Work Text:
Graves has been different, lately.
Harry isn't sure what it is. His dramatics are stylish instead of irritating, the quirk of his mouth when reprimanding Harry over breaking regulation more amused than resigned. And when he catches Harry watching -
Graves leans in close, says, "Harry," in a low, intimate voice, and Harry kisses him.
This, too: Graves kisses biting, ferocious, curls his fingers around Harry's wrists like shackles. Breathless, Harry pulls him in, but his gaze catches on Graves's waistcoat.
The pendant in his pocket. The same as the symbol newly burned into Harry's chest.
The Deathly Hallows.
Oh, fuck.