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They Apparate to the gardens of Malfoy Manor on a gloomy Sunday morning.
Harry barely has time to notice the way Draco’s flower garden waves at him with the soft morning breeze, or the sounds of the peacocks in the distance, or the dozen memories of this place that come back to mind at the sight of it all. Lily’s started crying in the pram, and Harry leans down—tries to soothe her, tells her they couldn’t have risked coming here by any other means. “You don’t want to have Dragon Pox, and I don’t either,” he murmurs, but, not understanding, Lily cries on.
It’s not until they arrive at the great doors of the Manor—until Draco walks out, and barely nods in Harry’s direction before picking up their daughter and holding her close—that she finally simmers down, head resting against his collarbone.
And so what if Draco looks beautiful as he tells Lily he’s missed her; that he’s bought her the softest stuffed animal in the market, that he’s prepared a room for Dad to stay in with them during the quarantine? Of course he does, Harry tells himself. Draco is beautiful, at least in Harry’s eyes, and has been for a very long time. He probably always will.
They walk in, and Draco charms Harry’s trunk to follow them as he leads him to the spare bedroom. He tells Harry their rooms are adjacent so they’re both close to Lily, no matter who she’s sleeping with. Harry thanks him, walks in, closes the door behind him with the excuse to unpack, and, thinking about how they haven’t looked one another in the eye yet, he tells himself that maybe things will turn out fine.
And at first, they do. Harry and Draco take turns to take care of Lily. They watch telly together; Draco’s bought a new one since he and Harry broke up, and has apparently started watching reality shows. Just to laugh at the sheer stupidity of those kinds of people, he tells Harry matter-of-factly, but Harry can’t help but laugh at him, seeing right through it. Still, he sits by Draco’s side every night and watches them too, not wanting to think about the pandemic that’s turning their world around. He goes for long walks through the gardens in the mornings, comes back to Draco having cooked lunch. Takes care of dinner; reads, plays with Lily, Fire-calls his friends every day.
He tries so very hard not to think about the memories this place brings. Memories of Draco showing him the rooms of the manor that used to be his favourite when he was a kid; of Draco holding his hand, leading him to his secret childhood treehouse, and laughing at the look of awe on Harry’s face, their laughter turning into kisses. The kisses turning into touches.
He tries not to dwell on the fact that he misses what they had. Misses Draco, even though they live in the same house now.
He thinks—perhaps foolishly—that he’s succeeding in keeping those thoughts at bay. Thinks so even when Draco’s laughter as they watch TV puts a wide grin on his own face; thinks so even when Draco mocks Harry about how obvious it is that he’s enjoying the treacle tart Draco baked for him just because he could.
But then, one morning, Harry walks into the breakfast room to find Draco in nothing but his pyjama bottoms, a sleeping Lily cradled against his bare chest, a steaming mug placed before him on the table. Draco looks up at him, and maybe he’s too tired to think better of it, because he smiles groggily at Harry, and it’s soft, and genuine, and before Harry can seize his wild, wild heart, he’s flooded with the feeling that this is what home is supposed to feel like.
***
He can’t keep telling himself that nothing’s wrong.
He can’t keep brushing off the fact that Draco’s resting his feet in Harry’s lap whenever they watch telly, can’t keep ignoring the fact he and Draco have been sitting in the corridor every night, talking and talking before they say their reluctant goodnights and leave for their respective bedrooms. That he and Draco have been waking up together whenever Lily cries, have been pressing their foreheads together to stay on their feet while she finishes her formula and falls asleep in their arms, safe between their chests.
After a few days of careful observation, Harry decides that Draco knows, too. He’s seen it in the way Draco looks away sometimes, as though catching himself staring at Harry in a way he shouldn’t. In the way Draco’s gone back to getting dressed before breakfast; to staying on his side of the sofa when they watch his reality show.
Harry wants to think it’s for the better, but the truth is he can’t remember why they broke up in the first place anymore. Draco not being ready to move out of the Manor; Harry not knowing how to say no when Robards gave him extra work. Lucius Malfoy sending manipulative letters from Azkaban, and Harry hoping Draco would burn them instead of letting his father’s words get to him…
It probably is for the better, after all.
