Archive of Our Own

There was a knock on the door.

Harry thumped down the stairs, wondering whether or not he had imagined the noise—which was entirely possible, seeing as Grimmauld creaked and groaned spectacularly with even the slightest twist of wind outside. But no, when he glanced through the peephole, there was indeed a figure beyond the door. Was that… Malfoy?

Brows knitting together, he unwove the wards, wincing as they crackled slightly in his ear (they were in need of a bit of work, if he was to be completely honest.)

He turned the doorknob, pulled open the door. “Hello?”

“Hello… Potter.” Yes, it was Malfoy after all. He stood tall, face pointy and pale against the night sky.

They blinked at one another. Malfoy was dressed in impeccable grey robes and for some reason looked as confused as Harry felt. His eyes darted from Harry to the ground and back, as if he were about to flee at any moment.

“Erm… Did you want something?” Harry asked, shifting uncertainly. A cool breeze floated in the open doorway, making him increasingly aware that he’d never managed to change out of his pajamas this morning.

“I… don’t think so?” Malfoy frowned slightly. “I’m not honestly sure why I’m here.”

“Oh. Uh, okay,” Harry grunted (ever so eloquently), shivering as another gust of air brushed past him. “How’d you find out about Grimmauld?”

Malfoy shrugged. “It used to be family property, you know.”

“It’s supposed to be under Fidelius…” Harry trailed off, squinting. Now that he thought about it, he had no idea if Grimmauld was even under the charm anymore—the crackling in the wards probably wasn’t a good sign. He shook his head, vowing to take a look at it later. “Did you want to come in?”

Malfoy shook his head. “No, I think I’m all right,” he shrugged. “I’ll just be going now.” He put a casual hand up in farewell, and Harry watched him retreat into the night.

-X-

A week later, it happened again. An odd knock on the door, Malfoy blinking in confusion, and Harry wondering what exactly was going on. He’d honestly forgotten almost entirely about the first encounter, but seeing Malfoy again brought the memory swirling back.

“Do you have amnesia or something?” Harry asked—it certainly seemed like it.

“No,” Malfoy shook his head firmly. “I remember deciding to come here. I just don’t know why. It’s like… an instinct.”

Harry blinked at him. “…Right.”

They stood awkwardly for another moment, then a moment more.

“Are you coming in this time?” Harry finally asked.

Slowly, Malfoy shook his head. “No, thank you,” he declined primly. And again, he walked off into the night, leaving Harry just as confused as the first time.

-X-

The third time it happened, it was pouring outside, and Malfoy was on the front step looking positively drenched.

“For Merlin’s sake, come in,” Harry swung the door open wide, gazing briefly out into the stormy night.

This time, Malfoy accepted, stepping cautiously into the entryway and shivering visibly. Pulling out his wand, he cast a drying charm on himself that ruffled his hair, mussing it from where it had previously been plastered against his head. It made Harry want to chuckle.

Harry was still wearing his pajamas. He should go change, but he should also probably put the kettle on. Torn between the two options, he settled for simply staring at Malfoy.

Harry’d spoken for him at the trials. He’d returned his wand and bid him a polite goodbye, and he’d expected that moment to be the last he’d see of his former rival. But no, here he was, for the third week in a row, and it seemed that neither of them really knew what to think about it.

“What?” Malfoy asked, averting his eyes.

“…Nothing,” Harry replied. Having not found the right words for what he was thinking, he turned away, motioning for Malfoy to follow him downstairs.

He decided to put the kettle on, lighting the stove with a quick spell and fumbling in the cupboard for his favorite teakettle. He smiled down at it fondly—it was a kettle in miniature, small enough that it only held a few cups worth of tea. It was perfect when he was by himself, though maybe he should expand it now that Malfoy was here? Then again, it might affect the tea—he decided against enlarging it, filling it with water and setting it on the stove to boil.

Malfoy had sat down, but he didn’t looked relaxed—quite the opposite, in fact. He seemed jittery, flinching slightly when the kettle began to sing.

Harry poured their tea and sat down, summoning the cream and sugar. “Add what you want,” he offered quietly. It felt odd to speak any louder, with Malfoy sitting across from him and the rain pouring outside.

Malfoy took his tea black, it seemed. Harry filed that away in his mental list of interesting and useless factoids, hiding an amused smile behind his teacup. Why he was amused, he didn’t know—this whole situation was amusingly absurd, he supposed.

Harry set down his teacup. “Let me guess—you still don’t have any idea why you’re here?”

“Right in one, Potter.” Malfoy nodded, cupping his hands around his mug and staring into its depths. “It’s not like I have any desire to talk to you or anything. I’ll just be feeling bored, and then all of a sudden, I’ll get the urge to come here. And before I know it, I’m Apparating…”

“So… is it because of me, or because of Grimmauld?” Harry furrowed his brow. It sounded like some sort of bond, which was absurd—these things didn’t just happen without warning. And anyway, it wasn’t nearly as strong as any bond he’d ever learned of in school.

Malfoy sighed. “It’s you, I’m pretty sure. I don’t feel anything in connection to the building.” He paused and looked around as if he were testing his words, seeming to find them true. “…And it’s bloody infuriating. I don’t even like you,” he scowled, and Harry snorted into his tea.

“Thanks for the confidence boost,” he muttered wryly.

Malfoy shook his head. “I’m not trying to make you angry or anything. It’s just how it is.”

“Yeah. I know,” Harry nodded. And he did know. Having Malfoy here was… disconcerting, at the very least. He didn’t feel hatred toward him anymore, or anything akin to it, but not disliking someone was a lot different than being fond of them.

They lapsed into silence, and the rain kept pattering against the window. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Harry considered changing out of his pajamas, but decided that it didn’t quite matter at this point.

Minutes ticked by, and then possibly an hour (though Harry wasn’t keeping track). It felt unexpectedly comfortable to be sitting here with Malfoy, sitting here with someone who didn’t seem to expect him to talk.

“What do you think of me, Potter?” Malfoy asked, after the tiny kettle had long since been drained. It was late, now. Harry rose to make more tea, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Just in general?”

“Mhm.”

“I… well, you were a right git in school, so I still feel like that a bit.” He swallowed, pausing, deciding how exactly to phrase his words. He almost didn’t know what to say--he hadn’t thought much about his impressions of Malfoy since they’d been sworn rivals. “But you’ve… changed, I think,” he started tentatively. As he thought about it, his convictions grew stronger--the Malfoy sitting in front of him certainly wasn’t the Malfoy he had known as a child, and he wasn’t war-Malfoy either. “Even though you did terrible things during the war... I’m not holding them against you anymore. Because you’ve changed.” The words became truer as he said them, slipping out into the air and remaking what he thought about the other man.

With a swish of his wand, he lit the stove and set the kettle on.

“I saw you apologize to Hermione after the trials,” he admitted, leaving a pause so that Malfoy could respond if he wished. Malfoy said nothing. “So… I don’t really know what to think of you now. Except that you saved my life when I was at the Manor, and that you keep showing up at my door for no apparent reason.”

“You saved my life, too,” Malfoy said, and Harry turned to look at him. His eyes were a quiet grey, his face honest and bright, his mouth twisted to the side. It was an interesting expression, one that Harry hadn’t ever seen on him before.

“I did,” Harry agreed. The kettle whistled, interrupting them, and he flicked his wand to turn off the stove.

“And you kept me from Azkaban.”

“I don’t think that was all me,” Harry denied. “Other people spoke, for you, too.”

“No. It was you,” Malfoy disagreed bluntly. “Do you not realize what effect you have on people?”

“…No?” Harry shrugged, sitting down with the kettle. He poured them new cups of tea, his hands moving as if acting on their own.

“You… never mind,” Malfoy shook his head. “If you don’t know by now, I doubt having me explain it is going to make a difference.”

Harry stared at him blankly. He wasn’t sure what Malfoy had been about to say, and the curiosity niggled away at him. He didn’t want to push it, though, because he could feel their relationship changing, forming anew, too precarious to touch. If he pushed it, it might all topple over. Maybe some other time, Malfoy would explain.

They finished the second pot of tea. It was even later now. Harry didn’t mind—he didn’t have a job to go to or obligations to fulfill. It was Malfoy who rose first, covering a yawn with pale fingers.

