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“Thank you for meeting with me.” Rita Skeeter smiled, all teeth and no charm.

“Yes,” Draco replied blankly. Skeeter looked at him as if he was fifteen again and throwing himself at her to be interviewed about Harry Potter. As if the Ministry didn’t half-coerce Harry and full-on threaten Draco into doing this. And somehow the foolish naivety in him had hoped the Prophet would send anyone but Rita Skeeter. Draco had now personally witnessed how much sway she had in the news industry, that even Harry Potter’s vehement protest was ignored. Her articles brought Galleons in, and apparently money prevailed over Saviors of Wizarding England. 

Draco had a constant headache ever since they were told the date for the interview. And now, sitting in front of her, it culminated into sharp twists that synced up with his heartbeats. The fact that he was nervous and frankly, terrified, didn’t help his heartbeat to return to a more normal pace. Despite it all, he schooled his face into a blank sheet. If he could do it in front of Voldemort and Aunty Bella, then he could survive Rita Fucking Skeeter.

But Draco couldn’t help the bitter twist in his chest. It was supposed to be over, yet now Draco was terrified that Rita Skeeter would be the one to actually succeed in ruining him. Because unlike everyone else, she wasn’t afraid of taking Harry down with Draco.

His head was pounding. 

“It feels just like yesterday I was meeting you to talk about the very same person,” Skeeter reminded him gleefully. 

Draco sighed inwardly. He knew it was stupid of him to hope that she wouldn’t bring it up. After all, it was something a younger Draco would gleefully point out, too, if he was the one sitting with the Quick-Quotes Quill hovering next to him.

Though the sentiment “feels like yesterday” could only work for someone like Skeeter, who probably spent the war writing scandalous stories instead of gathering any semblance of truths, like a real reporter should. Their last interview felt like a lifetime ago, and Draco no longer felt a kinship with that fifteen-year-old boy. 

“Yes,” he replied nonetheless. His strategy was to give Skeeter as little information as possible. Harry agreed it was the best thing as well, but Draco was worried that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it and would end up hexing Skeeter, or worse, saying something that would finally tip the scale from manageable over to Armageddon.

“Now, would you like to tell me about how the relationship started?” Skeeter asked.

Draco wanted to scream. “We already answered that question in the joint interview.”

“Yes,” she said. “Quite a lovely tale. After the war you both decided to put your ‘past differences’—” Skeeter paused dramatically to laugh at that—“behind you and became friends, then eventually a couple. Lovely, albeit a little boring.”

They had said quite a bit more than that, not to mention she completely omitted Draco’s community service with Hagrid, his apologies to people he harmed (Harry mentioned that, not Draco), and Harry’s troubles with sleeping, which Harry had stressed over and over again that Draco helped him a lot with, until Draco pinched the back of Harry’s hand to shut him up because dear Merlin, you have to be Harry Potter level of innocent to be able to say that without realizing how it could be twisted. But no matter what, there was nothing boring, and definitely nothing easy about putting behind differences.

Draco sucked in a deep breath. “I’m afraid that’s just what happened. There’s nothing more to say.” 

Skeeter’s lips thinned for a moment, before she grinned again. All teeth.

“Then, let’s ask some easy questions. You wouldn’t mind telling me what your school life has been like since you came back?”

A drop of sweat rolled down Draco’s spine. Thank Merlin for the powder he put on his face today to stop it from sweating. And Harry said he was crazy for doing that.

“It’s been as well as anyone expected it.”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone was expecting you to come back.”

“Neither did I,” Draco smiled at her. “But the Headmistress was most generous, and I—”

Draco wanted to say “I’m making the most of my second chance”, but he was almost certain Rita would take it to mean his relationship with Harry. So at the last second, he said lamely, “—am very grateful.” 

Skeeter hummed. “I’m sure you are.”

Deep breath in. Draco didn’t respond.

“You must love Harry very much,” Skeeter said. “I can’t imagine people being too happy about it.”

“They weren’t,” Draco replied. Not that anyone had dared to question Harry.

“Love conquers all, hmm?”

“Some people think so, yes.”

Skeeter’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think you and Harry can take on anything as long as it’s at each other’s side?”

“Not in so many trite words, but I imagine I’ll be able to come through fine, and Harry’s . . . Well, I don’t think I need to spell it out for you.” That was the first genuine thing Draco said since this farce started.

Skeeter gritted her teeth, and Draco spent the remaining interview trying his best to drag out his responses and sidestep any too personal questions. Draco thought he was quite successful in filling the time up with as much nothing as possible, if Skeeter’s clenched teeth were anything to go by. He wanted to check his watch, but he didn’t want her to know he was nervous.

The photographer coughed from the corner. Skeeter’s face was pinched.

“I guess our time is up,” Skeeter said. Draco held in his sigh of relief, willing his face to remain impassive as he got up.

“I’ll go get him,” Draco said, spending a moment to enjoy Skeeter’s expression before pushing open the door.

Harry was up and by his side as soon as he saw Draco. He gripped Draco’s hand. It was uncomfortably hot and damp, and Draco gripped back tightly.

“How was it?” Harry asked. “She didn’t ask any—any dumb questions, did she?”

“It’s Rita Skeeter,” Draco replied. “All her questions are dumb.”

Harry grinned at him. Draco knew Harry liked it when Draco used words that he previously considered to be ‘unoriginal and plebeian’ because he knew the only reason Draco began using them was Harry. Draco stopped being horrified at himself after the third time he accidentally used ‘wicked’ in a conversation.

Draco wanted nothing more than to kiss Harry now, but he didn’t dare give Rita and her photographer any chance of sneaking a picture; he decided to just remind Harry to stay calm.

But before he could open his mouth, the door behind them opened. Skeeter stood there looking at them. 

“Come on now, Harry. I thought you two wanted this to finish quickly?” 

Harry slanted Draco a pleading look, as if Draco could save him from that horrible fate. Normally Draco would demand Harry just go through with it since Draco had to as well, but today he truly wished there was some way for him to get Harry out of something that he genuinely loathed.

Draco could only give him a weak smile, and try to squash down the trepidation he felt in the pit of his stomach. “Good luck with the devil,” he whispered.

Harry snorted. “Don’t insult the devil.” He looked at the door grimly, before looking back to Draco. “Wait for me?”

“Of course,” Draco said, and watched the door close.

Draco’s premonition of the interview was confirmed when the article came out three days later (it took the Prophet almost a month to come out with the newly appointed Minister’s first-year approval rating, but of course the tale of Harry Potter and the Death Eater got rushed through the system in a matter of days). The amount of stares he got the moment he stepped foot into the Great Hall for breakfast was nearly enough to send him running back out. But Draco stared straight ahead. The sea of grey papers that permeated all corners of the space was nauseating for Draco to directly look at. Even the professors were reading the article avidly. Some students at the Ravenclaw table were fighting over a copy. 

Draco walked towards the Slytherin table where Lelya was waiting for him at his seat (the end of the table, closest to the door). She was eyeing the plate of ham greedily, but knew by now that she couldn’t be as impudent as other student’s pets. Draco untied his letters from her leg and fed her a chunk of ham from his own breakfast. 

Lelya hooted at Draco and hopped onto his arm with her single leg. He was grateful for her affection now, and had stopped leaving her in the owlery. Lelya would stay with him as he ate his breakfast and read his letters. At the start of the school year, Draco had tried to make her leave, even if her company made him feel significantly less alone. He had been scared that people would think him pathetic, clinging to an owl for companionship. But Harry had told Draco how much he envied her company. He looked so sad when he told Draco that. Hedwig had been Harry’s friend, so why couldn’t Lelya be Draco’s?

After that, Draco stopped trying to discourage Lelya from leaving, even if he was sure that some students were laughing at him for it. But often when Harry wanted to coo over Lelya and wasn’t crippled by memories of Hedwig, he would join Draco and Lelya at the Slytherin table, so Draco thought he could put up with the idea of people laughing at him.

Lelya hopped onto Draco’s shoulder and nipped at his hair as Draco opened the letter from Pansy, pretending to be wholly absorbed in reading. People’s whispers were still going strong and Draco was all too aware of them.

He wished Harry was here, then he remembered that Harry would probably hate this as much as Draco; he wished he was with Harry, then, wherever he was this morning. Draco made a point of showing up for meals no matter what, so he just needed to suffer through two letters and a few cups of tea then he could leave and find a copy of the Prophet of his own. 

Draco tried to read about Pansy’s latest dalliance in America, but his skin kept prickling uncomfortably. Two cups of tea down, he was still on the first sentence of the letter, and Lelya was dozing on his shoulder. Draco decided he had filled his daily quota of fuck yous to people who didn’t want him there, and tucked his letters away to finish elsewhere. Where to though, was the question. The idea of walking through the castle looking for Harry was an unappealing idea. Draco only hoped the prat would show up on his own soon.

He got up and for a brief moment, the chattering in the hall flared up. Draco kept his head up and eyes forward, as dignified as one could with a sleeping, one-legged owl on his shoulder and a scandal (most likely) hanging off of him. 

Just before exiting the Great Hall, Draco couldn’t help but look back to the Gryffindor table, wondering if he had just simply missed Harry, as unlikely as that was. Instead of green eyes, he met Granger’s eyes, who was looking at him with a dour expression. Weasley sat beside her, frowning as he read the Prophet. Neither of them looked angry.

Draco turned to leave. He didn’t know what to make of that.

He was halfway up the stairs when someone called his name. Draco sighed inwardly. He really wanted to know what the fuck was written about him in the papers.

Draco waited until McGonagall was leveled with him. “Headmistress,” he greeted.

“How are you today?”

“Fine.”

“Are you?”

Draco couldn’t keep in the sigh this time. “I haven’t read the papers yet.”

