Archive of Our Own ^beta

I.

The first time Charity Burbage appeared to him after the war, Draco had been scared out of his mind. In the split second her face had materialized out of the gloom, he had been convinced that she was here to take him with her – to drag him to the other side for his part in her death, that passive spectatorship of tragedy.

He had fallen to his bedroom floor in shock, tripping over a footstool in his haste to back away. But, as he did, he dropped the handful of things he’d been holding, her image blinking out as if it had never been there at all.

Draco had been shaken. His breath had come, quick and hysterical, and it had taken several minutes to get it back under control. But the one thing that he never doubted was that she’d truly been there. That he had seen her.

Following the war, Draco had lived in a haze. His parents had dragged him back to the Manor, and within several weeks, his father had been dragged right away to Azkaban. Mother was on house arrest; he merely got probation.

The trials ended, the days lengthened; his birthday came and went without him even noticing. There was so much he’d been putting off thinking about until he was safe that, now that it was all over, his mind was inundated and overwhelmed. He shut down. Draco hadn’t – couldn’t – think about any of those things without them breaking him, so he’d rather think nothing at all instead.

He took to wandering outside. During the Dark Lord’s reign, he’d been confined to the Manor too long – buildings with too many rooms made him jumpy. It was harder to tell who they were sheltering.

In the beginning, he simply walked around the grounds. His family owned acres upon acres of the surrounding area, and it was both meditative and easy to lose himself in the landscape. Sometimes, on the better days, he lost himself so completely, that the entity named “Draco Malfoy” almost ceased to exist at all.

He began collecting things. It started one day in the slipstream between May and July, and even he couldn’t be sure what compelled him. But one minute, he was diverging from the outer garden path, and the next, he was stooping to pick up a robin egg that had been vacated by its chick. Maybe it was the color, he hypothesized later that night, as he cradled it in his palm. Maybe it was how small and broken it looked.

The eggshell was just the beginning though – it marked the start of a quiet, methodical hobby that he could neither fathom nor stop in the weeks to come. He picked up rocks and flowers and sometimes things that were arguably just trash as he walked, bringing them home to his ever-expanding stash that had started in a jewelry box and now took up an entire drawer in his dresser that used to hold socks. There was no rhyme or reason to the articles – just that they were all small and unassuming, and in that moment, they had caught his eye.

It was a new handful of these treasures that he’d been holding the night Charity Burbage had appeared in his room. As soon as she’d vanished, he had realized that one of them must have been responsible for summoning her in the first place. Given the laws of magic, it was the only logical explanation. And so, when his breathing had calmed, he swept them into a pile and tested them one by one in the shadows.

Sure enough, when he got to the curious, black stone he’d found in the forest, Burbage misted back into sight. Even being more prepared this time, the sight of her made something twist in his chest unpleasantly, and he rather wished to get this over with quickly.

“…Professor Burbage?” His voice came out creaky, and he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d even used it. It was a wonder he could speak at all.

She blinked placidly for a moment before responding. “It’s Draco, isn’t it?”

He nodded with some trepidation.

“I never had you in my classes, so I didn’t know for sure. But I heard of you, naturally.”

He stared at her long past when she had finished speaking, hoping she would explain some of this. She didn’t.

“Why are you here?” he asked at last. “Why are you back?”

She strolled past him, looking around his room with serene eyes. “Why, indeed?” he heard her murmur. “I’d rather thought you would know. You are, of course, the one who summoned me here.”

Her eyes met his, and through her body, he could see the fire crackling in the grate.

He swallowed. He tugged at his collar, which suddenly felt constricting on his throat. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I just picked up a rock…”

With muted clarity, he remembered where he had found it. The night following the battle, Mother had told him about the forest. She’d explained how Potter had died and inexplicably returned, and how one small lie had turned the tides of the war. Recalling as much as he could from her story, he had gone there today – into the forest. Where it had all transpired.

Something about the small black stone had drawn him to it. Ensnared as it was, in a nest of leaves and roots, it had still caught his eye.

But what was it?

“I don’t understand,” he repeated. And this time, he held the stone up for Burbage to see.

She drifted over eventually, eyeing it from several feet away. Like she feared he would startle if she came too close. He probably would.

“I wouldn’t either – in life,” she clarified at his expression. “In death, some curious things become known to you. That is one of them.”

“What is it?” He barely dared ask.

She simply smiled and shook her head. So she knew - she just wouldn’t tell him.

“Alright then. Why did you disappear earlier?”

She floated over to a chair and proceeded to sit, gesturing for him to sit in the one across from her. The irony of being treated like a guest in his own home did not escape him, yet he perched on the edge of the seat all the same.

“That’s simple, really. You have to be touching the stone in order to see me. You let go.”

“I’ve never heard of a ghost who appears like that.”

“Haven’t you?” she asked, but refused to comment further. Her eyes resumed her inspection of his room, and he felt his hands go clammy when he thought of what she might find.

Did she not yet realize this was the house in which she had died? That he had been sitting there at the table when the Dark Lord had killed her? The memory was caustic and enormous, and with her sitting here in front of him, he felt much less confident in his ability to keep it out.

“I need a minute to think about this,” he found himself saying, and then the stone was falling to the floor.

She vanished without a trace.

It was a full two days before he summoned her again. In the hours initially following his discovery, he had been panicked and destabilized. Her presence had devastated his easy routine – a thing that had taken over a month to build up – and his routine was all he had left anymore. He had felt scared and resentful, and despite that, curious all the same.

Why had she come back? Why did she think he was the one who had brought her? He hadn’t been thinking anything when he had picked up the stone in the forest. Draco remembered it clearly – his mind had been so pleasantly blank, and the beauty of the stone’s sleek black shimmer had been the only thought to cross it during that time.

His mind certainly wasn’t blank now. Even avoiding all the memories Burbage’s presence had stirred up, he couldn’t help but return to a base state of looming unrest. It was the way he had felt before learning Occlumency – and he had become a very good Occlumens over the past year.

It was his quiet desperation to return to those pleasantly blank moments that drove him to pick up the stone once more. He had moved it, the other night, with his wand – carefully summoning it to the jewelry box and making sure not to touch it. Draco scooped it up just as carefully now.

He turned around in increments, dreading what he would see, but just as terrified of what it would mean if he didn’t. But he needn’t have worried; Charity Burbage was there – there on the couch like she’d never left at all. Her eyes drifted across the room and landed on his with a bored, if slightly amused, expression.

