Archive of Our Own

[Part One]

Draco Malfoy had been dating Harry Potter for one year, three months, and six days before they moved in together, which Draco thought was a perfectly respectable timeline, thank you, Pansy. 

Although, to be fair, Draco was ready to move in with Harry after their first date.

The moving in conversation all started because Draco had complained to Harry (and all of their friends) about not having enough room in his flat anymore for his flourishing restoration business, Malfoy’s Magical Mending, which Draco had officially established almost four years ago now. (Draco’s discovery and development of his natural skill in mending powerful magical objects was the one good thing to come out of the horror that was all of Sixth Year.)

There was an elaborately crafted cuckoo clock on his crowded mantle that croaked every fourteen minutes instead of every hour, a massive portrait of a magnificent rose garden propped on his settee that no longer wafted a sweet floral scent in the gentle breeze, a feisty bookcase from sixteenth century Italy in his dining room that liked to pelt books at what it deemed as unworthy readers, and all sorts of other various broken, uncooperative magical objects stacked in every corner and along every wall in Draco’s flat that all needed Draco’s immediate attention and expertise. 

Draco was grateful that the flat was mostly Muggle, otherwise he’d have a riot on his hands from a displeased house throwing a territorial strop, which had often been the case at the Manor when Draco was first starting out (an enormous headache, to say the least).

The house itself may not be protesting, but his flat was turning into a dangerous maze where one stack may start blaring the Wizarding Wireless Network news if accidentally brushed against, or another stack may start spraying glitter and confetti if you had the misfortune of clapping in its presence. 

Draco was doing his best, but he was frustrated to report that he was starting to struggle to keep up with all the incoming orders due to being suddenly contracted by the Ministry of Magic (Draco is still in shock), which meant he was being summoned quite often, taking him away from his usual home orders. Not to mention all the requested house calls wherein the said broken magical object was either too large or too dangerous to transport, or too far when it came to all of the recent international requests. 

Draco was beyond thrilled and humbled by the unexpected continued success of his home business, but something had to give soon or Pansy was going to murder him in his sleep. And that something couldn’t be Draco’s loyal patrons with their never ending supply of magical items needing personal mending, as they were the ones who had even given Draco his start in the first place. And Draco was not going to pay the outrageous fees of a storefront only to be subjected to price gouging or eviction due to discrimination, as had been the case for several of his friends with similar…unsavory pasts. So more room it had to be.

Draco had also complained, at length, about the disgusting display of debauchery by his flatmates that Draco was subject to daily: his insufferably in love best friend and her longtime paramour and all around fit git Theodore Nott could not keep it in their pants, even in Draco’s presence, the shameless slags! So that was another urgent motivator, as no one wanted to hear one’s best friend have boring, heterosexual sex complete with what was surely faked orgasms through the shared wall. Draco knew that Pansy only did it to mess with Draco, as it was Draco himself that had taught her how to perform a Silencing Charm in Fifth Year (so she could shag Theo even then).

Thankfully, it wasn’t just Draco that had grievances about his current living situation; Harry had also had complaints about his own. It was “such a waste, Draco, seriously” having so much extra, unused space in his house, if only he knew what to do with it all, Harry had told him. 

Harry had inherited Number 12 Grimmauld Place (which Draco was familiar with considering it once belonged to Mother’s side of the family) from Harry’s godfather Sirius Black (who turned out not to be his notorious mass murderer of a second cousin, Draco was shocked to find out). 

Harry had moved in shortly after the War, along with Hermione Granger (now Granger-Weasley), Ronald Weasley, and for a brief time, Ginerva Weasley. The four of them, but mostly Harry on his own, had spent the first two years after the War completely cleaning, remodelling, and furnishing the entire first and second floors from top to bottom.  

The first time Draco had visited, he had been in awe of the complete transformation; he never would have known this was the same dreary house he had once visited as a child, unless you looked carefully for the serpent-shaped door knobs or the Black family crest, (a sentimental choice, Harry had said). 

Gone were the dark, gloomy, ancient maze of boxy rooms that featured mounted elf heads, a troll umbrella stand, and a screaming portrait of old Great Aunt Walburga. The rooms were now filled with natural light due to the large, cleaned windows, the added skylights, and the now vaulted ceilings. The drawing room was comfortable and inviting with a soft grey velvet sofa draped in a cosy Molly Weasley-original quilt and fitted with squashy pillows, along with matching armchairs, and a plush burnt orange, white, and royal blue carpet dominating the space, and, of course, all the pictures on display of all of Harry’s friends and family. And don’t get Draco started on the kitchen, which was now a homely sage green and gleaming white, outfitted with the latest Charmed Muggle appliances; all the vegetable plants and fruit trees growing in the mini-garden in the pantry (courtesy of Neville Longbottom) practically begged you to make a three course meal.

Best of all, Grimmauld Place, after absorbing all of Harry’s hope, dedication, and trust (and his powerful magic, naturally) throughout the restoration, had been transformed not just on the surface level, but down to its very ancient foundations as well. The house itself couldn’t be happier, and could always be relied on to have gleaming surfaces, a cosy fire, and warm floors, like a kind, attentive host. 

However, for all the love and attention Harry had given the first and second floors, the third and fourth floors as well as the attic had practically remained untouched, even after all these years. 

Harry had once confided in Draco (before they were even dating, Draco was honoured to say) that Harry had taken special care to preserve his former godfather’s bedroom on the fourth floor, after first combing through it carefully for treasured mementos. Harry had also removed a feather from what was once Buckbeak the Hippogriff’s room (yes, apparently, the very same one Draco had terrorized in Third Year), and it was now on display in a frame in the library. 

Otherwise, all the rooms were sitting empty, gathering dust and being used as storage space for all the ancient Black family heirlooms that Harry could never decide what to do with.

“You’d be able to use the entire third floor, Draco, seriously. It’s all just unused bedrooms. I don’t have a plan for any of them. …Not yet, at least. We’ll just have to spend the time to make it livable first though, obviously, as who knows what’s still all up there,” Harry had said.

Harry’s other complaint about his living situation was that the house was lonely ever since Ron and Hermione had moved out after their wedding. Harry didn’t even mention Ginerva, but Draco knew for a fact that she had lived there for almost a year before she had moved out after her and Harry’s breakup (for reasons still mostly unknown to Draco).

“The house is lonely or you are lonely, Potter?” Draco had asked. 

“Both.”

So they agreed to move in together, Draco citing a practical need, making sure to stress to Harry that it was a “mutually beneficial arrangement, Potter.” 

But, really, they moved in together because Draco secretly couldn’t stand being apart from Harry for long, because Draco wanted to kiss Harry awake in their bed, morning breath and all, and because he wanted Harry to come home after work to Draco in their house, and for all sorts of reasons, really, the main one being the big L-Word that they both hadn’t said yet.

But just because Draco hadn’t said it yet didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. No, Draco Malfoy had been In Love (capital letters and all) with Harry Potter long before they even started dating. It had just taken Draco far too long to realise it: to find the proper name for the way Harry made Draco feel like he had been struck by a combination Cheering Charm and Tongue-Tying Curse whenever they were in the same room together. To realise that the passionate diary entries Draco had made throughout his youth had one too many descriptions of Harry’s eyes or Harry’s “mad” attempts to capture a golden egg from a vicious dragon to be considered valid complaints and not thinly veiled outpourings of awe, admiration, or…lust. 

Draco would tell Harry one day. He would! One day soon, surely. Because Draco couldn’t bear to lose this, to lose Harry, after Draco’s fairytale life he had once dreamed of as a tiny wretch was finally starting to come true.

***

Harry and Draco were at one of their favourite pubs, The Lion’s Den (discovered with glee by, of course, the Gryffindors in their friend group), after dinner, happily taking a break from the move-in to catch up on all the latest gossip in their friend group. 

The pub had massive, semi-private booths large enough to accommodate a group, which is why they all often met up here on weekends. An added bonus was that it was Muggle, so they all relished not being openly stalked by reporters. They also all enjoyed the occasional Trivia Night here, even if their lot sometimes got rather loud and obnoxious trying desperately to come up with a Muggle-appropriate answer. (The worst Draco had ever fared was when Harry, Hermione, Dean, and Seamus were on one team and Draco, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise were on the other. Harry’s team, of course, all had Muggle backgrounds, so, obviously, Draco and his team were slaughtered; Draco was so never doing that again).

Not everyone could make it to every meet-up, of course, but, tonight, Luna was able to join, fresh from her four month trip to Norway documenting previously undiscovered species, both Muggle and Magical alike. As well as the usual lot: Hermione and Ron, Pansy and Theo, Ginny and Blaise, and Dean and Seamus. 

Draco wondered if it was awkward at all for Luna, being the only single one of their current bunch, but then Draco remembered that it was Luna. Draco sincerely believed that Luna has never experienced the feeling of awkwardness, as she has always remained true to herself, which Draco had deeply admired, even in school (secretly). Draco was painfully aware that he was exactly the opposite: always caring way too much about what others thought of him.

After about an hour of playing catch-up (Draco couldn’t believe Pansy had gotten that ridiculous French haircut; he couldn’t wait to tease her forever), Draco was nursing his second glass of (perfectly adequate) Cabernet Sauvignon, but he had no desire to finish it. (Draco was only going to have the one glass, but Harry had brought him a refill before Draco could object, the thoughtful oaf.) 

No, Draco had other plans tonight, and it would not do to get sloshed. Draco had been thinking about one thing all night, and even though he was enjoying the time with their friends, Draco was busy plotting how to get Harry home, and soon. 

When the server came to their table to ask if anyone wanted to order another round, Harry looked like he was going to order another pint. Before Harry could, Draco squeezed his hand that had been resting on Harry’s thigh under the table to get Harry's attention, and then Draco shook his head subtly. 

Harry shot him a confused look but, thankfully, he took the hint and refrained from ordering anything else. “I’ll just stick with my water, thanks.”

After the server left, Harry turned in the booth to look Draco in the eyes, put his arm around him, and leaned in closer. “Want to tell me why you didn’t want me to order another round? Are you suddenly worried about my health?”

Draco murmured, “Please, like I have to worry about that. You are the very picture of health, what with your morning jogs and your lickable abs. Besides, I give you plenty of exercise at home…”

Harry chuckled lowly and kissed Draco. Harry was careful to keep it chaste in front of their friends as they both had gotten in trouble for anything more than that in the past, which was a recently novel concept to Draco. Draco had never allowed himself to be affectionate with his partners in public before. Before Harry, that is.

Draco glanced around at their friends under his eyelashes: None of them seemed to be paying attention to Harry or Draco, too busy laughing at Seamus’s dirty tale of how Seamus had given Dean a blowjob while in a castle in Ireland. (Draco had heard the story at least twice now, but it is indeed still highly amusing, particularly since Seamus had now perfected his impression of Dean freaking out about being caught).

Draco, keeping one eye on their preoccupied group, smirked and slid his hand an inch further up Harry’s thigh. Draco leaned in closer to Harry and murmured, “Speaking of exercise, I’ve been thinking about eating you out all. night. We’ve been far too busy and exhausted from the move lately for anything too naughty, but now I find myself thinking about just how pliant your shy, pink hole becomes after just a little attention from my tongue.” 

If Harry had been drinking, Draco was certain Harry would have done a spit-take, but he wasn’t, as Draco wasn’t that cruel (anymore), but Draco certainly felt Harry’s immediate reaction to Draco’s words: Harry’s whole body shivered and he gasped, “Bloody hell, Draco.”

Draco made sure their conversation was still private (“Don't, Seamus, sto-op! What if one of those bloody sheep gets lost and it sneaks its wolly arse in here and a-a shepherd has to come find it!”), and purred, “How does that sound, pet?”

Draco was being unfair, knowing what the question and the pet name might do to Harry when they were in public, but Draco couldn't resist: Harry had the most delicious reactions. 

Harry said, “Fuck, Draco. …Here? In the loo?” Harry looked both scared and aroused at the idea. 

Draco couldn’t control his snort, “Of course not, you prat. Can you imagine what the filthy tile would do to my trousers? I’d have to burn them, and I’m particularly attached to this pair, as I believe you’ve said it compliments my arse.”

“Actually, I believe I said your arse looked even more like a piece of art that was begging to be touched in those trousers. So, yes, obviously you can’t get rid of them. …I suppose we are getting a bit old for quickies in the loo.”

Draco gasped and clutched his non-existent pearls, whispering fiercely in faux outrage, “You bite your tongue, Potter. I am not getting old. I am in the prime of my youth! I will still shag you in a loo whenever you want, just not at this dirty pub and not in this outfit. I have standards, you know.”

Harry snickered and then Draco heard, “Oi! Stop flirting with each other, it’s making me lose my appetite,” Ron complained to Draco and Harry, not even pretending to stop eating his chips.

“Yes, come on, you two. I want to hear about how the move is going!” Hermione chimed in pleasantly. “Draco, are Pansy and I still coming over to help you with the third floor tomorrow?” 

Pansy tossed her (ludicrous) hair and glared at Draco. “I still can’t believe you bullied me into agreeing to that.”

Just as Draco was saying, “Yes, please, I–,” Harry said over him, “Actually, sorry, Draco and I have to run. I have an early Portkey for that job in Croatia, and so I want to, er, get a good night’s sleep.”

“Yeah, right,” Seamus jeered. “You just want to get Draco home and shag his brains out as a goodbye present.”

Dean and Theo laughed, but Ron groaned dramatically and put his head on Hermione’s shoulder. Hermione patted his head in mock consolation, rolling her eyes.  

Draco smirked and opened his mouth to respond, “Actually–” but then he was cut off by Harry’s hand slapping over Draco’s mouth. 

Harry said to the group, “No, really, we’ve got to go,” and shuffled them out of the booth, Ginerva and Blaise being forced to get out to let them pass. 

When they were standing, Ginerva slapped Draco’s arse and said cheekily, “Have fun!” and then she immediately had to fend off Harry’s headlock, punching him in the stomach until he released her with a shout. 

Blaise gently pulled Ginerva away and said, “Be careful, children. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” and winked at Draco, who rolled his eyes.

Hermione waved and said, “See you tomorrow, Draco! 10:00, okay?” and Pansy sniffed dismissively, ignoring Draco to turn away to cosy up to Theo. 

She’d better turn up or Draco would shave her head!

Luna said, “Bye, Harry, bye, Draco. It was lovely to see you. Enjoy your copulation. Sex is very important for a healthy relationship.”

As Draco spluttered (Really, Draco should be used to Luna’s unabashed manner by now, but it always came as a shock), Harry started to pull Draco bodily toward the pub’s exit, “Cheers, Luna. Bye!”

Harry tried to snog Draco in the alleyway next to the pub, but it was Draco’s turn to slap his hand over Harry’s mouth. “Absolutely not, Potter. Do I look like a two-Knut slag? Get us home, please.” Tiny flowers bloomed in Draco’s heart at being able to say home and us together.

Harry didn’t even check to see if the coast was clear or even respond with one of his usual witty rejoinders; he was too busy eagerly pulling Draco close so he could Apparate them. 

They landed in their living room (perfect) and Harry was on Draco immediately, pulling Draco into a dirty snog. Draco slid his hands down Harry’s back before he cupped Harry’s arse in both hands, squeezing and massaging. They started grinding against each other, and Draco was pleased to feel that Harry was already hard.

Harry whined and Vanished his own clothing in one hand wave, and then Harry was pressed completely starkers against him. "Fuck. Draco, please."

Draco was thankful that Harry had not Vanished Draco’s clothing as well, saving Draco’s aforementioned cherished trousers. Harry must have learnt his lesson after the first time Draco gave him a right bollocking about Vanishing Draco’s favourite grey cashmere sweater. They were both still sad sometimes that it was gone forever because it had matched the exact shade of Draco’s eyes!

Licking his lips, Harry asked, “Want me to suck you first?”

Draco hummed. “No, thank you, darling. I want my brain to be properly present whilst I’m…enjoying my meal.”

Harry’s whole body shivered again and he moved to drag them upstairs, but Draco gently stopped him. “Not so fast, pet. I told you I’ve been fantasising about this all night, so I know exactly how I want you.” 

Draco kissed Harry gently, shallowly, resisting Harry’s urging to try to deepen it. 

Draco told Harry, “Put up your Silencing Charm, please.”

Harry obeyed, and Draco could feel the wards adjusting, accepting Harry’s will.

“Good boy. Now I want you to stay standing and bend over the arm of the sofa. I want to watch my saliva dripping down your thighs from the light of the fire.”

Harry whined and Draco saw Harry’s cock twitch, a bit of pre-cum dripping onto the floor before Harry rushed to obey Draco’s command. 

While Draco’s mind was still mostly present, he waved his wand at the Floo to ward it from any unexpected visitors and then he immediately performed one of his favourite Charms: removing his clothing piece by piece to fold neatly in midair, even his socks, preserving his acclaimed trousers. 

Equally fully naked now, Draco looked at Harry and his mouth began to salivate. Harry’s body was bent over the sofa’s arm perfectly, and, just as Draco imagined, the sofa’s lower height caused a delicious arching of Harry’s spine, his luscious arse on prominent display. And Draco had been right again: the sight of the shadows of the flames dancing over Harry’s gorgeous body, particularly over the globes of Harry’s arse, was a sight to behold. 

Draco sometimes still had trouble understanding that he was allowed to look at this man, let alone touch his naked body. But, in this moment, Harry looked like a feast, and Draco understood that every last bite was for Draco. 

Draco moved with haste to stand behind Harry and looked at the closest armchair; Draco didn’t even have to summon it before it trotted obediently over to settle behind Draco. Draco sat down, pleased, and the chair even shortened its legs, putting Draco’s face perfectly level with Draco’s impatient treat.

“We have such a kinky house, Potter,” Draco said to the air, because he wasn’t sure Harry could even understand Draco right now. (Being able to say we when referring to their house would never get old.)

Harry didn’t answer and Draco waved his wand one last time before setting it aside (Thank Merlin for gentle yet thorough Cleansing Charms) and then Draco hungrily began.

If Harry’s specialty was blowjobs, then Draco’s was this. Draco just loved eating Harry out, wringing so much pleasure out of Harry's body that it drove him (and Draco himself, often enough) to the brink of mindless ecstasy, and Draco loved knowing that Draco’s enthusiastic and skillful technique was the direct cause of such pleasure. It was delicious, submissive debauchery, and it felt like winning, some of Draco’s very favourite things combined into one sinful act.

Draco always took smug pride in how Harry became an incoherent puddle on the sheets and could not move, on average, for at least twenty-two minutes afterwards (Draco has counted). (“Fuck, Draco,” Harry had once said, slurring weakly into his pillow, during one of said boneless comas. “That should come with a warning. Must not operate heavy machinery for at least 8 hours afterwards.” “Heavy what? ”)

Draco had a technique, one that he had tailored specifically for Harry, after Draco had dedicated himself to learning every inch of Harry’s body, and thus teased and exploited every one of Harry’s pleasure points until Harry, whom had started out reluctant and even bashful to even try it when they first started dating, now begged Draco for it on a weekly basis (“But only when I have nothing planned afterwards, because I was serious about your tongue needing a serious warning label. ”)

Harry was the perfect recipient, enthusiastic and submissive (unlike how Harry was outside of the bedroom most of the time), and the bloody sounds Harry made. Harry was normally loud in bed, but, sweet Salazar, Draco had to insist Harry put up his extra-strong Silencing Charm before they got started because, once before, not one, but two of Harry’s muggle neighbors called the “police officers, not Muggle Aurors, Draco” on them, thinking someone was being murdered. Harry hadn’t even had the good grace to get embarrassed! Harry had just answered the door in his pants, his erection only hidden by the slim cloth and Harry’s hand in front of it. Harry had slung an arm around a red-faced, stammering Draco, who had had the decency to put on a dressing gown before being dragged downstairs. Harry, grinning cheekily at the horrified neighbours and police officers outside the front door, had said, “Sorry about that. My boyfriend really knows how to push my buttons, so to speak” and then had winked. 

Draco had been absolutely mortified, and yet secretly pleased, Draco’s inner self preening like a fox licking its claws after a successful hunt.

The trick was that you couldn’t go straight to the main event; oh, no, that was an amateur move, and Draco was not an amateur. You had to gradually work your way to that, until the anticipation was palpable, crackling in the air, and you had driven your partner to the edge of the cliff; only then could you finally pop the cherry, sending them hurtling to the bottom of the ravine in blissful abandon. 

Draco began by slowly pressing light kisses and licks along the base of Harry’s spine and down, stopping just before he reached the top of Harry’s full arse before changing direction to Harry’s hip, to the outside of Harry’s thigh, and then to the back and insides of Harry’s thigh, stopping just at the curve where Harry’s arse met his leg. Draco repeated the same process and pattern on Harry’s other side while Harry sighed and let out tiny, impatient moans.

When Draco finally began to drag the tip of his tongue over and around the globes of Harry’s arse, still careful to avoid Harry’s crease, Harry let out an appreciative groan.

When Draco was satisfied that Harry was sufficiently primed, Draco began to slide a finger down and up Harry’s crease, before he used his hands to finally spread Harry wide, revealing Harry’s clean, pink hole, which was fluttering in anticipation. 

Draco smirked and blew on it; it twitched in delight, Harry letting out a bitten-off keen and shifting his legs impatiently in response.

“Stay still, darling,” Draco chided, gently squeezing Harry’s spread globes. “And find something to bite down on. I want you to hold back your lovely noises for me so I can concentrate on worshipping you with my tongue.”

Harry groaned deeply, but made an effort to stay still. The house promptly provided a large pillow for Harry to muffle his cries on, which Harry clutched at mindlessly.

Draco let the spit gather at the end of his tongue before using it to trace the outside of Harry’s rim for a while before moving to gently massage over the entrance, back and forth, and up and down and around. 

Draco let out his own moan; Harry was so relaxed and was eagerly opening up for him already, and the feeling was sublime. 

Draco pulled Harry’s two halves open even wider before shallowly dipping his tongue inside, in and out, in a crude mimicry of penetration before finally plunging deep inside. Harry’s whole body convulsed and Draco could hear Harry’s muffled howl through the pillow.

Draco wanted to ruin Harry, and make Harry want this only from Draco, need only Draco, where Draco could never be compared to anyone else. Draco had long since been all Harry’s, but Draco desperately wanted Harry to be all his.

Draco cycled through between sucking around the entrance and swirling around inside before Draco noticed that Harry’s legs had gone from lightly trembling to all out shaking and Draco was afraid Harry’s legs would give out before Draco could finish, so Draco pulled away and sat back, panting, saliva dripping down his chin, Harry’s agonised sob in protest sending a lightning bolt through his now painfully hard cock. 

Suddenly, the arms of Draco’s armchair obediently enlarged, and Draco gratefully pulled at Harry’s legs: “Lift up, sweetheart, I’ve got you. That’s a good boy.” 

Draco directed Harry to widen and bend his knees and placed Harry’s spread thighs on the accommodating arms of the chair. 

Draco urged, “You can make noise now, Harry, let it out. You can come, darling.” And then, wasting no time, Draco ardently dove back into Harry’s sopping wet arse, one hand holding Harry open and the other gripping Harry’s thigh to keep him steady. 

This new position forced Draco’s tongue even deeper inside and Draco pressed and ground incessantly on Harry’s prostate with it over and over, ignoring the saliva continuing to drip down Draco’s chin. Draco took a hand away to massage a thumb on Harry’s perineum and that was it: Harry broke immediately, coming with an involuntary, inhuman wail, Harry’s hole squeezing Draco’s tongue and Harry’s cock spurting all over Draco’s lap. 

Draco had to pull away to watch Harry’s release splatter messily all over Draco’s own pulsating cock and then Draco barely managed to palm himself before Draco was coming too, following Harry sharply over the edge, his orgasm ripping through him in thunderous waves.

Draco didn’t know how long he drifted, floating at the bottom of the ravine, gently riding the waves before he came back into his body and was able to process his surroundings again.

Harry hadn’t moved an inch; he seemed to be unconscious, his body boneless and languid even in his semi-awkward position.

Draco asked worriedly, “Harry?” and sighed in relief when he saw Harry’s eyes open a sliver in response. 

Grimmauld must have sensed Draco’s uncertainty on how to best move Harry without causing them any discomfort, as the sofa started to slowly transfigure and flatten into a double bed, the process making Harry’s front dip gently and slide forward onto the now mattress, rolling Harry’s body onto a soft-looking pillow, allowing Draco to gingerly slide Harry’s legs off the chair’s arms and place them upon the soft bedding. 

The house had also graciously provided two cups of chilled water on the adjacent coffee table, along with Harry’s glasses which must have fallen off at some point, and Draco’s wand, which also must have rolled away carelessly.

Draco said sincerely, “Thank you, Grimmauld. We adore you too.”

Draco leaned over in the chair to pick up his wand, performing a series of various Cleansing Charms on Harry, on Draco, on the floor, and all over the furniture. Draco then performed a Breath-Freshening Charm on himself before reaching over again to gulp down the glass of water, all the while keeping his eye on Harry, who still hadn’t moved, but at least had an utterly blissed out look on his face, from what Draco could see.

When Draco thought his legs were able to support his full weight, Draco stood up unsteadily to join Harry on the bed, crawling over to rest his head next to Harry’s on the pillow. 

Draco pulled a light sheet over their bodies and then stroked his hand through Harry’s hair.

Draco asked softly, “Are you all right, Harry? Can I get you to drink some water?”

Harry let out a tiny noise in what seemed to be dissent, and pressed almost imperceptibly into Draco’s touch, before closing his eyes. Harry was deep asleep not even ten seconds later. Harry must have waited to fall asleep to assure Draco he was okay.

Draco smiled softly, his whole heart melting, and gently kissed the scar on Harry’s forehead. 