“Is this going to happen again? You coming over?” Harry asked, walking him to the door. Sometime during the past few hours, it had stopped raining.

“I don’t know. Probably,” Malfoy huffed. “I wish I knew why.”

Harry nodded—so did he. “Well… if it happens again, you can use the Floo, you know? So you don’t have to stand in the rain again. I’ll key the wards so you can get in.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose. “You trust me that much, Potter?”

Did he? It had been a split-second decision, honestly, but he didn’t feel like he wanted to take it back. He supposed he did trust Malfoy, oddly enough.

“You’ve saved my life,” Harry shrugged. “I don’t see why you’d do anything to hurt me, after that.”

“Touché, Potter,” Malfoy nodded. “If it happens again… I’ll think about it.”

-X-

“Your wards are shite, Potter,” Malfoy stepped through the Floo. Harry looked up at him blearily; he’d been dozing on the couch and hadn’t been expecting company.

“I know,” he mumbled, yawning. “They got messed up during the war. I’ve been meaning to fix them.”

Malfoy sat on one of the couch arms, inches from Harry’s feet. Harry had forgotten to clip his toenails. He felt distinctly embarrassed, even though it should be the least important thing on his mind right now (what with Malfoy physical, here, real again). He pulled his feet back under the blanket from where they had been poking out, hoping Malfoy hadn’t noticed.

“Do you want help with the wards?” Malfoy asked.

“Uh… sure,” Harry agreed, his mind still sluggish with sleep. “Are you any good at them?”

“Not particularly,” Malfoy shrugged nonchalantly, and something about the smile playing at the corners of his lips made Harry laugh aloud.

“Why offer, then?” he chuckled.

“There’s books at the Manor about wards. I can bring them over some time.”

“Mm,” Harry nodded. He studied Malfoy’s face, deciding he liked how it looked when he was amused. “Want tea?”

“All right.”

-X-

Weeks passed, then a month, and the visits were becoming more frequent.

“Is the—you said it’s like an instinct, right? Is it getting stronger?” Harry asked one night.

Malfoy set down his teacup with a clink, leaning back against the sofa. “I suppose so. Otherwise there’s not really an explanation for me wanting to be over here all the time, is there?”

“You still don’t like me, then,” Harry stated. The thought sent a small, distressed pang through his body, and he tried not to let it show.

“No, I do, now,” Malfoy shrugged. “You’re pretty easy to get on with, when I’m not trying to fuck with you.”

The pang of distress reversed, undid itself, and an odd, warm feeling pulsed in Harry’s chest instead. “Same to you, then,” he smiled. The feeling smelled like relief.

Malfoy stretched, and the sleeve of his robe fell up his arm. Harry’s eyes slid over pale skin, flitting over the black ink of the Mark that marred it.

“Can I see it?” he asked, spurred by a sudden burst of curiosity.

“What? Oh, the Mark?” Malfoy seemed perplexed. “I… suppose so, though I can’t imagine why you’d want to.” He reached over, carefully holding his sleeve back.

The Mark was almost beautiful. It looked like the sort of tattoo that Harry’d seen on burly Muggle men, back when he still lived with the Dursleys. If he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t have found it out of the ordinary—maybe an odd choice of markings, for someone as aristocratic as Draco, but not too odd nonetheless. It was only his knowledge of the design that made it seem as repulsive as it was.

He reached a hesitant hand out, hovering over Malfoy’s arm. “May I?”

“I don’t see why not,” Malfoy breathed.

Harry touched his skin with just a finger, sliding it along the lines of the Mark. To his surprise, it was slightly raised; it was more of a scar than a tattoo. And beneath it, Malfoy’s skin was smooth, warm. He could feel Malfoy’s breath against his hair. He was surprised to find that it didn’t bother him.

He pulled his hand away, shivering slightly. “It’s odd to think about—I guess the Mark doesn’t mean much, anymore,” Harry murmured.

“Try telling that to the people who spit at me in public,” Malfoy muttered.

“Well, they’re idiots. I mean, if I can forgive you, then everyone else should have done it a long time ago,” Harry straightened, scowling. “Does that happen often?”

“No, not really. It’s usually hexes,” Malfoy shrugged, seeming almost nonchalant.

Harry stared at him. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Isn’t it,” Malfoy said, but he looked away, as if he didn’t quite believe it.

“You’re not a bad person. They shouldn’t… they shouldn’t be doing that to you.”

“Yeah, well, I was a Death Eater. You know, you can’t just magically make the entire world a good place, Potter. I know you’re fond of the whole ‘saving people’ thing, but trust me, it’s unnecessary.” Malfoy started to stand up, but Harry latched gently onto his wrist, and he stopped.

“How do you get your shopping done?” was the first thing he could think to ask.

“I don’t.”

-X-

“Is this really necessary, Potter?” Malfoy asked crossly, following closely as Harry weaved through the crowds at Diagon.

“You should be able to go shopping without having people bother you,” Harry responded over his shoulder. People were giving them odd looks. He hoped intensely that this wouldn’t go pear-shaped.

“I told you that House Elves do it perfectly well!” he heard Malfoy protest.

“House Elves can’t look at new brooms for you, or try all the free samples for you, or dick around at Wheezes for you, can they?” Harry shot back, chuckling slightly at Malfoy’s eye roll. He headed toward Eyelop’s. Maybe he’d finally buckle down and get another owl.

For the first time since the end of the war, he felt the odd sense of freedom that he had always had when exploring the wizarding world. Like he could do anything, because magic was in the world.

The day went by in a blur. Before he knew it, it was late afternoon, and they were both tired enough to Apparate home.

“Completely unnecessary,” Malfoy muttered, waiting on the doorstep of Grimmauld for Harry to open the wards. His snarky tone had no effect, though, because it was undermined by the small grin on his face.

“What was unnecessary? The shopping, or me going with you?”

“Both.”

“But no one hexed you.”

“And?”

“So what’s the problem?” Harry finally undid the wards (and winced as they crackled), wrenching the door open one-handedly. They walked through the entryway, setting multiple bags down in the floor.

“The problem is that I’d like to stop betting my life on you. Any day now,” Malfoy pointed out.

Harry headed downstairs to put the kettle on, knowing that Malfoy would follow. The late afternoon sun sent orangey rays through the windows, setting the kitchen ablaze.

He waited for the water to boil before deigning to respond. “You don’t want to owe me anything,” Harry stated, after they both had teacups steaming in their hands.

“Partially. I don’t want to have to depend on you, either.”

Harry blinked at him. “Do you? Depend on me, I mean?”

Malfoy sighed through his nose. “I’m not sure. I can’t tell, because you keep asking me over anyway, but… I think the pull is getting stronger. And that’s a lot closer to depending on you than I’m comfortable with.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t thought about it in a couple of weeks, because it had started to seem commonplace for Malfoy to come through the Floo every few nights, with or without invitation. “And you don’t have any idea…?”

“None whatsoever.” Malfoy thumbed the large chip in his mug thoughtfully, setting his chin in his other hand. “It’s a bit disturbing.”

“So that’s why you’ve been over so much, then?” The thought saddened him a bit—Harry had been enjoying their odd somewhat-friendship, honestly. He didn’t want it all to be because of some odd pull that they couldn’t even explain in the first place.

“Not… not really,” Malfoy shook his head, and Harry’s ears perked up. “Sometimes, yes, that’s why. But mostly, I… I’ll admit that I’m beginning to enjoy spending time with you,” he averted his eyes.

Harry felt flushed, for some reason. “Oh. Good. Because I… sort of thought we were becoming friends.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but smiled slightly nonetheless. “Yes, if you want to put it like that. Bloody Gryffindor.”

They sipped their tea. The sun began to set, filling the room with brilliant shades of yellow and pink until night finally fell.

“I was thinking that I would try to stay away for a bit. I want to see what happens if I ignore the urge to come here,” Malfoy suggested. “And I can research it while I’m away.”

Harry’s first instinct was to turn the idea down—he wanted to continue this. He’d been lonely, before, with Hermione and Ron both back at Hogwarts without him. But it was probably for the best, to learn more about what was happening, and to maybe start sorting out his feelings about all of this.

“You’re welcome back, when you want,” he managed to say steadily. Malfoy nodded and rose to his feet, setting his mug in the sink.

