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The room is already full of people when they enter. The door is squeaky on its hinges—the sound of it sending a flash of annoyance through Harry. They should really fix it—it’s annoying at best and disruptive at worst. But it announces their entrance effectively, and part of Harry wonders if that is the intended purpose of the door as the synchronised turn of heads effectively shame them for the fact they’re last to arrive. Or Harry is overthinking a damn door to try and distract from the reason why he’s here, the reason he’s using the door in the first place.
There’s one person who doesn’t look up at them, attention focused instead on flicking through the papers on his lap. The distinctive blonde hair gives his identity away—but Harry would have known who it was even without the warning they’d been given. It’s taken him some time to come round to it, while Ginny had only sighed and stated, ”Well, it had to be someone.”
And that someone is Draco Malfoy—who finally graces them with his attention, looking up from his papers at Ginny and Harry where they still stand by the door. Harry had known it would be Draco, but it still doesn’t stop the shock at seeing the person whom he had once considered to be his greatest rival—as ridiculous as that now seems in hindsight.
He hasn’t seen Draco since the trials, but he’s heard through the grapevine the odd snippet here and there. He’d heard Draco had married—one of the Greengrasses if Harry remembers correctly—and that they’d had a son. They’d divorced a couple of years ago, though, and the divorce had created quite a stir—the news of two pure blood’s divorcing had been enough to get the rumour mill turning.
At the time, Harry had thought it had been stupid. He couldn’t help but feel like it’s a stupid idea having a divorcee—the poster boy of a failed marriage—running a help group for struggling marriages. Unless he was meant to be a cautionary tale—sort out your marriage, or you’ll end up like Draco.
They should at least try to make him a little more off-putting if that was the case. A cautionary tale against dissolving your marriage—should look lost, downtrodden, or miserable, when, in fact, Draco looks better than Harry remembers. The Draco that Harry remembers most is from 6th year; he remembers the drawn look Draco had worn: the sullen eyes, the cheekbones which jutted too much to be healthy—and the way Draco had always looked just a little lost. Now, Draco looks well; his face looks healthy, and he’s dressed well, the fitted shirt and pants looking a little too good on him. Draco’s eyes look back to the papers on his lap, and the look on his face is almost happy—certainly not distraught or desperate like it had been back during the battle of Hogwarts or the subsequent trials.
It’s not fair, he thinks, that Draco should look so good—look happy, when Harry has felt anything but. He feels a flush of shame at the thought. It’s not right that he should expect Draco, or any of the Slytherins—or anybody, really—to feel miserable years after the war. It’s not fair, yet a traitorous part of him still wants that. He tries to shove that part down, bury it down with all the other war-time things he tries not to think about.
Draco’s voice interrupts his thoughts, dragging him away from them with the words, “Please, take a seat.” The voice is the same, is Harry’s first thought. He hasn’t thought about Draco’s voice, but it’s instantly recognisable as the same voice he’d heard throughout his school years—the voice he’d always associated with annoyance and frustration, although not anymore.
It’s Ginny who moves first, placing a hand on Harry’s forearm to tug him along—leaving him with no option but to go with her, his way of escape effectively cut off. There’s only one pair of seats left, and Ginny leads him straight to them.
He tries to ignore the eyes which are still staring at him, casting his gaze down to his hands folded on his lap instead of looking at the other people in the room. He doesn’t want to be here.
“Now that we’re all here,” Draco breaks the silence, “I will run over some quick ground rules. Firstly, as was discussed with you at the eligibility interview, these meetings are confidential. Nothing said here should be shared with any individual outside of the group. Secondly, this is a safe space, so feel free to share anything—but also be aware of the effect that may have on your partner. No insulting of partners will be allowed. Thirdly, remember to let people talk and to listen to them. No interrupting the speaker. Lastly, please remember to be respectful and supportive to group members; you’re all here for the same reasons, and we want to try to help each other.”
Draco looks around the room, slowly making eye contact with everyone as his gaze moves around the circle. Harry scowls in response when the attention drifts over him, but Draco’s carefully neutral expression doesn’t falter.
“How about we go round the room? Introduce yourself. Tell us your name and something about you. If you have any questions, now is a good time to bring them up. Today is more about establishing the group and getting to know each other.”
