Chapter Text
The first time Harry stays over, they have a fight.
It starts as nothing serious: a playful disagreement about Quidditch teams over dinner. Draco signs slowly, his heart warm at the sight of Harry’s concentrated expression: his dedication to learning sign language just for Draco. They’ve been seeing each other for just under month by then, and Draco feels more smitten than he’d thought possible.
The disagreement leads to a less playful dispute over the skills of Muggleborn players when they retire to the living room with a tumbler of whisky, when Draco has switched to the ‘words in the air’ spell. He casts with jerky movements, flinging the glowing words in the dim living room, just as Harry’s counter-arguments spill out of him faster. The whisky burns Draco’s throat but doesn’t melt the stiffness in his spine. His fingers on the cut-glass tumbler are like claws.
And then, somehow, inexplicably, in that weird, twisted way that no one can account for, the argument moves to a topic that has nothing to do with Quidditch or Muggleborns: Draco hasn’t told his friends about them. He’s keeping their relationship a secret.
‘It’s been a month,’ Harry states, bitterness creeping in his voice. Draco wants to correct him: their one-month anniversary is on Tuesday, he’s made plans, it’ll be a surprise— But he offers nothing, because Harry’s right.
Harry gets up and stalks to the art-deco trolley that serves as Draco’s bar, pours himself a second, generous measure of whisky. He remains facing the wall and says, voice low, ‘We meet in bars that none of our friends go to. You dropped my hand when we ran into Zabini the other day on the street. You invite me to stay the one night your housemates are out of town. It’s like you’re — you’re ashamed of me.’
NO! Draco spells, the letters trembling with the force of his casting.
Harry turns and looks at the word, hovering golden in the firelight. ‘No? Then, why?’
Draco stands up. He signs, too fast, and Harry can’t make it out. Draco shuts his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath. He casts the spell again: I’m afraid that the more people know about us, the more they’ll jinx it.
When Harry starts to talk, Draco stops him with a gesture and continues. Now that the floodgates are open, everything he’s been suppressing comes pouring out: I keep fearing one day you’ll leave and never come back. That this is going well because it’s just us and no one else. That things will change between us. I’m afraid of so many things, but mostly of losing you. Because…
Harry’s speechless and still. The firelight glints off his glasses, keeping his eyes obscured. Draco spells his last few words, his hands trembling: Because I won’t be able to bear it.
He stops then, his arms dropping by his side, feeling flayed and naked and raw. He waits. Outside car tyres hiss along the wet streets. Inside, the fire crackles and Draco’s heart thumps hard. He gazes down at the ivy green carpet.
Harry sets his glass on the mantle and approaches Draco. He’s close enough that Draco can smell the woods and leather scent of him. ‘Draco…’ he starts and waits for a beat — a beat that stretches Draco’s nerves to breaking point.
‘I love you.’
Draco snaps his eyes up.
‘I love you,’ Harry says again. ‘I should’ve told you before. This — us — is serious for me. Sure, things will change — but there’s nothing we can’t face together, is there? Because I’m not going away, not as long as you’ll have me.’
His words fall on Draco like summer rain, melting away the ice that had gripped his heart, the stiffness in his bones. Draco feels a smile spreading on his face, warmth radiating from his chest. He signs, say it again.
‘I love you.’ Harry now has his arms around him, whispers the words in his ear.
Draco pulls back to sign: again.
Harry chuckles. ‘I love you, you mischievous tosser.’ He brushes his lips against Draco’s. ‘And I’ll tell you as often as you want.’
Draco keeps Harry there all night and the whole of Sunday. In the morning, Draco sits on the counter and munches on toast, Harry standing beside him, making tea. His kisses taste like strawberry jam. They make a half-hearted attempt to be productive, to read the paper in the living room or write letters, to listen to the news on the wireless, but they soon find their way upstairs again, sweating and moving together, a dance of naked skin. They spend the day in tangled sheets, in each other’s arms, in the first flush of love. Draco’s heart can’t possibly contain this happiness. Yesterday’s drizzle has turned into pouring rain; it lashes against the panes of the windows, the chilly wind rustling through the bare tree branches. But inside it’s warm.
When Draco wakes up, it’s evening, the room dark. The streetlight limns the silhouettes of furniture in yellow; the tree branches cast moving shadows on his bedroom wall. The bed is empty.
Wrapping himself in his thick, monogrammed dressing gown, barefoot, Draco pads downstairs. Voices float from the kitchen. He stops by the door.
Harry — wearing his jeans and a T-shirt of Draco’s — is chatting with Pansy and Daphne around the wooden table, all three holding mugs of tea. The girls’ luggage is on the floor, dusted with Floo powder.
‘Draco!’ Daphne spots him first. They both turn to him, expressions identical with fervent interest — and very eloquent. When Harry leaves, the expressions promise, they’ll sit Draco down and grill him for every single detail. Draco finds that the thought doesn’t bother him.
He smiles, signs hello. Sits down.
‘So,’ Pansy starts, voice inflected, ‘we met Harry.’ She gives Draco a significant look.
You know Harry from school, Draco signs.
Pansy narrows her eyes. ‘I meant we met him in our kitchen. We thought it was a burglar! We’d have Stunned him, but no burglars would be breaking in topless.’ Pansy says the word with relish and Harry, endearingly, blushes.
You’ll be seeing him a lot more from now on. Draco catches Harry’s eyes and smiles. He’s my boyfriend.
Daphne claps her hands, delighted, Pansy rolls her eyes in an affectionate omg-you’re-such-a-sop way, and Harry grins like it’s Christmas morning. Draco leans back, watching his friends chat with Harry, a fluttering new tendril rising inside him: hope.