-X-

In the month that Malfoy managed to stay away, Harry tried to teach himself to knit, killed a houseplant (a gift from Neville—good riddance, though, because apparently it was poisonous when fully grown), and began to remodel a guest bedroom, only to leave it halfway unfinished when he grew bored.

He really needed something to do, so he started trying to work on the wards. Unfortunately, Malfoy hadn’t yet brought over the books about them, so it ended up being a lot of trial and error (and headaches) on Harry’s part. He was no closer to fixing the strange crackling than he had been before he started trying at all.

When Malfoy at last came crashing through the fireplace, Ron and Hermione were visiting. Varying degrees of alarm appeared on the faces of everyone in the room, and Harry stifled a laugh, because everyone (including himself) seemed to be confused.

“What’s he doing here?” Ron asked Harry, scowling.

“He’s… probably here for a cuppa,” Harry mumbled. He hadn’t been expecting to have to explain this quite so soon. Besides, he still wasn’t quite sure what ‘this’ actually was. Friendship, maybe. The word made him glow inside.

“I can leave,” Malfoy offered, already starting to turn around.

Harry reached out without thinking, grasping at Malfoy’s elbow. “You don’t have to.”

Malfoy frowned slightly, but nonetheless stopped trying to escape. Ron and Hermione were now looking at them strangely. Harry let his arm drop, swallowing uncomfortably.

A familiar expression flit across Hermione’s face. It was the one she adopted when something had just clicked—three parts triumph, one part thoughtfulness. He wondered what she was thinking, and then wondered some more, because then she smiled at Malfoy. Smiled at him.

Sensing that the situation was heading toward potential awkwardness, he started walking toward the stairs. “I’m going to put the kettle on,” he said, making a vague gesture so that the others would follow.

To his surprise, the uncomfortable questioning session he had expected didn’t occur. Instead, Hermione began chatting with Malfoy as if their history had never happened. Apologies went a long way, apparently, though Harry still thought it a bit odd. Malfoy was being polite, toning down his usual sarcasm in favor of intelligent discourse. (Harry saw Ron wince at one point, as if Hermione had just kicked him in the shin, but he said nothing.)

Harry broke out a bottle of firewhisky, and by the end of the night, even Ron was laughing. It was an odd experience for Harry. He hadn’t expected such easy acceptance, but then again, he should probably give his friends the benefit of the doubt more often.

In the wee hours of the morning, after everyone had left, Harry smiled himself to sleep.

-X-

They never ended up talking about the abrupt end to Malfoy’s self-imposed exile. Instead, they started working on the wards. Slowly, at first, and then with more vigor—ward magic turned out to be supremely interesting to the both of them.

“Did you know that it’s best to work with protective wards on dewy, sunny mornings?” Harry asked, squinting at the finely-printed book. “The water reflects the sun, which helps to keep the magic pure.”

“We’ll have to try it,” Malfoy smiled slightly. Harry’s heart gave an odd, inexplicable thump.

Malfoy set down his own book, then reached over and plucked Harry’s from his fingers.

“Hey!” Harry protested.

“I want tea,” Malfoy stood up, eyebrows raised in the way that said ‘you can argue, but you’re not going to win.’ “And my head’s hurting. Merlin knows why they print these things with such small letters.”

“Hermione knows a neat magnifying charm. I’ll ask her about it.”

“Do that.”

Harry nodded. He got up to go downstairs, but his foot caught on the edge of the sofa. Before he could sprawl onto the floor, Malfoy steadied him, hands warm against his back.

His heart gave another odd thump.

-X-

Hermione gave them the magnification incantation, and their research quickened considerably. Then came the actual implementation—a sunny, dewy day for protection, a rainy day for intruder alarms, a new moon for invisibility. By the time they had finished, it was May. The wards no longer crackled—they sang, almost, when they recognized someone they knew, and they growled when strangers got just a bit too close. Harry had grown to love them. They were almost like the pet he had never had, a pet that he had constructed and fine-tuned with Malfoy at his side.

Malfoy had begun to come over almost every other day. He’d mentioned attempting to research his odd pull while he’d been gone, but hadn’t been able to report anything useful about what seemed to be a half-arsed, one-sided bond. They had started pointedly not-talking about it—it was too odd, too unexplainable. Better to leave it alone, as long as it wasn’t hurting anyone.

Harry went to Ron and Hermione’s graduation. He saw Ginny, and congratulated her on getting accepted into the Harpies. He saw Luna, Neville, all the regular Seventh Years, and all those who had decided to repeat. He was happy for them, in a rather bittersweet way.

“Why didn’t you go back?” Harry asked, after graduation festivities were over.

Malfoy picked up the kettle, tipping it and scowling when nothing came out. “Your kettle’s too damn small, Potter,” he complained. “...Hogwarts just wouldn’t have been the same, you know? Too many… memories.”

Harry got up to refill the kettle, feeling surprised—their reasons for not returning seemed to be the same. “Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.”

Malfoy spent his birthday at the Manor, presumably with his mother, but he came back to Grimmauld the next day. Harry had gotten him a new book about wards. Malfoy didn’t bother to hide his enthused grin, and they both pored over it eagerly, late into the night.

Thump, thump, went Harry’s heart.

-X-

Harry was having a crisis. And he didn’t want to talk about it. Unfortunately, Malfoy happened to be sitting at his kitchen table, so talking about it seemed to be rather unavoidable.

“Potter, your face has gone paler than mine. Would you stop avoiding the question and just tell me what’s wrong?”

Harry groaned and hid his face. “Fine! Fine. I just realized something, is all.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what did you realize?”

“I’m getting to that,” Harry stalled.

Malfoy gave an impatient ‘humph’. “Out with it, Potter. It can’t be that bad.”

“You’re not allowed to laugh. Or judge me. Or any of that shite.”

Adopting a pseudo-affronted expression, Malfoy’s eyebrows shot upward. “Me? Since when would I ever make fun of someone? How rude, Potter.”

Harry glared at him. Malfoy smirked back.

Sighing deeply, Harry lifted his head. “All right. So, I think… I think I’m gay.”

Malfoy blinked at him. “That’s it?”

“Er, yeah,” Harry flushed. “It is.”

“Oh. Well, that makes two of us,” Malfoy shrugged, then nonchalantly poured himself another cup of tea.

Harry watched the steam waft upwards from the kettle, his jaw hanging half open. “Wait. You’re gay?”

“It’s rather obvious, Potter. Didn’t you notice in school?”

“But you were dating Pansy!” He gripped the edge of the table, squinting at Malfoy.

“No I wasn’t. We were just friends. And really, the whole school knew—are you really that oblivious? It’s not like I was trying to hide it.” Malfoy sipped his tea, looking infuriatingly calm.

Harry was reeling from his newfound knowledge, both about himself and about Malfoy. “All right, then,” he mumbled, fiddling with the tablecloth. No, he hadn’t noticed that Malfoy was gay, not at all. He wondered what else he had missed.

“So, how often do you eye up other blokes’ arses?” Malfoy smirked at him.

Harry grew very, very warm. “Not often—I just realized that I liked men, I mean. Just… recently.” He sincerely hoped he wasn’t blushing. He was probably blushing.

“Tell me, Potter,” and now Malfoy was waggling his eyebrows, “Do I have a nice arse?”

Harry floundered for a moment. “I—I haven’t looked,” he lied.

“Oh?” Malfoy pushed his chair back, slowly standing up and pulling off his robes. “Look, then,” he smirked, turning around.

Damn it all, there went Harry’s excuse—and now he couldn’t deny looking, he was looking at Malfoy’s perfect, lovely arse.

He was definitely blushing.

“Well? How is it?” Malfoy asked, looking at Harry over his shoulder.

“It’s fine,” Harry mumbled quickly. He was very relieved when Malfoy sat back down again, because he could feel himself on the precipice of another self-realization—closer, closer, then falling past the edge of uncertainty—

He liked Malfoy. Liked Malfoy.

He wanted to groan in frustration—because there was no way that he was going to be able to say anything about it. He would only end up embarrassing himself, or worse, pushing Malfoy away. Instead, he took a short glance at Malfoy’s smug grin, then poured himself some tea, willing away the thumping of his expanding heart.