“I see. See that you do.” McGonagall’s expression was eerily similar to Granger’s, and it was starting to get on Draco’s nerves. She must have noticed Draco’s mood, because her eyes turned stern. “If you and Mr. Potter were still underage, I would be helping you mitigate the damage now. But since you two are considered adults, I will leave it to yourselves for the time being. However, do not hesitate to come to me if you need any help, advice, or just need support from an authoritative figure.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Headmistress, but if Harry’s status couldn’t hold them back, I don’t know how you would be any different.”

McGonagall only smiled. “As much as it seems like that, Mr. Potter isn’t exactly an authority figure, is he? He is still a teenager as well as a student, people in power will always try their best to exploit him. If you two would have come to me before the Ministry coerced you into this farce . . . ”

McGonagall trailed off, no doubt thinking of what was written in the papers. She looked tired and weary and just a little sad.

“I don’t think Harry is used to seeking help from many people anymore,” Draco replied softly. 

“And as you well know, I am determined not to let students who need help walk away without receiving it.” McGonagall turned her beady eyes back to Draco, meaning uncomfortably clear. 

He stood there, unsure, like he was wont to do after the war.

McGonagall let out a long breath. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Draco mumbled a farewell and quickly went on his way.

“Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco froze. “Yes?”

McGonagall sounded amused. “I don’t think Madam Pince would appreciate you bringing your owl into the library.” 

Draco blushed.

Madam Pince didn’t exactly appreciate seeing students so early in the library as well, owl-less or not. Her eyes followed Draco as he made his way to the newspaper archives. The day’s copy was thankfully still there, crisp and neat. Draco’s own face splashed across it.

It had once been his dream to be on the front page of the paper.

Madam Pince didn’t say anything when Draco put the Prophet back, crushed and wrinkled. 

“Harry! Are you still in bed?”

Harry grumbled from underneath his pile of blankets.

“You need to wake up,” Hermione said.

“No, I don’t,” Harry replied sleepily. “I don’t have class until the afternoon.”

“Have you seen Malfoy yet?” Ron asked.

“I’m alone in bed, as you can see,” Harry said as he finally found enough strength and mental fortitude to look up. “Despite what people say, we don’t actually sleep together every day.”

“Ugh, please don’t tell me about your sex life.”

“We don’t have one yet,” Harry said.

“That counts as telling me about it! Stop it!” Ron turned to Hermione. “Tell him to stop!”

Hermione only frowned down at Harry. “There are more pressing matters.” She held up something.

Harry squinted at the blur of . . . something in front of him. “Are you showing me a book?” His eyes were still crusted with sleep. He rubbed them roughly.

When Harry opened his eyes again, he could tell it was Draco (a blurry one) looking back at him.

“Oh, no,” Harry said, and snatched the paper from Hermione. It was not a good sign that she didn’t bother scolding him for doing so. Instead, she handed him his glasses.

“God, I hate her,” Harry said as he skimmed through the article, and gave up when he reached the third paragraph. He threw the paper aside. “Whatever, at least it’s over now.”

Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance. 

“What?” Harry asked, standing up. “What?”

“Things aren’t looking good for Malfoy,” Ron said hesitantly.

“What?” Harry repeated.

“You should’ve come to breakfast,” Hermione said softly.

“For Merlin’s sake, what’s going on?” Harry grabbed the newspaper again, but it was too many damn pages and he wanted to know what happened to Draco now. “Hermione, just tell me.”

“Well. . . ” She looked to Ron, who took her hand. “You said that you loved Malfoy in the interview.”

Harry’s heart missed a beat. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“I . . . ” Harry tried to remember that day, but nothing came to mind except for the stomach-turning anxiety, constant palm-sweat and the relief as he dropped his head on Draco’s shoulder at the end of the day. 

“I don’t remember,” Harry admitted. “I don’t even remember what she asked exactly. But she was talking so fast, and her voice was getting on my nerves the entire time. I don’t remember what I said.”

Rita Skeeter had been practically pouting after her interview with Draco, but Harry did recall her being ecstatic by the time she left. Harry barely made it out in one piece.

Suddenly, Hermione let out an angry shriek. “That wretched woman! She knew exactly what she was doing to you, and she didn’t care one bit! You just survived a war, and she was drilling you over and over about Voldemort, the night of the Battle and what you’ve been doing on the run!”

“I didn’t answer any of that, did I?” Harry replied blankly. “Draco said I didn’t have to, it wasn’t part of the agreement.”

Hermione softened. Ron patted Harry’s shoulder and sat down next to him, Hermione did the same on the other side. “You didn’t, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t ask you about it,” she assured him. “It got to you eventually. Of course it would.”

Harry buried his face in his hands. “I haven’t even told him yet.” He stood abruptly, walked to the window, trying to blink his eyes dry before he had to face his friends again. He had kept that so close to his heart, and he just blurted out during a fucking interview, with Rita Skeeter. 

“I can’t believe this,” Harry mumbled. “God, I’m—”

“Harry, I wasn’t finished yet,” Hermione said.

“Fuck, what else did I say?” Harry swore Draco was going to kill him, or at least be very stressed about it, and that was worse. Maybe he could ask Hermione to find a spell that collectively Incendioed every copy of the Prophet in school. Draco wasn’t subscribed to it anymore, maybe he hadn’t seen it yet. Then Harry could still wait for the right moment to tell him. “It could work,” he murmured to himself, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s not what you said,” Ron replied. “It’s what Malfoy didn’t say.”

Harry turned around. They looked grim. 

“I don’t understand,” Harry said.

Hermione sighed and stood up, folding her arms. “What does it look like? Controversial relationship and Malfoy is—”

“Stop,” Harry hissed, startling both of them. Harry’s chest seemed to be in an undue amount of pain, and he really, really wished Draco was here right now. “Sorry, I’m sorry, just . . . . Tell me, just tell me.”

Hermione looked miserable. Harry knew she chose the long explanation because she wanted to ease Harry into it, but Harry was feeling sick and worried and he just want to know what the fuck was going on.

Ron answered instead. “Rita Skeeter basically said Malfoy was using you.” Ron put an arm around Hermione. “It looks bad, mate. Malfoy was cold and distant in the interview, not an affectionate word about you. Then comes you, who declared his undying love to a Death Eater. I mean, you see how people would react to that? Skeeter had a field day.”

War changed people in different ways. Ron came out of it more of a leader than people gave him credit for. Most everyone came out stronger than people gave them credit for, but instead of recognizing their own growth, the public piled all those qualities onto Harry, who felt anxious on the best of days and hollow on the worst of days, and had only gotten better because he had Draco to lean on.

“People wouldn’t believe Rita Skeeter anymore. What credibility does she have left?” Harry said.

“People would believe her over Malfoy,” Hermione pointed out. “And people don’t read her stuff for facts, do they?”

“Fuck,” Harry stumbled to his trunk and started pulling out clothes. “I can’t believe I messed this up.”

“You didn’t mess up,” Ron said hotly. “That woman set you up and you know it.”

“But Draco and I agreed we weren’t going to say anything too revealing,” Harry mumbled through his sweater as he pulled it over his head. He didn’t have the energy for his tie so he left it hanging around his neck.  “Draco had it all thought out, and I just—” 

“It doesn’t matter now. You go to talk to him, and we’ll figure out what to do.” Hermione passed him his school bag. It felt like it was filled with way more books than he normally would bring.

“Map,” Ron said, and handed it to Harry. Harry tapped it with his wand.

He found Draco quickly, as usual. He barely had the mind to mumble a thank you at his friends before he was out the door.

It had only been two hours since breakfast. Harry was prepared for the whispers, the glares, the crowing for him to explain himself. What he hadn’t expected were the smiles.

Harry just wanted to get to the Owlery as quickly as possible. He’d forgotten his Invisibility Cloak. It had been so long since he last used it. With Draco, Harry never felt that he needed it, even if the stares and whispers were more frequent when they were together.

A student said something to Harry as they passed on the stairs. Harry automatically nodded after hearing the word “thank you”, but the rest of the sentence made him pause.

He turned back to the kid. “What did you say?”

The third-year looked awed and shocked that Harry Potter was talking back, and Harry had to squash down the part of him that wanted to scowl and walk away.

Finally, the kid replied, “I was just thanking you. You’re still trying to make the world a better place after the war ended; it’s just a shame you have to lower yourself so much to do so.”

Harry paused. The air seemed to have left his body, and for a second he couldn't think.

“What?” he choked out.

“With Malfoy,” the kid explained, looking delighted at the possibility to prolong the conversation. “You’re doing it for reconciliation, right? But people know you don’t actually love him, so it’s okay to stop pretending now.”

Harry looked around, seeing people looking at him and smiling magnanimously, as if all echoing the sentiment.

“People have been saying this?” Harry said faintly.

“Yeah. It’s been going around school,” the kid replied. “Everyone knows there’s no way you would be tricked into being with him when it’s been so obvious that he’s just using you, so you must be doing it just for show. We know.”

“Right,” Harry said. “And how would you all know?”

The kid shrugged, but it was someone else that answered. “You’re Harry Potter! We know you!”

“Right,” Harry said again. “I’ve got to go.”

He really should have brought his cloak.

As much as I miss your attic salt I feel the need to remind you of how proud I am that you have decided to finish your schooling, though I am also selfish and wish you were home with me constantly . . . 

Draco folded his mother’s letter and tucked it into his cloak when he heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. Owls hooted from the ruckus and Lelya spread her wings wide when Harry emerged, flying over to a nearby perch and nipping his hair. 

Harry was by Draco’s side in a heartbeat, cupping his face and turning Draco toward him. But Draco resisted. He couldn’t bear seeing Harry’s face—not with the inevitability of Draco melting under Harry’s gaze. He didn’t want that now. Being alone and freezing and surrounded by owls aided him in making sense of everything a little bit better. All he’d seen for the past two hours were dots of people in the courtyard, his mother’s words and blessedly non-judgmental yellow eyes.

