strong and warm; Draco couldn’t help but feel safe and comforted.

He leaned his head against Harry’s shoulder, holding his jacket tightly around himself. “I can’t believe you’re actually this gallant,” he said before he could think the better of it. “It’s sickening.”

Harry started to say something in response, but Draco was no longer listening. A man was striding down the pavement towards them. He was dressed nicely, in expensive jeans, leather shoes, and a floral button-up, but he was walking too quickly, and looking at Draco with an intensity that Draco knew all too well.

He started to pull out of Harry’s grip, but Harry, no doubt thinking he was stumbling again, only pulled him closer.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, trying to tug himself free—but it was too late.

As the man passed them by, he fixed Draco with a look of contempt, said, “Fuckin’ faggots,” and spat on Draco’s shoes.

There was a slow-motion moment before the incident caught up to them both, and then Harry was spinning around, screaming, “Oi!”

He released Draco and started after the man, but Draco yanked on his arm so hard that Harry stumbled back.

“Don’t,” he hissed. “Please. It’s not worth it.”

Harry was panting and wild-eyed. “What the hell was that?” he exclaimed. “What the fuck was that for?”

“Harry,” Draco said cautiously. “This has never happened to you before, has it?”

“No,” Harry said, turning back to him, a baffled expression on his face. The man kept walking down the street as if nothing had happened. “I noticed people staring in the restaurant, but I just thought—maybe they knew who I was, or—”

Draco snorted. “I hate to break it to you, but muggles don’t generally give a shit about the Chosen One. It’s because we’re gay.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as Draco’s question caught up to him. “Wait. Does this happen to you often?”

Draco lifted one shoulder uncomfortably. “Sort of,” he muttered.

Harry looked stricken. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You told me you were nervous and I—I didn’t get it. I went ahead and touched you anyway.”

“It’s not your fault,” Draco said, looking at his shoes. “It probably would have happened either way.”

“Even if you were alone?” Harry asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

Draco looked up at the sky and let out a bitter laugh. “God, Potter. I think you’re the only person on the planet who didn’t clock me the minute you set eyes on me. People knew I was gay before I knew I was gay. I’m the one who should be sorry. You would fly under the radar if you weren’t with the human, neon flashing “faggot” sign.”

“I don’t care,” Harry said, taking a step towards Draco. “I’d rather be here. No one will lay a finger on you while I’m here.” 

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. “And what about when you’re not here,” he whispered. He knew it sounded pathetic. But he was so sick and tired of being completely helpless.

Harry was silent, and when Draco opened his eyes, Harry was holding his wand out to him.

“God! Potter, put that thing away,” Draco hissed, pushing the wand away and glancing up and down the sidewalk. “Are you trying to get me arrested and break the Statute of Secrecy all in one go?”

Harry reluctantly slid the wand back up his sleeve, his face thunderous. “I still can’t believe the ministry took your wand away. Left you completely defenseless. There had to be another way.”

“Actually, I believe it was you who took my wand away,” Draco said dryly.

Harry’s face fell. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I had to—it all happened so fast, and—”

Draco waved the apology away. “Please,” he said. “No elephants tonight. Not on our first date.”

Harry took a hesitant step forward, his eyes shining. “Can—can I touch you?” he asked.

“Please,” Draco said, suddenly exhausted and wanting nothing more than to go home.

Harry pulled him closer and squeezed Draco tight to his chest. Draco exhaled, letting his head fall onto Harry’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of leather and cheap cologne and Harry. After three deep breaths, Harry kept a firm arm around Draco’s shoulder and led him down the sidewalk.

After a moment, he said, “I hope you don’t think I see you as—weak, or anything. I wouldn’t stand a chance against you in a magical duel. It’s just—er—”

“It’s just that I’m physically weak,” Draco said dryly.

“No!” Harry protested, but Draco laughed it off.

“No, it’s true,” he said. “You can say it.”

“I’m going to make things right,” Harry said, in a serious tone. “I’m going to give your wand back. And I’m going to get you off your bloody parole.”

Draco once more let his head drop against Harry’s shoulder. He wanted—quite desperately—to believe him. He knew better, but it was such a nice fantasy that he couldn’t help but indulge: putting himself in Harry’s care, letting someone else do all the fighting for once, and truly relaxing for the first time in ten years. He hadn’t felt this cherished and protected since he was a small child.

It was intoxicating.

It was dangerous.

He reminded himself, for the millionth time, not to get used to it.

It was only when they were almost home that Draco’s mind clicked two pieces of information together. Harry had thought that people in the restaurant knew who he was—

—and he had held Draco’s hand anyway.

***

By the time Harry parked behind Draco’s building (illegally, as Draco helpfully pointed out) and shut off his bike, his heart was pounding. Draco had been pressed up against him for the whole ride back, alternating between sweetly leaning his chin on Harry’s shoulder, their helmets bumping, and palming at Harry’s dick so insistently that he nearly crashed the bike.

Harry dismounted and shucked his helmet off, watching as Draco removed his, cheeks pink from the cold and hair as artfully tussled as if he’d just walked out of a magazine shoot. Harry wanted to shove him up against the brick wall of the building. Instead, he scooped Draco into his arms, bridal-style, and marched up the fire escape while Draco sputtered phony protests.

By the second level, he was red and panting, his arms shaking with exertion. Draco was grinning smugly into his face, his arms draped around Harry’s neck. “Onward, noble steed,” he said, giving Harry’s shoulder a slap. “Giddyup!”

Harry dumped Draco unceremoniously onto the landing. “This horsey is well out of shape,” he panted, hands on his knees.

Draco stumbled to his feet, brushing off his clothing. “Fine,” he said. “First one to the top gets to fuck me up the arse!”

He took off like a shot, taking the stairs two at a time, and Harry lumbered after him. By the time he reached Draco’s window, Draco was inside and pulling the sash shut after him.

“I always was faster than you,” he said loudly through the glass.

Harry threw open the window and lunged after Draco, who danced away, laughing. After a brief chase around the coffee table, Harry caught him by the wrist and then hoisted a kicking Draco over his shoulders, hauled him to the bed, and tossed him gently onto the mattress.

There was a yowl and a streak of white as Lady Di, who had evidently been sleeping under the covers, leapt clear of the scene and raced through the open window.

Both of them laughing, Harry lowered himself onto Draco and, in a fit of boldness, seized Draco’s wrists and pinned them above his head. 

Draco arched his body into Harry’s and lunged up to take Harry’s lower lip between his teeth. Harry opened his mouth onto Draco’s and Draco shoved his tongue inside, and then were kissing deeply, sloppily, their heart rates slowing and the mood changing from giddy to something else entirely. Draco rubbed his hardening cock against Harry’s thigh. Harry released his wrists, and they wrapped their arms tightly around each other.

When Harry finally came up for air, he took a long look at Draco, flushed and panting beneath him, eyes half-lidded, a smirk on his wet lips and his hair tangled, and wondered how it was possible that he had not always found this man beautiful.

Draco wiggled his hips beneath Harry. “Well?” he asked. “What are you waiting for?”

“I’m just looking at you,” Harry said, unable to suppress a wide, goofy grin.

Draco groaned and pressed a pillow over his face. “You’re such a cornball. I can’t bear it.”

“Get used to it,” Harry declared.

Draco dragged the pillow down to his chest and looked up at Harry with hungry eyes. “Take your jumper off,” he ordered.

Harry shucked off his jacket and tossed it onto the floor, maintaining eye contact with Draco all the while. Then he pulled his jumper and t-shirt over his head in one go, not missing the way Draco’s pupils dilated as he watched.

Draco reached out slowly, almost reverently, and put a hand on Harry’s pec. Harry put his hand over Draco’s and squeezed it.

Suddenly aware of the way he was sitting on top of Draco, looming over him, and thinking back on the way he’d instinctively manhandled Draco into bed, Harry felt an anxious jolt. Without letting go of Draco’s hand, he climbed off of him and curled up on his side beside him, searching his eyes for any signs of hesitancy.

“Is this all right?” he asked anxiously. “Tell me if I’m being too—forward. Or—or anything. Just because we said we would doesn’t mean we have to.”

Draco put a finger to Harry’s lips. “Please shut up,” he begged. “I want this. Don’t make me wait any longer, Harry. Please.” 

“Alright,” Harry said, smiling, a little ashamed of how gratified he felt by Draco begging for him. “But you have to tell me if—if you like it. If anything hurts, or—or if you want to stop, or—” 

“God!” Draco exclaimed, sitting up and leaning over the edge of the bed. Harry thought for an anxious moment that Draco was going to leave him there, but Draco resurfaced with Harry’s motorcycle jacket, digging through the pockets.

He produced the vial of veritaserum that Harry always carried and waggled it. “I’ll swear it on this if it’ll make you feel better.”

Harry raked a hand through his hair. “Only if you want—”

“You’re so gallant I want to strangle you,” Draco snapped. He shook a few drops onto his tongue, set the vial on the shelf above his bed, and then climbed on top of Harry. He seized him by the shoulders and shoved his tongue into Harry’s mouth. The sweetness of Draco’s mouth—which still tasted of truffles, Harry thought distantly—mixed with the sharp, peppery burn of the veritaserum.

“There,” Draco said, smirking down at him. “Now the playing field’s even.”

“Great,” Harry said breathlessly.

“And since you’re so desperate to hear it, Potter, I hereby declare that I want you to fuck me. Desperately. Passionately. On whatever surface you want. However many times you want. I’ve wanted you for months and I shan’t wait a moment longer.”

“Alright,” Harry said brightly, then cringed at how lame that sounded. “Listen,” he said, running his hands up and down Draco’s wrists. “I haven’t done this before. Er—with a guy, so—so I don’t really know what…to do, I guess.”

Draco fluttered his eyelashes down at Harry. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ve taken care of everything,” he said. “I’ve been preparing myself every Wednesday. For weeks. Just in case. I’m freshly tested. Freshly waxed. Stretched and lubed up and everything. All you have to do,” he whispered, leaning down, in that breathy voice Harry had come to loathe—“Is slip right in.”

He bit Harry’s ear and Harry turned his head to the side. 

“You didn’t have to do all that,” he said, feeling an uncomfortable pit in his stomach. “And let’s take it a little slower, yeah? What do you like?”

Draco sat up, looking taken aback. “Well,” he said, and then stopped.

“Aren’t you supposed to be really experienced?” Harry blurted out, and then cursed himself. The veritaserum had really loosened his tongue—not that he usually needed any help.

“Shut up!” Draco snapped, looking embarrassed. “I like—lots of things,” he finished lamely.

“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “What about things you don’t like?”

Draco looked away. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. He swallowed once, twice. Then he said, in a husky voice, “I don’t like—blindfolds. I like to be pinned down but I can’t deal with—ropes. Or handcuffs or chains. You can spank me but don’t slap my face. Hairpulling is okay up to a point. I don’t like spitting or choking or gags or—”

Draco glanced down at Harry, saw his stricken expression, and then cut himself off, looking ashamed. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away.

Harry’s chest felt hot and tight. He took two deep breaths, but kept his face as calm as he could manage, trying desperately not to imagine a parade of faceless men hurting Draco in ways that Harry had never even imagined could be a part of lovemaking.

“Alright,” he said blandly, keeping emotion out of his voice with some effort. “We won’t do any of those things. We’ll take it slow and tell each other what we like and what we don’t like. And we can stop anytime. Does that sound okay?”

Draco nodded, still not looking at Harry. Then, all at once, he melted down onto Harry’s chest, and Harry held him for a few long moments, tangling a hand in his hair and stroking up and down his back.

Draco tipped his face up into Harry’s, and they were kissing again, slow and sweet at first, and then deeper, more insistent. Draco began to rub his cock against Harry’s through their clothes.

Draco pulled himself upright and started unbuttoning Harry’s trousers.

“Do you want me to suck your cock?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Harry breathed.

Draco dragged Harry’s trousers and pants down his hips. He took Harry’s cock in hand, which was already painfully hard.

“Are you hard for me, Harry Potter?”

“Yes.”

Draco dragged his tongue up the underside of Harry’s cock, then swirled it around the tip. “Do you like when I do this?” he breathed.

“Yes.” Harry was already seeing stars.

“How about this?” Draco suddenly sucked Harry’s whole cock down, and Harry groaned, his hands hovering over Draco’s head.

“Yes,” Harry gasped. He tentatively tangled his hands in Draco’s hair, and when Draco came up for air, he asked, “Is this okay?” 

Draco nodded, then gripped the base of Harry’s cock, bobbing his head up and down, swirling his tongue at the tip and pulling his lips free with a loud, dirty pop whenever he came up for air.

Harry was so hard it was difficult to think, to breathe. He pulled harder on Draco’s hair, thrusting his hips up into his face. It was a struggle for Harry to pause and pant out, “Is this still—?” 

Draco surfaced and glared at Harry. “Yes,” he growled impatiently. “Now shut the hell up and fuck my face.”

Harry pulled Draco back down onto his cock and increased his pace. Draco's throat felt impossibly hot and slick as he sucked him down, the obscene slurping noises he made sending jolts of electricity through Harry’s whole body. As Draco took him even deeper, he began to moan softly each time Harry’s cock hit the back of his throat, and it sent maddening vibrations up and down his cock. He could feel Draco grinding against his leg, his own cock hard now, and was torn between the ecstasy of what they were doing now and his increasingly urgent desire to take care of Draco.

Finally, Draco lifted his head up, his lips red and swollen, saliva dripping down his chin. He looked Harry in the eye and whispered, his throat deep and gravelly, “Are you going to come for me, Potter?”

He gave Harry’s cock a hard squeeze, and Harry came with a cry, delirious with arousal and the release of months of anticipation. Stars popped before his eyes, and for a moment he couldn’t see a thing.

When he came back to himself, he was horrified to see that he had come all over Draco’s face.

“Oh my god,” he said, sitting up so fast he got dizzy. “Sorry,” he said. “Fuck. Sorry. Is that—? I didn’t mean—”

“Relax, Potter,” Draco said, sitting back on his heels. “I wanted you to.” He dragged a finger through a string of come on his cheek and popped it in his mouth, sucking it clean. “Do you want me to eat it all?” he asked in a sultry voice, batting his eyelashes.

“No!” Harry said, slightly panicked, reaching for a tissue on the shelf. “No, no, you don’t have to do that,” he said, wiping Draco’s face clean with one tissue, and then another.

Draco looked more than a little perplexed, but he sat still and let Harry clean him up.

When he had tossed the tissues in the bin, Harry said, breathlessly, “That was—amazing. I can’t even describe how—was it—was it good for you too?”

“Yes,” Draco said, laughing. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m glass, you know. You’re the innocent, blushing virgin here.” 

“Shut up,” Harry said, grabbing Draco by the back of his head and giving him a long kiss. When they parted, he said, “Now it’s your turn.”

“Oh,” Draco said, sounding slightly startled. “We can wait until—you know—you’re ready for round two. Aren’t you—tired?”

“Not even slightly,” Harry said, beginning to unbutton Draco’s shirt.

“Remember,” Draco warned him, as his shirt opened to reveal the pin-straight sectumsempra scars on his chest. “Say a word about my scars and we’re done.”

“I won’t,” Harry promised.

He slipped Draco’s shirt off his shoulders until the sleeves pooled down around his elbows. Harry stopped for a moment to marvel at Draco’s chest, his arms, his shoulders. He looked like a goddamn painting, Harry thought reverently. His skin was pale and creamy, the scars glistening beautifully in the lamplight, although Harry still felt a curl of self-loathing at seeing them. He traced his hands from Draco’s broad shoulders down to the wiry muscle of his arms. Draco flinched as Harry ran a hand across his dark mark, but he didn’t miss a beat, tracing his way down to Draco’s long and slender fingers, kissing each knuckle on his left hand while Draco looked at him, mystified. Harry then ran his hands down the ridged scars on Draco’s chest, kissing each one as he went. Draco’s fingers tangled in his hair, and then Harry had his hands around his waist, so narrow he felt he could nearly wrap his hands all the way around.

He gently pushed Draco down onto the bed and eased off his trousers and pants, looking up at him once for confirmation. Draco nodded back, his hands still tangled in Harry’s hair. Harry kissed his way from Draco’s bellybutton down to his cock, Draco shivering slightly beneath him.

Then Harry took Draco’s cock in his hand, stroking it up and down.

“I haven’t done this before,” he said sheepishly. “So feel free to direct me.”

Draco just looked at him with a slightly shell-shocked expression and said, “Alright.”

Harry gave Draco’s cock a few more pumps and then put his mouth on it. Draco gasped softly. His cock was was petal-soft, warm and animal smelling, and Harry felt a thrill of pleasure as it hardened beneath his lips. He tried to suck more of it down, as Draco had, but it hit the back of his throat and he ended up gagging. He looked up at Draco, an embarrassed smile on his face.

“There’s no need for all that,” Draco said, alarmed.

“Sorry,” Harry said, smiling. “I’m sure I’ll get there with practice.”

Enjoying the look of shock on Draco’s face, Harry dove back down, keeping his hand on the base of Draco’s cock and his mouth on the tip. He was enthusiastic and sloppier than Draco had been, and eventually he realized that Draco wasn’t going to get any harder.

“Sorry,” he said, coming up for air and wiping his hand with the back of his mouth. “I think I’m a bit shit at this.”

“You’re fine,” Draco said faintly. Then he dropped his head back on the mattress and laughed. “I can’t believe the Chosen One is sucking my dick,” he said.

“Shut up,” Harry said, then kissed him for emphasis.

“I can’t believe The Boy Who Lived is sucking my dick,” Draco said when Harry pulled away.

“You’d better shut your mouth before I shut it with my dick,” Harry teased, and his instant feeling of mortification was allayed when Draco only laughed.

“I’d like to see you try,” he challenged.

“No. I have a different idea. On your hands and knees,” Harry said.

Draco flushed and obeyed instantly, turning to look over his shoulder at Harry. Harry felt a heady rush as Draco did what he was told. He looked so pretty on his knees—with the button-up still falling off his shoulders—that Harry felt dizzy for a moment. He ran a hand up Draco’s back and kissed him on the mouth again, tucking a strand of silky hair behind his ear.

“You’re sure you want this?” he whispered.

“I want you to fuck me,” Draco begged.

“We’re not there yet,” Harry said, smirking.

He wanted to make Draco come, gasping. He might be shite at sucking cock, but he had other ideas. He’d guiltily watched some porn on the muggle laptop he had for work to prepare for this moment.

Harry positioned himself behind Draco and Draco leaned back into him, tilting his arse in the air. Harry ran his hands over his smooth cheeks. He wondered for a moment if he should be self-conscious about how much hairier he was than Draco. He spread them wide, thumbing gently around the rim. Draco let out a shaky breath.

Harry leaned in and licked around the rim of his arsehole.

Draco flinched forward, and Harry jumped back, putting both hands in the air as if he’d been caught robbing a bank. “Sorry, sorry!” he spluttered. “I didn’t ask! Is that—okay?”

Draco was looking over his shoulder at Harry, his cheeks flushed a dark pink. “No. No, it’s fine,” he said, eyes wide. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“Shall I keep going?” Harry asked anxiously.

Draco bit his lip, and then said, “Please,” in a soft voice.

Harry leaned back in, stretching the skin of Draco's hole open with his fingers. A bit of lube trickled out, and it made Harry’s insides twist—had Draco really never had a partner willing to lovingly prepare him for penetration? Had he really expected Harry to just enter him, without a thought for Draco’s pleasure? The thought made him itch to worship Draco’s body, to show him how it was supposed to be. All those other men should have been grateful for the opportunity to touch Draco like this, he thought viciously. He licked in circular motions, feeling Draco’s hole spasm and then soften as he did. When he thrust his tongue inside as far as he could possibly go, Draco shuddered and gasped, lurching forward, then pushed back against Harry’s face. 

It was only when Draco’s arms were shaking and he was moaning softly with pleasure that Harry pulled back, panting, his mouth dry. “Can I finger you?”

Draco nodded. 

“Where’s your lube?”

“In the drawer,” Draco said breathlessly.

Harry leaned across the bed and reached into the drawer, fumbling around until he drew forth a squeeze bottle.

“Lie down,” Harry said, grinning at Draco. “No, on your back.”

Draco obeyed, propping himself up against the pillows.

“Bossy, aren’t you?” he murmured. “I like it.”

Normally, Harry would have been suspicious of such a comment, but he knew that Draco was telling the truth, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Okay,” Harry said, slicking up his fingers. “I haven’t done this either, except, um—I mean with girls. Well, not with girls’—” he stopped, blushing, while Draco laughed up at him.

“Not with girls’ arseholes?” he teased, and Harry nodded, embarrassed.

“Well, I wouldn’t know how they compare,” Draco said, “But you’ll be fine. Just start with one finger and go from there.”

Harry leaned down and kissed Draco deeply.

When he pulled back, he put one hand around Draco’s cock, pumping it up and down while he teased the rim of his arse with his index finger. When Draco had fully hardened and was breathing shallowly, he slipped a finger in, marveling at the pressure and resistance. It was different.

He worked his finger in and out and then bore down on Draco, bringing their bodies closer together. Draco threw his arms around Harry’s neck and pressed his head into his shoulder, and Harry slipped another finger in, pumping Draco’s cock all the while.

Harry pulled away. Draco was damp and flushed, biting his lip—clearly making an effort to be quiet. That wouldn’t do. Harry wanted to make him moan.

He leaned forward and caught one of Draco’s nipples gently between his teeth.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked, sounding mildly alarmed, and Harry looked up at him. “I’m not a girl.”

“Yeah, but,” Harry shrugged. “Does it feel good?” 

“...Yes,” Draco admitted, chest heaving, a faint shine on his skin.

“Then shall I give it a go?”

“Alright,” Draco said, giving Harry a bemused smile, petting his hair fondly.

Harry returned to his work with gusto. He pumped Draco’s cock faster, and licked in a circle around Draco’s nipple before gently sucking it down, sliding a third finger up Draco’s arse as he did so.

Draco’s hands were fisted in his hair. “Wait—Harry—” he cried out. “If you don’t stop I’ll—”

Harry pulled away as Draco shuddered against him, and, keeping both hands in place, brought his mouth down on Draco’s cock, sucking as hard as he was able.

Draco came with a moan, his cock spurting, pulling Harry’s hair, and then lay back against the pillows, panting.

Harry sat up, awkwardly holding Draco’s come in his mouth.

Draco gave him a panicked look. “You don’t have to—”

Harry swallowed. It was warm and slippery and a touch salty, but not entirely unpleasant.

“Oh my god,” Draco said faintly.

Harry grinned at him.

Draco smiled back at him, dazed and shaky, and Harry was overcome with a fondness so deep it was almost painful.

“Come here,” he murmured, and gathered Draco up in his arms. Draco wound his arms around Harry’s neck and pressed his face into his shoulder. 

They lay chest to chest for a while, letting their breathing slow down. Draco occasionally shivered, as though he was cold, and each time Harry squeezed him tighter.

“Was that okay?” he asked, suddenly anxious that he’d hurt him, or been too pushy.

Draco nodded against his shoulder. “It was—it was perfect,” he said, his voice muffled. “I just—haven’t really done that stuff before.”

Harry nodded, but internally, he was wondering what on earth Draco could be referring to. The blowjob? The rimming? For a man who supposedly had so much sexual history, there were huge gaps in his experience. Harry wondered what kind of sex he’d been having before, and then found himself feeling slightly nauseous. He didn’t want to know.

Another part of Harry—selfishly—felt pleased that he’d managed to be one of Draco’s “firsts” after all.

Harry twitched slightly when Draco’s hand found his cock, and was surprised to find that he was already hard again.

Draco lifted his head, and gave Harry an intense look. “I want you to fuck me,” he whispered, squeezing Harry’s cock. “Please.”

“Okay,” Harry said with a besotted smile. “Since you said please.” He’d never come twice in one session before—in fact, he’d had considerable trouble getting it up with Ginny, by the end. But with Draco, everything felt different. It was like having sex for the first time. It was like seeing in color instead of black and white, or exiting Plato’s cave after a lifetime in the dark.

He shifted, preparing to lift himself on top of Draco, but then Draco put a hand on his chest, looking nervous. “Wait,” he said. “I was just—tested. At a muggle clinic. They have ways to tell if you—if you have any diseases.” Draco looked down at the bedspread, his face flushed with embarrassment. “They’re actually quite advanced when it comes to sexual health,” he said, babbling in the way Harry now knew he did when he was nervous. “Much more than wizards. But anyway. You don’t have to, but if you want to play it safe, I have condoms in the bedside table. And I might—prefer it—just for—you know, clean-up, but if you don’t want to—”

“Hey,” Harry said, giving Draco’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “It’s fine. I actually brought my own.” 

My retrieved his jacket from the floor and fished around in the inside pocket until he produced a packet of bright magenta condoms. He opened one and started rolling it onto his cock, while Draco stared at him, open-mouthed.

He then snatched up the discarded wrapper and let out a barking laugh. “Oh my god,” Draco said. “Where did you find this? It’s bubblegum flavored!”

“Shut up!” Harry laughed, applying lube to the condom. “It was the cheapest one they had at the chemist’s.”

“I can see why,” Draco cackled. “Is this your way of saying you want me to blow you again?”

“No,” Harry growled, climbing on top of Draco. “I’m going to fuck you now.”

At that, Draco went quiet, looking at Harry with wide eyes, his legs falling apart as Harry positioned his cock against his entrance. When Harry put a steadying hand on Draco’s thigh, he realized that Draco was almost imperceptibly trembling.

“You okay?” Harry asked softly.

Draco nodded, not breaking eye contact, like he was trying to memorize Harry.

Harry put his hand around Draco’s cock. “You sure? You’re not even fully hard,” he said.

Draco shifted beneath him. “I need a minute to recharge,” he said sheepishly. “But don’t wait,” he begged. “I want you in me. Now. Please.”

Harry leaned down. He cradled Draco’s head with his hands and opened his mouth against his, kissing him deeply while he slowly but surely pressed his cock into Draco’s hole.

The pressure and resistance was nearly overwhelming. It felt nothing like being with a girl. Draco let out a punched-out little moan and tightened his legs around Harry’s waist, pushing Harry deeper into himself. When he was fully inside, Harry had to drop onto his elbows and take a few deep breaths, worried that he was going to come just from the entry.

“You still alright?” he gasped.

“Yes,” Draco said, trembling beneath him, clutching Harry’s shoulders with a vice grip, his eyes squeezed tight in an expression that was halfway between ecstasy and pain. “Fuck me. Please.”

Harry pulled halfway out, then thrust back in again. The moan that Draco let out on reentry was nearly enough to send him spurting again.

He was inside of Draco, but it still wasn’t enough. Harry pressed their bodies together, chest-to-chest, slipping his arms around Draco’s waist until his head was tilted back against the pillows and his cock was trapped against Harry’s belly. Harry wanted to open his chest and crawl inside. He wanted to freeze this moment and live in it forever.

He thrust in and out, slowly at first, still not sure where the line between pain and pleasure was for Draco. He couldn’t look away from Draco’s face, flushed beautifully pink across his nose and cheeks, his eyes screwed up with arousal. 

“You’re beautiful,” Harry panted between thrusts. “I adore you.”

Draco shivered and held Harry tighter. He finally opened his eyes, but they kept flitting away from Harry’s, as though he couldn’t bear to look at him for longer than an instant.

When Draco fisted his hands in Harry’s hair and gasped, “Faster,” Harry picked up the pace, moaning at the sensation and savoring Draco’s answering gasps, his lips brushing against Draco’s, too consumed with the sensation to be able to properly kiss him.

Only when Draco was fully hard beneath him, and he was unable to wait any longer, did Harry squeeze his arms tightly around Draco’s waist, trap Draco’s mouth beneath his, and release himself with a shuddering gasp. Draco clenched around him, bucking against his chest and crying out as he spurted against Harry’s belly.

Harry collapsed on top of him, sweaty and panting, his cock still twitching and leaking inside of Draco. While they got their breath back, Harry savored the feeling of the full length of Draco’s warm, angular body trapped beneath his.

But when he pulled back and brushed the hair out of Draco’s eyes, he was horrified to see that they were swimming with tears. When their eyes met, Draco let out a sob and turned his face away.

Harry’s stomach plummeted. He cradled Draco’s face between his hands, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asked urgently. “Did I hurt you?”

Draco shook his head. “No,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m fine, I’m sorry.”

He pushed Harry off and sat up, wiping tears off his cheeks. “This never happens,” he hiccuped. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Don’t apologize,” Harry said, his hands hovering anxiously around Draco. “Can I…can I do anything?”

Harry watched as Draco struggled against himself for a moment, clearly fighting what the veritaserum was prompting him to say.

Finally, he looked up at Harry with watery eyes and said, “Hold me?” in the most broken and entreating voice.

Harry’s heart filled up and then broke all in one breath.

He enveloped Draco in his arms, wishing he could find a way to hold every bit of Draco’s body all at once as Draco buried his head in his shoulder. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Harry murmured as he rubbed his back, “Please don’t cry. You’re okay. I’m here and you’re safe and everything’s alright.”

He listened to Draco's soft, barely there, choked out little sobs until they finally faded away.

“What’s wrong?” Harry murmured. He knew Draco couldn’t lie, but he was still so anxious that he had done something wrong, that he had pushed too hard and gone too fast, that Draco hadn’t been ready after all, despite all of his assurances.

“I just—” Draco said in a muffled voice against Harry’s shoulder. He finally looked up, and his eyelashes were dark and clumped together from tears.

“Is—is that what it’s supposed to be like?”

The question, and everything it implied, took Harry’s breath away. It was sweet and endearing and devastating and terribly, awfully sad all at once. “Yeah,” he said, his voice breaking. “Yeah, I think so.”

He searched Draco’s eyes. “You liked it?” he asked anxiously. “Truly?”

Draco nodded. “It was perfect,” he said. “Every minute.” 

Harry gathered Draco into his lap and rocked him gently while he sank, boneless, into Harry’s shoulder.

Harry couldn’t decide how to feel; rage and sadness and warmth and possessiveness and love and euphoria were swirling around in him. He thought of all the things he wanted to have from Draco, the things he wanted to know about him and the things he wanted to do with him, and the time, never enough time, that he wanted to spend with him. But most of all—

“I want to take care of you,” Harry blurted out.

Draco pulled away and laughed wetly. “It’s rotten work,” he said in a wry voice.

“Not to me, it isn’t,” Harry answered. “Not if it’s you.”

Draco looked back at Harry with an expression of pure shock, as if he had just spoken in a foreign language. 

“What did I say?” Harry asked anxiously.

Draco let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “You don’t even know what you said. That’s the thing, isn’t it?”

“I mean it,” Harry replied stubbornly.

“You really do, don’t you?” Draco murmured to himself wonderingly, searching Harry’s face as if looking for the lie.

Harry smiled and nodded, running his hand through the hair at Draco’s temple.

And then Draco threw his arms around Harry and kissed him—his face was wet and he tasted salty and his come was drying on Harry’s belly and Harry knew, in a burst of clarity, that he never wanted to be parted from Draco from this day on.

Chapter Text

Harry slowly came awake from a deep sleep in which he’d had no dreams at all, only restful oblivion—a rare thing for him. When he opened his eyes, he realized that he was smiling. He caught a whiff of green rose and remembered why: He’d fallen asleep with Draco in his arms. But his arms were empty now. Harry sat up and rubbed his eyes before reaching for his glasses on the bedside table and jamming them on. The apartment was awash with the dim grey haze of pre-dawn, and Draco was nowhere to be seen.

Harry’s heart lurched. He stumbled out of bed, hauling on his jeans as fast as he could. He took a step towards the bathroom and kitchen, intending to check there first, before he felt a chilly breeze and turned towards the open window.

Draco was on the fire escape, framed by the window with his back to the glass. Harry took a deep, relieved breath and climbed awkwardly through the frame, catching a whiff of cigarette smoke as he did so. 

Draco was sitting against the railing, dangling his legs over the edge of the platform in nothing but an oversized, unbuttoned white shirt and boxers. His skin, hair, and shirt were so pale they were practically glowing. He was smoking, the lit ember at the end of his cigarette reminding Harry strongly of the moment they first encountered each other in the alley behind the Gentleman’s Club.

Harry sat beside him and slid his legs between the railing. He put a hand on Draco’s thigh and leaned in to nuzzle his neck. But as he got closer, he realized Draco was trembling; his face even paler than usual, his lips drawn in a thin line.

Harry pulled back. “What’s wrong?” he blurted out, his breath catching. His heart began to thump hard. Awful possibilities began to race through his head. Did Draco regret sleeping with him? Had he felt pressured? Had Harry hurt him; had he overstepped, failed to recognize the signs of Draco’s discomfort? Had he fucked everything up beyond repair?

“Did I do something wrong?” he entreated, his throat tight.

Draco shook his head once, mutely. But he wouldn’t look at Harry. The line of ash at the end of his cigarette was growing longer.

Harry waited for him to speak, his anxiety growing more palpable with every passing moment of silence.

“That’s the problem,” Draco finally said. He turned to look at Harry, briefly, his eyes haunted, then once more faced the scraggly lot behind the building. He took a deep breath and said, in a flat voice, “If you keep acting like this, Harry, I’ll get attached.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry pleaded. He desperately wanted to hold Draco’s hand, but the cigarette was between them.

Draco was choosing his words very carefully, speaking in a voice of forced calm. “If I get attached, it’ll be that much harder when you leave.”

“What do you mean, when I leave?” Harry said, after a shocked silence. “Do you honestly think I was just after you for a quick shag? That I’m going to drop you and run? Don’t take this the wrong way, Draco, but if I wanted a hookup there are much easier targets.” He laughed nervously at his own joke, trying desperately to draw a smile from Draco.

He bumped Draco’s shoulder with his own, grasping for any form of connection, but Draco just let his body sway passively against Harry’s, that horrible thousand-yard-stare still plastered on his face.

Harry held out his hand, hesitated, and then let his palm rest on Draco’s knee. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” he said, serious now. “I’m not going anywhere. Really.”

“You can’t be with me, Harry,” Draco said in a brittle voice. “I’m not a real person.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Harry said hotly. His concern for Draco was mixing unpleasantly with the sting of rejection. The crushing fear of abandonment, his oldest companion, was opening up a chasm in his chest. He opened his mouth to object further, but Draco cut him off.

“I’m dead to the wizarding world,” he said, a smudge of ash falling onto his bare thigh, unnoticed. “I can’t show my face there ever again. And I’m invisible in the muggle world. Did you know that every muggle child is assigned a number when they’re born?” He looked at Harry once again, his eyes wide and imploring. “I don’t have one. And without it, the only work I can get is under the table. The only apartments I can rent are shit. It’s amazing that a place as class as the club even hired me in the first place.” A touch of anger crept into his voice. “I’m never going to be more than—than this.” Draco made an aborted, jerky gesture that encompassed his shabby building, the abandoned lot, and the dumpsters below, sending a tendril of smoke towards Harry—the first crack in his facade of calm. 

Harry wanted to wrap Draco in his arms and never let go. He wanted to fold him up and keep him in his pocket, beside his heart. Instead, he put a hand on either side of Draco’s face, gently turned it towards him, and said, trying with all his might to make him believe it, “Draco. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need you to be more than you are right now. Ever. To me, you’re perfect.”

Draco wouldn’t even meet his eyes. He just shrugged Harry off and tapped the rest of his cigarette ash away on the railing. He took a long, slow drag and then said, in a dull voice, “Someday you’ll find a person you’ll want to build a real life with. And you’ll leave me behind. And I’ll understand. Just don’t forget that, Harry. For my sake.”

Harry’s heart was breaking for Draco. He wanted to say, Never. He wanted to say, I want to build a real life with you. Only you. He wanted to say, What has happened to you to make you value yourself so little?

But Draco put little stock in words and promises. Harry knew that by now. He would simply have to prove him wrong. And if it took the rest of their lives—so be it.

Harry stood and reached a hand down towards Draco. “Come back to bed,” he asked. “You don’t have to believe me now. But give me a chance to prove you wrong.”

Draco said nothing, but he took Harry’s hand and let himself be led back to bed.

Harry held him so close all night it was a miracle that Draco could still breathe.

***

Draco was being fucked into the mattress. He was on his back, his legs wrapped around a warm, strong body. The rhythm was steady and relentless and he was losing himself in the sensation, building his way to climax with every thrust.

The man above him had a head of dark, shaggy curls and muscled arms braced on either side of his head. Draco wrapped his legs tighter around the man’s torso and moaned, “Harry…I’m close.”

The man shook his hair back and looked up. He fixed Draco with a milky eye. His mouth was hard and downturned, his nose long and straight. His other eye was brown and burning with fury.

Draco’s stomach plummeted as he realized his mistake.

It was Edwin.

It wasn’t Harry. It was Edwin, and Draco had just called out Harry’s name.

“I’m sorry,” Draco gasped. “I didn’t mean it.”

Edwin leaned down and took Draco by the throat, his leather gloves creaking. He increased his pace, pounding furiously into his hole.

“I’m sorry, Ed,” Draco choked out. “You’re hurting me. Please.”

Edwin said nothing, only met Draco’s gaze with his one functioning eye and squeezed his throat with both hands, hard enough to cut off his air.

The worst part was—Draco liked it. He was going to come. He was so close—

Draco was yanked out of the dream with a jerk and a gasp. He sucked in deep breaths as quietly as he could, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t choking, blinking away the image of a furious Edwin looming over him as his racing heart gradually slowed.

He’d been having strange dreams all night. The one before this nightmare was an absolutely filthy, astonishingly vivid dream of him and Potter fucking. It made his cheeks flush and his cock thicken just to remember it.

Edwin would kill Draco if he knew what he had dreamed of. He was lucky Edwin wasn’t a legilimens. He had to get ahold of himself—to exorcize those thoughts from his mind. There could be no possibility of slipping up, like his dream self had. It was a warning from his unconscious mind, and Draco needed to heed it. He took a deep breath and rolled over, schooling his face into impassivity. 

Edwin was on his side, facing away, the sheets pooling around his waist and lit with buttery yellow morning light.

And then he rolled over, and opened a pair of brilliant green eyes. A giant grin spread across his face.

“Hi,” Harry said.