-X-

Time was an odd concept, lately. Sometimes Malfoy was there, and sometimes he wasn’t. Sometimes Harry changed out of his pajamas, and sometimes he didn’t. Some days he thought he could almost fall in love with Malfoy, and some days they got into enormous, ridiculous spats that left him fuming. But there was always something to talk about, whether it was a new brand of tea or a memory, and Malfoy made him smile more often than not.

The summer flew by like a song set to play two times fast.

The day he turned nineteen, Ron and Hermione came over. Malfoy was already there—he hadn’t left for a few days, now. He’d taken to sleeping in the bedroom nearest Harry’s, and Harry had started considering asking him to move in, just because he was there all the time anyway (it had nothing to do with how he fancied him now, not at all).

They ate a wonderful dinner and drank firewhisky and told amusing stories by the fireplace. Malfoy got him an elaborate quill, and Ron gifted him the latest, spiffiest broom-polishing set. Hermione had gotten him books, of course, but it was rather okay because they were ward books (which meant another excuse to read with Malfoy). He was more than happy with everything, because the presents were from his greatest friends.

It was late. Harry was more than a little tipsy, but that was all right, because so was everyone else.

“I’m gay, by the way,” he admitted during a lull in conversation. He expected Ron and Hermione to react in shock, or at least in surprise, but he was a bit too inebriated to care.

“We know, mate,” Ron chuckled, shifting in place from where he lay on the carpet.

Harry blinked at him. “Wait, really? Is it that obvious?”

“Well, yes,” Hermione cut in, reaching up from beside Ron and squeezing his knee. “We just didn’t want to pressure you into telling us.”

It seemed a bit unfair that they already knew—it was supposed to have been a personal revelation, after all. Harry slid his gaze to Malfoy. “Was it obvious to you, too?” The alcohol was making his head spin, just a bit. It made him want to giggle.

“Not too obvious. But I had hoped—“ Malfoy began, then stopped suddenly.

“Hoped what?” Harry pressed, suddenly insatiably curious.

Malfoy seemed about to respond, but was interrupted by Ron fake-retching into his hand. Hermione elbowed him. “Let them have their moment!” she whispered, although the whisper was loud enough that Harry could still hear it.

He was rather confused by it all, so he settled for taking another swig of firewhisky, sprawling out on the sofa next to Malfoy.

At that point, Ron started looking like he would vomit for real.

“We should get home, Harry. You should visit more often,” Hermione hugged him, her gaze revealing an undercurrent of ‘We’re worried about you’ when she pulled away.

“I’ll try,” Harry agreed honestly.

“I think… I’mgonnabesick…” Ron turned green.

It was probably a bad idea for the two of them to leave by Floo, but by then it was out of Harry’s hands.

Maybe he should ask Malfoy to live with him now. That seemed like a good idea. He liked seeing Malfoy, wanted to always see him, yes.

Going back to sit on the couch, he lost his balance and sprawled awkwardly against the cushions. He felt Malfoy laughing and turned to look, sighed happily, was immediately gifted with a tightening throat and a pounding heart.

Malfoy was grinning at Harry, the corners of his eyes crinkled in laughter, the bottle of firewhisky dangling loosely in his hand. He’d taken off his robes the day before and never put them back on. Harry was much too attracted to the way his thin t-shirt showed the blatant rut of his collarbones, to the way his trousers hugged the swell of his arse.

“I have a present for you, Harry,” Malfoy winked at him. He was much too close, all of a sudden—Harry could smell the sharp sweetness of alcohol on his breath.

“You already got me a present,” Harry said, eyes widening, his fingers gripping the fabric of the couch.

“That wasn’t a real present,” Malfoy lowered his voice so that it was barely audible. The grin melted off of his face, reducing to a look of curious concentration.

Malfoy was very, very close.

“You called me Harry,” Harry stalled. Some parts of him knew what was about to happen, embraced it even, but other parts were embarrassed and wanted to shy away.

“Harry,” Malfoy repeated, and leaned in.

When Malfoy’s lips touched his, Harry froze. His mind was racing, his heart, too. It was several seconds before the wall within him broke, before his emotions were allowed to flood his senses and strike him blind. And that was it—he shuddered into Malfoy, reaching up to touch his face, his hair. A low rumble hummed against his lips, and he moaned when he realized that it was Malfoy’s voice, groaning, wanting Harry.

Malfoy leaned further into him and Harry lost his balance, toppling over against the couch. Slowly, he allowed himself to become lost in the feeling of Malfoy pressing against him, licking at his lips, sliding nimble fingers through his hair.

Mid-kiss, Malfoy rolled his hips against Harry’s. Harry almost choked. He pulled away with a gasp, staring up at Malfoy, eyeing his lazy smirk and ruffled hair.

“You want this,” Malfoy mumbled, husky and low. Harry nodded wordlessly, shivering as Malfoy scratched fingers against his scalp.

Tentatively, he pressed his hips up to meet Malfoy’s, paying attention to the way it felt as their cocks pressed together through their clothes. He was rewarded with a throaty moan and the delicious sight of Malfoy’s eyes falling shut.

He was so, so tempted to keep going, to let Malfoy undo him, but this was much too new, too fast. And besides—“We’re drunk,” he sighed.

“Yeah,” Malfoy agreed, and leaned down to rest his head on Harry’s chest.

“…Move in with me?” Harry asked. Malfoy’s head flew up.

“That’s forward of you, Potter,” his eyebrows rose. “I was under the assumption that moving in together happened much later in the scheme of romantic relationships.”

Heart bouncing—romantic relationship, oh!—Harry shook his head rapidly. “I was going to ask you before… before you kissed me.” Before he’d stripped Harry bare, before he’d changed and transformed Harry, down to the very cells.

“Oh. That’s… all right, then,” Malfoy nodded, and plunked his head back down on Harry’s chest. It wasn’t very comfortable—Malfoy’s cheekbone was sharp against his body—but it was warm, and they stayed that way for a long while.

-X-

“Come to bed with me.”

“You want to…?”

“No! Er, yes. But that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure, Potter.”

“Harry.”

“Sure, Harry.”

A roll of the eyes, a hand on his shoulder, two hearts beating like a hummingbird’s wings.

-X-

“Don’t feel like you can’t go out on my behalf,” Draco elbowed him one morning. A week, two weeks had flown away, and Draco had stayed. They hadn’t announced it to anyone because it wasn’t much of a change in the first place—Draco had been over so much of the time, lately, that even Ron and Hermione (who came over at least weekly) hadn’t noticed a difference.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, nudging him back and taking a sip of tea.

“You haven’t gone anywhere since I started staying here.”

“And?”

Draco turned to him with his eyebrows raised. “I always assumed you went places on the days I didn’t come over.”

“I go shopping sometimes,” Harry shrugged.

“Don’t you go to Granger and Weasley’s? They’re living together, right?”

Harry nodded in confirmation. “I went over when they moved in.”

Draco blinked at him, then slid his hand over to cover Harry’s, pressing Harry’s palm lightly against the table. It made his skin tingle. “You should go out sometimes.”

“Why?” Harry swallowed.

“It’s not healthy to stay in all the time. Everyone knows that.”

“You do it, too,” Harry pointed out in defense. The line of questioning felt odd, as if it were treacherous territory.

“That’s because people don’t like me. They like you.”

Harry averted his eyes, idly playing with the handle of his mug. He knew Draco was right, but he wasn’t sure what to say. How was he supposed to admit that all that attention felt like spears, poking and jabbing at him until he ran away?

“We should get jobs,” Draco leaned back in his chair, squeezing Harry’s hand.

Harry glanced up at the non sequitur. “So we can get out more? We don’t need money.”

“Yeah,” Draco affirmed. He drained his cup, setting on the table with a clink.

“I don’t have NEWTs in anything.” And anyway, no profession that he could think of sounded appealing enough to attempt, to brave the stage that was publicity.

“Neither do I.”

“What are we supposed to do, then?”

Draco thought about it for a moment, then smiled slowly, intoxicatingly. “We’ll start a business.”

Squinting at him, Harry poured Draco another cup of tea. It seemed like an odd conclusion to jump to, in all honesty. “What kind of business?”

Draco waggled his eyebrows (presumably for dramatic effect). “A ward-reparation business.”