The first question is about confidentiality again. Harry refrains from rolling his eyes at that, but the release of breath must sound a little too much like a sigh because Ginny knocks her knee sharply into his, shooting him a sharp look that he doesn’t acknowledge. The woman’s partner shakes her head, and the questions continue round the circle until it’s Harry’s turn.
“I'm Robert,” Harry announces, glad they'd gone with the disillusionment charm for the session. They'd discussed it at length with the induction staff, insisting that it was not necessary—that it could, in fact, make it more difficult to divulge information. But Harry had been just as insistent on not wanting to attend the meeting as Harry Bloody Potter. Malfoy still knew, but it made little difference to him, looking around the room and seeing people's faces indifferent to Harry. “I’m here with my wife, Dora, to try to work on our marriage.”
He's not sure what to add to that. He's Robert (he's not), and they came here for the same reason everyone else did.
Draco nods. “Hi, Robert. Do you have any questions you’d like to ask?”
There’s only one question he can think of.
“Why should we trust you when your own marriage failed?” Beside him he hears the sharp intake from Ginny—knows he’s crossing a line, but he powers on nonetheless. “What could you possibly do for us when you couldn’t even salvage your own marriage?”
The circle is silent—eerily so. He expects Draco to get angry, to sneer and call him names—and part of him wants that. He asked the question to get a reaction; he just wants someone else to be angry too. Like he feels—like he feels so often.
Instead, Draco’s face remains unchanged—the same polite look of indifference that is so annoying to Harry.
Harry feels shame for the question, and it feels like it burns at Harry. He feels even hotter under Malfoy’s gaze.
“Well, for one thing, the majority of the session is actually dictated by yourselves.” Draco waves around the circle. “So in these sessions, you will be helping each other through this. I am simply the facilitator. For another, not all relationships can be salvaged. Some relationships will end. This is something that everyone should be aware of, and there is no shame in ending a relationship. These things happen, and certainly, no one should stay in an unhappy relationship. We don’t want to have people learning to maintain their suffering here—only fix what can be fixed.”
Draco smiles politely at the worried faces before continuing, “In saying that, you’ve all made the effort to attend this session—which speaks to having some desire to work on, and continue, your relationships. Where you go from here will be up to you.”
It’s not what he expected, and Harry doesn’t have a response for that. Harry isn’t sure if it’s better or worse when Draco seems to read his discomfort, nodding at Harry before directing his attention to Ginny and asking if she has any questions.
The questions continue round the room, most of them of little interest to Harry. Most people are concerned—and he gets that, but he's past caring about that now. He's just here to save his marriage.
He hazards sneaking a glance at Ginny, and there's the uncomfortable look on her face that's become far too familiar nowadays. It feels like an age since he's seen her look happy or felt happy himself.
He doesn't like to think about how, sometimes, that doesn't feel fixable.
Draco's voice changes pitch and timber again, dragging Harry from his thoughts.
“Well, this has been a very informative session, and I would like to thank you all for participating. Today’s session has been an introduction to one another and to the format. The next session will involve more active participation, but we want to ease you into the process.”
Draco, flicks through his papers, holding up the paperwork they’d been handed in the pre-group session interview. “We’ve provided you all with reading material before the session, and if you’ve already read through it, that’s great. If not, please do take the time to do so before next week’s session. The reading material includes a floo call number for contacting at any time of the day; there will always be a member from the staff on call to assist if you require it. Please never be afraid to call through if you want to.”
He hasn’t read the reading material. He meant to—but just hadn’t found the time yet. Another thing that just seemed to be getting away from him lately, and the list of things he ‘should have done but hasn’t’ seems to only be getting longer recently.
“I look forward to seeing you all again next week,” Draco finishes.
Harry hears his chair squeak in his haste to get up and away from it, and, as much as he knows he should, he doesn’t wait to see if Ginny is leaving with him.
Draco wraps up the session as he usually does, casting around for any final questions before finishing with, “I look forward to seeing you all again next week.”
Harry sometimes wonders if it’s a requirement for the session—he wonders whether Draco means it. He wonders if he spends far too much time wondering.