Draco felt the exhaustion from the day and the last hour’s activities seep into his bones, but he fought to keep his eyes from closing; Draco wanted to spend just a few more minutes watching the warm light of the flames dancing over Harry’s peaceful face, his heart filled to the brim with love for this man. If only for just this moment, Harry could be all Draco’s.

***

It was a whole eight years after the War before Draco and Harry started dating. They had seen and talked with each other at various events over the years, of course: charity galas, mutual friends’ parties, playtime with Cousin Teddy, Aunt Andromeda’s birthday, Memorials, et cetera, which naturally evolved into a close friendship. (The magical world was deeply incestuous, really, socializing with everyone from their time in Hogwarts was and is inevitable.) 

Draco couldn’t believe his good fortune that he could call all these good, better-than-Draco people friends, most of which he had repeatedly bullied without remorse; that he could call Harry Potter, the bane of Draco’s existence during school (but otherwise Draco’s constant obsession), friend. 

After years of diligently seeing a lovely Mind Healer named Raymond Kapoor and of course after making amends in any way he could (sincere apology letters to everyone he had hurt, volunteering, hosting charity benefits, donating generously to various causes, and cutting off communication with Father, to name a few), Draco slowly accepted that he was able to be proud of himself (an honest pride, not the boastful, underserved Slytherin pride he strutted about with in his youth): proud of the efforts he made to be a better man, proud of his establishment of his own well-recepted business, and, most of all, deeply proud that he had earned his friends’ forgiveness. Harry’s forgiveness.

It wasn’t until after Harry had hired Draco’s services to restore the Black Family Tapestry hanging in Grimmauld Place, six years of wonderful friendship later and four years into Draco’s growing business, that Harry and Draco had become something more. That project was when Draco knew he was in love with Harry and Draco could deny it no more. 

Draco had been trying to hide his true feelings from Harry, but especially from himself, which was extremely difficult to do, because who wouldn’t fall in love with Harry Potter? Draco was an emotional and passionate person (according to Raymond and Pansy and Mum, and fine, anyone that knew him), so of course his passionate dislike of Harry from his When-Draco-Was-A-Prat-Days, as Ginerva likes to call it, had very easily flipped to the other side of the coin, so to say, and it flipped much earlier into their friendship than Draco would ever be willing to admit outside of being forcibly administered Veritaserum.

It was extremely difficult for Draco to hide because Harry Potter liked to volunteer at the education centre that Hermione Granger-Weasley established, and give Teddy piggy-back rides and training broom lessons, and invite everyone over for homemade lasagne and garlic bread twice a month, and babysit for the Granger-Weasleys when Ron and Hermione needed a night off, and try to help Draco with some of his work orders when they piled up, and pester Draco into taking a break to eat Indian takeaway with him. (“I’m working, Potter!” “Yes, and I’m hungry, Draco, and I know you are too. Take a break and let’s eat, you workaholic plonker.”) And of course, because of Harry’s kind, green eyes, and his pleased, indulgent smile, and his fit arms, and that arse. Salazar, Harry’s arse, his whole body, really, must have been sculpted by Merlin himself if only to torture Draco. Harry Potter was fit, even in those same ugly frames from childhood, as anyone with a Witch Weekly subscription could tell you, Draco not included, thank you very much. (Pansy subscribed, which is why every issue was in his flat, no other reason to do with Draco.) 

So, understandably, it became impossible for Draco to deny his own feelings any longer after the magic of the Black Family Tapestry, which Draco had Spelled to be attuned to Draco’s own magic during the restoration process, seeing as how he was a distant Black and all, kept trying to connect a marriage line between “Draco L. Malfoy” and “Harry J. Potter.” Draco spent weeks trying to fix that little inconvenience, that tiny, golden line that practically screamed DRACO MALFOY IS IN LOVE WITH HARRY POTTER AND ALSO THINKS THAT THEY’RE MARRIED upon seeing it. He even tried to bring it to a former competitor (and friend) for her opinion, only after she had signed a magical binding non-disclosure agreement, of course, but April Sweeton had laughed at his distress and, without even attempting to fix the blasted thing, advised Draco to confess. And then she offered him tea and biscuits, as if that made up for the injustice, the hag. Those orange cardamom biscuits she made were delicious, admittedly. 

When Draco could no longer come up with excuses to Harry of why Draco needed longer to restore the Tapestry (his reputation was at stake, after all), and when none of his so-called-friends could or was willing to help him (without outright disclosing the problem itself, of course, as is the Slytherin way), Draco put a subtle Notice-Me-Not Charm on the line and gave it back, hoping that Harry the Infamously Unobservant would come through for Draco once again. 

Harry was thrilled with it and thanked Draco profusely, complimenting Draco on his work (“Wow, how did you even make the colours richer, and add the family crests?” (Draco is weak to praise, so he couldn’t deny himself a little bit of preening at that)). Harry got teary when he saw Sirius Black’s restored name and that Draco had drawn a downward line from Sirius’s name to Harry, making Harry Sirius’s all-but-in-blood son. 

But, Draco’s gamble failed. Harry Potter, being Harry Potter, spotted Draco’s Notice-Me-Not (“That’s weird, what’s this?”) and immediately removed it wandlessly, the brute, before Draco could make his escape. (“Potter, wait!”). The nifflers were out of the pen, so to speak. 

“Is that…?” Harry had begun to ask, starting to grin after staring at the line for a moment, understanding brightening his eyes.

“No, it isn’t,” Draco had said quickly, panicking, starting to slowly back away towards the door. “I mean, what are you on about? Oh, that line? Yes, I was rather having difficulty with that bit, it got a bit fiddly, something to do with how my magic reacted when attuned to the Portrait’s magic, you see. The Portrait got rather confused about whose bloodlines are whose, the stubborn old thing, especially that bit I added with Sirirus’s and your relation, and I apologise for trying to hide it, but, really, Potter, it doesn’t mean any–”

Harry’s smile (smirk, really) had slowly grown wider with Draco’s confession–no, not confession, Draco’s explanation, and Harry had been moving closer towards Draco, who had no choice but to back up against the wall. Harry had put his hands on the wall, trapping Draco in between them.

“-thing,” Draco had finished weakly, and then swallowed, his gaze fixated on Harry’s eyes, which seemed to be staring at Draco’s lips. Draco had whispered, “What are you doing?”

And Harry had said seriously, his green eyes sparkling behind his stupid glasses, “Something I should have done a long time ago,” and kissed Draco. 

And that was that. 

When Draco had told April, she congratulated him with more of those homemade biscuits, this time giving him more to share with Harry, and only then did she explain the simple Charm to remove the pesky line that started it all. The daft cow. But Draco decided to keep the knowledge as his little secret.

***

Draco woke up with a moan. Sparks of pleasure were shooting up and down his spine. Draco opened his eyes, blinking quickly. He was on his back in the drawing room, laying on the Transfigured sofa-cum-double bed, still naked from when Harry and he had fallen asleep there together last night.

And–Draco let out another involuntary moan. Harry was kissing his left nipple, alternating between expertly sucking, licking, and biting lightly, his hand pinching and pulling Draco’s right nipple at the same time. 

Harry pulled away, causing Draco to shudder. 

Draco’s nipples were both shiny with wetness and flushed a deep red from abuse, and Draco was already aching to get Harry’s mouth back on them again. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Harry leered, both his thumbs moving to circle and trace the tips of Draco’s nipples. Draco’s toes clenched. “Have a pleasant sleep?”

Draco whispered, “Please,” and Harry pinched the hard nubs lightly. Draco shivered.

“Please what?”

Draco closed his eyes and bit his lip, holding back another sound as Harry started tugging gently. Draco cock’s was painfully hard and demanding attention, but neither Draco nor Harry was touching it. 

“P-please, Harry. More.”

Harry smiled. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

Harry put his mouth and fingers back on Draco’s nipples, first licking just the pointed tips lightly with the end of his tongue before sucking hard. At the same time, Harry’s hand lifted Draco’s thigh, pressing it up, and then his finger started gently massaging Draco’s hole. 

Draco couldn’t control his whimper and his hips shifted involuntarily, trying to press into all of Harry’s touches at once. Draco’s hands clutched Harry’s messy hair and pressed Harry’s mouth harder onto Draco’s nipple. 

Harry suddenly bit down and pressed the tip of his finger inside Draco’s arse. Harry growled against Draco’s chest, “Come for me, baby.”

Draco came with a loud sob, his back arching, the force of his orgasm shooting through his whole body, pleasure crackling and sizzling over his throbbing nipples, his clenching arse, and his spurting cock.

Draco only vaguely registered Harry’s “Fuck,” before he felt Harry’s hot release gush onto Draco’s thigh, joining the mess already all over Draco’s lap.

Draco drifted pleasantly for a while before he noticed that his eyes were closed. Draco opened them to find Harry smiling at him. 

Draco hummed and smiled back softly. “Merlin, Potter. What a way to wake up.”

Harry chuckled and kissed Draco’s lips. Harry said, “I figured I owed you for the way you fucking blew my mind last night. Seriously, Draco. I think that was the hardest I’d ever come before, and you didn’t even have to touch my prick.”

Draco preened with delight. Harry chuckled again at Draco’s antics and leaned back down for a deep kiss. 

They snogged for a while until Draco started to gain back control of his limbs, and he put his arms around Harry, keeping him close. They were cuddling for maybe five minutes before Draco realised Harry was trying to sit up. 

Draco pouted and clung harder. “No.”

Harry chuckled at Draco’s cute pout and kissed Draco’s nose. Harry then gently broke Draco’s embrace to sit up. 

“I wish I could stay and literally snog you all day, but I wasn’t lying last night about having that early Portkey. I have that job in Zagreb today, remember? I’m sorry again that I can’t stay and help you clean out the third floor today, but I’m sure you’ll be in good hands with Hermione and Pansy, and I should be back tomorrow to help then.” Harry did sound a little sorry, but his voice was clearly excited.

Harry had temporarily put his job on hold to help Draco move in, but now that most of the major moving in was done and temporarily postponed until the third floor could welcome all of Draco’s work orders, Harry had agreed to resume an important case.

Harry's job was as an independent Curse-Breaker, which he had quickly gained an international reputation for. 

Well, that was one of Harry’s many jobs, though it seemed to be his main one and the one Harry enjoyed the most. Draco knew that Harry loved being able to travel abroad and discover new places, often taking Draco along with him during Draco’s less busy weeks to make a mini-trip out of it. Harry usually got done fairly quickly (Harry’s competence and casual use of wandless magic would never fail to be unbelievably sexy to Draco), giving the both of them more time to explore new cities together (and then explore each other’s bodies at night, naturally). 

Harry also loved the thrill of the unknown and the challenge and satisfaction of combining intricate spells with powerful force (wherein he actually had to use his wand for once) and with none of the politics and paperwork involved, like as a Junior Auror (Harry had lasted 10 months before setting fire to his desk and quitting on the spot).

It would be pure bliss if Harry did just curse breaking all the time; however, Harry, in all his spare time, was also a certified D.A.D.A. instructor, teaching the odd class at Hogwarts and the Auror Academy, and occasionally for M.A.C.U.S.A. as well. Harry also often put in hours at Hermione’s education centre, George and Ron Weasley’s shop, Luna’s conservation, Dean’s studio, Fit Weasley’s dragon sanctuary, Other Fit Weasley’s curse breaking business, and Draco’s own business, not to mention Harry still spoke at the occasional charity function and the annual Memorial, “schmoozed” with Ministry higher-ups (AKA, badgered) in support of Hermione’s various pieces of legislation (Draco often had to help Harry with the schmoozing part, the poor, uncivil thing), and got paid every time he deigned to give an official quote or interview to Witch Weekly (as a favour to Editor-in-Chief Pansy Parkinson) and The Quibbler (still owned by the Lovegoods). (Harry still refused to cooperate with The Daily Prophet to this day.) And Harry was the official spokesperson for the Nimbus Corporation, and the official sponsor of Little Cup Junior Quidditch. And Harry made the time to be an active godfather to Teddy Lupin and to Hermione and Ron’s child, Rose.

Harry had a thing for helping people, so he often worked way too much and way too hard trying to show how much he cared. Harry had once told Draco, “I’m tired of losing things… losing people. I want to keep as much as possible, if I can.”

Draco had understood and mostly left it alone before they began dating, but Draco was now on a mission to make Harry slow down, even a little at a time, especially now that Draco has moved in. Draco wanted to be pampered himself, of course, but, more than that, Draco wanted to pamper Harry, and to show him that Harry could keep Draco. Draco would work hard on being enough.

Harry stood up and stretched; Draco very much appreciated the view.

“Harry…bugger the Portkey, bugger the job, and bugger me instead,” Draco said seriously, spreading his thighs wide enticingly, showing off his exposed hole and Harry’s cum still glistening on Draco’s skin.

“Fuck, Draco–! You can’t–...! I can’t–...!” And then when Draco moved a finger to slide some of Harry’s cum down to start caressing Draco’s hole with it, Harry pounced.

Twenty minutes and another spectacular orgasm for both of them later, the grandfather clock (that Draco had added to the foyer a few days ago after Grimmauld happily accepted it) chimed eight times, and Harry pulled away from Draco’s lips in alarm.

“Fucking shit, my Portkey! I only have 15 minutes now!” Harry leapt off the bed and grabbed his wand. “Shit, I’m bloody filthy and my knees are still shaking.”

Draco licked his lips and ran his eyes up and down Harry’s body, concentrating his hot gaze on Harry’s soft cock that was still glistening with lube and cum. “You’re welcome, darling.”

Harry said, “I really have to shower. I can’t show up to the Bergmans’ like this!”

Harry had a point. Cleansing Charms after back to back rounds of intense sex from last night and this morning were definitely not a substitute for a shower, especially when one had a professional case and had to meet with important clients.

Draco waved his hand lazily and slowly sat up, “So jump in the shower. I’ll pick out your clothes and make you toast and your favourite smoothie to take with you.”

Harry beamed. “Really? You’re the best, Draco. I knew it was a good idea to have you move in here,” Harry joked, and then laughed at Draco’s pleased preening. 

Harry leaned over to smack a kiss on Draco’s lips before Harry ran (somewhat unsteadily) upstairs to shower. 

Draco stretched and savoured the delicious soreness of his nipples and his arse. With a tiny bit of remorse, Draco cast a light Cleansing Charm on himself, promising himself to take his own shower later, and got up. 

It was time to do Draco’s favourite thing: take care of Harry. 

***

Almost two hours later, Draco said, “Merlin’s saggy tits, it is absolutely revolting in here,” as he stepped into Empty Room #1, looking around in disgust. 

He pulled out his wand and cast a Lumos Maxima, which made the large room much brighter indeed, but only put the room’s dinginess into sharper relief.

“Darling, Merlin did not have tits, he had bollocks,” Pansy replied, also looking around in equal disgust, her pug nose scrunched. She looked like she was afraid to move or else suffer being covered in a speck of dust or step into one of the many spider webs lurking about. Her hand was already nervously soothing her ridiculous French bob.

Draco knew he should be incredibly grateful that he had not just one, but three empty rooms on the third floor of Harry’s–their house–to use at his leisure for his business, but it was hard to muster any enthusiasm at the moment, looking around the filthy room at the towers of boxes of unknown origin and the various assortment of furniture that looked like it was popular during King Arthur’s reign. And of course at the dirty walls, floor, and ceiling, and, Merlin, all the dust. 

And this was just the first room!, Draco thought indignantly.

“Don’t be so sure,” Hermione said, already casting a clever Charm to purify the air, making the room already look a little brighter, now that they saw the walls were indeed grey silk brocade, and not puce. “Merlin lived centuries ago. For all we know, he could have had breasts and identified as non-binary. They didn’t exactly keep record of that sort of thing back then, which is such a shame.”

“Or he could have had–what is that Muggle term? Boy-breasts? If he was old and fat.” Draco countered, smirking at Pansy’s disgruntled expression. 

“I think the term is man-boobs,” Hermione said with amusement in her voice.

Sniffing, Pansy ignored them and cast an Umbrella Charm over herself, carefully brushing non-existent dust off her slick, black bob. “Draco, if my hair gets ruined because of this, I will have your bollocks and your man-boobs.”

Draco spluttered and said in mock indignation, “I do not have man-boobs, you bint!” (Hermione was full-on laughing at them now.) “But if you’re so worried about it, Pansy dear, Conjure a headscarf, why don’t you? Pretend like you’re in one of those little Muggle automobile death traps with no cover, as if it wasn’t unsafe enough.”

Pansy cast a Stinging Hex on Draco’s arm and Draco recoiled, yelping. 

Fighting to be heard over the resultant “Bitch!” “Wanker!” Hermione said, “Okay, you two, settle down. Let’s get to work. I think Pansy can continue with the Cleansing Charms, and I will start sorting through all the boxes and make Keep, Vanish, and Donate piles, and, Draco, you can start with the furniture to see if anything looks salvageable.” 

“Yes, Mum,” Draco and Pansy chorused and Hermione hit them both with a vicious Stinging Hex of her own.

***

Sometime later, the three of them had made significant progress in the room, dubbed by Pansy as the Grey Room (referring to the grey silk brocade wallpaper, which Draco was reluctantly becoming fond of, the Pureblood side of him pleased at the quite expensive material and traditional design). 

The room was almost unrecognisable from when they started: the heavy curtains pulled back from the windows, mended and clean; the floor to ceiling windows letting in bright, natural light; most of the boxes unpacked and sorted into neat, organised piles according to most likely course of action, courtesy of Hermione Granger-Weasley; and many of the antique furniture pieces gathered and already easily mended by Draco.

However, the Grey Room still had a ways to go to being finished, which was partly due to several uncooperative antique pieces, which, now all cleaned and polished, needed Draco’s special touch to restore to their former glory. 

An hour in, Pansy had finished all the cleaning (with Magic, of course, things went much faster; Draco spared a thought for the poor Muggles who didn’t use brooms for flying, but for moving dust from side to side, not even getting rid of it!), and had taken to sitting in a newly repaired stuffy green and black damask armchair, offering helpful advice to Hermione when she asked for Pansy’s opinion on objects for sorting, and taking adverse pleasure in criticising Draco’s work. 

Draco only withstood about fifteen minutes of her abuse before he threatened Pansy with no food and banished her to clean the remaining rooms on the third floor. (Draco had promised her Thai takeaway for lunch from that place she adored that didn’t deliver to her flat, and he had promised she could take home a tray of Harry’s famous lasagne and garlic bread that Harry had prepared that weekend especially for them, which was well worth the few hours of Pansy moving her wand arm about.) 

Pansy had hit him with another Stinging Hex, on his cheek this time, but did not protest further and left to do as Draco instructed. Harry’s cooking really was to die for. (“Because it’s made with love,” Harry had said before with a laugh. And then, winking, “And a fuckton of garlic.”)

Hermione was diligently sorting through the last of the boxes across the room (“Sixty-seven!” Hermione had counted because of course she had), and Draco was tinkering with a particularly stubborn and massive mid-century oak writing desk, which kept shuffling backwards when its surfaces were polished, biting his fingers when its drawers were opened, and squirting ink after its contents were removed. 

Casting his fifth Healing Charm on his poor fingers (the self-invented Protective Charm Draco was wearing around his hands sadly only prevented only mild Curses and Jinxes, not bites), Draco moved on to the final drawer, which, of course, refused to budge. 

“Come on then, you nasty little blighter,” Draco chided the desk, grinning. 

After another minute of poking and prodding, the drawer finally opened with a powerful bang, which sent Draco stumbling backwards in surprise. 

“Heavens!” Draco exclaimed, righting himself.

And then, quite suddenly, Harry was standing in front of him. 

“Wha–,” Draco began, bewildered, and that’s when Harry morphed. 

Harry was beaming. He had the widest, happiest grin Draco had ever seen on his face, Harry’s dimples prominent and his eyes shining with true joy. And Harry wasn’t alone. 

Ginerva Weasley was leaning contentedly against Harry, her white floral sundress fluttering softly in an invisible breeze, her bright, red hair gleaming, her smile soft and serene. She was very visibly pregnant, her hands lovingly holding and caressing her large bump. 

Upon Harry’s shoulders sat a young girl of no more than three with vibrant green eyes the exact shade of her father’s and fiery red hair the exact shade of her mother’s, clutching onto Harry with tiny hands, her cute, toothy mouth open in laughter and delight. 

Husband and wife were wearing matching gold wedding rings, and the family was literally glowing, their bodies surrounded by a warm, buttery yellow light, their matching smiles purest sunshine, their faces incandescent with perfect familial bliss.

As Draco stood paralyzed in shock, eyes wide and unblinking, his ears ringing, the scene shuttered and Harry was playfully tossing the girl up and down in the air, the girl laughing in soundless glee, and Ginerva was holding and rocking a swaddled infant, his messy, black hair visible under a tiny, hand-knitted Weasley cap.

From what sounded like a garbled voice underwater, Draco heard a wavering “R-Riddikulus,” and then another, firmer, “Riddikulus!” and the horrific scene was gone.

Draco was stuck staring at the place the family vanished, the sunlight seared upon his retinas, the leftover warm glow icing his extremities, the family’s smiles scorched like a brand upon his pounding heart. 

Draco felt numb, as if he'd been dunked in ice water and left to stand, frozen, like an icicle upon the snow on a barren tundra, the bitter wind raking and scratching his skin, his face, his eyeballs, his limbs. 

Was he alive? Maybe he’d somehow been Kissed? Or had he died and this was just the start of his eternal punishment, retribution from all the bad choices he’d made in his life? From trying to force Harry Potter to love him? 

Draco started to see black spots appear in his vision and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t–

“Draco!” he heard a distorted voice yell from what seemed like outside a Bubble-Head Charm, and then he felt hands upon him, pushing him onto a hard surface, his head forced between his legs. 

“That’s it, Draco, breathe! Breathe, in and out, it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay, Draco.”

Draco took shuddering breaths, his lungs restricted and forced into restarting in this uncomfortable position. Draco gasped and blinked rapidly, the black spots dancing, but eventually vanishing with each full, deep breath he managed. 

“That’s it, Draco. You’re okay, everything’s okay. It wasn’t real, you’re okay now. Deep breaths.”

Draco’s brain started to slowly come back to the present, and he recognized that he was sitting on one of the newly repaired armchairs in The Grey Room, and that was Hermione’s hand stroking Draco’s back in soothing circles.

After a few minutes of normal, deep breaths, Draco felt Hermione gently urge him to sit up. 

Hermione conjured a glass, said, “Aguamenti,” and put the glass full of cold water into his hand. “Drink, Draco.”

Draco took a deep sip. The cold water felt like tiny knives, scalding his tongue and burning Draco’s throat. He was so cold.

Draco finally looked at Hermione and he blinked, faintly startled to realise that Hermione was crying. He stared at her.

“Are you okay?” she asked, hastily wiping her eyes and taking his glass away so she can refill it, despite it being more than half full. 

“Yes,” he responded hoarsely, because what else was there to say? 

“Please drink some more,” she said, passing the glass back to him.

He was so cold, and the water hurt, but he had no energy just then to argue, and this was Hermione asking. He drank until the glass was empty.

“There now. You’re okay, Draco. It wasn’t real. It won’t ever be real. It was just a Boggart.”

Draco stared at her. “You’re really a great mum, Granger.”

Hermione took the empty glass from him, Vanishing it. “Thank you,” she said and then, after a brief hesitation, asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Draco’s whole body tensed up at that, his frigid stomach clenching. “No, thank you. I’m fine,” he lied. 

“I really think we should talk about it. Or, if not to me, I think that you should really talk to Harry about this.”

Draco could feel his lungs constrict again in reaction to Hermione’s words, but he gathered every Slytherin trick in his arsenal that he spent years carefully crafting, and used them all now to help himself escape this deadly trap he had made for himself. 

He put on his mask and assured Hermione confidently, breezily, “No, really, I’m quite all right, Granger. How embarrassing that I overreacted to a silly, little Boggart, a harmless creature that even Fourth Years are adept at subduing.” 

Draco’s voice was relaxed and light, putting just the right amount of amusement and chagrin in his tone. 

When Hermione still looked suspicious, Draco shook his head and stood up steadily, smoothing out the wrinkles of his trousers and fixing his hair. “Honestly, this is what happens from never getting a turn in Lupin’s Defense class! Such injustice! Such unmitigated prejudice against Slytherins!” Draco exclaimed melodramatically, gesturing wildly, smiling with ease.

Draco really was a superb liar. 

Hermione stood up as well, starting to smile. “If you had a turn, it probably would have turned into Buckbeak the Hippogriff, and you would have fainted and ended up in the Hospital Wing again, you Drama Queen,” she teased.

Draco laughed airily and pointed at Hermione, bowing in playful defeat. “Touché, Granger! Ten points to Gryffindor!”

Hermione was outright laughing at him now and Draco nodded behind his mask with grim satisfaction. He had done it. He was out of the Forbidden Forest now, but now to make his final escape. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this blasted room for the moment. We need a break from biting desks, never-ending boxes, and silly Boggarts. Time for tea and jaffa cakes. Only two weeks I’ve lived here and Harry”–his heart spasmed in his chest–“has gotten me addicted to those fiendishly delectable little biscuits. Come, Granger!” Draco held out his arm for Hermione. “You know how important tea time is for posh British reprobates like myself.” 

Hermione laughed again and took Draco’s arm, rolling her eyes good-naturedly at Draco’s antics, and Draco began escorting them out of the room. “I suppose we have certainly earned it.”

They walked out of the room together, but Draco could feel his cold mask moulding to his face, while the outline of his former self stayed behind, destined to fester alone and bleed into the shadows. 