“Draco. I suppose you’ve had your ‘minute’ then?” Her smile was a bit wry, and he almost regretted picking the stone up at all.

He cleared his throat, deciding to ignore the jibe. “Have you been here the whole time? Or did you…” He trailed off, not quite sure how to describe whatever other place she might go.

She stood and drifted closer to him, but stopping several feet away like before. “I was here. Not just here exactly - I took a walk around and came back.”

His gut clenched. “So even if I don’t see you, you…can’t move on.”

She glanced at him, a bit surprised. “Oh, I moved on already a while ago. I’m just back for a visit, it seems.”

There was something about that that didn’t make sense, but parsing it out only increased his anxiety, so he stopped.

“But why can’t you go back?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to summon you – that much is clear. When I let go of the stone, you should be able to leave.” His voice was quickening and rising in pitch, and he couldn’t quite control it.

“Does my presence here bother you?” she asked in an even, curious tone.

“If I said yes, would you leave?”

She smiled. “No. Like we’ve established, you summoned me here for something. But it might help you unravel your thoughts to speak them aloud.”

“I’d rather not,” he said curtly, then pulled a simple ring from the jewelry box. He set it against the stone in his palm, and transfigured it to clasp the gem’s sides.

“What’s that you’re doing?” she asked, drifting a foot or two closer.

“Wearing it,” he replied. If she was bound here either way, he may as well see her. It made him more uncomfortable thinking she was there when he might not even know. He slipped the ring onto his finger, flipping it so the stone faced his palm. It would be less conspicuous that way.

“Have you decided why you summoned me then?”

Draco huffed in frustration. “No. And I didn’t summon you. But I might as well see you until I find a way to fix this.”

Her eyebrow furrowed. “I’m a little surprised that you care.”

He looked up from where he had sat to shove his feet into shoes, eyes narrowing. “And why is that?”

She considered him. “I mean, for one, you don’t really know me. It’s not like you took my classes or cared for me at Hogwarts. For two, I’m already dead. It’s not like there’s anything that can really harm me now.” The calm assuredness with which she spoke of death made him shiver.

“Yes, well, believe it or not, the idea of trapping someone here with me in their afterlife is something that would bother me.” He grabbed his wand and stood. “I wouldn’t condemn anyone to that,” he murmured as an afterthought.

“Do you not like your home?”

His eyes flicked to her warily. “Don’t you realize where you are?”

It was the closest he’d come to mentioning what had happened to her here. What if she honestly didn’t remember?

But to his surprise, she simply nodded. “I do. But that’s not what I asked.”

His throat felt tight. He saw she was still waiting. “It’s not a particularly great place to be anymore, no,” he answered at last.

She nodded again.

“Are you bound in the house, or can you come outside?” he asked.

Burbage seemed to ponder the question. “I can travel,” she decided. “I went outside earlier – though I didn’t go very far. But with you and the stone, I’m sure I could follow.”

“Okay. Then we’re going to the forest.”

The Forbidden Forest didn’t provide any insight, and afterwards, Draco had scoured the grounds at the Manor as well for any clue as to what exactly was happening or what he should do. None were forthcoming. In the end, he had settled for merely walking through the gardens, like he would normally do, but even that felt forced and unfamiliar with a ghost tagging along in his wake.

His mother had greeted him at one point as well, and he had felt wildly apprehensive until he confirmed the she truly couldn’t see Burbage. Up until that moment, some part of him had still doubted that she wasn’t here to avenge herself upon the family who had let her die.

He continued in this way for several days, going on long walks – bringing her with him – but speaking as little as possible. Praying that she’d simply find peace at last and fade away. Wondering what in the world was holding her here if not him.

It was the fifth day of her presence that he finally broke down and asked, “Are you sure there’s nothing keeping you here? No lingering regrets or anything?”

She laughed and continued strolling at his side. “None that I can think of.”

“Well that’s the problem, isn’t it?” he asked, with no small amount of frustration. “You need to think on it a little harder.”

She paused for a moment, and he turned to look at her. “I don’t believe it’s me who needs to think on it, Draco.” Her voice was calm and clear, but it made his guilt twist violently in his stomach.

He faced forward again and started walking.

It was later that night when she spoke next, waiting until he had settled in the chair to look through today’s treasures. “What about those makes you pick them up?”

He shifted, feeling uncomfortable discussing it. He wasn’t stupid – he knew it was a weird and undecorous thing to do. That didn’t mean he could stop.

“It’s peaceful. It helps me focus on something,” he said, which was as true as it could be. “It’s not like it’s stealing or anything – it’s not harming anyone.”

“You misunderstand me,” she said with a slight smile. “I don’t find it strange – I’m simply curious what draws you to each item. We pass many interesting things that get left on the ground.”

Draco bit at his lip, unsure how to answer. “Some things catch my eye,” he said eventually. “Some things don’t.”

His eyes fell to a small metal contraption he’d found closer to town, which he picked up and held. He fiddled with the simple mechanism.

She was watching him again; he could feel the quiet curiosity of her gaze.

“What?”

Burbage steepled her fingers, and she looked very much like a professor again in that moment. “Earlier you asked me a rather personal question about my regrets and what might be keeping me here. Do you mind if, in turn, I ask you a personal question?”

Click, click. He had no idea what this thing was supposed to do, but he kept rotating it in his hand.

“I suppose,” he answered at length, trying not to think about it too deeply. He could always say no if she pried.

“Why didn’t you take my classes at Hogwarts?”

His eyes flew up to hers in surprise. Was she mocking him? But no – she was totally serious. Surely, she already knew?

He had been expecting her to ask about his part in her death. The unknown motivation behind this different line of questioning, however, made him almost wish she had asked that instead.

“Why?” he repeated, sensing some trick. “Because I opted to take Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures. They were more relevant to my future.” After saying it aloud, he winced at the optimistic naivete that he had once held about having a future.

He prayed his answer would satisfy her, but she shook her head lightly and asked it again. “Why didn’t you take my classes at Hogwarts?”

He narrowed his eyes. Sweat began to prickle at his neck. “I wasn’t interested in Muggle things, alright? Is that what you want me to admit?”

Her eyes dropped to the contraption in his hand, and several other items in his pile, which he realized, in a burst of humiliation, were clearly Muggle artifacts. Then she looked him in the eye and asked once more, softly. “Why didn’t you take my classes at Hogwarts?”

His shoulders slumped.

“My father told me not to.”