“Draco . . .” Harry said, his fingers caressing the fur that lined Draco’s hood. Draco wore this cloak constantly because Harry couldn’t seem to stop touching it. It was a shimmering Liberty blue and it actually belonged to his mother. He had always liked it when he was a child, but his mother also liked it enough to never allow him to play with it. He had found it underneath the Christmas tree in the Slytherin common room this year. They didn’t have many nice things left now, but Draco had not protested it because he knew his mother wouldn’t listen anyway, and also because—well, he just really, really wanted it. 

Draco had been apprehensive that it would draw unwanted attention (it did), but Harry’s face when he saw Draco after coming back to Hogwarts had been the wake-up call for Draco that he would suffer anything just to see Harry look at him like that.

Draco closed his eyes and tried not to let Harry’s fingers distract him. All he could think of now was the Ravenclaw girl who ran into him when he came out of the library. She had been so giddy with Schadenfreude that she was beaming at Draco.

“You don’t actually think Harry is doing this because he really loves you, right?” she had said without prompting, though Draco suspected his expression was a giveaway that he had seen the papers. “Merlin, I thought you were Slytherin down to the bone. How could you fall for this kind of publicity trick?”

Draco’s heart had squeezed. “Publicity?”

“You heard what the Headmistress said at the beginning of the term. ‘House Unity’. She named-dropped Harry so many times you think she was a parrot raised by one of the ‘Potterheads’.” She paused at the word with an awkward look of someone who was caught saying something embarrassing, until she remembered who she was talking to, and the grin returned. “At the start of the school year he didn’t even look at you once, then out of nowhere he suddenly becomes best friends with you? And then somehow he falls in love with you?”

Draco didn’t understand why people kept talking about things they had no clue of. It seemed the last of everyone’s intelligence was sucked dry by Rita Skeeter. Though it was the incredulous tone she used when talking about Harry falling in love that made Draco’s stomach bottomed out.

Seeing his expression, she had grinned wider. 

“You don’t deserve him, Malfoy,” she said as she left. “Now that the act is up, why don’t you do the right thing for once in your life and let him go?”

And Draco hadn’t been able to get that out of his head. He saw then how the animosity turned into mocking turned into ochlocracy in the short time between breakfast and the library, and wondered if school had always been so menacing or if this was just punishment for all his crimes. 

“Draco. . . ” Harry tried again, and Draco didn’t know why the hell Harry was waiting for Draco to say something, like Draco had a say in anything anymore. Harry squeezed himself onto the ledge where Draco was seated. 

Usually, Draco would open his cloak and Harry would press in until the fabric was only just covering them (how was his mother’s cloak supposed to fit two 18-year-old boys? But Potter never operated under common sense). Today Draco was so tired it felt like turning his head or lifting the cloak would take all of his energy, and he would just topple over the edge. 

But Harry found his way in anyway, arms around Draco’s waist, forehead on Draco’s shoulder. They’d held each other like this after Rita Skeeter’s interview, too, though Harry was the one that needed propping up then.

“It’s not true,” Harry mumbled against Draco’s shoulder, pressing in harder and harder. 

Draco shrugged lightly. Harry’s head slipped and buried into the crook of Draco’s neck; his breathing slow but shaky. 

“It’s not true,” Harry said again.

Draco didn’t look away from the school ground. “I know it’s not.”

Harry’s head snapped up.

“You do?”

“Of course,” Draco replied. “I know how rumors regarding you work. If you’ve forgotten, I was an expert at orchestrating them once upon a time. I know full well rumor-Harry and real-Harry couldn’t be more different.”

“Then why are you angry?”

“I’m not.” Normally, Draco would shout and bristle and insist he wasn’t, but that usually only happened when Draco was truly angry. 

“Then what is it?” Harry said. “Tell me. I’ve been going mad because of it all day.”

Draco wanted to point out it wasn’t even noon, but he didn’t have the energy to snipe anymore. Not having the strength to complain was a tragedy in its own right, truly. 

“I,” Draco tried, but couldn’t seem to continue. His lips thinned and his jaw tightened.

Harry took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“It’s ridiculous. Publicity?” Draco scoffed. “Don’t these people know you at all?”

“They don’t,” Harry said quietly.

“You wouldn’t be pressured into. . .whatever they said it was, and definitely wouldn’t come up with such a stupidly outlandish plan. So I guess that was when I realized that this has all been real.” Draco stopped. He turned his gaze to the lake.

“Real?” Harry asked carefully. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Draco’s throat worked. “I never imagined this would happen.”

“No one knows what will happen before they try.”

“I honestly thought this would end during the first week,” Draco said. 

“We got along great in the first week,” Harry said. “Better than all of my previous relationships.”

“I thought somewhere along I would lash out or you would have a wake-up call, but it didn’t happen, and it kept not happening, and . . .”

Harry squeezed his arms around Draco’s waist tighter. “And we’re here.”

“But maybe we shouldn’t be.”

Harry stilled. “Draco.” His voice was small. 

Draco’s ears rang and it felt like the silence after lightning, when you were waiting for the thunder. 

Draco’s throat and chest were so tight, and for a brief moment he was reminded of the way Nagini had wrapped around him on her way up to the dining table during one of the Death Eaters’ meetings. He didn’t know his body was capable of creating the sensation so perfectly on its own. Harry talked about his chest monster before; Draco wondered if it felt like Nagini as well. “Harry,” Draco tried, his voice pallid.  “You know they’re right.”

“Who?” Harry demanded. He scrambled out from under Draco’s cloak and stood next to him, towering. “Also, no! They’re always wrong about me.”

“Sometimes I’m amazed at what we’ve managed to do,” Draco said. “We got to be friends, and we still can be, if you want.”

Harry’s hands went to grab his hair and his eyes were wide. Now he did look scared. “No. God, don’t—”

“They are right, for once,” Draco turned to face Harry, sitting primly on the ledge. “You love me, Harry. How is that possible? I don’t understand—I can’t—I never thought—”

“Thought what?” Harry choked out. “Where did you think it would lead if not—”

“You deserve so much more. You deserve better. You deserve the best. Once upon a time I would no doubt jump to say that I was the best, but not anymore—”

“—But I don’t want the best,” Harry said dully. “I—I don’t understand. If you didn’t want this, then why did you kiss me back?” 

“I want you to have the happiest life you can. No one in this war deserves to have that more than you.” Draco looked at the stone floor, covered in bird excrements. 

“Stop saying that fucking word,” Harry said.

Draco stopped saying anything altogether. 

“What makes you think I won’t be happiest with you?” Harry asked. Draco couldn’t tell what was in his voice. “I don’t want the best,” he said again. “I want you. What makes you think I won’t be happiest with you?”

How was that even a question? Draco shook his head. He was a mess. Harry was a mess. Draco wouldn’t be able to help Harry like someone—someone better and not-messed-up could. What was he going to say to Edward Lupin when he was old enough to understand war? How was Draco, who couldn’t bear his own existence most of the days, supposed to help Harry with his traumas?

“So I love you,” Harry said, desperately. “So what? It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Of course it means something,” Draco snapped. “It means everything. You love me, god—Harry, you shouldn’t. I didn’t know you were going to fall in love—”

“You kissed me back!” Harry’s voice was shrill. “What the hell are you going on about now, after everything? Did you expect this to last only for a few weeks?”

Draco blinked at him. “I wasn’t thinking, before. I was letting myself get comfortable.”

“You want to break up,” Harry said, a tremble of agony in his voice.

“I want you to have a life that was denied from you before. I want you to be happy.” Draco sniffed, and it felt like he was about to burst into tears, but everything felt dry and tight like it was going to break instead. 

But I was, Harry wanted to say. I was.

Harry hadn’t wanted to tell Skeeter he loved Draco. He didn’t want to tell anyone, even Draco, for a while, even while he was waiting and planning the perfect moment to tell him eventually because he thought Draco would like that. But then Rita Skeeter came in and started blabbering about Draco’s history and making snide comments, Harry lost his temper and snapped at her to stop insulting the man he loved.

He didn’t even realize he said it. It just sounded natural. He’d been saying it to himself for weeks. In private. Mouthing it silently. With his face pressed against Draco. I love you. I love you. I love you—and what a thing to be able to finally say in earnest. Harry didn’t understand all the sordid love stories in Muggle Studies, being in love seemed like the best thing in the world. Harry loved the way his tongue flicked softly on the word “love”. His guilty pleasure was saying those three words soundlessly into the crook of Draco’s neck, letting that lovely flick of tongue graze over Draco’s skin, and ending the “you” with a kiss against Draco’s steady heartbeat.

Harry knew he was in love for some time. He was just savoring it. Keeping it close. Soaking in the feeling of loving someone.

He liked looking at Draco, who didn’t know about the depth of Harry’s feelings, and thinking, “one more person in this world loves you.”

That day, during the interview, Rita expertly changed the subject after Harry’s outburst and Harry didn’t even register what had happened. She started to bombard Harry with questions about Voldemort and the Battle, leaving him no time to collect his thoughts. After the interview he was just tired and relieved and wanted to rest his head on Draco’s shoulder.

Looking at Draco now, Harry was furious and upset and frustrated and so in love, because the thing that had been getting him through life after war was love and Draco was part of it now. So it’d be a cold day in wherever Voldemort was before Harry gave up on him.

Draco glanced at his watch. “Class is starting,” he said.

“I don’t care about class,” Harry replied hotly. 

Draco gave him a sharp look.

Harry deflated a little. “Yeah,” he amended. “Fine. I’m not going to stand between you and your straight Os.”

Despite everything, Draco smiled slightly at that. Harry grabbed his wrist before he could slip out.

“But I’m not leaving at that,” Harry said.

Draco gently pried his arm from Harry and reached out to stroke Lelya lightly on the head. She’d been silent the entire time. “I have to go,” he said.

“You’ll think about it?” Harry asked, not caring if he sounded desperate.