“Hi,” Draco breathed, the whiplash of the last few moments making his head spin.

He reached out and tentatively touched Harry’s cheek, just to make sure that he was real.

He was.

Harry grabbed Draco’s hand and brought it to his mouth. He kissed it.

“So last night really happened?” Draco murmured, still caught between dreams and reality.

“Sure did,” Harry said, with a trace of Chosen One smugness that triggered irritation and affection in Draco in equal parts.

Draco couldn’t make sense of what had happened the previous night. He and Harry Potter having the dirtiest, tenderest, most incredible sex of his life—twice—made no sense at all. He had come—twice. He’d let Harry rim him, and blow him, and play with his nipples—and he’d liked it. He had even, humiliatingly, cried. He’d never cried during sex—not in such a vulnerable, cathartic way, at least. But for some reason, he didn’t feel humiliated. He felt—even though the very word made him squirm—cherished.

“And about this morning—” Harry continued.

“Oh god,” Draco groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes as the memory of his embarrassing confession on the fire escape came flooding back. “Let’s just—”

Harry interrupted him. “I want you to know that I’m not that easy to drive away. I want to be with you, and I’ll prove it to you, one day at a time. So you just stay here if you like and I’m going to make us breakfast. Tea or coffee?”

“Um,” Draco said, still struggling to reorder the events of last night in a way that made sense, let alone process Harry’s absurd promise. 

“Coffee,” he finally squeaked.

Harry gave him a peck on the forehead, cheerfully hopped out of bed, and lumbered over to the kitchen in his boxers.

Draco, too stunned to move, stared at the ceiling and listened to Harry banging pots and pans around and whistling a jaunty tune to himself.

Only when the smell of frying bacon permeated the flat did Draco get up and join Harry in the kitchen. 

When he came around the corner, Harry was shaking some kibble into Lady Di’s bowl, who was winding around his legs and butting him with her head.

“Are you hungry, baby?” he was cooing. “But you’re already so fat! You’re going to get even fatter! That’s alright, it’s cute on you.”

He returned the cat food bag to its place under the sink, and Draco realized that Harry had seen him feed Lady Di so many times he could do it himself, without being told where her food was or how much to portion out or even Draco’s favorite endearment for her. He was overcome with a wave of affection so strong he melted down into a kitchen chair. A steaming cup of coffee was already waiting for him, and Draco curled his hands around it gratefully. 

Harry turned, bacon grease flying off of his spatula. “Hey,” he said, a giant grin making his face radiant. “You’re just in time.”

He set two plates down on the table and began to pile an alarming amount of food onto Draco’s: a mountain of fried eggs, five slices of bacon, and a whole stack of toast. He portioned himself an equally absurd serving and sat down across from him.

“Thanks for cooking,” Draco said meekly, still reeling.

“Anytime,” Harry said. He sounded like he really meant it.

After Harry had inhaled half of his food and Draco had made a more modest dent in his portion, he put his fork down and asked the question that had been on his lips for the last five minutes. He tried to make it a joke, as though he didn’t care about the answer. “So…was your first gay shag everything you hoped it would be? Or are you straight after all?”

He didn’t realize that he’d been nervous until Harry threw his head back and laughed. “Are you kidding?” he said. He reached across the table and grabbed Draco’s hand. He turned it over so that Draco’s palm was facing up and rubbed his thumb across it. “It was—unbelievable,” he said reverently, his eye contact—intense as always— pinning Draco to the spot. “Like it was my first time. But a thousand times better—my first time was pretty shite, actually.”

It was Draco’s turn to laugh. “It was nothing like my first time, thank god,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness.

He only realized what he had said when he looked up and met Harry’s green eyes, wide with concern. “What d’you mean?” he asked.

Draco opened his mouth to deliver a snide remark or a brushoff, but found the words stuck in his throat. “I—” he said. 

He lied and concealed and avoided so often that it wasn’t even a choice anymore; it was a habit. But suddenly, he couldn’t do it anymore. Not in front of Harry. The truth was stuck in his throat, and he felt as though he would choke if he didn’t speak it. At least a part of it.

“I—had gotten myself into trouble,” he said, the words clumsy in his mouth, a floaty feeling in his limbs. “And—my rescuer wanted repayment.”

He couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes, but he felt Harry’s hand tighten around his. “What kind of trouble?” Harry asked in a hushed tone.

“Can’t you guess?” Draco asked dryly.

There was a rushing sound in his ears. He’d never told a single soul about his first time with Edwin—or Greyback, for that matter. Not a word. He’d been carrying it around with him for ten years, and sharing it with Harry—even just that little morsel—was both exhilarating and terrifying. The impulse to reveal more, more, more was driving him forward—like the urge to jump off a roof when you’re at the edge.

“It was Greyback,” he said in a rush, against his better judgment. “He was the trouble. He caught me alone in the corridor and—well.”

After a long pause, Harry ventured, “And…the rescuer?”

Draco opened his mouth, but found that he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say his name.

“Was it that older boyfriend you mentioned?” Harry prompted softly.

Draco nodded, a sudden lump in his throat. He still couldn’t look at Harry, but he could hear Harry’s breathing—slow and measured, as though he were willing himself to contain some great emotion.

“Did he force you?” Harry asked, his voice flat.

Draco’s heart was beating in his ears. “No. Not physically,” he said. “More like…convinced me.”

“Did he hurt you?” Harry was squeezing his hand harder and harder.

“No,” Draco said. “I mean—it did hurt, at first. But he was trying to make it feel good and, um…it did, eventually. I…I liked it.” 

His cheeks burned to admit it. He rushed to deliver the next part, not wanting Harry to think he was easy—although he knew that he was. “But I—I wasn’t ready,” he admitted. “I know I was eighteen and most people—but I was a late bloomer, I suppose. And sometimes…I wish I could have waited.” The last part came out as a whisper.

It was terrifying, to admit. He’d never said a word against Edwin to anyone in his life, and it felt taboo—dangerous. But Edwin was in Azkaban, and it was safe to confess to Harry—wasn’t it?

Draco finally chanced a look at Harry’s face and recoiled. His jaw was set, a muscle jumping in his cheek, and his eyes were blazing with anger. His grip on Draco’s hand was like a vice.

“Harry,” Draco squeaked, suddenly terrified that he’d miscalculated the depth of Harry’s jealousy—the violence of it. “Harry, you’re hurting me.”

The moment he said it, Harry dropped Draco’s hand as if he’d been burned, and his face relaxed, his eyes going wide. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he said frantically. “I didn’t mean—I’m just—” Harry cautiously returned his hand to Draco’s, giving it the gentlest squeeze, his eyes now shining with—

“Don’t pity me,” Draco snapped. “It was my choice.”

It was only half a lie.

“I’m not,” Harry said, a touch of fire in his voice. “I’m angry for you.”

Draco let that settle. Harry’s eyes were still blazing, but now that he knew where that anger was directed…He squeezed Harry back, a strange, warm feeling washing over him. “Well. In that case…I’ll allow it,” he said.

Harry opened his mouth again, but Draco said quickly, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” 

“Alright,” Harry said reluctantly. “Alright.”

“So what made your first time shite?” Draco asked, desperate to direct Harry’s attention away from himself.

“Oh,” Harry said morosely, pulling away and pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes. “I mean, it wasn’t so bad. Nothing like yours. But it was just after the war, and…and Ginny and I were desperate to feel something that wasn’t grief, I suppose. We were at the Burrow in her bedroom and it was after Fred’s—well, we were sort of crying the whole time. I had to close my eyes and think of—of something else to get off. I thought it was because of the war.”

“Jesus,” Draco muttered, suddenly feeling slightly better about his own experience. “What did you think of?” he asked shyly.

Harry flushed. “Um. This is really stupid, but…I just pretended I was—you know—casting a patronus.”

There was a slight pause, and then Draco burst out laughing. Harry looked affronted, but Draco couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry,” he wheezed. “I just can’t—you get off to the thought of magic?”

“I dunno, okay?” Harry protested, fiddling with his coffee cup, his face getting redder and redder. “It’s not that different. You’re, you know, thinking of good stuff and then it sort of builds in intensity until—”

“Until white stuff comes pouring out of your wand?” Draco cackled.

“Shut up!” Harry said, but he was smiling now.

“I guess I shouldn’t laugh,” Draco said. “I’ve never cast one. Maybe it does feel like getting off, who knows.”

“You’ve never cast one?” Harry said, surprised. “Really?”

“Not everyone can be the youngest wizard to cast a Patronus, Potter,” Draco said with an eyeroll.

“Yeah, but—” Harry said. “You’ve always been better than me at spells. Did you never try when you were older?”

“No,” Draco said. “Never seemed worth the risk.”

“What risk?” Harry asked, nonplussed.

Draco cursed himself. He’d revealed too much—again. And now it was too late to backpedal. Potter was so fucking nosy, just as he’d always been in school. He cleared his throat and tightened his hands around his mug. “Did you never hear the story of Raczidian?”

Harry shook his head.

Draco kept his gaze fixed on the table, ashamed. “He—He was a famous dark wizard. Very powerful. But one day he tried to cast a patronus and it backfired on him. Maggots shot out of his wand and devoured him. That’s what happens when you have the talent to cast a patronus but aren’t—aren’t pure of heart. So I always worried…”

“What, that you’re so wicked you’d be condemned to death by maggot?” Harry asked with an incredulous laugh. “Draco. That’s ridiculous.” 

“That’s what happens!” Draco snapped. “Everyone knows it!”

“Well if any big, bad, scary maggots come for you I’ll just squash them under my boot,” Harry teased.

He made Draco’s fear sound so silly. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Draco could be impure—even for a moment. It softened something in him.

“I’ll teach you,” Harry was saying. “When you get your wand back.”

“When I get your wand back, you mean,” Draco quipped.

Harry looked guilty. Draco felt a little bad for prodding at that wound again, so he asked, “So your patronus is a deer, then?”

“A stag,” Harry said, looking proud. “My dad’s animagus was a stag.”

“How predictably noble,” Draco drawled. “I wonder what mine would be.”

He realized his mistake when he looked up and Harry was grinning wickedly back at him. 

“Don’t say it,” Draco warned.

“Say what?” Harry asked cheekily.

“Don’t you even—”

“I was thinking a ferret—”

Draco stood up. Harry did the same, putting his chair between him and Draco.

“Maybe a white one, with a pointy little—”

Draco lunged at Harry, and then they were chasing each other around the flat, Harry cackling and Draco shouting threats and insults. They went around the kitchen table, then into the living room and around the coffee table three times before Draco was able to grab Harry by the waist and send him crashing to the floor.

His triumph didn’t last long, as Harry deftly flipped Draco off of him and pinned him to the ground with his body, their faces inches apart, their cheeks flushed and chests rising and falling with exertion.

Harry leaned down to kiss Draco, and Draco arched up to meet him. They kissed deeply, sloppily, until Draco ran out of breath and fell back against the carpet.

“As nice as this is,” he said, “I desperately need a shower.”  

“Can I come with you?” Harry pleaded, his eyes big.

“Fine.”

“Can you do my hair again?”

“Have you forgotten our lesson already?” Draco teased.

Harry buried his face in Draco’s shoulder. “No. It just looks better when you do it,” he mumbled.

Draco buried his hand in Harry’s curls and pressed his head against his shoulder. He tried to remind himself, for the millionth time, that this was really happening.

“Anything for you,” Draco said. He was trying for glib, but it came out as though he meant it. He was starting to think he did.

***

As Draco was rinsing the conditioner out of his hair, Harry ran his hands down the scars on his chest. Draco gave him a warning look, but Harry stayed silent, and his trailing hands eventually came to rest on Draco’s waist.

When Harry looked up at him, his eyes were frank and serious—a sharp contrast with the sopping wet curls that were plastered amusingly against his forehead. He looked like a wet puppy—the runt of the litter that someone had tried and failed to drown.

Draco prompted him with a raised eyebrow, and Harry asked, “What do you think your patronus would be?”

“It’s as you said,” Draco replied lightly. “A f—”

“No, really,” Harry said seriously.

Draco looked down at his feet, at the water swirling into the drain. He didn’t want to say what he was thinking, but he couldn’t summon a convincing lie. And he really believed it was the truth.

“A peacock,” he finally said, his voice heavy. An image of Candide’s snow-white feathers and his vacant, glassy eyes rose in his mind’s eye, and his chest filled up with lead.

The sound of Harry snorting broke the image apart.

Draco looked up sharply. “What?” he demanded.

Harry shrugged, a gentle smile on his face, and pulled Draco closer to him. “I just don’t think that’s right. That’s all.”

“Why not?” Draco demanded. “Think about it. They strut around all day thinking they’re better than other birds. They’re vain, showy, attention-seeking. Expensive.” Docile, he thought viciously to himself. Defenseless. Decorative. Stupid.

Harry just shook his head.

“What, then?” Draco challenged.

“I dunno,” Harry said, reaching up to brush a sopping lock of hair out of Draco’s face. “But not that. Something…vicious.”

“Peacocks can be vicious,” Draco countered.

Harry snorted again. “Not like you are,” he said, running his hand back down Draco’s shoulder. “And it would be something…cunning. Proud. Powerful.”

Draco leaned into Harry’s broad chest, twining his arms around his neck as Harry squeezed his waist tighter. There was something about Harry that forced him to speak the truth; that forced him to bare the soft underbelly he protected so fiercely. He couldn’t decide if he loved it or loathed it.

“I don’t feel powerful,” he whispered, almost inaudibly, into Harry’s shoulder.

“You are,” Harry replied, his breath ghosting past Draco’s ear and his voice vibrating against his chest. He sounded so assured that Draco almost believed him.

The shower ended with Draco on his knees in the running water, trying to use every skill he’d learned over the past ten years to give Harry a blowjob that would make him want to stay forever.

Chapter Text

On Friday, Harry had no choice but to go home to retrieve some clean clothes and toiletries. He didn’t fit in any of Draco’s things, and apparently Draco used a very expensive shampoo that he was loath to share any more of with Harry. He rose before Draco was awake, making sure to leave him a note on the bedside table. He wanted to be back in time to make them breakfast.

Harry wrinkled his nose as soon as he entered the dark entryway. Grimmauld smelled musty, and vaguely of rotten food. The dust lay even thicker than usual. Harry cursed Kreacher for his refusal to clean as he took the stairs to his bedroom two at a time. He wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible. Harry had never liked coming home to Grimmauld Place—particularly now that Draco was waiting for him in what Harry had come to think of as their cozy little flat.

He threw open his massive mahogany wardrobe and stuffed some clean socks, underwear, and a handful of T-shirts into his duffel. In the back corner, he even discovered a forgotten pair of ratty old jeans. Harry held them up and smiled. The clothes Draco had bought him were brilliant, admittedly, but they were so tight that strangers kept giving him second glances in the street. Harry didn’t like it. He shucked his tight trousers off and replaced them with the ratty pair, smirking to think of how Draco would react when he saw them.

Harry had his hand on the front doorknob, duffel slung over his shoulder, when a croaky voice nearly startled him out of his skin.

“Master Potter is leaving so soon? But he hasn’t even read today’s Prophet.”

Kreacher emerged from the shadows beneath the hall table, his eyes glinting dangerously.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t want it, Kreacher.”

The Prophet was one of Harry’s many points of contention with the elf. The quality of the reporting had improved slightly since the end of the war and the exit of Rita Skeeter, but Harry’s wounds were still raw—he’d rather not have that slanderous rag in his house at all. But Kreacher insisted on collecting each issue personally and delivering it to Harry, the way he had done for his Mistress Black with her tea every morning. Kreacher’s latent animosity had him leaving the daily issues all over the house, in the most inconvenient places possible—in the tub, on the bathmat, in the oven, and even wrapped around a loaf of bread. Invariably, he would be grinning slyly from the shadows when Harry opened some cupboard or the trapdoor to the attic only for a newspaper to fall onto his face.

“Harry Potter will be wanting to see this issue, Kreacher thinks,” the house elf said with a sinister smile, inching towards Harry with a newspaper in his gnarled hand.

Harry’s stomach knotted with dread. He snatched the paper from Kreacher and read the headline with bated breath. But after a moment, his concerned frown relaxed into a grin. 

“Thanks, Kreacher,” he said cheerily, folding the issue and tucking it in his back pocket. “Don’t know when I’ll be back, bye!” He slammed the door behind him.

The house elf scowled, clearly not having received the reaction he was expecting, and shuffled back down the hall.

***

“I have something for you,” Harry said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and thrusting the paper out with a grin. Draco was still nestled beneath the covers, his hair endearingly tousled. He was still on a night-shift schedule and often stayed in bed several hours after Harry had risen.

“This better be good,” he croaked.

“Just read the headline,” Harry encouraged.

Draco sat up and took the paper, snapping it smooth and squinting at the text. “Best dressed: Chosen One steps out in swoon-worthy ensemble,” he read. He looked up, mouth open, into Harry’s beaming face. Then he cackled, his eyes lighting up. He read the rest of the article eagerly, and with much dramatic flourish.

“Did you hear that? It's the sound of a thousand love-struck witches across the nation sighing at the debut of Harry's Potter's dashing new look. On Wednesday afternoon, he was spotted running errands in London with perfectly coiffed curls, smartly tailored trousers, a cozy sweater that brings out the green in his eyes, and zippered boots that add a sexy edge to his good-guy persona. Speculation is running rampant across the nation: what's behind his new look? Who is he…”

Suddenly Draco looked up, his face turning guarded and wary. He turned back to the paper and continued in a far flatter tone. “Who is he trying to impress? Could there possibly be a new lady in his life? Watch this space for up-to-the-minute reporting on Britain's most eligible wizard.”

Draco carefully folded the paper and looked down at it in his lap. The Harry in the photo hurried into a grocer’s, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets, glancing warily behind him at a small crowd of oglers. 

“Are you angry?” Draco asked stiffly.

“What? No!” Harry said, baffled by the sudden change in Draco’s attitude. “I thought you’d be pleased. Your work as my stylist is being recognized! In national press!”

“But—the new lady,” Draco said, finally meeting Harry’s gaze, his eyes pinched. “Aren’t you worried? That they’ll find out?”

Harry laughed and caught Draco by the waist, leaning in to peck him on the cheek. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “The Prophet has been reporting on my love life for over a decade, and not once have they come anywhere close to truth. And that’s not even the point. I just wanted you to know that—that you’ve changed me. My friends are all sending me messages about how much happier and healthier I look, and how proud they are. People have noticed. And that’s all down to you.”

Draco pursed his lips and looked away. “Hm,” he said noncommittally, but his ears were pink, and Harry knew he was pleased.

After a moment, the cloud seemed to lift, and Draco turned his gaze back to Harry, his eyes bright again.

“I need to add this to my collection,” he said, and leapt out of bed.

Harry watched in confusion as Draco clipped out the article. He then climbed on top of the mattress, clipping in hand, and removed a large landscape painting hanging above his bed to reveal—

The half-naked photos of Harry from the Quidditch charity shoot! From a copy of the Prophet that Harry distinctly remembered balling up and throwing in the trash. His jaw dropped. Half a dozen Harrys smirked back at him—one dangling shirtless from a broom, one winking, one putting a hand on his crotch—all completely humiliating. He didn’t know whether to be flattered, embarrassed, or alarmed.

Harry crept closer as Draco pinned the article up beside the other clippings. The photos were all completely smooth—unblemished. 

“How did you get them so smooth again?” he asked, thunderstruck.

“I dug them out of the trash and ironed them,” Draco said brightly. “Do you know about irons? They’re one of the better muggle inventions, I think. You can also use them to get the wrinkles out of clothes, press flowers, and even make bacon, in a pinch.”

“Make…bacon?”

“Certainly,” Draco said.

“You…make bacon? On your iron?”

Draco’s cheeks turned pink. “How was I supposed to know?” he said. “I thought they were multipurpose until the first time I invited Dorothy over for brunch. She just about bowled over when I pulled out my iron.”

Harry could only imagine the look of horror on Dorothy’s face as Draco, cheerfully oblivious, laid out raw strips of bacon strips on his iron.

He doubled over laughing while Draco replaced the painting that framed his secret Harry shrine. He crossed his arms and waited silently, expression stern.

“It works, you know,” he said frostily, once Harry had finally calmed down. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” 

***

After breakfast, Harry took a shower. He was almost finished rinsing out his conditioner when he heard the bathroom door open with a quiet snick.

“Want to join me?” Harry called.

When Draco didn’t respond, Harry knew.

He ripped open the shower curtain to see Draco holding the old pair of jeans he had shucked off and left on the bathmat.

“Don’t you dare!” Harry shouted. “Not again!”

Draco lunged through the doorway, but Harry leapt over the edge of the tub and gave chase, stark naked and dripping all over the carpet.

Draco dashed around the coffee table and back towards the front door. He had almost reached it when he slipped on a wet spot, allowing Harry to grab him from behind and send them both crashing to the floor.

He wrenched the jeans out of Draco’s hands and held them triumphantly in the air.

Draco was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. “I didn’t think—you’d give chase—completely starkers,” he gasped. “You fucking lunatic!”

“Well, you underestimated me, didn’t you?” Harry said, triumphant.

“And now I’ll pay the price,” Draco answered coyly, wriggling his hips beneath Harry.

Harry fucked him right there on the floor, slow and sweet, his hair dripping all over Draco’s face, and Draco’s hands scrabbling across his wet back. 

After, Harry helped Draco to his feet. He was pink in the face and slightly unsteady. He got dressed again while Harry cleaned himself up.

As soon as Draco had done up the last button on his shirt, he leaned in towards Harry, blinking down at him from beneath his damp lashes like a fawn—

And then he bent down and snatched the jeans off the floor. He dashed towards the front door, threw it open, and lunged across the hall.

Harry made it as far as the doorway before realizing he was still completely naked—he couldn’t go out there. He could only watch as Draco tossed his jeans down the garbage chute with a loud clang.

He stood there, wet and shivering and fuming as Draco sauntered back into the apartment.

“Actually, I think it is you who underestimated me,” Draco purred.

He caught Harry by the chin and tipped it up towards him. He gave him a long, deep kiss. “Don’t do it again,” Draco whispered, a wicked smirk on his face. 

Part of Harry was furious. But another part was half-hard and grinning at Draco despite himself. Because, just now, looming over him, smug, cocksure, and bitchy, he reminded Harry so much of the old Draco that something like grief was crawling up his throat, because he hadn’t realized until just now that the Draco he grew up with was gone—had been gone for many years.

In their childhood, Draco had seemed like a pillar of strength—a genuine threat to him, towering over him with his superior height and magical knowledge. The old Draco had been arrogant and nasty, but he was also confident, funny, carefree and cared-for. The Draco he knew now was jaded, beaten-down, anxious. He was still taller, but his height, combined with his gauntness, only made him seem more frail and vulnerable now. He was quick to apologize and quick to fear. Skittish, like a beaten dog. Not broken—that spark of defiance had never been snuffed out entirely—but it was dimmed. 

This glimpse of the old Draco made Harry’s heart swell. But it wasn’t truly the old Draco, not quite, he thought. It was someone entirely new—someone who felt safe enough to be playful and wicked, but wiser, and no longer cruel. And Harry was the only person in the world who had the privilege of knowing him.

A selfish part of him wanted to keep it that way.

***

After he got dressed, Harry tried to go back to work—he really did. He even got as far as putting his shoes on. But when the moment came, he couldn’t do it. He simply couldn’t walk through the door and leave Draco behind. He sent a patronus to the Ministry, took off his shoes, and stayed. He stayed all through the weekend and called off sick on Monday.

Draco still had to work nights, of course, but Harry began driving him on his motorcycle so he wouldn’t have to take the tube, or even flying him if they’d been in bed and Draco was about to be late.

They couldn’t keep their hands off of each other. They made love on the couch, on the bed, in the shower, and once—quite memorably—on the fire escape, shrouded in darkness. Harry even tried to fuck Draco against the wall, but their height difference made it difficult. “Do you need a stool?” Draco had quipped, and they had ended up on the floor, shaking with peals of laughter, holding each other upright.

Sometimes Harry sat at the bar while Draco was working, both he and Anthony keeping a watchful eye on him as he flirted his way around the room, but more often Harry stayed at Draco’s apartment, cooking elaborate meals for them well into the night. Draco had become more willing to let Harry pay for food, especially if he was making it himself. 

Harry borrowed a cookbook from Dorothy and made the richest, most filling recipes he could find: spaghetti bolognese, meatloaf, lasagna, stew, fried chicken, roasts, mashed potatoes, and more. He hadn’t cooked so much since he was at the Dursleys, never bothering to cook for himself, and it was the first time in his life he’d experimented with new recipes. He found that food tasted better when he cooked the muggle way, but being able to clean dishes with magic made the whole process so much more pleasant.

Draco still took smaller portions than Harry, but he was eating three solid meals a day for the first time in what Harry suspected was years. He was looking less gaunt and sallow. The hollow parts of his face had filled out a bit, and his cheeks were rosier. He even seemed more alert, more energetic.

But running beneath the bliss was an undercurrent of unease. Harry had felt it all along, but ever since Draco had confessed about Greyback and his “older boyfriend,” the signs were glaringly obvious. Someone had hurt Draco—and badly.

Sometimes Draco would dissociate, particularly while they were having sex. If Draco was on his knees, or facing away from Harry, Harry would have to talk him through it almost constantly to prevent another episode. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough, and his eyes would go glassy, his body limp and pliable. Harry would have to stop everything and find a way to ground Draco, to bring him into the present and out of whatever horrible place his mind had slipped into. 

Sometimes, in the morning, Draco would wake up and stiffen in his arms, before meeting Harry’s eyes and melting again.

Draco liked to pretend that nothing was amiss, and would get snappy if Harry tried to press the issue, or tried to guide Draco away from certain positions. Harry was careful not to let his anger slip through, seeing how it had frightened Draco when he first told Harry about Edwin. So he played along, and pretended like nothing was wrong.

But on the inside, the fires of Harry’s rage were being stoked higher and higher. Someone had done this to Draco. Someone had hurt him. And Harry was almost certain it was Edwin.

He was going to prove it. And then he was going to make Edwin pay.  

Chapter Text

Harry could usually only sleep one of two ways: if he was drunk, or if Draco was in his arms. He hadn’t been drinking much lately—he was too ashamed to indulge unless Draco was drinking, too—so the late shifts at the Gentlemen’s Club posed a problem. By now, he had pretty much adapted to Draco’s schedule. He stayed up and cooked a big dinner to be ready for Draco when he got home around 3 a.m. They would eat together and then fall into bed around dawn.

But Harry’s body hadn’t fully adjusted, the fridge was full of leftovers, and on Wednesday night, he found that he couldn’t stay up. He slept fitfully, having nightmares on and off. Usually he relived the war over and over again in his sleep, but recently his nightmares had taken a turn. Sometimes he was in a huge house with hundreds of doors and couldn’t find Draco behind any of them. Sometimes he and Draco were hiding in a closet from a sinister figure, Harry’s hand over Draco’s mouth to keep him quiet. In the worst dream of all, he killed a Death Eater, then kicked off their mask to find Draco’s vacant face beneath it.

Harry woke with a start. He rolled over and glanced at the clock—3:30 a.m. He sat bolt upright in bed. Draco should have been home by now. He shivered as a breeze rolled through the room, then realized that the window must be open. He whirled around to check. The sash was raised a couple feet off the sill.

Something shattered in the bathroom. Harry was on his feet, wand in hand, before he had even fully processed the sound. He grabbed his glasses but didn’t stop to put them on. It must be Snatchers, come to take—no, it had to be Edwin—but there were no more Snatchers, and Edwin was still in prison. It had to be Dawlish.

Harry crept around the corner as Dawlish continued rummaging around in Draco’s bathroom, no doubt back for revenge, to turn Draco’s apartment upside down the way he had every week until Harry had come on the scene. But Harry wouldn’t let him get away with it this time.

The door was open a few inches. Harry took a deep breath. He kicked it open, wand up, and shouted, “Don’t move!”

“Fuck,” the figure said, turning, then stumbling back against the sink. “I’m sorry,” they gasped.

That voice sounded familiar. Without lowering his wand, Harry shoved his glasses onto his face, and the scene before him resolved with horrifying clarity.

The intruder was Draco. He looked awful. He was in his uniform, but his vest and tie were both missing, and his normally crisp white shirt was stained with blood around the collar. His lip was split, and there was dried blood all over his chin. His nose was red and swollen and blood was dripping out of one nostril. Worst of all, he was cradling his left hand. It looked horribly bruised, and his thumb was sticking up at an odd angle. He looked like a wounded animal caught in a trap. The room smelled powerfully of rubbing alcohol. When Harry looked down, he saw broken glass on the floor.

He immediately felt hot, his skin prickling beneath his clothes. His breath came faster. His fingers began to twitch.  

“What happened,” he growled, stepping further into the room. “Who did this?” There was a buzzing sound in his ears. He needed to know. He needed Draco to tell him—so that he could kill them.

Draco shuffled backwards until his shoulder hit the corner of the wall. “I’m sorry. It was just—it was no one, I swear,” he pleaded. “Just a customer at the bar. I said no—I tried to. But I always used to say yes, and—but we haven’t, not for ages, I swear it! You can ask me on truth serum! I never cheated! And I’m clean, I got tested just—”

Draco was babbling so quickly it was difficult to follow. Harry didn’t care about the details—he wanted a name. “This guy hit you?” he asked. “Because you wouldn’t sleep with him anymore?”

“More or less, yeah,” Draco whispered.

Harry stepped forward again, holding out his hand to inspect Draco’s thumb, but Draco flinched away, curling his shoulders inward and pressing himself as far into the wall as he could.

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” he babbled. “I’ll clean everything up, I swear, and you can—”

Harry froze in his tracks. As the red mist of his rage began to dim, he suddenly realized what he had done. He’d burst into the room, wand up, screaming at Draco in his most vulnerable moment.

“Fuck,” he breathed, taking a quick couple steps back. “Oh fuck, Draco—I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you, I swear, I thought—I thought you were Dawlish or someone.”

Draco was looking back at him warily, his eyes horribly wide and frightened.

“Fuck,” Harry swore, hating himself. He waved his wand and reassembled the bottle of rubbing alcohol, then shoved it under the sink with his foot.

He turned to Draco and said, “Can I—can I help you? Please?”

After a long moment, Draco nodded.

“Why don’t you have a seat on the toilet,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice calm—feeling like a monster.

Draco sat on the toilet seat, looking miserably down at the floor. A trickle of blood slowly dripped down his lip and splashed onto the white tile. It made Harry want to punch a hole in the wall. But he needed to stay calm, for Draco’s sake.

Harry knelt on the tile and cupped a hand against Draco’s cheek, thumbing his soft skin. Draco closed his eyes and leaned into his touch, like a cat. At that display of trust, the twisted, angry knot in Harry’s chest began to unravel. He trailed his fingers down Draco’s face and gently ran a thumb across his lip, wiping the fresh blood away so he could get a closer look. He wished so badly in that moment that he had Hermione’s knack for healing magic. He didn’t want to do a half-arsed job; he didn’t want to wait for help. He wanted to heal it right fucking now, as if it had never happened at all. When he pulled back, he was shocked to see that the split had begun to close up.

Draco touched his lip. “What did you do?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Harry said. He leaned back in and brushed his thumb gently across Draco’s lip, back and forth, trying to channel all of his magic into his intentions until the torn skin was knitted back together, good as new. Then he turned his attention to Draco’s bloody and swollen nose, cautiously running his index fingers down either side of it.

“What happened to your thumb?” he asked while he worked.

“I tried to punch him,” Draco admitted. “But I think I did it wrong.”

“Did you put your fingers over your thumb?” Harry asked.

Draco nodded.

“Rookie mistake,” Harry said gently. “Did no one ever teach you to throw a punch?”

“No. We can’t all be scrappy little street urchins,” Draco snapped, and Harry huffed out a laugh.

“Well, how do you usually defend yourself?” he asked. “This can’t be the first time you’ve gotten into a scrap since the war.”

There was a long silence, and then Draco quietly admitted, “...I usually bite.”

Harry chuckled, and Draco smiled wryly up at him.

“I should have known,” Harry said. He remembered, then, that Dawlish had turned up at the Ministry after the arrest covered in bites from Lady Di and Draco. “Don’t worry, I can show you how to do it right.”

Draco’s lip and nose were already looking good as new. Harry stood and retrieved a washcloth, running warm water over it in the sink. He knelt back down and began to gently wipe away the crusted blood on Draco’s lips and chin. When he sat back on his heels to inspect his handiwork, he said, “There’s still some blood on your lip ring I can’t get to. You might have to clean it.”

Draco silently bent the ends of the ring apart—avoiding his injured thumb—and pulled it free. He absently spun the ring around in his fingers. His face looked so different without it—younger, more vulnerable.

“How did you even get home?” Harry asked anxiously. “Did he follow you?” 

Draco shook his head. “He caught me just outside of the club, after my shift. Anthony eventually came out and pulled him off me. He gave me a ride home. But…but the man knows where I live,” he said. “I never bring people home, but he followed me here once. The club’s banned him and told me to take a couple weeks off until my thumb heals. Unpaid, of course,” he said bitterly.

Harry tried to squash the mental image of Draco in the dark alley behind the club, cornered, alone, trying to fend off a stronger man. Harry should have been there. He needed to take a few deep breaths before he was calm enough to trust himself with Draco’s injuries.

“Can I?” Harry asked, hands hovering over Draco’s bent thumb.

Draco nodded. Harry gently inspected it as Draco winced. “I think it’s dislocated,” he said grimly. “I can’t fix this kind of thing. I think we need to go to a healer.”

“No,” Draco said sharply.

“A doctor then?”

“I’m not setting foot in one of their torture chambers ever again,” Draco said firmly. “The last time I went to a muggle hospital they sewed my skin up with a needle and thread. My skin.” 

“Well, then I’ll have to set it,” Harry said.

“Do it.”

“You’re sure? I can get—”

“Just do it,” Draco hissed.

“Alright,” Harry said, getting ready. “On three. One—two—”

On two, Harry popped the joint back into place. Draco let out a horrible, wrenching half-moan, half scream.

“It’s over,” Harry said, kissing the knuckle of Draco’s thumb. “It’s over. You did so well.” He soothed his fingers across the bruises on his thumb, and then the cuts on his knuckles, watching them knit back together beneath his touch. That was odd. He would have to speak to Hermione about it the next time he saw her.

When he looked up, he was horrified to see Draco’s eyes swimming with tears. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked anxiously.

Draco shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, it’s just—”

He pulled his hand out of Harry’s grip and dropped his head into his hands. “Why does everyone want to hurt me,” he said with a sob.

Harry put his hand on Draco’s knee. “Oh, Draco,” he breathed.

“It’s like there’s a sign on my back that says ‘EASY TARGET,’” Draco spat. “My whole life. And since the war, it’s been—just one man after another after another after another. Like my body isn’t even mine. Like it’s everybody else’s.”

Harry whipped his hand off of Draco’s knee like he’d been burned, but Draco just rolled his eyes. “I don’t mean you,” he said, sniffling.

After a moment, he continued, his voice wobbling. “I thought things would be better after the war. So I held on, and waited, and survived. But it didn’t get better. It just got different. For me the war never ended. It’s never going to. And I’m just tired, Harry,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m so tired, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing it. And I don’t know what I’m doing it for. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel because my whole life is one long bloody tunnel, so why do I have to work so hard? Why do I have to put in twelve hour shifts and let lecherous old men flirt with me for tips that are barely enough to keep my cat fed? Why do I have to shop for bottom-shelf beans and rice and come home to this shithole of an apartment? It feels like I’m just biding time until the ministry decides to throw me back in Azkaban or a man from the club crawls in through the window and—and—” He put his head in his hands and choked out quiet, gut-wrenching sobs that shook his whole body.

It wasn’t until he spoke that Harry realized he was choked up, too. “I know you’re tired,” he said, rubbing Draco’s knee. “You’ve been so strong and so brave for so long. But you need a rest. And you’re not alone anymore. Come home with me.” 

“What?” Draco said, startled, looking up at Harry.

Harry hadn’t known what he was going to ask until the words had already left his mouth, but it was the most natural decision in the world. He only regretted that he hadn’t asked Draco sooner. “Come to Grimmauld Place," he said. "You have to take time off anyway. It’s safe there—it was a safehouse during the war. No one will be able to find you there. And I’ll take care of you.”

Draco hesitated. “I can’t leave Lady Diana.”

“She can come too,” Harry said. “There are more than enough mice to keep her entertained. Please.” He wiped Draco’s tears away and took his face between his hands, begging him with his eyes to say yes.

Draco’s grey, watery eyes searched Harry’s for a long moment. “Alright,” he finally whispered. “Just for a little while.”

He tentatively leaned forward, letting out a shuddering breath as his forehead rested against Harry’s shoulder.

Harry cupped the back of Draco’s neck with his hand, stroking the soft, downy hair there with his thumb.

“As long as you want,” Harry said, but what he meant was, Forever.

***

They decided to leave immediately. Draco didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, knowing that the man who hurt him was out there—he’d talked management at the Gentleman’s Club into not filing a police report—and knew where he lived.

Harry stood awkwardly in the center of the room while Draco shut and locked all the windows and pulled down the blinds. Then he pulled a suitcase—the muggle kind with wheels—out from under his bed and started rummaging through his wardrobe, throwing trousers and shirts and undergarments haphazardly into it.

Harry sidled up beside him and pulled an article of clothing off the shelf, wanting to be useful. It was a netted crop top with long sleeves.

“Er—need this?” Harry asked with a barely suppressed smile, holding it up to Draco.

Draco snatched the top out of his hands and shoved it back onto the shelf. “No. I use that to pull men. Once I have them, I have other methods of keeping them,” he said with a smirk.

Harry remembered, quite vividly, the way Draco had dressed when they had run into each other at the club—his smudged black liner, body glitter, and fishnet gloves.

“Where’d you learn to dress like that, anyway?” he asked.

Draco stuck his nose in the air as he sifted through a series of sweaters. “Some of us like to keep up with the trends, Potter. It’s called emo.”

“What’s ‘emo’?” Harry asked, pulling a studded belt off the shelf. Draco snatched that away, too.