After he had been honest with her, something seemed to have changed between them. She began talking about Muggle life and Muggle things – explaining the strange things he had picked up down by the town (a corkscrew had been what he was fiddling with the other night). He’d been quite shocked when she started, but now he just rolled his eyes and let her go on as he walked.

But he did listen.

“And that’s why Muggles don’t worry about being so defenseless all the time?” he asked as they reached the top of the hill overlooking the neighboring town.

Burbage laughed. “Cell phones are quite useful actually. And they can contact someone much faster than a patronus.”

Draco thought about it. Sure, it sounded convenient, but he sure as hell wasn’t giving up magic to avoid the itchiness of Floo powder when he firecalled. “Okay, but what good does that do if they still can’t Apparate where they’re needed?”

She smiled serenely. “There are drawbacks with both methods. People just make do with what they have.”

Draco chewed his lip, thinking on that. He’d been doing that more again – thinking. With her always near him, he couldn’t clear his mind of everything like he’d been doing before. And, like the matter of communication methods, it had both its benefits and drawbacks.

On the one hand, he’d felt sharper, less bored, a bit saner.

On the other hand, he worried how long that would last before his past overtook him.

“I almost wish I’d had a chance to see it. Growing up, I mean. Then maybe it wouldn’t seem so alien to me.”

“We could go now.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in. “What do you mean, ‘now?’”

She raised her chin. “Right now. You’re not doing anything spectacular. Let’s go visit the Muggle world.”

He sputtered, opening and closing his mouth several times. “I-…I can’t,” he said at last, caught between being flustered and ashamed. “I’d have no idea what to do.”

Burbage smiled, and he swore it was the most mischievous she’d looked yet. “Well, obviously. I’d help you, of course - I was a Muggle Studies professor, after all. Let’s go.”

When he failed to come up with another decent excuse, Draco Apparated them to outskirts of Diagon Alley.

When the coast was clear, he turned to her and murmured a stream of questions, like “Is it just through here? Are my clothes Muggle-passing? What do I do, since I haven’t got any Muggle money?”

She simply laughed at his antics and told him to exchange some galleons at Gringotts before opening the portal wall to Muggle London. He did so grumpily, as he’d rather not attract Wizarding attention – especially since he hadn’t gone out anywhere since his trial. There was no doubt that many would like to see him hexed or killed after what he’d done.

But with a disillusionment charm, he managed to get some of the strange paper money and return intact. His standard shirt and trousers were Muggle enough it seemed, and at Burbage’s urging, he finally drew his wand and tapped open the brick wall. Heaving a deep breath, he stepped through and heard the wall rumble closed behind him.

“You still there?” he asked softly, praying that he hadn’t been left alone.

“I’m here,” she said, stepping up beside him. “I’ll be here the whole time, explaining things as we go. Just go where you want, and don’t talk to me openly – people don’t take kindly to those who talk to themselves here.”

“Right,” he whispered. It took him another few seconds to gather his courage, but then he was striding out onto the sidewalk and joining the rush of Muggles in a mad hurry to get somewhere.

It was several exhausting hours later that he found himself in a coffee shop – he had stopped specifying “Muggle” in his head, as everything was “Muggle” out here – and joined the queue for ordering. He had seen so many new things, that he was in a bit of a daze.

“What is a ‘soy vanilla latte?’” he murmured to Burbage while pretending to check his watch. “People keep ordering that.”

She chuckled. “Not a very manly drink by Muggle standards. But it’s sweet, if you like sweet.”

He glanced at her, wondering what she would say if he admitted he was gay, that his perceived “manliness” was the least of his worries right now. It felt surreal and absurd to even consider speaking about things like “attraction” to anyone. After the things he’d seen and done during the war, he felt his actions had rather debarred him from that carefree sphere of life, possibly forever.

But it had been a surreal and absurd sort of week, and he was gallivanting about Muggle London with a ghost, so he supposed his metric for “normal” was quite permanently skewed. And there was something so freeing about this strange, confusing world in which no one knew his name.

So instead of letting it go, he turned to look her in the eyes and say, “I like sweet. Also, I’m gay.”

The lady behind him twitched, and he pressed a hand to his ear to mime talking on one of those phone-things. That seemed to do the trick.

When he glanced back at Burbage though, she was smiling faintly. “So you are,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I hadn’t meant it as a deterrent – order whatever you’d like.”

Draco paid with only minimal confusion over money (he handed the “barista” way too much and simply let her do the math). He scrunched his nose when he tasted the drink, overwhelmed at first by the bitterness of the coffee and then the cloying sweetness of the vanilla cream. But then he took another sip. And another. Okay, it was bad, but in a weirdly addicting way.

Burbage waited until they were on the street again to ask, “So who’s the lucky guy?”

Draco coughed on a sip of his drink, spraying vanilla up his nose. “Excuse me?” he spluttered, not even caring if people gave him odd looks.

She laughed, and it was a kind, hearty thing. “Well, I mean, you must have someone you like. With the way you spoke so certainly before.” She seemed to soften as she read his wary expression. “Though, there’s no need to tell me, of course. I’m merely curious.”

But strangely, riding his wave of clarity from before, he realized he did want to talk about it. He had for so long, but he hadn’t dared. And naturally, there’d been no one to tell it all to.

He swallowed, wiping his palms on his pants as he did. His eyes fell on a toxic pink candy wrapper of some sort on the ground, and thoughtlessly, he stooped and picked it up. He toyed with it, liking the way it crinkled between his fingers.

“Harry Potter,” he whispered.

When he finally gained the courage to look up and catch her eye, he noted only the slightest expression of surprise. “I see,” she murmured at last, eyes cataloguing him in some new, searching way. “I’m so sorry.”

He pulled at his collar; his throat felt impossibly tight. Now that it was said, he wanted to take it back. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Once spoken aloud, it felt too heavy, too real.

If he acknowledged it, then it could hurt him.

Draco turned down an alleyway and Apparated home.

Burbage followed him at a respectful distance until he sat down by the trees and clutched his knees to his chest in a rare abandonment of restraint. “Draco, are you alright?”

He shook his head once, jaw clenching, and his arms began to shake. He knew he was falling apart – and worse, that it was in front of someone – but once the feelings had started, they didn’t seem to want to stop.

“I’m sorry I asked,” she said quietly. “If there’s anything I can do-”

Draco shook his head more vigorously now. “It’s not about… I mean, it’s not just about that – it’s…” He gestured weakly towards the sky, meaning: It’s just everything.

Burbage smoothed her robes and sat down beside him, waiting.