Draco didn’t look back. The curve of his lips made Harry wonder if those sordid love stories existed for a reason after all. “I already have.”

“Putting the past behind him” wasn’t easy at all. The past was, at the same time, behind Draco and clinging to him with all its might. So much so, that before Eighth Year started, when McGonagall had asked to meet him during the summer, Draco thought that although the Ministry didn’t convict him, Hogwarts was going to make him pay. It was (in his mind) the first thing he betrayed.

The new Headmistress didn’t have malice in her eyes, not even in her tone. Draco didn’t know why he was here, at the Headmistress’ office instead of dangling off the Quidditch poles.

“I have a proposal for you, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall said after Draco failed to say anything.

Draco frowned, and despite his apprehension, he said, “What, you’re going to let me choose being mobbed to death or a quick and swift live-burning in the Great Hall?”

McGonagall humphed. “Good grief, I forgot what a dramatic child you are.”

“I wasn’t trying to be—” Draco cut himself off. “What proposal?”

“This is not so much a punishment as it is a chance to mend things,” McGonagall said. “Hogwarts, to be specific.”

“Mend?” Draco asked incredulously. “It would be easier to throw myself into the lake and get mauled by the squid!”

“What you choose to do during your off time, I won’t interfere,” McGonagall said dryly. “Though the squid has been a bit tetchy recently. I suggest you wait a while.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. “What is going on? Did you just—make a joke?”

McGonagall sighed. “Mr. Malfoy, Hogwarts has been through hell. It is, quite frankly, still unfit to host students.” (The walls around them seemed to tremble indignantly.)

“Precisely.” McGonagall gave the room in general a warning glare. “The Ministry is more worried about reinventing themself from being a pathetic excuse of a government to offer any help. Most of the staff wants to be with family, which I don’t blame them, but it has left me a little short-staffed while I’m trying to rebuild Hogwarts.”

“Rebuild?” Draco asked. “You are going to fix Hogwarts up?”

McGonagall raised a thin eyebrow. “Surely you didn’t think I was going to leave it like so?”

Draco faltered. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I didn’t mean that as a reprimand, either.”

Draco was quiet after that.

“Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to help,” McGonagall said.

Draco’s eyes snapped up. “Me?” 

“Yes.”

“How am I supposed to help?”

“You still are a wizard, I assume?”

“I don’t know any spells that—fix things.”

“I’m a teacher. I think it’s due time that this school finally sees you as her proper student.”

Draco couldn’t help but shoot a confused glance at McGonagall. 

McGonagall sighed. “As much as I respect Albus and Severus for their part in the war, I cannot in good conscience say that they were fit educators.”

Draco blinked, not really knowing what to say. His eyes went to the portraits of the two former Headmasters. Severus looked unconcerned, while Dumbledore looked much older than Draco ever remembered him.

“However, I am guilty of the very things that I accused them of,” McGonagall continued. “Unlike my other colleagues, I wasn’t merely professor of Transfiguration, or Head of Gryffindor. I was also the Deputy Headmistress, and I may have turned a blind eye on an entire house—and certain students—because Albus valued Severus to the extent of tolerating his method teachings, but I will not make those mistakes again.”

McGonagall paused until Draco looked at her in the eyes. “Mr. Malfoy, you were a bully, and Blood Purist, and, while short, there was a time where you were a willing Death Eater.” McGonagall's voice never wavered, nor did it take on even a tinge of pity when Draco paled and rocked back in his seat. There was, however, an abundance of regret. “I should have nipped that behavior while you were all eleven. I wished I had fought more vehemently about the prejudice still among our students during staff meetings. I wished I had not ended my effort at telling my students to ignore you and instead had taught you to know better.”

Draco glanced wildly around the room, but everywhere there was a face looking at him. Even the bricks looked like they were staring. He didn’t know when he started crying until a sob wracked through him. “I would have refused you.”

“I know.”

“I would have made fun of you—insulted you, in your face and behind your back . . .”

“I know you would.”

“I would have tried to get my father to have you fired.”

“Your effort to get teachers you don’t like fired never worked out, did it? I think I would have survived your diabolical whinings.”

Draco let out a watery laugh. “It wasn’t your job to take care of me.”

McGonagall leaned forward. “But it was, and it is. I’m your professor, Draco. I, for one, firmly believe that if a person doesn’t have the resolve to put everything they have into their students, they should never become a teacher.”

Draco both wanted and didn’t want to see the expression Severus had on right now.

She poured two cups of tea and looked at Draco with determined eyes.

“I should have helped you, Mr. Malfoy, and I will.” She pushed a cup toward him. “Will you forgive me for my tardiness?”

Draco picked up the delicate porcelain with unsteady hands, and nodded. 

Draco looked up. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispered, still crying, into the tea, into the room. To the portraits. To Hogwarts. “I’m so sorry. I wished I’d known how stupid I was. I’m sorry.”

McGonagall took out a tin of biscuits with bright pink frostings. “I know you are,” she said. “Have a biscuit.”

“Putting the past behind them” wasn’t easy at all. The past was unfortunately not as easy to fix as Hogwarts, and it certainly didn’t show its gratitude via hot tea by Draco’s elbow as he siphoned the Dark Magic from Great Hall’s walls. Fixing Hogwarts had led Draco to think he was making amends for his past, and that it was finally gone from his life.

A summer of working with the Headmistress and Hagrid, and the occasional house elves, Draco really thought the past would stay gone. Hogwarts with three people, a cluster of ghosts, countless elves, and the occasional rabbits that slipped through unfixed cracks really made the castle feel larger than he remembered. He would fix the school with the Headmistress, while she talked mostly about magic and theory, and encouraged Draco into the conversation. Sometimes, Draco would fix the grounds with Hagrid, who tried to talk about the grass, the animals, the lake, but Draco was always too ashamed to engage in anything more than “Yes, Professor.”

When he was not repairing the castle, Draco spent his time in the library. No one knew how he often stayed until the early morning. How often he just slept there. Or how he compulsively checked and double-checked information because he was afraid of getting fed lies all over again. He read obsessively, more so than he used to. Whereas eight-year-old Draco stuck to genres and plots he liked, eighteen-year-old Draco read essays, non-fiction, histories, novels; some of them Magical, most of them not. He had a secret subscription of Muggle newspapers that McGonagall helped him get hold of, since he couldn’t bring himself to ask his mother. McGonagall said that she would help Draco if he had any needs. This was what he needed. 

One of the things Draco hated the most, was to be tricked.

During the repair effort, Draco thought he was growing, that he was finally thinking for himself, and that meant he could finally move away from the past and start toward—a new day, at least. One new day where he wasn’t haunted by his past.

Then September came.

As he looked at his classmates, so many hurt by him, Draco realized fixing stones and walls and reading books didn’t fix anything at all. He had been so naive to think the past gone. 

He successfully survived the first day without breaking down. He successfully handled everything with blank grace, not responding to bullying and apologizing every time someone went off on him about something he’d done before. He successfully pretended he didn’t need friends and attention from people around him like he used to. Like he wanted to be lonely, willingly. As the first of September went on to be the second, the third, and so on, Draco was obedient, quiet and contrite, everything he wasn’t before and he really thought he was doing fine. 

When the Past made its presence known it had unfortunate timing. Which meant: first, in public; second, in front of Potter. 

Their Muggle Study professor had been letting them practice with Muggle inventions in class. Some of them were odd; some of them unexpectedly useful (Draco didn’t understand why biros weren’t more common. It was better than self-inking quills. The professor let them each take a few for good, and Draco still hadn’t gone through a single one! Without needing to refill it! He didn’t realize how much time he wasted on dipping quills into ink until he finished his homework in half of the time than he used to). Some inventions he couldn’t understand at all because Draco had no knowledge of even the most basic of Muggle technology.

That day they were supposed to learn how to use a “Bee-per” and send a message to the professor by the end of class. Draco couldn’t for the life of him figure out how the thing worked, or why the buttons were all so tiny. No one would help him, even though Draco wouldn’t ask for it anyway. If it weren’t for the fact that most of the students in class were having trouble as well it would have been painfully obvious that Draco was struggling—and the noises, the laughing, the groaning and the beeping blended into each other and Draco still couldn’t get this damn thing to do what it was supposed to— 

And Draco felt it and realized it and tried to stop it at the same time, but it all jumbled together and suddenly he was crying. Big droplets of tears rolled down his face and onto the table as Draco felt himself, mortified and scared, finally breaking down. If anyone saw him it would be hell—Draco Malfoy crying over a Muggle device, who did he think he was? Wasn’t he part of a group that thought Muggles were so inferior to them that they deserved to die, so how ironic was that he shed tears over his inability to grasp their inventions?

The more Draco panicked the faster the tears flowed. He did his best to keep the sounds in, but he knew his next breath in would be loud and shaky and broken, the one that would finally draw everyone’s attention to him and Draco nearly passed out at the thought.

Just as Draco really was about to faint because he didn’t dare breathe, a loud explosion drew everyone’s attention. Potter had broken his Bee-per somehow, now it was growing teeth and chomping on the table while smoke poured out of it.

“Oops,” Potter said, sounding overly chagrined, even though the professor would never say anything. Everyone was looking at him and asking if he was all right, but Potter was looking at Draco pointedly.

Draco took the chance to gather himself. Took large, noisy breaths during the chaos. Wiped his face dry and returned to his work without looking up for the remainder of the class.

When dinner came,  Draco snuck back to the classroom and took one of the Bee-pers out. He was going to learn how the damn thing worked even if he dehydrated and drowned himself at the same time in his own frustrated tears.