***
Harry can’t hear himself, but he knows from the pain in his lungs, in his throat, that he’s screaming, and has been for a very long time. He does hear the other screams, though. The ones coming from the other side of the cupboard door, calling him ungrateful, calling him a waste of space. Telling him no one will ever love him. No one will ever need him. That he’d do the world a favour if he disappeared.
Even as he screams and bangs on the door, trying desperately to get out of there, Harry thinks that maybe death would be better than another second of this. And then there’s a flash of green, and another one, and another one, and he’s dying, he knows he’s dying, but it’s like he can’t get it done. Like he’s stuck mid-fall, hanging in the air, and there’s another flash of green, and another one—
“Harry. Harry, love, wake up.”
There’s a hand in his hair, and he pushes it away, curling into a ball, trying to catch his breath.
“You’re okay. You were having a nightmare.”
Did he just dream of Draco calling him love?
He turns around to face Draco, flashes of the dream still engraved behind his eyes, and Draco touches his hair again—his cheeks, his forehead—and tells him he’s safe. Harry opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a whine.
“I’m here,” Draco tells him, and Harry nods. Scoots back a little, pulls at Draco’s sleeve. A second later, Draco’s inside the bed and Harry is blindly curling himself inside Draco’s warm embrace. Draco traces circles with his palm on Harry’s back, tells him he’s okay again, tells him to breathe slowly, to try to relax his body with every exhale.
“I was dying,” Harry explains after a moment. “Well, before that I was in...mmh…in Privet Drive, although it looked more like Bill and Fleur’s house, but I knew it was Privet Drive, and Uncle Vernon had…caught me trying to escape through the toilet, and there was a turtle in the toilet that I was almost sure wanted to help me, but Vernon locked me in the…cupboard, you know the one...and it was smaller and darker than I remembered it, and the screams were so loud that I…was trying to leave, but then when I went to…to the…mh…I couldn’t die.”
“But weren’t you dying in your dream?”
“Yeah,” Harry exhales. “I couldn’t though.”
Draco huffs.
“Let’s try to get some more sleep, okay?”
Harry thinks that’s an amazing idea, but before he can voice that out loud, he’s sinking back into the comfort of dreamless sleep.
***
Lily wakes them up before sunrise.
“I’ll take care of her,” Draco grumbles. Harry’s loathe to let him go, the bed cold and unwelcoming without him, but he can barely groan in disapproval as Draco dislodges himself from his arms.
He hears Draco whispering to Lily, cooing, humming a soft lullaby. When he turns around, Harry’s breath hitches at the sight of Draco, barely illuminated by the pale light of the slowly dawning day, holding their baby against his chest and kissing her forehead as she relaxes in his arms.
And maybe it’s because he’s too tired to think better of it, but Harry smiles. Murmurs, “Why did we ever give up on this?”
Draco looks up to him, and if he wasn’t so unsteady on his feet, his hair so rumpled and his eyelids so droopy, Harry would have feared the wave of sadness that washes over his face.
“I’d tell you to stop that,” Draco whispers after a moment, “but I’m beginning to think that I don’t know the answer to that question either.”
Harry doesn’t reply, and, after a moment, Draco looks back down at Lily. Brushes his fingers to the sparse hair of her head.
“She’s so soft…”
“She’s got your eyes,” Harry says, slowly sitting up. “She’s beautiful, just like you.”
“Harry,” Draco breathes, and his voice wavers.
Harry walks to him. Rests a hand on Draco’s waist.
“I know,” he exhales.
Slowly, Harry circles Draco’s waist with his arm, pulling him close and resting his head on Draco’s shoulder. They lean against one another, and Harry feels more than hears Draco sigh as he nuzzles Draco’s jaw and looks down at their daughter.
Draco breaks the silence a few moments later.
“You were right. About my father.”
Harry doesn’t dare look up as he waits for Draco to continue.