***

It was three years after the War and Draco and Harry were standing next to each other in an elaborate ballroom, dressed to the nines for the fundraising gala in support of Hermione’s Educational & Cultural Centre of Key Learning for Everyone (which Harry and Ron apparently called HECKLE as some sort of inside joke), which focused on helping Muggle families transition and prepare their children to magical education and wizarding society after the child has received their Hogwarts letter, as well as a focus on fostering Muggle-Magical relations and understanding between the two cultures. 

“Er, yeah, I’m bi,” Harry was telling Draco, shrugging, his free hand rubbing the back of his head. “I’ve dated mostly women, as everyone knows, but the last year or so, it’s really only been blokes. We tend to have a lot more in common and blokes are usually a lot more understanding about my–... you know, about me.”

Draco had not asked Harry about his sexuality; heavens no, don’t be absurd. The subject had simply come about because, while Draco was making pleasant conversation with Harry, Harry’s date tonight, apparently a Mr. Colin Hayworth, one of the Centre’s Muggle culture teachers, had just come up to kiss Harry on the cheek and flirt with Harry a little before flouncing off after Harry had adamantly declined his date’s offer to dance, citing two left feet. 

Draco couldn't help that his eyes had been as wide as the fancy dinner plates around them. That was the first time that Draco was learning that Harry apparently swung both ways, and it was most everyone else’s first time as well, judging by the amount of stares Harry was getting (more than the usual amount of stares from his status as The Saviour of the Wizarding World, that is).  

“This is the first time I’ve been out in public like this with a bloke though, so I imagine you, along with everyone else here, is surprised.” Harry shrugged again and took a sip of his pint, because of course he wasn’t drinking the champagne. 

Harry was just so casual about it. Draco realised he was staring open-mouthed so Draco hastened to click his mouth shut and adopt a supportive, but definitely not greedy expression.

Before Draco could form an appropriate response, Harry asked, “What about you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Blaise, not even pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping on their private discussion, hastened over and interrupted gleefully, “Oh, our Draco’s a raging poof, gay as a maypole. We’ve all known since before primary school, even. How old were you, Draco, when your dear old mum and dad took you aside and begged you not to wear a flashing sign on your forehead saying “I love a large knob” everywhere you went?”

“Seven,” Draco said through his teeth, struggling to maintain his composure in front of Harry, avoiding direct contact with Blaise lest he accidentally cast an involuntary Hex to sew Blaise’s mouth shut. 

Seven years old was when Draco had told Mother (not Father, though he undoubtedly knew) seriously that girls were silly and ugly, and boys were fun and fit, and could Draco’s heir that he’ll have one day come from when two boys loved each other very much too? 

“Hmm,” Blaise rejected, shaking his head, and nonchalantly ate an olive out of his martini glass. After finishing the olive, because they weren’t barbarians, he continued, “No, I don’t think so. It must have been earlier than that, old bean.”

Harry was looking back and forth between Draco and Blaise. He looked uncertain, but reluctantly amused, as if he wasn’t sure if it was safe to outright grin in front of Draco, which was smart of him.

Draco smiled at Harry and addressed Blaise in a pleasant tone of voice, “Je vais te couper la bite, la mettre dans ta bouche, puis te recoudre la bouche.”

Blaise ignored him and called, “Pansy!” 

Pansy looked over. She broke off from talking to Neville Longbottom graciously to saunter over to join them, slowly, due to those ridiculous kitten heels of hers.

Blaise tipped his glass towards Draco and asked Pansy, “How old was our Draco when the senior Malfoys knew his most sacred dream when he grew up was to be buggered by the entire Puddlemere United team?”

Draco, in between plotting Blaise’s slow, painful demise involving Blaise’s broken martini glass, including the tiny sword of olives in the drink, glared pointedly at Pansy, urging her to end this conversation at once.

“Oh, he was six, wasn’t he?” Pansy said, speaking to Blaise, ignoring Draco and Harry. “Shortly after he had shamelessly declared his everlasting love for–... for you at that gala at the Manor with all of Lucius’s business associates in attendance.” 

Draco sipped his champagne and then smiled at both Pansy and Blaise dangerously. “Je vais baiser tes pères devant toi.”

Pansy, casual as ever, took a sip of her vodka cranberry, her lipstick leaving a matching blood red stain on the rim of her glass.

That’s it. Draco was getting new friends, ones that were never in the House of bloody Slytherin. However…Pansy may end up being spared since she did just deliberately choose to leave out the most mortifying bit of that story: lying that it was Blaise to whom Draco had confessed, and not telling the truth, that it was Harry Potter Draco had promised to love and marry. 

Draco had not met Harry yet then, of course, that wasn’t until First Year, but Draco had heard many stories growing up of the famous Boy Who Lived, who was born into the wrong sort, and Draco had fancied himself a Knight of the Round Table who would rescue and win the heart of such a lost, unfortunate boy so he could join Draco and the right sort.

Harry was laughing now, but trying to hide it behind his pint, which didn’t work too well, considering the amber liquid was almost gone. His grin was distorted and distended by the glass. 

Blaise, skillfully ignoring Draco’s splutter of rage, continued silkily, “No, no, dear girl. I distinctly remember at Draco’s fifth birthday party that he wanted to wear a tiara and have a herd of unicorns parade him around the guests. Subtle, our dear snake.”

“It was one unicorn,” Draco cut in resignedly, recognizing his defeat. “So it wasn’t a parade; I just wanted to make a grand entrance, naturally, it was my birthday after all. And there was no tiara, just an exact replica of King Arthur’s crown.”

Blaise and Pansy both smirked at him, wickedly pleased at winning this particular battle, but not the war! Just you wait!

Harry, bless him, was choking on the last of his pint, desperately trying to contain his obvious laughter. Harry wiped his mouth with his sleeve (the barbarian) and said, “Er.” 

Harry was pink-cheeked with mirth, but he ignored Draco’s two snakes of so-called friends, and came to Draco’s rescue. “So, er, are you a Puddlemere fan then, Draco?”

And that was that; that was when Draco Malfoy knew he would confess his love to Harry Potter for real one day, if only Draco could become worthy enough. Just you wait.

***

Harry and Draco were cuddled together watching telly on the couch. Indian takeaway containers were spread out on the coffee table in front of them, Draco’s mostly untouched, despite Draco’s best effort. 

Harry had surprised Draco with it for dinner, as he knew it was both of their favourites. Draco had had no appetite ever since the unfortunate… incident with the Boggart, so Draco had tried his best to eat like normal, but every bite was torture. Harry could normally be oblivious about people and their emotions, (“But Harry could never be that way about you, Draco. The boy had an unhealthy obsession with you in school, even if it couldn’t rival yours,” Pansy had said to Draco once), but Harry had noticed Draco’s discomfort right away. 

“You okay? Did they make it too spicy for you?”

“No, no. I just had a large lunch and I’m not too hungry just yet,” Draco had lied. “I’ll have some more later.”

Draco was realising that he was not able to focus on the plot of the show they were watching at all, his mind too distracted by… other things when Harry surprised Draco and whispered lowly into Draco’s ear, “I want you to fuck me from behind,” and then he nipped at Draco’s ear lightly. 

Draco blinked and forced himself not to flinch away from Harry. “I’m watching this, Potter.”

Harry chuckled and teased, “Are you telling me you’re turning down sex with me to watch an episode of Doctor Who that we’ve seen a dozen times?”

Draco made himself face Harry head on and raised an eyebrow disdainfully, “Of course. The doctor is wearing his sexy glasses in this one, how could I miss it?”

Harry smirked and wagged his eyebrows. “Why do you think I’m so randy in the first place?”

Draco let out a surprised, fond laugh and, making a decision, pulled Harry close and kissed him firmly.

When they broke apart, Draco told Harry, “Go upstairs, get naked, and lie down on the bed. I’ll meet you upstairs in a minute.”

Harry’s eyes smouldered in anticipatory delight and he jumped off the sofa to comply eagerly with Draco’s bidding.

Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes to centre himself. This was fine. Draco was okay. Draco loved orgasms, and he especially loved orgasms with Harry, and Draco had everything perfectly under control. This was just another Thursday, and Draco was fine.

Draco gave himself ten minutes, turned off the telly, warded the Floo, and then went upstairs. 

Harry was naked and lying obediently face down on the bed, his head resting on his folded arms, eyes on Draco.

Harry asked Draco, his voice gravelly, “What happened to one minute?”

Draco ignored the question and spelled off his own clothes, directing them to fold midair and land on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. He was halfway hard, but he was betting that Harry’s cock was leaking already. Harry liked to wait.

Draco asked, “Hands and knees or do you want to stay laying down?”

Harry, his eyes roaming appreciatively over Draco’s naked body, replied roughly, “Laying down.”

Draco nodded and got up on the bed, shuffling over Harry’s body, and placed his wand next to himself within easy reach. Draco positioned Harry’s legs so they were spread wider, and bent at the knees, giving Draco room on the bed to work. 

Harry’s cock was indeed leaking already against the sheets, making a little pool of wetness. Draco wanted to lick the moisture beaded at the tip of Harry’s cock, but he restrained himself.

Smoothing his hands along Harry’s back, bypassing Harry’s arse and cock to trace his nails lightly along both of Harry’s inner thighs, Draco asked, “Fast and hard, or slow and deep?”

Harry shivered and pressed eagerly into Draco’s touches and panted, “Fast and hard…please.”

Draco hummed in pleased acknowledgement and brushed his thumb lightly against Harry’s bollocks in reward. Draco then moved his hands to spread Harry’s arse open, relishing Harry’s pleased gasp. Harry was loose and slick, his hole dripping with lube. 

“Eager, were we, pet?” Draco teased, petting at the rim, and then he pushed two fingers easily inside at once to make sure Harry was stretched enough. 

Harry pressed his forehead harder against his folded arms, his arse pushing against Draco’s fingers as much as he could in this position, and croaked, “Draco.”

Draco pulled his fingers out, satisfied that Harry was ready, and picked up his wand with his clean hand, casting an Accio at the lube standing on the bedside table. 

“I’d rim you, darling, but you did say fast and hard, so I’ll skip that bit and give you what you so nicely asked for.”

Harry whined, shifting restlessly, and Draco opened the lube bottle to slick up his now very hard cock. After spelling his hand clean, Draco tossed the lube and his wand aside, and then Draco held onto Harry’s thick arse and pushed all the way inside in one deep thrust. 

Harry let out an agonised groan and his hands flew out from under him to clutch tightly at the edges of his pillow. Draco gave Harry no time to adjust, starting them on a hard, relentless pace, Draco’s bollocks slapping obscenely against Harry’s flushed, red arse. 

Draco swivelled his hips and kept changing angles slightly until Harry’s strangled shout let Draco know he found Harry’s prostate, and then Draco concentrated his thrusts on that small, sweet spot. 

Harry was groaning and whining on every thrust, making so much noise that Draco would be worried about Harry’s comfort if Draco wasn’t already long used to this. Harry was loud when he got Draco’s cock in him like this, especially after Harry was already primed from a bit of light teasing, being called pet names, and from being forced to wait.

Draco normally enjoyed gagging Harry with Draco’s hand or fingers, a Silencing Charm, or once, Draco’s Slytherin tie, forcing Harry to hold back his noises until Draco could give him the okay, which often prolonged and sharpened both of their orgasms. But Draco needed to hear Harry’s noises right now; Draco needed all the safety and the encouragement he could get.

Draco was eagerly watching his cock fly in and out of Harry’s gaping, slicked hole when a sudden, unwelcome vision of Harry lovingly placing his hands on Ginny’s round, pregnant belly popped into his brain, and Draco faltered immediately, his hips slowing.

“So close, so close, don’t stop!” Harry cried and Draco tried to blink the atrocity away, Vision Harry’s adoring smile flashing in front of his eyes like the afterimage you got after staring directly at the sun. 

Draco hesitantly resumed his fast thrusting, his hips quick and lithe, but his stomach was unsettled and wobbling, his body flashing hot and cold. Harry was as loud as ever, but Draco couldn’t even hear him now. Draco suspected he wouldn’t even have remained erect if it wasn’t for the biological response from such intense stimulation.

Draco managed to keep the pace going for not even two more minutes when Harry came with a rapturous cry, cock untouched except from the friction against the bed. Draco slowed to a gentle rocking motion, milking Harry’s prostate, helping Harry prolong his orgasm. When Harry was done, his legs shaking, Draco pulled out carefully. 

Draco’s erection was already flagging, and he felt no desire to finish, which was an alarming novelty.

Draco picked up his wand and gently Spelled Harry’s hole, cock, and arse clean, and he used a stronger Cleansing Charm on the massive wet spot on the bedsheet for good measure because Harry disliked feeling messy after being fucked, unlike Draco, who often relished the dirty, used feeling. Draco was going to spell his own cock clean too, but then Harry sat up slowly and turned to face Draco, accidentally knocking Draco’s wand out of his hand.

Harry said deliriously, “You didn’t come,” and then Harry started mouthing, pinching, and sucking at Draco’s nipples, thumbing the head of Draco’s wet cock at the same time, which Draco normally loved, but not right now. Right now, Draco’s head was a mess, and it was too much. It felt like Ginerva was in the room with them, and Draco couldn’t breathe for it. 

Draco couldn’t help it, he flinched away from Harry’s touches. 

Harry, half out of his mind from a clearly intense orgasm, still noticed the flinch and pulled away. “You okay? Too much?”

Draco, grateful for the out, said, “Y-yeah, a bit too much.”

Harry nodded, eyes half lidded, and said, “Okay, let me suck you instead” and then Harry pushed Draco onto his back, Draco’s head landing softly onto his pillow. Before Draco could say anything in protest, Harry had wandlessly cleaned Draco’s cock and was eagerly taking it into his mouth, going deep, sucking hard, and stroking the base with Harry’s thumb and index finger.

Draco clapped his hands over face, pressing his fingers against his eyes, and willed himself to concentrate on Harry’s skillful blowjob, because Harry was truly spectacular at it. 

“You have a gift, Potter,” Draco had told Harry seriously, with reverence, after the first time, and Harry had beamed like he had caught the Snitch at the World Cup for a whole week afterward.

It took everything Draco had, what must have been a record length in time after Harry got his mouth around Draco, for Draco to come. And, when he did, it felt like it was wrenched out of him.

Harry hummed and pulled his mouth off Draco’s spurting cock, and started licking up the leftover drips of come along Draco’s shaft and on Harry’s fingers, and tonguing the slit thoroughly, getting Draco fully clean. Draco, always on board with a little overstimulation, found that Harry’s ministrations, normally a blissful agony, were missing the blissful feeling, and Draco was only feeling the agony. 

Draco weakly pushed Harry’s face away and off, and, to avoid any confused questioning, pulled Harry up into a kiss. It was a sloppy snog, which was a good thing for Draco since it meant that Harry was still loopy from the afterglow. 

Harry pulled away and flopped over onto his side off of Draco. He patted Draco’s hip clumsily in apparent gratitude, and then mumbled, “Night.” 

Harry then turned onto his other side, facing away from Draco, and was asleep barely a minute later. 

Draco, despite his bone-deep exhaustion, was not able to fall asleep, just like the last three nights. He just gazed in the direction of Harry’s back, watching the Harry behind his eyes smiling, smiling…

***

Draco was at his cousin Teddy Lupin’s fourth birthday party at Aunt Andromeda’s home when Draco overheard something he shouldn’t have. Aunt Andromeda had sent Draco to the kitchen to fetch the cake, which Harry, the ever devoted godfather, had made himself for Teddy. 

Harry had spent weeks learning how to properly bake a cake that was both delicious and in the shape of an angry Hungarian Horntail protecting a nest of golden eggs, as Teddy was currently absolutely obsessed with that particular story of Harry at the Triwizard Tournament. 

Draco, who had loved baking with Mother and Mother’s house-elf Winry as a child, had provided Harry with some helpful baking tips. Draco had also taught Harry a (self-invented) Charm to make the chocolate golden eggs crack open and sing once placed inside your mouth. 

Harry’s sparkling grin and “That’s brilliant, Draco!” had sent Draco on a cloud for days, where he had smiled at everything and nothing.

Draco was about to push open the kitchen door when Draco heard his own name, making him stop in his tracks. The door was ajar, so Draco risked a peek, seeing Harry and Ron talking inside. It looked like Harry was putting some last minute touches on the cake.

“I don’t know why Draco didn’t bring him. Aren’t they dating?” Harry was saying to Ron.

Ron said, “Yeah, I think Hermione said it’s been almost six months now.”

Harry shook his head and added more red, orange, and black icing to the bottom of the cake to simulate flames. “I think I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve seen them together in person, including when Draco introduced him to us. Isn’t it a bit weird? When we all get together all the time and usually it’s just Draco by himself? Do you think Draco’s, like, embarrassed of us or something? The bloke can’t be all that busy, not if even Hermione is able to make it to the pub most weekends, what with her job, Heckle, and now your wedding planning.”

“It is maybe a bit dodgy, but I dunno. Maybe Malfoy is just a very private person when it comes to all that. His sort can be like that. Y’know, posh Purebloods. Hermione is hoping they’ll at least both come to the wedding. Are you bringing someone yourself, mate? What about, what was it, Victoria? Vanessa? Did anything come of that date you had with that girl from that Nimbus campaign last week?”

Ron stole Harry’s leftover icing bowl and looked around for a spoon, the heathen.

Harry snorted and opened the package of birthday candles. “Yeah, I don’t think it’s going to work out with Veronica.”

“Why not, what’s happened?”

“We’re just…not on the same page on a lot of things. I was talking about Teddy and what I was doing for his birthday and she hit me with–” Harry mimicked a sickly sweet voice, “‘Oh, that is so nice of you to take care of him even though he’s not yours. He’s an orphan like you, right? It must have been so difficult growing up without parents.’”

“Bloody hell. A bit much for your first date, innit?”

“Exactly. And then she was like, ‘Teddy must be good practice for when it’s time to have real kids. Are you wanting a big family?’”

“Blimey. Sounds a bit dodgy.”

“I know! And when I said, yes, it would be nice, y’know, to have a big family one day, when I found the right person, right? And she was all, ‘Aw, can you imagine your gorgeous green eyes on a tiny little baby’ and then she had the nerve to ask if I was, like, at all worried about what kind of real father I would be. So I did a runner and got the fuck out of there.”

“That’s bang out of order, mate. What a nutter. Of course you’ll be a great dad because you already are one to Teddy in every way that counts, none of this real or not real rubbish. Seriously, that’s such bollocks, mate.”

Harry shrugged and then waved his hand and the candles arranged themselves neatly into a number four at the base of the cake.

“I mean, look at this cake, Harry! I reckon it’s not even burnt at all, except for where it looks like it’s burnt due to the, erm, fire at the bottom. Clearly you went a bit overboard, but it’s seriously wicked. I never would have imagined you baking cakes in school. I’m sure Mum is pleased that she finally gets to pass down her skills to at least one of her kids; Merlin knows the rest of us aren’t homemakers, especially not Ginny. Seriously, Teddy’s gonna be right chuffed.”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, thanks, mate. Molly helped, but Draco helped a lot too! He’s surprisingly good with all this stuff, and especially with Teddy. It was Draco who told Teddy all about what I did at the Tournament and it was Draco who came up with the idea about the eggs and then actually invented a Charm for it. He’s so clever. I can’t wait to see Teddy’s face when he sees the cake! And when he puts an egg in his mouth and it starts singing!” 

Ron laughed. “That does sound like a brilliant spell, and a wicked complicated one at that, like something Hermione would do. I might have to ask Malfoy to show me how he did it. Maybe me and George could do something like it for Wheezes?”

“Yeah, brilliant!”

“I’ll go get Malfoy then, d’you think? You both should have the honour of bringing the cake out to the birthday boy.” 

Draco startled, his heart pounding from a dizzying mixture of emotions. Draco decided to enter the kitchen before he could be caught lurking at the door. 

“Did I just hear my name? I’ve come on behalf of the lovely Andromeda to fetch the little troublemaker’s cake. Is it ready?” 

When Draco caught sight of the cake (for the ‘first time’), Draco gasped with exaggeration. “Oh, my days, look at that, Potter! C'est magnifique. And to think you were such a gormless dunce at Potions in school; except for that year you cheated, of course.”

Harry snorted and said, “Shove off, Malfoy. Like you’re no stranger to cheating.”

“I only hope it tastes as good as it looks,” Draco teased.

“Yeah, I hope so too,” Harry laughed. “But at least the chocolate eggs will be a guaranteed hit.”

Ron said, “It’s brilliant! I’ve been stealing some icing from the bowl.” 

True to form, Ron was still holding a bowl of hand-whipped icing, a spoon in his other hand. 

“Mmm, is that buttercream? Don’t mind if I do,” Draco said, dipping his finger in the icing and then sucking it off. It was divine, of course.

Ron looked pained but Harry was staring at Draco, his expression unreadable.

Harry said, “Let’s, er. Let’s bring the cake out together for Teddy, okay? It’s ready.”

As they walked together toward the back garden where everyone was gathered, holding the cake between them, Harry smiled at him, “Thanks again for your help with the cake. I couldn’t have done it without you, mate.”

Draco’s heart went all wonky and he couldn’t hide his pleased smile. 

Draco was sad to say that he completely missed Teddy’s reaction to the cake; Draco was too busy watching Harry watching Teddy’s reaction. The sheer joy on Harry’s face rivalled the most dazzling Lumos, Harry’s eyes shimmering brighter than all the stars in the sky.

***

Hermione finally cornered him after dessert, when Harry was distracted watching the Muggle football game on the telly with Ron in the drawing room. She gave Draco a pointed look and shuffled them into the library, taking out her wand and performing a Locking and Privacy Charm on the door in quick succession.

Draco had known this was coming. Draco had been finding it increasingly harder and harder to act normal all week, and he was clearly getting worse, making careless mistakes, which Hermione had seen through straight away after Draco’s performance tonight. Draco’s mask was no longer holding for the first time ever and he didn’t know what to do.

It was Draco’s turn to cook dinner tonight for the four of them for their bi-monthly Taco Tuesdays and Draco had completely forgotten about it, seeing as he couldn’t keep track of the days anymore. Draco messed up the recipe for the enchilada sauce so it turned out thin and runny, and then he forgot to turn the oven on to bake so they all ended up waiting around while Draco clumsily made guacamole with not enough avocados and too many onions, which they couldn’t even eat because it turned out they had nothing to eat it with, and then he tried to ply them with margaritas that ended up being way too strong for a work night.

All in all, Draco was an outrageously incompetent host (Mother would surely hear about it) and everyone, even Ron, noticed. Especially since Draco kept unusually quiet throughout dinner, worried that he might say the wrong thing and make everything worse. He was only able to randomly blurt out excuses and apologies for his poor behaviour, which led them all on a pointless circle of awkward reassurance. Harry had given Draco unreadable looks and was quieter than normal too throughout the night, keeping his eyes mostly on his plate.

Harry had definitely been starting to pick up on Draco’s strange behaviour, as Draco was gradually losing control of himself, and losing stretches of time. 

Draco was starting to get injured on the tiniest things while working, earning very preventable minor Jinxes, Hexes, and burns from some of his more feisty objects. Harry had had to use his wand to heal one particularly angry gouge on Draco’s wrist after Harry (not Draco himself) had noticed that Draco had bled through the cuff of Draco’s sleeve.

Draco would be desperately trying to relax with Harry in the evenings like normal and find that Harry had been trying to engage him in conversation, only Draco hadn’t noticed. Yesterday, the movie that they were watching featured a gay couple where one of the leads had been having wet dreams about his ex-wife; Draco lost an entire two hours inside his head after that scene, but he was thankfully able to hide most of it by escaping to the loo for a long bath. 

Draco had also been resorting to taking Dreamless Sleep at night in order to get any sleep at all (keeping it secret from Harry, of course), which often left him groggy and slow the next day, and then even more tired at night, which was one of the Potion’s unfortunate side effects of frequent, consecutive usage.

Most concernedly, Draco had been turning down sex with Harry for the first time ever and Harry was understandably confused, but he was being really respectful about it. But seeing as how Draco had been unable to come up with a better excuse than he was tired (which, truthfully, he was), Draco didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.

So, yes: Draco knew this confrontation was inevitable from the moment Hermione arrived. He’d been thinking about it all throughout dessert (leftover chocolate soufflés that Draco had made before–before, so they were actually edible); Draco knew what he had to do. Hermione Granger-Weasley was unrelenting when it came to discovering the truth and demanding justice, so only the whole, unapologetic truth would satisfy her. So Draco had to try. His cracked, aching mask would have to be removed for just one night, just for her.

Draco sat on the settee by the fire, which had roared to life upon them entering, but Hermione stayed standing, stepping close to loom over him. She looked determined and she opened her mouth to begin what was sure to be a well-intentioned lecture and guilt trip, the shadow from the flames dancing on her face, but Draco cut her off before she could start. 

“You’re skilled in memory magic, right?” Draco asked quietly, staring at his folded hands in his lap. They were shaking slightly. “Because of your parents?”

“Draco–,” Hermione tried.

“Granger–,” Draco started, swallowed, and then looked up at her pleadingly, changing names to show how serious he was. “Hermione. I need to ask you a favour.” 

“Draco–”

“I know I have absolutely no right to ask one of you. I assure you I do know that, and I recognize that I am being selfish and cowardly, as is my wont, but I can give you my word that this will be the only favour I will ever ask of you.”

Hermione tried again and said forcefully, “Draco –”

“If you care for me at all, even a– No, if you care for H-Harry, you’ll do this for me,” Draco pleaded, his small voice quavering slightly. “Please Obliviate me.”

One tear escaped Draco’s lashes and Hermione watched in horror as it slid down Draco’s flushed cheek.

“I cannot bear to have that t-thing, that embarrassing, absolute horror-show of a scene in my head any longer. Whatever I do and wherever I go, it repeats over and over in my head as if I’m trapped in it like a broken Time-Turner.