Harry was surprised to find that he was immediately fond of the idea. He twisted his hand so that he could link their fingers, the idea growing on him with every second that ticked by.

“Yeah. That sounds… good.” He smiled.

The morning sun shone in through the windows. Harry didn’t quite know if he was okay or not, with the war and all of the people who didn’t want to leave him alone, but he thought that maybe Draco was helping.

-X-

When they told Hermione about their idea, she brought bundles of books. When they told Ron, he brought strategies. Narcissa sent them a bundle of sweets and a note that said “Snacks for planning. I expect a visit sometime soon, seeing as Mr. Potter seems to have become your roommate, now.” (Harry was only a little nervous.)

When they told both Ron and Hermione about their relationship, neither of them looked surprised.

“We thought it had been going on for months, actually,” Hermione smiled, picking up the kettle. She frowned when there appeared to be nothing in it. “Do you want me to buy you a bigger kettle, Harry?”

“No!” Draco protested. Harry turned to him, mouth half-open in surprise.

“I thought you hated my tiny kettle,” Harry crinkled his brow.

“It’s… grown on me,” Draco admitted, looking slightly miffed at having to admit it.

“Stop that!” Ron exclaimed suddenly.

Harry looked over at him—Ron was flushing fiercely. “Stop what?”

“Stop with the innuendos! I don’t want to hear about… tiny kettles and growing on you and… no. No, no,” he shook his head wildly.

Everyone except Ron burst into laughter, and it filled the room like bubbles in the Prefects’ bath.

-X-

“Nervous?”

“A bit,” Harry wrapped his arms around himself, eyeing the Floo powder as Draco readied his bag.

“About having a client, or about…?”

“Both.” He laughed wryly.

After two whole months of planning and practicing and researching, they had officially opened their queue for clients (through the Quibbler, as per Harry’s request). They had gotten an owl scarcely an hour after the ad had been published, requesting a consultation—from Narcissa Malfoy.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all,” Harry had said, nerves beginning to eat away at him. They hadn’t yet managed to make it over to Malfoy Manor, though they had visited the Burrow for the first time a few weeks ago. It had been awkward but amusing, and Draco had struck up a friendship with Charlie, of all people.

But the thought of going to Malfoy Manor, where he had once been captured, sent Harry’s blood running cold. He wasn’t even sure if Narcissa liked him—he knew what kind of person Lucius had been (before he’d been sent to Azkaban, anyway), but Narcissa was an unknown.

“Does she know you’re gay?” Harry asked, inching resignedly toward the Floo powder jar.

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. “Probably. She’s just as shrewd as Hermione is.”

Gaping at how bloody calm Draco seemed to be, Harry took a handful of Floo powder nonetheless. “After you,” he motioned with his un-powdered hand.

Draco grinned at him and kissed him quickly before disappearing through the flames.

-X-

Narcissa had a tiny teapot.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry asked Draco, during the brief interim when Narcissa went to use the loo.

“I didn’t know, I haven’t taken tea with Mother in years! Why does it matter, anyhow?”

“It’s important!” Harry hissed. He didn’t want to explain the odd kinship he felt with Narcissa because of it, but it made the encounter feel much more bearable.

When Narcissa returned, it was time for business. “I want every inch of the wards redone. They still have the Dark Lord’s scent on them, and I want it gone,” she explained, seeming to withhold any reservations she might have felt about asking Harry Potter, of all people, to do such a thing.

Harry felt himself starting to get excited—plans began forming in his head almost immediately. Ridding the world of Voldemort was his supposed specialty, was something that he could do to improve the world bit by bit.

He glanced at Narcissa’s teapot and smiled. Straightening, he took on a persona of leadership that he hadn’t remembered existed. He planned his words carefully, wanting to seem knowledgeable—this was their first client, after all. Even if she was Draco’s mother. “A complete overthrow of the wards is going to require a bit of vulnerability. How comfortable are you with allowing the Manor to be exposed, Mrs. Malfoy?”

“Narcissa,” she corrected gently. “I’m not fond of the idea, but if needs must,” she nodded elegantly.

“If we plan it correctly, the grounds will only need to be unprotected for a couple of hours… right?” Harry’s eyes flicked to Draco. He suddenly felt uncertain—he hadn’t taken initiative in much of anything for a long while.

Draco nodded and smoothly took over, for which Harry was glad. “And as it is, the Manor itself will only be truly exposed for a matter of minutes. It’s well within the range of some of the blanket wards that we’ve looked at, and as long as we choose a customizable scheme, we can fine-tune it later. The grounds will be the tricky part, because they’re so spread out.”

Harry realized belatedly that he had been staring at Draco’s mouth for longer than was proper. He quickly averted his eyes and took a sip of tea. He wanted to hold Draco’s hand, but he didn’t want Narcissa to see.

“I’d like the job done as soon as possible. When can you start?” Narcissa asked, and Harry cast the weather-predictor charm that they had learnt from their research.

“The beginning of next week looks like it has the right conditions, though the exact day depends on which warding scheme we want to go with,” he murmured, staring at the at the bright lines that the charm produced in the air. He waved them away, looking sideways at Draco, who nodded in agreement.

“Next week, then?”

“Next week is good.” Narcissa smiled.

-X-

“Ready?” Harry said, holding his wand out.

“I am.” Draco held his out as well. The early fall winds tugged at his previously perfect silken hair, and Harry chuckled, earning himself a two-fingered salute.

He glanced at the front entrance of the Manor, where Narcissa was watching them cautiously. “You may feel a bit funny, but it’ll pass,” he shouted over, and Narcissa inclined her head in acknowledgment.

With a deep breath, Harry looked back at Draco, and they flicked their wands in tandem. “Revelare domus!”

Harry knew that the spell would show itself more intensely to both Draco and Narcissa than to him, since those two shared partial ownership of the property. Even so, his readings and research hadn’t prepared him for the sheer wave of magic that began rushing through the air, pulling itself off of the Manor and the grounds and dissipating into the lightly clouded sky. The hair on his arms prickled with the energy of it. He glanced over at Narcissa to see her face open with wonder, turned further to see Draco’s soft smile, and took a breath of shaky excitement.

They were under somewhat of a time limit now—it wouldn’t do to leave the area unprotected for long. Quickly, they raised their wands for what would be a rather long bout of casting. First came the Muggle repellant charms, ones that would both turn Muggles away and that would cause the building to look abandoned and decrepit if they managed to get closer. They travelled around the entire perimeter of the building, alternating casting until they were done.

Then came some of the trickier parts of house-warding. Despite it being early September, the spellwork was drawing enough energy from him to send sweat trickling down his spine. Harry watched, out-of-breath, as Draco began the familial keying of the wards. Magic rose and swelled around them, the newborn protections layering and starting to organize themselves into their proper order.

A sudden glow came from Draco, and from Narcissa as well. Harry grinned—the familial link was taking, then. When Draco relaxed, lowering his wand, Harry knew that it was his turn again. Rising, he lifted his wand to perform the initial purifications of the wards, ensuring that no unwanted outside influences could reach within the house. Spell after spell, he circled the area quickly but precisely, making sure to leave no loopholes.

When he returned to where Draco was, exhausted but exhilarated, it was time to fulfill one of Narcissa’s special requests.

“As the head of the house in lieu of my husband, I authorize the prevention of any magic intended to do serious harm on these grounds,” she had said, clinking her teacup against its saucer. “Terrible things have happened within these walls, and I intend to have nothing like that ever occur here again. No matter what my husband thinks. It is time for the Malfoys to make something good of themselves.”

Standing arm’s length away from Draco, Harry smiled at him. A blond eyebrow rose in response, and then they were once again casting together.

Back and forth, they spelled the house, even when the essence of the Manor rose to disagree. But Draco was of the Malfoys and thus could argue back, could spell the old house into submission. Harry lent him power and stubbornness, and when combined with Draco’s persuasion, the spell took like a giant rubber band snapping into place. The aura of magic around the house revealed itself suddenly in a flash of brilliant, white light. And then it faded, and the first part was done.

Collapsing on the ground, the energy drained from his body, Harry began to laugh. Slumping as well, Draco joined him, his voice a pitch lower than Harry’s as they snickered in glee.