“It’s—” he hesitated. “It’s something to do with music. Or emotions. Or maybe devil worship. I don’t know, how am I supposed to know?” he snapped when Harry chuckled.

Harry pulled a small box pull of brightly colored handkerchiefs off the shelf as Draco said, “Stop touching my things!”

“How can one person possibly use so many pocket squares?” Harry asked as he sifted through them, mystified.

Draco dipped his gaze to the floor. “They’re not pocket squares,” he muttered. “They’re handkerchiefs.”

“How can one person use so many handkerchiefs, then?”

Draco snatched the box away from Harry and shoved it deep inside his wardrobe.

“It’s—” he said, hesitantly, “It’s like a code. I noticed men wearing them at a very old-school bar I went to in the early days.”

“What kind of code?” Harry asked. He had no idea where Draco was going with this.

“God!” Draco snapped. “Sometimes I forget how—freshly gay you are. It’s for sex. It tells other men what you’re into. For instance, dark blue means anal sex, light blue means oral, yellow means watersports, that kind of thing.” 

There had been a bright yellow handkerchief on top of the pile. Harry’s jaw dropped. All the blood rushed to his cheeks. “You’re—you’re into—!?”

“No!” Draco said hurriedly, “No, I—I didn’t know what all of them meant back then. I figured—you know…I would…figure it out. By trial and error.”

Harry was thunderstruck. “You just walked into clubs—wearing these hankies—with no idea of what they meant?” 

Draco paused as he folded a pair of trousers. He had gone pink around the ears. “I know it was reckless, alright?” he muttered. “It was right after the war, and…I guess I didn’t really care one way or the other. Eventually an older man noticed what I was doing and, er—set me straight, I suppose.” 

“Oh,” Harry said. “That’s…that’s good.” There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but Draco’s mouth had set into a firm line that meant the conversation was closed.

Once Draco had finished packing his clothes, he retrieved a leather case and headed for the bathroom, where he began tossing an alarming number of beauty products into the bag.

“Er—I have shampoo and stuff at Grimmauld, you know,” Harry said, but Draco just gave him a withering look and started on the bathroom cabinet.

“Ready?” Harry said hopefully as he followed Draco out of the bathroom.

“Almost,” Draco said, and made a beeline for the living room. He pulled the coffee table out of the way and then rolled up the carpet as Harry looked on, bemused.

Once the furniture was out of the way, Draco knelt on the floorboards, then hesitated for a moment, looking up at Harry.

“You won’t tell?” he asked anxiously.

Harry shook his head, although he didn’t know what Draco was talking about until he slammed down on a floorboard with the heel of his hand and the other end popped free. He reached into the gap, shoulder deep, until his face was almost touching the floor, and came back with—a book. An ordinary muggle book. He pulled another couple books free, then a small gold ring with a black stone, a photo in a silver frame, a thick wad of muggle cash, and finally, a tiny, obviously muggle device that Harry didn’t recognize. It looked something like a minature Walkman.

“Why are all your things under the floorboards?” Harry asked.

“Dawlish,” Draco replied matter-of-factly, replacing the board. He slipped the ring, the cash, and the muggle device into his pockets and stacked the books, with the photo on top. He bent his head to look at it for a moment, and Harry craned his neck to see it too.

It was Draco and his mother. They were both younger—Draco no more than ten, and Narcissa before her hair had gone silver. She was sitting in an elegant green velvet armchair. Draco was curled up on the floor, leaning his head in her lap. Narcissa was bent over him, stroking his hair with an adoring smile on her face, and Draco was looking at the camera with a shy smile on his.

Draco caught Harry staring and hastily flipped the photograph over, his cheeks flushed. He tucked the books, the photograph, and the leather case into his suitcase, zipped it shut, and then stood and faced Harry, panting slightly.

“Shit,” he said. “I need to tell Dorothy. She’ll think a madman’s kidnapped me, otherwise.”

While Draco scribbled a note at the kitchen table, Harry conjured a large box and managed to fit Lady Di’s litter box, a bag of litter, several toys, a bag of food, her food bowls, and her favorite scratcher inside. He shrank the box and tucked it inside the carrier.

Finally, after Draco had slipped the note under Dorothy’s door, it was time to wrangle Lady Di. She’d been sleeping on one of the bookshelves, disgruntled by all of the chaos, and yowled furiously while Harry levitated her into the carrier.

She kept yowling all the way out the door, down the hall, and into the taxi that Draco called from a nearby payphone.

Finally, the taxi let them off at the end of Grimmauld Place as the sun was rising. Harry was holding Draco’s suitcase while Draco clutched Lady Di’s carrier in both arms. Harry kept a firm hand on Draco’s lower back, scanning the street for any suspicious characters—a wartime habit he’d never been able to break.

They stopped between number 11 and number 13.

He shot Harry an unsure look, and Harry smiled encouragingly at him. “We’re home,” he said.

Harry shut his eyes and repeated the address to himself in his mind. Draco gasped quietly, and Harry opened his eyes as Grimmauld Place shouldered its way between the two other buildings. As little as he liked the house, that part of coming home never got old.

When he opened the door and looked down the gloomy hallway, Draco hesitated, and Harry’s heart sank as he suddenly saw Grimmauld Place through Draco’s eyes: the gloom, the dust, the smell of mold and rot.

Draco pursed his lips and stepped gingerly over the massive pile of unread letters on the threshold.

“Er—sorry it’s such a mess,” Harry said in a hushed voice. “I’ll get Kreacher to—”

Just then, Lady Di let out an ear-piercing yowl, and Walburga awoke.

“MUDBLOODS! BLOOD TRAITORS! SCUM! HOW DARE YOU BESMIRCH THE HOUSE OF BLACK WITH YOUR—”

Harry looked wildly over at Draco, feeling like an idiot for having forgotten to warn him about Walburga. But Draco just said, “Is that Auntie Walburga?” in a tone of mild surprise.

“Er, yeah,” Harry said. “How did you—oh,” he said as he realized the obvious: Draco was a Black, through his mother, and Harry had just brought him to his ancestral home.

“What’s she going on about?” Draco said, annoyed, as the ruckus continued. He put the carrier down and went around the corner while Harry hurried after him.

“Hello, Auntie Walburga,” Draco said politely, and for the first time in Harry’s memory, Walburga fell silent of her own accord.

The curtains were open—Harry cursed Kreacher for the millionth time—and Walburga was leaning towards Draco, holding her lorgnette up to her eyes. 

“Why, Lucius,” she said in a pleasant, musical device that was almost unrecognizable to Harry. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to see a familiar face in Grimmauld. You won’t believe what these mongrels have done to the place, I tell you—”

“No, Auntie Walburga, it’s me,” Draco said, stepping closer to the portrait. “Draco. Lucius’s son.”

There was a long pause while they peered at each other, Walburga skeptical and Draco open-faced. Then, she erupted. 

“SODOMITE! INVERT! CONCUBINE! BLIGHT ON THE HOUSE OF BLACK! I’VE HEARD OF YOUR PERVERSIONS, OF HOW YOU’VE FOULED OUR ANCESTRAL HALLS ALL ACROSS ENGLAND WITH YOUR—” 

Harry lunged forward and yanked the curtains shut, muffling Walburga’s voice. Then he turned anxiously to Draco.

In the dim light of the hallway sconces, Draco was even paler than usual, his breath coming quickly. His hands were trembling, and he folded his arms quickly to hide them.

“I suppose I should have seen that coming,” he said in a shaky voice, trying for self-deprecation but only managing to sound pathetic. “All the Black family portraits talk to each other.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said. “I—”

“Stop,” Draco said, holding up a hand. “Don’t. Can we just—go to bed?” 

“Alright,” Harry said. “Alright.”

Just then, a figure came plodding around the corner, and both Harry and Draco jumped, Draco letting out a little yelp.

“Kreacher,” Harry said sternly. “This is Draco. He’ll be staying here for a while, and you’re to treat him with—” 

“Of course Kreacher knows of Master Draco, of the Noble House of Black!” Kreacher said, sounding affronted.

He made a low bow. “Master Draco is most welcome at Grimmauld Place,” he simpered. “It will be an honor to serve the great-nephew of my Lady Walburga. Kreacher did not know Master Harry was having such respectable friends,” he said, shooting a nasty look at Harry.

“Thank you Kreacher,” Draco said sincerely while Harry rolled his eyes.

Just then Lady Di let out another spectacular yowl, and Kreacher scurried over to the carrier, faster than Harry had ever seen him move, and peered through the bars.

“Will this be Master Draco’s cat?” he asked in a tone of wonderment.

“It is,” Draco said. “Her name is Lady Diana.”

“A regal name for a regal creature,” Kreacher croaked. “Kreacher will be taking care of Lady Diana for Master Draco.”

He hefted the carrier into his arms and waddled away into the kitchen. Harry was too tired to object.

He put an arm around Draco’s waist and led him up the stairs to his room. They undressed and fell into bed in silence. Once they were settled in, Draco began to shake again. Harry squeezed him tighter and murmured, “You’re safe. No one’s going to find you here. I’ve got you.” 

At last, Draco melted in his arms, and his breathing slowed.

Harry lay awake, savoring the warm, solid weight of Draco in his arms, the soothing up-and-down motion of his chest, the gentle gusts of his breath. He knew they were safe at Grimmauld, he was sure of it—but he stayed awake until the sun rose, ready to protect Draco from whatever may come.

Chapter Text

Harry awoke to the sound of the curtains being yanked open and the blinding glare of early morning sunlight in his eyes.

He blinked awake, coughing as he inhaled the dust the curtains had stirred up.

He fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table and shoved them on to reveal Draco, in a T-shirt and boxers, looking around his bedroom with disgust.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Potter,” Draco exclaimed. “What have you done to my ancestral home?”

Harry glanced blearily around the room. The sunlight illuminated the dust on every surface and the cobwebs in every corner. Where the floor was visible beneath a layer of old clothes and empty bottles was a moldering oriental rug. Pixies had chewed holes in the baseboards and the wallpaper was hanging off the walls in shreds where it wasn’t marred by smoke above the old sconces. The chandelier was dangling precariously from the ceiling.

“I didn’t do it,” Harry said defensively. “This place is, like—hundreds of years old!”

“And?” Draco said, clearly scandalized. “Hogwarts is a thousand fucking years old!”

“This shitehole is no Hogwarts,” Harry muttered.

“That’s because you’ve let it go to the dogs!” Draco insisted. “You have to take care of old buildings!”

Harry petulantly rolled over and pulled the covers over his head while Draco clucked his tongue. He didn’t want Draco to see how ashamed he actually felt at the state of the place. He should have cleaned up before Draco arrived. Hell, he should have cleaned up years ago, but he just—hadn’t. He pretended to fall back asleep, flushing with embarrassment as Draco puttered around, muttering under his breath.

Finally, Draco went downstairs—hauling, by the sound of it, all of the empty bottles down with him. Harry lay in bed for another twenty minutes or so before getting up and pulling on jeans and one of the nice sweaters that Draco had bought him. He brushed his teeth and even spritzed on a bit of old cologne in a pathetic attempt to seem like less of a human disaster.

On the landing, he was surprised by the smell of frying bacon. He followed the sounds of clinking pots and pans downstairs to the kitchen.

He shouldered through the swinging door to find Kreacher on a stool at a counter. There were bacon and eggs cooking in a saucepan, toast on the grille, and a knife chopping fruit by itself. Kreacher himself was swinging a massive cleaver over a hunk of meat. Harry hadn’t seen him cook in—well, maybe ever.

Draco was sitting at the table, reading The Daily Prophet and sipping a cup of tea. He looked so natural there that Harry almost felt as though he were the guest in Draco’s home.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

“Nice of you to join us at last,” Draco quipped.

“How did you convince Kreacher to cook for you?” Harry grumbled, taking a seat.

“Kreacher is honored to serve Master Draco of the noble House of Black,” Kreacher croaked from the stove.

Harry rolled his eyes while Draco smiled smugly and snapped the newspaper.

Kreacher brought a dish full of raw meat to the table and set it down at the empty chair across from Draco’s.

“What is hell is—” Harry began, but the words died in his mouth when Lady Di jumped up onto the table and tucked into the meat, Kreacher stroking her back lovingly as she ate.

“Only the best for Lady Di,” Draco said, smirking at him, and Harry couldn’t help but smile. It warmed him to see Draco so comfortable, so smug, so teasing—like he used to be.

Kreacher only served Draco, but in big enough portions that Draco could easily share with Harry, much to Harry’s aggravation and Draco’s amusement. After they were finished, Draco stood and stretched.

“Well? Are you going to show me around?” he asked.

Harry led Draco up the stairs and across the hall to the dining room. Draco admired the Black family crest hanging over the fireplace and the ancient china in the cabinet. “My mother had a teacup from that same set,” he said wistfully. But when he spotted the chest of drawers in the corner, he gasped and hurried over to it, brushing off the dust with his hand. “This is seventeenth century!” he said. “Look at the marquetry—it’s stunning!” Harry leaned over. He’d never inspected it before, but the bureau was indeed beautiful—set into the wood were birds, foliage, and even a scene of noblemen spearing a boar.

“Urgh,” Draco said, rubbing his fingers together. “There’s something sticky on the surface.”

“Let me clean it up.”

Harry took out his wand, but Draco grabbed him by the wrist. “Potter, no!” he gasped, appalled. “You can’t cast scourgify on a piece like this! It’ll peel the veneer right off!”

“How do you know all this stuff, anyway?” Harry muttered, pocketing his wand.

“Some of us have an appreciation for history,” Draco sniffed. “And I grew up in a Tudor manor, if you recall. I used to spend my summers in the archives, looking up the provenance of all our heirloom furniture and artwork.”

He put a hand back on the marquetry, gently tracing his finger over the whorls and curls of the wood. “What happened, anyway—” he asked hesitantly, “to the Manor?”

He glanced up at Harry from under his eyelashes, his eyes pinched, like he was bracing himself for bad news. “I imagine it’s been stripped down the floorboards? All the furniture sold as reparations? Or maybe just burned to the ground?”

“No, actually,” Harry replied. “No one’s even been inside since the war.”

“Really?” Draco asked, a startled look on his face.

“Really,” Harry said. “A clean-up crew went there just after the final battle, but couldn’t even get in. They managed to confirm from the grounds that there were no remaining Death Eaters holed up inside, but that’s about it. Something about ancestral magic—generations on generations of protective enchantments have made it into a fortress. No one can get in.”

“Except Malfoys and their guests, of course,” Draco said. He was practically beaming.

“It’s basically a haunted house now,” Harry said. “Everyone’s too terrified to get anywhere near it. They think there are booby-traps on the inside, or something.”

“Oh, there are,” Draco said smugly, and swept past Harry before he could ask any follow-up questions.

They went back into the hallway and up the stairs. Harry noticed how Draco hunched his shoulders as they tiptoed past Walburga, and put a gentle hand on his waist. They entered the drawing room first, probably the cleanest and most livable room in the whole house. The curtains had been flung open—he supposed by Kreacher, in an attempt to impress—revealing the floor-to-ceiling windows, the light illuminating the glass cabinets full of curiosities and the Black family tapestry on one wall. Kreacher had even put a fire in the grate that morning, and it cast flickering light on the comfortable rosewood and silk damask sofas.

“Not too bad in here,” Draco admitted begrudgingly. He spent several long minutes ooing and ahhing over the little trinkets in the glass cabinets—glittering snakeskins and dishes of Wartcap Powder and a gorgeous set of sapphire and silver drop earrings—before he spotted the tapestry.

“Oh,” he said softly, stopping before his own likeness. “It’s me.” The portraits aged by themselves, but Draco’s face looked all wrong—his hair short and slicked back, his piercings gone, his face smug and cruel and pointy. It was a Draco who had never suffered, who had never lost his family, who had never been humbled. It was a Draco who might have been, not the tired young man standing before it. Harry’s heart ached. 

Draco looked at his portrait for a long moment before gazing up into his mother’s face. Narcissa’s portrait looked just as Harry remembered her—cool and poised and very, very beautiful.

Draco touched her cheek briefly, before walking out of the room and down the hallway as if nothing had happened. 

In Sirius's bedroom, he took in the posters of motorcycles and big-breasted muggle women with a critical eye, but was wise enough not to say anything.

When they entered the spare bedroom, Draco gasped. Harry cringed as he looked over Draco’s shoulder. The curtains were torn to shreds, the stuffing pulled out of all the furniture. Half of the books were on the floor instead of in the bookshelves.

“What the actual hell?” Draco demanded, outraged. “Did a bloody Hippogriff stampede through here, or something?”

“Er—actually—” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck. This was the room Buckbeak had stayed in when he and Sirirus were hiding out here, and he’d never bothered to set it right.

“No,” Draco breathed, the blood draining from his face. “You’re joking. That vicious bloody chicken? Here?”

Too distraught to continue the tour, Draco stayed, shoving books back onto the shelves and muttering curses under his breath. Harry awkwardly offered to help, but Draco waved him off with a tart, “You’ve done enough.”

Harry ended up back in the parlor with Lady Di on his lap, listening to the sound of Draco moving furniture and stomping up and down on the upper floors. Kreacher had eagerly joined in on the cleaning efforts, and clanked down the stairs to refill his ancient bucket every so often. The fire crackled in the hearth, and Lady Di was purring, and Harry fell asleep, warm in the knowledge that Draco was just upstairs.

***

Harry woke from a hazy, pleasantly dreamless sleep to the feeling of the couch cushion sagging beneath his head, and someone stroking his hair.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, and Harry opened his eyes to see Draco bending over him, his hair falling in his eyes and his cheeks flushed with exertion. “Kreacher says dinner is ready.”

Harry groaned and stretched, accidentally kicking Lady Di, who hissed and hopped angrily off the couch.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, pulling Draco into his arms.

“You lazy layabout,” Draco said, but he melted into Harry’s arms, and Harry breathed in the rose scent of his shampoo and nuzzled his nose into Draco’s warm neck, the arteries pumping just beneath his delicate skin.

When they finally, reluctantly sat up—after Kreacher rang a dinner bell Harry hadn't known existed—he noticed Draco’s eyes lingering on the silver earrings in the glass cabinet. Too sleepy to think the better of it, he tugged one of Draco’s earlobes and whispered, “You’d look so pretty in those earrings.”

Draco’s eyes cut back to Harry, his cheeks flushed and his mouth open in a round little ‘O’.

“You think so?” he said hesitantly. “I wouldn’t look too…feminine?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Harry said with a shrug. “And they wouldn’t make you less of a man, anyway.”

Draco bit his lip, unsure, but Harry stood and opened the cabinet. Dangling the delicate little earrings in his hands, he turned to see Draco smiling hesitantly.

“Put them on,” he said, dropping them into Draco’s open palm.

Draco carefully turned them over in his hands. “My father—”

“Isn’t here to scold you for wearing them,” Harry finished gently, and Draco flushed, dropping his eyes to the floor.

Draco removed a platinum stud from each of his lobes—dropping them into his shirt pocket—and fastened the drop earrings in their place. They swung and caught the firelight as he turned his head back and forth.

“Do you like them?” he asked anxiously.

“I love them,” Harry said. “Come see.”

He pulled Draco over to a large silver mirror and smiled helplessly as Draco preened, fixing his hair and fussing with his collar.

“You look so pretty,” Harry whispered, and Draco turned, his eyes sparkling, and kissed him.

When they finally made their way downstairs, Harry was shocked to find that Kreacher had whipped up a veritable feast: roast beef, boiled potatoes, asparagus, and gravy. Draco had found an old silver candelabra and a bottle of nice wine—not Harry’s—in some cupboard or another that afternoon, and now he lit the candles and poured them each a glass. They ate in comfortable silence, entertained by the sight of Kreacher hobbling around the table, pulling a string after him for Lady Di to chase.

After dinner, Draco led Harry up the stairs and onto the silk damask sofa in the parlor. He slung a leg over Harry’s lap and ground his crotch down into Harry’s. Harry ran his hands along Draco’s waist and leaned forward, but Draco stopped him with a finger to the lips.

“Ah, ah,” he said. “It’s my turn to thank you. For being such a generous host.”

Draco unbuttoned his shirt slowly and shucked it off, keeping his eyes on Harry, grinding down harder every time Harry’s cock jumped. Then he pulled Harry’s T-shirt over his head and put his lips on Harry’s neck. He kissed him, and then he sucked, hard.

“Ouch!” Harry yelped. “Are you trying to give me a bruise?”

“It’s called a hickey, Potter,” Draco said. “Toughen up.”

He kissed his way down Harry’s neck, leaving hickeys in his wake, as Harry shivered and twisted beneath him.

When Harry leaned forward to give Draco a hickey of his own, Draco gently grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him away. “Behave,” he growled, in his best imitation of Harry.

Harry tried to be patient and let Draco have his fun, but his pulse was pounding in his throat, and his cock was painfully hard. He tried to snake his hand down the back of Draco’s trousers, but Draco reached back and smacked his hand. “Be a good boy and sit still,” he scolded.

“I want to be inside you,” Harry whined.

“Good things come to those who wait,” Draco whispered into Harry’s neck.

“Please,” Harry begged.

Draco cupped Harry’s face in his hands and leaned down to kiss him, slow and soft and sweet. When they finally broke away, Draco kissed the corner of Harry’s mouth, then each of his cheeks, and the bridge of his nose. Finally, he brushed his hair off his forehead to tenderly press a lingering kiss to Harry’s scar. Harry shivered beneath his touch. He couldn’t remember the last time—hell, any time—that someone other than Voldemort had touched his scar.

When Draco broke away, he stroked Harry’s cheek and said, “Keep your hair out of your pretty face.”

Harry stared at him, his mouth slightly open, Draco having managed to surprise him for the millionth time.

Then Draco grinned and flicked Harry in the forehead, hard.

Harry yelped and smacked his hand to his forehead. “What was that for?!” he cried.

“For letting this beautiful house go to ruin,” Draco said with a smirk.

Draco pulled his hand away and readied his thumb and middle finger for another assault, and managed to flick Harry in the forehead again, despite Harry’s attempts to struggle away. Harry grabbed Draco’s wrist and smacked his arse, hard, in retaliation.

To both of their surprise, Draco let out a filthy, involuntary groan. 

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, Harry’s hand still on Draco’s arse. Draco’s face turned bright red as Harry’s broke into a shit-eating grin, and then Draco growled, “I’m going to fucking kill you, Potter!” 

He grabbed Harry by the shoulders and sent them both crashing onto the carpeted floor. Harry cupped his hands behind Draco’s head to protect it as they hit the ground, and ended up losing the upper hand.

They rolled across the carpet, panting and laughing and tussling like schoolchildren—like the carefree schoolchildren they had never really been, Harry thought with a pang, and Draco took advantage of his momentary distraction and ended up on top.

Draco straddled Harry and raised his fist, his earrings swaying and glittering in the firelight. “I’m going to punch that stupid scar right off your face, Potter,” he teased.

And then several things happened very fast.

One moment Draco was on top of Harry, laughing down at him, and the next there was a flash of green light, a gasp, and a cry of rage.

“Get off him!” a voice shouted. Something flew across the room in a blur as Draco’s weight lifted off of Harry all at once.

“Oh my god!” someone shrieked, and Harry realized with a rush of confusion that that was Hermione’s voice. But he didn’t even have time to seek her out, because when he sat up, he saw that a man had pinned Draco to the ground, and a red welt was spreading across Draco’s cheek. Draco was looking up at his assailant with shocked, glassy eyes, and Harry lunged forward, tackling the man with a bellow of rage.

“Harry, no!” Hermione screamed.

Just as Harry was about to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze until something cracked, his vision cleared, and he saw that Ron was panting beneath him, his hands held up in surrender.

“Ron?” Harry said. “What the fuck, Ron?”

“What do you mean, ‘what the fuck?’” Ron spluttered, outraged. “He was on top of you! He was going to hit you! We got here just in time, apparently!”

“Ron—” Hermione said in a strangled voice. “It’s not—”

Harry got to his feet and offered Ron a hand. As he pulled Ron to his feet, Harry could see his eyes sweeping over Harry’s bare chest, over the hickeys on his neck. His eyes widened. “Mate, no—” he said. “You’ve got to be kidding me—”

But Harry didn’t have time for Ron to process, because when he turned, Draco was up and pulling his shirt on. He yanked the earrings out of his ears with trembling hands and tossed them onto the endtable. His face was flushed, the welt on his cheek darkening, and Harry realized with a swoop of horror that Draco was blinking back tears.

“I’ll just—be on my way then,” Draco said, voice tight, pointedly not looking at Harry. He turned for the door, but Harry grabbed his wrist.

“No, please,” he pleaded. “Don’t go. We can sort this out.”

“I’d rather skip out on what comes next if it’s all the same to you,” Draco said, but he turned halfway towards Harry, still unable to raise his gaze from the carpet.

“We can fix this,” Harry said, desperately, looking between Draco and Ron and Hermione. Ron was now slumped on the couch, his head in his hands, and Hermione was awkwardly hovering beside him. Harry realized with a flash of guilt that she looked so much more pregnant than she had the last time he had seen her.

“This was just a misunderstanding. And Ron is sorry—right, Ron?” Harry said, a hint of menace in his voice.

Hermione kicked Ron. He looked up and said, “Uh, right.”

“He’s sorry,” Hermione insisted. “He didn’t understand—the situation,” she said.

“Need me to explain it to you, Weasley?” Draco said snidely, his voice slipping back into the posh tone Harry remembered so vividly from school. “Tell me, how’d you manage to get your wife pregnant if no one ever taught you about the birds and the bees?”

“Draco,” Harry said, turning back to him with a hurt expression. “Don’t be a dick.”

“He attacked me,” Draco said. Then he turned back to Ron. “I guess you’ve never bothered with foreplay before. No wonder you don’t know what it looks like.”

“Keep talking and I’ll give you another bruise to match the first!” Ron threatened.

“Ron!” Harry shouted, whipping back to face him, squeezing his free hand into a fist.

Hermione took a few hesitant steps closer. “We’re really sorry,” she said, her eyes bright. “We didn’t mean to barge in, Harry, it’s just—we haven’t heard from you for weeks. We sent so many owls. We were starting to get so worried, we were checking Grimmauld every night. We didn’t know where you were or what you were doing—”

“Or who,” Ron said darkly.

Harry’s gut twisted with a fresh stab of guilt. He was such a shite friend.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I can explain.”

“I think we’ve got our explanation, thanks,” Ron muttered.

Hermione took another step closer, drawing her wand. “Here—Draco,” she said, his first name sounding strange in her mouth. “Let me heal your cheek.”

Draco recoiled. “Don’t touch me,” he snarled.

Ron’s head shot up. “Oi,” he growled, “What, still fancy yourself too good to let the mudblood touch you? In case you’ve forgotten, she’s an accomplished scholar now. A famous activist. And you’re nothing. Nobody.”

“Ron!” Harry shouted, taking a step towards him.

Draco recoiled. “No,” he protested, his snide demeanor dropping like a mask. “No, I didn’t mean—”

He was trembling again, and when he pulled against Harry’s grip, Harry realized that he was still tightly holding Draco’s wrist.

“Just let me go,” Draco begged, a wild look in his eyes.

“No,” Harry said stubbornly, leading him over to the opposite couch and sitting down, pulling Draco down next to him. 

Hermione perched next to Ron, and Harry looked each of them in the eyes before saying, firmly, “Draco is staying here for a while. With me. And it’s time you got to know each other anyway.”

“Actually, we’ve met,” Ron said frostily.

“Ron,” Hermione hissed. “Be polite.”

“Harry, for the love of Merlin, can you put your shirt back on,” Ron groaned, head still in his hands.

“Oh,” Harry said, blushing a bit. “Er—sorry.” He picked his shirt up off the floor and yanked it back on. He tried to put a hand on Draco’s leg, but Draco scooted away.

“I hope we can all just sit here and have a calm conversation like normal adults,” Harry said, shooting everyone daggers.

“Of course we can,” Hermione said. “Of course we can. Draco,” she said stiffly. “Harry’s told us so much about you.”

“Oh have you now?” Draco said menacingly, turning on Harry, and Harry held up his hands in surrender.

“I—I mean—” Harry stuttered.

“The only thing I’ve heard is that you turned up at a muggle club with a sodding lip ring and Harry lost his fucking mind,” Ron mumbled.

Hermione was biting her lip, and Ron turned to her, realization dawning in his face. “Oh for the love of Merlin,” he said. “You knew, didn’t you—and you didn’t tell me?”

“Not exactly,” Hermione hedged. “I mean...I knew that they had kissed, but Harry told me—” She shot Draco a guilty look. “That he was going to—well—break things off.”

“Did you now,” Draco said dryly, casting a sidelong glance at Harry.

“Hermione—” Harry hissed through gritted teeth.

“Sorry,” she mouthed.

“What happened to that plan?” Ron said mournfully. “That sounded like a good plan.”

“Anyway. Er,” Hermione said after a long pause. “How are you, Draco?”

“Peachy,” he responded through gritted teeth.

***

After things settled down a bit, Harry got Kreacher to fetch a bottle from the crate of firewhiskey under his bed. He poured a generous glass each for himself, Draco, and Ron, and had Kreacher bring a cup of tea up for Hermione.

Ron drank his whiskey in a single swallow, but Draco wouldn’t touch his. He sat on the opposite end of the couch from Harry, arms crossed, glowering haughtily down his nose at the coffee table. He had turned on what Harry had come to privately think of as “Bitch Mode” to the highest setting, but he knew him well enough by now to know that he was really just terrified. Harry was desperate to put Draco at ease, but everything was a conversational minefield, and he didn’t know how to stop it all from blowing to pieces.

Hermione came to rescue by bringing up a neutral topic that even Draco wouldn’t dare sneer at: the baby.

“We’ve decided to be surprised by the sex,” Hermione told Harry, her hand on Ron’s knee—with an iron firm grip, Harry noticed over the rim of his glass.

“You seemed pretty surprised by ours just now,” Draco muttered under his breath. Hermione pointedly ignored this comment.

“So we’re making a list of boys and girls names,” she pressed on, “Although I like the idea of something gender neutral myself.”

She was talking very fast and very brightly, the way she did when she was uncomfortable. “Anyway,” she said, her eyes darting between Ron and Harry, “we thought it would be sweet if we took suggestions from loved ones. And—oh Harry, this is what we’ve been trying to tell you. I hope you know how much we love you, and we were hoping—oh, Harry, we’re hoping you’ll be the godfather!”

Harry blinked, the information taking a moment to sink. A godfather. Like Sirius. Someone Ron and Hermione trusted more than anyone, someone they chose to raise the baby in case—in case they—

“Oh,” Harry said dumbly. “Gosh, that’s—wow. Of course. I—I’d be honored. Thanks, guys.”

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione flew at him and wrapped him in a hug. Harry was alarmed to feel her crying lightly into his shoulder, but he supposed she must be hormonal and all. Ron came over and gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder.

Draco stared at the carpet, sinking more deeply into the couch, as though he hoped it would swallow him up.

“Anyway,” Hermione said, once she had wiped her eyes and settled back on the couch. “Are there any names you’d like to nominate? I’ll read you the whole list after.”

“There are some real duds on it,” Ron said with a shake of his head. “George nominated Oopsie and Daisy.”

Hermione flushed bright red, and Harry realized for the first time that he’d never actually asked if Ron and Hermione had been trying to get pregnant. He felt rather than saw Draco smirking beside him.

“Er,” he said, trying to change the subject. “How about…James.”

Three heads swiveled towards Harry. “What?” he said defensively.

“No offense, mate,” Ron said. “But that’s…your family name. You know?”

“Oh. Right,” Harry said, blushing. “Erm. How about. Sirius.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. “What? You guys knew Sirius too!” he protested.

“Not the way you did, Harry,” Hermione said gently.

“Ok, fine,” Harry said, starting to feel genuinely flustered. “Dumbledore, then.”

To his surprise, Draco let loose a loud snort. “Great idea, you can call him ‘Dumb’ for short,” he quipped.

There was a long, tense silence in which Harry mentally prepared to throw himself between Ron and Draco. But then, to his great surprise, Ron burst into laughter. Draco looked at Ron uneasily, the corner of his mouth tilting up just a bit.

“I didn’t mean Dumbledore,” Harry protested, feeling highly embarrassed now. “I meant Albus!”

“Harry, mate, no,” Ron said with a shake of his head, still wheezing slightly. “Imagine going through school with a name like Albus. We all loved Dumbledore, don’t get me wrong, but the kid would be eaten alive.”

“Harry,” Hermione said, in the awful, gentle tone she used when she was afraid Harry was about to fly off the handle. “They don’t have to be named after—after someone else, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, I know!” Harry protested, crossing his arms. He tried to think of another name—any other name. But the first thing that came out of his mouth was—

“Lily.”

“Your mum’s name?” Ron asked incredulously.

“You know,” Hemione said brightly, “A flower name isn’t actually a bad idea. We’ve been thinking about Poppy, Posey, Daisy…”

Harry’s mind was racing, trying to think how to pull himself out of this mess, when Draco shifted slightly in his seat and Harry caught a heady whiff of his perfume.

“How about Rose?” Harry blurted out, and everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Lovely,” Hermione said, pulling a quill out of her coat. “I’ll write it down. And for a boy?”

Harry’s mind went blank, and before he could stop himself, he said, “Severus.” 

Ron let out a cry of outrage, and Draco burst into fresh peals of laughter. Hermione put a hand over her mouth.

“The man that ruthlessly bullied my wife? Harry, are you insane?” Ron shouted.

“JESUS, SORRY!” Harry shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him.

Draco was still cackling away when Ron turned on him. “Speaking of people who made Hermione’s life miserable,” he said nastily, “Keep the hell out of this, ferret!”

Draco’s mouth closed with a click, and he turned very pale, but he snarled back, “That’s rich, coming from a weasel. At least ferrets are domesticated!”

Ron stood up, balling his hands into fists, and Draco stood too.

“Harry’s trying, but he’s going to get bitten,” Ron growled.

“Harry loves it when I bite him! Show them, Harry,” Draco said wildly, reaching for Harry’s collar while Harry tried to bat his hands away.

Ron turned very pale. “Merlin, I think I’m gonna be sick,” he said.

“BOYS!” Hermione shouted, standing up, her eyes very bright and very angry.

The room fell silent. “I think Draco and I need to have a little chat. Clear the air,” Hermione said. “And you two have a lot of catching up to do,” she said, glaring between Ron and Harry. “Draco, let’s go have a cuppa in the kitchen,” she said in a tone which brooked no argument.

Draco glanced at Harry, desperation in his eyes, but Harry shrugged helplessly. There was no stopping Hermione when she got in a mood like this.

Hermione stood and swept across the room, and after a long moment, Draco followed her, his shoulders hunched.

“Hermione,” Ron called after her. “You don’t seriously think I’m going to let my pregnant wife be alone with Draco Malfoy!”

“I wouldn’t do anything,” Draco protested quietly, but he was drowned out by Hermione whirling on Ron and saying, “Ronald Weasley. If you think for a moment that your pregnant wife can’t handle herself against a single, wandless wizard, you don’t know her at all. Come along, Draco,” she commanded, and Draco followed her down the stairs like a beaten dog.

Ron slumped down on the couch with a great sigh, looking across the coffee table at Harry. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, mate,” he said tiredly. 

“I don’t know how to,” Harry said despairingly.

Now that Draco and Hermione were gone, the room was oppressively quiet, save for the crackling of the fire. And the reality of just how badly that scene had played out was beginning to sink in. Harry was torn between frogmarching Hermione and Ron out of Grimmauld and making sure that Draco was alright and wasn’t going to take off or shut down or do anything reckless—and a desperate desire to make Ron and Hermione understand. Because if they couldn’t—

Harry could never choose between them and Draco.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he said, slumping back into the couch in a mirror of Ron, fully aware of how pathetic he sounded.

“I didn’t say you had, mate,” Ron said. “Although Hermione might disagree with you, Draco being your parolee and all.”

Harry’s cheeks burned. How in the hell did he keep forgetting about that?

“But you’re worrying us,” Ron continued earnestly. “We both know you’ve had—a tough couple of years,” he finished delicately.

Make that ten years, Harry thought bitterly.

“But at least you were predictable. And now you come out—”

Harry looked up sharply, and at his expression Ron held up his hands. “It’s not about you being gay, it’s not,” he insisted. “But you come out, and immediately get obsessed with Malfoy. Your school bully turned Death Eater turned parolee. You start missing work and you never firecall, never come to Sunday dinner anymore. You go completely off the radar. You act like you don’t even care about the baby. I just—have you really thought this through? Is it healthy, what you’re doing?”

Harry crossed his arms. He had no good way to answer that and Ron knew it.

“You do know—there are other blokes out there…right?” Ron ventured.

“Of course I know,” Harry snapped. 

“What about Dean?” Ron said mournfully. “He’s a good bloke. And he’s fit…I think.”

“I don’t fancy Dean,” Harry said.

“That’s fine, but—Malfoy?” Ron said. “Do you remember all the things he did? All the things he said? And with Hermione pregnant and all, and you never making time for her—and now you’ve practically shacked up with Malfoy. Without even telling us. What are we supposed to think? How are we supposed to feel?”

“I know,” Harry said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you and Hermione. I know I’ve been…caught up. But Ron, he’s different now.” 

“Is he?” Ron said skeptically. “He seemed pretty much the same to me.” 

“He was just scared. Lashing out,” Harry insisted, uncrossing his arms and sitting forward in his chair.

“Has he even apologized?”

“I mean—” Harry racked his memory. “We don’t really…talk about stuff like that.” 

“Bloody convenient,” Ron muttered. “Do you even talk? Or…or is it…” he blanched.

“Yes, we talk,” Harry snapped. “It’s more than just sex.”

Ron cringed. “Alright, so…what’s he doing at Grimmauld, anyway? You said he’s staying?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “He—he got into a bad situation at work. A customer—” Harry tried to calculate how much to say. Draco would go mental if he knew Harry was spilling all of his vulnerability out to Ron Weasley, but Harry so desperately needed Ron to understand. To forgive him.

“You can’t tell him I told you this. But a customer at the club wanted to sleep with him. And when Draco said no, he attacked him. Draco broke his thumb in the fight. This guy knows where he lives. And Ron, this isn’t even the half of it.”