“It’s one thing to idly and sometimes obsessively dwell, privately and abstractly, about Harry leaving me for a woman and a family one day, as is inevitable when Harry eventually comes to his senses and realises I cannot sire the children that I know he so desperately wants–” Draco’s voice got louder in volume, increasing with his manic fervour and conviction. He was not even looking at Hermione, trapped in his thoughts as he was. “–but it is quite another to see that nightmare come to life right in front of me, glowing halo of sunshine included, my worst fears literally materialised in the flesh, complete with one point five happy children, haunting my every waking and sleeping consciousness every second of every minute of every hour of every day.” 

Draco stood suddenly and stepped urgently towards her. Hermione was frozen in shock, fixedly staring at Draco’s wild expression, his freely falling tears, which Draco seemed oblivious to. Draco had never cried in front of her before. 

“It’s embarrassing and it’s weak and my behaviour is making Harry suspicious and even worse, sad , like I’m having second thoughts about moving in or about our relationship, which is absolutely unacceptable. I never want to hurt him. If there is anything you truly understand about me now and how I’ve changed and how I feel about Harry, it’s that I would never hurt him, not on purpose. And this is hurting him. I’m hurting the person I l-love, and it’s killing me.”

Hermione was crying now too, Draco’s pain an almost physical wave crashing over her, but encasing and ensnaring Draco like an insidious Protego.

“Hermione, please. Please help me. Get rid of the memory and Obliviate me. Make it stop. Please make it stop.”

Hermione put her hand over her mouth to muffle her soft cries. She stepped forward to try to hug him, but Draco stepped neatly away. He could not be touched and he could not be comforted. Her Obliviate could be his only comfort.

Hermione said, her voice anguished, “I c-can’t. I can’t, Draco, I’m so sorry. Please understand. You only need to talk to Harry and you’ll see that your fears are ungrounded. Harry worships you, he’s so happy with you. He’s been happy with you for years before you even officially became a couple!”

Draco shook his head in numb dismissal, but Hermione continued beseechingly. “Draco, we have all said that we’ve never seen Harry this happy before, including Ron and Ginny. I thought you understood that Harry has always felt that he has not been allowed to make his own choices in life, but he chose you. He chooses you every day you’re together, and that’s his own decision. Harry didn’t and doesn’t choose Ginny or another woman or anyone else, and there are other ways of having a family, which you can figure out together, as a team.”

Draco nodded, but not in acceptance, but in resignation. He had expected that she might react in this way, with some unrealistic plan where everything was all sunshine and daisies, like it was all very simple and good and easy, and she had just proved him right. That was it then. There were no other options left to him.

Hermione continued, unconscious of her argument falling on deaf ears. “Draco, please. I’ll help you. Ron and I will help you. Harry will help you. Harry will understand once you talk to him, and you’ll see, you’ll see that you have nothing to fear!”

Didn’t she understand that Harry could never know about this? Harry could never know about this unseemly side of Draco that still exists, and Harry certainly could never know about this particular future open to Harry, if only someone would show him Draco’s Boggart… or Draco’s memory.

Draco nodded again and said with a false calm, “I understand. Thank you, Granger.” 

Draco couldn’t breathe. He needed air. His mask was shattered and he had to get out. He had to escape. It was the only way. 

Draco started walking towards the door and Hermione called, “Draco, wait!”

Draco released Hermione’s Charms on the door and opened it, turning toward Hermione, who had stopped in confusion. “Tell Harry I’m s-sorry.”  

Draco stepped out of the room into the hallway and swiftly locked the door behind him with a particularly strong Locking Charm that Draco had modified himself out of necessity shortly after the War, when he still felt unsafe in his own home. 

Draco knew he only had maybe thirty seconds before she figured out how to break even an unfamiliar Charm, so Draco risked a whispered Accio for his small emergency overnight bag, which came hurtling downstairs toward him from where it had been stashed under their bed. 

Draco caught it by the handle. He didn’t think he would ever have cause to use it, much less so soon after moving in, but Draco was nothing but not always prepared.

And always a coward, his inner voice whispered derisively.

Draco could distantly hear Harry and Ron laughing in the drawing room, so they must not have heard him or seen his summoned bag. Good. That was for the best.

The library door rattled ominously; Hermione must be getting close. 

Draco clutched the bag and prepared to Disapparate, when a movement caught his eye. 

It was the framed picture that Harry and he had hung together in the hallway the first day Draco moved in. It was the first picture taken of them as a couple. They were both grinning and Harry had his arms wrapped around Draco from behind, Draco leaning back comfortably into his embrace, turning his head indulgently for Harry’s kiss on the cheek. Their faces were radiating happiness. 

Draco’s hand shook slightly as he removed the picture frame from the wall. He stared at it fixedly until Harry’s loud, defeated groan and Ron’s triumphant cheer brought him back to the present.

As Draco clutched the picture frame and his bag, the door to the library slammed open and then, with a loud crack, Draco was gone. 

***

Draco and Harry were having a perfectly pleasant dinner at Draco’s flat, sitting next to each other at the dining room table, when Draco told Harry casually as he speared a (perfectly) roasted asparagus (if Draco did say so himself) onto his fork, “I want to ride your cock tonight.”

Harry’s fork slipped out of his hand and clattered against his plate. After several, long moments of staring at Draco, who was ignoring Harry to neatly assemble his (delectable) mushroom risotto onto his fork before delicately placing it in his mouth, Harry finally asked, “Yeah?” and groped for his glass of water.

Draco nodded, grabbing another rosemary olive oil dinner roll from the bread basket on the table, tearing off a piece with his fingers. “I don’t want you to stretch me all that much either; I want to really feel it.”

Harry had given up eating entirely to watch Draco’s every move, hunger in his eyes, but not for the lovely meal Draco had prepared; no, it was all for Draco. 

Draco hid a shiver of nefarious delight and…anticipation. 

Draco didn’t like to bottom very often. He understood that he had this weird hangup about it, most likely stemming from his repressed childhood, Raymond has theorised. Draco often got caught up in thinking that it made him appear too vulnerable and especially too shameless, since Draco seemed to enjoy it a little too much for his comfort. But, with Harry, Draco had found that he was bottoming more and more often because he was enjoying himself more and more, his usual feelings of guilt and reluctance shedding away like an old snakeskin, replaced by a raw need: a hunger for every part of himself to be seen, taken, and cherished by Harry. 

Draco raised his eyebrow and chided, “Finish your plate, Potter. You’re going to need the energy.” 

Harry reluctantly picked his fork back up, but he didn’t take his smouldering eyes off of Draco the entire rest of their meal.

Not thirty minutes later, they were both naked on Draco’s bed, Harry sitting straight up against the headboard, Draco on his knees over Harry’s lap. 

One hand braced on Harry’s shoulder, Draco gripped Harry’s cock with his free hand and placed the tip at the entrance of Draco’s lubed, only moderately stretched hole. Harry’s hands moved to help spread Draco’s arse, giving Draco room to slide the tip of Harry’s glistening cock inside. 

Draco beared down and sank down the shaft slowly until Harry’s thick cock filled him up completely, the girth of Harry’s cock pressing on all the right places, stretching Draco deliciously. Draco had to stop moving and close his eyes at the intensity, his mouth opening unconsciously. 

Harry was so deep inside, and so brilliantly hard. Draco was so full. 

Harry’s hips stayed perfectly still to allow Draco to adjust, although Draco knew it must be a massive strain. Draco’s cock was twitching, dripping a sticky trail down his cock and onto his and Harry’s abdomens.

After a minute, Harry leaned in and kissed Draco’s open mouth. Draco melted into it, moving his hands to clutch the back of Harry’s head, clasping Harry’s perpetually messy hair in his fingers. Harry’s hands were alternating between slowly stroking over Draco’s back, gently groping his arse, and caressing his thighs in a comfortable, endless rhythm, like they had all the time in the world. 

Draco pulled away from their kiss to start placing small, gentle kisses on Harry’s cheek, and delicate bites along his jawbone, and then he mouthed Harry’s neck, sucking and biting lightly. 

Harry pushed into it and stretched his neck out further to give Draco more room, one of Harry’s hands moving to slide his fingers through Draco’s silky hair and then down to press encouragingly on the base of Draco’s head. Draco grazed his canines gingerly against the skin of Harry's neck and then sucked harder, relishing Harry’s pleased sigh and Harry’s twitching cock inside of him. 

Several moments of this later, an involuntary gasp was pulled from Draco’s chest. Harry, the fiendish tease, was stroking one long finger at and around the place where they were joined together. 

In response, Draco deviously clenched his arse as tight as he could around Harry’s cock, causing Harry to groan and pull his finger away to squeeze Draco’s arse with both hands. 

They stared into each other’s eyes intensely and then Draco put his arms on the headboard behind Harry, grasping the ledge of the upholstery. 

In turn, Harry leaned back further against the headboard and bent his knees enough to place his feet on the bed, careful to keep Draco securely seated on Harry’s cock. Harry then moved his hands to Draco’s waist, and, at Draco’s quick nod, started moving Draco up and down on Harry’s cock, Harry’s hips thrusting up to meet him. Draco helped, pushing his hips back, and they established a smooth, deep rhythm, which steadily grew faster and faster and harder until they were both panting and gasping mindlessly, lost in their shared pleasure. 

The sound of their coupling was loud in the room and Draco’s hard cock was bobbing in the air from their movement, occasionally slapping wetly against Draco’s abdomen.

Harry took one hand away from Draco’s waist, his suddenly slick palm moving to quickly stroke Draco’s aching cock, concentrating on thumbing the slit and cupping Draco’s sack. 

Draco sobbed in pleasure and came all over Harry’s hand and stomach, the fluttering muscles of Draco’s inner walls clenching around Harry’s cock tightly, causing Harry to cry out and come inside Draco, Harry’s cock pulsing and his hips juttering. Draco could feel the warm release filling him to the brim. 

Draco went limp, placing his sweaty forehead on Harry’s shoulder, his breath still coming out in shaky pants. Draco could feel Harry’s own unsteady huffs against Draco’s ear, the both of them riding out the exquisite after effects. 

After several minutes of recovering, their heartbeats slowed to almost a normal rhythm once more. 

Draco’s breath hitched when he felt Harry’s soft cock slip out of him with a squelch, Harry’s release already starting to slowly ooze down Draco's thighs in thick globs. Draco clenched around nothing, feeling empty, until he felt Harry’s fingers brushing Draco’s loose, fluttering rim, teasing him and petting him, and then Harry pushed three fingers deep inside Draco’s sopping hole, finding and pressing against Draco’s prostate.

Draco keened, the sound torn out of him, and he moved his head off Harry’s shoulder to plunge his tongue inside Harry’s mouth. Harry kissed back deeply, sensuously, and began to rub gently against Draco’s prostate with unyielding pressure, the squelching obscenely loud in the quiet room. 

Not a minute later, Draco threw his head back in ecstasy, his body trembling and his cock, untouched, spurted out a few weak dribbles of cum.

Draco, still trembling, collapsed onto Harry, a heavy, dead weight, and Harry pulled his fingers out of Draco’s now very relaxed hole to hold Draco close. Harry’s clean hand gently stroked Draco’s hair and they breathed together in the dark bedroom, holding each other close, their bodies satiated, their minds calm and content, their slow and steady hearts pressed against each other, beating in tandem.

***

Draco landed in Hashingdom Park, behind a huge oak tree. He spared a glance around to see if any Muggles noticed his sudden arrival, but there were few people around at this time of night, and he only spotted a distant jogger and a couple slowly walking their dog, the couple hand in hand.

For lack of anything better to do, Draco started walking with no particular destination in mind. He passed empty picnic tables, a playground with a laughing couple racing each other on the swings, and a dog park before he reached a small lake. Draco found a bench facing the water and sat down, still mindlessly clutching his bag and the picture frame.

Draco had come here several times shortly after his house arrest had ended, only ever by himself, to think, and to relish being able to go outside again and visit new places, where people were just people, not dumb Muggles or hateful Death Eaters or concerned mothers. The park was large and lovely and clean, and people were always happy here.   

Draco didn’t know how long he had been sitting on the bench, staring at the lake unseeingly until he noticed that his body was shivering. How strange. Draco had been feeling cold all week since–... and now, sitting outside in the elements after dark without a coat and only a light jumper, he felt nothing. He also realised that he could now barely see the lake, with only a weak glow from a nearby street light illuminating his bench. 

The park was dark, chilly, and completely deserted now, except for Draco. Draco was alone.

Draco moved to stand up but then stumbled and sat back down. Oh. He was still holding his bag and the picture frame, which made standing up fairly awkward. After a moment, he took out his wand and, without looking at the picture inside, shrunk the frame down to the size of a stamp, and carefully placed it in an outside pocket of his bag. And then he shrunk the bag too, slipping it inside his trouser pocket. 

Draco then got up off the bench and followed the lights from the street lamps to the park exit. 

He walked and walked without aim in the quiet city streets until he found himself in front of a bright storefront, an establishment calling itself Naughty Coffee with a buzzing, red neon sign claiming it was “Open 24 Hours.” 

Draco opened the door and walked inside, and was instantly hit with a wave of the rich smell of freshly ground coffee beans and something sharp and sweet. There were a surprising number of people inside, talking loudly, standing clustered around bar tables and sitting around long tables on benches in groups. There was a young couple snogging at a table in the corner, and Draco looked away quickly.

He walked up to the counter where an older, smiling woman was standing behind the till. She had a few teeth missing as well as a few shiny gold teeth, both of which didn’t take away from the warmth of her smile.

“One tea, please,” Draco asked, his voice hoarse.

“Oh, sorry, love. We don’t ‘ave tea. Mad, righ’, bein’ in England an’ all? Jus’ coffee an' loads of alcohol to put in it; that makes it naughty, see? Wha’ do you fancy? 'ow about an Irish Coffee? It’s my specialty, I make the coffee and the whiskey meself!”

Oh. He’d never heard of alcohol in coffee before. Well, Draco supposed he could try that. He was partial to a merlot or a Cabernet Sauvignon, but that wouldn’t go in coffee. Draco occasionally liked Firewhiskey, maybe she had that, but, right. This was a Muggle establishment, of course they wouldn’t have Firewhiskey, but they have regular whiskey, she said, home-brewed, which was sure to be strong. Maybe he could have two glasses to start or three even and–

“Just one coffee, please,” Draco said resolutely and, after a moment, added quietly. “I don’t think alcohol is quite the best idea at the moment.”

“Righ’ you are, love. Tha’ll be three quid.”

Draco blinked at the mention of the Muggle currency and then closed his eyes briefly in defeat. Right. He only had Galleons on him. Merlin, you’re such a fool.

Draco shook his head ashamedly and said, “Terribly sorry. I only just remembered that I’ve left my Mu–money in my coat. Apologies for wasting your time. Have a good evening.” 

He started for the door, his mind blank. What now?

“'old on there, dearie,” Draco heard from behind.

Draco turned back around and the matron was smiling at him fondly. “Why don’ you take a seat and I’ll bring you a coffee, on the ‘ouse. You look like you could use the warmth.”

“Oh. That’s terribly kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly–,” he said quickly, but she had already turned away to the back. To make his coffee, he supposed. 

Draco stood staring at the counter until he figured he’d better do what she said and found a quieter, empty table towards the back, furthest away from people, and sat down on the threadbare, but surprisingly comfortable bench. The tabletop was deep mahogany, clearly old and worn, but it was smooth and polished with care. 

Avoiding anyone’s eyes, and especially avoiding looking at the still snogging couple still unfortunately in his eyesight, he looked at the menu board above the counter, which was a handwritten blackboard that listed several different variations of standard coffee drinks, but then it had a section that said Naughty Coffees that listed Irish Coffee, Italian Coffee, Mexican Coffee, Espresso Summer, Paradise Found, Black Russian, White Russian, Espresso Martini and on and on the list went; Draco counted at least thirty of them.

Pansy would adore this place; she had developed a rather strong coffee addiction over the years, and much preferred it over tea. And Dean would love the vibe, with its exposed brick and artsy portraits and friendly matrons. And if Dean was coming, that would of course mean Seamus would come too, and Seamus loved anything with alcohol and anything Irish. And Harry would–

Draco flinched away from that train of thought and closed his eyes tightly.

“Where’s your coat, love?” a voice asked from directly in front of him, surprising Draco into swiftly opening his eyes. The matron who had taken his order put an especially large cup of coffee on the table, along with a small carafe of milk, a sugar dish, and a teaspoon, all in a matching aubergine colour.

Draco said, “Thank you very much, you’re very generous, madam” because manners had been ingrained in him since before he could talk, which was useful, because words weren't coming too easily to him at the moment. And then, after she was clearly waiting for a response, Draco replied, “Oh, well. I was rather in a rush and I must have forgotten.” 

He managed to force a small smile for her, or what he hoped was a smile. He hoped it wasn’t a grimace. He was having trouble controlling his face… and body. And heart. “I appreciate your concern.”

The matron clucked her tongue and then wagged her finger at him good naturedly. “You young’ins, always in a rush and always runnin’ away. Now wha’ever you’re runnin’ from, love, my coffee’ll sober you righ’ up. It’s strong, it is, and made wi’ all me love, o’ course.” She winked at him.

“Maggie!” a group called from the counter and the woman, Maggie, called back, “Be righ’ there, lovelies!”

To Draco, Maggie said, “Don’ be afraid to give me a shou’ if you’ll be needin’ anything else, dearie. Drink up, and then go back ‘ome. I’m sure a sweet thing like you has someone wai’in’ for ‘im.”

Draco felt his heart beat faster and then it slowed dramatically, a heavy, sluggish thing thumping weakly in his hollow chest.

He forced his lips to move and said, “Thank you,” again and then Draco was left alone with his coffee. And with his thoughts. Again.

Draco looked at the coffee. It was a rich, deep brown and the scent from the steam wafting toward him was exquisite. Draco normally enjoyed a heavy splash of milk and two sugars in his coffee, when he even drank coffee at all, since tea was clearly the superior drink, but this coffee looked and smelled so inviting that he picked it up without a second thought, blew on it lightly, and took a sip.

It was pure heaven. Vibrant, smooth, and silky, with an intense, biting aftertaste which left his tongue craving more. 

Draco’s face broke into its first real smile in what felt like days. He eagerly took a larger sip…and burned his tongue. 

Draco, wincing, spluttered ungainly, let out a self-deprecating huff of laughter. Of course. Of course that’s what Draco would do. 

It’s been too long since Draco got like this. Years, even, since he trapped himself into a corner with his negative thoughts behind his sharp, porcelain mask; his Woe-Is-Me Malfoy Masquerade Phase, as his Mind Healer called it.

Mister Kapoor always said that– 

Draco gasped, tensing.

Oh. Salazar, how completely, utterly imbecilic of him that Draco would only just now think of his Mind Healer, after everything that’s happened. 

Draco had been going to Raymond Kapoor for almost ten years now. That first year, it was part of Draco’s mandatory sentencing that the Ministry had assigned him immediately following the War, one of many sentences he had to follow in order to avoid Azkaban. Draco was a right mess in the beginning, and had seen Mr. Kapoor at least three times a week for an entire year before Draco felt, for lack of a better term, healed enough to reduce his sessions and trust himself to actually actively start practising what he’d learned.

In fact, Draco had felt strong enough after all the progress he’d made thanks to Mr. Kapoor that, these last two years, after getting together with–with–, (Draco stopped that thought immediately), Draco had only been scheduling sessions maybe twice a month, if only to catch up with Mr. Kapoor on the Mind Healer’s husband and their two pomeranians, and, of course, for Draco to gush about how well his business was doing and how happy he was with – (Draco couldn’t bear to continue that line of thought.) 

But this was good, this was brilliant, Draco had a plan now. He’d make an emergency visit to Mr. Kapoor’s home, where he practised out of. It was clearly after hours, but surely this counted as one of those “dire situations” Mr. Kapoor had mentioned throughout the years, yes?  

“My home is always open to you, Draco, please know that. I am your Mind Healer, but I am also your friend. Come to me right away before you start spiralling, especially when you feel yourself sinking into that phase again.”

There, see? An invitation given years ago, but surely still relevant. 

Draco thought he’d never have to use that invitation again due to how far he’d come, and all the progress he’d made, but “No one graduates from therapy, Draco. It’s an ever-evolving learning process, where the mind needs constant care, just like the body does.”

With sudden vigour, only partly from the caffeine, Draco stood up from the table, but then immediately sat back down. Draco’s urge to leave was strong, but he mustn't waste the coffee that was so generously bequeathed to him. Besides, a coffee like that was worth savouring, crisis or not.

Draco took his time to try and enjoy the coffee, only adding enough milk so he didn’t burn himself again. It really was divine, and it provided some much needed comfort and motivation.

After finishing, Draco made his way to the counter, where Maggie stood chatting with two young women.

Draco waited until she turned to face him and then Draco said to her earnestly, “I must graciously thank you again for the coffee, and for your kindness. The coffee was truly exquisite.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, love. I wan’ to see you back now, you hear? And bring your friends!”

As soon as Draco stepped out of the door and onto the pavement, an owl swooped over him and dropped a letter at his feet. And then another immediately followed and dropped a second letter. The third letter that dropped was scarlet. 

Draco looked around frantically and then picked all three letters up and darted into the alley. Once he established that he was alone, he quickly took out his wand, and just as the scarlet envelope began smoking, he Vanished them. 

Shaking, he took a few minutes to calm down, closing his eyes, taking deep breaths, and gripping his wand tightly. 

Once he felt he would not Splinch himself, Draco opened his eyes and then Disapparated before any more owls could find him.

***

Draco’s Apparition landed him on the pavement just outside Mind Healer Raymond Kapoor’s charming townhouse on Dorset Lane, just behind the potted miniature spruce tree, conveniently hiding him from view.

The sight of the ivy vines crawling up the home’s white stucco walls and the black, flickering sconces were an instant comfort to him, even upon seeing that all of the windows of the house were dark. 

Draco sincerely felt wretched to show up, unannounced, to a person’s home, especially at this time of night, but he couldn’t exactly have sent an owl. And, again, he’d established his situation was dire enough to excuse the possible affront, he reassured himself. 

Draco carefully pushed open the wrought iron gate and made his way up the drive. Even before he reached the door, he knew something was wrong. 

Affixed to the door, in Mr. Kapoor’s fancy script, a sign read “I am currently on holiday! In case of an emergency, please call my mobile, or reach out to your assigned alternate contact. See you soon and stay well!”

Right. Yes, of course. Draco now recalled that very discussion from their last “session.” Mr. Kapoor had said he’d be going with his husband Justin and their two dogs on an extended trip to The Philippines to visit with Justin’s family. Mr. Kapoor had given Draco the mobile number of “A lovely woman named Brenda who’s right up your alley” as a temporary, alternate Healer just in case Draco were to get in a strop and couldn’t reach Mr. Kapoor on his mobile. 

“The service there can be a bit wonky,” the Mind Healer had cautioned. “And it’s quite a long, arduous journey for an owl, I’m afraid.”

The sign’s return date was almost three weeks from now, so he must have only just left. And both mobile numbers that Draco was given to use were on Draco’s own mobile, which he’d of course left back ho–...at Grimmauld Place.

So– so that was that. No Raymond Kapoor and no Brenda the Lovely Alternate Right Up His Alley. It was all such perfect timing.  

This couldn’t be happening to him. Draco needed somewhere to hide; somewhere safe. He needed somewhere to sort out his thoughts, somewhere to sleep for the night and see if this was all a bad dream come morning. He couldn’t possibly go to any of his friends, even though they were all quite familiar with his strops, as frequent and melodramatic as they were, (although not as frequent the last few years, to be fair). No, he really couldn’t because then Harry– (Draco’s breath hitched) would find him, and that –. That wasn’t–...that was just unthinkable right now. 

Draco turned away from the door, taking the stairs down from the stoop unsteadily, and started walking back toward the street, thinking frantically through the jumbled mess that was his mind right now. 

Mum was in the Malfoy estate in France, and he couldn’t possibly be able to get a Portkey at this time of night. He couldn’t go to the Leaky Cauldron for a room because then he would surely be spotted and his whereabouts would be disclosed to–…anyone who might come looking for him. And Muggle accommodation was out, due to his already established lack of hindsight of not bringing Muggle currency.

Two metres from the wrought iron gate, Draco stopped abruptly. 

Draco had thought of a name. A name he hadn’t dared to contemplate in quite a long time. It was a completely mad idea, not to mention deeply cruel and horribly selfish, but…Draco was both, and desperate. And he was out of options.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he exited the gate and hid himself behind the spruce tree. 

His destination in mind and his stomach churning, Draco was about to Disapparate when he saw a Patronus in the shape of an otter charging toward him. 

Draco quickly Disapparated before he could hear its message, his heart pounding wildly.

***

“Oh, look: The Boy Who Lived to Annoy has an interview in here,” Pansy scoffed, flipping through the latest issue of Witch Weekly. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you, as I’m sure you’ve already read the whole thing at least fifty times already, what with your obsession of Potter still as ridiculous as ever, despite what you may think you’ve been hiding from me. 

“It says that he’ll want to settle down and have at least two snot-nosed little brats. Because of course he does. He doesn’t even mention the ever-popular Weasley slag, but seeing how that’s who he’s currently shagging, everyone is shitting their pants that a marriage proposal announcement is not an if, but a when. Want to place a bet on how long the Golden Couple will last?”

“No,” Draco said.

“Oh, come on, darling. Be a dear and play the game.”

“I’m not in the mood, Pansy.”

“I give it six months until they have a shotgun wedding and then only six more months after that before we’re reading about their scandalous separation and shared custody of the poor brat.”

Draco ignored her, which made Pansy even more vicious.