“It’s just…how do I go on living after everything I’ve done?”

It wasn’t what he had meant to say at all, but it felt pitiful and honest and true, so he kept going.

“How do I look people in the eye for the rest of my life, knowing that I tried to subjugate and murder them? How do you make up for something like that?” He heaved a few uneven breaths. “How do I go on living in a house that so many people died in, I-…”

He squeezed his eyes shut with a pain so fierce, he feared it would never pass. When it did, he forced out the thought that had been haunting him since she had appeared.

“I don’t know how you go on listening to me, when I merely sat there while you were killed.”

She was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, it was in that calm, even voice – neither accusing nor forgiving. “I listen because you summoned me here for something, and I intend to help you do it. I listen because this is who you are – not whatever puppet you’ve been molded and twisted into.”

At her words, he felt tears welling up in his eyes. He blinked them back rapidly, but still, they overflowed.

“I… I don’t know who I am anymore. Maybe I never did. But this is the first time I’ve cried for it – any of it. For over a year.” He pressed his palms hard against his eyes, but the tears just kept spilling down his chin. “How fucked up is that?” he hiccoughed. “You died on my dining room table, and this is the first time I’ve cried about it. I’m barely human.”

After several long seconds, she sighed. “You were in shock, Draco. That’s very human.”

And since she made no moves to leave, he let himself continue crying.

He cried for the pain of the Dark Mark carving into his skin.

He cried for Dumbledore and Katie Bell and even Weasley.

He cried for the crucio he’d never meant to cast at Potter.

He cried with relief that it never hit.

He cried for the Death Eaters taking over his house.

He cried as he acknowledged it would never again feel like home.

He cried for Lovegood and Ollivander and Granger, cold and bleeding on his floors.

He cried for the people he tortured at the Dark Lord’s behest.

He cried for the battles he should’ve fought, the scars he should’ve received.

He cried for Potter saving his sorry life in the fire.

He cried for loving him when he shouldn’t, for not letting it make him brave.

Most of all, he cried for the woman named Charity Burbage – and how someone so incredibly caring and wise could be murdered for something as radical as kindness. He cried and cried and cried.

And, in the end, after he’d run out of names and tears to mourn them, he fell back on the grass and looked towards the sky. It was dark and riddled with stars.

“They don’t even know you died, do they?” he murmured when he felt he could speak.

“No,” she said, settling beside him. “They suspect, but they don’t know for sure. Everyone I love has accepted it, though.”

He exhaled. “But they don’t know when or how or why.”

“They don’t,” she said simply.

Draco bit at the inside of his cheek. “I want them to know. I want to tell them.” He turned to look at her. “Do you want that?”

She offered a small smile. “That would be nice, I think.”

He nodded, letting his head fall back to look at the stars. “Good. That’s good. But who do I tell?”

She watched him worry at his thumbnail for several minutes before responding. “You know, I never taught Mister Potter, so I don’t know for sure, but his good friend Miss Granger – she was one of my top students. And she was exceedingly kind. Now, I imagine that any friend of hers would likely be the same, were you to ask someone for help…”

He processed that, letting out a long, weary sigh. She was right, he knew. But it would be so much easier to avoid it – to push away these thoughts to keep away the messy tangle of complications that moving forward always brought.

But he couldn’t keep it away. That was something he had learned; the most he could do was postpone it for a while. It would be better to let the hurt come as it did, let it wash over him, rather than hoarding it by mistake.

“I suppose you’re right,” he muttered at last. He would go see Potter tomorrow.

II.

By the time Draco worked up his nerve to head over to 12 Grimmauld Place, the late afternoon sun was beating down upon his neck. He stood on the doorstep, fidgeting with his collar and cursing the heat, even though he knew he would never wear anything but long sleeves for the rest of his life. If he was being honest with himself, he felt quite as unprepared for this visit as he had been when he’d first come up with it yesterday.

“Well, are you going to knock?” Burbage asked amusedly.

“I-…Just give me a minute.”

He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. If only he’d thought to bring one of his treasures to fidget with, to just hold.

In a surge of unfamiliar bravery, he knocked.

After several minutes, during which he was tempted to knock again, the door finally creaked open to reveal Potter – just as messy and beautiful as always.

He definitely wasn’t ready for this.

“Malfoy?” Potter seemed genuinely taken aback. “I didn’t realize you’d been invited.”

Draco pondered that with confusion until he saw the flurry of movement behind him and heard the telltale chattering of a house party. “I…I wasn’t actually. I have something I need to discuss with you.” Potter’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Draco felt awkward enough to blurt out, “What’s the occasion?”

At that, his eyes widened again, like Draco had said something really bewildering. “Oh, so you’re really not…?” Then, with slight embarrassment, “It’s my birthday.”

Merlin and Morgana, Draco was an idiot. He had lost track of the days.

“Oh,” came his inelegant reply. “I didn’t realize it was the 31st already. Terribly sorry to interrupt, I’ll just…go then.”

He turned to leave, noting Burbage’s look of exasperation, but Potter’s voice stopped him. “Malfoy, wait!”

Draco turned back. Potter was scrutinizing him like he’d never seen him before in his life.

“How did you find this place?” And why do you know my birthday? seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, though he kindly refrained from asking.

Draco looked away from Potter to fidget with his watch. “I, uh… I mean, my mother is a Black. I heard you’d inherited it.” He glanced up to see he was still being scrutinized.

Then Potter seemed to reach a decision and pushed the door a little wider. “You said you had something to say to me? Here, come in.”

Draco hesitated, not wanting to encounter any of the people who’d likely be inside, but also knowing better than to refuse the Chosen One if he wanted his help. And besides, Burbage had already helped herself and entered.

Swallowing, he walked over and stepped inside.

The house was bleak and gothic in a way that matched the Black family aesthetic perfectly, yet felt wildly incongruous to Potter himself – especially, dressed as he was in Muggle jeans and a soft-looking t-shirt. And even though these kinds of houses were familiar to Draco, he almost wished it was some sleek, modern building that felt more fitting to the hero’s personality.

Potter led him into the sitting room, which was full of the people he’d both expected and dreaded to see. He was undoubtedly testing him, gauging what he was here for - what he would do.

Everyone fell silent at his entrance. Granger paused in the middle of what looked like a dramatic story, the girl Weasley and Lovegood snapping their eyes from her to him. Longbottom and Abbott were there, chatting with Ron (Draco resolved to just think of them by first names, as he realized the room was actually full of Weasleys), and even his aunt Andromeda was there with little cousin Teddy.