Harry’s already pushing up from his chair, trying to leave the room—and the itch it always gives him—behind as swiftly as he can.
He hears something from behind him, an obvious call of some sort. But the session is over as far as Harry is concerned, so he ignores the voice, making his way towards the doorway of freedom when a hand wraps around his arm and stops his progress.
He looks down to the hand holding his arm, first, before drifting his eyes up to see Ginny looking at him.
“Draco was calling you,” she says. And it’s only then that Harry registers the sound he’d heard had been someone calling his name—calling his fake name, Robert.
Harry sighs, turning back to look at the group he’d just left, and, sure enough, Draco is standing there, looking at him—clearly waiting for him.
“What?” Harry asks, his voice coming out sharp and harsh—which Harry can’t bring himself to feel any guilt for when he had been so close to escaping.
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Draco asks. Then he looks to Ginny. “Just Robert, if that’s alright with you.”
Harry thinks he hears a stress on the name—a slight change in tone—and Harry narrows his eyes at Draco for it. He’s planning on refusing when Ginny beats him to it.
“Of course,” she says with a smile, and Harry’s head turns so fast that he thinks he feels his neck crack. “I’ll floo to pick up the kids from Mum’s. I’ll see you at home.”
She leans up to place a kiss on his cheek before abandoning him to his fate.
Harry has a moment to wonder if this is as bad as the time Ron abandoned him and Hermione in the forest before Draco says, “We can use one of the other rooms for privacy,” and walks past him.
Harry seriously considers just not following Draco—Draco can’t force him to follow. He could just walk out the door and go through the opposite exit. But as much as he wants to do that—and he does—he follows Draco out of the room.
Draco leads him to a room smaller than their usual room, holding the door open for Harry, and shutting it when Harry enters.
There are two desks, and Draco turns the chairs to face each other before taking a seat on one of them. Draco raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly from the Harry to the chair, and Harry stifles the sigh he wants releases, instead taking his seat.
Draco’s eyes are locked on his, and it makes Harry feel uncomfortable—like a deer pinned by headlights, or a mouse trapped by the python. He breaks the eye contact, looking instead at the poster next to Draco. The poster is far more interesting, anyway—a picture of an owl in a ridiculous hat—and Harry makes eye contact with the owl instead.
“Harry.” The use of his name—his real name—pulls Harry’s attention, and he scowls at Draco for interrupting. “I would like to talk to you about how you’re finding the sessions.”
Which is just about the last thing Harry wants to do, but it’s not like he’s getting out of here now.
“Okay,” Harry agrees reluctantly.
“You and Ginny have been coming since the sessions started—four weeks now.”
“Yes.”
“Have you found it beneficial?”
Harry shrugs. He hasn’t, really. Though, he doesn’t feel like there’s much to say about that.
“I have had some… concerns about your progress,” Draco says, and the words feel like a reprimand—and that Harry is being blamed. He opens his mouth to refute Draco’s words when Draco continues, “I think you should consider seeing a professional counselor—one-on-one. I think it could be beneficial for you.”
Nothing could have prepared him for those words. Harry feels his face flush hot, and his blood run hotter.
“Excuse me?” He forces the words out, anger threatening to suffocate him. “What are you—how—why would you say that?”
“Harry.” Draco’s voice is calm, and it shouldn’t help—there’s no reason why Draco—why Draco’s voice should help in any way. But it does. Just a little. ”Many people see a counsellor; there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I don’t—” Harry tries to speak, but he’s not sure what he wants to say—what he can say.
“I saw one after the war.”
That drags Harry from his thoughts at least. “You did?”
“Yes. Astoria suggested it initially, and I found it to be extremely worthwhile.”
Draco—Draco has been to counselling. He supposes that he’s finding it far more surprising than he should. Draco runs—facilitates—counselling sessions. It makes sense that, at the least, Draco was supportive of it.
“I have a list of counsellor’s our service can recommend—although, you are more than welcome to find one through your own.” Draco pulls an envelope from inside his breast pocket, and it occurs to Harry then that Draco had prepared for this.
He’s not sure why that idea irks him so much.
Draco holds the envelope out, waiting, and when Harry doesn’t reach for it, Draco sighs before standing up from his chair.