“Or maybe not. Maybe we’ll be hearing about their nauseating marital bliss for the rest of our lives. Nothing but anniversaries and babies and parties and grandchildren until our eyes bleed.”

Draco still chose to ignore her, which was a mistake.

“Bully for you that wizards can’t get up the duff, Draco, as I’m sure you would be first in line to offer your arse to him.”

“Piss off, you cunt.”

Pansy laughed with cruel satisfaction and then kept reading. “Merlin, who wrote this rubbish? You’d think that an interview would practically write itself, given that most of the words are direct quotations, but this is dreadful. I could write better than this with my eyes closed.”

“Maybe you should then. Try getting a job there as a copyeditor or something and work your way up.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll be thrown out of the building, which will give them a free headline. ‘Evil Girl That Offered Up Harry Potter to He Who Was Noseless Desperate for Job, Begs for Underserved Attention.’”

“I’m serious. We have to keep trying. We made mistakes, but this is our home too, and we have to show them that we’ve changed. But you'll need to come up with better headlines than that to have a chance…”

“Bugger off! And I can’t very well go there empty handed. Ooh, I know! Since people love gossip and scandalous secrets behind closed doors, let me interview you, Draco. Let’s give the Slytherin side of the War.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. Wouldn’t it help our cause, to show them that we’ve changed or whatever rubbish you just said?”

“I want my remorse to show through my actions and good deeds, not through any blatant attempts at begging for forgiveness.”

Pansy ignored him. “Ooh, what if I published some of those juicy diary entries you wrote in school? Or, better yet, your diary from even before Hogwarts. Show the whole world that even naughty, secretly bent war criminals could fancy Harry Potter.”

“I said piss off, Pansy!”

“Merlin, fine ... You’re no fun, darling.”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “It really is a shame about Potter being straight and soon to be engaged. Now you’ll have to give up your dream of that outdoor wedding in Florence after you’ve done a daring rescue with, whatsit, Excalibur or whatever such rot from the back of a–a Griffin, was it?”

“I was never going to be King Arthur or even a Knight of the Round Table, Pansy. Potter wasn’t the one who needed saving. He never was.”

***

Draco took a deep inhale, let it out shakily, and knocked on the red door of Wainsbury Cottage.  The front window was dark, but Draco couldn’t think about the very real possibility of no one being home. He just couldn’t.This was his last hope.

Draco’s heart was pounding in his ears, and he only vaguely registered the deafening sound of crickets and frogs coming from the surrounding fields. This was the only property around for miles.

Maybe two minutes passed and then the door cracked open, a handsome, sleepy man in a fine dressing gown cautiously peeking his head out.

The man’s eyes opened wide in shock. “...Draco?”

Draco clenched his hands at his side until his fingers protested. “Hello, Marceau.”

Both men stared at each other before, finally, Marceau shook his head slightly and asked, “What are you doing here?”

After a moment of hesitation, Draco told the truth, looking straight into Marceau’s eyes. “Hiding.”

Marceau kept staring at Draco, silent and still. Draco could not read his face…it had been too long now, and Marceau had always had an exceptional poker face. 

A sharp breeze suddenly whistled by and Draco shivered, his shoulders involuntarily curling inwards. 

Marceau finally moved, stepping back and opening the door wide. “Entrer.”

Draco obeyed, careful not to brush up against him, and they both moved automatically into the drawing room.

Upon a quick glance around, everything looked the same from when Draco was last here. The polished hardwood floors, the white baby grand still in its place under the large bay window, the black sofa with the two matching armchairs arranged around the spotless marble fireplace. 

It looked clean, but untouchable and unfriendly without the gorgeous side table that Draco had lovingly restored resting against the wall, Draco’s great-grandmother’s Ming-era tea set no longer sitting on top, and without Draco’s multiple fuzzy blankets flung over various surfaces, or Draco’s shoes scattered all around. 

Draco could tell Marceau had noticed Draco’s survey of the room, and Draco couldn’t hide his wince. 

Marceau gestured to the sofa and told Draco, “S'asseoir.” 

Draco did as he was told and Mareau sat down in the armchair across from him. 

Without prompting, the fire lit itself in the grate, providing a welcoming warmth, and the cushions behind Draco on the sofa plumped invitingly, arranging themselves to Draco’s comfort. 

It seemed Wainsbury Cottage was still fond of Draco.

Draco looked down and observed that there was indeed something new in this room. A large, plush carpet was at his feet. It was gorgeous, with rich blues, purples, and golds. He loved it instantly. Marceau always had impeccable taste, which was one of the many reasons Draco had–…had loved him.

Marceau did not speak, and it spoke volumes that he was not offering Draco refreshments or engaging him in polite chit chat, foregoing the usual niceties ingrained into Purebloods since birth. Only visitors who were welcome got such treatment, and Draco, the ex-boyfriend who had arrived unannounced in the middle of the night after almost four years of not exchanging a single owl, was certainly not one. 

Draco could not think of where to begin and Marceau, always the better man, noticed, and asked mildly, “Où est ton manteau?”

Draco got a flash of a warm grin with missing teeth, and he almost smiled. 

Draco replied, “J'étais pressé.” And then, ruefully, “This kind of thing happens to lâches insensé who have never learned to stop running away.”

Marceau leaned back in his chair and said, “Well. At least you have learned to acknowledge it.”

Draco nodded. Yes. It didn’t mean Draco knew how to fix that broken part of himself, and therein lies the rub.

“Marceau. I deeply apologise for my unsolicited invasion of your home, Je m'excuse profondément. I know you don’t deserve the imposition, especially from me. But I…I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Marceau hummed and said, “Yes, and I suppose it doesn’t hurt that my home is warded to the teeth against any unrecognised communication, thus making my home the perfect hiding place from one Harry Potter and friends.”

Draco said nothing.

Marceau took Draco’s silence for confirmation and continued, “And I also suppose that you wagered that I would not turn you away, seeing as how you know I once cherished every part of you, including your lâcheté.”

Draco bit his lip, but compelled himself to continue, “You have every right to kick me out. I certainly deserve it and I would not blame you, but…but, please, let me stay just one night and I’ll figure out somewhere else to go tomorrow.” 

Draco could feel tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, and he fought to hold them back. “I will never ask anything of you ever again, Je vous donne ma parole.” 

Draco lost the battle and his tears fell. Whispering, he pleaded, “Please. Je vous en supplie. You may hate me, but you have never been cruel.”

Marceau stared at Draco, at Draco’s wet cheeks, trembling frame, and pleading eyes, and he looked away from Draco for the first time since Draco arrived, Marceau’s forehead scrunched with pain.

“Je ne pourrais jamais te détester.”

Draco flinched and looked down at his knees, and then startled when a black silk handkerchief was suddenly two inches from his nose, which the house must have provided for him, as Marceau hadn’t moved. 

Draco took it and Marceau said, still without looking at Draco, “You may stay the night, and as many nights as you need. My home is open to you. I trust you know your way to the guest quarters,” and then he stood up.

Draco startled, stopping wiping his eyes with the delicate cloth to stand up as well. 

Marceau started exiting the living room. At the entrance to the hallway, with his back to Draco, Marceau said quietly, “Now I shall retire to bed before I shame myself by offering to comfort you in the only way I know how.”

Draco’s breath stuttered and Marceau moved to go. 

Quickly, Draco took a step forward and gasped, “Marceau,” and Marceau stopped, his head bowed. 

Draco whispered fervently, “Merci.”

Marceau stood silently for a few moments and then said quietly, “Fais de beaux rêves, mon doux dragon.” 

Marceau walked away and Draco heard the door to the master chambers close, and then Draco was alone.

***

Draco and Harry were lying in Harry’s bed one evening, reading. Well, Draco was reading. Harry was lying on his side, head propped up on his hand, watching Draco read.

Draco said, turning a page, his lips twitching, “May I help you?”

Draco saw, out of the corner of his eye, Harry looking at him intently. “Draco…it’s been more than a year, right? Since we started dating.”

Draco hummed, pleased, “Yes, I do recall getting flowers and a very depressing strip tease from a Mr. Ronald Weasley for the occasion on our anniversary some three months ago.” Two months, one week, and six days ago, to be precise. 

Harry snickered. “Right! I’m glad I saved that memory for the Pensieve. Forever proof that Ron lost the bet that we’d made it this long without killing each other.”

“Speak for yourself. I never want to suffer through that ever again. But I daresay the shag I got from you that night to make up for it was…adequate,” Draco smirked, waiting.

“Adequate?” Harry sat up, hiding a grin, growling in faux outrage, “I’ll show you adequate, you lying ponce!”

Harry snatched the book out of Draco’s hands (“Potter, my page!”), threw it on the nightstand, and then pushed Draco back on the pillow to take Draco’s mouth for a long, deep snog. 

A glorious twenty minutes later, they were both lying naked beneath the sheets, recovering from a particularly excellent orgasm, if Draco did say himself. His toes were still tingling a little from Harry’s blowjob.

“Fuck,” Harry said, smiling in satisfaction.

Draco asked, dazed, “Was there a point to your original question or did you just want an excuse to shag me?”

“Oh. Right, yeah. We should, er, share rosters, right?”

Draco scrunched his forehead, not understanding. “Rosters?”

“Yeah, like. Who we’ve been with? I know we’ve been friends a long time and have seen each other dating various people over the years, but. It’s one thing to see it or vaguely hear about it, and another thing to really talk about it…right? At least that’s what Hermione says.”

Fuck. Draco blinked, struggling to restart his brain. “Potter, if you wanted to have a serious discussion with me, you maybe should have done that before you gave me a mind-blowing orgasm.”

Harry huffed a laugh and kissed Draco’s exposed, bare shoulder, then Draco’s neck, and then Draco’s mouth for a dirty kiss. “Then you shouldn’t have baited me. You know I can’t back down from a challenge.”

Draco pulled Harry back in his arms and they necked a few more minutes. 

Harry pulled away, caging Draco with his arms, looking straight into Draco’s eyes. “But, seriously, Draco. Can we talk about it?”

Fuck. Harry’s eyes. They were so green, and so earnest. Draco couldn’t say no, even though Draco was known to be twitchy about expressing his feelings (they still haven’t said the L-Word yet!). But he wanted to try for Harry. He’d do anything for Harry. “Yes, of course.”

Harry grinned, “Brilliant. Let me get our pants first; I don’t want to be starkers when we’re talking about our exes.”

Draco chuckled nervously. “Quite right.”

After they had both put on their pants, had some conjured water (slightly metallic, but fine), and sat up against the headboard, Harry said, “I know it’s out of order, but can we skip ahead, or back, I mean, to…to Marceau Dupont?”

Draco, despite the sudden swooping and clenching of his stomach, had to smile at Harry, “Dupont, Harry. You don’t pronounce the t.”

“Yeah, whatever. Like, when you guys were dating, I kept pestering Hermione about him, and about you and him, and she only gave me, like, scraps, which you know drives me mad. And you seemed so guarded every time I tried to talk to you about it. I just…I just want to know what happened between you two, and why you kept him from me and why I hardly saw him even though you dated for, like, two years, right? You seemed really serious at one point. More serious than I ever got with Ginny.”

Draco licked his lips, but forced himself not to hide under the sheets, and looked back at Harry. “Yes. W-we can talk about Marceau. I just…don’t know where to start.”

“Well, I already know you met him through work. He bought a few of the things you fixed?”

“Yes, he’s a magical antiquities dealer. He buys and trades antiques, specialising in finding and returning pieces to their original makers. He sold a few things to me, as well.”

“Yeah, that. And I know he speaks fluent French, like you, he’s a posh Pureblood, like you, and he’s drop-dead gorgeous, like you. 

Draco, involuntarily, snorts. “Yes, we did have quite a few similarities. But he was actually born and raised in France, unlike me, attended Beauxbatons, unlike me, and was never involved in a war or associated with Death Eaters or old snake-face or did any evil-doing at all, unlike me. He also was–is seven years my senior.”

“...And?” Harry prompted. 

“And…I’m sorry, Harry. I’m trying. It’s just hard for me. Maybe if you…asked me direct questions.”

“Okay. Why did you break up?”

Draco felt his vision get skewed a moment and he had trouble staying present with Harry. After a minute, Draco said, “...Pass. Can we get to that one later? Try something else.” 

Merlin, Harry’s Gryffindor style of questioning always left Draco light-headed, and this particular line of questioning was overwhelming to say the least. 

Harry looked a little disappointed, like a kid being thwarted from digging up the treasure after finding the X-Marks-the-Spot. 

“Okay. Did you love him?”

Draco’s heart spasmed and he had to put his hand briefly over his eyes. “Merlin, Harry. You really don’t know how to hold back.”

“You said direct.”

“Yes, yes, that was my mistake, I forgot. The Gryffindor style of direct is a Bludger to the face.”

Harry didn’t react. He clearly wanted a…direct answer back.

Draco closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes. I loved him. And I believe he loved me. But…one of our greatest conflicts ended up being our…differences. You say that we were similar, which was true, in a lot of ways. But… I was, and am, a child of war, and I was on the wrong side of that war, as you very well know. Marceau was understanding…but he couldn’t truly understand, because how could you? If you weren’t there. Marceau grew up in France and is older, and thus was untouched by war. It just…ate at me sometimes. That, despite my present self, I would always have a dark shadow over my past self, and I was scared that the shadow would eventually bleed and infect him too.” 

Draco hoped Harry was satisfied with that answer. It was the truth, but only a piece of the reason why Marceau and him ended up separating, and not amicably. Draco just knew he wasn’t ready to tell Harry the…the whole version. Not yet. Maybe one day, when Draco was stronger.

Harry breathed, “Draco,” and took Draco’s hand to kiss his palm, his knuckles, the back of his hand. Harry looked like he wanted to respond, but he held himself back, waiting for Draco to finish, holding and squeezing Draco’s hand in support.

Draco, a master of misdirection, told another important truth to hide a shameful omission, “I feel much… safer with you than I ever did with Marceau. Not because I’m no longer scared of my past or my past coming back to haunt me and those I care about, but because I know you, and you know me. You’ve been through such dark, awful things too, Harry, but you’re still so strong, so I know that if I ever tried to…corrupt you or stain you in any way, you wouldn’t, couldn’t let me; you’re just so inherently good that I’m safe knowing that my darkness could never touch you.

“Harry, I– you–…you know every wicked part of me and every detail of my shameful actions in the past, and yet you still choose to be with me. I don’t know how or why, and I never will, but I promise you that I will never take it for granted. I–”

Harry, seeming to run out of patience, cut Draco off, pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss. Draco threw his arms around Harry and kissed back, trying to pour all of his feelings into it: his worry and his fear, but mostly his wonder, his joy, and his love.

They kissed for an indeterminable amount of time (minutes, hours, days, who cared?) when Harry pulled away enough to free his lips, but kept his forehead pressed against Draco’s. “Draco. Thank you so much for telling me all that.”

Harry kissed Draco’s eyelids tenderly and then pulled away to look deeply into Draco’s eyes. “I promise to always keep you safe, and I promise to spend my–spend our time together proving to you that you are good too, and that our pasts are never coming back.”

Draco, weak with love for this man, put his head on Harry’s shoulder and clutched at him tightly. Harry pulled Draco close, wrapping his arms firmly around Draco, and kissed the top of his head. Draco felt as though he could stay here in Harry’s arms forever, and would die happy; true to Harry’s word, Draco had never felt more safe.

Harry, of course, had to ruin it, the sod. A tender moment could never stay a tender moment; Draco suspected a lifetime association with the various Weasleys was behind it. 

“Can I ask you one more question about him?”

Draco, reluctant to pull away, stayed where he was and answered cautiously, “Yes, Harry.”

“What was he like in bed? Was he good?” Harry asked facetiously and Draco could feel the impish smirk Harry must be sporting, and Draco let out a surprised shout of laughter and pulled away, swatting at Harry’s side. 

“Harry, I am sure you don’t want me to answer that. For the love of Merlin, please, no.”

“Yeah, you just don’t want to say only because you know it must pale in comparison to what we did last week, or even last night,” Harry teased, pushing Draco down against the pillow and leaning over Draco to kiss his clavicle.

“Harry, sto–op, this isn’t fair. It’s your turn for an embarrassing interrogation! A Slytherin never forgets! I am owed, Potter!”

Harry hummed mischievously and continued kissing down Draco’s body, licking and biting at Draco’s nipples before slowly making his way down toward Draco’s cock, which was perking up in interest, starting to tent the sheets even through his pants.

“Mine can wait. I really want to blow you again.”

Draco whinged, faux outraged, as Harry pulled down the sheet and then Draco’s pants to expose Draco’s half-hard cock to the air. “Betrayal! Such disloyal treachery in the most noble, ancient House of Black! Whatever would Hermione say?”

“Shut up, you prat,” Harry laughed fondly and then took Draco down all the way to the root. And that was the end of that conversation. Draco was safe.

[Part Two]

Draco woke up slowly, pleasantly. His eyes still closed, he reached an arm out for Harry, thinking that they could try for same lazy morning sex before Draco needed to get up and start working on the Secrecy Sensor for Rasheeda Clarke.

When Draco’s arm met nothing but empty sheets, he opened his eyes, and the smile melted off his face, the reality crashing into his awareness. Right. Draco was not home in bed with Harry. Draco was in Marceau Dupont’s guestroom, after Draco had come begging on his doorstep last night. 

Draco had laid awake in the unfamiliar bed for hours, craving Harry’s arm around him and Harry’s even breaths beside him before Draco had taken a vial of Dreamless Sleep he had found in the medicine cabinet.

Draco clutched his pillow, feeling the heavy weight of his actions yesterday pressing him into the bed. His body felt like lead and it was a struggle to lift his head to look at the clock on the wall. 

14:16. Draco had slept through the entire morning and most of the afternoon. Draco felt like he should be surprised or sad or angry, but Draco didn’t feel much of anything. 

The house was quiet, the room was dark from the heavy curtains, and the bed was so soft and comfortable.

Draco didn’t know how long he laid there, his thoughts picking apart every action from the past week before he forced himself, with great effort, to sit up against the headboard, forcibly shelving the thoughts for now.

Draco needed a plan. He knew he was already running out of time. Wainsbury Cottage may be Unplottable and under a Fidelius Charm, but he believed truly nothing was impossible for Harry Potter and the Golden Trio. And if Hermione had already told Harry what had happened…

Draco couldn’t give up on the idea of the Obliviation Charm. Sure, Hermione had refused, and his Mind Healer was unable to be asked to perform it for Draco right now, but that didn’t mean those were his only two options for it, right?

Right. Of course not. So, Draco could seek the help of a professional. He could go to St. Mungo’s. Only…someone was bound to recognize him there. His hair alone, which Draco actually adored, was like a beacon that blared “IT’S A MALFOY” wherever he went. And he wouldn’t be able to use his name, of course. No, that would leave a record. 

Polyjuice Potion was out, as the usage was strictly regulated and if he somehow managed to find the restricted ingredients, it took months to brew. So that left a Glamour. Pansy used to perform one on her nose all the time, and Draco had copied her to often hide his Dark Mark in the early days. Draco had never performed a Glamour to change his facial features, but he would have to try. 

But…it would all have to wait until tomorrow. Draco was still so tired. He had no energy to move out of bed, let alone the energy to perform a complex Glamour Charm or meticulously plan an outing. 

Tomorrow, Draco would do it. Tomorrow… 

Draco closed his eyes and darkness dragged him back down once more.

***

The next day, Draco spent almost an hour in front of the mirror, using his wand to distort his features before Draco was satisfied that he did not look like himself: he was neither handsome nor ugly, just a plain bloke with curly, dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, a weak chin, and a larger nose. Draco then spent another hour coming up with a cover story, just in case. And then a couple more hours after that trying to talk himself into leaving the safety of his room.

Finally, Draco was in the reception area of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. After an indecisive minute staring at the directive board, Draco approached the Welcome Witch. 

When she looked up, a rather disdainful look on her face, Draco said, “Pardon me. I…I need to make an appointment, please.”

The Welcome Witch sighed and said, “Yes, for what?”

“Are there any Mind Healers available for a last-minute session?”

The Welcome Witch sighed again and said, “Sir. This is a hospital where we provide treatments for maladies and injuries, hence the name. We only have one Mind Healer on duty today, and she’s been booked solid for months. Now are you needing treatment for an injury? Are you suffering from any spell damage? Are you in immediate danger to others or to yourself?”

“Oh. Well, no, I… May I make an appointment with the next available Mind Healer then? My regular Mind Healer is Raymond Kapoor but he’s on holiday and he referred me to someone named Brenda, only I don’t know her surname and I’ve seemed to have misplaced her, um, contact information.”

The Welcome Witch raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a referral form signed by this…Mr. Kapoor?”

“Oh, no, I–I’m afraid not. He only gave me her Muggle mobile number, which I said I’ve unfortunately misplaced.”

The Welcome Witch rolled her eyes and said as if she was reading off a script, “We do not have contact information of Mind Healers unaffiliated with St. Mungo’s, nor can we give out contact information of St. Mungo’s Mind Healers who are not accepting new patients without a referral form.”

“Oh. I– is there another Mind Healer I could see that is accepting new patients?”

The Welcome Witch made a show of opening what seemed to be a rather large appointment book. She flicked her wand and the pages flipped by until stopping on a page toward the middle of the book. “The next available appointment for a Mind Healer accepting new patients at St. Mungo’s is in six weeks: Mind Healer Tabitha Nettles.”

Draco stared blankly at her. 

The Welcome Witch sniffed and said, “Would you like me to reserve the appointment for you…sir?”

“I–I’m afraid my need is rather urgent. Is there not a Healer available that I can speak with instead? I need–... it’s for an issue of memory magic. I would like to request the removal of a memory.”

The Welcome Witch started smiling unpleasantly. “Are you taking the mickey? No one can make an appointment for that. That’s serious stuff, that is. You’d be lucky that even your own Mind Healer would entertain a ridiculous idea like that. I suggest you try the nearest library or bookstore and educate yourself. Next!”

So Draco went to Flourish and Blotts, where an employee was able to tell Draco that what Draco was describing was called Mind Magic and he confirmed what the Welcome Witch had said about it being “serious stuff.” 

The employee showed him the only two books Flourish and Blotts had on such a dangerous subject: The Dangers of Mind Magic: A Complete Case List of Unsuccessful and Unintended Obliviation Charms and The Statute of Secrecy & You: A Guide to Passing the Auror Certification Exam on Muggle Memory Modification which were both an outrageous 60 Galleons each. 

The shop employee sold him the books and gave him a stack of Owl Order forms for Draco in case he wanted to purchase any books by special request that were not sold to the general public. 

The kind man also gave Draco some advice: “Might I suggest the Penworth Library? It’s right here in London and it has the largest selection of academic texts outside of Hogwarts. It’s bound to have at least a few more volumes on the subject there.” as well as “But be careful with all that, lad. You’re playing with Fiendfyre. Might I suggest Mind Healer Raymond Kapoor? Wonderful chap, and accepting new patients!”

As soon as Draco exited Flourish and Blotts, he was accosted by an agitated owl, who looked like it had been flying for hours, judging by the state of its feathers. The owl dropped a pile of letters at his feet before taking off, making sure to brush the top of his head with its talons. 

Draco quickly picked them up and hurried along. After making sure people were no longer staring, he Vanished them all, carefully not thinking about what he was doing.

Draco then took the Knight Bus to Penworth Library, which turned out to be a massive converted cathedral, carefully disguised as a condemned mental asylum for the Muggles. Draco went to enter and discovered it was closed, with the posted sign advertising the next opening was the next day at 8:00. 

With the promise of returning the minute the doors reopened, Draco Apparated back to the cottage.  

When Draco entered the cottage, he noticed that Marceau was not home; he must have still been working. Draco breathed a small sigh of relief and then went to his (temporary) room to fill out the Flourish and Blotts forms, basically requesting any and all books on the Obliviation Charm, Memory Charms, and Mind Magic, along with his Gringotts account number. Draco went to send it before he realised, belatedly, that Marceau did not own an owl, nor did Marceau allow any owl post or any other forms of communication to enter Marceau’s property. Marceau valued his privacy at home more than anything else. 

Marceau did, however, use a public owl box, so as to not be completely cut off from communications. Draco could rent an owl while out tomorrow to send off the form, but Draco

would have to request Marceau for the usage of his public owl box and for Marceau to retrieve and deliver any books that would come in.

Draco paced up and down for more than twenty minutes deliberating, before Draco assessed that it was worth the already massive debt Draco now owed to Marceau. But Draco was too cowardly to wait to speak with Marceau in person, so he wrote a long, pleading note for him instead.

Thinking that Draco was already asking too much of Marceau to leave the note unaccompanied, Draco made sure to lessen a single Knut off his debt by preparing Marceau’s favourite meal for dinner. Marceau did not have any of the ingredients, so Draco’s checked that his Glamour was still holding before Apparating to the shop that was closest to Draco’s old flat.

Draco was desperately yearning to open the books he had purchased today, despite knowing they would most likely be of little use to him, judging by the titles, but Draco held himself back.

After returning from the shops with several days worth of food, Draco spent the next two hours preparing coq au vin and a batch of dark chocolate soufflés. The smells in the kitchen were heavenly, but every time Draco tasted the food to check his seasoning, the food dissolved into claggy cardboard in his mouth, so Draco had to hope that his instincts were correct. 

Draco made sure to clean the kitchen from top to bottom after finishing, leaving no trace of his presence, before setting the dining table for one. Draco cast a Stasis Charm on the steaming food and left Draco’s note beside Marceau’s plate.

Finally retiring to his room, making sure to lock himself in, Draco finally cracked open the first book and got to work. 

***

The next day saw Draco waiting outside the doors of Penworth Library at 7:55, his Glamour reapplied and intact, although this time he had paid special attention to remove the dark spots under his eyes.