Once he started, it was like Harry couldn’t stop. He didn’t realize how heavy it had been to carry around Draco’s burdens all this time.

“Ron, he’s been in the thick of it since we were kids,” Harry pleaded. “The war never even stopped for him. He doesn’t have a wand. His mum’s dead and Lucius is in Azkaban and he doesn’t have anyone. He’s been working shite muggle jobs. The officer before me—fucking Dawlish—is a total maniac. He was like, tearing Draco’s apartment apart and threatening to murder his cat. I had to bail him out of jail once and he had bruises all over his face. That’s when I asked to take over his case. He won’t talk about the war much, but he—”

Harry’s throat closed up. It felt dangerous to even say it. “It was really bad, for him.”

“It was bad for all of us, mate,” Ron said with a shake of his head.

“Not like this,” Harry insisted. “He didn’t want the Dark Mark. Voldemort tortured him. And one of the older Death Eaters—was sleeping with him. He won’t say it, but—he’s been hurt Ron, he’s been really, badly hurt and I can’t just—”

Harry realized that at some point he had gotten to his feet and started to pace. He looked down at Ron, hoping to find understanding on his face, but instead Ron just looked pained.

“What?!” Harry snapped.

“That’s awful, Harry,” Ron said. “I won’t deny it, but—is that why you like him? Because he’s—he’s someone you can save? Because you do this, you know, you—”

“It’s not a ‘saving people thing!’” Harry practically shouted. “And so what if it is? If I could pick anyone to save, it would be him. And I—I like him! He’s funny and he’s clever and he’s strong and he never treats me like I’m broken or fragile or the fucking Chosen One. And yeah, he’s really fucking fit. Alright? Happy?”

Ron shook his head and let out a laugh. “I won’t say happy, but I’m not going to stand in your way, mate. Just…just don’t shut us out again. Alright?”

“Fine,” Harry promised, sinking back onto the sofa, feeling suddenly embarrassed by his outburst. He hoped Draco and Hermione hadn’t been able to hear all that.

“But if he ever insults my wife again,” Ron warned, “I’m not gonna go easy on him.”

“You have to be polite too,” Harry shot back.

Ron shook his head again. “For you, I’ll try. But first, I’m gonna need a lot more of that firewhiskey.”

Harry pushed the bottle across the table towards Ron, and they smiled at each other. Something inside of his chest unknotted.

***

It was nearly an hour before Hermione and Draco returned. In the meantime Ron had pulled out an old ivory set of wizard’s chess, and Harry was trying to figure out how to stop him from taking his queen. As usual, Ron had him stumped.

Both of them whipped around as the knob turned and Hermione entered the room. Her eyes were red. 

Harry’s stomach dropped. Ron stood. 

“What did you do to her?” he demanded as Draco followed Hermione into the room.

Draco’s eyes were red-rimmed too. Harry jumped to his feet as well. “What did you do to him?” he asked Hermione.

Hermione sighed and lowered herself onto the couch with some difficulty, arms around her stomach. “Settle down, you two. We just had a little chat, cleared the air a bit. It was rather nice, actually.” 

Draco perched on the couch next to Harry, much closer than he had been before, but still not touching. Harry reached over and squeezed his shoulder. Draco shook him off.

“It’s fine, Potter,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah?” Ron said. “So you apologized to her then? Well that’s a start. Got anything you want to say to me, now?”

“Ron,” Harry said warningly.

Draco glared up at Ron through wet eyelashes. He let the moment drag on, and then said, in a voice crisp as winter air, “No. I don’t think I do.”

“Is that right?” Ron groused. “No regrets at all? Not even for the time you almost fucking killed me with that poisoned wine?”

Draco shrugged. “It wasn’t meant for you, so, no. No regrets.”

“Are you hearing this, Harry?” Ron burst out. “No regrets that he almost killed me, and Dumbledore, and Katie Bell.”

“Oh, I regret what happened to Katie Bell,” Draco said evenly. “Just not you.”

Ron let out an outraged splutter. 

“Draco,” Harry hissed.

“Leave it, Ron,” Hermione pleaded.

“Are you going to apologize for the time you and your brother beat the shit out of me on the Quidditch pitch?” Draco retorted coolly.

“Are you going to apologize for ‘Weasley is Our King?’”

“It was complimentary!” Draco shouted.

“You said ‘Weasley was born in a bin!'” Ron shouted.

“It’s metaphorical!”

“Harry!” Ron exclaimed, whirling on him. “Are you hearing this?”

Harry groaned and put his head in his hands.

“Harry, move your bishop to H6,” Draco said suddenly.

“What?” Harry raised his head. Draco was looking intently at the chess board. “No, I have to capture the Queen.”

“Just do it.”

“Fine,” Harry said, glad that he and Ron had stopped shouting for the moment. “Bishop to H6,” he said, and watched as his bishop stumped across the board.

Ron was looking at the board with huge eyes. “No…knight to G4,” he said, after a moment.

“Rook to H7,” Draco said immediately.

Ron bit his lip and thought for a long moment. “Knight to H6.”

“Rook to H8,” Draco replied without missing a beat.

Harry and Hermione could only gaze at the board in shocked silence.

“Knight to F7,” Ron said.

“Rook to H7,” Draco said, leaning back and smirking at his nails.

Ron stared at the board for almost a minute, his lips moving and his eyes darting back and forth across the board. “Fuck!” he finally said. “It’s unbeatable. What the hell is that?”

“What, you’ve never heard of Vladimirov's Thunderbolt?” Draco said smugly, his ears tinging pink.

“No, who the fuck is Vladimirov? Is he new? I haven’t really been keeping up, what with—”

“Oh, you don’t follow muggle chess, then?” Draco said.

There was another long silence in which Harry couldn’t help but grin.

“Alright, fine, rematch,” Ron said, sitting forward in his seat, an eager light in his eyes, but Hermione took him by the arm and pulled him upright.

“No, Ron, I think we’ve outstayed our welcome,” she said firmly. “But we’ll visit soon, alright Harry?”

“Maybe write first next time,” Draco muttered.

Harry stood and hugged Hermione tightly. “You can talk to me anytime, alright?” she whispered. 

“Alright,” Harry whispered back.

He hugged Ron and promised to come to the next dinner at the Burrow, and before he knew it, Ron and Hermione had vanished into the fireplace.

Harry turned to see Draco curled up on his side on the couch. “I’m never going to forgive you for tonight,” he said pathetically.

Harry slid onto the couch beside him, so that they were lying face to face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, smoothing his thumb over Draco’s cheek. The welt vanished beneath his touch.

“Not good enough,” Draco said, and then caught Harry’s thumb between his teeth.

“Really?” Harry teased, reaching towards Draco’s belt with his other hand. “Is there nothing I can do to make up for it?” 

Draco freed Harry’s thumb and stared mournfully at the ceiling. “No. Not even that.”

Harry stayed his hand.

Then Draco turned to him and said, “But it would be a start.”

***

After, when they were sweaty and panting in each other’s arms, Harry smoothed the hair away from Draco’s forehead and said, “So what did you two talk about, anyway?”

Draco stiffened, and then sat up. Harry followed suit and pulled Draco into his arms.

Draco crossed his arms and sat very still for a moment, and then said, “What she said. I just…apologized. Cleared the air.”

“Yeah, but for an hour?” Harry pressed.

“My list of crimes is very long,” Draco said lightly, but Harry could hear the shame beneath it.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry said quickly, aware that he was prying.

Draco sighed. “No, it’s alright. You’d hear it from her anyway.” He took another long breath, and Harry squeezed him gently.

Then Draco said, “She wanted to know…why. Why her. Why I...said all those things I said. Which I’d never really thought about before. But she kept pressing and she was—she was very patient,” he admitted, his cheeks flushed. “And I sorted some things out.”

“What kinds of things?” Harry asked quietly.

Draco fiddled with some lint on the cushion. “My father…made it very clear to me that I had to be the best. At school, in Quidditch. He made sure I had the best clothes, the best broom, the newest cauldron, the most expensive owl. And all I had to do was get the grades and win the House Cup and the Quidditch games. And all this to prove to the world that purebloods are superior. Smarter. Better. More powerful. And then, suddenly, this mu—muggleborn girl is beating my marks in every class. Every class. No matter how hard I try. And Father is not happy. And I’m humiliated, and angry, because I’ve been taught all my life that m—muggleborns are inferior. So if I’m being outclassed by her, what does that say about me?”

Draco cut a sidelong glance at Harry and then said, “I’m not saying this as an excuse. Or in a bid for pity.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Harry said mildly.

Draco’s gaze lingered skeptically on him for a long moment, and then cut away. He took another deep breath and said, “At the end of term my father would switch my palms. One for every mark Granger earned over me. And ten for every lost game of quidditch. So I took all that—humiliation. And anger. And turned it back on you lot.”

Harry sat up straighter, horrified. “Your father beat you?” he said.

Draco rolled his eyes. “A switching is hardly a beating, Potter.”

“Says who?”

“Says every pureblood family,” Draco said. “It’s normal,” he said, defensively. “Everyone does it.”

“That is not bloody fucking normal,” Harry grumbled.

“Oh, and the muggles locking you in the cupboard was so much better?” Draco snapped.

Harry froze, his face flushing. “I didn’t say that,” he muttered after a beat.

“Sorry,” Draco said after a beat, cutting his eyes away guiltily. “Sorry.”

“So Ron and I—we were just caught in the crossfire?” Harry prompted after a moment.

“Not exactly,” Draco sighed. “Even more than Granger, Weasley was everything my father hated. A traitor. A pureblood who didn’t care about the old ways. By the time I went to Hogwarts, I already knew I was…bent. And I hadn’t had any male friends until Crabbe and Goyle. So I thought if I was—well, a prick—and found the ones who were even worse than bent—that no one would notice what was wrong with me. Not to mention—” Draco said with another sidelong glance at Harry—“I was jealous of them for being so close to you.”

“Me?” Harry said. “You hated me most of all!”

“Well, yes,” Draco said, as if it were obvious. “Not only were you famous and talented and popular—”

“Popular?!” Harry protested.

“—and mysterious and cool and a rulebreaker—”

“Cool?!”

“—you reminded me every waking moment of how fucking gay I was!”

“...I did?” Harry asked. 

Draco elbowed him in the side. “Stop smirking, you idiot.” 

Harry couldn’t stop. “You thought I was fit back then?”

“Of course I did,” Draco snapped. “Are you really that oblivious? Everyone thought you were fucking fit back then! How could they not? You were a legend before you even walked through the gate. You were the youngest seeker of all time. You killed a fucking basilisk. You fought a dragon! You won the Triwizard Cup! At fourteen!”

“Sure didn’t feel like it,” Harry grumbled. “Everyone hated my guts most of the time.”

“That’s because they were jealous,” Draco insisted. “And because they thought their insults couldn’t touch you. You were like…a demigod. The three of you were legend. Untouchable. I didn’t think—I didn’t think I was actually, genuinely hurting you,” he finished with a whisper.

Harry brushed a hand across Draco’s chest, feeling the raised scars beneath his fingers. “I didn’t think I could really hurt you, either,” he whispered. “Until I did.”

Draco covered Harry’s hand with his own. “I’m sorry I was rotten to Granger. And you.”

Harry couldn’t help himself. “But not Ron?” he teased.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Ron was no peach either. He always gave as good as he got. But,” he admitted, “I shouldn’t have teased him for being so poor.” The words were hardly out of his mouth before he qualified them with, “Not that I feel too bad. Compared to me he’s loaded now,” he said with a scoff.

Harry squeezed Draco around the waist and put his chin on his shoulder. “Are you sorry for the Potter Stinks badges?” he teased. 

“Not at all,” Draco said with a sniff. “Those were hilarious. I wish I had one now. Speaking of, when was the last time you showered?” 

“I’ll shower if you shower with me,” Harry said, nuzzling his nose into Draco's shoulder.

“...Fine. But if you try to use my shampoo again I’m going to rub it in your eyes.” 

Chapter Text

Draco was shivering after they got out of the shower. Even though Kreacher was diligently keeping the fires stoked—for the first time since Walburga died, Harry thought bitterly—the house was old and drafty, and winter was bearing down with a vengeance.

All of Draco’s pajamas were insubstantial silk, so Harry lent him a pair of oversized grey sweatpants, which Draco regarded with barely concealed disgust. He pulled out the drawstring as far as it would go and tied it tight, but the sweatpants still hung low on his hips. His midriff peeked out between the waistband and a white T-shirt. His hair was wet and falling into his eyes, and he smelled powerfully of roses. It took everything in Harry’s power to turn away when Draco sauntered up to him with dark eyes, draped his arms around Harry’s neck, and leaned in for a kiss.

“I’m going to teach you how to throw a punch,” Harry said.

“What, now?” Draco pouted.

“Yes, now,” Harry said stubbornly. “You’ve been punched twice in the past two days. If this pattern is going to continue, you need to be prepared.”

Harry rested his hands on Draco’s hips, once again amazed by how slender his waist was.

Draco saw him looking, and smirked. “You’re so big and strong, Mr. Potter,” he said in a high, breathy voice. “Look, your hands practically encircle my waist. Why don’t you pin me down on the bed and I’ll try to struggle free?”

Harry reached up to take Draco’s wrists and remove them from his neck. “No,” he said firmly. “Now make a fist.”

Draco did. He curled his four fingers limply around his thumb.

“No, not like that—with your thumb over your fingers. It should rest on your middle finger.”

Harry corrected Draco’s alignment. Draco sighed. “It’s not going to matter,” he said glumly, in his normal voice. “I’ll never be the stronger one in a fight.”

“You don’t have to be,” Harry assured him. “I was always the smallest of Dudley and his gang, and once I learned how to fight, I got the better of them at least half the time.”

Harry frowned a little as he remembered. He hadn’t thought about those playground scraps in a long time. Everything about his life before Hogwarts was vague and fuzzy—like it had all happened to another person.

“You’re a bloody Dickens character,” Draco muttered under his breath.

“Flex your bicep for me,” Harry commanded.

Draco flexed, and Harry felt the firm muscle beneath his skin while Draco batted his eyelashes.

“You actually have a lot more muscle than it looks like,” Harry said approvingly.

“Gee, thanks,” Draco muttered. “Hauling around crates of wine all day will do that, I suppose.”

“You just have to learn how to use it. Now stand with your feet under your shoulders. One foot pointed at me—no, your left foot—and the other braced to the side.”

Draco obeyed.

“Okay, now make a fist like I showed you, and bend your elbows.”

Draco sighed heavily, but raised his arms.

Correcting Draco’s stance in this way suddenly reminded Harry powerfully of Dumbledore’s Army, and the thrill he had felt when he helped a student cast their first patronus or stun a classmate. He had never felt more proud or needed as he had during those sessions. Draco, on the other hand, had spent much of that year trying to catch Dumbledore’s Army in the act. Harry felt a twinge as he imagined how it would have been different if Draco was on their side back then—if he would have found excuses to touch Draco during lessons instead of Cho.

“Okay, now—slowly at first, pivot out of your stance and let your fist rotate as you punch straight-on. No, you’re not pivoting—like this.”

Harry came up behind Draco and put his hands on his hips, turning his right hip inward. Draco took the opportunity to rub his arse against Harry’s crotch.

“Stop that,” Harry laughed, giving Draco a light spank. “This is important. Now do a couple practice throws. Full speed, this time.”

Draco swung a few apathetic punches.

“No, like you mean it!” Harry said.

“I need more incentive,” Draco whined.

“Fine,” Harry said, moving around until he faced Draco. “If you can land a solid punch on me, I’ll give you a kiss.”

“Not good enough.”

“I’ll give you a ride.”

“I can have that anytime,” Draco said smugly.

“I’ll give you—” Harry craned his head around the room. He’d never bothered to decorate, so the room had remained bare since he’d finished carting all of the dangerous artifacts away after the war. There was nothing on the walls but peeling wallpaper, and the shelves were empty. But then he cast his eyes over the scrolled writing desk he’d never used and heard a faint rattle. He strode over to it and opened the pen drawer. A little silver frog with green emerald eyes sprang free, spilling over an ancient pot of ink. “I’ll give you this,” he said triumphantly.

Draco narrowed his eyes at it.

“I think it’s cursed. The last time I touched it, my fingernails turned green,” Harry added. “That’s why I trapped it in here.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, his eyes alighting in interest. “Fine,” he said, and readied his stance.

Harry turned and tensed his ab muscles. “It has to land on my torso. And it has to be solid,” he said.

Draco gave a lazy swing, and Harry stepped out of the way easily.

“You have to be faster. You can’t telegraph your movements like that.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to dodge!” Draco whined.

Draco tried again, and missed, Harry stepping out of the way once again. The next punch landed, but with hardly any force behind it.

“Come on,” Harry said. “Give it a real go. You won’t hurt me, I promise.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Draco muttered.

“Pretend I’m someone else. Someone you really, really want to hit.”

Draco paused for a moment, locked in his stance. Then his eyes flashed, and the next thing Harry knew, he was doubled over, unable to breathe.

“Hah!” Draco crowed, and then a moment later, Harry felt hands fluttering on his shoulders. “Oh, shit—Harry? Are you faking? Are you having a laugh?”

“No, Harry wheezed, giving a double thumbs-up and then straightening with some difficulty. “That was really good.”

Draco helped him onto the edge of the bed and sat down beside him.

“Why didn’t you do that to that prick at work?” Harry croaked, rubbing his stomach ruefully.

Draco shrugged, kicking his legs. “I don’t know,” he said. “Brawling always just seemed so…low class. And I didn’t—” Draco stopped himself.

After a long moment, Harry prompted, “You didn’t what?”

Draco picked at a bit of lint on the bedspread, pointedly avoiding Harry’s eyes. “I guess I didn’t…see the point,” he finally admitted.

A heavy silence stretched between them. Draco broke it first, lifting his head and snapping back to his usual self.

“Besides, why bother when I have big, strong Potter to fight my battles for me?” he purred. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck and pulled him down onto the mattress. “Are you going to manhandle me the way you manhandled those bullies?”

“No,” Harry said, lying back and pulling Draco on top of him. “It’s your turn to manhandle me, for a change.”

***

Draco complained bitterly the next morning.

“My thighs are sore,” he moaned, splaying out dramatically beneath the sheets. “I can’t get up for breakfast. You’ll have to carry me down the stairs.”

Harry smacked Draco half-heartedly with a pillow, which Draco caught and held against his chest. “You rode me one time out of…I don’t know how many,” Harry said. “I think you’ll survive.”

“I won’t,” Draco whimpered. “I think my hips are dislocated. My knees have been ground down to the bone.”

“Are your knuckles also sore from punching me in the solar plexus last night?” Harry teased.

“Yes,” Draco said dramatically. “I’ll never punch again!”

“You were a pretty good student, actually,” Harry replied, throwing an arm across Draco and burying his face in his neck. “It was sexy.”

“I don’t know why I should be the student and you the teacher,” Draco drawled. “You were a terrible student. Me? Top of every class…well, except for Granger, anyway. I got Es in all of my O.W.L.S.”

“Except Charms?” Harry teased, remembering the way he had made Draco shatter his wine glass during the exam.

Draco bashed the pillow on Harry’s head. “You know well and good that’s your fault, for distracting me with your stupid, horrible…face!”

After a minute of wrestling, Harry pinned Draco down by his wrists and said, “Well if you want to play teacher, why don’t you teach me some of that sexy wandless magic you do?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t patronize me,” he said. “I know you can do all kinds of things wandless.”

“What?” Harry said. “No I can’t!”

“What about the time you healed my lip?” Draco retorted.

“Oh,” Harry said. He released Draco and sat up. He scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I don’t…actually know how I did that. It just sort of…happened. I don’t know how to control it or do it again or anything.”

It was Draco’s turn to sit up. “What?” he said, aghast. “You just…did magic involuntarily? Like a wizarding child, or something?”

Harry flushed and crossed his arms, unpleasant memories of his magical outbursts at the Dursley’s flashing through his mind.

“I suppose,” he muttered.

“But that doesn’t happen,” Draco insisted. “Not once wizards have a wand to channel their magic through. Not unless they’re like—Merlin or Andros the Invincible or some great mythical wizard!””

Harry turned his head away, embarrassed.

Draco sighed. “Trust you to have a once-in-a-generation reserve of extraordinary magical power you’re not the least bit interested in wielding,” he said. “Fine. I’ll try to teach you how to control it.”

After breakfast, they settled down in the parlor in front of the fire. Draco insisted that they sit criss-cross and face each other. Harry’s hips didn’t bend that way and he was horribly uncomfortable, his knees practically up around his ears.

“Now close your eyes and just breathe deeply for a few moments,” Draco instructed.

Harry cracked an eyelid and peeked at Draco, straight-backed and serene as if he were a yoga instructor.

“I’ll know if you’re peeking,” Draco said.

Harry shut his eyes and breathed with Draco, the only sounds the gust of their breath and the crackling of the fire.

“Now move your awareness to the tips of your fingers,” Draco said. “Can you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Harry said, feeling nothing except stupid and self-conscious.

“You know the way you feel when you’re holding your wand and you cast a spell? It’s that warm, energetic, crackling, tingling feeling, but you don’t have to hold your wand to feel it. Just give it a try.”

They sat still for a few more minutes. Harry could scarcely maintain his posture, he was starting to sweat from the heat of the fire, and he had no idea what Draco was talking about.

“Some wizarding philosophers believe that there’s a magical core inside a person,” Draco said. “This core is paired with the core of a wizard’s wand, and when a spell is cast, a wizard will channel energy from their magical core and through their body to their wand, where it becomes concentrated until it’s ready to be released in a powerful burst with a spell.”

“I’m not getting it,” Harry finally said, frustrated.

“That’s alright,” Draco said, in a surprisingly patient tone. “Let’s focus on magic outside the body for a moment. In a house this old, there’s magic in the walls, in the drapes, in all the furniture and knick-knacks and pots and pans. Try sensing that for a moment. Do you feel anything? Hear anything?”

Harry opened his mouth, ready to protest that this was never going to work, when it clicked. Harry could suddenly see Draco, even though his eyes were closed. It was something just between seeing and imagining, but Harry’s awareness was able to grasp the outline of Draco’s magical energy, stronger at the core, and weaker at the ends of his limbs. It was faint, flickering, like a dying coal—no, not dying, but dormant—asleep.

The dark magic around his throat—the bond collar—was stark, vivid, like a bleeding gash. Weak, too, but still pulsing ominously.

Harry knew better than to tell Draco what he had learned. He cast around for another subject. Almost against his will, he turned his head, feeling a powerful magnetic pull towards a certain corner of the room. And so faintly he wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, he heard a hum, a hum which grew louder as he leaned towards the source of the energy. In his mind’s eye, he saw a small, dark ring. His eyes flew open, and he found that he was facing the curio cabinet.

“There!” he said excitedly. “The curio cabinet—I—I felt it! I think. And a ring—is there a ring in it?”

He turned back to Draco, who had also opened his eyes and was studying Harry with an almost unsettled expression.

“You sensed the…the ring?” he asked hesitantly.

Harry’s face fell. “Is that wrong?” he said.

“No, no,” Draco said quickly. “It’s just—it shouldn’t be possible to sense magic with that kind of—precision. But I suppose it makes sense. Objects that have been enchanted with intent will surely possess more magical energy than an ordinary object like a sofa or a lamp, which simply absorb it over time. The Black who built this house—his signet ring is in the cabinet.”

“Oh,” Harry said faintly. He felt self-conscious and a little uneasy at the discovery of this new awareness. It took everything in him not to stare at the faint, silver chain around Draco’s neck.

He hated it.

“Why don’t you give it a try now?” Draco said quickly, changing the subject.

First, Draco had Harry levitate a quill without his wand. They moved to the desk in the corner of the room and Draco demonstrated.

“Start by feeling for your magical core,” he said, holding his hand above the hovering quill. “Pretend there’s a ball in the middle of your chest. Of course there isn’t, really, but it can be helpful to visualize.”

He dropped his hand and let the quill clatter onto the desk.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to feel the ball. He felt an energy, a restlessness, but he felt it all over his body, and he always had. He’d never been able to sit still as a child, and kept his restless, fidgety habits well into adulthood. He’d always attributed it to the constant vigilance he had to maintain, first against the Dursleys and bullies and then against dark wizards, until it became an unbreakable habit.

“Do you feel it?” Draco asked.

“Yes,” Harry lied. He was growing impatient, and he wanted to try it.

He opened his eyes and held his hand out towards the quill on the desk. He tried to surge energy out of his hand.

The quill trembled, then somersaulted into the air, coming to a stop with its point up. Its feathers bristled, almost like a spooked cat, and then it launched towards the ceiling so hard and fast that it broke free of the roof entirely, leaving a tiny hole behind. They craned their necks and waited, but it did not come back down.

Next, Harry tried to turn the pages of a book. He listened impatiently to Draco while he explained a different way of approaching wandless magic: first intention, then visualization, next focus, and finally a mental trigger. But when Harry tried, all of the pages turned at once, so hard and fast that they ripped their way out of the spine and fluttered off the desk and onto the floor.

“That was a first edition,” Draco said plaintively.

“I’ll fix it!” Harry said anxiously. He reached for his wand, but Draco held up a hand. “It’s my fault for choosing a nice book to practice on,” he said. “Put that away, I’ll fix it myself. You can’t use Reparo on something this delicate.”

In retrospect, they should have seen what happened next coming. But Harry insisted that he was beginning to get it, that he would approach the next objective with more control, and he wanted desperately to learn how to light a flame with a snap of his fingers, the way Draco had done that very first night at the club.

Draco walked him through the whole process again, and even forced him to sit still and meditate for five minutes in hopes that it would settle his magical energy. They again sat across from each other with their legs crossed, and finally, Draco made Harry take ten deep breaths.

“It’s about control,” Draco said. “You wouldn’t burn your house down to kill a spider, or use a shovel as a fork. So don’t put all of your energy into something as simple as summoning a flame. Maybe you’re trying too hard, overthinking it. Look.”

Draco snapped his fingers, and a flame appeared. Harry felt a shiver of arousal in spite of himself.

“If I want to, I can make it bigger"—Draco squinted at the flame in his fingers, and it grew by an inch—"Or smaller.” He relaxed his face, and the flame shrank until it was barely more than a spark. Draco shook his hand, and the spark went out, leaving a bit of smoke in its wake.

“Now you try.”

Harry took a deep breath. He visualized a small flame, tried to feel the magic snaking its way from his chest through his arm and down to his fingers. But when he snapped his fingers, he felt the magic in his chest roaring—his blood bubbling and boiling under his skin, and before he could take it back, a flame appeared—and then expanded into a brief inferno that blazed high and hot and vanished in the next instant—taking all of Harry’s hair with it, and most of his shirt.

When the smoke cleared, Draco’s face was white, his hands clapped over his mouth. “Are you alright?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Harry gingerly felt his face. “I think so,” he said. “I don’t feel burned.” He felt all the way up to the top of his skull, his fingers meeting only skin.

He was completely bald.

“My god,” Draco said in a hushed voice, his eyes skating across Harry’s face. “Your lovely hair. Even your eyebrows and eyelashes…”

The crestfallen look in his eyes was more than Harry could bear. “Do you find me dreadful without hair?” he asked anxiously.

Draco stretched a quivering hand forward, but stopped short of touching Harry’s face. “I don’t know,” he said, looking away. “I need time...”

The rational part of Harry knew that Draco might be teasing him, but the larger part—the child afraid of abandonment—began to panic. Now he’d done it. Draco couldn’t even look at him. Harry’d never been handsome enough to belong with Draco, who was tall and blonde and leggy like a runway model, but now he was well and truly ugly. What if Draco left him? He could pull any guy he wanted to, he didn’t need to settle for Harry, a hairless alcoholic with anger problems. He needed to fix this. He needed Draco to be attracted to him. He needed hair!

The anxious roiling in Harry’s chest turned into a tsunami, and in the next instant, he felt a sudden, dull, tugging sensation all over his scalp, as if someone had come from behind and was trying to lift it clean off. He clutched his head. Suddenly Draco’s eyes widened. He yelped and toppled backwards onto his elbows, his gaze fixed with terror on a point above Harry’s head.

Harry didn’t understand what was happening until it was already over. A veritable geyser of hair exploded forth from his scalp with such force and speed that it reached the fifteen-foot ceiling in a vertical column, at which point the curly locks gently floated back down, falling around his shoulders, covering his lap, the floor, and most of Draco.

Harry watched as Draco—looking for all the world like a sasquatch—tried to struggle to his feet. But it was hopeless—he was completely entangled, and the more he tried to struggle free, the more hair got wrapped around his arms and legs. He had just managed to get his legs under him when he slipped on a hank of hair and landed on his arse. Draco brushed Harry’s hair out of his eyes, and when their eyes met, both pairs wide with shock, they began to wheeze in unison, leaning forward and holding onto each other’s arms for support.

Draco ended up on the floor with his arms around his stomach, gasping.

“It hurts, it hurts, stop laughing!” he begged, but Harry was crying actual tears of laughter, and each time they recovered and tried to stand up, they tripped over Harry’s long locks and the hilarity began all over again.

Finally, Draco was able to wriggle free. He fetched a pair of scissors and a stool from the kitchen, and helped Harry onto it.

“Are you sure you want to cut it?” he said, stroking Harry’s long locks with admiration.

“Yes, I’m sure!” Harry insisted.

“Oh, how I’d love to lock you up in a tower,” Draco said wistfully. “But on the other hand, the expense of that much curl product would have you bankrupt within days. It’s probably for the best.”

Harry sat patiently as Draco cut his hair. He was careful about it, snipping each curl individually, and frequently holding up a hand mirror to Harry and asking how he felt about the length and the layers.

It was almost miraculous how calm Harry felt with Draco’s hands in his hair. He’d always hated his hair being brushed and cut, which was a frequent event considering how fast it grew. In the early years after the war, he’d often let it grow until it was completely tangled and unmanageable, at which point he’d hack it off himself over the sink (or let Hermione do it, after much insisting on her part) and the whole cycle would start again.

Finally, Draco was finished. Harry held the hand mirror up to his face.

“Do you like it?” Draco asked anxiously.

Draco had managed to replicate Harry’s previous length and style almost perfectly. And Harry’s eyebrows and eyelashes had grown in normally, thank god.

“It’s perfect,” Harry said, tossing the mirror onto the bed of hair at his feet. “But what in the hell are we going to do with all this?”

He and Draco looked down at the sea of black hair they were mired in. Draco was up to his ankles.

At that moment, Kreacher scurried out of a hidden servant’s doorway with a pair of knitting needles sticking out of his sash and Lady Di at his heels. He began to wind the hair into skeins. Draco and Harry gave each other a look and decided silently, mutually, not to ask. Harry didn’t want to know what unspeakable plans Kreacher had for his hair.

In the aftermath, Draco discovered that Harry actually had sustained some minor burns to his hand, one shoulder, and part of his chest. Harry was perfectly happy to let the wounds heal naturally, but Draco insisted on fetching some burn cream, stripping off his charred shirt, and applying it himself. Harry privately felt it was just an excuse to feel him up, seeing as Draco was rubbing cream all over his pecs, where Harry didn’t think there were any burns at all.

Draco’s fingers faltered when they reached a gnarled patch of burnt skin over Harry’s sternum. “This one is old,” he said, tracing a gentle finger around it.

Harry looked down. “Yeah. That’s from the locket—one of his horcruxes.”

Draco merely hummed in acknowledgement. He traced his fingers up to Harry’s shoulder and down his right arm, stopping at the long knife scar on his forearm. “And this?” he asked softly.

“Peter Pettigrew,” Harry said. “He needed my blood. To bring Voldemort back.”

He pointed to two button-sized scars on his other arm and said, “And these were from Nagini.”

Draco shuddered.

Before Harry could prod Draco about his reaction, he lifted Harry’s hand and turned it over, rubbing the faint, white words Umbridge had left behind with his thumb: I must not tell lies. “Well I know where this one came from,” Draco said matter-of-factly. “God, your handwriting is shit.”

Harry let out an incredulous laugh. “That’s your response?”

Draco continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Wasn’t her office tacky? Killed me to see chintz, of all things, in a tenth-century castle.”

Harry was stunned into silence. He merely stared at Draco, open-mouthed. Draco finally met his gaze and rolled his eyes, dropping Harry’s hand. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you want me to fall weeping onto your chest because you got detention a few times? Why’d it scar, anyway? You could’ve gone to Pomfrey for Dittany. Everyone else did.”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “I didn’t…want to give Umbridge the satisfaction. And it felt…private.”

Draco snorted. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You little shit!” Harry said with an incredulous laugh, pushing him lightly by the shoulder. “I can’t believe you sometimes!”

“What?” Draco protested. “You don’t have to take everything so seriously all the time.”

“Yeah, but…” Harry said. “Stuff like this, it’s…serious!”

“You need to find a way to laugh at things,” Draco said with a shrug. “Otherwise you’re never going to get over it. That’s how I manage, anyway.”

“Huh,” Harry said. Strange as it was, it was nice, in a way, to be able to bring up the past without having to face Hermione’s teary eyes and hushed tones, or Ron’s pale, grim face, or Molly squeezing his hand so hard he thought it might break. It made talking about it easier. It made him feel—normal.

Seized with a wave of affection, he gathered Draco up in his arms. “Do you like me again now that I have hair?” he asked.

Draco laughed and rubbed his back. “Yes,” he said. “And now we have hair to spare in case that ever happens again. Maybe Kreacher will make you a wig.”

Chapter Text

The days that followed were, paradoxically, some of the best and most terrifying of Draco’s life. He and Harry woke up tangled in each other’s arms every morning, and had slow, tender sex in Harry’s massive four-poster bed while Kreacher banged pots and pans around downstairs. They ate breakfast together at the long trestle table—side by side—reading the Daily Prophet and laughing over the horoscopes and the silly advice column.

Despite Harry’s protests, Draco spent the bulk of his afternoons cleaning, starting at the top of the house and working his way down. Harry would sometimes hover nearby while Draco lectured him about the history of various artifacts and the care of magical antiques, but more often he stayed out of the way, except when he brought Draco cups of coffee and coaxed him away for breaks and mealtimes. They fucked on the bed, on the couch, on the windowseat, in the tub, and even once, memorably, on the kitchen table. Kreacher had crept out of some passageway only moments after they’d pulled their clothes on, and, horrified, they’d silently agreed never to risk that again.

Evenings were spent in the parlor. Draco would read with Harry’s head in his lap, his free hand in his curls, and Lady Di curled against Harry’s chest. Draco was giddy to have unfettered access to Grimmauld’s collection of rare magical books, although most of them were mouldering—Harry, predictably, never having cracked a single spine. When he was able to tear his eyes away from the page, he would look down to see Harry, looking up at him with warm eyes or dozing, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks. The way Harry doted on Lady Di—cuddling her and murmuring endearments and scratching her cheeks—gave Draco an ache in his chest that was so tender it was almost melancholy. 

The Black house was infused with magic from top to bottom. It wasn’t just in the charmed artifacts and the portraits, but woven into the curtains, the cupboards, the silverware, the very floorboards. It hummed and buzzed in the background constantly, with a cozy tangibility and vibrancy that Draco had never experienced before, because before the war he had never had to live without it. Being in the Black house felt like taking a deep breath of clean mountain air after a decade spent underground.

But the ambient feeling of magic also had him reaching constantly for the wand he didn’t have; realizing, with lung-closing panic, that there were spells he had completely forgotten; finding himself clumsy and startled whenever a ladle moved without him touching it or a curtain closed of its own accord. It should have been a triumphant homecoming, but Draco felt like a stranger in his own land—foreign not only to magic, but to his own family. Dark artifacts mocked him from the shelves. Slytherin snakes and skulls—like an eerie precursor to the Dark Mark—were carved into the ceilings. His disapproving elders leered at him from the tapestry. Even his own likeness was a stranger to him now. He couldn’t draw a direct line between himself and the boy in the tapestry. That wasn’t him; that sneering boy was long dead. So who did that make him now? How could he ever hope to reintegrate into the magical world? Even if, by some miracle, the ministry ever released him from his parole and Harry returned his wand, Draco was no longer the wizard he had been. He didn’t know how to exist in the wizarding world anymore, but neither was he at home with muggles.

There were days when he shrugged away Harry’s touch and snapped at him for no reason. When he lingered in front of the tapestry, or refused to eat in the kitchen because he couldn’t bear to tiptoe down the stairs past the portrait of Auntie Walburga. There were days when he watched Harry casting casual spells with his wand and wanted to scream, wanted to snap it, because if he couldn’t have it, why should Harry? There were days when he deeply resented Harry for living the life he was supposed to have, with his wand, in his family home. But more often, there were days he hated himself, blamed himself for everything that had gone wrong since Hogwarts.

Learning how to fight hadn’t made him feel safer. It only made him realize how easy it would have been to defend himself each time a man touched him when he didn’t want to be touched. But Draco hadn’t even tried. He had brought every bad thing on his own head—from Greyback to Edwin to the endless string of faceless muggle men—simply because he didn’t value himself enough to bother resisting. And in doing so, he’d made himself the worthless thing he’d always felt he was.

But Harry was infuriatingly, unfailingly patient. When Draco couldn’t go downstairs, Harry brought their meals to the parlor and they ate in the front of the fire. When Draco rejected his advances, Harry simply left him alone, every time, without argument or coaxing or cruel barbs. When Draco lingered by the tapestry, Harry prattled on about Quidditch or turned on the radio until Draco was able to pull himself away. 

But worst of all was that Draco was starting to hope; was starting to think past the next week of his life for the first time since he’d stumbled out of Azkaban with nothing to his name and no-one to rely on. He was starting to feel that maybe—just maybe—this could be, if not forever, more than a temporary mistake. The seed had sprouted when Weasley and Granger had walked in on them and Harry hadn’t lied, hadn’t taken the out and joined Weasley in the beating, hadn’t asked Draco to leave now that the jig was up. Draco knew that, when it came down to it, Harry would choose Weasley and Granger over him without a second thought. But he’d never expected Harry to stubbornly refuse to choose at all.