“I’ll leave this with you—to do with as you wish. For what it’s worth, Harry, I think you should at least try it. It’s not unusual to be worried or apprehensive. Something can be for the best and still be frightening.”
With that, Draco turns and exits the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving Harry in the room with his thoughts and an envelope.
Harry picks the envelope up off Draco’s recently vacated seat to inspect. He turns the envelope over in his hands, looking at the seal.
He’s not sure how long he sits in the room, the envelope still unopened in his fingers as his thoughts race. When he does finally return home, both Ginny and the boys are sleeping soundly.
Today Harry floos in straight from work for the session. He’s early—the session doesn’t start for another forty minutes. But things have been… tense at their home, so he figured coming early might be beneficial.
Draco is already in the room—Harry hadn’t been expecting that and had just wanted some time to himself. When Draco looks up at the sound of the door, his brow furrows.
“You’re early,” Draco states.
“Yes,” Harry admits, taking his usual seat—only two down from Draco. “There’s no crime in that, is there?”
“No, you’re welcome here. It’s just unusual, though—for you.” Draco gives him a quirk of his mouth. “If you’re not careful, someone might start to think you actually enjoy these sessions.”
Harry barks a laugh at that. He’s been doing better with the sessions, he knows, sharing more since he started going to counselling. It’s been… good. But he’s still a long way from enjoying these. “I don’t think there’s any risk of that. I guess this was just the lesser of two evils.”
“Oh?” It’s an open invitation to speak about it—if Harry wants to. He’s surprised when he realises that maybe he does.
It’s just hard to find the words.
“Things have been… hard. At home. Difficult," he adds, swallowing around the hard lump in his throat, and the noise feels like it echoes around the room. “Sometimes, they feel like they might not get better.”
Draco considers this, sucking on his lip while he thumbs at the notebook on his lap.
“Do you want my input, or do you just want to air this out?” Draco asks.
“Your input,” Harry says quickly. As soon as the words are out, he realises how strange it is—that he would say this—that he would ask for Draco’s thoughts on the matter. He’s been coming to these sessions for two months, now—give or take—and it feels like he’s barely taken in anything of benefit during that time. But he still finds he wants to hear what Draco has to say.
“It might not get better.”
Draco’s words shock him from his own mind, and he opens his mouth to speak—to challenge them.
However, Draco continues, “Not everything gets better—not every relationship can be saved. I told you the first day that, sometimes, the healthiest option is to stop holding on.”
“So you’re saying I should just leave? Give up?” Harry spits out, his temper flaring at the words. He’s angry, and he knows that isn’t really Draco’s fault. But his words are a harsh reminder that maybe there isn’t anything he can do about this.
“I’m not saying you will have to, but it’s good to remember that’s an option.” Draco’s familiar face of indifference is both a relief and an annoyance. It contrasts to the looks of concern Harry sees in his friends’ faces when he brings his relationship problems up with them—which he appreciates—but when Harry feels so tumultuous inside, he wants a reaction, to have a reaction from Draco.
“You think I should just end it all?” Harry asks, his words still filled with venom.
“Is that what you want to do?”
That’s not a question he’s been asked before. He’s been so caught up in the idea of—in the actions of—trying to save his marriage that he hasn’t stopped to think about if that’s what he wants. He loves Ginny, of that he has no doubt.
Ginny had been there for him after the war. He knows he was in a bad place then, and she was too; they’d both lost people in the war, and they found a comfort in each other. The shared pain brought them together faster than might have happened otherwise.
Recently, though, he feels like maybe things have been bad more often than they’ve been good. It feels like every attempt to fix things falls short. He’s tried so hard, and he knows Ginny has too. But lately, he’s been feeling like that may just not be enough.
He just doesn’t know. He says as much.
The smile Draco gives him at that is sad and soft. “Then you need to figure that out.”
Harry knows it’s true, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
Harry’s heart is racing as he lets his feet carry him towards the familiar room. It’s not a session time, but he needs to talk to someone, and he knows this isn’t his only option. He could floo call Louise, and, if he wanted, he could talk to any of his friends. But Ron and Hermione are too intimately involved, and going to someone else would feel wrong. He’s not ready to deal with Louise yet either, not until he’s put some distance between himself and—and—
—between himself and the situation.