Draco was so tired again today, having slept fitfully for hours thinking about the utter refuse the books had been, before he had given in and finally taken the last vial of Dreamless Sleep from the guest loo’s medicine cabinet.

The one good piece of news was that, upon entering the dining room that morning, Draco had discovered that Marceau had responded to Draco’s note with a message of his own: “Yes, I shall check my box every day before returning home. Thank you for the delicious food.”

As soon as one of the librarians opened the doors, he asked her where to find the section on Mind Magic. The witch gave him a pitying look and tried to direct him to Mind Healing resources before he made it clear to her it was for research, and she finally led him to the correct section.

“There’s not much here, I’m afraid. But we do have a list of titles that can be specially requested from other libraries. Would you like to see the list?”

Draco accepted and discovered an upsetting truth: only seven books on the list were able to be requested within a week’s time, and all but two of those books could be requested without special permission from a Healer, Professor, or Ministry worker. 

Despondent, as Draco knew none of those could be options for him, Draco ordered the two books to be delivered to Marceau’s public owl box, and then checked out the four books the library currently had on the shelves. 

“Please kindly return the books by Tuesday next, and your requested books should be delivered within a fortnight. Happy researching!” 

Draco had just sent off his order form for Flourish and Blotts at a public owl post office when a stag Patronus galloped gracefully up to him. 

Draco only managed to hear Harry’s concerned voice say “Draco–” before Draco Disapparated.

Draco landed outside of Wainsbury Cottage unsteadily, and he immediately swore and gasped in pain. His left hand was throbbing. When he gingerly inspected it, he saw that two fingernails were missing, the nail on his pinky finger and on his ring finger. 

Draco shakily cast a quick Healing Charm on them. The pain was gone, but Draco would have to take a Potion to regrow the nails, or else find some Dittany, which Marceau was unlikely to have and Draco was not going to risk leaving his sanctuary again to go purchase some.

Draco went inside to the loo, where he was grateful to find a basic Restorative Potion. Draco added a piece of his hair to it for added effectiveness and, when it sparked and dissolved properly, Draco drank the Potion. 

There. That should fully regrow his nails by tomorrow at the latest. Draco supposed he should be grateful that it wasn’t the nails on his wand arm that had been Splinched, or anything worse. Ha– the stag Patronus had given him quite a fright.

Draco couldn’t help glancing at his damaged fingers the rest of the day: turning the pages on his newly borrowed books, making notes on Marceau’s borrowed parchment, chopping the vegetables for Marceau’s ratatouille for dinner, whisking the meringue for dessert, washing the saucepans. 

Every time, he stopped to check to see if they had mended themselves yet but it seemed, like Draco himself, they still had a long way to go.

***

Raymond Kapoor said, "Do you want to talk about Marceau? It's officially been a year now since your breakup. Are any old feelings popping up?"

"Not really. I think I've exhausted the subject already, so I have nothing further to add," Draco said.

"Okay. What about MMM, how's that going?" As always, Raymond deliberately pronounced the name of Draco’s business like a hum. Draco had been offended at first, but now it was an inside joke that made Draco smile. Draco was just glad none of his friends had ever heard Raymond’s playful version or Draco would never have heard the end of it.

"Very well, thank you. I'm as busy as ever and I got my first international contract, as I told you last time. But since the job isn't until next week, I don't have anything new to report there, really."

“Wonderful! Let’s talk about your Dark Mark again then, shall we?”

“...I’d really rather not.”

“That’s too bad. We're talking about it. You told me that Harry had offered to help you cover it with a tattoo?”

“Yes. Our friend Dean is a talented artist and had designed Theo’s latest tattoo. Theo was showing it off at our last weekend pub night, which I guess made Harry think that I could ask Dean for a design myself for my arm, if I wanted one.”

“But you turned him down?”

“I…I told him I’d think about it. But, really, I could never do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, needles for one thing. And…and for another, I deserve this Mark. I deserve to be branded as one of the– the wrong sort, as my father used to say. I got it willingly, knowing everything it stood for.”

“But you were sixteen. A teenager. A child, really. And we’ve already discussed that you were coerced into it as you and your family were under imminent threat of death from an evil, psychotic megalomaniac living in your home.”

“I–I know. I know that. But even if I did cover the Mark, I would still know that it had been there, and so would everyone else. So it’s a moot point, really.”

“But what if you didn’t cover all of it? What if the design Dean created actually worked with the existing design of the Mark. So it wouldn’t be buried, just…transformed. Transformed like you have yourself, Draco. The same person who made mistakes, but has now learned from them.” 

“...That’s cheating, Raymond.”

Raymond laughed.

“I’m being a cheater, or you getting a transformative tattoo would be cheating?”

“Both.”

Raymond laughed again. “Okay, okay. We can come back to that later; I’ll let you think on it. But while we’re on a similar subject, what about the marks on your chest and abdomen? The scars from the Sec–septu–”

“Sectumsempra,” Draco corrected warily. “What about them?”

“Well, you’ve shared with me that you believed them to be permanent, as most curse scars are. But now there’s research out there saying many curse scars can now be healed with a new, specialised version of Dittany, which has been very popular with trauma survivors.”

“...Was that a question?”

Raymond snorted. “As difficult as ever, I see. Okay, Draco, my apologies, I’ll put it in a question. Are you interested in removing the Sectumsempra scars you received from Harry Potter?”

“...No.”

“And why not? Unlike your Mark, you did not receive them willingly. Nor did they come from someone evil, just an ignorant, desperate boy whom you believed was just trying to protect his friends and the school, as you’ve said.”

“Well, I think they look rather dashing on me, wouldn’t you say? They’re faint, but they make me look like a bad boy, a rakish rogue. The men I’ve shagged always loved to lick them.”

“Stop deflecting.”

“Would you accept it’s because I’ve just gotten used to them by now and they don’t bother me?”

“I would say yes, but it doesn’t sound like you’re telling me the truth. It just sounds like you’re deflecting again.”

“You know me too well, Mr. Kapoor.”

Raymond waited patiently. It was a very clever trick that the Mind Healer used often, as Draco couldn’t stand sitting in silence for long.

“Fine, you win. It’s because…because, in a way, I’m almost glad that I have them. Just like my Mark, they’re a constant reminder that…cruelty has consequences. And, of course, you’re right, these were not made by someone evil; just the opposite. Harry gave these to me. If Harry the infinitely good, kind, and righteous could have just cause to inflict that kind of…permanent damage on someone other than the Dark Lord, I know I well and truly must have deserved it. And it’s sick, I know, but…I like having them on me. It’s…they’re Harry’s. Harry gave them to me. Harry poured his power and his feelings inside his magic that made them and now it’s forever embedded in my skin. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to…to Harry acknowledging me. To him owning me. To him saying…Draco is mine.”

***

It was a lovely late summer evening, the sky painted with a magnificent, mesmerising array of pinks, yellows, and golds, and the temperature was perfectly pleasant even in the face of the dying light. 

Draco was in the back garden of Wainsbury Cottage, surrounded by enough flowers to become an extremely successful florist, sitting on the comfortable patio furniture, numerous tomes of varying thickness spread out across the table’s surface. Draco did not see the gorgeous skyviews nor the flowers, nor anything else outside of what was inside of one of these books. He had been at it for nearly six hours straight today, researching: taking his time with each chapter in each book and taking extensive notes of what he thought might be relevant in future. 

Draco was frustrated to say the least because he had not made much progress, despite his exhaustive efforts. Four full days of nothing but reading and he had not much to show for it. So far, after countless hours of combing through sixteen books and academic journals, one of which was nearly three hundred pages long of print so tiny that Draco needed a Magnifying Charm, and one only twenty pages long consisting only of (unhelpful) diagrams of the brain, here were Draco’s major findings: 

Mind Magic was a notoriously tricky field with often disastrous and irreversible consequences. 

Few witches and wizards even attempted to enter the field, so Masters were extremely rare. Not to be confused with Mind Healers, who worked with individual patients on their mental health and well-being, many Masters of Mind Magic tended to focus on research and invention, such as finding the cure to recovering lost memories or creating alternate memories for trauma victims or for undercover Unspeakables and Aurors. 

Hermione Jean Granger was the only known, documented witch in 106 years to have successfully, wholly reversed a self-performed memory modification charm on not one, but two Muggles simultaneously (Hermione’s own parents), and it was a mystery of exactly how she did it, even to Hermione herself. It was rumoured that the Unspeakables, in conjunction with Masters of Mind Magic, were feverishly working on a project, centred around the case, to better improve and understand the lives of unfortunate wixen who had unsuccessfully performed a Self-Obliviation Charm. 

Self-Obliviation Charms, as documented in at least 42 countries, were performed by truly desperate wixen trying to erase a particularly painful and traumatic memory, who could not or would not seek or accept the help from a certified Master of Mind Magic. In 77.6% of all 512 documented Self-Obliviation cases, the spell had “gone-wide” and removed unintended memories and caused permanent damage to the victim’s psyche due to their non-existent understanding of Mind Magic and its properties. (The most significant uptick in these cases were documented directly after the First Wizarding War). Little to nothing could be done to help these victims, except provide them with as peaceful, stable, and as comfortable life as possible (see: the Janus Thickey Ward of long-term spell-damaged victims at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries). 

However, most Mind Magic Masters specialised in removing memories either in the context of healing, or in hiding the secrets of the Wizarding World from Muggles.

Aurors were the only group outside of certified Masters who, due to upholding the International Wizarding Statute of Secrecy, legally had permission to perform a specialised branch of Mind Magic: the Obliviation Charm, which could only be used on Muggles who required a Muggle-specific memory modification. All Aurors were taught by a wix with a Masters in Mind Magic. The Aurors were required to complete a minimum of sixteen hours of coursework prior to their Auror certification exam on how to properly perform the exacting, individually-tailored charm, and were also required to take mandatory supplemental learning courses and evaluations once every two years, and they were required to keep a detailed log of every Muggle that had been modified so as to identify and research any outlying, unintended effects.  

After knowing the dangers and, often, the futility of Mind Magic, most of those saintly wixen that did end up specialising in and mastering Mind Magic tended to focus on working in conjunction with Healers and Mind Healers to use memory modification such as the Obliviation Charm on a Magical patient as an absolute last resort to improve the patient’s quality of life. These Mind Magic Masters only accepted specialised cases: patients with a referral from both Healers who must both have certified that these patients had an extensive, documented history of trauma.

Removing memories, outside of the context of Mind Healing or protecting the Statue of Secrecy and, in the wrong hands, could arguably be considered a Dark Art, though there was, naturally, significant debate. 

Thus, the books Draco may have needed to make any significant headway on his research were not easily attainable, at least not by Draco, and could not be owl-ordered to Marceau’s public owl post box like Draco had been doing. (Draco had ordered every single book on Mind Magic he could find, and Marceau had been graciously fetching them and bringing them back to the Cottage for Draco).

However, the thick of it was that Draco’s whole body flinched violently and his skin crawled with preemptive terror for even entertaining the idea of getting involved in the Dark Arts (again), much less the thought of being discovered pursuing a subject of the Dark Arts. 

So, from all of his findings, Draco’s major conclusions were: Draco could not risk attempting a Self-Obliviation Charm and end up joining the 77.6% of wixen who unintentionally erased more than intended; say, all of his memories of Harry. So that was obviously out. Draco could not seek the help of an Auror because Draco was not a Muggle and thus did not qualify for a Muggle-specific memory modification; not to mention the legality of it all. Draco could not become a “specialised case” because his current Mind Healer was on holiday and could not provide Draco’s “documented history of trauma” to a Master. And, even if that happened, who said a Master would even be interested in accepting his case. Finally, Draco had already tried seeking the help of one of the greatest, most clever witches currently alive with successful experience in Mind Magic, but that had blown up in his face.

It all felt hopeless, but Draco had to keep trying. He had already explored all the other avenues known to him and had failed, so this was it. Draco had to make a breakthrough, and it had to be somewhere in these books.

A shadow fell over Draco’s currently open book (Magical Me(mory): The Tragic Case of Gilderoy Lockhart) and Draco looked up.

Marceau was holding up a plastic bag of styrofoam takeaway containers. “Dinner. I hope you are still partial to Thai.”

Draco said, surprised, “Oh. Yes, I am. Thank you. You didn’t have to buy me anything.”

Draco marked his page carefully and then waved his wand to stack all the books, clearing space on the table. Marceau took that as his cue to sit down and start distributing the containers.

“Well, I imagine it’s only fair since you’ve been cooking dinner every night. I have missed your cooking, if I may say. That risotto you made last night was particularly incroyables.”

Last night, Draco had burned the mushrooms and had to start over, lost in his thoughts of when he had made the dish last.

Mother’s elf, Winry, had taught Draco how to cook all of Draco’s favourite meals and then some during his house-arrest: One of the many things Draco learned to keep himself occupied during that dreadful time. Draco already knew how to bake, so it was a fairly painless transition to cooking, especially combined with Draco’s skill at Potions, which easily translated. 

Ha-...his friends loved his cooking as well, although the busier his business became, the less time and effort Draco had made for some of the more elaborate meals he makes. Draco hadn’t had much of an appetite lately, mainly stealing some grapes and walnuts Marceau imports from his hometown, but Draco had felt so guilty pervading Marceau’s home that he had been continuing to keep the place spotless, only staying in his room and in the garden, and making Marceau’s meals every night, making sure to, of course, clean the entire kitchen afterwards. Draco had been continuing to leave plates for Marceau under a Stasis Charm for when Marceau returned home from work: a tiny, inadequate offering in exchange for an enormous, unforgivable favour. 

Marceau, after finishing his spring roll, said ruefully, “I hired a house-elf shortly after you–...afterwards, and it was fine for a while, but it wasn’t the same. I still survive mainly on takeaway and the few simple meals I don’t burn, I’m ashamed to say. So the home-cooked meals have been much appreciated. Merci beaucoup.”

Draco forced his lips to curl up in what he hoped was a gracious smile and kept his eyes on his meal. Massaman curry was one of his favourite dishes, but it currently still tasted of mushy cardboard. “You’re welcome.”

“Although, I have to say it is strange to come home to an empty, immaculate house and find such elaborate meals prepared for me with no company. I feel as if I have gained a particularly thoughtful, but extremely shy ghost as a roommate.”

Draco took another careful bite of his curry, forcing himself to chew and swallow. “Wouldn’t it be a poltergeist? Seeing as how a ghost is unable to interact with matter. Or a house-elf?”

“Draco,” Marceau sighed after a moment, getting to the point. “You don’t have to keep avoiding me. You can, if it makes you uncomfortable, but if you think I’m going to throw you out if I catch sight of you, that is not the case. I told you that my home is open to you.” 

Draco kept silent, worrying at his scallion pancake, tearing it into tiny pieces. “Right.”

“Or maybe…,” Marceau said cautiously, his tone serious and knowing. “It’s that you don’t want to give me an opportunity to question your motives… because you don't want to recognize that this little project you’ve been working on is a fool’s errand.”

Draco abandoned his food altogether to lean back in his chair and cross his arms, looking off into the distance. He didn’t want to see disgust, or, worse, pity on Marceau’s face.

“Mind Magic, Draco? Honestly. Quelle folie. You must know that is dangerous. Please come to your senses before you injure yourself.”

“I have it under control,” Draco lied, quietly. “Merci pour votre sollicitude.”

Marceau sighed and shook his head, but didn’t fight Draco and said instead, “I have to go to Cairo for a few days tomorrow. …Will you be all right?”

Draco hunched his shoulders. “I…I am no longer your responsibility, so you don’t have to worry about me. And I will not be such a nuisance to ask to stay here while you’re away, of course. I’ll figure something else out. I daresay a week is too long already.”

“Draco, look at me.”

Draco, bracing himself, turned to look at him. Marceau’s face was calm and serious, his eyes kind, but pained.

“Just because we are no longer lovers and we have not remained in contact does not mean I no longer care for you.”

Draco swallowed back the sudden urge to break down. 

“I meant it when I said you can stay as long as you need. You once had my whole heart, mon doux dragon, and you kept a piece of it even after you returned it to me.”

Draco broke and cried, “Marceau, I am so, so unbelievably sorry for the way I treated you at the end, and for the way we broke up. Je suis tellement désolé. You were– are too good for me.”

Marceau shook his head. “It was not all your fault, Draco. I share an equal part of the blame. I, too, am incroyablement désolé for how I had pushed you into moving in with me, and into staying with me long past from when I knew you could never love me as I loved you.”

Draco was sobbing now. He pleaded with Marceau to understand. “But I-I did love you. I loved you so much.”

“Yes, and I thank you for loving me that much; it saved me from drowning. Mais nous ne pouvons pas contrôler à qui nos cœurs sont donnés, and you could not give your whole heart to me, because it already belonged to someone else, years before we even met.”

Draco put his hands over his face. He couldn’t stop the tears. The truth was so painful.

“Please stop crying, Draco. All is forgiven. It has been a long time and I have moved on and so have you. I was truly happy to see you get your wish, and now I’m only concerned for you, concerned that you might be squandering it.”

Draco felt a light touch on the back of his hand and he startled. Marceau was offering him a handkerchief, which he must have duplicated, as he was dabbing his own eyes with an exact copy.

Draco took it, grateful. Marceau was too kind, always too kind. Draco had meant it when he said Marceau was too good for him, and he’ll always mean it.

“Yes, I–I do feel like I’m squandering it, but I’m so lost. I get stuck in this–this loop inside my head, on this one path of thinking, and I can’t stop.”

“I understand, Draco. But I’m afraid I cannot be the one to help you in case I make anything worse, or in case I give your beloved any false ideas about my intentions being anything other than friendly. Where is your Mr. Kapoor? Have you been speaking with him?”

Draco laughed without amusement, wetly. “He’s on holiday with his husband in the Philippines.” 

“Merde. What horrendous timing.”

“Indeed.”

“And your friends?”

“...Would tell me I’m being stupid and to go back to H–him.”

“Hmm. And they’d be right.”

Draco sniffled. If only it were that easy.

Marceau must have chosen to pick his battles because he said, “Well. Come, let’s go inside, it is getting too dark. I will make you some hot chocolate and I promise I’ll try not to burn it.”

Draco reluctantly cracked a weak smile. “Okay, but no marshmallows.”

“You insult me, Draco,” Marceau teased, getting up and packing up their uneaten food. “I remember the fit you threw when I told you that they were made from gelatin.” 

Draco shuddered and wrinkled his nose, getting up from the table to organise his notes and the books, casting to make them feather-light and hover to follow him inside. “Appalling.” 

Fifteen minutes later, they were drinking hot chocolate on the sofa in front of the fire. A fluffy blanket suddenly popped into existence to fold over his legs. 

Draco said, pleased, “Thank you, Cottage.”

Draco sunk his toes into the plush carpet, looking down to admire the gorgeous pattern once again. “This carpet is new. Ç'est divin.”

“Merci. I got it in Morocco last year. Cost a fortune, as most things worth having do.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a minute before Draco finally gathered the nerve to say, “Marceau. I…I’m glad we finally…cleared the air between us. I never liked where we ended it.”

“Nor did I. I’m proud of us. I’m just sorry it took you weeping on my doorstep for it to happen.”

“I wasn’t weeping on your doorstep. Give me some credit. That didn’t happen until at least after you had already invited me in.”

Marceau chuckled, “My mistake.”

Draco hesitated and then asked, tentatively, scared of the answer, “So…friends?”

Marceau smiled. “Friends. Ce serait mon honneur.”

They clinked mugs.

Draco thought that Marceau and he would be okay, eventually. If only Draco could say so about himself…

Draco had dug himself a deep hole, but he only knew how to keep digging and digging, ignoring the collapsing walls and suffocating dirt instead of turning back toward the light. And now he was so deep that he couldn’t even climb out. Not by himself. 

***

Marceau had said, “Don’t you dare open any of those books anymore. You’re forbidden.” and “Take care of yourself.” to Draco before leaving on his business trip to Cairo the next morning. Marceau did not say, “Go home to Harry,” but Draco heard it all the same, and saw it in Marceau’s sympathetic eyes.

Draco was having no problem with the former, finally admitting to himself that he had been playing with a stolen Hippogriff’s egg, but the latter…

Draco first tried to bake a treacle tart, one of Harry’s favourites, thinking he might use it as a tiny consolation for coming home to Harry, but then Draco promptly ruined it by using salt instead of sugar in his inattention, trapped in a scenario where Harry took the tart to dump in the bin, saying “There, now it can join where our relationship is.”

Draco then spent a while cleaning up the mess he’d made, and then he went out in the garden to try and pick some flowers to arrange in a bouquet, but then he got stung by a swarm of bees while standing still too long next to a giant beehive, trapped in another scenario where Harry took the bouquet and said, “Oh, look. They’re dying already. Just like our relationship, only that’s already long dead.” And then Draco had to fashion a bee-sting salve by making a potion out of the scant materials found around the house, which took ages. 

Draco knew he was being ridiculous, as Harry would undoubtedly be angry, but not cruel. No, cruelty was Draco’s speciality. Harry was always too kind to Draco even when Draco didn’t deserve it. But just because Draco understood how ridiculous and cruel he was being, it didn’t make it any easier trying to find an acceptable path home.

Draco did get so far as to start re-packing his emergency bag and he was in the middle of arranging his laundered clothes inside it when he heard a faint crack. Or was it a shatter?

Draco thought the sound had come from his bag, so he searched the pockets, opening the largest outside pocket and sticking his hand inside before immediately snatching his hand back, yelping in pain.

Draco examined his hurt finger. He was bleeding from a thankfully shallow cut. Draco went to the bathroom to wash it off, cleaning it with soap before casting a (very familiar) basic Healing Charm to mend the skin.

Draco went back to the bag in a huff. “Okay, you. Let’s try that again,” and then Draco used his wand to extract the contents of the arsehole pocket. 

Floating in the air from Draco’s summons was the tiny, shrunken picture Draco had taken from Grimmauld, the shards of glass and bits of wood from the broken frame orbiting around the picture like a crude demonstration of gravitational pull. 

Draco gasped in pain, recognizing it, and was immediately severely disappointed in himself. How very fitting that Draco had broken something so dear to him. 

Draco grasped the tiny picture before directing the pieces of the broken frame to sit upon the guestroom’s dresser. Draco cancelled the Shrinking Charm on the picture, and then Draco was staring at Harry’s and Draco’s smiling faces once again. 

Draco sat down roughly on the bed, fingers trembling around the picture. 

They looked so happy then. They were so happy then. They were both so happy together. And now Draco had ruined it. There was no way Harry would want to stay with such a cowardly, broken man–no, not man, a scared boy, not after Draco had shown Harry proof that Draco was still not to be trusted even after all this time, after years of making strides of redemption to show everyone, to show Harry, that Draco had truly changed. It was all such lies. All lies. Draco was still the same scared, conniving, treacherous weakling that he’d always been. And now Draco is hurting Harry just as much if not more now than Draco ever did in his youth; what was a once-dangerous bully compared to secrets, lies, and betrayal from the person you cared about, whom you let into your home, into your bed, and possibly even a tiny bit into your heart?

Harry deserved better than that; he deserves better than that. Harry should be with someone whole, someone clean, someone…encased in goodness and light, who could bring joy and life, human life, into this world, into…Harry’s world. And that person never was and will never be Draco.

So…so Draco would indeed return to Harry now, if only to explain and–and t-to say goodbye…

Draco dropped the picture to place his hands over his face, muffling his sobs. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. Harry…

***

Sometime later, Draco was curled up on the edge of the bed, his tears finally stopped. Draco knew what he had to do, but he was trying to gather the strength to do it. Draco couldn’t do it like this though. Draco needed his old friend: the mask. Draco just needed to mend and wear the mask just long enough to convince Harry that, yes, Draco was serious. The reason Draco had not confessed his love for Harry, Draco would say, was because it didn’t exist, and it never would. Draco Malfoy tried, but he did not love Harry. Their relationship and Draco moving in was a mistake. They had to break up. Harry Potter was free, free to be happy and whole again to live his Happily Ever After.

Draco dully cleaned his face in the guest loo’s sink, wiping the dried tears and snot off of his cheeks and nose before casting a Refreshment Charm (one that Mother had performed on him countless times) to clear his sinuses and disappear any traces of redness. 

Draco looked at the mirror into his lifeless eyes and summoned the will for a consolatory smile convincing enough to persuade Harry. Draco tried, but all he saw was pain. 

Draco was continuing to practise when he heard a knock at the front door.

Draco’s whole body felt paralyzed until he realised that nobody could be knocking that didn’t already know about the cottage; it was Unplottable and under a Fidelius. Reassured, Draco went to answer it.

When Draco opened the door, he felt the blood drain from his face. Ginny Weasley was standing there, her arms crossed, her eyes hidden behind an enormous pair of sunglasses. 

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments before Ginny slid her sunglasses up to her head and said, “Hello, Draco.” 

Her expression, even without the sunglasses, was unreadable. 

Clutching the doorframe, his heart thumping painfully in his suddenly icy chest, Draco said, “Ginerva. What are you doing here?” 

Draco suddenly experienced what felt like deja vu: Draco in Ginny’s exact position eight days ago, the same question asked to Draco himself in front of this very door.

She didn’t respond, but her expression flickered, a frown appearing and disappearing quickly. 

This was so wrong. Ginny Weasley was fire and childish laughter, playful teasing, and punches on the arm. And she was supposed to be surrounded by a warm halo of light, her hair and dress fluttering, her hand wrapped around–

But Ginny just looked tired. She had bags under her eyes, her hair was in a messy bun, and she was wearing a normal jumper and jeans.

Draco tried again, “How did you find me?”

Ginny finally looked away and put her hands in her back pockets. 

“Blaise,” she said.