“It worked!” Harry exclaimed. He had been confident in their abilities, yes, but the leftover doubt that they could actually do wardwork as a job was slipping away. The relief and joy and triumph tingled in his bones.

“Of course it did,” Draco confirmed, tone haughty, but he too was smiling.

Eventually they sat up, and Harry made a somewhat futile attempt to rid his shirt of dried grass. It was when Draco cast a cleaning charm at him that he remembered that Narcissa was still there, and he aimed a sidelong glance at her. She was smiling.

“She knows, I think,” Draco murmured not far from his ear. “About us. She used to look at Pansy and I like that, when we were young.”

“Oh,” Harry swallowed. “I hope she doesn’t…” he trailed off. Doesn’t mind, doesn’t wish him ill, doesn’t regret that her only son is as gay as they come.

“I don’t think she minds.” Draco stood up, but even as he reassured Harry, Harry could feel the anxiety emanating from his person. “Come on. Let’s work on the grounds.”

A sudden crash sounded from the other side of the house. They turned to look at each other in alarm, then at Narcissa.

“What was that?” Harry said, already beginning to head toward the sound. His heart tightened—hopefully they hadn’t done anything wrong.

“How would I know?” Draco shot back, as he and Narcissa followed.

They found the source of the noise soon enough. A window had been shattered from the inside, the glass broken over the uniform grass. Lying several metres away was an odd collection of objects: a hand mirror, a door handle, rusty with age, and a wooden box in which something was rattling.

“Dark artifacts capable of doing harm, most likely,” Narcissa assessed. “Probably hidden by Lucius, or left behind by those wretched people.” She refrained from calling them ‘Death Eaters’. “Don’t touch them—I’ll contact a Curse-Breaker immediately.

“Expelled by our purification charms. Everything is working as planned,” Draco pronounced smugly. Harry’s heart gave a pleased flutter.

“Bill’s in town,” Harry remembered, turning to Narcissa. “I can Floo him, if you don’t mind.”

“You do that, Mr. Potter.”

-X-

That was the first night Harry let Draco fuck him.

When they came home, exhausted from tweaking wards and watching Bill examine artifacts and subsequently sweep the house (he had very kindly offered, and Narcissa had accepted immediately), they both trudged straight into bed.

“I hate Floo travel,” Harry mumbled, having given himself a nasty bruise on his knee from tumbling into the coffee table.

“Me too,” Draco agreed, and then they began chuckling and Harry leaned closer and they were snogging.

It almost felt natural to shuck off their clothes, to feel skin on skin and fingers sliding through hair. But their lingering success from the morning was still tingling beneath Harry’s skin, filling him with happiness, with wanting, and Draco’s mouth was hot on his neck, his chest, his thigh.

“Draco, please…” he groaned.

“Oh?” Draco tossed a smirk at him, and then he was taking Harry’s cock into his mouth and Harry was left keening.

It wasn’t long before Harry let go, clenching at Draco’s hair, pleasure spinning through his body. But even then, he didn’t stop wanting Draco—he wanted all of him, he wanted everything. When Draco turned him over and began mouthing at his arse, his nerves set themselves on fire.

“I want you,” he gasped.

“God, I want you, Harry,” Draco groaned, and summoned the lube, pressing a finger into him. Every touch made him feel almost light-headed, sent shivers up his spine.

“Yes…” he whimpered, wanting to see but knowing that watching would make it almost too much. He was already starting to harden again.

Draco pushed another, finger in, then a third, sliding them in and out as quickly as he dared. It wasn’t fast enough for Harry, he wanted Draco, but then Draco was finally slicking his cock and pressing inside.

Harry gasped—it felt as if it were splitting him in two. He shut his eyes to the pain until Draco had pressed himself all the way in. It took a few moments to adjust. Draco stroked his back, leaned forward and pressed kisses to his shoulder. When he reached around to stroke Harry’s cock, Harry was finally able to relax into his warmth.

Draco. Draco.

Draco started moving again. All Harry could think about was that even though it stung a bit, it was Draco, and that the man on top of him might actually be one of the best things that had ever happened to him. The pleasure came soon after, consuming him, setting a fire that he didn’t think could be quenched.

“Not going to last,” came Draco’s choked murmur, and Harry groaned from the intensity of it. He pushed himself onto Draco once, then again, and then Draco was collapsing and groaning above him. His hand slowed on Harry’s cock, but that was okay.

A few minutes later, despite being weary and out-of-breath, Draco crawled down to suck him off again, and Harry came for a second time. He could feel it down in his toes; his mind was sent spiraling with the force of it.

Emotion welled up in his chest, and he pulled Draco back up to him. They laid there for a long time.

Eventually, Draco turned to look at him. “What do you think of me now, Harry? Have I really changed, as you said?” He seemed vulnerable, open.

Harry looked into his eyes, leaned over to kiss his shoulder. “Yes,” he answered with no reservations. “You’re still you, but… you’re not a prejudiced git anymore. You still make me annoyed as hell sometimes. But it’s not nearly as bad as it used to be. You’re…” He swallowed, his cheeks flushing. “You’re incredible. I think…”

“You think what?”

Thump, thump went his heart. “I think I love you.”

Draco’s eyes widened, a slow smile spreading on his face. “Harry Potter loves me.”

Harry flushed fiercely. “Yes. I do.” He tried to hide his face in Draco’s shoulder, but Draco wouldn’t let him.

“Is this what love is?” Draco asked, putting a hand under Harry’s chin so he couldn’t run away.

“I don’t know. It depends on what ‘this’ is,” he shrugged, heart catching in his throat.

“It’s the way you drive me a bit mad. You’re messy and you don’t like going out, but I think you’re really fucking sexy and I can talk to you for hours. And I want to be near you all the time.” Draco looked down, swallowing uncertainly. “It’s all of that.”

Harry nodded, feeling stunned by his emotions. “Yes. That sounds a lot like love.”

“Good,” Draco smiled. “And you… you’ve forgiven me, right?”

Harry creased his brow. “What for?”

“For everything. The war. You know, our entire lifetime of mutual hatred that existed before I started getting pulled here?” Draco had a wry expression, but it was tinged with a bit of anxiety.

Harry reached up, touched his face, loved him completely. “Of course I’ve forgiven you. I did that when you started coming over.”

“Oh.” Draco looked a bit put-out. “You could have told me,” his mouth twisted slightly.

“Sorry,” Harry shrugged. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.” He flushed slightly, looking down at the scars that criss-crossed Draco’s chest. “I mean… you’ve forgiven me too, right?”

“Yeah. But you’re the epitome of all that is just and righteous,” Draco shrugged.

Harry squinted at him, but then registered the teasing edge in his eyes and chuckled. “Right.”

Draco leaned down to kiss him again, and Harry kissed back with a happy sigh. But something Draco had said before was prickling at the back of his mind, something important. If he could just remember…

Ah, that was right. The pull.

He broke away mid-kiss, and Draco grumbled slightly, frowning. “What’re you doing?”

“The pull. We never figured it out.”

“I haven’t been feeling it lately,” Draco shrugged, and Harry blinked at him.

“Oh. I guess it’s all right, then.”

“Mhm. Now kiss me, you git, before I regret falling in love with you.”

Harry flushed, shying away from Draco when he leaned forward. “You… said it.”

“Yeah,” Draco’s voice went soft. “I did.”

Harry’s heart twisted violently, almost painful in its pleasure. As a grin split his face in two, he leaned in to kiss the man who loved him.

-X-

Over the following weeks, they added touches and tweaks to the Manor’s wards every time the weather was right. Three weeks from when they had started, Narcissa came outside, beaming softly at Harry. “You can stop now, if you’d like. You’ve done more than enough.”

Harry let go of the finicky alarm adjustment spell that he’d been trying to tackle into submission for almost an hour, sighing as he relaxed. “Are you sure?”

“Quite,” Narcissa nodded. They both looked down the fence at the edge of the property, where Draco was currently fine-tuning the edges of the wards. Harry made a move to go to him, but Narcissa held up a hand. “A moment, Mr. Potter.”

Oh, Merlin. This was it. He was about to get chewed out by his boyfriend’s mother for tainting her son and cutting off the Malfoy line… Harry swallowed, turning to reluctantly face her again.

“I’d like you to let Draco know that I’m proud of him.”

“Er… what?”