He’s not sure why this feels like the right place to come, but after Ginny left early for work and he’d packed the boys up for playgroup, he’d felt the need to go somewhere.
“Somewhere” ended up being the Wizard Relationships Centre; he lets his feet carry him past the session rooms to where he knows the offices reside. They don’t have nameplates, but Harry heads to the office where Draco had taken him once—and that feels so long ago, now, but also like no time at all has passed.
Taking a deep breath, Harry doesn’t let himself hesitate before stepping into the room.
The occupant at the closest desk looks up at him—a witch with short hair—and Harry looks past her to the second desk—
“Harry?” Draco is looking up at him, confusion written across his face.
It’s a moment before Harry realises the name he’s said—Harry, not Robert—and, in his rush to come over, he hadn’t even thought to put on his glamour. It hardly seems important now, anyway. He was only wearing the disguise for the group sessions, and the only person he’s here to talk to is Draco, who knew his identity.
“Can I speak to you?” He asks, and the voice that comes out sounds composed, even to his ears.
But something flashes across Draco’s face—possibly concern.
It’s gone too fast for Harry to be sure, Draco’s features once again schooled into the now familiar neutral expression he wears in the sessions.
“Of course,” Draco agrees easily, rising smoothly from his chair. “I’m going to use the small meeting room, Gwen,” he tells the woman in the room, who nods distractedly.
Draco moves his hand to usher Harry out the door. Although, Harry notices the way it falls just short of touching him, the mere suggestion of a touch, before he’s directing Harry down the corridor in the opposite direction of the room they use for the group sessions.
They don’t speak as Draco falls into step beside Harry or as Draco directs him into a room. The room has a table surrounded by chairs, but Draco pulls two chairs out from the table to face each other before taking a seat and waving for Harry to do the same.
Harry takes a seat, not looking at Draco once he’s sitting. His eyes slide to study the table instead, and he thrusts his hands into his pockets, feeling his wand in his right hand and some paper in his left—a shopping list, probably.
And then they wait.
Draco doesn’t push him—something Harry’s grateful for, at least.
He wants to speak—to tell someone—but he’s not ready, not yet. He doesn’t try to fill the gap with words, though, either. It would be too easy to speak up, to start a conversation and then dodge around the issue. Which is probably why he came here. He’s always been upfront and honest with Draco—in this setting, at least. It would have been too easy to go to a friend, and talk around the subject—and she would have let him, wouldn’t have pushed him to say what was really on his mind.
He just needs to say the words now.
“Ginny and I talked last night.” His words come out quiet. Otherwise, they still sound composed, and he feels a tiny flash of pride that he’s keeping it together, even now. “We agreed it’s for the best that we—that we separate.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the movement of Draco’s head—recognises the nod without looking at him, attention fixed on the table.
“I guess this means we’re out of the group sessions now,” he adds, aiming for humour. But the joke falls flat, and the sound he attempts to force out isn’t even recognisable as laughter.
“I think that’s the least of your concerns now.”
Draco’s voice cuts through, pulling Harry from his thoughts—a place he’s not keen to stay at the moment—and something about his voice drags Harry’s eyes back to him.
“But if you need to know—yes, that means Ginny and yourself will cease the group sessions. But there are other sessions we can get you into. There are options. And you’ve got your friends; you’ve got Louise. We can set you up with some resources, although, some people find it good to have a break now—there are a lot of changes going on. It can be good to see how you handle that.” Draco smiles softly, and lifts his hands, palms up, almost as if in an offering of peace.
Harry nods. “I’d like the resources.”
“Okay, we’ll get those for you.” Draco leans forward, moving into Harry’s personal bubble. “Remember, Harry, you’re not alone in this. Many people go through this. And it’s not a failure—just because your relationship has ended doesn’t mean it failed.”
Harry’s throat feels like it closes up at the words, and his eyes feel like they prick. He hasn’t cried yet—he’s only felt numb, and it chokes him up.
It’s so easy, then, to lean in, to close the last short distance between them. He’s not sure why he does it. The only time they’ve ever touched before was during the fistfight during the Quidditch match and the flight from the room of requirement. Both times, Harry would prefer not to think about.