Draco took that in and nodded. “Right.” 

Bloody Slytherins. It was the worst kind of relationship: a Slytherin sneakily spilling secrets to their own advantage, and the Gryffindor taking that knowledge to leap into action.

Ginny shifted on her feet and asked, “Are you going to let me in or what?”

Draco only briefly considered the possibility of saying no and closing the door on her, but that fruitless thought went away as quickly as it had come. Ginny would blast the door of the hinges and, besides, she’d only return with–...others. 

“Yes,” Draco said, and moved out of the doorway, stepping aside and leading them to the drawing room. 

Draco looked around at what was his sanctuary these last eight days and no longer recognized it. It was dark and stuffy and cold in here, despite the roaring fire… now that it had been invaded by a living reminder of his failings. 

Draco turned to Ginny and asked rhetorically, “Tea?” because that was what you did when a guest entered your home. Although this wasn’t his home, not anymore. Still, the niceties must be observed or his mum would somehow hear about it despite the fact that she was not even currently living in the same country as Draco.

Draco didn’t wait for Ginny’s response before turning away and escaping to the kitchen. He robotically started preparing the tea, taking two mugs out of the cabinets, filling a kettle with water and placing the kettle to heat up on the stove. 

He did everything without magic; his hands needed to remain occupied.

Draco finished getting the milk out from the cooling cabinet and placed it next to the mugs and teaspoons on the tea tray, his thoughts in tangles. 

Draco was just measuring out the tea leaves, a few falling on the counter due to his shaky fingers, when he heard from inside the kitchen, “What are you doing, Draco?”

Draco startled, the tea canister slipping out of his unsteady hands, falling onto the tile with a dull crash, the tea leaves spilling out everywhere. 

Ginny was leaning against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed again. And, to his astonishment, Blaise was standing next to her. Ginny didn’t look surprised, so she must have let Blaise in, the insolent sneak. 

Draco looked at Blaise, Draco’s eyes accusing, and Blaise’s face, not his mouth, said clearly, “Sorry, old bean, but this is for your own good.”

Draco licked his lips and replied quietly, “Making tea.” 

Draco spelled the tea canister back into his hand, the tea leaves back into the canister, and then hit the tea leaves with a mild Cleansing Charm, avoiding her gaze. 

“Are you cheating on Harry now?”

Draco startled again, but this time managed to hold onto the canister, clutching it tightly. “No! That’s not–no, absolutely not. It’s not like that.” He shook his head vigorously and looked Ginny straight in her eyes, pleading for her to understand that he was telling the truth. “I would never hurt H-Harry like that.”

Ginny looked unimpressed and said, “You’re hurting Harry right now.”

Draco’s heart lost a few beats and he felt his stomach swoop, but he couldn’t look away from her eyes, desperately searching for a lie in her words. 

“No, it–he’s perfectly fine, I’m sure.”

Ginny said, ignoring that, “And you look pretty gutted yourself. But I must say, you’re in a right state better than he is.”

Draco swallowed, blinking rapidly, and turned away to get a third mug out of the cabinet for Blaise, and finished measuring out the leaves into the teapot. His hands were still shaking, bugger it all, but most of the leaves managed to get in there all right. It wasn’t Draco’s best work, but it would suffice.

The kettle whistled and, still avoiding anyone’s gaze, Draco walked over to the stove to pick it up and pour the boiling water into the teapot. Draco hadn’t trusted that his Levitation Charm wouldn’t falter and thus didn’t want to take the risk of spilling boiling hot water all over anyone.

The tea service ready (Draco saw that the cottage had provided scones, marmalade, and clotted cream as well), Draco picked up the tray and told them, “Please, let’s– let’s sequester to the drawing room.”

Blaise spelled the tray out of Draco’s hands and walked out of the kitchen with it, presumably to the drawing room.

Ginny snorted at Draco’s “posh prat" vocabulary, as usual, but she and Draco followed Blaise to the drawing room, where Blaise and Ginny settled on the settee, Draco sitting across from them. 

After making sure everyone had a steaming cup of tea made to their liking, Draco stared into the cup in his hands, and Ginny and Blaise stared at Draco, their cups untouched on the table.

“How have you been faring, old bean?” Blaise asked finally, gently. “You’ve gotten yourself into a right spot this time, haven’t you?”

Draco licked his lip and said, “I-...I’m–...” and then didn’t finish. He couldn’t find any pleasant words to describe his current state, and he was sick of lying, to his friends and to himself. 

Draco took a sip of his tea in answer and it scalded his throat all the way down. Of course.

Ginny said, her voice cutting, “So, enjoying your holiday, are you?”

Draco didn’t respond. This felt like the furthest thing from a holiday, and he’s sure all of his friends knew it, Ginny included. But Ginny got mean when her feelings were hurt and her friends were threatened. Especially when her own friends were “ acting like tossers” and needlessly threatening themselves.

Ginny continued, “That’s what Hermione leaked to The Daily Prophet to protect you and Harry: Draco Malfoy is on holiday with his mum in France and they value their privacy, so they please do not wish to be disturbed.”

That was news to Draco. Draco took a moment to digest that and managed, “Hermione is a brilliant witch…and a good friend.”

Ginny ignored him. “Me, personally, I don’t think you should be protected. Harry should, of course, but not you.”

Blaise put a hand on Ginny’s back in reassurance as she started to shift in agitation, her voice starting to tick up in volume. “Not you, who has come all this way after all these years to change himself into a better man and leave his vile, sneaky, ex-Death Eater ways behind, to suddenly start disappearing for no reason, and cosying up to your ex-boyfriend, who is notoriously still mad for you, and hiding from all your friends who are worrying about you, and breaking Harry’s heart!”

Draco could find no falsities in Ginny’s words, he could only hang his head in shame.

“I thought you were supposed to be better than this!” Ginny shouted, standing up abruptly, knocking into the tea table, causing the items atop it to wobble dangerously, but then they settled abruptly. The sconces on the wall flickered angrily.

Draco, who could not bear to look up into Ginny’s face, into her accusing eyes, responded quietly, “Me too.”

“Please calm down, dearest,” Blaise said quickly. “I assure you that Draco can hear you.”

“Yes, he can hear me, but is he listening to me?” Ginny huffed angrily, burning holes into Draco’s face, her frustrated tears streaming down her cheeks.

Blaise said, “My love, please take a few deep breaths and sit down quietly or the house will throw you out. Believe me, it has done it before.”

Ginny stood, shaking, refusing to look away from Draco, but then she did as Blaise asked and sat back down. Blaise handed her a fancy handkerchief embroidered with the initials B.Z. and she took it gratefully.

Blaise turned to Draco. “It’s time to fess up, old chap. You tried the tried-and-true running away method, and it has failed, you must admit. While Pansy, Theodore, and I may have given you your space in the past once you’ve asked for it, it seems your newest, less understanding friends won’t stand for it. Might as well pack it in and try it the Gryffindor way.”

Draco gasped and shook his head, “I don’t know how. I don’t know how to fix it this time, Blaise. I'm not strong enough.”

Ginny pleaded, “Please let us help you, Draco. You don’t have to be strong all on your own.” 

Blaise added, “Merlin, Malfoy. We’ve been through a war. This one will be a walk in the park, if only you’ll let us help you get out of your own head.”

Draco, breathing shakily, closed his eyes and asked, “How?”

Ginny said, “Someone once told me that bravery is not just for Gryffindors. Bravery is doing what is best even if you’re scared.”

Draco’s huff of laughter was wet. Draco had said that to Ginny once before, years ago, when they were newly friends. Ginny had asked him seriously how Draco had managed to show his face at all the fundraising galas and war memorials back when Draco was still getting weekly death threats, and that had been Draco’s cheeky response.

Draco opened his eyes, looked into his friends’ earnest faces, and said, “Okay.”

Draco had lost the battle, but, with his friends, maybe he still had a chance to win the war.

Ginny nodded and said firmly, “Good. Glad we got that cleared up then.” And then she stood up, pulled Draco out of his chair, and hugged him. She wasn’t surrounded by a halo of light, but Ginny was warm and smelled like wildflowers and earth and sunshine anyway. Draco hugged back tightly. 

Blaise grinned, winked at Draco, picked up his still steaming tea (the cottage must have really liked him), took a sip, and then said, “Now let’s go get you back to your strapping young beau.”

Before they could leave, though, Draco spent almost an hour writing a long, sincere letter for Marceau, who had treated Draco with nothing but kindness and respect the entire time Draco unfairly imposed on him. Draco had a lot of mending fences still to do, but he thinks maybe, after everything, they could be friends. Draco was tired of cutting people out of his life. Satisfied for now, with the promise of the exchanging of owls and casual meet-ups, if Marceau so accepted, Draco left the letter on the dining room table, where Draco had left his first note.

Ginny and Blaise were waiting outside for him.

Gripping his bag, Draco looked at them and asked quietly, “Did…did Hermione tell Harry what I-...what happened?” 

Blaise answered, “No, she didn’t.”

Ginny added, “She hasn’t told anyone why you left, just that you had a good reason. It’s clear that the secret is hurting her, but she doesn’t want to lose your trust.” 

Blaise said seriously, “That’s true friendship, old bean.”

Draco closed his eyes at the mixture of guilt and relief. “And you…How did you find me?" 

Blaise looked at him for several moments before shrugging. "I have my ways," which was code for "I'll never tell" and Draco nodded.

Draco looked directly at Blaise and, after a moment of staring, Draco whispered, “Are you… As tu honte de moi?” 

Blaise broke into a rare, serious smile. “Jamais, mon ami fou.”

Ginny said, “Hey, that’s cheating!” And Draco and Blaise both grinned. Draco tried not to laugh at the indignation on her face.

“Apologies, Ginerva. I must have forgotten how uncultured you are.” 

Draco immediately received a punch to the arm for his trouble. Merlin, did she have a strong right hook.

Blaise said, “Be grateful that was all you got, Malfoy. She could have performed her famous Bat Bogey Hex on you.” 

Draco grimaced. He did rather feel like he got let off easy.

Ginny said, “We've been friends for six years, Draco, when will you start calling me Ginny?”

Draco blinked and then protested, “Blaise does it too!” 

“Yes, well, Blaise does it because he finds it kinky, ” Ginny said mischievously. 

Draco gagged and Blaise laughed. 

“Okay, children. Time to go.” Blaise held out a hand for both of them for a Side-Along Apparition.

Draco swallowed and stared at Blaise’s hand before finally nodding and gripping it tightly. 

Draco was going home to face Harry and to face Draco’s fears, and Draco felt more scared than he had ever been before. But Draco now had the courage to try, with a little help from his friends. 

***

“Honey, we’re home!” called Blaise upon the three of them entering Grimmauld Place. 

Draco, horrified, whispered, “Blaise.”

Ginny laughed and said, “Special delivery, Harry! They were running a special on entitled, insufferable, posh prats.”

Draco winced, but didn’t attempt another reprimand.

Harry’s head appeared at the top of the stairs. “Draco?” 

Draco’s heart lurched at the sound of Harry’s voice.

Draco watched as Harry quickly descended the stairs, stopping at the bottom step to stare at Draco.

Ginny had been right: Harry looked ghastly. Harry was holding a soft looking throw blanket around himself, and his eyes were bloodshot, the skin under them dark and baggy. Harry also had a small beard and was wearing joggers even though it was the middle of the day and Harry should have been out working.

Draco’s heart broke. Draco did this. It was all his fault.

“Draco,” Harry said hoarsely. Harry didn’t even seem to notice Blaise and Ginny standing there; Harry’s eyes were fixed on Draco.

“Is it–?...Are you really here? Are you back?”

“Harry…yes, I’m–”

“Are you hurt? Are you okay? I’ve been so worried about you. No one could tell me where you’ve been and I couldn’t find you. All my owls and Patronuses went unanswered.”

“I–I…I’m not hurt. I’ve been–...I’ve just… n-needed some time.”

“...Time.”

“Y-yes. Please let me explain.”

Harry just continued to stare at Draco. 

Blaise said, “Right! I believe I have done my duty returning the wayward prince to his kingdom. Come, darling! Let’s leave the lovebirds to it.”

Ginny squeezed Draco’s arm in comfort. “Be brave, Draco. I know you can do it.”

Ginny started to say something to Harry but then Blaise shook his head slightly, giving her a serious, meaningful look. 

They both then left without another word, and then Draco and Harry were alone in the dark entryway. Draco noticed the picture frame in the hallway that Draco took had left an awkward, empty space on the wall.

The coatrack did not reach for Draco’s coat (the one Draco had found after unpacking his emergency bag) nor did the foyer’s sconces illuminate for him upon entry. Grimmauld Place was clearly not happy with him.

Harry said, “Well, let’s…let’s go into the drawing room then. And then you can explain.”

Draco nodded and Harry shuffled past him, walking away. Draco took off his coat and his shoes, and then set down his bag before following Harry. 

Harry had removed the blanket, but his frame looked even smaller without it. His shoulders were slumped, sitting with his hands clasped in his lap. 

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath and sat across from Harry. The house did not fluff his cushions.

After several moments of them staring at each other, Harry gestured to the foyer with a tiny motion of his head. “What was that bag you were carrying?”

Draco swallowed. “...My emergency overnight bag.”

“...You had an emergency bag packed.” 

Bowing his head in shame, Draco said, “A…a snake may shed its skin, but it can never be anything but still a snake.”

After another minute of silence, Harry said, “April came by. She said Hermione had asked her to temporarily take over your work orders for you while you were dealing with an…unexpected circumstance.”

“O-oh. Right.” Draco hadn’t even spared a single thought for his neglected business. At this rate, Draco would owe April for years, and he’d owe Hermione for the rest of his life.

Harry prompted, "Hermione told me it had something to do with a Boggart that was on the third floor?"

"Y-yes."

Harry didn’t say anything more, clearly waiting for Draco’s promised explanation. Draco knew he had to be the one to start, but he didn’t even know where to begin. 

Draco finally said, “I don’t…I don’t even know where to start.”

Harry nodded. “How about from the beginning?”

“The b-beginning?” Draco asked in dismay. “Are you sure you want to hear all that?”

Harry didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Draco licked his lips. “Okay…Okay. Well…there once was a boy; a nasty, angry boy who bullied people who were different from him.”

Harry said, “Er…isn’t that a bit too far back?”

Draco said, “I–...I promise it’s relevant. Please let me continue.”

And when Harry nodded, Draco said, “Thank you,” and continued. 

“This vicious, untrustworthy bully grew up hearing about Harry Potter this and Harry Potter that, and this boy thought that he was so self-important and so proud and perfect that when he held out his hand for an, an alliance as the boy’s father had urged him to do, this boy thought that Harry Potter would leap at the chance to become friends with such a prestigious and–and haughty and proud Malfoy who could trace his lineage back to Merlin’s time. But, oh, how wrong the boy was. Because Harry Potter was too noble, too kind, too pure, too good to the depths of his very soul to even think about making an alliance with such a boy. 

Well, despite years of careful instruction and discipline by his parents, the boy grew up to be hopelessly melodramatic and overly emotional, so he was crushed by the rejection. And he spent what felt like his entire youth trying to prove Harry Potter: The Chosen One, wrong, all in increasingly cruel and deceptive and ignorant ways, passionately declaring his hatred to anyone who would listen, including to the pages and pages of his secret diary. But despite everything, the boy was intrigued, fascinated with the unshakable Boy Who Lived to Do No Wrong and, sooner or later, the boy’s entire world revolved around Harry Potter and getting him to just notice the boy. All the while, Harry Potter remained kind and brave and true, and…and of course ended up saving us all, despite this boy’s best effort.

“So…so imagine his surprise, his utter shock, his complete disbelief when, years later, Harry Potter came back into the boy’s life, after the boy had finally started to…to grow up. To accept the consequences of his actions, to apologise, and to learn remorse, and accept kindness and truth. To reject his old ways and learn to move on, despite the Dark Mark on his arm being a constant reminder of the darkness that would always live inside him. And it was all different.

“Imagine…imagine what he must have thought when Harry Potter started talking to him like… a normal human being, like an adult, like…like someone worthy of respect. And then Harry Potter wanted to be his friend. His friend! Finally, after the first rejected handshake, after everything the boy did, after every despicable action, Harry Potter was still so good and forgiving that he wanted to put all of that behind them and be the boy’s–,” Draco gave up the pretence and finished “…be my friend.”

“It was…I can’t express to you how unthinkable it was to me, Harry. For anyone I had mistreated, but especially you. So I was grateful and overjoyed, but I never thought that I had earned it. 

“For years, with your friendship, I was the happiest I’d ever been. Sure, I was going through weekly sessions of therapy with my Mind Healer, and I sometimes struggled with the death threats my mother and I received, and it took everything I had to start my own small business from my tiny flat, but, still, I was happy and I couldn’t have asked for anything more because Harry Potter liked me, approved of me, talked to me in public, joked with me, cooked me dinner, and helped me with my business, and–and all I needed was his smile, his approval, and I could be just fine.

“It…I-It wasn’t until the b–...until I …met Marceau Dupont that I realised how…how wrong I was. Because, here was this man: this gorgeous, generous, talented, kind man, a man untouched by war and darkness who… l–loved me. Marceau loved me. Despite how much I told him about my past, despite how many…unforgiving people around us told him who I really was, despite all that, he really loved the person who I was and fought to shape myself into. And I–”

Draco had to stop to take a deep, shuddering breath and wipe away some of his streaming tears. 

“And I loved him back. I did! Despite knowing I couldn’t possibly deserve it, I did allow myself that one thing. But…b-but, it wasn’t enough, you see. Because…because Marceau, with his eyes unclouded by hate and ignorance, saw the real me. Despite how hard I tried to keep him from meeting you, and how hard I tried to keep him from seeing me around you, despite all that… he saw that–...saw the–the little angry, bully of a boy was i-in love with Harry Potter, and always had been, and always would be.”

Draco sobbed harder, trying his best to continue, to let the poison out. Somewhere in there, Harry had gotten up and was now sitting next to Draco, and Harry now had his arm around him.

“So he left me, because he wouldn’t accept anything but all of me, and I knew I could never give it to him. I broke his heart because t-that’s what I do, I break things. I break people, you included. And I spend all my time and effort, including my profession, trying to fix them a-and fix myself too.

“And, so, Harry, when you– when you kissed me, I–I must have forgotten that. Because I was so beyond happy that it even occurred to you to kiss me, that you wanted to touch me and hold me and tell me your secrets and make love to me and fuck me within an inch of my life. I was–I am ashamed to say that I forgot what I was capable of, who I really am, when I was with you. You made me forget every rational thought in my head because I finally had your undivided attention, and I was finally able to express how much I loved you in everything but words.” 

Draco savoured the unworthy comfort of Harry’s warm arm around him for what he knew to be the last time and pressed on. 

“So it–it came as rather a…an unwelcome awakening when I…when I remembered my place. That day…on the third floor. There was…there was a writing desk.”

Draco groped in his trouser pocket and removed a glass vial. It was his memory of that day. 

Draco held it out shakily to Harry. “Please watch it, Harry. It e-explains everything.”

Harry didn’t move to take it and said kindly, “...Thank you, Draco. I know the courage it must have taken to offer that to me. But I would prefer if you would just…tell me in your own words. I’ve learned, with memories in a Pensieve, that they…they may show you the facts, but they don’t do anything to explain the memory-holder’s feelings. And that’s all I want from you, Draco. Please.”

Draco breathed shakily. Of course Harry would want it the hardest way. And Draco would have to be brave because Harry deserved nothing but the whole truth.

“Yes. S-so there was this writing desk and it had a s-stuck drawer. I…I got it open and there was a… a Boggart inside.”

Draco had to stop. The scene was still so vivid in his mind, so sharp that it still flayed him open, blood and guts exposed. 

After a full minute of silence, Harry gently prompted. “What was it, Draco? What did you see?”

“It was…i–it was you, Harry. A–and Ginny. You were–...you were both smiling so much. You were so happy, so happy together. You were married and Ginny was p-pregnant and you had a little girl on your shoulders. The cutest little girl you’d ever seen. She had your eyes and your messy hair and your smile…and her mother’s face.

“And, oh, it hurt so much, Harry. I think I blacked out, I’m not sure, I don’t really remember what happened afterwards. All I knew is that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I-it haunted me, it haunts me. It was so painful to be walking around loving you, knowing what I knew, knowing what…what your future really held, what it could be. Knowing what I had to do.”

Harry said, “So…the night you left. You talked with Hermione. What did you tell her?”

“I told her the truth. I had to. She had seen the whole thing: my B-boggart, my meltdown afterwards, everything. She had been keeping an eye on me. So, that night, she cornered me, and I’m sure she wanted to demand that I tell you…what happened. What I saw. But, instead, I…I begged her. I begged her to…to Obliviate me.”

“Oh, Draco…”

“A-and when she refused, I ran. I ran away like the coward that I am. I couldn’t bear the thought of living with the memory any longer. I had to…to find another way. Because, despite everything, I wanted so desperately to keep you. I was–I am so selfish. I ignored what my Boggart was trying to tell me, trying to show me. I ignored it because I wanted to pretend I could still be with you, that I could still give you everything you needed to be h-happy, if only I could erase what I’d seen, what I knew was my future.”

“Fuck, Draco. Where did you go? I tried everything and I couldn’t find you.”

“Well, I…I went to a park first. It was a place I used to go to right after my house arrest to worry in the fresh air instead of worrying in the Manor. And then I went to a coffee shop, where the overly kind matron told me I couldn’t order tea and to go home to you, and then I realised I had a functioning brain and could go to my Mind Healer, despite the late hour, because he would certainly not turn me away in my crisis.”

“Fuck. You had told me he was on holiday with his husband.”

“Yes, I had told you correctly. He had a lovely little sign posted on his front door, reminding me of the fact. And reminding me that I had a replacement Mind Healer’s mobile number, if only I hadn’t left my mobile at–...here.”

“Shit. So what did you do?”

“I…I’m ashamed to say that the only place I could think of to…to protect myself was… Marceau’s home.”

“...Your ex-boyfriend’s place. Where you used to live together.”

“Y-yes, but, Harry, please believe me that nothing happened. H-he saw right through me right away, and correctly assessed that I had royally messed up and was only using his place because it was–is Unplottable and under a Fidelius. He was so generous, Harry, not to throw me out on my arse. If it was me in that situation, I’m not sure I could have done the same.”

“...Fine. Fine, we can come back to all of that later. So what did you do?”

“Well, stupidly, I tried to make an appointment with a Mind Healer or any Healer, really, at St. Mungo’s and I was laughed out of the building.”

“God, baby, I’m so sorry. But I questioned the St. Mungo’s staff and no one said they’d seen you.”

“Yes, well, give me some credit, Harry, I was wearing a Glamour. I wore it every time I ventured out. So then I went to Diagon to purchase any book I could find on the Obliviation Charm and memory magic, and what I now know to be called Mind Magic. Turns out there were only two, extremely overpriced books, and the clever man there told me to visit Penworth Library for a better selection, and he was right, for the most part. After a few days, I managed to acquire sixteen books on Mind Magic, all the while I was cooking and cleaning furiously like a house-elf for Marceau while he was at work so as not to completely drown in all the debt I was racking up to him. I’ve read so much about Mind Magic now that I confess I could probably apply to a Master's programme with ease.”

“Fuck, Draco. I don’t really know much about it, but isn’t Mind Magic extremely fucking dangerous? Lockhart still doesn't know who he is, and it took Hermione months to restore her parents' memories. You didn’t try anything, did you?”

“Oh, no, no, no. I wasn’t nearly brave enough to actually try any of what I learned. I so desperately wanted to give Self-Obliviation a go, but I…I couldn’t risk losing any memory of the real you, of my love for you. So, no, I just read myself into a manic frenzy until Marceau told me I was being utterly mad. We talked it out and apologised for all the mess we made in the past, and I’m…I’m so grateful to him, Harry, because he was a…significant part of what made me come ho–...come back. I owed you an explanation, and now you have it.

“S-so, there now, Harry, do you see? Do you see now? I’m no good for you. I love you, I’ve a-always loved you, but, just like Marceau, it’s not enough. I’m weak and a spineless coward and a fraud, someone who runs away to their ex-boyfriend when cornered, and tries to Obliviate himself instead of t-talking to you, and–and you deserve someone so much better than that, Harry. You deserve someone whole, someone beautiful, someone good, someone who won’t run away, who will give you a future with a f-family, children and babies with your eyes and your smile.”

“Oh, Draco,” Harry said sadly and pulled Draco into his arms, hugging him close. Draco braced himself for the gentle letdown and didn’t hug back, his heavy tears blurring his vision.

Harry pulled away to gently brush some of Draco’s tears away, which was a lost cause, since Draco couldn’t stop. “Thank you for finally telling me your feelings, and for being brave and coming back home. And I’m so sorry, baby. I had no idea you were torturing yourself with these kind of thoughts all the time. I knew that you were struggling with something lately, that something might have happened, but I didn’t understand just how bad it had gotten for you to leave like you did, or for you to not even come to me about it. I’m so sorry that you felt like you had to deal with this all alone. I thought you knew that I love you and would do anything for you. I just hadn’t said the words yet because I didn’t want to spook you; No offence, love, but you tend to struggle with, y’know, serious stuff like that and you’re always quick to hide your true feelings from me. But I promise to be better for you from now on. I’ll work to be a person you can rely on to always tell the truth to, no matter how scary, and I’ll do the same for you.” 

Draco was in disbelief. Harry wasn’t angry with him? Harry was apologising too? Harry loved him? It didn’t make any sense.

Harry said, “But, look, I need to say this for the record. I am not perfect, Draco. I wasn’t at Hogwarts and I’m not now either. Like, don’t get me wrong, it’s very flattering that you have such a high opinion of me. But I’m not this person made up of only goodness and light like you seem to think I am. I’ve made a lot of mistakes and certainly some very bad choices myself, definitely in school, but even after the War. 