The issue of Harry being his parole officer was hanging over their heads, but when had the rules ever applied to Harry? When had he ever not gotten what he wanted? Draco was starting to hope—kicking and screaming all the way—that Harry really could free him from the ministry’s clutches. Maybe Draco was more than a reckless gay experiment to him. Maybe they could be openly together—even if only to Harry’s closest friends. Maybe Draco could stay at Grimmauld past this brief respite from work—if not forever, then at least as long as Harry would have him.

As if in an attempt to bring him back down to earth, Draco’s nightmares began to grow in strength and frequency. He woke up most nights gasping, holding himself still and stuffing his fist into his mouth, trying not to wake Harry. In these moments, his skin crawled against Harry’s touch, and he loathed himself, unable to bear a morsel more undeserved tenderness from him. But one night, two weeks after his arrival at Grimmauld, Draco couldn’t stay quiet.

***

Someone was shaking him awake. “Let me sleep, Harry,” he moaned, but the hand only tightened around his shoulder, shook harder. Draco opened his eyes to see a dark-haired figure looming over him. With a strong jaw, a long, straight nose. Dark brown eyes.

Edwin.

He wrapped a hand around Draco’s bicep and wrenched him upright.

“The aurors are here,” he hissed. “Get up, you useless slut.”

Draco stumbled out of bed, realizing with a rush of shame that he was naked. He reached for the wardrobe, but Edwin said, “There’s no time,” so Draco could only pull on his flimsy dressing gown. His legs were cold and he felt terribly exposed as Edwin hustled him down the hallway.

“It’s fucking Potter again,” Edwin growled.

Draco glanced behind him, as if he would see Harry right on their heels. But he knew that the hallway would be empty.

Some small part of his brain realized that this was not just a dream, but also a memory, and he willed it to change. Harry hadn’t been there during this raid. But Draco could rewrite the past.

A flash of light illuminated the hallway, and thundering footsteps sounded behind them.

Edwin pulled Draco into a small alcove. He pressed Draco against the wall and covered his mouth with his hand, crushing Draco’s body with his own.

The footsteps grew louder. There was another flash of red light, and then Draco saw him:

Harry. 

He was charging down the hallway, his hair wild and his eyes blazing. He was wearing the ratty hoodie, jeans, and trainers he had worn all throughout school.

Draco waited for Harry’s eyes to meet his, waited for him to call Draco’s name, waited for him to turn his wand on Edwin.

But Harry didn’t see him. He ran right past the alcove, and Edwin smirked in triumph.

Draco’s guts twisted. Edwin kept saying he was going to take Draco abroad. This might be his last chance. It might never come again.

He bit down on Edwin’s hand with all his strength, the meat between his finger and thumb giving way, blood welling up around his teeth. Edwin cursed sharply and released him.

“Harry!” Draco screamed, as loud as he could. “Harry, I’m here!”

He lunged out into the hallway, but Edwin was faster. He pinned Draco against his chest with one arm, and raised his wand with the other.

Harry had stopped and turned, his own wand up, his chest heaving wildly.

Edwin put his lips to Draco’s ear. “It’s like I always told you, kitten,” he cooed. “I’m going to kill Harry Potter. And I’m going to make you watch. Avada Kedavra!”

There was a burst of green light, and Harry was falling, and it was all Draco’s fault. He’d caused this to happen. He’d led Harry right to Edwin, and Harry had died thinking that Draco had set a trap for him, and now there was no one to save him—it was just him and Edwin, forever and ever and ever—

“Draco,” Edwin was saying urgently.

“Draco, wake up!” 

Draco shot upright with a gasp. He couldn’t breathe. Someone was touching him and he had to get away, but his feet were tangled in the bedsheets. He was drenched in sweat.

“Draco, sweetheart, you’re safe. It was just a dream. Can you hear me?”

Draco shut his eyes and shook his head. He knew that it was a trick, that if he opened them he would be back in Edwin’s four-poster bed.

“Draco, look, there’s Lady Di,” a voice said frantically. “At the end of the bed. See?”

Lady Di? Draco opened his eyes. There was his fluffy white cat, a disgruntled look on her face, stalking from his side of the bed to Harry’s.

“You’re in Grimmauld Place,” Harry said. “You’re with me. You’re okay, just breathe.”

Harry was rubbing Draco’s back. 

“Don’t touch me,” Draco said stiffly, but the moment Harry took his hand away, Draco regretted it. He turned towards Harry and let him fold him into his chest, trying desperately not to cry, and only partly succeeding.

Harry held him close and rubbed his back and prattled on some nonsense about the Quidditch game last night, how the Chudley Cannons had blown their improbable winning streak and weren’t even going to make the semi-finals.

When Draco’s breath had finally settled, Harry whispered, “Stay here.”

He went to the writing desk and opened a small drawer, returning with the silver frog. He pressed it into Draco’s hands before padding out of the room. Draco held the squirming frog and watched with detached interest as his fingernails slowly turned emerald green. The frog eventually sprang free and hopped away across the bedspread, catching the interest of Lady Di, who batted it across the covers, pounced on it, and eventually caught it in her mouth and deposited it back in Draco’s lap. Draco was tinkering with the emeralds that made up its eyes, wondering if there was a way to adjust the color it turned his nails, when Harry returned.

Without a word, Harry placed a mug of steaming hot tea on Draco’s bedside table. His nails were green now, too. It was almost funny.

Lady Di had settled into the warm spot Harry had left behind, and without missing a beat, Harry shuffled across the mattress on his knees and scooped her up in his arms, holding her on her back, cradling her like a baby.

Not even Draco was brave enough to hold Lady Di that way. But she bore the indignity patiently, even as Harry rubbed her belly.

“Now go snuggle your daddy,” Harry said softly, and deposited Lady Di onto Draco’s lap. After a long moment of indecision, she curled up on his thighs, and stayed.

Harry sat behind him and pulled Draco into his chest. Draco could feel the warmth of his skin, his steady heartbeat. He smelled of laundry detergent and deodorant. When he spoke, Draco could feel his chest rumbling against his back.

“Do you know how happy you make me?” Harry murmured. “I’m happier than I’ve been in years. Probably ever. You’ve done to the house in a week what I couldn’t do in ten years. What Sirius couldn’t do before me. I’m barely drinking anymore. I don’t have as many nightmares. You even gave me a full makeover,” he said with humor in his voice, squeezing Draco close. “But none of those things make me as happy as hearing you upstairs. Listening to you hum in the shower, just knowing that you’re nearby. I want to do for you what you’ve done for me. I want you to stay.”

Draco couldn’t help the tears that gathered in his eyes while Harry spoke. When he opened his mouth, they spilled out onto his cheeks. “I want to stay too,” he said in a wobbly voice.

He wanted it desperately, so desperately. And he was all out of reasons to say no.

Harry squeezed Draco tight and kissed the top of his head. “As long as you want,” he whispered in a tight voice. “I promise.”

“I’ll stay,” Draco whispered. “I’ll stay.”

***

Everything changed, just a little, after that. Harry knew it wasn’t a promise, or a contract, or a certainty, as much as he wished it to be—but it was an acknowledgement of what they were both now able to admit: that what they shared was so much more than just a furtive affair. It was less a material change than a feeling—a slight relaxation; an exhale; a surety that he hadn’t had before. Draco made little gestures that indicated he felt it, too. He fully unpacked his duffel. He rearranged the furniture in the bedroom to suit him better. He even drew up a series of rotating lists for Kreacher’s weekly grocery shop. And each time he did, Harry would chant inside his own head, Yes! Yes! Yes! Stay with me! Stay forever!

What changed the most was their sex life. In the early days, Draco had been embarrassed by his vulnerability after their first night together. After that first time, he had been a bit more circumspect. He was still enthusiastic, of course, but he guarded his pleasure more carefully, showed Harry less of himself. He used to get embarrassed when Harry tried to rim him, or sucked on his nipples, trying to redirect attention back to Harry’s pleasure and Harry’s orgasm every time. He would get nervous when Harry touched his dick during sex, telling him not to bother, that he was able to come from just his hole, and even that he didn’t mind if he didn’t come at all—although he never suggested that again after he saw the stricken look on Harry’s face. He would dissociate sometimes, typically in particularly vulnerable positions—like on his knees or on his stomach. He never said anything, and sometimes got angry when Harry stopped, but Harry learned to read the signs: the way he went limp, his eyes glassy and breathing shallow.

Conversely, Harry could always tell when Draco was feeling genuine pleasure. It was impossible to miss, really—he would flush and screw up his eyes, his skin would turn dewy, and he would bite his lip or even his knuckles to avoid crying out. But after he agreed to stay, Draco began to let his voice out—softly at first, and always muffling it in Harry’s shoulder, but eventually more and more of his self-consciousness shed itself. He began to hold Harry’s gaze instead of turning away. He even began to meekly make suggestions, such as, More. Wait. Or slower.

The first time he confidently told Harry to Stop and change positions, Harry’s heart caught in his throat. He knew in his bones that this was the first time Draco had ever dared issue such a command in bed, and that knowledge both tore his heart open and filled him with awe, affection, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility. He tried not to think about the possibility that Draco had wanted to use those words earlier in their relationship and chose not to. Instead, he felt intensely grateful that Draco both trusted that Harry would listen, and that he had begun to care enough about his own wellbeing to ask in the first place. Draco’s eyes no longer grew glassy and distant, but instead hazy and blissed out as he relinquished control. Harry had never felt so humbled or powerful or beloved as when he watched Draco loosen the iron grip of his self control and gift Harry with the tenderest parts of him. 

It felt sacred, to Harry, that Draco was allowing him into his trust in a way that he had never allowed anyone else. Or perhaps he had, once before, and had been hurt so badly that he had locked that part of himself away. Until now. Until Harry. Harry swore to himself that he would never betray that trust, never betray Draco, and that he would meet those acts of trust and courage with utmost devotion and care. He bent himself to Draco’s pleasure like he was training to be a master of his craft. He tuned all of his senses into Draco’s reactions and tucked away all of his observations about what Draco liked, didn’t like, and wasn’t sure of. Each time Draco offered up a new part of himself, Harry went to work with single-minded dedication, simultaneously terrified that he would let Draco down and completely wild with desire. He couldn’t help a selfish thrill of possessiveness every time he unlocked a new part of Draco that no one else had ever seen.

The first time Draco voluntarily guided Harry’s hands to his nipples during sex, Harry counted it as a victory. He couldn’t help but be fixated on them, loving the way Draco would tighten around Harry’s cock as Harry reached up to rub, pinch, and flick at them, their color deepening prettily the more Harry abused them. Draco’s face and chest would flush vividly, still embarrassed by how much he enjoyed it. 

Eventually, Draco even allowed Harry to pleasure him without reciprocation. Harry loved to bury himself between Draco’s legs and tongue-fuck his hole as Draco twitched and squeezed his thighs around Harry’s head. When he was loose enough, Harry would slip a finger inside him and lap at the weeping head of Draco’s cock. He loved the sounds Draco would make when Harry sucked his cock down to the root, loved the gentle weight of it pressing down his tongue and brushing his throat. He’d improved, since their first time, now that Draco was finally letting him practice. He could take Draco to the base without gagging, and liked holding him in his mouth while he played with Draco’s hole. When Harry finally had to surface for air, he would drag his tongue along Draco’s scars and then sink his teeth into one of Draco’s nipples, continuing to twist and scissor his fingers mercilessly while Draco writhed on the bedspread.

But what Draco liked best of all was when Harry fucked him roughly; possessively. Harry would haul Draco’s leg over his shoulder and lift his hips off the bed to get even deeper inside him while Draco scrabbled at the sheets and cried out, whimpering as Harry bottomed out and reached the deepest parts of him. He loved watching Draco’s hole stretch obscenely around his cock, loved the way it gaped and fluttered after he pulled out. Harry couldn’t stop himself from touching Draco even after they were both spent, slipping his fingers back into Draco’s hole and fingering his cum out of him, coaxing him until Draco came dry, teeth chattering with overstimulation. 

He would fuck him from behind with Draco on his hands and knees, his chest flat against Draco’s back and his hands pinning his wrists to the bed, so relentlessly that Draco’s elbows would buckle beneath him, his back arched and arse up at an obscene angle, Harry mouthing at his neck or pulling at his hair. Draco’s thighs would quiver with exertion and arousal both, until his knees buckled too and Harry finally had him pressed flat against the sheets, writhing beneath him from pleasure, gripping the sheets with white knuckles until Harry pinned his fists over his head, relishing the moment when Draco was unable to hold back and would cry out loudly, lewdly, grinding his trapped cock deeper into the mattress as he came.

But more often Draco would be on his back, where Harry could devour every minute expression. Harry loved to watch his face twist and his brows furrow, loved to watch the sweat drip down his chest as Harry steadily pounded into him, loved to listen to the sweet little “Ah, ah, ah”s he made in time with every thrust. Harry would trace his hand up his flushed chest, past the hateful bond mark on his throat, over his delicate Adam’s apple, until finally he slipped two fingers into his open mouth, which Draco sucked in greedily, reveling in being filled from both ends, his eyes hazy with pleasure, his mouth so full of saliva it would dribble out onto Harry’s hand.

Harry often worried about being too rough, about taking too much. Draco gave without reserve, but Harry was greedy, and he felt that he could never have enough of this; could never grow tired of the sharp lines of his body, the dip of his waist, the curve of his neck. He had never truly never had much of a sex drive before Draco, and he found himself dangerously addicted to the new world Draco had opened up for him. He hadn’t even been aware that there were so many ways to have sex before Draco, or that he could find so many parts of a person attractive. 

But Draco was quick to reassure Harry, whether verbally or with his body. Perhaps the most reassuring thing of all was that Draco grew playful in bed, began to laugh more often, and tease Harry mercilessly. He would tug Harry this way and that, gleefully denying him what he wanted, seemingly for the joy of being able to. He took great pleasure in winding Harry up, seeing how long he could cruelly tease and deny him, as if testing the limits of Harry’s investment in his consent. And when Harry finally passed the test, Draco would submit himself entirely, beautifully, and urge Harry, Harder. Rougher. More.

The brattier and bossier he grew, the more Harry felt he was getting to know Draco’s true self. When he wanted Harry, he would run his mouth, taunting and goading him with a sly, feline smile until Harry got irritated enough to give chase. Draco would dart around the room, mischievous, crowing and happily calling out the most childish of his insults from their Hogwarts days. It made Harry’s heart sing to see Draco so carefree and bright, like he hadn’t been since they were boys. Harry would charge after him in close pursuit, always two steps behind until Draco let Harry catch him or found himself backed into a corner. Harry would haul Draco over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry him to their bedroom as Draco struggled and laughed breathlessly. 

When Harry unceremoniously deposited Draco onto their bed, things could go one of two ways: If Draco was well and truly exhausted, he’d happily let Harry press him into the sheets and claim him like a war-prize. If Draco was feeling mischievous, he’d roll on top of Harry and pin his wrists to the bed, telling him he wasn’t allowed to move until Draco had had his wicked way with him. Draco would ride him cruelly, smiling imperiously and crooning that Famous Harry Potter and his big stupid cock were no match for him, clenching down hard just to make Harry squirm and groan, dragging his nails down Harry’s pecs and leaving deep red welts behind. Afterwards, he’d let Harry slip out of him and curl peacefully against his heaving chest, acting for all the world like he hadn’t just devilishly ridden him within an inch of his life.

In these moments, Harry would stay awake while Draco dozed beside him, staring at the canopy of the four poster bed. As blissful as the last few weeks had been, a part of him was frightened, too. It didn’t feel enough to be inside of Draco. It didn’t feel enough to press their bodies together, to join their hands and mouths. Harry couldn’t stand the fact that they were two separate people, that their oneness was temporary. He wanted to reach inside Draco’s chest and cradle his still-beating heart in his hands. Harry’s obsession with Draco had reached new heights, utterly consuming him, burning him alive with desire and reminding him that he had only ever been a creature of want and need, someone who never would and never could have enough—a neglected orphan, ravenous for food, for material things, for knowledge, but most of all for love, for touch, for belonging.

Harry knew painfully well how dangerous it was to make a world out of another person—knew firsthand the devastation it could bring, but he just couldn’t help himself. He wanted this more than he was afraid to lose it. For the first time in his life, he felt that he was enough, just him, outside of his heroism and his bravery and his sacrifice. Draco didn’t care about any of that. He wanted just Harry, the private Harry, the Harry that only existed when they were alone together. It felt revelatory to have someone put their faith in him without expectation, without requiring anything of him beyond his presence, beyond the love he had to give. It was the exhilaration of diving off a cliff paired with the confidence that there was a safe place to land beneath it.

In the afterglow, when Harry had his arms around Draco’s flushed, damp skin, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, listening to the rhythm of his breath, he felt that maybe this was the reason he had survived the war. Maybe this was why he walked out of that forest alive. Maybe life didn’t end at seventeen, and maybe this was the reason it was worth living. 

***

There was, however, one nagging worry in the back of his mind. 

Despite all of Draco’s reassurances, the way he would drag Harry to bed, his trembling, gasping orgasms and the tenderness with which he kissed Harry in the aftermath, Harry couldn’t shake a sense of guilt—guilt that he took so much pleasure in dominating Draco, fear that Draco would want to switch roles, and even more guilt for being afraid that Draco might want that. He didn’t want to be selfish; he didn’t want to be controlling. He knew that lots of men did it both ways, but the thought of it—of a man being inside him, even if it was Draco—made his heart race and his hands clammy with panic. Harry had never liked touch that he couldn’t control, and for a long time, he hadn’t liked touch at all. When he was little, touch only came in the form of Petunia’s hands boxing his ears or Vernon grabbing him by the hair. 

When he first got to Hogwarts, Harry had struggled with the casual way the Weasleys and Hermione hugged him, touched him, threw an arm around his shoulders. He felt ashamed of these reactions, and tried never to let on, but it took many years for his reflexive panic at these unexpected touches to wane. As much as he craved physical touch, and felt its absence like withdrawal, he was always much more comfortable when he was the one initiating contact. He wondered if that was why he had always felt so at ease with Hagrid: Hagrid had always waited for Harry to come to him, hug him.

One night, he couldn’t take the uncertainty any longer. He and Draco were cuddling in bed, face to face, and Draco was nearly asleep.

“Draco?” Harry said.

“Hm?”

“Do you—do you ever—are you alright with the way things are? Between us?”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, his eyelashes fluttering open, a wary look on his face.

“I mean—” Harry said, his heart thumping. “Do you ever want to…you know…um—like—fuck me?”

His face instantly flushed a deep red.

“We are fucking, Potter,” Draco said dryly.

Harry closed his eyes, mortified. He didn’t know why this was so hard to talk about. “No, but, you know…like, you…fucking me.” 

“Christ, Potter, take a breath,” Draco said. “You look like you’re going to boke all over the bedspread.”

Harry opened his eyes and looked back at him. Draco had propped himself up on one elbow, hand in his hair. “Why do you ask? Do you want me to?” 

Harry traced a shape on the bedspread, unable to meet Draco’s eyes. “Not—er—not particularly. But if you wanted to…”

As much as he wanted to please Draco, to do anything to make him happy, he wasn’t sure that he could bear it, even for him, and the uncertainty was clear in his voice.

Draco surprised him by snorting. “Noble Harry Potter,” he drawled. “Offering up his virgin arse on my behalf. As much as I appreciate the gesture, I’m not exactly eager to plunder those depths. I watched you inhale three bowls of chili last night.”

Harry looked up, aghast. “That’s—that doesn’t—!”

“Honestly, Harry,” Draco continued gleefully, “Do you even know how to wash your arse?”

“Of course I do!” Harry spluttered. “We shower together all the time! You’ve watched me do it!”

A wicked grin spread across Draco’s face. “Not like that,” he said. “You have to wash up.” He speared his index finger in the air to emphasize his point.

Harry turned slightly green and put his head in his hands. 

“Harry,” Draco said earnestly, finally taking pity on him. “You don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to.”

“But is there something wrong with me?” Harry blurted out, finally meeting Draco’s eyes. “That I—that I like being inside you, that I like ordering you around? That I don’t think I could let you do it to me? I mean, that says something bad about me. Right?”

“So did Ginny fuck you up the arse every other night, then?”

Harry’s brain short-circuited. “I—what?!” he said after a pause. “Why would you say that?!” 

Draco laughed, clearly relishing in Harry’s discomfort. “I bet she’d love a good peg sesh. She’s so domineering. You were probably holding her back.”

“Remind me why we’re talking about this?” Harry said, starting to get annoyed. Draco could never take serious conversations seriously.

“I’m just saying,” Draco said with a shrug. “No one expects straight men to get fucked in the arse if they’re not into it. Or women, for that matter. Why should it be expected of every last poof on the planet?” 

Harry just scowled at the bedspread, unable to articulate the shame that he was feeling. 

Draco finally noticed, and put a soothing hand on Harry’s chest, running his thumb across his bare skin. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said. “What you like in bed has nothing to do with what kind of a person you are.”

“But doesn’t it? Doesn’t it make me selfish? Or controlling?” Harry asked miserably. 

"I really don't think you need to pathologize not wanting to get buggered,” Draco said with a huff of laughter.

“But there’s got to be some reason why I’m like this,” Harry insisted. “Why you and Dean and loads of other men can do it but I can’t. And why I—why I’m so domineering. So rough.”

Draco sighed dramatically and dragged a hand over his eyes. “Don’t be angry with me for saying this,” he said, “But…would you say you’ve had much control over your life till now?”

Harry groaned and tipped his head back. “Fuck, I know, I know. The cupboard. Everything always comes back to the fucking cupboard. I know I’m fucked up from the confinement and the rationed meals and the irregular fucking bathroom breaks…”

When he looked back at Draco, there was a pained expression on his face that made Harry’s stomach twist with humiliation.

Draco shifted and took a deep breath. “That’s actually…not what I was going to say,” he said. “I was thinking about Hogwarts.”

“What about it?” Harry asked, baffled. Hogwarts had always represented freedom to him; safety; belonging. It was home.

Draco eyed him. When he spoke, it was clear he was choosing his words carefully. “Your life was pretty much all planned out once you got to Hogwarts, wasn’t it? ‘The Chosen One’ and all that. You were Dumbledore’s champion and—and Dark Lord’s enemy, whether you wanted to be or not. From the moment you got that scar, the stage was set. Maybe you’re making up for what you didn’t have back then.”

“Yeah, but…” Harry protested. “I should be over all that by now. And besides, I’ve had ten years of being in control of my own life since then. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Draco snorted again. Harry whipped his head up. “You’re always laughing when I try to say something serious!” he whined.

“That’s because you’re an idiot!” Draco laughed. “You don’t just get over all the fucked up stuff that happened to you because it’s in the past. And besides…isn’t there something about the past ten years you’re forgetting?”

Harry stared blankly at him, stumped.

Draco mimed tipping a bottle to his lips, and a flush crawled up Harry’s neck. “Oh,” he said. “That.” 

“Yes,” Draco replied. “That. So I’m not sure I believe you about having complete control over your adult life. No offense.”

“Fair enough,” Harry mumbled, casting his eyes down again. “But I don’t want to play out my stupid childhood issues on your body.”

Draco laughed. “Like I’m not doing the same with you?” he asked. “You were my childhood fantasy, remember?”

“But I don’t want you to miss out,” Harry protested. “To only have…have half a sex life!”

“It’s not half a sex life, don’t be so dramatic,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes. “Besides, you’re assuming that I want to top. I don’t.”

Harry paused for a moment. “You don’t?” he asked.

“You know me,” Draco smirked. “I’m lazy and entitled. I rather like you doing all the work for me. Are you trying to shirk your manly duties?”

“No!” Harry objected, but Draco spoke over him.

“If you believe that means I’m fucked up too, in some way, you’re probably right.”

Harry shook his head furiously. “No! No, that’s not what I—”

“Hush, Potter,” Draco interrupted. “I have tried it. A few times. And it just wasn’t for me.”

He picked at the chain around Harry’s neck as he spoke. “I thought it would be—good for me, I suppose. Same as you, I thought because I only wanted to get fucked, it meant there was something wrong with me. That it was emasculating; humiliating. That I was inherently weak. And that—that maybe it was the reason—things went like they did. Like maybe me being submissive attracted the wrong sort. That it was my fault, and that my life would be better if I was the one in charge. If I was a leader, and a real man, like my father wanted me to be. Or that—or that—they made me this way, and that maybe if I learned to enjoy topping, I could—I suppose—undo everything that was done to me.”

Draco looked down, a slight blush on his cheeks.

Harry wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist, his brow furrowing with sympathy. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he didn’t dare interrupt this precious moment of vulnerability.

“But I hated it,” Draco continued. “I couldn’t get out of my own head, and I was terrified the whole time that I was hurting the other person. I was afraid that I was going to make all the wrong choices, and after, I would panic, and they would have to comfort me. Take care of me. So it wasn’t good for either of us.

“And I realized—that long before I was ever with a man, all of my dreams and fantasies were about…being taken. I was never the one in control. I never wanted to be. That’s sort of the best part about sex, is that I don’t have to take charge. I don’t have to think or worry or make good choices or be responsible. I just…get lost in it. So if there is something wrong in me, it was wrong from the start.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Harry said stubbornly, squeezing Draco’s waist.

“If you believe that, then there’s nothing wrong with you,” Draco said, pushing a finger into Harry’s chest. “Maybe it’s hardwired. Or maybe your issues and hangups and childhood made you this way. So what? You like what you like, and I like what I like. And what we like happens to be complimentary. I think that makes us lucky.”

“Yeah.” Harry smiled, finally reassured. He pulled Draco in close to him, kissed the top of his head. “I know I am.”

“Potter,” Draco purred, pressing his body against Harry’s erection. “Hard again already? Why don’t you show me how bad your childhood was...”

“Urgh, Draco! God!” Harry laughed, pushing him away. “Don’t use that as a come-on ever again!” 

“Come over here and stop me then,” Draco said, eyelashes batting.

Harry could never resist a challenge.

Chapter Text

It took a great deal of wheedling and pleading and reassurances, along with a handful of bribes, but in the end, Harry was able to convince Draco to let him invite Ron and Hermione over for dinner.

Although he acted like he could have cared less about the impending visit, Draco spent all morning and afternoon scrubbing the kitchen spotless, dusting the parlor, and shaking out the curtains in the back garden. He even tidied his things in the bedroom, as if he was afraid that Ron and Hermione would burst in and accuse him of slovenliness. Before dinner, he showered and blow-dried his hair until it was full and shiny. He changed his outfit three times, but finally settled on a chic mohair sweater, black jeans, and loafers. He was spritzing on cologne as Harry pulled his own sweater over his head. Draco cast a critical eye in his direction, but, remarkably, must have found his outfit passable, because he didn’t say anything.

They went down to the kitchen to wait, and Draco puttered around nervously, until finally Harry suggested he put on the kettle for tea.

After that was done, Draco perched on the edge of the trestle table bench and started picking at his nails, which were still evergreen from the enchanted silver frog. “Should I take my lip ring out?” he asked quietly, not looking up at Harry.

“Why would you do that?” Harry asked.

Draco shrugged self-consciously. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “To be—more—palatable, I guess.”

Harry reached across the table and gently pulled Draco’s hands apart, holding them loosely in his own. “I mean this in the kindest possible way,” he said, “but I think the chance to make a good first impression sailed about fifteen years ago.”

Draco huffed out a quiet laugh. As he looked up at Harry, the firelight flashed green with floo powder. Harry watched as Draco’s face closed off. He pulled his hands out of Harry’s and stood, folding his arms protectively across his chest.

Harry stood and turned to greet Ron and Hermione. After they’d hugged and said their hellos, the three of them turned to Draco, who was looking down his nose at Ron.

“Careful, Weasley,” he quipped. “I’m an expert puncher, now.”

“What’s he on about?” Ron asked as Harry pulled out chairs for him and Hermione.

Just then the kettle sang, and Draco turned to the stove. “Ignore him,” Harry said under his breath. “I taught him how to throw a punch the other day.”

“Worried Hermione’s going to have another go at him?” Ron said snidely.

“Ron,” Hermione hissed, slapping him with her handbag.

Draco returned to the table bearing an ornate silver tea set, which he’d discovered in the back of some cupboard during one of his cleaning sprees. Ever since, he’d insisted on using the set and drinking loose leaf darjeeling during teatime, turning his nose up at Harry’s standard Yorkshire Gold teabags and chipped mugs.

“Never thought I’d be served by a Malfoy,” Ron muttered.

“Shall I serve your tea into your lap?” Draco asked coolly, pouring the first cup.

There was a brief, awkward silence, but they were saved by the sudden appearance of Lady Di, who leapt up onto the table and snuffled around the teacups.

“Oh, what a lovely cat!” Hermione exclaimed, a little too loudly.

Draco scooped her up and deposited her on the other end of the table, away from the cups.

“Thanks,” he said stiffly.

“She’s yours?”

Draco nodded.

“What’s her name?”

“Um.” Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Lady Di.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, a note of surprise in her voice. “Not after—not after Princess Diana?”

Draco looked up, his eyes alight. “Yes, actually. You—you know of her?”

“Of course I do!” Hermione gushed. “She was a wonderful activist—her work with AIDs patients and landmines in particular. Yes, she was known for the fairytale gone wrong, and for her fashion, but she was so much more.”

“I agree,” Draco said shyly, pushing a teacup in front of Hermione. “But I think she also used her fashion to communicate real messages. I mean there’s the revenge dress, of course, but a lot of people don’t know that she very controversially dressed in menswear, and her dressing down for visits with the common people was an attempt to bridge the class divide.”

“What are you two going on about?” Ron asked.

“A muggle,” Draco said snidely. “You wouldn’t know her.”

“Anyway,” Hermione said, bridging another awkward silence, “I didn’t know you liked cats.”

“Oh, I always have,” Draco said, sitting down, having served the final teacup—to Ron. “In fact,” he said shyly, “I remember your Crookshanks fondly.”

Hermione’s face lit up so brightly that Harry couldn’t help but smile with her. “Oh, you’ll have to come see him sometime!” she crowed, clasping her hands together. 

“He’s still with you?” Draco said with a smile.

“Is he ever,” Ron said bitterly. “He sneezes mucus all over the baseboards and wheezes so loudly I can barely sleep. It’s disgusting.” 

“It’s not his fault he has a flat face, Ron,” Hermione protested.

“Part Kneazle, isn’t he?” Draco asked.

“Oh yes! How did you know?” Hermione said.

“He was too intelligent to be an ordinary cat.”

Hermione was beaming so hard Harry thought he saw tears in her eyes. 

“Maybe you can bring him for a visit sometime,” Draco suggested. “I remember him being a top-rate gnome catcher. Lady Di fancies herself above that sort of thing, and Harry’s let them go absolutely rampant.”

“Speaking of,” Hermione said, looking around the kitchen appreciatively, “I love what you’ve done with the place, Harry. It looks absolutely sparkling.”

“Oh, that was all Draco,” Harry said, giving Draco’s knee a squeeze.

Draco blushed and stirred some milk into his tea.

“He’s really into all the magical artifacts here.”

“Oh, is he?” Ron asked dryly. “Any interesting old cabinets lying around?”

Hermione kicked Ron under the table, and Harry stood up. “Let’s start dinner!” he said a little frantically. “I’ll get the chicken!”

Harry took on the preparation of the chicken himself, and delegated the potatoes to Draco, the carrots to Ron, and the gravy to Hermione.

As Draco sat at the table, expertly peeling the potatoes with a short knife, Ron stared at him in amazement. “Since when do you know how to cook?” he asked. “Harry trained you to clean and cook for him, did he?”

Draco shot him a cold look. “Since eight years ago when I started working in restaurants,” he said.

“Oh. Oh, right,” Ron said, having the decency to flush a little.

Just then, the swinging door creaked open, and Kreacher shuffled in.

“Kreacher will be happy to peel the potatoes for Master Draco,” he croaked. “Kreacher is shamed to see Master Draco slaving away with the mudbloods and blood traitors.” He glared pointedly at Ron with his beady black eyes.

Ron put his knife down with a clatter, but Draco just said, “Thank you, Kreacher. I’m sure you could do a much better job of the potatoes than I. But if you’re looking to help, our sheets and towels are due for a wash.”

“It will be Kreacher’s honor,” he said, bowing, and shuffled backwards out the door.

“You’re so good with him!” Hermione said in a tone of amazement.

Draco shrugged with one shoulder, his focus back on the potatoes. “He’s happy to have a Black in the house again. And he loves Lady Di.”

“Have you been keeping his wages consistent with inflation, Harry?” Hermione asked, turning to Harry, who was wrist-deep in the chicken.

“Why should I?” Harry said, exasperated. “He never does anything around here unless it’s for Draco.”

“Well neither do you,” Hermione shot back, hands on her hips, and Ron snorted. The tips of Draco’s ears turn pink.

Harry ignored the quip and barrelled on. “Besides,” he complained. “He’s never spent a cent of his wages. He just piles his coins on my favorite chair.”

“It’s true,” Draco laughed. “Harry’s favorite armchair is almost completely buried. Kreacher spends hours and hours just counting his galleons.”

The three of them laughed while Harry washed his hands and grumbled, “I don’t see what’s so funny about it.”

“You know,” Hermione said, “I think your dislike for house elves is a bad habit you picked up from Sirius.”

Harry threw his hands in the air, water droplets flying everywhere. “I don’t dislike all house elves! Just Kreacher!”

“I’m with you there, mate,” Ron said, shaking his head. “He’s a nasty one.”

“It’s not entirely his fault,” Draco said defensively. “Walburga rewarded prejudice in him for decades.”

“I’m allowed to be bitter about being forced to live with a huge, hairless rat that hates me,” Harry grumbled, shoving the chicken in the oven.

Ron laughed uproariously, while Draco and Hermione shook their heads.

When Ron had settled down, he shot a suspicious look between Hermione and Draco. “You know,” he said, “I have a really bad feeling about the alliance that’s forming between the two of you.”

It was Harry’s turn to beam.

Dinner passed relatively uneventfully, save for some choice words exchanged between Ron and Kreacher when he crept in to chop up the liver for Lady Di’s dinner.

“Hang on,” Ron said as Lady Di tucked into her bowl at her usual spot on the table, near Ron’s elbow. “Are the cat’s whiskers green?”

Draco suddenly put his fork down, hiding his hands under the table.

Harry shot Draco what he hoped with a comforting look and squeezed his hand. He showed his other hand to Ron, waggling his own green nails. “And her nails too,” he laughed. “We all match!”

“There’s an enchanted frog here that turns your nails green,” Draco said stiffly. The subtext was clear, at least to Harry: I didn’t do it to myself. 

“Huh,” Ron said disinterestedly, and Harry felt Draco relax a little beside him. He wished he could tell Draco that Ron wasn’t like that, but he had the uncomfortable realization that he didn’t actually know how true that was. He had no question about Ron’s loyalty to him, which trumped everything, but with Draco? He didn’t know that painted nails weren’t something Ron wouldn’t use against him. The thought made his stomach twist uncomfortably. 

Draco left the table as soon as he could and started to do the washing up, but as Ron approached the counter with his plate, he said, “What are you doing that for?”

Draco’s shoulders bunched up.

Ron pulled out his wand and flicked it. The dishes and brush rose into the air and began to clean themselves.

“I haven’t a wand, you imbecile,” Draco said between clenched teeth. “What was I supposed to do?” The room went silent, save for the running of the tap and the clinking of the plates.

“Oh.” Ron scratched the back of his head, looking abashed. “Right. Well…maybe now you’ll have time for a rematch?”

There was a long, tense silence in which Harry braced himself for a blowup. But after a moment’s consideration, Draco said, “Fine.” He tossed the dishtowel in Ron’s face on his way out of the kitchen. “I can’t wait to destroy you.”

Ron was so eager for a rematch that he simply pulled the towel away and hurried after Draco.

Harry and Hermione gave each other a helpless look. Within moments, there were raised voices upstairs as the game began.

Harry stood up to follow, but Hermione grabbed his wrist. “Wait a moment, Harry,” she said.

“Is it safe to leave them alone up there?” Harry said, glancing up the stairs, but he sat back down. When he looked back at Hermione, her face was full of determined concern.

His heart sank. “Oh god,” he said. “Why do I have the feeling I’m in for another lecture?”

“It’s not a lecture,” Hermione said.

“It is!” Harry said miserably. “Just tell me you still hate him!”

“I don’t!” Hermione insisted. “He’s actually—surprisingly pleasant. It’s clear he’s grown a lot since school. I see why you like him. Truly, I do.”

“But—” Harry prompted.

“But—” Hermione said, “liking him on a personal level doesn’t mean I think this is a good idea.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and covered his hands with his eyes. Hermione pulled his hands down.

“Harry, just hear me out,” she said. “See it from our perspective. You’ve been—struggling—for a long time.”

“Yeah, since the war,” Harry said sarcastically, but his stomach dropped when Hermione said, without a trace of irony, “Yes, since the war. There’s been some—really bad times. Where you weren’t eating. Weren’t showering. Weren’t going to work. But you were drinking—a lot. There were some nights so bad that you couldn’t remember who we were. Who you were. Once, you acted like you were seeing magic for the very first time.”

“I don’t remember,” Harry said, flushed with shame, sinking lower into his chair.

“I know you don’t,” Hermione said, her tone infuriatingly patient. “But I’ll never forget. Never. And now look at you—you’re happy and smiling. The house is sparkling. Your clothes are nice—even your hair is gorgeous. And you invited us over! Do you know how long it’s been since that happened?”

Harry sank even lower into his chair. “I’m a terrible friend,” he whispered.

Hermione put her hand on his. “Harry, don’t go there,” she said. “You’re not. But you have to listen to me without spiraling. And for the first time in years, I think you can take it.

“I’m happy for you, really, I am. But I’m also terrified. Because you’re not doing this for yourself. You’re doing it for him. And what happens to you if Draco no longer needs or wants you to take care of him? You’re right back where you started, only this time with a broken heart. And I don’t want to see you go down that road again. In fact, if you want a relationship with your godchild, you can’t.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

“It’s all just so precarious, Harry. Can’t you see that? And I feel I have to remind you—seeing as I’m the only person who seems to remember—that you’re his parole officer. That was bad enough, but now he’s living with you. He’s not working, not making money. He’s entirely dependent on you. That has to be informing his attachment to you, even if he doesn’t realize it. It’s not a fair situation, Harry. Does he even have any savings?”