This time, it’s different.
Harry wraps his arms around Draco and pulls him in tight, embracing him, trying to thank him with this because he feels like he can’t thank him with words.
He’s not expecting the way Draco tenses in his embrace, going rigid and stiff beneath his arms.
Draco’s arms come up to his arms, and he pushes Harry away gently.
“Sorry Harry,” he says a little apologetically. “We don’t allow touching between staff and visitors.”
“I’m sorry—”
“It’s fine,” Draco cuts him off before he can say anything else. “You didn’t do anything wrong—it’s to establish and maintain a—a boundary. It’s standard procedure. Sorry, Harry.”
Draco stands up, stepping away from Harry and towards the door, “I’ll get you that information now.”
Epilogue
He’s the first to admit that he’s been avoiding social outings since the divorce. They were never pleasant in the first place, but he’d been able to rely on having Ginny by his side.
Ginny was always the social one. Her shining personality had drawn people to her, and Harry had been able to get by beside her.
It had just seemed a little easier when Ginny was with him.
But after the separation and the subsequent divorce, big events have been beyond his abilities.
He’s aware now that he closed down—even without his therapist informing him of that fact. It had taken time before he’d been ready to try this again, to do it without a partner to help him through. Not that he was alone in it, but this was different.
This event is a fundraiser for St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The annual event is held on the anniversary of the hospitals establishment. It’s always well attended with the red carpet entrance being bracketed by various reporters and photographers. Hermione had arranged a secure entrance for Harry, at least—an effort for which he was sincerely appreciative. As much as he was ready to handle the event, dealing with the reporters and photographers was something he was not feeling ready for—and he definitely wasn’t feeling up to seeing his photographic-self hiding on the front page of the Daily Prophet. He didn’t even want to think about the headlines accompanying that photo.
Even though he’d attended these before, the ballroom never fails to take his breath away.
This year, the theme is ‘Healing Blue,’ and the ballroom had been adorned accordingly. There are floating lanterns set up to dance their way across the ceiling, a deep navy blue. It reminds Harry of the floating candles at night time in Hogwarts’ Great Hall, and Harry feels a pang of longing—for both the hall and that time. When things had been easier.
Harry chokes back a laugh at the thought—that he’d think things had been easier then when it felt like he had been running from or fighting against Voldemort at every turn.
Dragging his eyes from the rooftop and room decorations—of which there are many—Harry casts his gaze around the room, looking for a familiar face among the sea of people. He spots Hermione and Ron first—so used to searching them out among every crowd that he feels like he could do it anywhere.
His feet are already moving, taking him in the direction of the crowd before he even makes the decision to do so—before he even realizes they are in a group of people. Not that he thinks it would have stopped him. Ron and Hermione have been his safe base since before he knew what a safe base was.
He steps up to the group, falling into the space beside Hermione’s elbow, and waits for a break in conversation before touching it softly to alert her to his presence.
“Harry!” Hermione exclaims, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing tight as she always does. “I’m so glad you made it!”
“I said I would be here,” he reminds her. Although, he doesn’t blame her for doubting him.
She knows how nervous he had been about attending.
But here he is.
“And here you are,” Hermione agrees.
“Glad you made it, mate.” Ron smiles at him from over Hermione’s back, patting his shoulder.
“Thanks.” He appreciates the extra effort. He’s never been the most comfortable in these settings—which is something that definitely hasn’t got better with time. But with friends like his, it’s a little easier.
Withdrawing from Hermione’s grip, he takes a moment to look around the group. There are a few faces he recognises as he casts his gaze around—and then he sees Draco Malfoy.
He really hadn’t been expecting Draco—hasn’t seen him since before the divorce, since the last time he talked to Draco at the centre, and he’s more than a little surprised—and if the sight of Draco’s eyes widening and eyebrows raising mean anything he’s also at least a little bit surprised—it has been a while.
Hermione introduces Harry to the group, and it’s not long before the chatter resumes around him.
Harry gets involved in a conversation about how the Ministry of Magic is failing muggle-born children—something Hermione has been vocal about for years. The conversation is engaging. And yet, during it, Harry can’t help but focus on Draco out of the corner of his eye.