Potter found him like that. He sat down next to Draco with a plate of dinner in his hand until Draco snapped at him. What are you doing here? Here to blackmail me? Make fun of me for crying over silly little devices? Or— 

But Potter smacked a palm onto Draco’s face and stopped him mid-word. It didn’t even hurt, just so outrageously rude that for a second Draco was stunned into silence. Potter pulled his hand back, “Sometimes the big things don’t break you because you’re ready for them. But the dumb things, you think they’re harmless, you let your guard down and suddenly they become unbearable, and you tip over,” Potter said to Draco, offering a mince pie (to which Draco refused on the grounds that there were no silverware, what the actual fuck, Potter? ) Potter laughed and bit into the pie. “That's my theory anyway.”

“I don’t see you crying in class,” Draco said.

“Because I’m actively keeping myself together during class,” Potter said. “But I cried like a baby just two days ago when I went flying and saw a fallen tree. I don’t know why, I was just upset all of a sudden.”

“So I should go look for trees and get it over with,” Draco said.

Potter laughed. “Maybe. We can go together. Every Sunday, then we’ll be able to coast through the rest of the week like normal people.”

Draco’s laugh was weak, but it was there. He could feel his nose sting, and before he could stop it, tears were coming down again.

Potter didn’t say anything. He just sat with Draco as he tried to figure out the machine. He didn’t offer help, but he did grin happily when Draco successfully sent a message. 

“Who did you send it to?” Potter asked.

“I don’t know,” Draco said. “But the next class, someone’s Bee-per will have ‘TWAT’ on it.”

Potter’s laugh made Draco forget that he wanted to ask Potter why he helped Draco. But later, when Draco was already in bed, he sent a note to Potter, despite the late hour. Draco would never admit to anyone that he did it impulsively, because he was still giddy from their interaction. 

However, Draco didn’t expect a reply, certainly not right away. But it came, and Potter wrote, “ Would it be odd to say that I never want to see you cry again? ”

Draco’s hand flew to his chest, where the worst of the scars were.

He didn’t write back. It was odd, since Draco thought he deserved it. The memory it brought back distracted Draco enough that he never did manage to ask the question he really wanted to ask. Why did Potter notice Draco was crying in the first place?

They didn’t write to each other again until Sunday came, and a note came during breakfast on Weasley’s little owl. Draco blanched at it until Lelya hooted at it, and Weasley’s owl hooted back, and the two owls seemed to begin a conversation. So Draco hurriedly untied the message and sent the owl away before they drew the entire hall’s attention by trying to hoot each other to death. 

The note wasn’t cursed, nor was it drenched in any bad-smelling substance. Draco’s hair didn’t turn red and his fingers didn’t fall off, but opening it still made his throat tightened in trepidation. 

It wasn’t from Weasley. It wasn’t signed. It didn’t need to be. It wrote, “Want to go tree hunting later?”

They did find a few trees that had fallen, but neither of them broke into sobs. They used the Levitation Charm together and planted the trees back into the soil instead. 

There were only so many trees that had fallen, but there were many other damages they could focus on. 

Harry was there with Draco when he finally got the courage to visit Dumbledore’s grave, and Draco was with Harry when he asked Dumbledore’s portrait why he didn’t tell Harry the truth, and listened to Dumbledore’s apologies. 

Not until later, as Draco sat with Harry in a hidden alcove with cups of hot tea nicked from the kitchen, and Harry was silent and drawn, did Draco realize that to apologize and be apologized to were equally violent experiences. 

Draco wished there was a list of desideratum when it came to moving on, but for him, the only certain list was the list of people he needed making amends to. Some were harder than others, Hermione Granger, for one. Draco tried his best to make sense of his conflicted feelings. Granger didn’t remind Draco of the things Draco did, and Draco didn’t extenuate any of his own behaviors. 

It went as well as Draco imagined, which was a pretty low bar to begin with. He finished, shaky and feeling awful, ended up at the Astronomy tower. Harry found him hours later. 

“I had to use my last resort when you didn’t show up for dinner,” Harry said.

“Which was?”

“Stalking you. I’ve been trying to quit that habit, but you’re making it hard.”

“Maybe you’re just weak,” Draco murmured petulantly. 

Harry shrugged, not looking at Draco. “For some things.”

As Draco made his way down the list, he realized that not everyone was Hermione Granger—as in, not everyone was able to forgive him. Hell, not everyone was Weasley, who did not necessarily forgive Draco, but looked at him with such pity that cut deeper than any anger or disgust ever would.

With Lovegood, Draco practically had to stop her from giving him a hug. Weasley (the girl one) was there, looking at him with an inscrutable look on her face. Feeling wrung out from Lovegood, Draco couldn’t help but look to Harry (lurking somewhere above beyond them but never too far away) for support. 

Harry was already looking at him, so Draco blushed and looked away. When he sneaked a glance at Weasley, her eyebrows were raised high.

One person on Draco’s list that surprised Harry was Hagrid—which he didn’t find out until the trio went for tea in his hut. Apparently Hagrid praised Draco highly.

“I didn’t know you planned on apologizing to him,” Harry said after he snuck up to Draco in Scrivenshaft’s. Draco picked up an ornate quill and sighed. What was the point of it being pretty if it was just going to need constant attention? Draco was still going through his biros; maybe he should suggest the shop to start carrying Muggle stationery.

“Who, Potter?” Draco replied. “I’ve been busy.”

Harry didn’t take his eyes off of Draco, even though Draco only gave him a brief glance when the boy showed up.

“Hagrid,” Harry clarified. “Merlin, Malfoy, you. . .”

He trailed off. Draco picked up a leather-bound journal. At least these will always be both useful and pretty. 

Harry grabbed Draco’s arm when Draco moved to pay for the journal. “I’m trying to tell you something.”

“You have to actually say something for you to justify that sentence,” Draco replied.

“Why Hagrid?” Harry demanded. “Yeah, you’ve been a prick to him, but you never actually did anything to him during the war, did you?”

Draco didn’t understand why that mattered. 

Harry dropped his hand. He looked flustered, all of a sudden. Eyes darting around and fingers tapping his hip.

“Er,” Harry began.

“Nice one,” Draco replied. “Please, say more of those. I could write songs and dances to go with your eloquent speech.”

“Do you want to grab a butterbeer with me?” Harry asked. 

“Oh,” Draco looked at the journal still in his hand. Suddenly it didn’t look nice enough to spend money on. He put it back. “Sure. I was going to go look at the giant squid trying to catch fish and eat them, but I suppose watching you eat is pretty much the same.”

Harry held the door open for Draco and they stepped into the cold and wet street. “For fuck’s sake, is everything that comes out of your mouth this obnoxious?”

“Please, it’s a skill.” Draco rolled his eyes at him. “Not everyone can do it. You couldn’t do it.”

Harry glared, then opened his mouth, then closed it when nothing came out. But eventually he did open his mouth but all that came out was, “Oh! You’re so annoying I could, er, die!” then promptly slipped on a pile of wet leaves and fell over.

Of course Draco ended up on the wet ground with Harry, howling with laughter so hard he was nearly hyperventilating. While Harry rubbed his sore arse and grumbled, trying to stand up, Draco was still clutching wet leaves in his fists and laughing.

“What in Merlin’s name,” Draco choked. “What were you trying to go for? Did you fall on purpose?”

“Of course I didn’t!” Harry snapped. “I didn’t want to prove it that much!”

“‘Oh, you’re so annoying I could die!’” Draco gasped for air. “What the fuck, Potter?”

In the end, Harry had to forcibly drag Draco away, but not before aiming an Aguamenti directly up Draco’s nose, because Harry could be obnoxious in a very different way too.

The thing was, even though Draco wanted it very much, he didn’t magically become a nice person. He was very much still short-tempered, and easily pissed off at people.

Weasley and Harry were making plans for the weekend, and it was obvious they both wanted to go to Edinburgh, but Weasley wanted to go on a date with Granger and Harry for some reason really wanted to go to some muggle bookstore, and neither of them was talking directly and stumbling over each other constantly and it was starting to drive Draco mad.

I want to bash your heads against the wall so I don’t have to listen to you two try to think and talk at the same time, Draco wanted to say to them, and he could just imagine the way Weasley’s face would scrunch up in anger and Harry’s fall. So Draco didn’t say anything. He held his tongue even though his irritation continued to spike at listening to the two trying to make sense of their weekend plans. Because no matter how irritated he was, upsetting Harry was an aching notion now. Just thinking about Harry’s hurt expression made Draco’s heart clench so painfully Draco had to remind himself that was just imagining it, and that he wasn’t going to actually say hurtful things anymore–so if his brain could just stop thinking up all the things he would undoubtedly say just a few years ago that reminded him what an awful person he was, that’d be fucking helpful. 

“Hey,” Harry placed his hand on the small of Draco’s back. “Are you okay?”

Draco blinked, and realized both of them were looking at him. “I . . . I’m just . . . ”

“Thinking, I know,” Harry laughed, gazing at Draco with the soft lines of his eyes. “But think about something nice, yeah?”

Draco looked at Harry’s smile. “Yeah,” Draco murmured.

So Draco’s mind drifted off, and it took Harry and Weasley another ten minutes to clear things up.

When the day came, all the Eighth Year students gathered at the gate and Apparated in pairs. Weasley held onto Granger’s hand and nervously looked to Harry for support. Harry made some unintelligible gestures and a thumbs up, to which Draco observed incredulously but it seemed to work to calm Weasley’s nerve. 

“It’s their first date alone,” Harry whispered to Draco. 

“Yes, I gathered,” Draco replied.

Harry laughed and hooked his arm through Draco’s when it was their turn to Apparate. 

It took a while for them to find the bookshop. Harry insisted he would take care of it and picked up a city map, turning it this way and that. Draco really didn’t mind how long it took them to get there, he wasn’t the one that wanted to go anyway. He was quite content to simply let his eyes wander around the city and follow Harry’s directions as the boy buried himself behind the map with increasingly frustrated mutters. They walked around for nearly an hour, pretending to not know any of the Hogwarts students they ran into. In the end, Harry caved and went to ask an old lady for directions, which solved their problem in two seconds flat, yet for some reason Harry was red-faced and glowering. 