“No,” Harry whispered. “The ministry took it all.”

“Really?” Hermione said, her brow furrowing. “The Black fortune should have become available to him on his parole.”

“Really?” Harry said.

“Well, his mother was pardoned, wasn’t she?” Hermione replied. “They couldn’t seize her assets. But do you see what I’m saying, Harry?”

Harry wanted to say no. But Hermione, as always, was right.

“You have to find a way to do all of these healthy things for yourself,” Hermione said. “You need to take care of yourself, not just Draco.”

“But I don’t want to take care of myself,” Harry emphasized. “That’s the problem. I want to take care of him. No one else is doing it, least of all Draco. And he takes care of me, in his own way. What’s so wrong with that?”

“It’s not healthy,” Hermione insisted.

“I was never going to be fucking healthy!” Harry burst out. “From the moment of my first fucking birthday! It’s miracle enough that I’m happy, for once in my miserable life! So why can’t you just let me fucking have this?! I saved the fucking world—seven times over—and I’ve never asked for anything!”

Hermione's eyes filled with tears. Harry dropped his head into his hands, elbows on the table. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be sorry,” Hermione said thickly, rubbing his back.

“It’s just,” Harry said, “Draco makes me feel normal. He never makes me feel broken or damaged or fragile, because he’s all of those things, too. Compared to you and Ron, I’ll always be—fucked up. I want to take care of someone instead of being taken care of for a change. Is that so wrong?”

He looked up at Hermione, who was shaking her head with watery eyes. “It’s not wrong,” she said. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to go back to that place.”

“I don’t want to either,” Harry admitted.

Hermione wrapped him in a hug, her stomach protruding awkwardly between them.

“Just promise me,” she said, “that no matter what happens between you and Draco, you’ll take care of yourself. If not for yourself, then for me. Please, Harry.”

“I’ll try,” Harry whispered. “I promise.”

He and Hermione joined Draco and Ron in the parlor after that, but they might as well have stayed downstairs. The boys were too enmeshed in their highly competitive game of wizard’schess to pay their partners any attention. They left the violence to the chess pieces, but hurled insults back and forth across the table at a furious pace. At one point, Draco even burst into the chorus of “Weasley is Our King” before Ron silenced him with a pillow to the face.

After nearly three hours of this, the game was still ongoing, and Hermione had to drag Ron by the arm through the floo—but not before he cast a warding spell over the board to ensure that Draco couldn’t tamper with the pieces before they were able to resume the game.

Draco was flushed and smug. In bed, he wrapped his arms around Harry’s shoulders and kept up a stream of inanely happy chatter: “I think that went well, don’t you? Did you have fun? I can’t believe I’ve finally found a worthy opponent. You’re such shite at chess, no offense. I don’t know how Ronald has coped all of these years without me...”

It felt like a physical pain in Harry’s chest to see Draco so happy, and to have spent a largely peaceful evening with his three favorite people in the world.

But after Draco fell asleep, Harry laid awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, worrying about everything Hermione had said to him, wondering how he was going to put it all right.

He didn’t have all the answers, but at least now he knew where to start: he was going to get the Black family fortune back for Draco.

Chapter Text

On Monday morning, Harry decided that he was going into the ministry. Although he’d almost completely neglected his job since Draco had moved in, he’d at least kept up on the parole paperwork by owl. But he needed to get the rest of Selwyn’s files, and the archive was stalling. He’d written them weeks ago, asking for all the files they had on Draco and Selwyn both—the flimsy file Kingsley had handed him with the assignment couldn’t possibly be everything. But they hadn’t written back, and some of his owls had even been returned unread. His written requests were fruitless; he needed to go down to the archives in person. And now he had another objective: to chase down the mystery of the missing Black fortune.

Harry was anxious about leaving Draco alone, but he tried to reassure himself that Grimmauld was one of the most secure buildings in all of Britain. Even Voldemort himself hadn’t been able to penetrate it.

For his part, Draco was unphased. He waved him off dismissively, claiming that it was impossible to focus on his household projects when Harry was always buzzing around like an irritating fly. Harry promised to be back before dinner and kissed Draco on the cheek, causing a flush to bloom on his pale face. It was so domestic it lit a warm little fire in Harry’s belly that crackled cozily all the way to ministry.

The minute he stepped into Kingsley’s office, the fire was doused. Kingsley was seated behind his imposing desk, hands clasped, index fingers against his mouth in a gesture of disapproval. Someone must have spotted Harry coming off the elevator. Kingsley was clearly waiting for him. 

Before Harry could even open his mouth, Kingsley said, in a slow, deliberate voice, “When were you planning to tell me that you had moved Draco Malfoy into your home?”

Harry should have been expecting this.

He wasn’t. He froze in his tracks, and all he could manage was a stutter.

“Did I not explicitly warn you about the boy’s history with aurors?” Kingsley asked, his eyes flashing dangerously as they met Harry’s.

“You—you did, sir,” Harry stammered, “But—”

Kingsley cut him off. “There is no possible excuse that would justify carrying on a romantic relationship with a parolee,” he said. “If you were anyone else I would strip you of your badge here and now and throw Malfoy in Azkaban for soliciting an officer!” As he spoke, his voice raised to a near-shout.

The gravity of his mistake began to dawn on Harry. He hadn’t realized how badly he was putting not just himself, but Draco at risk by asking him to move into Grimmauld. The back of his scalp prickled.

“He didn’t!” Harry protested. “It’s not like that at all! It’s all my fault, I—”

“You’re coercing him, then?” Kingsley asked flatly.

“No! Jesus, no! It’s—it’s mutual,” Harry said weakly.

“Mutual,” Kingsley repeated disdainfully. Harry was all too aware of how unlikely that sounded. But it was the truth.

The ethics of your—arrangement aside,” Kingsley continued, gaining momentum, “you haven’t been into the office in weeks. You’ve submitted the bare minimum of paperwork, and as far as I know, you’ve gotten nowhere on the Selwyn case, despite your—unprecedented access to Malfoy. Am I wrong?”

“No, but—” Harry whispered. Then he remembered why he was there. “The archive has been stonewalling me,” he said more confidently. “How am I supposed to do my job when I don’t have all of the information?”

Kingsley stood and came around to the front of his desk. Harry couldn’t help but take a step back. He’d never been intimidated by Kingsley in all the years he’d known him, but then again, he’d never before been the target of his wrath. “Has it ever occurred to you, Potter,” Kingsley said in a low voice, “that there are matters at the Ministry that are beyond your purview?”

“But this is my case,” Harry said. “If that isn’t within my purview, I don’t know—”

“Everything you need to know is inside of Malfoy’s head,” Kingsley said. “You don’t need the files. This should be easy. Especially now that you can wheedle it out of him during your morning pillow talk.”

Kingsley’s voice was so full of disdain that Harry flushed. “He trusts me,” Harry protested. “And he’s smart. It’s a sensitive subject, I can’t just—barrel my way in, or he’ll clam up.” 

“You’ll do whatever you have to to get the information we need,” Kingsley said firmly. “You’re going to lose his trust eventually. Make sure it’s not before you learn everything he knows about Selwyn’s criminal activities.”

This conversation had spun wildly out of Harry’s control. He grasped at anything he could say to get it back on course, and managed to go with the worst possible option:

“Sir, there’s something else.”

Kingsley just arched an eyebrow.

“It’s about the Black family fortune.”

There was a heavy pause. “What about it?” Kingsley finally asked.

“Well—Malfoy should have regained control of it after Azkaban. His mother was fully pardoned before she died.”

Kingsley sighed heavily. He walked back around his desk and sat down. He said, “Have you given a moment’s thought to the optics of awarding a convicted Death Eater millions of galleons a mere two years after the war?”

“Alright, but it’s been ten years since the war at this point,” Harry shot back. “And I wasn’t aware that optics trumped legality.”

“You know nothing about the legality of the situation,” Kingsley said scathingly, his eyes boring into Harry’s, “and you never have. While you were drinking yourself into a stupor, the rest of us were here, rebuilding wizarding society from the ground up. The war was unprecedented. The aftermath was new territory. Exceptions had to be made.”

“Oh, did they?” Harry said sardonically. He was no longer afraid. He was angry. His throat was so tight he could hardly get the words out. “Why, to punish teenagers who never even killed anyone? Who took the Dark Mark under threat? Who spent the whole war captive in the Manor with Voldemort himself? He was a kid who was failed by everyone, us included, and you have no idea what he’s been through!”

There was a rattling sound. All of the books on the shelves and knick-knacks on the desk began to shake as if there was an earthquake. An ink pen rolled off Kingsley’s desk and vanished beneath a leather chair.

“Control yourself, Potter,” Kingsley commanded, a touch of fear in his voice, looking around the room as the shaking gained momentum. Books began to fall off the shelves. A framed portrait fell to the ground, the glass shattering.

Harry hadn’t realized it was his doing until Kingsley spoke. He took a few deep breaths, and with great difficulty, regained some measure of calm. The room quieted as the shaking stopped.

After taking a moment to gather himself, Kingsley fixed him with an imposing expression. “You are dangerously naive, Potter, and this hero act is getting old,” he said. “You had no concerns about Malfoy’s treatment until you were sleeping with him. Your job is to dig up dirt on Selwyn, not be Malfoy’s advocate. The only reason I’m not throwing you off the case is because of—the access your foolishness has granted you.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Kingsley held up a hand. “No,” he said. “No more arguing. I’m through. For ten years, I have sheltered you from danger on the job, covered up your drunkenness, forgiven every lazy mistake, every absence in deference to your age and what you sacrificed for all of us during the war. But I now fear that was a mistake. You’re no longer young, Potter. You should have better judgment by now. This is your final warning. If you come to me again—for any reason other than to convey the information I need—you’re off the case. And I can assure you Malfoy will have no other defenders within these walls.”

Harry could do nothing but turn on his heel and storm away. On his way out of the office, the vase of flowers on Kingsley’s desk exploded, sending porcelain and roses flying and leaking water all over his documents.

Good, Harry thought savagely.

***

Harry didn’t have the patience to wait for the elevator. He took the stairs, storming down all thirteen flights on foot. By the time he burst into the auror archives, adjacent to the basement cells and courtroom, he was red-faced and panting.

Behind a glass wall, the archives loomed three stories high, the towering shelves disappearing into darkness far above Harry’s head. Books, scrolls, and teetering stacks of paper floated up, down, and along the aisles, making their own way to their proper places. Before the wall was a reception desk, a mousy man seated behind it.

Harry steeled himself. He would get those files by force, if he had to. He strode up to the desk and slammed his palm down, startling the small man, who was doodling frogs on a scrap of parchment.

“I need all of the files you have on Edwin Selwyn and Draco Malfoy,” Harry demanded. “The restricted ones, too.”

The man startled, nearly upsetting his cup of tea. He quickly shoved the parchment he was doodling on across the desk and pulled the sign-in sheet towards himself. “Oh, erm…yes, of course, do you have the release request signed by your supervisor?”

Harry just stared down at the man, trying his best to channel Draco’s haughty sneer. “I’m Harry Potter,” he said.

The man’s head shot up, and his eyes widened as he took Harry in. “Oh! Oh! So you are! Gosh, sir, it’s—it’s such an honor to meet you!”

“Thank you,” Harry said stiffly, embarrassed by the man’s admiration.

“So—so do you have the request for release?” the man asked, fiddling with his cuffs.

“I didn’t want to bother Kingsley with it,” Harry lied casually. “I’m working on the Selwyn case.”

“Right—right, of course! No problem!” the man said. “Right this way!”

With a wave of the small man’s wand, the glass wall seemed to shatter without a sound, and then it vanished. He ushered Harry through, as as soon as they were across the threshold, the glass reappeared behind them, pristine once more.

That was easy, Harry thought to himself. He realized, with some bemusement, that he could have been using his celebrity status to get his way all these years—it had just never occurred to him before now.

The man babbled as he led Harry through the winding aisles. Harry had to watch his step or risk tripping over precarious stacks of books.

“You know, I’m actually an auror trainee myself,” he said. “Thrushwhistle. Glenn Thrushwhistle.” 

Harry was disarmed by the man’s friendliness. He had stormed into the archive guns blazing, but instead the man had just let him waltz in, and was now gushing over him like he was a rock star.

“I was actually—er, inspired by you, you know.” Glenn gave Harry a shy backwards glance. “To go into the force. I was only a first year at the battle, so they wouldn’t let me fight. I was furious. I swore that as soon as I was old enough, I would be on the front lines. Like you were.”

Harry flushed. He felt an uncomfortable mix of embarrassed, touched, and ashamed of his behavior towards this young man.

“Wow, that’s—thanks, Glenn,” he stuttered. “That means a lot.”

“I was hoping I might even get the chance to train with you,” Glenn said, casting Harry another furtive glance. “But the boys say you don’t come to the office much anymore.”

Harry flushed even deeper. “Er, yeah…” he said lamely. “I guess not.”

“I’m sure you have more important things to do,” Glenn said hurriedly, and Harry thought ashamedly of the hundreds of bottles of firewhiskey he had deemed more important than work over the course of his career.

Glenn led Harry to the end of the far aisle and began waving his wand in a complicated series of patterns. Two thick stacks of files came floating down, one from the top shelf and one from the bottom. Glenn caught them and flipped through them quickly before holding the stack out to Harry.

“It’s all there,” he said. “Arrest records, court files, parole hearings, the works.”

“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely. “I really appreciate it.”

He turned to go, but then had a sudden thought. “Could I see the evidence lockers?” he asked. “Were any assets seized from Draco Malfoy when he was booked?”

“I’m not sure,” Glenn said. “Let’s check.”

He led Harry to the back of the room. Beyond a small vault door was another warehouse-sized room, this one even darker and mustier. The shelves held all manner of boxes, bins, and cartons. 

Glenn led him through the maze of narrow aisles before coming to a sudden stop. With a wave of his wand, a dusty bin came floating down.

He opened the lid. They looked inside together. There was nothing within but a plain leather suitcase.

Harry reached a hand out, then hesitated. “Can I take it?”

Glenn shrugged his shoulders. “Sure,” he said, checking the lengthy parchment tag on the bin. “It was released from evidence fairly quickly. It’s just been sitting here for the last eight years. No one ever claimed it.”

Back at the reception desk, Glenn had Harry sign the requisite release paperwork, and then shyly asked for an autograph. Harry signed the scrap of paper with the frog doodles and shook Glenn’s hand, thanking him profusely.

With the suitcase in one hand and the stack of files under his other arm, Harry left the archives with mixed emotions.

He’d gotten what he wanted, but he wished he was the man Glenn so clearly hero worshiped. That man didn’t exist, though, and he never had. Even during the war, Harry had been no hero. He’d been angry and afraid. It was all pure survival. The war had turned him bitter and cynical before he’d even started his auror training. He was lazy. Selfish. A drunk. He had never possessed Glenn’s youthful idealism, even at his best.

Harry couldn’t help but think that if he’d actually been serious about his job in those early days, he could have helped Draco—and people like him—years earlier. Once he got Selwyn sorted away, Harry decided that he would recommit to the force. He’d volunteer to mentor trainees like Glenn. It would be like Dumbledore’s Army in the old days. Now that he was dried out, maybe he could even go back on the field. It wasn’t too late to make something of his adult life—was it? He could never surpass his teenage achievements, but he could still make a difference. He could still help people—couldn’t he?

Harry walked home. He was tempted several times to open the suitcase, but it felt like a violation of Draco’s privacy. He wanted them to open it together. He wanted to see the look on Draco’s face when Harry handed it to him.

Suddenly, Harry couldn’t wait to be home—couldn’t bear to spend one more moment away from Draco. His visit to the ministry was the longest they’d been apart in weeks. Buoyed by optimistic thoughts of his future and the knowledge that Draco was safe at home, waiting for him, Harry smiled and hurried down the sidewalk as fast as he could, the suitcase swinging at his side.

Chapter Text

Draco was unsettled by how quickly he had become accustomed to living with Harry. Eight years experience of living alone had been wiped away in a matter of weeks. Harry was only out for the afternoon, but already the house felt too big, too quiet, too empty.

He busied himself with cleaning. He already had done the best he could with the top floor, the kitchen, and their bedroom and adjoining bathroom, so he decided to tackle the parlor today. He’d wanted to coax Lady Di up the stairs with him for company, but Kreacher was brushing her fur on the kitchen hearth, so he trudged up the stairs alone with his cleaning supplies. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the silence was driving him mad, so he put his earbuds in and queued up Amy Winehouse on his iPod. (He’d learned weeks earlier that the Victrola stand in the drawing room contained only depressing chamber music records.) 

He began with the massive curtains on the front windows. Using a ladder he had dragged upstairs from the basement, he managed to wrestle them off their rods, open one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and shake out decades of dust—and about a dozen pixies. It was strange to look down at the muggles hurrying up and down the sidewalk, knowing he was completely invisible to them. By the time he had wrestled the curtains back onto their rods, he was red-faced and sweating. The curtains were black velvet and shockingly heavy.

His next task was to dust every surface. He left the glass-fronted cabinets alone. Although he desperately wanted to inspect the trinkets inside, he knew that many of them contained dark magic, and it would be foolish to go messing around with them in Harry’s absence. So he started with the bookshelves, and after that, dusted the beautiful, roll-top writing desk.

He worked his way clockwise around the room. A large, double-doored wardrobe was next. Draco used the ladder to reach the top of it and ran his feather duster across the surface, a few dust sprites fleeing into a tear in the wallpaper as he upended their nest.

Draco climbed back down. He was humming along softly to “Back to Black” as he opened the wardrobe doors.

A long, black cloak was hanging from the closet rod. There was nothing else within. Dust lined the bottom of the wardrobe and the shelf above the rod. It put Draco in mind of a muggle book he’d read during the war about a group of children who had stepped through the back of a wardrobe into a magical world. Draco took a step forward, armed with his feather duster.

The cloak rippled, as if in a sudden breeze. Draco halted, thinking he’d forgotten to close the window. He looked over his shoulder. The window was closed and locked. He looked back at the cloak.

Then it began to move towards him.

Draco stumbled back, his heart leaping in his chest. He dropped the feather duster. The singer was still crooning into his ears, the music incongruous with the scene before him.

Draco ripped his earbuds out with shaking hands. He backed up, but the cloak followed him step for step.

That doesn’t make sense, he thought faintly. How could—

Draco looked down. Below the cloak, he saw shoes.

A familiar pair of shiny dress shoes.

His heart began to race.

Draco dragged his gaze up the shoes, past the ankles, and along the black velvet cloak to a pair of broad shoulders. The figure was tall. Draco’s eyeline only came up to the silver clasp at its collar.

The figure continued his approach, his steps slow and sure.

Time slowed as Draco backed away. He felt as though he was moving through mud; his racing thoughts unable to keep up with his lagging body, like in a dream where you try to run but you can’t.

Draco bumped up against the back of the couch. He was trapped.

He dragged his eyes unwillingly up to the man’s face, knowing who he would find there but hoping against hope that he was wrong, that it was anyone else.

A hood shrouded the figure’s eyes, but Draco would have recognized the broad, white smile and square chin beneath it anywhere. As the cloak rippled around his body, it parted just a fraction to reveal a glimpse of a faded brown jumpsuit: the familiar article that Draco himself had worn every day of his two years in Azkaban.

The last shreds of hope, of denial, that he clung onto slipped through his fingers.

It was him.

It was Edwin.

“Hello, Draco,” Edwin said softly. “Have you missed me?”

Draco couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t tear his gaze away from Edwin’s face.

“Not enough, evidently,” Edwin continued, his voice deliberately light. “I never thought I could change your essential nature—once a slut, always a slut. But I did think that the bond would keep you in line. Evidently, I need to keep you on a tighter leash.”

A black leather collar slid out of Edwin’s sleeve, and an attached leash dragged on the ground as he slowly approached Draco. Draco was pinned against the couch, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to admit to himself that this was really happening, that he wasn’t dreaming, that it was finally here, the moment he’d feared for almost a decade.

When Edwin was within reach, he took Draco’s chin in his hand and gripped it firmly, tilting Draco’s face up towards his. His fingers were bruisingly strong. His dark eyes were still in shadow, but Draco could see them glittering.

“But first,” he said, “I’ll need to dispense with that nasty boy. I warned you about him, Draco. Why do you never listen? Why can’t you do as you’re told?”

With his other hand, he clicked open the collar. “You’ve given me no choice. If the bond can’t keep you from spreading your legs for every man who crosses your path, this leash will have to do. I’ll chain you to the bed if I have to. And no matter how much you struggle and fight and misbehave, I’ll never let you go, Draco. Never.”

Edwin’s gaze traveled down Draco’s body and then back up again, hungry, leering, a satisfied half-smile on his face. He reached forward and ran a thumb over Draco’s lip, then trailed it up his cheekbone. Draco shuddered.

Edwin abruptly grabbed a fistful of Draco’s hair and yanked his head to the side. He leaned in. He whispered his next words into Draco’s ear, his breath hot and damp. 

“Do you know why? Because your life is mine. You made a promise to me, and I intend to hold you to it.”

Edwin released Draco’s hair. He put a hand on Draco’s shoulder and pressed down. He was hardly using any force, but he didn’t need to. Draco sank to his knees. His limbs felt as though they were made of jelly. He was shaking from his feet to the crown of his head.

Edwin crouched down to his eye-level. “First,” he whispered, “I’m going to put this leash on you, like the bitch you are.”

He slid the collar around Draco’s neck. He clicked it shut with a quiet, definitive snick. His touch was deceptively gentle, his tone deceptively sweet. “Potter will be home soon. With you as my shield, he’ll be in my power. You’ve made him weak, in that way. A quick spot of the cruciatus should tame him. But for my own amusement, I’d like to see how long it takes to break him. The Dark Lord taught me how to make even the strongest of men beg for death. I’m so looking forward to hearing you both scream.”

A sound escaped Draco’s throat then, a strangled whine. “Please,” he managed to gasp. “Don’t—”

There was a flash of searing pain across his face as Edwin struck him, and then Draco was on the floor, gasping. Edwin grabbed him by the hair and brutally dragged him up to his knees. Draco whimpered and twisted in his grip, but it was no use—Edwin was immovable.

“Then,” he continued, leaning in closer, his eyes glittering with glee, “I’m going to rape you. I’ll make Potter watch as I do it. You’ll be able to see the revulsion in his eyes the moment he realizes what a needy, pathetic slut you are. When I’ve had my way with you, I’ll kill him. Not with my wand, no—that’s too impersonal. I’ll strangle him—slowly, painfully. I’ll make you watch as the light leaves his eyes.”

I’m dreaming, Draco thought desperately. Wake up. I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.

But he wasn’t. He knew in his heart of hearts there was no escape from this nightmare.

“When Potter’s dead,” Edwin cooed, “I’ll bring you face to face with his twitching corpse, and fuck you again, so that you never again forget who you belong to. Do you understand?”

“Edwin,” Draco gasped, the fear so overwhelming he could hardly see, “Please, I’ll—”

Edwin brought his hand up to the collar and yanked it tight. “Don’t speak out of turn,” he snarled. He pulled it tighter, and tighter still. The sensation turned from pressure to pain to panic within a matter of moments. Too late, Draco brought his hands to his throat, scrabbling against the collar, trying desperately to pull it away from his airway.

A high-pitched noise was singing in Draco’s ears. He could hear his heartbeat, feel the blood pumping violently through his veins. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away.

There was a thumping noise behind them, and Edwin shifted his gaze to a spot over Draco’s shoulder. Draco heard his own name, and then a bright light filled the room. Edwin dodged a beam of magical light, his expression morphing into a sneer. He abruptly stood and raised his wand.

Only then was Draco able to turn, and when he did, he saw Harry barreling towards them, leaping over furniture, his expression thunderous.

Draco wanted to scream, to throw himself in front of Harry, to wrest away Edwin’s wand, but he was frozen stiff.

Harry cast a spell that sent Edwin flying through the air, crashing against the opposite wall and landing in a heap. When Harry reached Draco, he threw an arm protectively around his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. Harry smelled like smoke and pine and his hand was rough and warm on Draco’s arm and Draco wished that Edwin would let him die with Harry.

Edwin got to his feet and strode towards them. He raised his arm.

“Avada Kedavra!” Edwin roared, and the room filled with green light.

At the same time, Harry raised his own wand against Edwin. A searing frisson of magic traveled through Draco’s body where Harry touched him. “Riddikulus!” he cried.

Draco watched in disbelief as Edwin seemed to shrink. One moment he was towering over them both: the next he was Draco’s height, then Harry’s, and then he was only knee-high. At last, a tiny, inch-tall man stood before them. He was shaking his little fist and shouting in a squeaky voice. Harry raised his foot and stomped on the man, grinding him into the carpet with his heel. When he lifted the trainer, there was no trace of Edwin left.

Draco could hear that Harry was trying to talk to him, could feel Harry’s hands anxiously fluttering around his face, but he couldn’t look up from the spot on the carpet. There wasn’t even a stain.

“He—he was a boggart?” he managed to say. His lips felt numb.

He raised his hands to his throat. There was nothing there.

“Yes,” Harry was saying. “Yes, I’m so sorry Draco, I’m so sorry. I thought we got rid of that one, but it must’ve just moved to the wardrobe from the desk. Please, Draco, talk to me. Are you alright?”

Draco searched Harry’s eyes, bright green and shining and frantic with worry. Draco put a trembling hand on Harry’s face. He was here. He was solid. He was alive.

Draco pitched forward into Harry’s arms. He buried his face in his neck, feeling the glorious warm pulse beating there, and fisted both of his hands in Harry’s shirt. Harry hugged him so tight around the waist that Draco could barely breathe. He didn’t care.

“He was going to kill you,” Draco said numbly. “He was going to kill you and I just stood there.”

“It wasn’t real,” Harry assured him. “I’m okay, I’m here. He’s gone and I’m here.”

A shudder of revulsion rippled through Draco. How could he let Harry touch him, after what he’d just done? “No, you don’t understand,” he said, pushing Harry away.

“Then help me to,” Harry said desperately, his eyes shining and his hair askew.

Draco just hugged himself and shook his head. Tears were now pouring silently down his face. Edwin would have killed Harry, and Draco would have stood there and let him, like the coward he was.

He couldn’t look Harry in the eye, so he turned away. “I want to be alone,” he managed to whimper.

“Draco, please, just let me—”

“Go!” Draco sobbed. He walked around the couch and collapsed onto it, curling into the backrest. He covered his face in his hands and wept as quietly as he could.

He could feel Harry still in the room, staring helplessly at him. Draco uncurled himself long enough to shoot Harry a look and snarl, “Will you fucking go?” 

Still—it felt like abandonment when, a minute later, he heard footsteps and the sound of the door clicking shut behind Harry.

***

Harry awoke with a jolt as something banged painfully into his head. His mouth was dry. He had no sense of where he was, what time it was. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, adjusting his glasses and looking around blearily. His neck was sore. And why was he on the hallway carpet?

Harry looked up to see Draco in the half-opened parlor doorway, an astonished look on his face. His eyes were red-rimmed and his clothes rumpled. It all came back to Harry in a flash: the boggart. Harry’s spike of strangling panic and rage as he saw Draco, terrified, on his knees before Selwyn. The rushing relief when he realized what it really was. His dismay and worry when Draco ordered him out of the room. He must have fallen asleep out here in the hall waiting for Draco, and then Draco had opened the door onto his head.

After a moment, Draco collected himself and strode past Harry, down the hall, and into their bedroom. Harry deflated. All he wanted was to take Draco in his arms and tell him that he was alright, that he was safe, that Harry would never let anything happen to him, until he believed it. But if Draco needed more time, Harry would give it to him. He was just about to pick himself up off the carpet and ask Draco what he needed when he came padding back down the hallway in his bare feet, the bottles in Harry’s secret crate of firewhisky clinking in his arms.

Harry stood quickly. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

“Under the bed,” Draco said dryly. “You think you’re slick, Potter? I found it the second night I spent here.”

He swept past Harry into the parlor. Harry followed after him like an obedient dog. Draco plopped the crate down on the coffee table and selected two tumblers from the bar cart in the corner.

Harry had just opened his mouth to speak when Draco shot him a dangerous look.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, moving back to the coffee table. “We’re going to drink this firewhisky, and we’re not going to talk about the boggart. If you say a single word about it, so help me god, I will go back to my flat and tell Dorothy that you kidnapped me. Are we clear?”

Harry nodded mutely. Draco poured them each a glass and handed Harry one, then sank heavily onto the couch and drained his share in three long swallows. He was pouring himself another when Harry crept around the coffee table. “Can I join you?” he asked, feeling as pathetic as he sounded.

Draco nodded curtly, but when Harry sank onto the couch next to him, Draco curled into his side, allowing Harry to drape an arm over his shoulders.

They drank in silence for a while. Harry wanted to comfort him, but he had a feeling that Draco really would make good on his threat if he tried. Instead, he rubbed Draco’s shoulder with his thumb and thought He’ll never touch you again over and over, as if he could make it true just by wishing, as if he could beam the thought into Draco’s mind through sheer willpower.

Harry was about to open his mouth without a plan, just to break the silence, when Draco suddenly said, “What’s that?”

Harry followed his gaze to Draco’s suitcase slumped against the opposite couch, where Harry had dropped it in his mad dash to get to the boggart.

“Oh!” he said, standing and putting down his glass of firewhisky. “I completely forgot! I found this in the archives at the ministry. They said it’s your suitcase. I thought you might like to have it back.”

Harry retrieved the suitcase and sat back on the couch, placing it on Draco’s lap. Draco was staring at it with a strange expression.

“I haven’t opened it,” Harry added anxiously, not sure what Draco’s furrowed brow indicated. Had he made a mistake in bringing this back?

“Thank you,” Draco said distantly.

He ran his long fingers across the worn leather, as if deep in thought, then hesitantly snapped open the clasp and peered inside.

Draco reached inside and produced a thick, antique-looking book with a marbled cover.

“Tess of the D’Urberville’s,” Harry read off the spine. “What were you doing with a muggle novel in your suitcase?” he wondered aloud.

Draco stroked the cover fondly. “It’s called a valise, not a suitcase, you dolt. You forget I was confined to the manor for almost a year,” he said. “I ran out of appropriate reading material after a while. There was a whole stash of old muggle novels in our—in my room. I wish I knew who had left them there.”

Draco laid the book down and reached back into the case. He pulled out some old shirts and a pair of black trousers. They looked expensive, but too small for his current stature. He set them aside. Then, he reached into an interior pocket and hesitantly produced a single, pure-white feather with black spots.

The look on Draco’s face told Harry everything he needed to know. “Is that—” he breathed.

Draco held the feather out to Harry, a stricken look on his face. “Yes,” he said softly. “It’s Hedwig’s.”

Harry took the feather from Draco’s outstretched hand. He twirled it between his fingers. He hadn’t thought about Hedwig in a long time, and the realization made his stomach clench with guilt.

“Where did you get it?” he asked numbly.

“He—Edwin—” Draco stuttered, then took a deep breath. “One night, when he came back from a mission, he…gave it to me. He told me—he killed her. I’m sorry, Harry,” Draco whispered, then shrank back.

Harry’s head was spinning. He should be grieving, fuming, but all he could think about was that Draco had just spoken Edwin’s name aloud to him for the first time ever.

“You kept it?” Harry asked, trying to understand.

“I—I hoped—that I might have a chance to give it back,” Draco said softly. “I thought you could make it into a quill or something.”

Harry looked up at Draco at last, his eyes swimming, and then his heart sank when he saw that Draco was curled up in the far corner of the couch, a wary expression on his face, as though he was waiting for Harry to strike.

“Come here,” Harry said, reaching his arm out. After a pause, Draco scooted closer and Harry pulled him in tightly, pressing his lips to Draco’s temple.

“Thank you,” he said. “It means a lot. Really.”

Draco blushed and nodded. Harry spun the feather between his fingers. It felt light but strong, and the fluff just as soft as he’d remembered. He didn’t want to think too hard about Hedwig at the moment. He didn’t want to cry, not when Draco needed him so badly. But as he laid the feather gently on the end table, a decade-old sense of guilt lifted from his shoulders. He’d always regretted that he hadn’t been able to bury Hedwig, to go back for her body.

He nudged Draco with his shoulder. “You can keep going,” he said. “It’s alright.”

Draco took a deep breath and nodded once, seeming to brace himself. He reached back into the case, pulling forth a beautiful, emerald-green silk dressing gown. Draco draped it across the case and ran his fingers across it. Harry admired the lush green fabric. It seemed to shimmer in the firelight.

After a moment, Draco calmly folded it, stood up, and tossed it into the fire.

Harry’d been about to say the dressing gown was sexy, maybe ask Draco to try it on. He felt a little put out, but said nothing. He could sense that whatever Draco was thinking right now, it was deeply private. The light in the room flickered wildly as the gown blackened and began to release foul smoke. Draco stood with his back to Harry, silhouetted by the firelight, one hand in his pocket and the other clenched around his firewhisky. They both watched it burn for a long time. 

When Draco finally turned, his face was a blank mask. He sat back down and wordlessly groped through the case again. Harry braced himself. He’d unwittingly brought home Pandora’s Box, and he was afraid what Draco would find inside of it next. 

Draco pulled free a small, round badge and instantly hid it behind his back, his face going red.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“You don’t need to know,” Draco said.

“Well I have to now,” Harry said, reaching towards Draco.

“No!” Draco cried, starting to laugh. “It’s humiliating!”

Harry and Draco had a brief wrestling match, giggling all the while, but in the end, Harry tugged the object from Draco’s hands with ease. He held the badge up to the firelight. 

It was emblazoned with Harry’s face and the bright green words “Potter Stinks.” As Harry watched, the words and his face both melted into a puddle of slimy, green goo. Then, the badge changed color. Now red letters appeared against a golden background: “Support Cedric Diggory—The Real Hogwarts Champion." Cedric’s handsome, grinning face beamed up at them.

“You’re joking,” Harry choked. “You kept this? All this time?”

Draco lifted one shoulder, smiling cheekily.

“Why?” Harry asked.

“Because it’s funny,” Draco replied.

“It is not funny,” Harry said, but he was laughing. “These made fourth year hell for me, you little shit!”

“Give it back,” Draco said. “I want to wear it.”

He wrestled the badge out of Harry’s grip and pinned it proudly to his shirt. Harry shook his head with amusement and exasperation.

“I spent weeks on these, you know,” Draco said, admiring the badge. “I placed a special order for them and spent hours every night perfecting the enchantment. I wanted them to be real showstoppers.”

“You were obsessed with me,” Harry teased, but Draco just said, “Yes.”

Draco stroked the badge thoughtfully. “You know, I always thought Cedric was well fit,” he said. “I had a sex dream about him once. Took cold showers for a week after that.”

It took Harry a moment to find his voice. “You can’t—you can’t just say that!” he spluttered. “He’s dead!”

“What, I can’t find someone fit just because they’re dead?” Draco said, unfazed. “Tell me you didn’t notice.”

Harry looked at Cedric’s face beaming out from the badge with his million watt smile, his unstudied confidence, his dark eyebrows and strong chin. “No, I—I definitely noticed,” he admitted.

“Did you notice me?” Draco asked playfully, sliding his bare feet into Harry’ lap. Harry caught his feet and tickled them, causing Draco to splash his drink on himself and kick Harry hard in the ribs, giggling.

The firewhisky had started to take effect. Harry was beginning to feel relaxed and nostalgic, even a little silly. They were both desperate for a change in mood, and seized the opportunity with both hands.

“I noticed everything,” Harry admitted. “Your hair. Your eyes. How fast and graceful you were on the Quidditch pitch. How you rolled your sleeves up during Potions and turned pink from the steam. Like you are now.” Harry squeezed Draco’s foot and glanced at his face. Draco blushed even harder.

“You know,” Harry said, “I practically spent all of sixth year stalking you.”

Draco sat up straight. “Really?” he asked eagerly.

“Really,” Harry admitted. “With the invisibility cloak.”

Draco kicked Harry in the thigh. “You and that damn invisibility cloak,” he groused. “It’s so unfair. What did you see?” he asked, suddenly anxious.

“Nothing super—personal,” Harry clarified, blushing himself, now. “Just a lot of pacing in the hallways and brooding in the astronomy tower.”

Draco deflated a bit. “Yeah. I did a lot of that, sixth year.”

Harry was hesitant to bring this up, not wanting to lose the light mood they had achieved, but he was curious. “I also saw—you and Snape, one night. Arguing. In the hallway.”

“Oh,” Draco said. “Yes. He was trying to help me. I wouldn’t let him.”

“Why not?” Harry asked. It was selfish, but if he learned how Snape had failed to save Draco too, maybe it would relieve his own guilt—just a little.

“I didn’t trust him,” Draco admitted. “I thought he was a true believer. I wasn’t going to risk my life and my parents’ lives on the off chance that he wasn’t.”

He picked at his sleeve. “You know, he—he actually tried to help me again. In the Manor. And that time I wanted to accept, but I never got the chance.”

Harry let the silence hang between them, hoping that Draco would say more about that lost year in the Manor that he held so closely to his chest.

“Edwin wouldn’t let me near him,” he said suddenly. “He thought that Snape wanted to fuck me.”

Harry was halfway through a swallow of firewhisky when Draco said it, and it blew out of his nose in an agonizingly painful spray.

“Motherfucker,” he swore, reaching blindly for a tissue from the coffee table. He blew his nose aggressively, the whiskey burning again on its way out, his eyes streaming with tears.

“Snape?” he coughed. “Our Snape? Fuck you?”

Draco began howling with laughter. Soon they were both clutching each other to stay upright, belly-laughing to the point of tears.

Harry wiped his face and tried to get his breathing under control. His stomach hurt. “Do you want to hear something worse?” he gasped. “Snape wanted to fuck my mum!”

“No!” Draco shrieked, putting his hands to his cheeks. “You can’t be serious!”

Harry nodded. “I’d swear it on veritaserum. That’s why he hated me. And Voldemort, for that matter.”

“Cock-blocked by the Dark Lord,” Draco said in amazement. He met Harry’s eyes with a wide, stricken expression, as if realizing what he’d just said, but that only started them howling again.