In sum, it was all the people who had good reason to hate him in one place. He sought out Burbage’s gaze, but her focus was entirely on Granger – looking at her with a terribly fond expression.

Ron broke the silence with an unexpected laugh. “Merlin, who was drunk enough to send an invitation to Malfoy?”

There was some nervous laughter around the group, though he noticed Granger’s eyes flick worriedly to Potter’s. “Everything alright?” she asked quietly.

Potter shrugged and sent him another curious glance. “Says he has something to talk about with me. You all can carry on.”

Ginevra stood, and Draco took a subconscious step back. “Merlin, Harry. You’d let anyone into your house, wouldn’t you?” she teased, though she sent Draco a dirty look as she walked over. When she was right in front of him, she stopped. “Move.”

He scrambled out of the way, and she continued past him to the icebox for a drink.

Potter was looking at him funny again, though he just asked, “Drink?”

People were starting up their conversations again, though he was under no illusion they weren’t following his every move with their eyes. He wanted to vanish. He wanted something to hold.

“I’m good, thanks,” he said distractedly, stooping to pick up a bottle cap on the ground before he could control the urge. Potter was looking really baffled now, so he felt compelled to mumble, “I just…I saw trash.”

Those green eyes were boring into him again. It felt like he could see through Draco as transparently as if he were the ghost. Not the literal ghost meandering through the room with a faraway smile. It was something he both liked and hated about Potter at once.

“The bin’s over there,” he said, jerking his head towards the corner.

When Draco made no move to walk over, his eyes narrowed dangerously.

“What’re you up to, Malfoy? You stealing that for a tracking spell or something?”

Sweat broke out on his brow. “I-…no-”

“No, what? Then why’re you acting all suspiciously?”

“I just-…”

“You show up here claiming to not even know it’s my birthday, but then you immediately reveal that you do-”

“Harry,” Granger was saying, walking over and putting a hand on his arm, and he looked mad about it, but he shut up.

No one was even pretending not to listen anymore. He could feel their eyes on him, though his gaze was still locked on Potter. Burbage glanced up at him in his periphery, and it was her presence that ultimately propelled him to be honest. “I…I just like having something to hold,” he confessed a little brokenly.

Potter’s expression didn’t change, but Granger whispered something in his ear, and then he was nodding distractedly and flicking his eyes back to Draco. “Fine,” he murmured back. Then, “No, I’ll be okay.”

He jerked his head towards Draco and muttered, “Let’s talk in the other room.”

Draco gratefully obliged. He thought, if this was Granger’s idea, he might just send her a thank-you card after all this was over. As it was, he wilted under Mrs. Weasley’s furious glare and Andromeda’s disapproval on his way out.

They walked down the hall and up a set of steps, and then Potter led him into – surprisingly – another sitting room. This one felt less lived in though, less welcoming, yet still blissfully quiet. Potter sat, and then gestured for Draco to do the same, which he did – sending up a cloud of dust. Burbage took a seat at his side.

After it settled, Potter nodded towards Draco’s hand and muttered, “Sorry about that. I guess I’m still just shocked you came by.”

Draco nodded, a bit shocked himself to be hearing an apology from Potter. “I-…It’s fine. I really didn’t come here to track you or whatever. Or gatecrash…” His mouth twisted as he remembered something. “Though, I know I don’t have the best record for that.”

Potter raised his eyebrows, though said nothing.

Draco continued. “Right. Well, I don’t really know where to start. But I need your help.”

If possible, Potter’s eyebrows went even higher. Draco glanced sideways at Burbage, who was still floating next to him as usual. She nodded encouragingly.

“Anyway, I found this stone about a week and a half ago. I’ve been going on walks a lot recently to clear my mind of…well, you know. But I pick things up sometimes when they catch my eye, like the stone, like…er, the bottlecap.” He paused, feeling his face redden, but forcing himself to continue.

“So I brought the stone home and was looking at it when a…a ghost appeared to me. But only when I was touching the stone, I found out – she disappeared when I dropped it. And not just any ghost, um…the ghost of Professor Burbage.”

Potter’s surprise had faded into worried interest, and when Draco caught his eye now, he looked more serious than he’d ever seen him. He glanced over at Burbage again, whose expression had not discernibly changed.

“The stone,” Potter murmured. “Where did you find the stone?”

Draco grimaced. “The Forbidden Forest. I’d, er…” he glanced away from Potter’s intense stare, “gone to investigate the area Mother told me you had faced him.”

Potter paled considerably. “Why?” he asked.

Draco bit at his lip and tried to hold down his blush. There was no way he was admitting that it made him feel closer to Potter by going there. That tracing the places where his heroics took place was the best he could ever get – the best he deserved.

“I just felt like it.” His eyes darted to Burbage again, and Potter caught the look this time.

“What do you keep looking at?” His face shifted. “Merlin, you don’t have it with you right now, do you? Is she…here?”

Draco started, feeling inexplicably guilty. “Y-yeah. She’s here. I’ve been wearing the stone, so I don’t lose it.”

“Show me,” Potter demanded, and Draco ignored the shiver that ran up his spine.

He offered his hand, palm up, so Potter could see the stone. The man reached as if to touch it, then thought better of it and pulled away. “Do you realize what it is you have?” His eyes found Draco’s again and searched them. They were green and so deep, he felt lost in them.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s a stone that summons back a ghost.”

“No, it’s-” Potter seemed to think better of telling him and stopped. “I need to talk to Hermione,” he said instead. He reached out a hand, and Draco glanced between it and his face. “But give me the ring, and I’ll take care of everything – I promise.”

Draco wanted to. He wanted to give into that calm authority, that warm tingly feeling he got around Potter that promised he’d be safe and cared for even when such things were impossible for him. Instead, he pulled his ringed hand away.

“I can’t.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

“I…” he was trying to articulate this feeling of unease, these lingering questions that would haunt him if left unsolved. “I haven’t figured out yet how to let her move on,” he said carefully.

Potter’s brow furrowed. “Who? Professor Burbage? It doesn’t work like that – people are only summoned back for as long as you hold the stone.”

Draco shook his head, confused. “No. Even when I wasn’t touching it, she said she was there. I just couldn’t see her. She’d be trapped.”

Now Potter was the one who looked confused. “That shouldn’t-… Let me go get Hermione.”

He hastened out of the room, and Draco was left with a ghost and a cloud of dust. His eyes sought out Burbage’s. “Well, this isn’t going the worst, I’d say.”