“Why are you angry?” Draco asked. “You know where to go now, right?”

Harry just looked at him with a pinched face. “I wanted to—” He sighed. “Never mind.”

When they finally found the shop, it was two hours before they were due to go back, and Harry was sullen and quiet the entire way, shooting Draco little sad glances like Draco was going to start kicking and screaming.

But as soon as they stepped into the shop, Draco gasped in delight.

“Look at all these pens !” Draco rushed to the shelves, randomly picked up six at once. “They have colors other than black? Merlin, look at these—” And Draco was running to another section already, uncaring of the looks he was getting. “They’re so cheap!”

When Draco turned back, Harry’s eyes were bright in his very red face. “You like it?” he asked, chewing on his bottom lip.

“I love this, I—” Draco cut himself off, looked at Harry in astonishment. “You didn’t want to come. You wanted to bring me here.”

Harry grinned sheepishly at his shoes. 

Draco gripped the pens in his hands, trying to tell his heart to calm down.

They spent a lot of time wandering in the dead of night, and most of the time they ended up in the kitchen since they both starved (in different ways) during the war. So they liked to indulge themselves in sweets and treats at all hours of the day simply because they could now. And that was how Draco found out about Harry’s kiwi allergy. 

When Harry started to gasp for air, his hands gripping Draco’s pajamas tight enough to rip them, face swelling horribly like that day at the Manor, Draco screamed and cried at the elves for help, not caring that he was making a scene when he had tried so hard to lay low in this year. He woke the entire Hufflepuff house up, and he could not care less.

“Don’t do that!” Draco all but screamed at Harry when he was finally back to normal, lying on the infirmary bed. “God, death by kiwi! After everything! I’ll plant a kiwi tree on your grave! I hate you, Potter!”

“I didn’t know I was allergic to kiwis either, you know,” Harry said with a wobbly grin, that looked more like a grimace. “Please don’t cry, Draco. . .”

But Draco was crying, and Harry pulled him into a hug and Draco kept crying.

Christmas felt very far away at the start of the year that when it actually came it was like waking up from a dream. The castle was quiet and subdued. Draco made himself scarce of the people who remained at Hogwarts, all but one person. Harry wanted to spend one last Christmas at Hogwarts; Draco just couldn’t bear spending Christmas at the Manor again. 

Draco planned on spending most of the holiday studying for his NEWTs, which Harry found so horrifying he needed to loudly exclaim it to Granger from the Slytherin common room fireplace. Draco rolled his eyes at his notes.

“You should try and study with Malfoy,” Granger was admonishing Harry. “You need to take it too!”

“A fact I’m sure has vacated his brain long ago,” Draco said from the warm couch in front of the fireplace.

Harry turned to glare at him. “It’s Christmas!” He sounded scandalized.

Granger rolled her eyes. “So study in a Santa’s hat.”

“Let’s go flying, Draco!” Harry said.

“After studying,” Draco said. “You’re not going anywhere until you know the differences between an Anti-Paralysis Potion and Antidote to Common Poisons.”

“I’ll leave him to you,” Granger said.

And left Harry to Draco indeed. Without class or clubs or students, there was nothing stopping Harry from spending all his time with Draco. Most nights were passed in the Slytherin common room, where only Draco remained. Harry spent hours looking into the lake with his back pressed against Draco’s side as Draco studied and Harry pretended to study.

No one batted an eye when Harry joined Draco for meals every day, or when Harry rested his chin on Draco’s shoulder as they both watched Lelya trying to sneak the bacon off of other student’s plates. No one, not even themselves.

And neither of them said anything the morning of Christmas Eve, when Draco walked Harry to Hogwarts’ gate to see him off to the Weasleys.

When Harry held Draco’s hands in his and kissed him, soft and unyielding, a solid press of lips that felt more tender than anything Draco had ever experienced, neither of them said anything.

“I’ll write to you, yeah?” Harry said when they pulled apart.

“Don’t forget your revisions,” Draco replied, and kissed Harry again. His hand grasped Harry’s waist, loving the feel of muscle underneath his palm. 

Harry was smiling, cheeks and lips red when Draco pulled back. Draco’s past and all his worries that came with it seemed very small compared to this moment. Everything always seemed small compared to Harry in Draco’s eyes, even before the war. And after, Draco never thought that Harry changed, which was what Harry said himself, to Draco Harry just seemed . . . larger, in every aspect but physical.

“See you in a few days,” Draco said. “You better write, or I’ll write to Weasley and tell him you didn’t defend the Chudley Cannons when those first years were shitting on them”

Harry laughed, like he couldn’t help it. “You started that!” 

“A fact that will be obsolete in the face of your betrayal, I’m sure,” Draco said, unconcerned. 

The smile slowly slipped off of Harry’s face, and Draco’s hands tightened. 

Harry let out a deep sigh and fell into Draco. Draco’s hands around Harry’s waist became arms around Harry’s waist. Draco could feel Harry’s chin digging into his shoulder; a feeling that was rapidly becoming familiar. His hair was Christmas-cold, the kind that made you feel warm inside, and Draco tightened his hold.

“I miss you already.” Harry’s lips found its way into Draco’s scarf, moving against his skin. Draco felt a flick of warm tongue and tried not to squirm from it, and a giggle escaped. 

Mortified, Draco asked, “What are you doing?” 

Harry’s lips kept moving until Draco was squirming in his hold and squawking in the most undignified manner. Harry finished with a kiss on his neck and laughed into Draco’s shoulder. 

“What the fuck?” Draco asked.

Harry kept laughing, when he pulled back to look at Draco, he had a surreptitious glint in his eyes. Draco’s face warmed.

“Stop being weird,” Draco said instead. “Go be weird with Weasley.”

Harry let go of Draco (and how did that happen? Draco swore he started off doing the hugging). “Yeah, I’m going.”

Harry didn’t look away from Draco even when he twisted into himself, and when the pop of Apparition faded from Draco’s ears, he didn’t feel the doldrums he had fully expected to be drowned in, come Harry’s absence. He had feared it; it would have been a sign of another dependency Draco wasn’t sure he was ready for. 

But all there was a thrill that Harry missed him, and Draco missed Harry, and that—that was a gorgeous feeling, missing someone. A thing Draco didn’t think he ever would be able to have again.

“So, what, are you two together now?” 

Harry pulled down the book that Draco needed, something heavy Harry suspected wasn’t even for schoolwork, and looked at the fifth-year Hufflepuff, Marvin . . . something.

“Who?” Harry asked.

Marvin-something glared. “You and Malfoy,” he said.

Harry looked to Draco, sitting at a library table and squinting down at a book. In the midst of students frantically catching up on their homework after the holiday, Draco’s biro stood out in a sea of quills.

He grinned at Marvin.

“Yeah,” he said. “What about it?” And walked away without waiting for a reply.

“Harry, we heard you and Malfoy broke up,” a fifth-year Gryffindor asked cloyingly. Her friends stood beside her and giggled. “I’ve always said he would show his true colors soon. Didn’t I used to say that, Melissa?”

One of her friends, assuming Melissa, nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve always said—”

“I don’t care much what you all say,” Harry cut off. “I wish you would all care more about what you say.”

He walked away, his chest feeling very small and his heart very far away—probably somewhere deep in the castle, under a lake, with Draco Malfoy.

Somewhere deep in the castle, under a lake, Draco Malfoy pressed the heels of his hand to his burning eyes, and thought about Harry Potter—knowing the boy was always meant to be his hamartia.

Every time Harry thought it couldn’t get worse, he was always unpleasantly surprised.

He meant it when he said he didn’t care about what anyone said—about him. But every time someone came up to him to congratulate him on getting rid of Draco, it tore at him in an unfamiliar, ferocious way. Harry couldn’t bring himself to say anything, because he was terrified what came out of his mouth wouldn’t be words. He almost missed his fifteen-year-old self that snapped at everyone. He had at least been helpless and angry, and he would much rather that, than helpless and heartbroken. 

Ron started yelling at students on Harry’s behalf while Hermione remained in her usual library hideout. She was probably trying to find a way to fix this publicity mess, and he had no doubt she eventually would. But Harry wasn’t torn apart from Rita Skeeter’s article.

“You gonna talk to Malfoy about all this, then?” Ron asked.

“We already did,” Harry said. “That’s why . . . I mean . . . that’s the reason why . . . ”

“I didn’t mean the article,” Ron sighed. “You’re going to talk to him about your breakup, yeah? He’s just letting these people get to his head. There’s no way Malfoy actually thinks he’s beneath you.”

Harry didn’t look up from his food. “Do you really believe that?”

Ron shoved a big chunk of potato into his mouth to avoid answering. 

Against the heartsick backdrop of their breakup, Harry was also worried. He checked the map obsessively, sixth-year-I-want-to-know-what-Malfoy-is-up-to obsessive. Though this time neither Hermione nor Ron stopped him; sometimes, when Harry was too jittery with anxiety to do his homework because he couldn’t look away from Draco’s dot, Hermione would take the map and lay it on her side of the table watching, silent and Argus-eyed, over Draco for him. Anytime a group of students wandered just shy of too close, she would stop her study and focus every ounce of her attention on it. Only until Draco passed smoothly, presumably unharmed (“Physically,” Hermione reminded), would she return to her work.

Harry knew she was doing it for his sake, but he didn’t care. He had been protective of Draco ever since the Ministry ascended upon them for a “public statement”,  because of how soon it was after the war, about how Harry had a duty to the wizarding community to at least explain why he was in a relationship with a Death Eater. It took Kingsley to persuade Harry, saying they only needed to give a short interview and they could move on.

“Yeah,” Ron had snorted then. “Move on from each other, is what they meant.”

Harry didn’t think Ron remembered he said that. If it wasn’t so painful, Harry would jokingly suggest Ron become a Seer. Had Harry known it would turn out like this, he would have fought it more vehemently, but at the time it didn’t take much to calm Harry down. His personal ballast was practically always by his side. 