Draco looks good—even better than the last time Harry saw him—dressed in a dark green suit with a grey shirt. He has a pocket chief in his suit pocket, and Harry thinks it’s ridiculous—and still looks amazing. Harry’s pretty sure that if he tried to pull that off, he’d look ridiculous.
A little surprisingly, Harry finds that he’s enjoying himself. This is the part he’s missed—talking to people, catching up—and he manages to forget the rest of the party. Everyone else falls away.
He’s not sure how it happens. Someone moves. Someone else leaves to get a drink. And suddenly, Harry finds himself standing next to Draco.
His stomach twists a little, threatening the previous serenity he’d found in their group. There’s a tension Harry can feel hanging between them.
The sound of other conversations around them suddenly feels overbearingly loud. The deliberate way they stand—maintaining a distance between them—and the fact that they’re both looking away and across the room only amplifies the awkwardness of the situation; like they’re teenagers once more, incapable of speaking to one another amicably. Harry feels like the silence between them hangs and threatens to smother them. He wants to say something, anything, to break the silence.
“You were great.” The words are out before Harry second guesses them. Honesty has always been the best policy, and there’s no doubt in his mind that they’re true.
They startle Draco out of his reverie, causing him to turn and stare at Harry.
Harry’d forgotten just what it feels like to be immobilized by those eyes—Draco has a way of pinning you under his gaze, an intense pressure all its own.
His eyes are locked on Harry’s, but his face looks confused.
Harry rushes to explain. “You said some things that really helped. Some of it really stuck with me. I wanted to thank you.”
“I’m glad it was helpful. How have things been since the divorce?”
Harry winces at the words. It has long since stopped being an open wound. But even so, it’s not a pleasant subject—not something he really wants to discuss. He never looks forward to people’s platitudes, or their sympathy, or, even worse, their well-intended questions.
“Yeah—it’s been good. Hard at times. But good.”
Draco nods, not offering anything further—which Harry appreciates. Draco’s been through it all before, Harry reminds himself. He’s had these experiences, and, maybe, Draco also grew tired of people’s well-meaning words of advice or sympathy.
“How are the boys doing?” Draco asks after enough time has passed that the change in conversation is not too abrasive.
Harry tells him about James and Albus’s Quidditch skills and hobbies, and he enquires about Scorpius in return.
The conversation continues, feeling natural, and, before Harry realises it, they’re turning on the lanterns to light up the ballroom—a telltale sign of the end of the night.
Draco looks just as surprised.
People are already starting to move away towards the exit, the lower murmur of whispered farewells drifting around them. Harry knows he should at least find Ron and Hermione and say his own farewells. But he is hesitant to say goodbye and end the night with Draco. He’s enjoyed himself tonight.
So he says so. “This has been nice.”
“It has,” Draco agrees.
“We should do it again sometime.” He’s aware of how often these offers fall short, end up meaning nothing, and Harry doesn’t want that. So he adds, “Are you free next weekend? We could grab a drink?”
“I’d like that.”
“Great. Till next weekend, then,” Harry says with a smile. It’s a date, he thinks but doesn’t say. He thinks that would be too much—all the connotations that go along with that word.
And he should know. He’s only had a couple of dates since the divorce—nothing successful. But this isn’t the time to think about it. Instead he focuses on the real thought of having tea with Draco in a week.
It feels nice. Good—something different. But they’ve been many things to each other over the years, and Harry thinks it’s about time they try being friends.
He sticks out his hand then, he doesn’t think before doing it, more of a force of habit than a conscious decision. But as his hand extends—as he’s waiting for Draco’s response—he can’t help but think of another time when Draco stuck out his hand and Harry had ignored the hand; he remembers a time he’d reached out to Draco and been rebuffed. And he remembers all the times between. A time when they’d exchanged blows on a Quidditch pitch, a time they’d fought over a wand, and a time they’d clung to each other fearing for their lives.
When Draco reaches out to his hand, accepting Harry’s offer, it feels like more than a handshake, it feels like putting the past behind them. It feels like moving forward, an opportunity for something new.
He’s looking forward to it.