Potter returned with Granger several minutes later, and it was clear from the rapid muttering he heard as they approached that Potter had brought her up to speed.

“Is it true?” she asked as she rounded the corner and saw Draco. “Is she really here?”

Draco glanced hesitantly at Burbage, who had once again broken into a soft smile at seeing Granger. He swallowed. “Yes.”

“Can I see her? Can I-” she reached out to touch the ring that Draco was offering for view, but Potter stopped her.

“Better if you don’t,” he said. “We don’t know what would happen if more than one person uses it at once.”

She sighed, a little regretfully. “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have-… Anyway, how is she? Does she look alright?” Her eyes fell a bit mistrustfully on Draco, and he knew it was a lot to ask her to believe.

Burbage chose that moment to whisper something in his ear. His eyes widened. “I’m not going to say that!”

The former professor raised an eyebrow at him, and he squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment. When he opened them again, Granger and Potter were looking at him with twin looks of concern.

“Alright fine. Professor Burbage would like to say that you’ve grown into a beautiful young woman, and she misses you dearly. She especially misses those trips she took your class on to the Muggle zoo, in which you wrote a five-foot parchment on the immoral parallels between caging animals and farming dragons for their magical properties.”

He could tell that Burbage was trying to help him look credible in addition to catching up with a favored student – which he did appreciate – but it was still humiliating to say the “fine young woman” bit aloud.

To his surprise though, Granger had started to cry. “So she’s really here,” she murmured, covering her mouth with a hand. Then, surprising him even more: “Thank you, Draco.”

He tensed, feeling his whole body draw tight with guilt at this unearned thanks. Granger shouldn’t be thanking him. He should be thanking her for even agreeing to be in the same room as him; he didn’t deserve her to be listening and helping him. Not after the things he’d said and done.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, throat tight like a vise. “I’m so sorry.”

Granger and Potter both recoiled a little, then glanced at each other before back at him.

“Is that her saying that, or…?” Potter trailed off.

Draco rubbed at his face. “No. No, it’s me.” He didn’t look up to gauge their shock – he already knew it would be there. He had never apologized to them – never apologized to anyone, really. “I’m sorry for all the things I called you, Granger. All the horrible things I said. It doesn’t excuse it, I know, but I just want you to know I regret it.”

How do I go on living after everything I’ve done? he had asked Burbage last night. Well, whatever happened next, this felt like the start.

“Potter,” he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to you too. I said some pretty nasty things to you over the years as well, accompanied by some fights I never should’ve started…” his mind latched onto the day in Myrtle’s bathroom. “But more than anything, I’m sorry that I didn’t join you when I had the chance. Things might’ve been different if I had.”

Or perhaps they wouldn’t have, a nasty voice whispered in the back of his head.

He braved a glance up at them, and found Granger and Potter staring at him in a shock so great, it was almost comical. Potter especially – with his wild hair and gaping jaw. Merlin.

Draco cracked a small smile, and he couldn’t even remember when he’d done it last. “I haven’t been cursed, I promise,” he offered, when the silence drew on.

Potter snapped his mouth shut with a click. “Right. I, uh-…”

“Thank you, Draco,” Granger said again. “I appreciate the apology. And I…Well, I figured you had changed, but it’s nice to hear it from you.”

Potter wasn’t taking the shock so gracefully. He was pacing the room behind her now, running his fingers through his hair; he looked a bit like a madman.

After several seconds of it, Draco gestured weakly towards him and asked Granger, “Does he usually…?” To which, she nodded with a flash of amusement.

“Oh dear, I think I misevaluated,” Burbage chimed in. “You might have a chance with him after all.”

“Huh?” Draco gasped, just as Potter spun around and pinned him with a glare. His fingers were bridged over his nose.

“Malfoy.”

“Err, yes?”

“You can’t just come here and apologize.”

“I…I can’t?” He frowned. “Why not?”

Potter messed up his hair further in apparent frustration. “I mean, you can’t just apologize now. I gave you a chance! I tried to talk to you after the trials. You said you had nothing to say to me.”

Draco swallowed. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t terribly present at the trials. I don’t remember saying anything.”

Granger gave Potter a look. Evidently, it wasn’t enough to shut him up this time, as he still wasn’t done.

“That doesn’t mean you can just be a total prat and then apologize whenever it’s convenient for you! You don’t get it. I gave you a chance – after everything you did.”

“Do you want me to apologize for that too?” Draco asked, sensing that this was about something else entirely. “If so, I’m sorry.”

Potter made a muffled noise of frustration. “Stop doing that,” he hissed. “I’ve given up on forgiving you! Every time I try, it comes back to bite me.”

Draco felt the words like punches to the gut. He’d had multiple chances then. He’d had them, and he’d fucked them up.

He stood, spreading his arms to make himself an easier target. “Then don’t.” His throat was clenching so hard he could barely get the words out. “If I were you, I wouldn’t.”

“Gahh!” Seeming to snap at last, Potter crossed the room in two long strides and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. As if through a fog, Draco could hear the bottlecap pinging to the ground as it flew from his hand, and then Potter was yelling, “Stop saying shit like that!” His fist hovered by his ear, drawn up and ready to punch.

Draco could only stare into his eyes, watching as they flashed, and waited for an impact that never came. The fist holding his shirt began to tremble. He watched as Potter’s eyes narrowed, softened, then eventually closed.

“I can’t even punch you when you’re like this,” Potter muttered, voice wavering slightly. “I’d feel like a villain.” And without another word, he released him, backing away.

Draco watched him go, feeling oddly bereft. He didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t understand what this meant.

Burbage came over to stand next to him, seeming to sense his discomfiture. “He cares,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t want to, but he does. That’s why he’s angry.”

He looked at her in surprise, because surely that couldn’t be it-

But Potter caught his look and flattened his mouth. “What? What did she say?”

Draco took a deep breath, clearing his throat.

“What should we do about the stone?” he asked instead.

Granger studied him for a moment. “You say she’s trapped here? Does she have any lingering regrets keeping her tied? That’s not usually how it works for the res-…er, that specific artifact.”

Draco could tell that they knew what it was, but he wasn’t going to press the issue; they had no good reason to trust him, he knew. “I asked her that, and she claims there aren’t. She keeps insisting that I’m the one who needed something done, which is why I summoned her. She had already moved on.”

Granger’s brow creased, though she nodded in stride. “Okay. That makes sense. So what is it you need?”