That protectiveness flared up again since Draco—ended things. And the only reason Harry was willing to relent and let Hermione task it was because anyone would be safer in Hermione’s care.

Draco timed his routes perfectly to avoid Harry, and Harry had to wonder, on multiple occasions, how he did it without the help of the map.

“And how you manage to not run into him at least once with a stalking map,” Ron said incredulously. “It’s practically an expert on Malfoy stalking now. It should be renamed ‘The Malfoy Map’.”

“Stop it, Ron,” Hermione chastised. “Harry, I really think you should leave him be—”

Both boys snapped their eyes to her, shocked. 

“For now!” she amended. “He asked to be left alone—”

“He didn’t!” Harry said. “So maybe he’s waiting for me to—”

“Then he wouldn’t hide,” Hermione said sternly. 

Harry didn’t say anything.

“Why don’t you just waylay Malfoy in class?” Ron asked.

“Ron!” Hermione admonished.

“I was just joking! Maybe. If Harry thinks it’s a bad idea then I’m definitely joking.”

“I think it’s a bad idea!”

“Malfoy’s not your boyfriend!”

“That’s beside the point—”

“So, mate, what do you think about ambushing Malfoy in class? I’ll totally help. I bet Neville will too.” Ron asked, ignoring Hermione’s protest.

“I will not. He doesn’t want to be bothered right now,” Neville said from across the common room. Hermione nodded approvingly. 

“I’m surrounded by traitors!” Ron said. “Am I the only one willing to kidnap Harry’s boyfriend for the sake of love?”

“School’s too important to him,” Harry murmured. His eyes were drawn back to Draco’s dot when his friends started talking among themselves. “He’s working so hard on his grades. I couldn’t do that. . .” Harry trailed off with a sigh.

Ron didn’t reply, and they lapsed into silence for a bit.

“‘I solemnly swear that I am up to mooning over Malfoy,’” Ron said loudly to the map.

He received two hard smacks to the head.

The worst part was when Harry actually saw Draco. It was worse than watching Draco’s dot on the map; it was worse than thinking about Draco from the moment he crawled into bed to the moment he fell asleep, remembering how they normally spent the night together.

Weeks passed and Harry still wanted to walk over to the Slytherin table for breakfast. He wanted to sit down next to Draco in classes they shared and walk him to classes they didn’t. It was only the promise of a livid Draco that stopped Harry from walking with him under his Invisibility Cloak.

Draco looked almost grey this morning. Even Lelya was more colorful than him, and she was an albino Screech Owl. And—god, Harry missed him.

Draco fed Lelya most of his breakfast, and he didn’t read any of the letters she brought him. Harry didn’t know if he just wasn’t feeling like it, or because he saw Harry’s letter in the midst. Hopeful, Harry imagined Draco taking Harry’s letters and reading it over and over at night.

Draco smoothed the envelope down, as if it wasn’t delivered just this morning from two tables over. 

He knew he was hurting Harry, and Draco hoped that fact that he was hurting as well helped make his action less reproachable. 

Every letter was kept in his school bag at all times. Draco liked to keep valuable things close. The letters were the next best thing.

But he wouldn’t read them. A strong resolve to not read them, even though his strongest resolve was nothing to be boasted about. But Draco knew he would crack the moment he lay eyes on the first word of the letter (It would have to be ‘Draco’, wouldn't it? Just thinking about Harry saying his name was nearly enough to do Draco in). And if Draco cracked, his pride wouldn’t allow him to admit to Harry he didn’t want to be alone after all, then Draco would just be lonely and miserable with a crack opened on his heart.

It’d been manageable so far. The student body seemed to be satisfied enough with the end of their relationship to not maul him in the hallways, though not enough to keep their thoughts about Draco and his ‘intention with Harry Potter’ to themselves.

Draco didn’t understand why they suddenly fancied themselves the patron saints of Harry, when before the interview everyone seemed to be so used to Harry and Draco together that when they actually got together, half of the school didn’t even realize! 

He wondered if this was what he was like before: so prone to swaying to other’s opinions, so much so that he convinced himself to care about things he never thought he should care about. How his father shaped Draco’s worldview from his opinions alone.

Everyone’s reaction to the interview crawled uncomfortably under his skin, it was like seeing himself in them, so easily manipulated by things they want to hear instead of judging for themselves.

Draco sighed and tucked his letters into his bag. His mother’s letter could wait. For now, he just wanted to get to his next class earlier than everyone so he could snag the table at the very back; some students had taken it up to themselves to take all the back tables, forcing Draco to sit at the very front, then snickered behind his back for the entire class.

Convincing himself that if he could survive sitting at the same table with Voldemort, then he could handle a gaggle of school children. But there was always that fear, knowing if Draco broke down now, Harry wouldn’t be there to help him.

And wasn’t that thought worth a million breakdowns.

Draco’s whole body was tense with the effort to not look over to the Gryffindor table as he walked out of the Great Hall. Never dared to look anywhere but straight ahead. Harry was like a beacon, drawing Draco’s attention. Both safety and warning at once.

“Harry!” 

Harry looked around for Hermione before remembering that he was flying.

Harry turned around but there was no one with him. Not until he turned back and saw her Patronus at the tip of his broom, standing on its hind legs and paws twitching nervously. It was almost invisible against the bright sky, but its erratic movements were clear.

As soon as Harry locked eyes with the otter, it opened its mouth and Hermione’s voice came again.

“Harry!” it said. “It’s Malfoy—I was just looking at the map and I saw a bunch of students corner him on the fifth-floor corridor, near the Ancient Runes classroom. Hurry, the crowd is getting bigger. Ron and I are on our way—”

Her voice was lost in the wind as the otter tried to keep up with Harry as he dropped down, down, and down.

Draco should have realized the flaw in his looking-anywhere-but-straight-ahead plan was that he was not looking out for his back.

The arms holding him down were slender and unyielding, not that Draco was struggling much. His head was still pounding from hitting the wall. 

Two seventh-years girls were holding him down while their other friend dug through her school bag. Draco’s head stopped swimming and he realized that they weren’t in a deserted hallway, or shoved into some broom closet, but in one of the main halls that led to the classrooms. Students were milling around, going to different classes. Most of them were watching the scene, but no one made attempts to interfere. Some of them were laughing.

“Got it!” The girl who wasn’t holding Draco yelled. She turned to the crowd and raised whatever was in her hand up high. Waves of hollers and whistles came from the students, but before Draco could see what was in her hand, one of the girls grabbed Draco’s hair and yanked his head back. 

For a brief moment, all Draco could see was the dark ceiling of Malfoy Manor, the time where Greyback caught him and did this exact same thing, pushing his face against Draco’s throat and threatened him until his mother found them in time and screamed.

He blinked and his eyes cleared, Draco saw warm stone ceilings and tapestries against the wall, but he was acutely aware of his exposed throat. His body involuntarily seized up and his mouth dropped open in a gasp.

One of the girls laughed. “He knows what to do! That’s cute.”

Now Draco really didn’t have the strength to push the girls away. A vial appeared in front of Draco’s eyes and snapped him out of his stupor as soon as he recognized it. He twisted in their grasps uselessly.

“Come on, it’s not like it’s going to hurt you,” the one holding the Veritaserum said. A hand reached out and grabbed Draco’s chin. Liquid dropped into his mouth and another hand clasped it shut, and before Draco even blinked he was pushed against the wall again, the palm on his face pressing into his nose painfully. Draco choked in his attempt to breathe, and in his panic he could feel his throat swallowing.

The hands holding his mouth and nose immediately fell away and Draco gasped for breath and coughed violently. The two students were still holding onto his arms. He couldn’t even hide his cough in his sleeves.

Draco looked up, teary-eyed. Students had apparently decided that this was more interesting than classes, because everywhere he looked there were people. There were so many people here, any one of them could shout a question and Draco would be compelled to answer. They could ask about Voldemort, or his Aunt Bella, or his father, or if he ever cast the Cruciatus Curse ( Harry ), or how he almost killed so many of his classmates. His first kiss with Harry. Where his friends were hiding in the continent. If he was lonely. The list went on, there was almost nothing in Draco’s life that he wasn’t afraid of people finding out.

He bit his bottom lips to keep it shut. He could feel the girl in front of him getting ready to speak.

“Are you Draco Malfoy?”

Draco tried very hard to not answer. His teeth scraped the skin off of his lips as the answer was dragged out of him, small, “Yes.”

“Are you a Death Eater?”

“No,” Draco gritted out.

“ What ?” a student shouted. Several students frowned so hard Draco thought their faces were going to fold into itself.

The girl rolled her eyes. “ Were you a Death Eater?”

“Yes,” Draco choked out. He did his best not to crumble.

“What’s with the boring questions?” the student on Draco’s left said. Her nails bit into his arm. It reminded him of Pansy.

“I’m just testing it out!” The girl tucked the vial back to her bag. 

“You have to ask something he won’t want to admit,” Nails-like-Pansy insisted.

“All right,” she said. “Did you support Voldemort?”

“I—used to,” Draco said. “Before I actually met him.”

“What do you think of him now?” Someone from the crowd demanded.

Draco twisted his face away, feeling sick and raw at being on display. Humiliation burned through him. Draco felt very small in his skin; or very scared in a very hollow body. “I think he got off too easy.”

A few students ducked out of the watching crowd, expression hidden behind their hands.

“What do you think of Muggles?”

“Repentant.” Tears welled up in Draco’s eyes. He blinked them back. “I remember all the reasons why I thought they were inferior,” Draco said. “But I—I don’t, I don't remember why I thought they were true anymore.”

The crowd murmured and tutted. Then came the smoking gun they wanted.

“Were you in a relationship with Harry?” The girl in front of him asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re not together anymore?”

“No.”

“Who ended it?”

“I did.”