“I mean, look at the scars I gave you! It doesn’t matter that they’re faint now and they don’t cause you physical pain anymore. What I did has permanently scarred your body, so they’ll be there for the rest of your life, and it’s all because I walked in on you crying in a bathroom. I stupidly decided to use an unknown Curse on you and if Snape hadn’t been there and acted quickly, you would have died. There was so much blood, Draco. And I barely got a slap on the wrist in punishment! Every time I look at them now, I’m reminded of what I did, and I have no idea how you even let me touch you, let alone make love to you.”

“Harry, no, that’s not–”

“And, seriously, Draco, I’ve done a lot of other inexcusably bad shit too. I mean, I’ve used the Imperius Curse more than once, and the Cruciatus Curse, which, by very definition, are supposed to be unforgivable. I’ve lied, cheated, and stolen. Not to mention that I was walking around my whole life with a piece of Voldemort’s soul inside of me, who of course was the very opposite of good. And… and, worst of all, I…I caused the deaths of so many people that I loved: Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore, Fred, Dobby, even Hedwig.”

“Oh, Harry…”

“But, you know what? After all that pain and–and loss, the greatest thing I learned was that people are never all good or all bad; all of us have both light and dark inside of us, but it’s our choices that make us who we are. And I choose to be as good as I can now, and so do you, Draco. I really love that about you; One of the many things I love about you. How you took all your pain and darkness and turned it into–goodness, and love.”

Harry squeezed Draco closer and asked, “But can you tell me something? What I don’t understand is why Ginny of all people? Out of all the women I’ve dated, she was by far my biggest and longest mistake. And she’s been mad for Blaise for years now, which you very well know.”

Draco swallowed and said, “Because she was supposed to be your happy ending, your– happily ever after. Not m-me, not Draco the war criminal, Draco the ex-Death Eater. It’s all wrong, Harry.”

Draco thought Harry would be mad, or try to deny it, but he was surprised when Harry huffed out a laugh instead and said sincerely, “Yes, it is all wrong, and I love that it is.”

Draco stared at him and said blankly, “What? You do?”

Harry shook Draco gently and enthused sincerely, smiling now, “Yes! Draco, if everything in my life after the War went as I had originally planned, like everyone expected of me, following yet another path chosen for me, I would be a right miserable git. I tried to follow that path for far too long and it failed spectacularly, which was complete shit at the time, but I learned pretty quickly that it was for the best.”

Draco’s heart did a tiny flip in his chest, yearning and tingling with cautious hope. Draco’s eyes moved restlessly over Harry’s face, searching for the lie.

Harry shook his head at Draco affectionately and continued, “Draco, in this so-called “happy ending,” as you said, I would have stayed in the Auror programme, stuck fighting criminals and Death Eaters on an endless loop and landing myself in St. Mungo’s every other day; I would have convinced myself that my growing attraction to men was just a phase and then married Ginny, my school sweetheart and my best mate’s little sister, my grand prize for “winning” the war, completely ignoring her own wants and needs and feelings. And then we would have popped out a few kids right away because that’s what you’re supposed to do right after the honeymoon with your trophy wife. And then I would have given these tiny, innocent children heavy names like Severus James or some such rot, because I’d be trapped in the past, clueless to how I’d be burdening them with my fucked up emotional baggage.”

Draco licked his lips and then protested, “But then you would have had children of your own.” 

Harry nodded and said, “Sure, biological children, which is not the only type of children, by the way, as you’ve been so fixated on. But I would have had them far too young, when I was still dealing with all my nonsense from the War, so I wouldn’t have given them the proper amount of attention they deserved, too busy with dealing with my own shit and working myself into the ground trying to find an end to every crime, which we know is impossible.

“Instead of what I really did like exploring my sexuality and coming to terms with being bi, going to my Mind Healer to help me deal with all the shit I went through with the Dursleys and Dumbledore and Voldemort and you; instead, I would still have been Harry Potter: The Chosen One, and not just Harry, just a man trying to make his own choices and live like everybody else.

“But–,” Draco started to protest again, but Harry cut him off with, “No, shush, it’s still my turn and this is the important bit. 

“But then I became friends with you, Draco, and I saw all the fucking amazing things you had done to change yourself for the better and to break away from your own shit path that you were forced onto since birth and I thought…if he could do it, so could I.”

Draco could feel his tears gathering again and he whispered, “Oh, Harry.” 

Harry continued, “I don’t want a happy ending with you, Draco. I want a happy beginning.” 

And when Draco laughed, wiping his tears before more could fall, Harry continued, smirking, “And let’s not forget the super-important middle, which is where the real magic is.”

Draco laughed again and said fondly, “You’re ridiculous, Potter.”

Harry grabbed a handful of tissues from the end table, and Transfigured them into a thick handkerchief, passing it to Draco. 

Draco took it gratefully, wiping his tears, and Harry said, smirking, “I’m going to have to start carrying those around everywhere I go, aren’t I? Now that I know you’re a giant crybaby.”

Draco laughed wetly and shoved Harry gently with his shoulder. “Oh, be quiet, you berk.”

Draco put his hand on Harry’s cheek and started to lean in close for a kiss, but then Harry removed it to kiss Draco’s palm. 

“Hold on. It’s still my turn.” 

Harry got up off the couch, looking across the room. Harry wiggled his finger at a low object covered in a sheet that Draco hadn’t noticed. It sailed over at Harry’s beckoning to land neatly at Harry’s feet. 

“Do you want to see my Boggart, Draco?” Harry asked.

Leaping up from the couch, his eyes wide and anxious, Draco said quickly, “What?-- No! No, you don’t have to do that.”

Harry ignored him and wandlessly Vanished the sheet. It was the writing desk from the Grey Room.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, staring at Harry in askance.

Harry, ever the Gryffindor, winked at him and turned to face the desk, and, with a snap of his fingers, the bottom drawer jerked open, and the Boggart was forced out of its hiding place.

The Boggart was Harry himself, aged no older than seventeen, his face lined with misery and fatigue, his famous lightning-shaped scar standing out in sharp relief on his forehead, his clothes dirty and ragged, his frame small with malnutrition. 

This was the Harry Draco remembered seeing fall out of Hagrid’s arms in the courtyard, who had pulled Draco onto the back of his broom away from the Fiendfyre, who had faced Voldemort in the Great Hall, and defeated the wizarding world’s greatest threat with Draco’s wand: Harry at the Battle of Hogwarts. 

“Oh, Harry,” Draco said sadly.

But the real Harry was smiling, unaffected. He said, “Take a good look, Draco. This is the old me, and he’s never, ever coming back.” 

And then Harry said loudly, “Riddikulus!” and the Boggart morphed.

Boggart Harry was wearing a massive, wide-brimmed hat complete with a cartoon jolly roger, swashbuckler boots, and a long, dirty, scraggly coat and beard. He was also sporting a peg leg, a hook for a hand, and had a stuffed parrot on his shoulder.

Draco let out a surprised shout of laughter. Pirate Harry looked absolutely ridiculous. 

“Merlin, Potter. Your little eye patch!” Draco pointed. “And your beard!” 

Harry laughed cheerfully and teased, “What, you don’t think I’m pulling it off?” and then said again, happily, “Riddikulus!”

The Boggart morphed again, and this time, Not Harry was wearing a black and white tuxedo suit complete with tails; an overly tall, black tophat; white gloves; and an exaggerated haughty expression. And, most prominently, he was sporting a large monocle and a massive handlebar moustache.

Draco couldn’t control his laughter now, it was spilling out of him, and Harry joined in heartily, their combined laughter filling the room. 

“T-that moustache!” Draco choked out while Harry said, “My face!”

Apparently, Harry wasn’t done with his fun because he wandlessly cast another Riddikulus and Boggart Harry was now draped in a shawl and beads, his hands covered in gaudy rings and his wrists in cheap bangles, his hair frizzy, his eyes hidden by giant spectacles that made him look like some sort of strange insect: the male equivalent of Professor Trelawney.

They both gasped with laughter.

“Oh, my days,” Draco said, covering his face, struggling to stop laughing.

Harry chuckled and looked at Draco fondly. 

After a few moments of them staring at each other, Harry’s eyes roaming lovingly over Draco’s soft smile, they both noticed that the Boggart was shifting forms again. 

After a long pause, Harry said gravely, “Shit.”

The new Boggart form was an exact replica of Harry, kneeling on one knee, his hand extending a black, velvet box embedded with a slim golden ring with tiny, sparking emeralds around the band. His face was the very picture of abject heartbreak and rejection.

There was a rushing sound in Draco’s ears and Draco blinked rapidly, looking back and forth between both Harrys. Finally, he managed, “Y-your worst fear now is proposing marriage?” Draco was proud that his voice was only a teensy bit screechy. 

Harry said, “Shit,” again, but then took a deep breath and turned to face Draco, his expression anxious, but determined. “Well, not exactly. It’s…it’s that you’ll say no,” and he took out his own, very real black velvet box from his pocket. 

Draco, stunned, watched the real Harry get down on one knee in front of him. It was a strange sight: Harry and the Boggart were now mirror images of each other, only the real Harry’s expression was a bit tense, but hopeful and fond.

Harry took another visible deep breath and said, “Draco… you are well and truly off your trolley, barking mad, absolutely mental. You’re king of the loons, really, and you drive me ‘round the bend some days, and I… I couldn’t be more in love with you or any happier with our life.”

Draco’s eyes were wide as saucers and he stared with his mouth open, speechless.

Harry continued, “Some people might say we could be moving too fast or making the wrong choice, but fuck those people. They don’t know us, we know us, we make our own choices, and I’ve been ready to do this since our first date, when you had accidentally spelled your eyebrows green trying to look your best for it.” Harry flashed him a quick, unsteady grin, and said, “Yeah. Pansy told me.”

Draco tried for a displeased growl, but it came out more like a hoarse croak. “T-that bint, I’ll never speak to her again.”

Harry said, “So. I’m ready. I’m ready for this, Draco. We obviously still have some communication issues, which I know we’ll both work on together, but… I am in. I am all in. I…I want a happy middle with you, not just a happy ending.”

Harry took the biggest breath of all, a little shakily, and looked into Draco’s eyes. 

“Er. So. Will you - ”

Draco cut Harry off before he could finish, blurting out, “I want three children, maybe more. Not right away, but it was so very lonely as a child with no one to talk to or play with.”

Harry blinked, took that in, and said slowly, “Sounds great, me too. We can adopt. Maybe let’s start with a pet first?”

“And I want you to meet my mum. Properly, of course. She may not approve of us right away, but she’s my mum and I love her.”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “I’m sure she’s great.”

“I’m always going to be off my trolley, as you said, and the most hopeless, melodramatic, emotionally unavailable nutter to ever exist, as Pansy always says, and that’s not going to change anytime soon, you realise?”

“Why would I want you to? You’re brilliant just the way you are.”

“And I’ll want a huge wedding, Potter, Purebloods can’t do it any other way.”

Slowly, Harry started to grin and asked, “Does that mean you’re saying yes then?”

Draco gasped and nodded, crying, “Oh, Harry. Yes, of course I will. Yes, yes, please marry me.”

Harry’s responding grin rivalled the brightest sun. Radiating with happiness, he jumped up and pulled Draco into his arms and they kissed passionately, although it was a bit messy with Draco’s tears getting in the way. 

After several, glorious minutes, with his eyes closed and between kisses, Harry mumbled, “You’re snogging me in front of a Boggart; you really are a hopeless nutter.”

Draco’s laugh broke the kiss and he pulled away reluctantly, their grins matching. “You proposed to me in front of a Boggart, you knob!” And then Draco held out his left hand. “Now put that gorgeous ring on me.”

Harry complied eagerly and Draco stared, marvelling at how the light caused the tiny gemstones to sparkle. It was the most gorgeous ring he’d ever seen, and it was all his, truly. 

Draco looked deeply into Harry’s eyes, his heart in his throat, and whispered, “I am all in too. You have my whole heart.”

Harry lovingly caressed Draco’s cheek and they both moved in to kiss again when, suddenly, they both noticed the Boggart morphing once again, this time targeting Draco.

Boggart Draco was Draco’s twin in every way, only with a mournful, lost expression. An angry black cloud was pouring a steady gush of rain all over him.

“Er,” Harry said, bewildered. “What’s that supposed to be?”

Draco bit his lip, blushed a bit, and said, “I think it’s supposed to be me…without you in my life?”

Harry smirked and said, “Awww, you love me!” and made big kissy lips at Draco. 

Laughing, Draco pushed Harry’s face away to take out his wand, point it at the Boggart, and cast, “Riddikulus!”

Boggart Draco was now wearing a giant, puffy white ball gown, a sparkling tiara, and was sporting heavily rouged pink cheeks and red lips. He was making goofy, kissy faces at himself in a delicate gold hand mirror.

Harry threw his head back and roared with laughter, and Draco, equally affected, hunched over, clutching his stomach, tears of mirth gathering at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t breathe!

Boggart Draco was now desperately windmilling his arms, trying to stay upright and balanced on the tall heels of his glittering glass slippers, helplessly stumbling and tripping on the edges of his voluminous skirts.

Harry and Draco both could only laugh harder, clutching on to each other for support and barely managing to keep themselves upright. 

They laughed so much and so hard that, unbeknownst to them both, the Boggart popped out of existence, gone forever. 

[Epilogue: Three Months Later]

It was Saturday night and Draco, Harry, and the usual group had just entered the doors of Naughty Coffee. 

This was the first time Draco had been back since that fateful day, and he was happy to be able to finally share the unique experience with his friends and, of course, get the chance to repay the kindness of the shop’s matron, whom had shown Draco such warmth and generosity in Draco’s desperate time of need.

Everyone was looking around the café in appreciation while taking off their heavy coats and outerwear after picking the largest table in the centre of the room.

“Wow, look at all this art in here. Do you think those are original prints?” Dean said to no one, already walking away to get a closer look at the series of black and white photographs along each wall. 

Seamus rolled his eyes fondly and sat down. “So predictable. Guess I’m getting the first round.” Seamus grabbed a menu from the table. “Oh, fuck yes, they have real Irish coffee and whiskey here? And it’s all home-brewed?”

Seamus looked like he was about to start drooling and Neville laughed at him. Seamus whacked Neville with his menu and Hannah rolled her eyes, pulling Neville’s menu away before he could escalate it into a playful skirmish, which had sadly happened before.

Draco helped Harry remove his scarf (a huge red one dotted with golden Snitches, courtesy of Molly Weasley) and Harry removed Draco’s hat for him (another Molly Wesley number in a bright, wintery blue) and carefully smoothed out Draco’s hair with his fingers. 

Draco smiled fondly in thanks and then pulled out Harry’s chair for him, making sure he was sitting comfortably before taking the chair to Harry’s right. 

Harry immediately pulled Draco’s chair closer so he could hold Draco’s hand comfortably on Harry’s lap, and Draco leaned in so he could do the same, taking a moment to caress the ring Harry was wearing. Harry’s ring was the same design exactly as Draco’s, only it had red rubies instead of emeralds. 

Draco still grinned every time he remembered the explosive, ecstatic reactions of their friends when they had announced their engagement at the Lion’s Den more than two months ago, and how everyone had admired their matching rings. Draco’s insides fluttered happily every time he noticed it on Harry’s finger as well as the ring on his own; it felt like a key unlocking the very deepest parts of his heart, or a missing puzzle piece sliding into place, or a porcelain mask disappearing forever, and he didn’t think that feeling would go away any time soon.

Hermione and Luna were both happily reading the place’s history off the back of a menu together and Ron was already looking to see if he could order any snacks.

“They’ve got biscotti!” Ron exclaimed excitedly.

Pansy and Theo were already canoodling in the far corner, the shameless slags, and they were getting a little too cosy for Draco’s comfort. Draco flicked a plastic coaster at them and they broke apart, hissing like angry cats. Draco stuck out his tongue at them and Harry laughed.

“This is seriously cool, Draco!” Ginny said. “How did you find this place again?” 

Blaise helped her get off her coat and then she and Blaise both sat down across from Harry and Draco.

Draco said, “It’s a secret” and then Maggie immediately blew his cover by coming over to their table. 

Maggie was grinning and she addressed Draco warmly. “Lookie 'ere! ‘ello, dearie. I see you brough’ your friends with you this time.”

Draco smiled. “Hello, Maggie. Yes, I did. You’ll have to excuse them, though; they are all nefarious degenerates, except for our dear Luna, of course, (Luna smiled serenely and waved) but the rest of these reprobates promise to behave themselves.”

“I promise no such thing,” George smirked and then yelped when Angelina pinched him with her sharp purple nails.

Maggie laughed. “Welcome, welcome, lovelies! Me name’s Maggie and this is me humble li’le coffee shop. Me and the wife Sheryl opened this place almost thir’y years ago now, and we handbrew all the coffee and the whiskeys ourselves. Well, Sheryl’s more the genius with the coffees, and I handle the whiskeys. We’re a perfec’ team, see? We’ve always said that Sheryl brings the coffee, but I bring the naughty!” 

Maggie winked and everyone laughed.

Maggie said, “Please tell me your names, dearies.”

They all smiled and introduced themselves, Draco included, who realised that he never did on his first visit. But Draco forgave himself, as he was obviously not his best self at the time.

Maggie said, warmth in her soothing tone, “I’m so ‘appy to ‘ave you all. We try to be like family here, see? When this wee, sweet thing firs’ came here,” she gestured to Draco, smiling fondly, “I knew we had to adopt him righ’ away. He’s too precious to be all by his lonesome.”

Draco blushed and (maturely) decided to ignore a snickering Pansy and Theo, wishing he could flick another coaster at them.

Draco said, “Maggie, truly, thank you so much for your kindness. You are a lovely woman and this place you made with your wife is truly wonderful.”

“Aw, thank you, love. I’m jus’ glad you found it a safe space. I ‘ope you all know tha’ you’re all safe ‘ere.”   

Harry squeezed Draco’s hand that was in his lap and said to Maggie earnestly, “Thank you, Maggie. And thank you for what you did to help Draco.” 

“Oh, it was my pleasure, dearie. But I knew this one would go ‘ome when he was good and ready. And now I see why, wha’ with a gorgeous specimen like yourself wai’in' for ‘im!”

They all laughed at Harry’s embarrassed grin, Draco included. 

Maggie then generously brought out a tray and invited them all to taste test several different samples of the brews and a generous variety of the whiskeys, so they were all understandably and visibly excited.

While the table was all busy with the samples, Maggie looked at Draco and gestured to Harry, who was occupied with trying to get Ginny to share hers. Blaise was having to calmly intervene, of course, bless him.

Maggie raised a nefarious eyebrow in question. Draco blushed, but slowly nodded and smiled. Maggie winked cheekily, shook her finger at him knowingly, and then walked away to help the people queuing at the counter.

Pansy said, “Oh, sweet Salazar’s tits, this coffee is to die for! I want to bathe in it. We’re never going anywhere else ever again. Good call, Draco, darling.”

Harry handed some of the (bravely stolen from Ginny) samples to Draco and said, “Yeah, this place is amazing and Maggie is incredible. I already feel like we’ve been coming here for years, y’know?”

“Yes, I felt instantly at home here,” Draco agreed. “Which is truly saying something since tea is clearly still the superior drink.” 

Draco immediately eyed Pansy. She was so predictable because that remark caused Pansy to open her mouth indignantly to start their familiar tea versus coffee argument and then they were off. 

After they all had properly ordered a wide selection of drinks based on their favourite samples, and were all starting to compare flavours and tastes, a voice at their table said, “Apologies for my tardiness, everyone.”

A small cheer of welcome greeted Marceau. 

Marceau smiled and gestured to the lithe man that was hanging off of him. “Everyone, this is Patrick. Patrick, meet everyone.”

The table chroused their hellos to Patrick, who smiled shyly and waved. Draco got up to hug Marceau and Harry got up to shake both men’s hands. 

About ten minutes later, when they were all talking happily at the table, Marceau got Draco’s attention away from the group conversation and said, “I have something for you.”

Marceau placed something on the table in front of Draco. It was small, rectangular, and wrapped in newspaper. 

This got Harry’s attention and he leaned in to get a closer look.

Draco carefully unwrapped the newspaper and then gasped softly in surprise. It was the photograph of Draco and Harry that Draco had taken from their hallway wall that awful day. Only it was encased in an unfamiliar rich cherry wood frame that seemed to be very faintly glowing.

“I found the picture under the bed in the guest bedroom. I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t keep the broken pieces of the frame that I found on the dresser. This frame is from a little magical village in Turkey. It’s hand carved and it has a protective Charm on it, so the glass is unbreakable and the picture inside will never fade.” 

Draco swallowed with emotion. “Marceau…it’s beautiful.”

Harry picked up the frame to admire it, grinning. “I wondered where that went to! Thank you so much for returning it, mate, and for the frame. This picture really means a lot to me, and to Draco.”

Draco nodded, overwhelmed. “I thought I had lost it. Really, thank you, Marceau. Merci beaucoup.”

Marceau smiled and said, “Vous êtes le bienvenu, mon cher ami. You are welcome. May this forever help preserve your wish.”

Draco smiled in contentment and leaned onto Harry, putting his head on Harry’s shoulder. “Yes.”

Harry smiled and continued slowly, lovingly caressing Draco’s left forearm under the table, as he had been doing all night. 

Ever since Draco had surprised Harry with Draco’s transformed tattoo, Harry hadn’t been able to stop touching it. 

Almost immediately after Harry’s proposal and their talk, Draco had thought seriously about what his Mind Healer had previously said about what he could do with his Mark. Draco then came up with an idea of what he wanted to get, and then had secretly arranged for Dean to design it. Dean was more than happy to help, and his design was absolutely perfect, better than what Draco had even imagined himself; the man truly had a gift. 

Draco didn’t waste a second after seeing Dean’s completed design to convince Theo to arrange an appointment with Theo’s regular tattoo artist (a lovely witch named Pamela Chiu) for him and so Draco got it permanently inked on his skin the very next day.

Draco had taken Hermione and Pansy along to hold his hand through the pain, and, of course, Theo came too, although Draco could have used without Theo’s snickering at Draco’s frequent yelps of pain. The pain certainly was terrible, but it was well worth it. Draco couldn’t be happier with how it turned out. 

When it was finally done and Draco had seen the finished product gleaming on his skin, he had cried immediately, but not in despair. Draco had been overwhelmed by the feelings of relief, hope, and joy at seeing his transformed Mark, where before he only had seen darkness and a symbol of Draco’s regrets, but, now, it was beautiful, cathartic proof that Draco truly could move on whilst still acknowledging the pain of his past. 

The Dark Mark was no longer stark, ugly, and black, but filled with vibrant colour. The skull was now wearing King Arthur’s gold crown with rubies and emeralds embedded into the band, the style modelled after the ring Harry had so lovingly and bravely given Draco as a promise of the start of their life together. The snake was now Slytherin green and the snake’s mouth was holding the legendary sword of Excalibur. The whole scene was surrounded by delicate narcissus and lily flowers. 

Draco truly loved it, but he loved the look on Harry’s face when Draco had shown it to him even more, especially when Draco had made Harry touch it. 

Whenever Harry touched Draco’s tattoo, and only Harry, the flowers bloomed and blossomed, the rubies and emeralds sparkled dazzlingly, and the sword of Excalibur turned into the sword of Godric Gryffindor.

It was a clever bit of magic that Draco and Hermione had worked on together with Dean and the tattoo artist witch, using a (secretly and carefully stolen, but lovingly used) piece of Harry’s magical signature.

Draco will never forget how Harry had looked after first touching Draco’s blossoming tattoo: Harry’s face had been filled with so much wonder and such pure love that Draco had felt it down to the very tips of his fingers and his toes, blanketing him like a warm, invincible Protego.

Draco had only seen Harry look happier once, and that was three days ago when they had privately exchanged vows, eloping in the tiny village of France where they had been visiting Draco’s mother, with only the French Ministry-appointed Justice of the Peace and notary as witnesses.

True to his word, Draco did still eventually want the big wedding ceremony to celebrate their union with all their friends and family, most likely in the garden of Grimmauld Place (which Draco suspected would be thrilled to host, as the house had long since forgiven Draco). But Harry had agreed with Draco that they didn’t want to waste another second not being married to each other and not starting them on their path to Happily Ever Middle. 

On their wedding night, Draco had surprised Harry again, this time with the complete disappearance of Draco’s Sectumsempra scars, which Draco had removed with the specialised version of Dittany Raymond had provided for him the week prior during Draco’s most recent session.

Upon seeing Draco’s smooth, unblemished chest and abdomen, Harry had gasped and Draco had explained, “After the War, and after I had realised my feelings for you, I…I had thought of my scars as…your goodness and your magic marking me as evil, or some twisted proof of you owning me. But now, with your ring and our vows, I no longer need them. I no longer want to cause you or myself any pain. We both deserve peace, Harry. I still believe that cruelty has consequences, but we both have long since paid for our misdeeds, and we deserve a future of happiness, and I can’t wait to spend every second of it with you.” and then “Oh, darling, please don’t cry. I love you, Harry. I love you. I love you.”

Draco suspected that it wouldn’t be long before someone discovered their (unfortunately public record) certificate of marriage and blared the news all over the world. But, for now, Draco and Harry were happy to keep the secret between themselves, and enjoy their lives together not as Harry Potter: the Saviour or Draco Malfoy: Ex-Death Eater, or not as Harry Potter: The Martyr or Draco Malfoy: Knight of the Round Table, but just as two people in love, unmasked and free.

“While Cinderella and her prince did live happily ever after, the point, gentlemen, is that they lived.” — Ever After