Draco cringed. “I don’t know.” Her and Potter gave him looks of impatience, and he rushed to add, “I feel guilty about it, okay?” His shoulders slumped. “Maybe it’s that. I was…I was there when she died.”

They both remained silent, so he continued.

“I thought it would be nice to organize a funeral. So people can know how it happened. That it happened at all.”

He looked both of them in the eye.

“Will you help me?”

To Draco’s utter surprise, not only had they agreed to help him, they had invited him back the next day to start planning everything. And, as much Draco was nervous about seeing Potter again – the man had gone back to silently scrutinizing him after his outburst – he was just as nervous about showing up to “plan” things with the Golden Trio as if he was part of the gang. It felt weird.

It felt…like more than he deserved.

Burbage had been fairly quiet since their discussion yesterday, and he kept shooting her surreptitious glances to make sure this was still something she wanted.

When the door cracked open, he saw Potter peering out. “Malfoy,” he greeted.

“Potter.”

Granger appeared behind him in the doorway. “Oh, Draco - you’re here. Good.” She shot a look at Potter, who pushed the door open grudgingly and let him in. He worried it would foreshadow another fight, but to his relief, they dove right into making the necessary arrangements without incident.

Potter was watching him closely though – like he expected to turn at any moment and find out this was all a trap. And, after feeling suitably guilty for several hours, Draco finally found himself rolling his eyes about the fortieth time he glanced up to find Potter staring at him.

“Aha!” the man cried. “I knew you’ve been sitting here thinking your sarcastic thoughts!”

Draco glanced to Granger in confusion, but she was rolling her eyes as well now, looking distinctly embarrassed for Potter. He looked back to the man in question.

“I don’t have sarcastic thoughts.”

“Yeah,” Potter huffed sarcastically, “right.”

“Really-” he protested.

“I know you’ve just been waiting to insult me. You’re waiting until my guard is down, so you can tell me that my hair is messy, or my house is gloomy, or…or my parties aren’t elegant enough-”

“Mate,” Weasley said, bringing a plate of sandwiches from the other room. “I don’t think he’s-”

“-or my scar looks dumb,” Potter continued overtop of his voice. His eyes were locked on Draco’s, and with mild irritation, he realized that Potter really seemed to want him to fight.

“If you know all those things already, then there’s no reason for me to say them, is there?” he snapped.

Potter leapt up from his seat. “There! There it is! That’s what I’ve been talking about! He’s been lying in wait-”

Weasley set the tray down and looked unconvinced. “Not really, mate. You’re clearly the one provoking him this time.”

Potter drew his furious gaze from Weasley back to Draco. “And now you’re slithering into my friends’ favor like the snake you are,” he huffed. “Admit you’re plotting something.”

“I’m not,” he said, irked – though also a little thrilled with the familiarity of the arguing. “But if you’re so uncomfortable otherwise, I can pretend. Do you want me to fight you, Potter?”

Instead of annoying Potter like he’d hoped, the comment caused a fierce blush to break out across the man’s face.

Draco looked to Granger and Weasley in surprise, but they were both just smirking like he’d asked a truly amusing question.

At long last, Potter muttered a petulant, “No,” and they all went back to their planning.

About a week later, Draco was drifting off to sleep when he turned to Burbage and said, “You don’t talk to me much anymore. I haven’t done something to anger you, have I?”

She glanced up from the couch she was sitting on by the fire. Even on summer nights, the Manor got so cold.

“Nothing like that,” she said. “You just don’t need me to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he murmured.

She smiled. “Exactly what I said. Before, I was the only one you had to talk to. Now, you have friends.”

“We’re not friends,” he said quickly. But then his eyes fell upon the fidget cube on his dresser that Granger had given him yesterday. She had noticed that he liked to be holding something and told him that this Muggle contraption was for people like him; that it was completely normal.

It had made his chest kind of tight when she had said that, and he felt a fresh wave of guilt for being so undeserving.

“Or maybe we are,” he muttered. “Friends? That’d be nice.”

She gave him an unreadable look, though he swore it seemed almost fond.

“The funeral is tomorrow,” he said aloud for some reason. “Are you ready for that?”

For the first time, she looked a little wistful. “I am. It will be hard to watch, of course, but I think it will help my family and friends come to terms with it. For that reason, I’m happy to be there.”

He sighed. “And you still want me to come?” She wasn’t likely to have changed her mind; she had insisted on it, actually. Even though he’d proposed the option of Potter or Granger bringing her with the stone and telling her story.

“Yes. I still want you to come.”

It felt right, but also final. And for all that he had cried last week, Draco felt a bit like he hadn’t quite cried enough.

III.

They arrived at Hogwarts in the late morning, where the ceremony was to be held. Since there was no body left to be buried, her family had peaceably agreed that a memorial site next to Dumbledore’s would be more than adequate. Burbage had said so as well, though Draco didn’t tell them that. Under Potter’s recommendation, he was keeping her ghost a secret – things were less complicated that way.

McGonagall had had the thoughtful idea to gather some things Burbage had left behind in her office and place them in an urn. All of the attendees were invited to contribute notes or things that reminded them of her to the collection. It sat ready on a small transfigured table by the lake. Chairs fanned out around the spot, and Draco walked down the rows to check that everything was in place.

“Draco,” Potter called, and his heart thudded in his chest at the first use of his given name.

He turned and waited for Potter to join him.

“I just wanted to say…thank you for doing this. I realized I hadn’t said so before. But I know it’s the right thing to do.”

Draco smiled. “High praise coming from you,” he murmured. He’d discovered over the past week that Potter actually did like it better when he was snarky. “Don’t get used to it – it doesn’t come naturally.”

And then, he straightened Potter’s tie, because he got the feeling that he would let him for some reason.

“Draco-” Potter whispered, eyes all green and soft and full of something-

“Later,” he cut in.

And he meant it – people were beginning to arrive, and it would look terrible of him if he was caught flirting with the Savior at a funeral. Even if Burbage herself would approve.

“Let’s go take our seats.”

When the time came, and McGonagall had addressed the family and friends gathered here, she called Draco to the front to say his bit. He sucked in a deep breath before standing.

From the crowd, he could hear whispering and angry gasps from those who were just now recognizing who he was. To his shock and utter gratitude though, Potter stood up alongside him and walked him to the stand. He clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder that made him feel grounded in this otherwise surreal landscape.

He looked out at the faces of everyone they’d invited here. He cleared his throat.