“When he found out we were having a baby, and that we’d broken up, the—the tone of his letters changed drastically. He wanted me to take you to court. Didn’t want you to have any power over her so you couldn’t turn her into a—in his words—blood traitor. When I made it clear that that wasn’t what I wanted, things got…ugly, to say the least.”
Before he can think better of it, Harry kisses Draco’s cheek. Says, “He won’t be out of Azkaban for another decade. And even when he is, we won’t let him influence her.”
Draco’s looking at him now, fear and doubt and hope all shining in his eyes.
Harry swallows.
“You were right, too,” he says softly, “about staying in the Manor being a good idea. I didn’t want to see past my bad memories of it, and I’m glad this pandemic appeared to give me a good kick in the arse for it.”
Draco huffs, and his smile feels so safe and familiar it makes Harry’s stomach flutter. Draco must notice, because his smile fades and he dislodges himself from Harry’s embrace to put Lily back in her crib.
He doesn’t look at Harry when he straightens up again.
“I should go back to my own bed,” he says after a moment.
Harry takes his hand.
“Or we could talk.”
Draco sighs, but turns around to face him. Their fingers curl loosely with an ease born from years of practice, and Draco looks down at them, stroking Harry’s thumb with his own.
“There shouldn’t be anything to talk about,” Draco says, and Harry can see that he hates every word.
Instead of replying, Harry steps on Draco’s feet. He used to do it a lot—used to randomly decide he was tired of wearing socks around the house and stand on Draco’s warm feet instead—and he knew Draco loved it, even if he always made a great deal out of it.
Now, Draco yelps, but holds Harry close so he doesn’t lose balance.
“You feel like home,” Harry admits, Draco’s hands pressed to his lower back making him bold.
“Harry,” Draco warns even as his fists curl around Harry’s pyjamas.
“Draco.” Harry presses his forehead to Draco’s, and damn, but Draco smells like home, too. “I’ll stop if you really want me to. But I need to hear you say it. I need to hear you say that you don’t think we made a mistake when we broke up, because otherwise I’ll believe that you feel the same way I do and I will have to keep fighting for us.”
Suddenly, Draco is cupping Harry’s head with a strong hand and letting all of his weight rest on Harry’s forehead.
“God, you’re such an idiot.”
“Maybe. But I’m your idiot.”
Draco laughs a breathless laugh that Harry feels against his lips, and he only has half a mind to wonder when they got so close.
“You can't say things like that,” Draco chastises, sounding more amused and defeated than actually frustrated.
“I love you,” is what Harry has to say to that.
He feels the hitch of Draco's next breath right before Draco kisses him, softly. Hesitantly. But the hesitancy soon passes, and they sink into a kiss that feels inevitable, that feels familiar; a sigh of relief, a welcome back.
“I’ve missed hearing you say that,” Draco says against Harry’s lips.
“I love you,” Harry repeats, happy to say it again as many times as necessary. Then, after pressing another chaste kiss to Draco’s now wet lips, “I’ve missed you.”
They’re still kissing and embracing and nuzzling one another when Harry walks them back to the bed. When he exhales, “Stay,” and kisses away the worry from Draco’s frown, when he tugs at Draco’s pyjamas around his waist to urge him down, when he holds Draco close while they pull up the bed covers.
Breaths mingling, legs tangled, Harry plays idly with Draco’s hair and wonders if he will ever let go of Draco again. If he was meaning to ask Draco to stay the night, just a moment ago, or perhaps he meant something entirely different.
“Draco,” Harry murmurs after a moment.
“Hm?”
The idiot is already falling asleep. Harry smiles to himself.
“When this pandemic is over, I want you to kick my arse if I ever tell you I won’t be home in time because of Robards. Hell, I want you to floo to the Auror Department and kick his arse yourself. Will you do that for me?”
“Oh, I’ll do it for myself, thank you very much,” Draco breathes. Then, after a beat of silence, “Just as long as you don’t let me talk myself into defending my father.”
“I’ll try.”
God, but he’d forgotten the way Draco’s hair becomes softer and softer the longer he plays with it.
Draco sighs. Says, “I love you,” and closes his eyes just as the first ray of morning sun illuminates Harry’s fingers twisted in between his golden strands of hair.