“I’m proud of him,” Narcissa crossed her arms, her gauzy robes settling gracefully around her slight frame. “For choosing to work instead of lazing around. For deciding on his own that a large majority of Lucius’ beliefs are simply unacceptable, as much as I love the man.” She shook her head. “And if he had to choose a man instead of a woman, I am pleased that he chose you,” she added wryly.

Harry blushed. This was embarrassing, yes, but she wasn’t angry, and that was what mattered. “All right. I’ll tell him.”

“You’re good for him, Mr. Potter. And he seems to be good for you, too.”

Harry looked down at where Draco was waving his wand, his slim figure tiny in the distance. When the wind blew a sudden rustle of leaves into Draco’s face, he batted them away with his unoccupied hand and kept his focus nonetheless. Harry decided that Narcissa was quite right.

-X-

They hadn’t gotten any other offers of business while they were wrestling with the Manor, but when an anonymous review of their services appeared in the Quibbler a week later, clients slowly started owling in. Harry made a mental note to send Narcissa a thank-you letter.

With the excitement of their steadily growing clientele, Harry began to forget his reasons for staying inside, for keeping himself apart from others, for growing lax with his hygiene. Draco liked him clean-shaven, so he taught himself how to properly do a shaving charm. Draco held his hand when he got nervous at jobs, so even when Hermione owled him about articles with severe speculation about their relationship, Harry let go of his anxiety.

The leaves all fell, then froze with the cold. Draco’s Mark faded to a mere suggestion of a tattoo, and Harry thought that he smiled a bit more than he used to. Even when the weather wasn’t right for actual wardwork, they filled out paperwork and busied themselves owling clients from the small room that had become their office in Grimmauld. If Howlers had been sent to them, they didn’t know it—they’d long ago made the adjustment in their wards that would prevent the reception of owls bearing nasty mail.

Their relationship stopped being a novelty, faded into something worn and fuzzy and comfortable, turned into gentle snarking and frequent sex and stubbly kisses with the early morning sun patterning their bed. Draco didn’t speak his love as often as Harry did, but he showed it with warm smiles and his grudging acceptance of “that bloody teapot!”

Frost gave way to sprouting greens, and winter faded away to be replaced by spring rain. Clients’ owls came several times a day. They had even started accepting requests from outside of England, though international Portkeying was an absolute hassle.

Ron proposed to Hermione, kneeling on one knee in the living room of Grimmauld. (It took her a month to say yes.)

Harry became close to Narcissa, accepting weekly invitations for he and Draco to come to tea.

Draco became a staple at the Burrow, much to his mortification.

Life was pleasant, warm, happy, and it wasn’t until a warm day at the very end of April that everything changed.

Despite Harry having forgiven Draco for his younger misdeeds, and despite most of the Wizarding world at large having come to accept the fact that he had barely even been of age when the events of the war had happened, there were still a select few who refused to give in. They generally turned down clients who felt that way, but that April, one such client seemed determined to hire them.

So it was that, for the first time in a long while, Harry packed his overnight bag so that he could perform the job without Draco and finally get Mrs. Henderson off their backs. (He had protested, of course, but Draco had said that turning her down after so many repeated requests would probably end up bad for business.)

It wasn’t that the job was difficult, or that Mrs. Henderson made particularly cruel remarks about Draco. No, the events that sent their lives spiraling into disarray began when Harry returned home to find Draco crumpled in the kitchen floor.

His heart gave a distorted shriek. He didn’t remember running to Draco—one moment he was standing in the doorway, and the next moment he was kneeling on the floor with a pale-faced Draco in his arms. Draco was breathing, Draco was alive, oh thank Merlin. His eyes were closed, but when Harry pressed a relieved kiss to his forehead, he opened them, blinking wearily.

“Harry? What’s wrong?” he asked, reaching a trembling hand out to hold Harry’s. “My head hurts like a fucking bludger.”

“What the hell happened?” Harry squeezed his hand, probably too tightly. “I just got back, and you had fallen…”

“I don’t know,” Draco frowned in thought. “I just remember getting really tired all of a sudden…”

But the nervous swallow after he spoke belied his suggestion of not knowing anything.

“I know you know more, Draco. Tell me, please,” Harry asked, but deep in his mind he was already started to figure it out.

“It was the pull,” Draco admitted. Harry’s stomach dropped.

“Go on,” Harry prompted, staying steady, hiding the misery that was beginning to eat away at his gut. He had caused this, then, he had hurt Draco.

Draco sighed, looking away. “When you left, I was fine, but started feeling the urge to go to you last night. And when I woke up in the morning, it was as strong as I’d ever felt it, and it was sapping all of the energy out of me… I could barely walk.”

“Why didn’t you owl me? And I thought you told me you weren’t feeling the pull at all anymore!” Harry felt the disappointment seeping into his voice, but it was too late to take it back.

“I didn’t owl you because I thought I could wait until you got home,” Draco stated sharply. “I thought I was strong enough. And I didn’t start feeling the pull again until just yesterday, so no, I didn’t lie to you, if that’s what you’re focusing on.” With a heave, he sat up, and already (thankfully) the color was coming back into his face, but Harry could tell that he was angry from the glare he shot in Harry’s direction. “Thanks for believing in me,” Draco added sarcastically.

“Why are you getting angry?” Harry shook his head. “I was just… worried.”

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but instead closed his eyes, letting his breath out in a long sigh through his nose. “I know. I’m just frustrated. I thought it had gone away for good.”

“Well… we haven’t really been apart since you last felt it,” Harry pointed out, searching through his memories for an instance in which they hadn’t been together since Draco had moved in. He couldn’t find any. They went shopping together because Harry insisted on going with Draco so that people wouldn’t try to hex him. They went everywhere else together because Draco was like a safety blanket, because people kept their distance and refrained from pestering Harry when he was around. Because Harry needed Draco, and when Draco was there he felt normal again. Like the war didn’t matter. He hadn’t had a single nightmare since they’d started sleeping in the same bed.

“No… we haven’t,” Draco agreed, and even as he stood up, Harry could tell the wheels were turning in his head.

“We need to research it again. We need Hermione.” Harry pulled himself up, leaning against the cabinets. “Are you really all right now?”

Draco nodded. “I’m fine. Go ahead, tell Hermione. But if you tell my mother, I’ll be very cross.” He had suddenly adopted a very terse, clipped tone, and every harsh syllable made Harry want to cringe.

“All right.”

Draco left the room, and Harry watched him go, feeling distressed and confused and sad. He couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that he had done something wrong.

-X-

Harry spent the next weeks laying on the floor with Hermione and Draco, surrounded by mountains of books. Occasionally, someone would make a noise of discovery, but nothing quite fit. It was beginning to feel like they’d never find the cause.

“What about this?” Hermione spoke up at the end of a long night. “The Duplex Sy—“

“I saw that the last time I tried to research. It’s nothing like what I’m feeling; I don’t get the prickly sensation at all,” Draco interrupted her without even looking up from his book.

“Oh.” Hermione sighed, then closed her book with a thump. “I think I’ll go to bed, then. This isn’t going anywhere tonight,” she shrugged, yawning.

Harry nodded, setting the large tome he’d been perusing on his knees and rubbing at his eyes. “All right. Night, ‘Mione.”

“Night, boys.”

A flash of green smoke, and she was gone.

Draco got up and began heading to the bedroom almost immediately. Harry hastened to follow.

The worst part about the whole catastrophe was that Draco had become more and more distant as the weeks soared onward. Day after day, they continued to not find anything useful, and Draco became more sullen and prickly with every passing night. Harry didn’t know what to do.

He crawled into bed next to Draco, who was already feigning sleep—he hadn’t seemed to want sex since Harry had found him in the floor those few weeks ago.

“Draco…” Harry murmured, adjusting his pillow and rolling over to face Draco’s curled back.

Draco didn’t respond.

“Look, I know you’re awake. And if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. But I want to know what’s going on with you. In your head, I mean. Because I love you, you know, and I…” He trailed off, because Draco still wasn’t responding. Maybe he was wrong, and Draco had actually fallen asleep. He rolled over to his other side, wishing things could go back to how they had been before.