“You know,” Draco continued when they’d settled down, “I’d always sort of assumed that Snape was gay. Or just—nothing at all.”

Harry nodded. “I really can’t imagine Snape having sex with anybody,” he said, nose wrinkled. 

Draco nodded in agreement. “You know who was gay, though?” he said, gesturing with his glass of whisky, “Dumbledore.”

“What?!” Harry spluttered. “No, I—no!”

“Why are you getting all defensive?” Draco asked. “Think about it! Lifelong bachelor…the robes. The hair. The theatricality.” He raised a meaningful eyebrow.

“He wasn’t,” Harry said stubbornly, crossing his arms.

“Come on,” Draco said, kicking Harry in the thigh. “Gay until proven innocent. Where’s your evidence to the contrary?”

“Because I would have known!” Harry said, suddenly feeling inexplicably angry. “He would have told me!”

“Oh, of course,” Draco said, with a hint of bitterness. “You two were always chummy. Always making secret plans together.”

“Actually,” Harry said after a moment, too drunk to not be honest, “He never told me any of his plans. Not even after he died. It was all riddles and secrets.”

“Really?” Draco asked, and his tone of genuine shock made Harry want to punch something. “I always imagined you two huddled up in his office, swapping Every Flavor Beans and plotting my downfall.”

Harry snorted. “I think Dumbledore had more important things to worry about than plotting your downfall,” he said. “But no. We weren’t really all that close, actually.”

Draco frowned. “Why did you kiss his boots, then?”

Anger rose in Harry like a wave. “Because he was a great man? And a genius?” he said sarcastically. “Because he saved the world and died for us? And that includes you, you know.”

The mood had changed so quickly it made Harry's head spin. In an instant, the humor and comradery was gone, and there was no getting it back.

“Me?” Draco hissed. He yanked his legs out of Harry’s lap and sat up, leaning in towards him. “Don’t kid yourself. He didn’t die for you, or me, or anything but his own selfish ends.”

“Selfish? How can you say that?” Harry said, his voice rising, the firewhisky suddenly feeling like coals fueling his anger. “Selfish is caring more about your own self-preservation than preventing a war.”

“Dumbledore could’ve saved me if he’d wanted to,” Draco snapped. “But he didn’t. Why do you think it took me a full year to repair the Vanishing Cabinet? Why do you think my feeble attempts at poisoning and cursing him failed? Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

The anger left Harry in a rush, like a balloon deflating. “You mean—you weren’t trying to kill him?”

“No,” Draco snarled, his eyes bright. “Despite all rumors to the contrary, I didn’t actually want to see my classmates slaughtered.”

“Then why didn’t you ask for help?” Harry said desperately. 

“Because the Dark Lord said he would kill me and my parents if I told anyone!” Draco shouted, gesticulating wildly. “I was trying to get caught! A man as brilliant as Dumbledore had to have known what I was up to. He could have stepped in. He could have protected my family. But he didn’t. I guess he just didn’t think I was worth saving. So don’t you ever try to claim that he died for me. I didn’t ask him to do that. I just wanted to be saved.”

Draco’s chest was heaving. Tears were glimmering in his eyes.

Harry opened and closed his mouth again, caught completely off guard. He had no idea that was how Draco felt. When he followed Draco’s train of logic, it made sense he interpreted things that way, but he didn’t know Dumbledore the way Harry did—he was all wrong about him. The Dumbledore Harry knew would never have purposefully let Draco suffer.

“It wasn’t that,” Harry finally said quietly. “He didn’t think you weren’t worth saving. That’s just—how he was. He had bigger goals.”

“Bigger than the children under his care?” Draco said snidely.

“Yeah,” Harry shot back, “I rather think that stopping Voldemort was more important than—” Harry stopped himself.

“Say it,” Draco prompted mockingly. “More important than protecting children.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Harry said, frustrated. “You really can’t see it? The greater good?”

“Hm, why is that phrase familiar,” Draco said sarcastically, tapping his chin. “Oh, because it was Gellert Grindelwald’s slogan!” he laughed. “Now I see why he and Dumbledore were such good friends!”

“He saved the wizarding world!” Harry exploded, throwing his hands in the air.

“No!” Draco shouted. “You did! Dumbledore had nothing to do with it!”

“You didn’t know him the way I did,” Harry insisted. “You can’t possibly understand.”

“Then help me to,” Draco challenged.

“Alright,” Harry said, determined to prove his point. “He’d been protecting me since I was a baby. After Voldemort killed my parents, he took me to the Dursley’s.”

“The muggles who locked you in a cupboard?” Draco asked dryly.

“Yes, but—” Harry said, “you can’t blame that on him. He had to send me there. Because my mother died protecting me, living in Aunt Petunia’s house was the only place safe from Voldemort.”

“Harry,” Draco said, and his tone of incredulity made Harry want to shake him. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“It’s blood magic,” Harry insisted. “It’s real.”

“I’m not saying it’s not real, but Harry, look at where we are.” Draco gestured around the room. “We’re in the Order of the Phoenix’s safehouse. Voldemort never infiltrated it, not in either war. Do you really think Dumbledore couldn’t have found another way to keep you safe if he wanted to? Why couldn’t you have stayed at Hogwarts? Why couldn’t you have stayed with him?” 

Harry opened his mouth. There had to be a reason. There had to be. But Ron and Hermione got to stay at Grimmauld the summer after fifth year while you were stuck at the Dursleys’, a voice whispered in his ear. He didn’t even let them write you letters.

“He didn’t just—abandon me,” Harry said. “Mrs. Figg was there. Keeping an eye out for him.”

“Who the hell is Mrs. Figg?” Draco asked.

“She was our neighbor,” Harry said. “She used to watch me when the Dursleys went on vacation. I later found out she was a squib who knew Dumbledore.”

“A squib?” Draco said. “What the hell was a squib supposed to do if Voldemort showed up at the door? Throw a rock at him?” he asked.

“Alert Dumbledore, I guess,” Harry said, painfully aware of how inadequate that sounded.

“Did he know how they treated you?” Draco asked.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “We didn’t really talk about things like that.”

There was silence for a moment. “Then talk to me about it,” Draco said quietly.

Draco’s pitying tone immediately put Harry on edge. “What do you want to hear?” he said nastily. “That when they finally gave me a bedroom they put bars on the window? That Aunt Petunia hit me in the face with a frying pan for burning the bacon? That Uncle Vernon once choked me so hard I nearly blacked out?”

Draco’s eyes had turned round and shiny. Harry looked down into his glass of firewhisky, ashamed of his outburst.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Draco whispered.

“I dunno,” Harry said dully. “I guess I was just…used to it.” 

A treacherous thought had crept into his head. His letter to Hogwarts had been addressed to “The Cupboard Under the Stairs.” Dumbledore had known at least that much. 

Harry’s grip around his glass tightened. “You know,” he said, “I do get where you’re coming from. It’s not like I was never angry at Dumbledore. I smashed up his office at the end of fifth year. After—after Sirius.”

“How did he react?” Draco asked.

“He sort of just let me go until I ran out of steam,” Harry said.

Draco snorted. “What I wouldn’t give to have seen that,” he said, and Harry managed half a smile.

“There was loads of stuff he did for me, though,” Harry said. “In the Chamber of Secrets, his phoenix saved me.”

“He sent a bird after you? He couldn’t be bothered to go himself?” Draco said.

“Stop doing that!” Harry said. “You’re twisting things! He saved my life, over and over again! He gave us the Time Turner in third year, so that we could save Sirius and Buckbeak and—” 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Draco said, sitting up straight. “He gave you a Time Turner? He gave you a Time Turner at thirteen?”

“Technically it was Hermione’s,” Harry muttered. “So she could make all her classes.”

“What?!” Draco practically shrieked. His whisky splashed onto a cushion. “So that’s how she managed that courseload? Oh. My. God,” he said, laughing a little hysterically, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s the most mental thing I’ve ever heard. No wonder I couldn’t beat her marks. Handing Time Turners out to children like candy. That’s the big plan, is it?”

“Alright, but it worked,” Harry said defensively.

“Sure,” Draco said with a laugh. “I still don’t understand why it was your job to save a grown man and that massive bloody chicken.”

“Dumbledore couldn’t risk being implicated,” Harry said. “The ministry couldn’t know he was involved.”

“And what if you’d been caught?” Draco asked.

Harry crossed his arms stubbornly.

“Fine,” Draco said. “We’re going chronologically, are we? So what was the big idea behind Dumbledore planting you in the Triwizard Tournament?”

“He didn’t plant me in the tournament,” Harry said. “Barty Crouch Jr. did. Dumbledore had to go along with it because of the rulebook.”

“Oh!” Draco cried sarcastically. “Oh, the rulebook! Well we mustn’t break the rules! Not unless we’re enlisting a bunch of children to break convicts out of prison and defeat the Dark Lord on Dumbledore’s behalf!” 

“He dueled Voldemort in fifth year!” Harry said. “He saved my life!”

“I’ll give you that one,” Draco said. “Ten points to Gryffindor! Now we’re onto sixth year. I know this one—this is the year Dumbledore let me dig a secret tunnel into Hogwarts so that he could strategically commit suicide and leave the winning of the war to you as part of his master plan.”

“He was dying anyway,” Harry argued. “Because of the horcrux he destroyed. And he had to convince Voldemort that Snape was on his side.”

“And about these horcruxes,” Draco said. “He left you detailed treasure maps, did he? X marks the spot?”

“In a way,” Harry said grudgingly. “But he had his reasons for being cryptic. He couldn’t risk Voldemort finding out what we were up to. And he didn’t want me finding out—” he stopped, his throat suddenly closing up.

“Finding out what?” Draco prompted after a moment.

The room was beginning to blur in front of Harry’s eyes. “That I was the last horcrux,” he said, his throat suddenly dry.

“The last—what?” Draco asked, befuddled. “What do you mean? What does that mean?”

Harry couldn’t look at Draco. There was a pricking sensation behind his eyes. The whisky was churning uncomfortably in his stomach.

“My body was the last horcrux,” he numbly. “Voldemort made me one when he killed my parents. When he tried to kill me. A piece of his soul was inside of me.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco said. “Why didn’t Dumbledore want you to know that?”

“Because—” Harry said. “Because I had to die.” 

“Thank god he was wrong about that one,” Draco said after a moment, but his voice was weak.

“No, you don’t understand,” Harry said. “I did die. I died. In the Forbidden Forest. I—I went somewhere. I had to decide that I wanted to come back.”

Harry had never spoken about this before. Not to anyone—not even Ron and Hermione. Everyone assumed the killing curse just—hadn’t worked, and Harry had never figured out how to tell them otherwise. It didn’t matter, he figured. He was alive, wasn’t he? It had all worked out. It didn’t matter. What happened to him. It didn’t matter—did it?

There was another long, weighty silence. “What?” Draco finally said, and his voice was trembling.

To prevent Draco from saying anything else in that tone, Harry plowed on. “The killing curse killed the piece of his soul in me. Not me,” he said. “It was the one thing Dumbledore didn’t see coming.”

“How long did he know?” Draco whispered.

“My whole life,” Harry said.

“So he knew—all those years—that he was going to sacrifice you to Voldemort?”

“He didn’t sacrifice me,” Harry said firmly. “I chose to go into that forest. And I would do it again, and again, and again if I had to.”

“Yes!” Draco cried. “Of course you would! Because you’re a good person! But how did you end up in that forest, believing that letting Voldemort kill you was the only way to defeat him? Dumbledore put you there! Like a fucking sacrificial lamb! And he spent your whole childhood fucking—grooming you to put yourself in dangerous positions and face up against the Dark Lord all on your own. And every—fucking—summer—he waved bye-bye and sent you back into that snake pit, to be tortured by the muggle savages until he needed you to save the day all over again!”

“He sacrificed himself too,” Harry argued, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Sometimes these things have to be done. And it worked, didn’t it? How many lives were saved because me and Dumbledore gave ours up?”

“NO!” Draco shouted, and he was standing now, pacing back and forth across the hearth. His empty glass was held limply in his hand while he gestured with the other. “No, you don’t get to say it’s the same thing! Because you were a child, Harry. A kid. And I’m sorry that Dumbledore taught you that your life is expendable, but if the Dark Lord rose from his grave tomorrow, I sure as hell wouldn’t offer you up to him on a silver fucking platter.”

Draco whirled around and stalked towards Harry, who was standing helplessly before the couch. He dropped his glass on the carpet and grabbed him by the collar. He leaned in, eyes blazing. “I’d let the fucking world burn and I wouldn’t feel a moment of regret,” he snarled. “To me, there will never be anything worth putting your life at stake, and if I ever saw Dumblebore again, I’d spit on him for what he did to you.”

Draco finally fell silent. He let go of Harry’s collar, pushing him away a little as he did. His narrow chest was heaving. His eyes were bright and angry, and tears were streaming down his face.

He crossed his arms defensively as Harry slowly approached. Harry gently pushed the hair out of Draco’s face. He touched a finger to the tears on his cheek.

“You’re really upset about this,” he said, in a tone of wonderment. 

Draco batted his hand away. “Why shouldn’t I be?” he demanded, his voice thick.

“I dunno,” Harry said. “It just—never occurred to me to be angry, I guess. Not about that.” 

“Well, you’re an idiot,” Draco sniffled. He suddenly pitched forward and rested his head in the crook of Harry’s neck.

Harry just held him. He couldn’t work out how he was feeling. He’d been angry, at first. He hated reminders that he and Draco had been on different sides during the war. They hardly ever talked about that time, but he wanted to believe they were on the same page now, and the idea they might not be made him deeply uneasy. Besides, his relationship with Dumbledore had always been a sore spot, and Draco just kept poking at it. It wasn’t as though he’d never had thoughts along similar lines, but he just—never followed those thoughts to their natural conclusions. It was too painful. Because—what did it mean if there had been another way to defeat Voldemort? What did it mean if Dumbledore had never cared for him, only used him? What if he’d given up his childhood for nothing? If it didn’t need to be him…then what was the point of him?   

“I feel like I’ve been stampeded by a herd of elephants,” Draco groaned.

“Yeah,” Harry laughed weakly, squeezing Draco a little tighter. “I know how you feel.”

“I’m drunk,” Draco muttered, his face muffled by Harry’s shirt.

“Me too,” Harry said with a twinge of shame. Although they’d polished off half of the bottle between them, his tolerance was so high that he was barely over the line between tipsy and drunk.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Draco mumbled. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Harry murmured.

“Will you take me to bed?” Draco asked, looking beseechingly at Harry, his eyes still wet.

Harry swept Draco into his arms and carried him to bed.

Later, while they were spooning, Draco rolled over to face Harry. He smoothed the hair back from Harry’s temple, his fingers lingering on the scar. He whispered, “If it was between you and the whole wizarding world, I’d pick you. I know that makes me a bad person.”

“You’re not a bad person,” Harry whispered thickly.

A thought had occurred to him: perhaps it didn’t matter if Dumbledore had never cared for him. Perhaps it didn’t matter that he was an orphan. Perhaps it didn’t matter if Ron and Hermione were part of a family that didn’t include him, because Draco cared for him more deeply than he knew was possible. Perhaps he wasn’t put on this earth to defeat Voldemort, but to be with Draco.

“You might be the best person I know,” Harry said.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Draco said, his eyes going glassy.

“Tell me,” Harry breathed.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Draco whispered, closing his eyes. Then he let out a long breath, and he was asleep.

Chapter Text

Harry couldn’t sleep. He lay awake for hours, watching Draco’s face, a strip of his skin glowing in the sliver of moonlight that fell between the curtains. Sometimes, his whole face would scrunch up, and his fists would clench, and his breathing would begin to come harder and faster. In these moments, Harry would pull Draco tight, until his fists relaxed and the wrinkle between his brows smoothed.

Harry didn’t have to wonder what he was dreaming about.

He knew it was Edwin.

He thought about way the Edwin boggart had loomed over Draco: triumphant, predatory. The pure despair and resignation on Draco’s face in that moment would haunt Harry until the end of his days. A wave of protectiveness washed over him, so powerful that he had to cling to sanity with both fists to stop himself from marching down to Azkaban and slaughtering Edwin in his cell in cold blood.

He and Draco hadn’t been able to save each other during the war—hadn’t even thought to try. But Harry wouldn’t make that same mistake twice.

He quietly slipped out of bed and stood over Draco for a moment, looking down at his pale face, luminous in the light of the nearly full moon. Suddenly, Draco’s lips tightened, and his body was wracked with a short but violent shiver. Harry pulled the covers up around Draco’s shoulders and tucked him in. He watched him for another moment, until, finally, Draco’s face relaxed. He nuzzled deeper into the pillow. Harry leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, smoothed the hair back from his brow.

He turned and padded down the hall to the upstairs parlor. Harry retrieved the ministry files from his discarded backpack—a muggle style that Draco absolutely loathed—and sat behind the big, mahogany desk that he’d never used before, spreading the files before him.

He’d put this off for far too long, too absorbed by making Draco at home in Grimmauld Place to consider the bigger picture. Kreacher appeared out of nowhere to stoke the fire, and the light cast towering, menacing shadows across the room. Harry glanced towards the imposing silhouette of the wardrobe, knowing he’d banished the boggart, but feeling a frisson of unease nevertheless.

Harry turned back to his files. He tackled the arrest records first. After Voldemort’s defeat, the majority of surviving Death Eaters had gone underground immediately. Narcissa and Lucius, curiously, were the exception. They’d surrendered without a fight to the aurors who descended on Malfoy Manor not long after the final battle. If Harry knew anything about Draco, it was that he was loyal to Narcissa. Why hadn’t Draco been with them?

The Death Eaters who managed to evade the initial round-up at the Battle of Hogwarts used a network of heavily warded safehouses across Britain to stay one step ahead of the pursuing aurors. Most were estates belonging to old, powerful families with Death Eater loyalties, although some of these safehouses belonged to neutral wizards—or even Dumbledore loyalists—who could be bought for the right price. As far as Harry could tell from the files, Draco and Edwin, together with a small group of other Death Eaters, were underground for six months, changing locations frequently.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He’d been one of those pursuing aurors, not realizing at the time that Draco was one of his targets all those months. His memories of those first months after the battle were clouded by liquor and a terrifying, all-consuming haze of bloodlust and rage. He hadn’t killed anyone, but it had been a close thing on an occasion or two. Harry was desperately, fervently grateful that he hadn’t been the auror to arrest Malfoy. He didn’t think he would have hurt him, even then, but neither would he have been kind. Harry’s face burned with shame.

He scanned another page. Draco had been arrested at the Greengrass Estate, along with a handful of others, but Edwin was not among them. That surprised Harry—if Draco and Edwin had really been as inseparable as everyone claimed, why had they not been arrested together? 

Another curious detail: one of Draco’s initial charges had been possession and usage of an illegal substance—pixie dust. The charge was dropped, but the arresting auror had testified that Draco was high on the stuff at the time of his capture. Harry frowned. He’d have to look up the effects of pixie dust. He’d seen Draco high on muggle drugs before, but somehow he’d never imagined him—or any of the other Death Eaters—dabbling in magical drugs. Furthermore, Draco was the only one of his group charged with possession. The thought made Harry’s stomach plunge. Why only Draco? Had he even taken it willingly?

The more Harry read, the more frustrated he became. There were other things that didn’t add up. It wasn’t until three years after Draco’s capture that the authorities caught up to Edwin—and only then because an anonymous tip had been delivered to the ministry. Dean and Luna were on the initial character witness list for Draco, but not in the interview transcripts, and they certainly hadn’t spoken at his trial—Harry would have remembered that. He made a mental note to look them up and pick their brains later. And finally, nearly a year's worth of Draco’s parole records were missing. The paper trail only began when he was reassigned to an auror named Banks, a little over a year after his release from Azkaban. But who was his first parole officer, and where had the records gone? Further, the date of Edwin's arrest and Draco's parole reassignment coincided perfectly. Was it a coincidence? If not, what did it mean?

Harry finally had all of the documents he needed, but things still weren’t making sense. Frustrated, he opened the last file. A handful of faded photographs spilled out.

Most of them were grim, severe group photographs of the Death Eaters. Harry was relieved to see that Voldemort was in none of them. The dates were recorded on the back in spiky handwriting. Harry ordered them chronologically.

Side by side, the trajectory of the war was plain as day. In the early photographs, the ranks swelled. Faces were smiling or sneering. The Death Eaters looked well-fed and their robes well-mended. But as the months crawled on, their ranks thinned. Their robes turned ragged and their faces began to look pinched. They glared at the photographer challengingly rather than triumphantly.

The first photograph Draco appeared in was dated August 1996. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. That was the summer after their fifth year. Harry knew that Draco had joined at sixteen, but seeing it with his own eyes was almost too much to bear. Draco looked impossibly young and impossibly afraid among the grim-faced, dark-robed ranks of the Death Eaters. He was even, heart-rendingly, still wearing his green school tie. He stood huddled against Narcissa, who had a protective arm around his shoulder. Draco’s right hand clasped the Dark Mark on his left forearm, the ink deep black and fresh.

The next photo Draco was in was dated July 1997; the summer after sixth year. He and Edwin were standing shoulder to shoulder. Although Draco had a good three inches on Harry, Edwin was still a head taller than Draco: dark and sharp and imerious. He raised his chin and met the camera with a challenging look. Every once in a while, Draco cast a quick glance up at him, his face a picture of shy admiration. Harry hated it.

December 1997. Edwin had a proprietary arm around Draco’s waist, and Draco was huddled close to him. Only two places down, Fenrir stood, snarling at the camera. As the photograph moved, Draco cast a terrified glance at Fenrir, and Edwin’s grip on his waist tightened until his fingers were digging into Draco’s waistcoat.

March, 1998. Draco was slenderer, paler. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. He was looking at the floor. Edwin’s hand rested heavily on Draco’s neck. Draco leaned away from Edwin, only slightly, but Edwin yanked him back, and he acquiesced, boneless. That was the last of the group photographs.

But as Harry gathered the photographs together, he realized there was one more in the file that he’d missed. He pulled it out and held it to the light.

It was a portrait of Edwin and Draco. Edwin was dressed in fine, black jacquard dress robes, his scarred, milky eye uncovered. Draco was in his dress robes as well: the same smart black and white set that he’d worn to the Yule Ball, Harry realized with a pang. They were posed like a couple might be in an old portrait. Draco was sitting in an ornate chair against a background of draped green velvet curtains. At his right, a magnificent, stuffed white peacock was posed on a stand, its tail feathers brushing the carpet. Selwyn loomed behind him, a proprietary hand on Draco’s neck. If Harry looked closely, he could see the bond mark shimmering beneath his fingers. Edwin was stroking the chain-like pattern with his thumb, staring haughtily down at the camera. It was an odd photograph, Harry thought—the formal way they were posed, just the two of them…

And then he noticed it: a small bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley clutched tightly in Draco’s hands. A prickle went up Harry’s neck. Was this…a wedding portrait?

Draco was smiling, but his expression was pinched around the eyes, and he was leaning away—ever so slightly—from Selwyn’s touch. He looked down at the floor, then cast a quick glance up at the camera. For just an instant, the mask dropped. It was as if he was meeting Harry’s eyes. Begging him for help.

But Harry was ten years too late.

Edwin had swooped in when Draco was at his most vulnerable. He had no-one to turn to for help, nowhere to hide. He’d never had a chance.

There was an acrid smell, and suddenly, Harry’s fingers were burning. He realized all at once that the edges of the photograph were singed, bright with embers and curling inward. Harry dropped the photograph and stamped out the smoldering edges with his fingers, burning them further in the process.

“You’re not smoking in here, are you?” Draco asked, his voice croaky with sleep, and Harry, startled, slammed the rolltop shut so quickly he almost smashed his hands.

“Nope,” he said, heart beating in his throat as Draco padded around behind his chair. “Just working.”

“You never work,” Draco mumbled, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders and burying his face into his neck. “Come cuddle me.”

Harry could never say no to that. He let Draco lead him over to the couch and they sprawled out together, Draco’s back slotted comfortably against Harry’s chest. Draco was so tall he had to curl up quite a lot to be the little spoon—which was the only way he would cuddle—and it was the most endearing thing.

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s chest, feeling his heartbeat, and thinking, against his will, Mine, mine, mine with every beat. He was eye level with the knotty, silvery bond mark on Draco’s neck. It gleamed eerily in the firelight, and Harry hated it more every passing moment. He wanted to wipe it away; destroy it; undo it. The longer he stared at it, the more he swore he could feel tendrils of magic reaching out; curling their evil little fists at him. He closed his eyes and tried to feel it. All these strands of magic were tangled up in this great big gordian knot, but it was pulsing weakly, with Draco’s every heartbeat, like it was dying.

Harry reached forward with his magic. He couldn’t have said how. He didn’t even think.

He just grasped one of the strands and—pulled.

Draco recoiled. He froze, then sat bolt upright, a hand on his throat.

He turned to look at Harry, a furrow between his eyebrows. “What the fuck was that?”

Harry decided to play dumb. “What was what?”

“That was you, wasn’t it?”

Draco’s eyes glittered with anger. Harry was caught off guard. If he’d been expecting any reaction from Draco, it was unease, surprise—not this.

“I dunno,” Harry lied.

“The hell you don’t,” Draco hissed, standing up. “Don’t do that, don’t you ever do that again,” he said. His face was white and his fists were curled. He was shaking.

Harry sat up too. “Alright, I won’t, I’m sorry,” he said sulkily, picking at the lint on the couch, avoiding Draco’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if he felt guilty or angry. “What’s the big deal, anyway?”

“I swear to god, Harry,” Draco said, his voice brittle. “Do anything like that again and I’m gone.”

“Fine,” Harry said as Draco swept out of the room.

Harry sank back onto the couch, miserable. Was it possible that Draco really wanted to go through life with that hideous mark around his neck? A mark that sealed him—permanently, publically—to Selwyn? Did Draco still care for the man? How could he, after everything Edwin had done to him? After the way he'd reacted to the boggart? Nothing made sense. Nothing in the files, and nothing about Draco and Edwin’s relationship. What was Harry missing?

Perhaps he should consult with Hermione—but no—no. Harry quashed that thought before it was even fully-formed. He needed to go straight to the source. To Draco. Harry was done dancing around the topic. He was done with the little white lies, the omissions, the avoidance of the biggest elephant in the herd of elephants he and Draco were constantly navigating. They were out of time. He needed to put Edwin away for good—he needed to keep Draco safe from him, and he needed to do it now.

He needed to tell Draco the truth—and he hoped he could count on Draco to do the same.

Draco could be as angry as he wanted. He could blame Harry. He could scream, he could cry, he could lash out. But Harry didn’t care. Draco wasn’t safe, and Harry would die before he let Edwin touch him again. He was a coward if he cared more about Draco’s feelings towards him than his safety.

Harry stood up and strode through the parlor, down the hall, and into the bedroom. Draco was curled up on his side on the comforter, but he sat up as Harry entered. He curled his arms around his middle, looking uneasy. Harry realized how he must look—fire in his eyes and determination in his pace, but the little pang of regret for frightening Draco was overridden by the burning urgency in his chest to get this thing finished.

Harry sat beside Draco, the mattress sinking beneath him. He took a deep breath and put a hand on Draco’s knee.

“What is it?” Draco breathed. He had gone white. “What’s wrong? Don’t be angry, please, I’m sorry, I—”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Just listen. Draco, there’s something I should have told you a long time ago.”

There was a beat. Harry’s hand was shaking on Draco’s knee. He clenched it into a fist.

“Just tell me,” Draco said, his voice strangled.

Harry took a deep breath; kept his voice calm.

“Selwyn’s up for parole,” he said. “Next month. Kingsley’s been informally polling his parole board members, and he’s almost certain his petition is going to be approved. He could be out in a matter of weeks.”

***

Harry was saying something else, but Draco couldn’t hear him. Harry was on the surface, and Draco was underwater, sinking, sinking, sinking. There was no light down here. No air. No sound could reach him. All he could hear was a high-pitched buzzing in his ears, and the rhythm of his breathing, faster and faster now. His eyes wouldn’t focus.

He stood on wobbly feet and had to catch himself on one of the bed posts. His hands and feet felt numb. Harry came into blurry view, inches away. He was still talking, and too close. Draco shoved him hard in the chest and stumbled past him, out the bedroom door and down the hall to the bathroom.

He kicked the door shut behind him and sank to his knees before the toilet, retching and retching, the firewhiskey burning and sour on its way back up.

The door opened behind him and Draco felt a hand on his shoulder, but he was too weak to even shake it off, his whole body spasming with the force of his heaving.

Edwin was getting out. Edwin would find him, like he did the last time.

But it would be worse this time around. It would be so, so much worse, because he was going to find out about Harry. And he would kill him, like he’d always promised he would. Except this time he would make Draco watch. This time Draco couldn’t pretend he didn’t care. But he wouldn’t kill Draco too, he wouldn’t be that merciful—

No. Edwin was going to touch him again. Edwin was going to fuck him. And this time, Edwin was going to take him away, like he’d always promised, and he’d never, ever let Draco go. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

He would take Draco away, away from Harry, and Kreacher, and Lady Di and Dorothy and Anthony and his job and his flat and his life. He’d never see any of them again. He’d be lucky if Edwin ever let him see the light of day again. He’d be lucky if Edwin was too jealous to share him.

His stomach was empty. His whole body felt turned inside out. Draco put his head between his knees. Small black spots began dancing before his eyes.

He felt hands on his cheeks and was too tired to fight them, so he let his head be lifted, and came nose-to-nose with Harry. Harry’s vibrant green eyes were shining with tears. A distant part of Draco was touched. A larger part of him was trying to figure out how to say goodbye.

“I’ll keep you safe, Draco, I swear it,” Harry was saying. “I swear on my life. But you have to help me. If there’s anything you know, anything that can keep him locked up for good, you have to tell me. I’ll take care of everything else, you won’t have to worry. Just tell me, please, please, and you’ll never have to worry about him again. He’ll never touch you again, I swear it. Just let me help you, please.”

But Draco was shaking his head before Harry had even finished speaking. There was nothing he knew, nothing he’d seen that was actionable. He’d been down this road the first time Edwin was arrested. All he knew was what had happened to him in those six months after the war, and those memories were mostly gone. And he’d die before remembering, even if there was a way: die a thousand times before breathing a word about what he’d done.

No, Draco’s fate was already sealed, had been sealed since he’d said his vows to Edwin all those years ago.

But as he looked into Harry’s face, so pleading, so earnest, so noble, he wished he could give Harry what he wanted. No one could save him—not even Harry—but maybe it was Draco’s turn to be the hero.

Harry was the strongest wizard Draco had ever known—the depth of his untapped power frankly terrifying—but he knew it didn’t matter. Harry was fair, and just, and Edwin was not. Where Harry would hesitate, Edwin would go in for the kill. Where Harry would play fair, Edwin would play dirty.

Even if it was possible for Harry to evade death for a third time, Draco wasn’t willing to risk it—not for his own selfish ends. No, Draco would keep Harry safe, even if it destroyed him. 

If he didn’t fight, if he didn’t struggle, if he could convince Edwin that he was still his good boy and that he’d been waiting faithfully for him all these years, Edwin would take him away, and Harry would be safe.

It would be alright. Draco wouldn’t have to work anymore. He wouldn’t have to struggle and scrape by. He wouldn’t even have to think.

No more decisions to make, no more uncertainty. He just had to be good. He could be good.

Harry would be disappointed, but he would forget him in time. He would get married, and have children, find his overdue happy ending and be wholesome and accepted and safe, everything he couldn’t be with Draco.

As long as Edwin didn’t find out about Harry, or his mother’s ring, everything would be the same as it always had. Draco had survived Edwin before. He could do it again.

If there was one thing Draco Malfoy knew how to do, it was survive.

Draco shook his head. “There’s nothing, Harry,” he said, his voice thick. “I can’t help you. It’s already done.”

Harry was still holding his face, searching his eyes as though the key to his salvation would be hidden in them. Draco hated to disappoint him. 

He put a hand on Harry’s cheek, stroked his soft skin with his thumb. He would miss this. He would spend the rest of his life missing this.

But with the time they had left, Draco would memorize Harry. He would memorize every inch of him, and in the privacy of his own mind, where not even Edwin could follow, he’d call on those memories when he needed to. 

He’d done it before.

He could do it again.

***

Eventually, Harry lifted Draco up from the bathroom floor and carried him to the bed. He felt light and insubstantial, and clung to Harry’s neck like a child. They spent the night in each other’s arms, holding each other so tight it hurt. Harry didn’t sleep a wink, and he knew Draco didn’t either, because he could feel Draco’s tears seeping into the shoulder of his T-shirt, could hear every shuddering exhale from Draco’s lungs as if it was his own.

But at some point he must have dozed off, because when he awoke, the sun was high in the sky, and Draco was standing at the foot of the bed, holding his suitcase.

Harry sat up so quickly it made his head throb. He threw his glasses on and blinked to adjust his eyes. Draco was neatly dressed in a sweater, slacks, and boots, his hair and face freshly washed, his expression impassive. If Harry didn’t know him so well, he would have missed the telltale signs: the puffiness in his face, the pinch around the corners of his eyes, the slight downturn of his mouth.

Harry knew what this meant.

“Don’t do this,” Harry begged. His heart was already breaking. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t watch Draco go.

“It’s been enough time for my thumb to have healed,” Draco said dispassionately. “They’ll be expecting me back. I have to go back to work.”

“Then go back to work,” Harry said. “Just come home to me.”

Draco looked down at the floor. “It’s time for me to go,” he said, his voice wooden. “I’ve stayed long enough.”

“But you said you would stay,” Harry said, his voice cracking. “You promised.”

Harry bunched up the covers beneath his fists. He wanted to go to Draco, or throw his body between Draco and the door, but he felt frozen in place, frozen inside of this awful moment. He couldn’t move.

Draco’s hand tightened on the handle of the suitcase. “I have other promises to keep,” he whispered.

“To who?” Harry demanded, suddenly angry. “To him? Why are you doing this? Just tell me what you’re thinking, and we’ll figure it out together, I promise. Please don’t shut me out.”

Draco just shook his head, blinking rapidly. “I need to go home,” he said.

“I won’t let you,” Harry said stubbornly.

Finally, Draco looked up, sparks in his eyes. “What are you going to do then, Potter?” he snarled. “Put bars on the windows?”

Harry took a sharp intake of breath. It was cruel, to compare him to the Dursleys, to use Harry’s history against him. He knew Draco was trying to goad him, but for once he was too upset not to take the bait.

“Fine, then,” Harry shouted. “Go!”

Draco turned on his heel and went down the stairs without another word.

Harry was so angry he could hardly see straight. After all their time together, after all the progress they’d made, after all that Harry had done for Draco, it came down to this? To Edwin? How could Draco choose Edwin over him? How could Harry possibly be worse than a Death Eater? Worse than a rapist?

But then Harry heard the sound of Lady Di’s paws scampering down the stairs after Draco, the way she always did, and his vision cleared all at once, his anger deflating like a balloon.

This was his fault. He’d failed Draco. He hadn’t kept him safe, hadn’t eliminated Edwin in time, hadn’t gotten rid of the boggart. And he’d told Draco about Edwin’s release at the wrong time, when he was at his most vulnerable, most afraid.

Harry threw the covers off and raced down the stairs, hoping he wasn’t too late, hoping Draco hadn’t left already, with the last words Harry said to him in anger.

He found Draco kneeling at the foot of the stairs, holding Lady Di to his chest, his face buried in her thick white fur. His shoulders were shaking.

Harry knelt in front of him, waiting silently for him to finish.

Finally, Lady Di began to squirm, and Draco pulled his face away, letting her hop down to the floor. As they both stood, Lady Di began to twine around first Draco’s ankles and then Harry’s, begging to be fed.

“Will you take care of her?” Draco asked, finally meeting Harry’s eyes, his voice thick and his eyes red-rimmed.

“Why?” Harry said desperately. “What are you planning?”

Draco ignored the question. “It’s safer here,” he said, looking down at the cat, devastation in his eyes. “She can chase the pixies and you can buy her the posh wet food she likes and I—I can’t separate her from Kreacher.”

“Draco—” Harry began.

“Please,” he begged. “Promise me.”

“Of course I will, Draco,” Harry said, “but—she’ll miss you.” What he meant was, I’ll miss you.

“She’s better off,” Draco said, his voice suddenly cold again.

“Can I not come with you?” Harry said, hearing the desperation in his voice and not caring. “I can put wards up around your apartment, it’ll be safe as a vault. Or—or we could even find a new place, leave the country, whatever you want, I’ll—”

“No, Harry,” Draco said sharply, picking up his suitcase once again. “I’ve made my decision.”

Harry balled up his fists, his anger suddenly spiking again. “Well it’s the wrong one,” he snapped.

Draco looked down at him, his eyes narrowed. “Has it ever occurred to you,” he hissed, “that my life doesn’t revolve around you? That I might not want to stay shut up in this moldering old dump, drinking firewhiskey with you for the rest of my life? Without money, without independence, without even my freedom, Auror Potter?”

Harry had to blink back sudden, stinging tears. “You don’t mean that,” he said, trying desperately to believe it. “You’re just trying to push me away.”

“Maybe I’ve been trying,” Draco snarled, “and you’re just not accustomed to hearing the word ‘no’!”

“We can talk this through. We can figure things out,” Harry said. “I swear I won’t let anything happen to you. Just stay, please,” he begged. 

“Make me,” Draco spat. 

They regarded each other for a long moment, both of their eyes shining, both of their chests heaving.

There was only one thing left to say. Only one more card to play.

“But I love you,” Harry said, his voice breaking.

Draco’s eyes fluttered, and then his face smoothed back into impassivity. He took a jerky step towards Harry, and then another, then pulled him into a hug so tight Harry could hardly breathe. His heart soared. He thought he’d done it. He thought they’d passed their biggest test.

But then Draco whispered, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

Draco pulled back and Harry watched as he walked down the long hallway, opened the door, and vanished into the morning light without a backwards glance.

Lady Di was still twining around Harry’s legs, yowling like her heart was breaking.