“I’m not going to take up too much of your time, because this isn’t about me,” he said. Potter squeezed his shoulder once, urging him to continue. He took another steadying breath. “But, as someone who was there when Professor Burbage died, I wanted you all to know the truth.”

Some of the attendees still looked angry, but some had shock written plainly across their faces.

“Professor Burbage was abducted last summer by V-Voldemort.” It had taken literal practice sessions to call him that instead of the “Dark Lord.”

He continued, his voice gaining strength as he found Burbage herself in the crowd. It felt odd that he should spend several weeks with her, unable to say any of this until he was in front of an audience, but that’s just the way it panned out.

“She was abducted, because she had given an incredibly brave interview to the paper expressing her disdain for unfair treatment of Muggles and Muggleborns under Voldemort’s influence and direction. And because she was right, he knew she was a threat.”

He was clinging, white-knuckled, to the stand, and only the reassuring pressure on his shoulder was driving him to go on.

“More than anything, Voldemort feared people thinking and coming to their senses. He did his best to cause enough chaos that we never had the time.” He looked Burbage in the eye. “But it wasn’t enough. Even though he killed her, even though he tried to make her quietly disappear – it didn’t work.”

Draco surveyed the crowd. “It didn’t work, because none of us here today ever forgot her. We worried for her, or we raged for her, or we mourned the loss of such a wonderful person when we realized she wasn’t coming back. But we never forgot her.”

His eyes locked with hers again, and he finally realized that this was why he had summoned her. He hadn’t forgotten her. No matter how hard he had tried. And until he had told all this to someone, he would never have felt at peace.

The memory of her death threatened to overwhelm him, and this time, he let it. He felt the terror of anticipation, the way she had floated eerily above the table like she was a ghost before she’d even died. He felt the numbness when she’d been killed, the disgust at what had come after that.

He had long resolved not to go into certain details of her death in front of her family. Some things were simply not meant to be shared.

In the long pause, Draco realized tears were spilling down his cheeks, and he let out a weary sigh. He had just known he had more in him yet.

“So I just wanted to conclude by thanking you all for coming today. You were all people who were incredibly important to her, so I’m sure that wherever she’s gone, she’d be grateful to see you all gathered here in her memory. So thank you. And…and I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

He moved quickly back to his seat, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve, barely registering that Potter raced to follow him. Then, his hand was back on Draco’s shoulder, and he was leaning in to whisper, “That was beautiful.”

McGonagall rose to urge people to form a queue to say their goodbyes by the urn, and he watched Burbage walk calmly over to receive them. It lasted a good long while.

He waited until everyone else had gone up before standing himself. Most of the guests had either Apparated away or were milling near McGonagall to catch up on other news. Some were laughing, some were crying, some stood looking out over the lake with far-out eyes.

Draco walked quietly over to the urn. He crouched down in front of it.

“I think you already know what I want to say.”

“Did you find what you summoned me for?”

He nodded. “I hadn’t forgotten you, even though I’d tried. But I feel better now that others know. I think I have to come to terms with several more pieces of my past before I can more forward again.”

Draco looked up, knowing even before he did that she’d already moved on.

“Thank you. I hope you rest easy.”

Then, he tapped his wand to the ring, undoing the transfiguration. The stone plunked into the urn. He placed the lid gently overtop.

“Hey!” Potter called from behind him as he headed to the Apparition spot. The man jogged to catch up with him, evidently forgetting that it looked ridiculous to run in a suit. “Hey,” he repeated, panting, when he reached him.

“Hey,” Draco echoed.

“I was wondering…” his bright eyes flicked up to meet his, “I was wondering if you wanted to come out with Hermione, Ron, and I tonight. To celebrate putting this all to rest.” He made a vague gesture, and Draco wondered if it encompassed more than just the person they had “put to rest.”

Either way, it felt right.

“I…I’d like that,” he said. “But…”

Potter frowned. “But what?”

Draco chewed at his lip. “But can we go somewhere Muggle? I’m not really ready to face more people who know me yet. Even today was a lot.”

Potter looked suddenly relieved. “Sure. I mean, yeah, that’s no problem. We go out to Muggle places sometimes already.” He raised a surprised brow. “Though, if I’m honest, I never thought you would want to go to one.”

Draco snorted lightly. “I didn’t either. But Burbage took me into London for a ‘soy vanilla latte,’ so I’m practically an expert now.”

Potter’s face broke into a wide grin. “You’re lying,” he accused, though his tone was light.

“I can assure you, I’m not. That thing tasted like marshmallows and piss, but for some reason, I drank the whole damned thing.”

Potter threw his head back and laughed, and Draco could feel it warm every inch of him.

“Merlin, you’ve changed. I can’t believe I still thought you were plotting something. That you had some ulterior motive or something-”

A small smile tugged at Draco’s lips. “I do,” he said, watching Potter freeze mid-step. “But it’s certainly not the one you were thinking.”

Potter stopped and looked at him, cheeks blazing. “Wh-what does that mean?”

He felt a grin stretching across his face at the strangely hopeful expression burning in Potter’s eyes. His heart beat a fast rhythm in his chest.

“Probably whatever you’re suspecting now.”

Something in Potter’s expression solidified, and then he was stepping into Draco and wrapping him in a tight hug. After an initial moment of shock, Draco felt himself hum and melt into it, running his hands over the steady expanse of Potter’s back and clinging there when he realized he could. It felt safe and warm and perfect, and he poured all of the feelings he could into the brush of his nose on Potter’s neck and his quietly anchored fingertips.

“Merlin,” Potter murmured when they finally pulled apart. “I’m an idiot, and Hermione’s right as always.”

Draco laughed in delighted surprise, still processing the hug that had just taken place. What promises it held for the future. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter - but I agree on both accounts.”

“Harry,” he insisted, and Draco gave him a questioning look. “Call me Harry already.”

“Harry,” he repeated softly. He smiled.

“You drive me absolutely mental,” Harry grumbled, but he held out a hand to Draco with a smile of his own. “Come on. You can just tag along with me, and we’ll nab Hermione and Ron on the way.”

Draco hadn’t moved though; he simply stared in shock at the hand.

“Come on,” Harry insisted, turning rather pink. It was a lovely color on him, but he drew attention away from his face by wiggling his fingers determinedly. “I figured…I mean, Draco, I know you like having something to hold…?”

He looked so damn flustered and unsure about it too, as if Draco had either the fortitude or folly to say no.

So Draco took pity on him. He took Harry’s hand and grinned at his newest and most favored treasure of all.