He fell asleep, and had the first nightmare he’d experienced in almost a year. Draco was trapped in a cursed building, and he needed Harry, and Harry just couldn’t reach far enough…

When he awoke, Draco had his eyes open and was staring, frowning at him uncertainly. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Harry nodded, and shuddered slightly, trying his best to shake away the last whispers of the dream.

“You wanted to know how I feel,” Draco stated quietly.

Harry nodded, shifting himself closer to Draco. Draco’s arms fell around him for the first time in a few weeks, and the part of him that wasn’t shaken by his nightmare purred appreciatively.

“All right.” Draco paused, idly stroking Harry’s back. It left ripples of happiness along his muscles. “I’m really frustrated with everything right now, mainly. We’re not finding anything with the bond research, and it’s ridiculous.”

“Is that why you’ve been upset?” Harry murmured into his skin.

“Partially.” Harry felt Draco shrug. “Mostly… I don’t like having to rely on you. Because I’ve relied on you for what feels like a disproportionate amount of my life, and even though I think differently of you than I used to, it still isn’t a good feeling.”

“What’s wrong with relying on people?” Harry asked, his stomach dropping slightly.

“It’s not the act of relying itself. It’s that you’re you, and that I’m me, and I’m supposed to be stronger than this. But the stupid bond thing is making me helpless, and I hate it. And it’s even worse because it’s only one way. You’re not forced to need me.” He sighed roughly, resting his head on Harry’s. “I told you a year ago that I wanted to stop betting my life on you, and I still haven’t been able to. Go figure.” Draco’s body was tense, his tone terse. Still, Harry curled into his warmth.

He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t seem to put his multitude of tangled emotions into words, so he said nothing.

Life went on. They kept taking clients, but Harry refused to leave Draco’s side. Some part of him was happy, in an inane, twisted way, because now Draco needed him just as much as Harry needed Draco.

June came closer, and he sought out the perfect birthday present for Draco, even going to Hermione for help when nothing came to him after repeatedly racking his brain. She suggested that, rather than a tangible present, a vacation might be a good idea. It fit perfectly.

And so it was that Harry began planning a trip for them in secret.

And then it all went to shite the day before Draco’s birthday, when Hermione finally found something.

“Well, I had come across it before, but it didn’t seem like the likeliest of causes, so I just kept skimming past it. But I just read into an exception that seems to fit exactly what you’re feeling. I didn’t even know it was possible…” She wrung her hands slightly, brow creased in worry. “I’m terribly sorry, if I had just kept my mind more open, we would have been more prepared…”

“What is it, Granger? Spit it out!” Draco slammed his book shut, looking strong and scared all at once. Harry went to him, entwined their fingers, waited to hear the pronouncement of Draco’s predicament.

Hermione swallowed and nodded. “It’s… well… Draco. Do you happen to have any Veela in you?”

The room went silent. Harry’s jaw dropped. Beside him, Draco went as white as a unicorn’s fur.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, shaking his head. And that said it all, really.

“What does that mean?” Harry was almost afraid to ask, but he did it anyway, leading Draco to the sofa. He hadn’t heard of male Veela before, and the idea seemed so foreign that he didn’t fault Hermione for skipping over it in her research.

Hermione criss-crossed her legs, gently laying her book to the side. “Well, Draco is most likely part Veela. And it doesn’t seem like such a bad thing, but the part that’s most important for you two to know is that male Veelas must have a mate. Generally, mating occurs after the more potent Veela symptoms show themselves, but it can happen sooner if the Veela comes into close contact with their mate before the symptoms show.” She gave them a meaningful look.

“So I’m his…” Harry glanced sideways to Draco, who had his eyes closed. “…mate.”

“That’s how it seems, yes,” Hermione confirmed. “The Veela will find himself inexplicably drawn to his mate, and in turn, he will seem more attractive than average in order to win his mate over.”

“And there’s no way to stop it from happening?” Harry frowned, mind whirring. “What if we decided we weren’t good for each other after all?” What if Draco didn’t want him anymore?

Hermione shook her head slowly. “If you were to try to leave, it wouldn’t be at all good for Draco. He would collapse, like he did before.”

“I would die, you mean.” Draco said, his voice a half-whisper. Harry squeezed his hand tighter, a lump forming in his throat.

“Yes,” Hermione nodded, sighed, confirmed their fate.

Harry’s heart inverted itself painfully. The thought of leaving Draco had never been an option, not for Harry; this served only to cement his resolve. “How do we become official mates?”

Draco sighed, leaning back against the sofa. “A mate implies an official bonding ceremony, Harry. Marriage.”

The world rocked out from beneath of Harry. “Oh.”

Draco put his face in his hands, and Harry sat beside him, stunned. Marriage. It wasn’t something he’d considered yet—it didn’t feel like they had been together all that long, after all. What were they supposed to do?

“There’s… something else,” Hermione said quietly.

“Out with it, then,” Draco directed from behind his fingers.

“Your twentieth birthday’s tomorrow, right? That’s when the other symptoms will present,” Hermione explained. “You’ll sprout wings, for one. And you will become very possessive over Harry, for a very long time.”

“Fucking wings. That’s exactly what I needed, on top of this all,” Draco groaned. “Is that it?”

“I think so,” Hermione nodded slowly. “I’ll keep researching, but I haven’t found anything else yet.”

Sighing sharply, Draco stood. “Go home, then, if you will. I need…” He looked at Harry, his face solemn.

Harry felt numb as they bid Hermione farewell. He almost tripped on the stairs as they made their way up. When they reached the bedroom, Draco threw himself face-down onto the bed, and Harry barely registered the feel of the coverlet on his skin as he followed.

“I thought I had escaped the pureblooded arranged marriage cycle,” Draco mumbled, his voice muffled by his pillow.

“We don’t… have to get married right away,” Harry suggested. His heart hurt—Draco didn’t want to marry him, then, or so it seemed. It felt hypocritical—Harry hadn’t known he had wanted it, before tonight, but now the desire felt like it would never leave him.

“Didn’t you hear her? We have to, or I won’t be able to leave your side without collapsing. That sounds lovely, doesn’t it?” Draco turned his head, sneering slightly at Harry. Upon seeing Harry’s face, his expression softened. He sighed. “Don’t… don’t blame yourself for all this. And don’t think that I don’t love you. It’s just a lot to cope with.” He reached a hand up to touch Harry’s face, and Harry leaned into the touch. “I just… I’m forced to need you, and I’ll need you for the rest of our lives. It’s hard for me to deal with.”

“But I need you too, you know?” Harry grabbed onto his hand, looking at him earnestly.

Oddly enough, Draco seemed surprised. “You do?”

“Of course I do,” Harry wrinkled his brow. “You make me feel normal again. When we go out, I can breathe because you’re there.”

Draco blinked at him. “I… never realized. I always thought that you were staying with me for my sake.”

Harry laughed slightly, shaking his head. “No, Draco. It’s entirely selfish of me, but I can’t seem to keep myself away.”

Draco gave him a small, shaky smile, leaned forward, and kissed him. The warmth in his lips broke the numbness in Harry’s fingers, rekindled the fire that was his love. For the first time in a few weeks, he felt hopeful again—because Draco loved him, and Harry loved him back.

-X-

The beach was warm at dawn, and Harry shed his shirt immediately, grinning at Draco. “Do you like it?”

Draco was still suspended in thought, paralyzed by the view of the open water, by the sun glowing orange over the sand. He gave Harry a small, fast nod, and Harry felt positively jubilant.

When Draco moved, it was to spell the time into the air. “I was born at six precisely,” he murmured. The Tempus shone at 5:59.

“What does that mean?” Harry asked, shifting in the sand. At the edge of the beach, he could see the telltale glimmer of the wards that would keep out everything except house elves. The sight settled him almost as much as Draco did, and he smiled.

“It means…” Draco trailed off as the numbers changed, as time kept on moving. “Wings, I think.”

Draco shucked off his shirt, and several seconds later, an eruption of feathers appeared from his back. It didn’t seem to hurt him. When Harry came over to touch them, he was met with soft fluff, with a grin and a raised brow.

“I bet I can fly,” Draco gave his wings an experimental flap. The movement sent sand rushing away along the beach and lifted him slightly off of the ground.

Harry smiled, coming closer and letting himself be enfolded into Draco’s arms. “As long as you take me with you.”

And Draco did.