Chapter Text

ACT IV

Draco only made it to the park at the end of the block before falling apart. He sank onto a bench in the shade of a sycamore tree and hid his face in his hands, unable to hold the tears back any longer. Though he squeezed his eyes shut tight, Harry’s face swam up behind his closed eyelids, his expression crumpled with heartbreak and betrayal. Against his will, Harry’s voice played over and over again in his head, the desperation in his tone as he’d said “But I love you” just as devastating as the first time. Just like Harry to surprise Draco yet again—to return his cruelty with unconditional love.

But that was why Draco had to do this. Even if he didn’t need to keep Harry safe from Edwin, he didn’t deserve him anyway. Better to sever things now, before Harry got even more attached. He’d been silly, and selfish, to let it get this far, and now he’d broken both of their hearts. He should have been smarter; more careful. He should have known that Harry could never be his—not forever. Should have known that he could never escape Edwin, that his fate had been sealed the moment he said his vows in the dining room all those years ago.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and Draco startled badly, in a moment of panic believing that Edwin was already out, had come to take him away. He hurriedly wiped his eyes and looked up to see not Edwin’s looming figure, but a withered old woman, holding out a hanky.

“Alright, dearie?” she asked kindly.

Draco nodded emphatically, humiliated to have been caught crying in public. He took the hanky and wiped his eyes.

“Yes, ma’am, thank you,” he said, sniffing. “Just a spot of allergies.”

“Do you need me to call anyone?” she asked, her eyes crinkling sympathetically.

Draco shook his head. He had no one to call, he thought mournfully. Not now that he’d driven Harry away.

He suddenly wished, so powerfully it made his heart hurt, that he could call his mother. Or better yet, that he could go home to the Manor and cry into her skirt in the armchair by the fire, the way he had when he was a small boy. She would stroke his hair and place the back of her cool hand soothingly against his forehead, and when he’d finally calmed down, she would make him a cup of tea and let him come to bed with her.

But his mother was long gone, along with all the other comforts of his childhood. He was alone.

But no—that wasn’t quite true.

He still had his father. 

Draco stood up, making an awkward little bow to the old woman. “Thank you,” he said stiffly, offering her the hanky back. “I’ll be on my way now.”

The woman held up a hand. “No, dearie, you keep it,” she said.

Draco tucked the hanky into his pocket and hurried out of the park, walking with purpose now. He was going to see his father.

He hadn’t visited Lucius for ages. Over the years, his obligatory visits had dwindled from bimonthly to just once a year, on his mother’s birthday. It was just too painful to return to Azkaban and all the dark memories of his time there, to bear the weight of his father’s disappointment in him: in his faggotry, his menial muggle life, his lack of filial piety. So mostly he stayed away, and lived with the guilt of abandoning his father, tucking it away in a painful corner of his heart.

But right now, Draco just needed his dad.

In his earliest, haziest memory, Draco was playing in the formal garden in the height of summer. The lavender bush was humming with bees and glumbumbles. They looked so soft and fuzzy, and when he reached out to touch one, it stung him. As he stumbled back, he stepped on another, hiding in the grass, and sat down heavily, pain radiating from his hand and his foot.

Before he could even begin to cry, his father scooped him up in his arms and carried him back to the Manor, murmuring endearments all the way down the garden path. He’d summoned the stingers out of Draco’s skin and healed his wounds. He’d kissed Draco’s hand and told him that he was a brave boy, and that daddy would always be there to take care of him.

All of that tenderness had gone away when Draco entered Hogwarts, and their relationship had shattered irrevocably when Edwin came on the scene. But Draco couldn’t help but nurture the secret hope that, if he hurt badly enough, his father might comfort him, might show him affection, the way he had used to. 

The ministry wasn’t so far from here; he could walk. The escort ferried visitors to Azkaban Saturdays and Sundays at noon—he would make it in time if he walked quickly. Draco sniffed hard and wiped his eyes, increasing his pace.

***

It took all of Draco’s willpower not to panic as the tall, black walls of Azkaban closed in around him, the biting wind off the north sea traded for the clammy, rancid air of the prison. He tried to breathe deeply and evenly as his luggage was taken away and locked up at processing, as he was patted down and then put through a series of disenchantments and magical scans. Luckily, the auror who led him through the winding stone passageways wasn’t anyone he knew. He kept his eyes on his feet and prayed that none of the other guards—or prisoners—would recognize him.

Finally, the auror unlocked a barred door and gestured for Draco to sit on a narrow bench in front of a table. He disappeared down an adjoining corridor. Draco put his hands flat on the surface of the table and tried to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth. He’d only been here ten minutes and he was already shivering as though he’d never be warm again.

The dementors are gone, he kept repeating to himself. You’re not staying. Soon you’ll be back in your own, warm flat. They can’t keep you here anymore. The dementors are gone.

Five minutes later, the auror returned with Lucius at his side. Draco stood abruptly, out of habit, the bench legs scraping across the flagstones.

Every time he saw his father it was a shock all over again. In his mind, Lucius was frozen in time in Draco’s fifth year, hair long and white-blonde, eyes gleaming and proud, posture perfectly erect, robes immaculately tailored and pressed.

But the Lucius who stood before him was almost unrecognizable. His hair was gray and cut short. His eyes were dull and his cheeks hollow, his skin corpse-pale. He wore the brown jumpsuit that was standard prison-issue and shuffled his feet as he walked, stooped over slightly.

Tears stung the corners of Draco’s eyes, and he had to blink rapidly to clear them. A wave of guilt crashed over him, so vast that for a moment he thought he might drown.

“Hello, father,” he said stiffly as the auror vanished back down the corridor, leaving them alone.

“Draco,” Lucius said, sitting down heavily, and gesturing for Draco to do the same. “It’s been some time.”

“Yes,” Draco replied, taking his seat. “I’m sorry, Father. I’ve been—busy.”

“Too busy even to write?” Lucius asked, arching an eyebrow. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco said again, his heart beginning to race. “I’ve been—preoccupied. By work,” he lied.

“Oh?” Lucius asked. “Have you finally found a profession that’s worthy of your talents?”

Draco flushed and looked down at the table. “I—I’m training to be a bartender,” he said softly.

There was a long, humiliating silence. Draco clenched his hands into fists beneath the table, waiting for his father to say something—anything. But his son’s disgrace was beneath even a response. Draco would have to be the one to break the silence.

He sucked in a long breath and spoke before he could think the better of it. He couldn’t beat around the bush any longer—he had to say it, make it real. “Father, I’ve come to ask for your counsel,” he said, the words tumbling out rapidly. “I’ve heard—I’ve heard that Edwin will be up for parole soon, and I—”

“Ah,” Lucius said, in a tone of great interest. Draco chanced a glance upwards—Lucius’s eyes were alight. “I was wondering when we would speak about this. I wrote you on the subject months ago, you know.”

Draco looked down again, thinking guiltily of the pile of unread letters that he’d locked away in a drawer.

Draco took another deep breath. “If he gets out,” he said, hating himself as his voice turned breathy—“Father, I don’t know what to do.”

There was another protracted silence, but finally, Lucius said, “Why, I wish you’d read my letters, Draco. If you had, you would have known that I consider Selwyn’s upcoming parole to be a great opportunity for us.”

Draco looked up. “Opportunity?” he asked warily. “What do you mean?”

Lucius leaned forward, really meeting Draco’s eyes for the first time. “Draco, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Selwyn is incredibly well-connected—both inside Azkaban and, more importantly, out.” His voice turned low and conspiratorial. He glanced down the corridor to ensure they were alone before continuing. “He hasn’t simply been biding his time behind bars. He’s spent all these years making the right connections, and using what leverage he has to lay the groundwork.”

“Lay the groundwork for what?” Draco asked, his trepidation building.

“For a—a regrouping, of sorts,” Lucius said, his eyes shining with anticipation. “He wants to make his way to the continent. He has a great many Durmstrang connections in the Balkans, and the environment there is more—tolerant, of purebloods. And more importantly, it’s beyond the reach of the Ministry.”

Draco’s heart froze in his chest as he thought of being trapped with Edwin in a mouldering old castle in Bulgaria or Romania, former Death Eaters converging on them from all around the world, no hope of rescue, no hope of escape.

“What does this have to do with you?” Draco asked.

Lucius made a dry sound of disdain. “If you had made a habit of visiting or returning my letters, you would know how familiar Selwyn and I have become of late,” he said. “After he’s been released, he has promised to use his leverage to benefit me—to benefit us. I know distance has grown between you over the years—understandably so, to be sure—but Draco, you would be wise to—to use your history with Selwyn to our advantage, now that the moment of opportunity has come.”

Disappointment settled in Draco’s belly like a lump of lead. He crossed his arms and swallowed, hard, trying for the millionth time that day not to cry. “You want me to be with him again,” he said bitterly.

His throat worked as he summoned up the courage to say something that he’d wanted to say to his father, but had been too afraid to, for ten long years.

“Father,” he said. “Edwin was not—always kind to me.”

He startled as Lucius reached across the table and took Draco’s hand in his own. Draco looked up into his father’s eyes, astonished to see pain and sympathy swimming in them.

“I know, darling boy,” he said, squeezing Draco’s hand.

Draco took a shuddering breath as tears began to fall. He looked down into his lap, murmuring apologies, but his father astonished him once again by reaching across the table to wipe the tears from his face.

“I know you’ve suffered,” his father said. Draco was too overcome to speak; he could only nod.

“I blame myself,” Lucius said. “If I’d only managed to please the Dark Lord.” His voice was heavy with regret. 

“It’s not your fault, daddy,” Draco said thickly.

“I will never forgive myself for not being able to protect you,” Lucius said. “But Draco, what happens next can make all of our suffering, all of our pain worth it. We can be a family again. If only we can stay in Selwyn’s good graces just a little while longer.”

“I can’t,” Draco hiccuped. “I can’t, father, I can’t bear it.”

“It’s not forever, Draco,” Lucius said soothingly. “Once I’m free, we can make our own way again. We can go to France, if you like. Your mother still has family there. In fact,” he said, his expression brightening, “you have a second cousin there—a lovely girl, she’ll be graduating from Beauxbatons next year. I’ve already written to her father, and he is more than amenable to a—”

Draco pulled his hand out of his father’s. “You can’t mean to say, father,” he said sharply, “that you’ve attempted to arrange a marriage for me?”

Lucius just looked impassively back at him. Draco laughed, pushing a hand through his hair, feeling on the edge of hysteria. “I know we like to talk around the subject, but you can’t possibly have failed to notice, after all this time, that I’m an invert, have you?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Lucius said coolly.

“Not relevant?” Draco exclaimed. “How can it possibly—”

“Selwyn is an invert, too, and he’s always planned to marry. Marry a woman,” Lucius said.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m well aware, Father, but believe it or not—”

“Selwyn, despite his proclivities,” Lucius continued, his tone growing sharper, “is a great proponent of pureblood values.”

Draco scoffed. “What values are those?” he demanded. “Adultery? Pederasty?”

“Pureblood marriage and procreation,” Lucius said. “Dignity, discretion, and masculinity, to name a few examples.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Father, but I can’t marry,” Draco said. “I just can’t.”

“You don’t have to decide now,” Lucius said, “but she’s a lovely girl. I’ll send you a photograph.”

“I don’t need a photograph!” Draco snapped, his voice rising against his will. “I can tell you right now that I have absolutely no interest in trapping my teenage cousin in a lavender marriage!”

“Draco,” Lucius said sharply, “have you ever considered what a traditional marriage could mean for you?”

“Yes,” Draco retorted, crossing his arms. “Lovelessness. Loneliness. Deceit.”

Lucius shook his head. “After all you’ve seen, you can still be such a naive child,” he scoffed. “It means power. Being the master of your own household, not—not Selwyn’s—” Lucius couldn’t even say the word. He swallowed and tried again. “A wife would be required to submit to your authority,” he managed.

Draco suddenly saw exactly what Lucius meant. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it: absconding to France with his father, moving into his cousin’s gorgeous French estate. His cousin was doubtless demure and sweet, the perfect pureblood wife. He could have dalliances outside of their marriage and she wouldn’t ask questions. And most importantly, he would be the authority in the relationship—he would call the shots, and she would be incapable of hurting him. She would love him and keep the household running and organize their social life and his marriage would be comfortable and sexless and safe. And he would try his best to be a good husband, and love her in his own way. He would be kind and gentle and give her more freedom than any other pureblood man would. They could both be satisfied.

But then the fantasy died, and Draco shuddered as a wave of self-loathing washed over him. How could he even consider it? Maybe he wasn’t as different from Edwin as he imagined.

“Draco,” his father was saying, “as long as you maintain—discretion, I’ll have you know that it’s perfectly normal for a man to look outside of marriage to satisfy any—any unnatural urges. Not everyone is so lucky as to find a love match, like your mother and I.”

Draco was mutely shaking his head.

“But if that’s unacceptable to you,” Lucius continued, “there are solutions out there. I’ve heard talk of experimental new methods for changing—changing a man’s preferences,” he said.

“Conversion therapy,” Draco said flatly. “I know. We tried it fifth year and it didn’t work.”

“No, this is different,” Lucius insisted. “It’s actually modeled off of muggle methods—but much safer and more sophisticated, of course. Instead of using those barbaric electric shocks, there are mind-healers who use brief, controlled bursts of the—” here Lucius hesitated. He lowered his voice even further. “—of the cruciatus curse. During viewings of—lustful materials.”

Draco pushed himself backwards, the legs of the bench scraping loudly against the floor. He barked out a laugh. “If pain worked, Edwin would have cured me of my urges a long time ago,” he snarled. 

Lucius flinched. Draco relished in his discomfort.

“This is mad,” he said. “And mummy—” his throat suddenly closed up. “Mummy never would have suggested something like this.”

Lucius recoiled. “I think I should know,” he said coldly, “what my own wife would have wanted. All she ever wanted was for you to be normal and happy. That’s all either of us ever wanted.”

“I’m finished,” Draco said, standing up and pulling the cord that summoned the auror guard. He laughed bitterly. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

Lucius’s expression grew sober. “If you love me, Draco,” he said, as the auror came back into the room, “you’ll go see Selwyn. Please. Just pay him one visit, hear him out. That’s all I’m asking.”

***

Harry wished—now more than ever— that he was able to properly cry. He would love nothing more than to crawl upstairs, sink face first into his pillow, and sob like a child. But he hadn’t cried as a child, either. What would be the point, in a family like the Dursleys? No matter how hard he cried, there would be no comfort, only boxed ears, reprimands, and threats from Vernon to “stop sniveling or I’ll give you something to cry about.” Instead he’d just—numbed out. Or gotten angry. Sometimes he picked fights with Dudley and his friends he knew he couldn’t win, just to feel something. Being punched in the face was almost as good as crying. 

Harry had cried when Cedric died. He cried when Sirius died. He cried when he saw his parents’ graves for the first time. It felt like spitting on all of their graves to admit it, but this was just as bad. Draco wasn’t dead, but he had just walked out of Harry’s life, taking their entire future with him.

Harry hadn’t realized he’d been planning for their future together until he’d watched it all crumble to dust in a matter of minutes. Although Harry hadn’t died in the Forbidden Forest that night—not permanently, anyway—in every way that mattered, his life had ended the moment he walked into the trees to meet Voldemort. He’d never thought beyond killing Voldemort; never truly believed, in his heart of hearts, that he’d have the chance. And after he survived the end of the war, he’d still never got the hang of planning for the future, even once he was already living in it. He’d never been able to think beyond the next workday, the next nightmare, the next bottle.

But with Draco, he’d begun to imagine. Begun to hope. Begun to dream of a little cottage, far away from all of this, that Draco would fill with books and antiques and trinkets. He’d choose the wallpaper and the furniture, and Harry would fix the sink when it broke and the roof when it leaked and take out the garbage. Maybe Harry would even get into gardening. He didn’t even know if he liked gardening—he was beginning to realize there was a lot about himself he didn’t know.

Lady Di would keep Harry company in the yard and they’d have enough land for a Quidditch pitch. They would have Ron and Hermione over for chess and tea and their baby would play on the carpet and grow up to call Draco “Uncle.” Draco would start to grow gray hairs and would spend hours plucking them—vain as he was—but Harry would think they only made him look more distinguished. There would still be nightmares and bad days, but they would be happy, and Harry would look forward to each day, and fall asleep each night with Draco in his arms.

That was what he’d begun to imagine. But then Draco had walked out, taking all of that with him, and now Harry was standing in the garden, smashing the case of firewhiskey on the garden path, bottle by bottle.

He’d pulled the case out intending to drink it, but found that he didn’t even want to. Without even meaning to, Draco had helped temper that impulse. These last few months, instead of reaching for a bottle when he was sad, or angry, or scared, he talked to Draco. Half the time they ended up at each other’s throats, but he always felt better afterwards, even if they argued. He no longer got blitzed on a weekend out of sheer boredom. He needed to be clear headed for Draco, and not only that, but wanted to be. He didn’t want to forget a single moment spent with him; didn’t need firewhiskey to take the edge off their time together. Draco took the edges off all by himself.

But that wasn’t why Harry was smashing the bottles on the garden tiles instead of swallowing them down. If he thought it would help, he would have, but Harry knew the pain he was feeling now a whole case of firewhiskey wouldn’t even begin to touch. He had just enough sense left that he’d managed to drag the case outside before he started smashing bottles, not wanting Lady Di to step on the broken glass with her little pink paw pads.

So now the garden reeked of liquor and the tiles were dark with whiskey. Broken glass was skittering across the path and flying into the garden plots, the gnomes running for cover with their arms over their heads. 

He had maybe a quarter of the case left when he felt a tap on the shoulder and whirled around, bottle still in hand, his heart lifting, thinking that maybe—maybe​​—

But it was just Hermione, a hand over her mouth, Ron, staring over her shoulder, his face white.

“Harry,” Hermione said tremulously, reaching for the bottle. Harry gave it up without a fight. “What’s happened?”

It was only when he opened his mouth that Harry, finally, began to cry. “He’s gone,” he choked out. Great big tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped down his throat. “He left this morning. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“He left?” Ron said, his face suddenly morphing from shock to indignation. “Merlin’s beard, what did you say to make him go and do that?”

Hermione shot Ron a warning look over her shoulder. “Come inside, Harry,” she said gently, taking him by the hand and leading him through the back door into the kitchen. She pushed him into a chair and gestured for Ron to put the kettle on. He hurried to obey.

Hermione sat across from Harry and put a hand on his knee. Harry wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “I swear, Hermione, if you tell me ‘I told you so,’ I’m going to—”

“No, no, Harry,” Hermione said patiently. “Never mind that. What’s happened? Where’s he gone?”

“I told him about Selwyn,” Harry said. “I told him that he’s getting out and he just went—mental. He wouldn’t stop crying and he actually—he puked, Hermione, it was awful, he was hysterical. I’ve never seen anyone that afraid, not in my whole life. And then the next morning he was blank and quiet and awful and he just packed up and left. And I know he’s going back to him, Hermione, I just know it, only I don’t know why and I can’t protect him, I’m a failure and I don’t know what to—”

“Calm down, Harry,” Hermione said as the kettle began to sing.

“How’s he supposed to be calm?” Ron asked, turning the kettle off. “His boyfriend’s just broken up with him for an aging convict!”

“Ron!” Hermione snapped. “Not helping!”

“I don’t even know if he was my boyfriend,” Harry said pathetically. “We never really talked about it.”

“Well, you better fess up before he goes off and does something really stupid,” Ron said, pouring the water into the teapot.

“I did. I told him I loved him,” Harry muttered, looking down at his knees, twisting his hands together. “This morning. It didn’t matter.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes shining. Her grip on his knee tightened.

“Whoa,” Ron replied. “What did he say?”

“He like—hugged me really tight,” Harry said. “And then said that he wished I wouldn’t.”

Hermione winced.

“What does that mean?” Ron asked, mystified, carrying the tea tray to the table. “Hermione, Draco’s kind of like a girl—what does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said reluctantly. “But I think it means he’s scared.”

“I have to get him back,” Harry said, standing up so fast his chair fell over. “Or I have to kill Edwin. Or both.”

“I’d pay money to see that,” Ron said grimly as he sat down.

“No!” Hermione said, pulling Harry down into another chair. “We’re not going to kill anyone.”

“No matter how much they deserve it?” Ron muttered.

“No matter how much they deserve it,” Hermione said firmly. “And you’re not to go after Draco, either. Harry, you have to give him space right now.”

“Why should I?” Harry said mulishly. Wild fantasies were flashing through his head—he was choking Edwin with his bare hands, Edwin’s lips turning blue—he was taking Draco away to an isolated cabin in Norway, where no one could ever find them—he was leaning across Kingsley’s desk and throttling him with his tie, demanding that Draco’s parole be lifted—

“Because that’s exactly what Selwyn wouldn’t do,” Hermione said sharply.

The projector of Harry’s fantasies abruptly powered down. He balled his hands into fists, shame welling up inside of him.

“Harry,” Hermione said patiently, “I don’t have all the facts. And I don’t know Draco very well. You have to accept that this might just—be over, if that’s what he wants.”

Harry shuddered.

Hermioned pressed on. “But what you’ve described doesn’t sound like a breakup to me. It sounds like a terrified person who’s running away, and who’s trying to push everyone else away before they get hurt. And what’s going to make him run even further—and push you away even harder—is if you try to control him. It sounds like he’s had enough of that. Don’t you think, Harry?”

Harry nodded, miserable. He knew she was right. But he didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to run down the street and throw Draco over his shoulder, caveman-style. He wanted to drag Draco back home, kicking and screaming all the way, if he had to.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Hermione said. “We’re going to stay and have dinner like we planned. And you’re going to give Draco his space, for at least a couple of days, until you’ve both calmed down. And then you can go and see if he’s open to a chat. Can you do that for me, Harry?”

“I guess,” Harry said, miserably, as Ron put a cup of tea down in front of him.

“He better be open,” Ron muttered. “We’re in the middle of a chess game. I bet the slick git's only done a runner because he's losing.”

Chapter Text

It would have been so easy to walk out, past the looming black walls and into the biting North Sea wind, and never look back. Draco wanted to run, as fast and as far as he could manage. He considered it, for a wild moment—France, or somewhere they would never expect, like Fiji, or Jordan—he could bartend anywhere in the world, and living in squalor wouldn’t even phase him, he was used to it now—but it was impossible. Anywhere he ran, the Ministry could find him and drag him back to London, where Edwin was waiting for him. 

And Draco knew that his father, who had just vanished down the damp corridor, would surely tell Edwin about his visit. Edwin would know that Draco knew about his impending parole. He would be wise to start laying the groundwork now, getting back into Edwin’s good books, while he still had the safeguard of the aurors and the broad stone table between them. Edwin was sure to be angry—Draco hadn’t visited him once since his arrest, in all these years. It would be so much worse if Draco made Edwin come to him. It had been a mistake, losing touch—Draco should have known that this day would come, that he couldn’t hide from Edwin forever. But surely it wasn’t too late to fix things—was it?

When the guard returned, Draco told him that he wanted to see Edwin Selwyn, and then sat back down at the table. He dug his fingers into his thighs and tried to regulate his breathing, but it was no use. Pathetic, pathetic, he scolded himself. He can’t hurt you here. He wouldn’t even dare try—would he? And besides, Edwin hates tears. Pull yourself together, you’re a grown man. 

His self-recrimination didn’t help. Draco breathed rapidly between clenched teeth, digging his fingers viciously into his skin. He imagined the Edwin boggart as it leered down at him from the closet, impossibly tall. He remembered the boggart forcing him to his knees, fisting his fingers into Draco’s hair, glee in his eyes and hot breath on Draco’s ear as he’d said, “I’m going to rape you. I’ll make Potter watch as I do it. And when I’ve had my way with you, I’ll kill him.”

That’s why he was here. He couldn’t let that happen. He could do this. For Harry.

Draco heard footsteps in the hall. His heart flipped in his chest.

He could do this. 

He could survive.

He’d done it before.

He could do it again.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and counted.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

“Draco?”

Draco opened his eyes to see a familiar face looking back at him. Familiar, and yet utterly changed.

Edwin looked—older. His regal nose and strong jaw were the same. But his hair was streaked with grey around the temples; his characteristic waves gone. His face was lined with age and care, his cheekbones severe. Even his eyes looked different—softer, sadder, somehow. His milky eye—which he had always taken care to cover with an eyepatch—was naked, the scar raking vertically through it. Draco’s chest throbbed with guilt at the sight of it, as it always did. But another part of him noted with bitterness that Edwin lacked the dead, gray, haunted look that people who’d survived the dementors always had. Kingsley hadn’t banished the dementors from Azkaban until partway through Draco’s sentence—and before Edwin’s.

Draco had been terrified that Edwin’s eyes would be flashing with rage or contempt, but he said Draco's name again, and fixed him with a look of such fondness that for a moment his heart lifted. As he looked into Edwin’s warm brown eyes, Draco realized: The boggart wasn’t Edwin; it was simply an amalgamation of Draco’s worst fears. This was Edwin—the Edwin who had rescued him from Greyback; who had thrown his body between Draco and the Dark Lord; who had told Draco he was beautiful and noble and worthy and promised him a shining future. Maybe he was just being a coward. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he remembered. Maybe Edwin had softened with age.

“Draco, darling,” Edwin said, reaching across the table, but not quite close enough to touch, much to Draco’s relief. “What have they done to you?”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, suddenly self-conscious.

“You look so tired,” Edwin said sympathetically, searching Draco’s eyes. “And your frame, it’s…broadened. Even your voice sounds different. Have the muggles been working you terribly hard?”

Draco suddenly realized, with a sickening lurch, that Edwin was seeing exactly what he was seeing—an older man, changed by age and suffering. Was he old now, and ugly, in Edwin’s eyes? What if Edwin didn’t even want him anymore? Draco didn’t know if the idea relieved or terrified him.

“It hasn’t been so bad,” he lied. He cleared his throat and tried to recall the higher register he’d used to speak in when he was young.

“No,” Edwin said, his eyes crinkling with sympathy. “I can see it in your eyes—the suffering has aged you terribly. It’s gone forever, that innocent, boyish look that I loved so dearly.”

Draco looked down at his lap, his face flushing, ashamed.

“And what have you done to your beautiful face?” Edwin asked softly.

“What?” Draco asked, touching his cheek self-consciously. 

Edwin reached out a hand and brushed a finger across Draco’s lip ring. His skin was dry and cold. Draco forced himself to remain still. He cursed himself for his foolishness—he should have removed his piercings before coming, should have dressed in wizard robes for Edwin.

“Is this a muggle custom?” Edwin asked, withdrawing his hand.

“No—not exactly,” Draco stuttered. “I mean—some of them do it.”

There was a long pause. He twisted his hands together anxiously.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Edwin said gently. “I don’t mean to criticize. It’s my fault, what’s happened to you—I’m only sorry I couldn’t protect you. You’re still beautiful to me.”

“Thank you, Edwin,” Draco murmured, trying to muster up a smile for him but failing.

After another beat, Edwin said, “I’m surprised to see you here today, Draco.” His mouth twisted into a self-deprecating smile. “I was beginning to fear you’d forgotten all about your old Edwin.”

This was what Draco had been afraid of. He sucked in a quavering breath. How was he going to talk his way out of this one?

“I’m sorry, Edwin,” he said tremulously, pitching his voice up. He slipped back into his old register with surprising ease. “I’m sorry I never came to see you. I’m sorry I never wrote.” Tears sprang to his eyes without his meaning to. “I think it’s just—it’s hard, for me to be back here, to see you like this, but I know that’s no excuse, and I’m—”

“Darling,” Edwin said. He reached across the table and clasped Draco’s hands in his own, his face twisted with sympathy. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. All that matters now is that soon I’ll be free, and we’ll be together again. We can put this whole sorry chapter behind us and start over. Would you like that?”

But all Draco could think about was the feel of Edwin’s hands encircling his own. Even after all these years, Edwin’s hands still dwarfed his, making Draco feel impossibly small and weak. He didn’t want to offend Edwin—not now, when he seemed to have somehow, miraculously, avoided his anger—but revulsion was crawling up his throat, sweat beading on his brow.

Draco gently pulled his hands back, casting a glance at the long hallway the auror had vanished down. “We’re not really—supposed to touch,” he whispered. “The aurors might—”

But Edwin only pulled Draco’s hands back across the table, gripping them with renewed strength. 

“Let them try to stop me,” he said passionately. He pressed Draco’s hand to his cheek, nuzzling into it. “I don’t care. All I care about is you, darling. This is the warmest I’ve felt since I was tossed into this dreadful place.” Edwin turned his head to press a light, reverent kiss to Draco’s palm.

Draco realized, with a burst of clarity, that this was the first time his body had been violated in a long, long time. Harry had changed the way he’d thought about his body; had made him believe that he could control what happened to it. He wasn’t used to violation anymore, even after all his long years of practice. It wasn’t going to be as easy as it had been before. He was pathetic. If he couldn’t even manage hand-holding, how on earth was he going to survive—

Pull yourself together, Draco hissed to himself. It’s nothing. It’s only touch. Just skin on skin. It doesn’t matter. Just go somewhere else—into a corner of your mind or away from your body. Whatever it takes.

He’d done it before.

He could do it again.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think,” Edwin was saying. “And darling, I’ve wanted to tell you for the longest time…I so deeply regret how—ugly things became between us, at the end of the war.”

There was a ringing in Draco’s ears. He couldn’t think about those memories right now—about the end of the war, and their time on the run from the aurors. About what had happened to him in the great pureblood halls across Britain. He couldn’t. He had to keep it locked away, or else he’d never be able to go through with this. 

Edwin took a deep breath and said, “After you betrayed the Dark Lord the night Potter came to the Manor, and then after our time in hiding and your unfortunate—straying, I was angry.”

Draco opened his mouth—to apologize, to explain, or even to beg—but Edwin held up a hand. “No. Don’t say anything,” he said gravely. “There is no need. I was angry, but I should not have let my anger drive me. I should have never resorted to violence. I am truly, deeply sorry, Draco.”

Draco couldn’t help it. Tears sprang to his eyes again. He couldn’t deny how long he had yearned to hear those simple words from Edwin’s lips: I’m sorry. “Do you mean it?” he asked tremulously.

“Of course I do,” Edwin said earnestly, squeezing Draco’s hands tighter. “Please don’t cry, kitten.”

Draco pulled his hands free and rummaged in his pockets for a handkerchief. “Thank you, Edwin,” he said stiffly, wiping his eyes. He meant it.

“I can’t imagine how hard things have been for you,” Edwin said sympathetically. “Severed from your magic, surrounded by muggle barbarians, working menial jobs…some nights I can’t sleep from worry for you.”

He leaned forward and ran a thumb across the bond mark on Draco’s throat. Draco shivered, forcing himself to remain still.

“The wards in Azkaban prevent me from accessing our bond,” Edwin said softly, stroking Draco's skin, his face now unbearably close. “It’s grown so weak…almost dormant. Of all I’ve suffered behind these walls, that was the worst suffering of all—not being able to sense you, to know if you were alive, if you were near.”

“It hasn’t been so bad,” Draco lied, returning the handkerchief to his pocket. He was careful to keep his hands under the table this time.

“Oh, hasn’t it?” Edwin said, drawing back. He studied Draco’s face carefully. Something about his tone tripped alarm bells in Draco’s head. He seemed to be waiting for a response, but when none came, he said lightly, “I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time with Harry Potter these days.”

Draco’s stomach plummeted. His throat started to close up. “No,” he said, desperately. “Ed, no, it’s nothing, he’s my parole officer, I have to see him weekly, I—”

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise,” Edwin said, arching an eyebrow, a mild tone of amusement in his voice.

Draco looked down into his lap and cursed himself. He was a fool, a goddamn fool. He’d fallen into Edwin’s trap like a naive child.

“I had hoped you’d gotten over that silly little crush,” Edwin said lightly. “Particularly after it caused you so much trouble.”

“It’s nothing,” Draco said tonelessly. He was such a bad liar. He wished suddenly—for the first time in many years—that he could be more like his father. Lucius had always lied so convincingly that he could believe even himself.

Edwin’s face turned bitter. “It was he who caught up to me in the end, you know,” he said, his eyes glittering with malice.

The back of Draco’s neck prickled. He hadn’t known—Harry had never told him. What else had Harry kept secret from him all these months? “H—Potter?” he asked hesitantly. “He was the one who arrested you?”

“Yes,” Edwin said through his teeth. “I don’t know how he found me, but it was he who tore us apart, who forced me to abandon you.” He stared through Draco, lost in thought. 

Draco’s ears began to buzz. This was it—this was what he’d been afraid of. He’d given Edwin yet another reason to want to hurt Harry. It was his fault. But he couldn’t tell him the truth. If Edwin ever found out about Draco’s treachery, not only would Harry be as good as dead, but so would he.

When Edwin came back to himself, he met Draco’s eyes and forced a smile. “Never mind that,” he said. “All I meant to say was that I have a plan to take care of your parole as soon as I’m free, so that we don’t have to wait a moment longer to be together.”

“You—you do?” Draco asked, shocked. “How—?”

“Oh, let me worry about the details,” Edwin said, waving an easy hand. “By the time I’m through, neither Potter nor the ministry will be able to come between us. Once I’m free, I can advocate for you and your father on the outside,” he continued. “We can all be together again. I have a great many friends in Romania—there’s a grand estate on the shores of the Black Sea that we can recuperate in, far from Azkaban, the Ministry, all of it. You’ll never have to work again. I’ll keep you in luxury, cover the grounds in peacocks and topiary. I still mean what I said to you all those years ago, darling.”

Draco looked up into Edwin’s eyes at last. They were shining with tears.

“I want to give you the life you deserve,” Edwin said, giving each word emphasis. “I’m only sorry it’s taken me this long. I want you by my side until the very end. I’ve kept my vows. I’ve waited for you all these years, but Draco—” Edwin took a deep, quavering breath and seemed to brace himself, sitting up straighter and looking down at his clasped hands. “I understand that a lot can change in seven years. If you no longer feel the same—if you haven’t waited, or haven’t been faithful—I’ll—It’ll break my heart, but I’ll understand.”

Draco didn’t consider taking the out, even for a moment—it was a trapdoor over a pool of grindylow. If Draco rejected Edwin now, and then Edwin found out that he and Harry were together—

“No, no,” Draco said desperately. He was the one to reach across the table this time.

Edwin seized his hands like they were a liferaft. 

“I’ve been faithful,” Draco said, hoping Edwin couldn’t hear the lie. “I want to be with you, Edwin.”

Edwin beamed, so joyfully that Draco couldn’t help a small smile in return.

He drew Draco’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world,” he murmured. “Darling, I was so worried—” Here he lowered his voice. “I worried—oh, it sounds so silly when I say it out loud, but I worried that perhaps you had grown tired of me.”

Draco shook his head so vehemently it made him dizzy. His heart was racing so hard he felt sick. “No,” he said. “No, Edwin, I would never, I swear.”

He had to brush up on his occlumency before Edwin got free, he thought frantically. There were so many traitorous thoughts in his head; so many secrets that Edwin could never uncover.

But another part of him throbbed with guilt. Here was Edwin, baring his soul to Draco, apologizing for the sins of the past, having waited faithfully for him all these years. Not only had Draco slept with an untold number of men while Edwin was in Azkaban, but he was lying to his face about Harry—the one man he had always been jealous of above any other. He was no better than Edwin, he thought miserably. Perhaps they deserved each other.

Mercifully, at that moment, the auror emerged into the holding cell. “Time’s up,” he said.

Draco stood up—much too fast.

Edwin stood too, and Draco before knew it, before he could do a single thing to stop it, Edwin’s hands were around his waist, and he was leaning in for a kiss. All Draco could do was watch, wide-eyed, as Edwin’s face loomed closer and closer, his eyes hungry and glittering.

“Cut it out, Selwyn, this isn’t a conjugal visit,” the auror grunted.

Edwin cast him a grin over his shoulder. “Oh, please Flint, just one? I mean, look at that pretty face, how am I to resist?”

The auror rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Oh, alright. But I’ll have to look away while you do it.”

“But of course,” Edwin teased. “Far be it from me to imperil your integrity.”

The auror turned to face the wall in exaggerated fashion. 

Edwin turned back to Draco and caught his waist in his hands. He leaned down and pressed his lips against Draco’s.

It was exactly as Draco remembered, and yet entirely changed. Edwin’s hands were still strong, but now they were rough, cold. His clothes smelled musty, rather than sharp with cologne. His lips were thin and chapped.

Draco shuddered as Edwin’s tongue sought his, his mouth full of saliva, his tongue tasting of iron, all of it cold as stone. How had Draco ever enjoyed this? How was he to bear it for the rest of his life?

As Edwin finally pulled away, he gently brushed Draco’s hair off his forehead. “I love you,” he said simply.

A startled shiver ran through Draco’s body. Edwin hadn’t been this affectionate, this earnest, since the long-ago afternoon they’d spent in the sun-soaked garden with the peacocks. It was Draco’s happiest memory with Edwin: he’d been bright and handsome and charming, and in a matter of moments had changed the way Draco saw his own future, forever.

“It won’t be long now, darling,” Edwin said wistfully. “Write me, will you?”

Draco could only nod, his throat tight.

As Edwin followed the auror down the stone passageway, casting Draco one last longing glance over his shoulder, it was as if Draco was watching the stone roll over his own tomb. Edwin had friends even among the aurors; of course he did. He had always been charming, well-liked, well-connected. There wasn’t a single soul who would help Draco now, no one who cared what happened to his body—not the authorities, not even his own father. No one but the man whose heart he had just broken.

No, Draco had doomed himself twice over, he thought despairingly, putting a hand to the chain around his neck.

He knew it was impossible, but he thought that he could feel it, then, tightening—choking him.

He had to be with Edwin, had to find a way to keep Harry safe from him. It was all his fault—he was the reason Edwin hated Harry so. Not only had he been unable to keep his feelings for Harry a secret, but there was another treachery, a second betrayal, that Edwin could never discover.

As he finally stepped out into the cold wind off the sea, Draco was hit with a powerful recollection of the first time he’d walked beyond the walls of Azkaban eight years ago, and the long, strange months that followed.

Then, as now, his freedom was in name only. All he’d done, in the end, was buy himself a bit of time.