A few people scoffed, as if they couldn’t believe Draco had the gall to break up with Harry Potter, as if that wasn’t what they had been trying to drive him to do! 

“Why did you end it?” 

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. This was supposed to be between him and Harry only. Between the two of them only. “Because he deserves better.”

This time it seemed no one had anything to say. Draco allowed himself to sag. The two girls were holding his weight up by this point anyway.

“How do you actually feel about Harry?” another person from the crowd asked.

Draco shook his head listlessly. But another person asked another question before he could answer it. “Are you just using him?”

“No,” Draco murmured.

“How do you actually feel about him?” the student from before repeated.

“We know you tricked him into this somehow,” the girl said, but she didn’t sound like she believed it. “How do you actually feel about Harry?”

“No, I didn’t,” Draco said, then, slowly, “It surprises me that you lot would think anyone can trick him into anything.”

“You probably have some Dark spells!” Someone yelled. They sounded very young.

“I think I have seen enough Dark Magic to last me a lifetime,” Draco said.

“Answer the question, Malfoy,” the girl hissed. “How do you feel about—”

“I love him!” Draco felt the words burst past his lips and couldn’t quite tell if it was the Veritaserum or himself this time. “Yes, I love him, I love him! And why wouldn’t I? He’s made to be loved. Out of everything you all accused me of, falling in love with Harry is the one thing that should be the least surprising. You said that as though it’s a gargantuan feat to do so—like it hadn’t been coming miles away—”

It wasn’t until Draco’s knees buckled that he realized no one was digging their nails into his arm anymore. He looked at the three girls that started all this. Their eyes wide and young, as if they couldn’t believe what they’d done.

For a few, breathless moments, everyone stood where they were. Children and not-quite-adults together, all equally lost, unsure as to what comes next; all of them surprised that getting what they wanted hadn’t made them feel any better.

“I’m sorry,” the girl with the Veritaserum said. 

Draco lowered himself down to the cold floor and buried his face in his hands.

It felt like he barely had time to suck in one shaky breath before someone was tugging him up again. They took Draco by the shoulder and let him keep his face lowered as they guided him out of the crowd. Somewhere behind them, Draco heard Granger’s angry shouts, promising them hell  and detention.

Draco was taken into a small cupola that was overflowing with flowers. Bushes of blossoms and ivy hung from its cracks, streams of sunshine permeated through the cracks between petals. Draco planted these flowers himself: one of Hagrid’s ideas during the summer. Brighten up Hogwarts for the returning students. Draco never did get to know what people thought of these new flower beds all over school.

Draco sat down on the ground and tilted his head until it was cushioned in a cluster of hydrangea and closed his eyes.

“Are you alright?” Weasley asked.

Draco didn’t want to answer, but the Veritaserum was still very much in charge. “No.”

“At least you’re breathing.”

Someone touched his cheek. “May I heal your lips for you?” Lovegood asked.

“If you like,” Draco said.

“I would,” Lovegood replied. “Ginny, I think someone’s coming, do you mind go see who . . . ?”

Weasley’s footsteps moved from right to left then faded away. A wand tip touched Draco’s lips gently and the sting that was almost non-existence, compared to everything else, went away.

Lovegood wasn’t chattering away and asking inane questions like she usually did when she caught Draco in her orbit, so Draco could only assume she and Weasley had seen what happened. Draco was too scattered to care at the moment, anyway.

Weasley’s voice faintly came from outside, telling someone to slow down, before a loud yelp and a thud came, and Draco opened his eyes to see Harry, petals in his hair and broom in his hand, panting as if he had never taken in a breath before, and eyes solely on Draco.

Harry dropped his broom and practically tripped his way to Draco’s side. Luna stood up smoothly and joined Ginny by the door.

“We’ll tell the professors that you need some time,” Ginny said. 

Their footsteps left the room, down the narrow hall and stairs and soon only the susurrous of wind brushing through the flowers were left.

And Draco.

Harry couldn’t believe Draco was this close to him again. Crowned by hydrangeas, Draco looked . . . sad.

Harry shuffled close, shoulder to shoulder. “Are you—”

“Don’t finish that question,” Draco said.

“Oh,” Harry said, flustered, eyes still very much glued to Draco. “Right, Veritaserum.”

Draco let out a sigh. “So you saw,” he said.

“No!” Harry insisted. “If I had—I would have stopped it.”

Draco’s gaze swept to the broom on the ground. “And flown me away on your broom?”

Harry watched the way Draco’s eyes turned blue with the flowers as his backdrop. “Yeah.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” Harry admitted.

“How do you know what happened?”

“Hermione and some other students told me.” Harry picked a petal up from the ground and rubbed it between his fingers until it was wet. “She was furious.”

Draco didn’t say anything.

“I wished I heard it from you,” Harry said softly.

Draco’s eyes met his and snapped away. 

“You’re not going to ask why I broke up with you again?” Draco asked. “Why I did it even though—?”

“You told me why already,” Harry said. “I just disagree with you. Strongly.”

Draco tilted his body away from Harry, and the longing wrecking through Harry was so much more awful with how close Draco finally was, for the first time in weeks. 

“I blame you for my depleting ego. It used to be revered in the Slytherin common room for its sheer brilliance. We used to write songs and poems about it.” Draco still wasn’t looking at Harry, but Harry couldn’t help but grin at the back of Draco’s head, not bothering to point out that since Draco was under Veritaserum, songs and poems about him must have actually happened at some point. He was, for now, stupidly giddy at this unexpected demonstration of Draco’s usual temperament. 

“I missed you,” Harry said quietly.

“I missed you, too,” Draco said, then groaned loudly. “How long is this going to last?”

“I thought you didn’t love me,” Harry said, still quiet.

Draco shifted, turning to face Harry. His eyes were bright, and he looked frustrated. “Didn’t love you?” Draco laughed wetly. “Harry, I had to stop myself from falling in love with you for years. There’s nothing easier than loving you.” He sniffed, eyes to the ground. “I didn’t allow myself to when I could. Now when I’m the most deplorable, I couldn’t help but to.”

“Don’t say that,” Harry grabbed Draco. “I think you’re more deserving now than you’ve ever been.”

Draco pushed Harry away. “With the Death Eater name and failed murder under my belt?” he hissed.

“Yes!” Harry yelled. “Yes, exactly!”

Draco gaped at him. “You’ve gone mad.”

“No, I haven’t, you prat.” Harry couldn’t stop himself from giving in to the temptation of finally—finally—having Draco back in his arms. Draco let him be pulled into Harry and buried his face in the crook of his neck and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.

“Why do you love me?” Draco asked, his words muffled. “I don’t have any of the qualities you value in people. Integrity or kindness, or courage—which I call stupidity, either way, I have none of them, despite some stupid things I’ve done.” Draco said this as though he was asking a Ravenclaw riddle: A four-letter word for why Harry Potter wants to be with Draco Malfoy . . .

Harry tightened his hold on Draco, because he needed time to work his thoughts out, and the last thing he needed was Draco thinking Harry didn’t have the answer. He always had the answer; it was gossamer, and tangled, but there nonetheless.

“Because,” Harry started. “This is going to be a mess to explain.”

“I’ve missed my class already.”

Harry nodded, pressing a kiss to Draco’s hair, knowing the amount of catching up Draco would have to do just for one class. He hoped he could be there when it happened, because Draco always looked incredible while he was working hard. 

“After everything, I know there isn’t just one brand of courage. Some people would be too scared to do what you had to, and you did all those things because you’re scared, and I think that’s brave, in a tragic way, but I do. And—and you’re learning to have integrity, and you’re trying to be kind, even though I can tell you want to be mean sometimes, but you don’t let yourself. And that counts as something. I think that counts more than anything.”

“And,” Harry’s breath shuddered. He never liked thinking about the moment where he thought Voldemort actually had a chance to win. “I think it says a lot, what a person chooses to do when they’re under pressure. I’ve seen you lower your wand and lie for me, both decisions would have put your life in danger, but you did it anyway. Isn’t that a big enough revelation for who you truly are?

Harry leaned back, trying to see Draco’s face, but Draco held on, face obscured in Harry’s shoulder. 

That was alright, as long as Draco was holding on. Harry nosed at the blond hair, using this chance to mess it up a little. “I know you can be vicious, but I also see the possibility of you being good, too, and if I fell in love with you trying to be the very best version of you, who can blame me? Trying—is something I value too.”

And because (this was something Harry wasn’t sure he was ready to reveal), was there anything stronger than someone who hated you, fought you, loved you, and still chose you, after everything? Harry didn’t want what people thought was best for him. He didn’t want what he deserved. He wanted Draco.

Draco said nothing, but Harry’s shoulder was getting damp. Harry tightened his hold, tucked himself in, but gave no more than that; Draco probably didn’t know if he wanted to be comforted or not either. His tears were motionless and silent, if anyone saw them now, no one would know Draco was drenching Harry’s shirt with impressive speed. There was no sniffing, no sobs, no gasping for air. Draco was softly plaintive in Harry’s arms, like he was very tired, and somehow that made Harry’s eyes sting more than anything that happened in the past weeks.

However long later, Harry wasn’t sure, McGonagall appeared in the doorway, and stopped at the sight of them. Harry was sure Draco knew someone was there, a residue paranoia left after Voldemort. None of them moved. She was looking at Draco, a small sad tilt to her brows.

Then she met Harry’s eyes, and Harry tightened his hold on Draco, tucking his face to the blond head. McGonagall clasped her hands and smiled.

She left them to it. Harry knew she would be waiting for Draco when he needed her. For now, Harry needed Draco, and Draco needed him. In the sun-spotted room, they were wonderfully alone in the world.

When Draco pulled back, his face was sticky and wet. Sometimes a few tears would fall again, and Draco would look annoyed, like he was irritated at his eyes for unable to make up their mind to keep crying or not. And each time Harry would wipe away the tears without a word. If Draco got to it before him, then Harry would press languid kisses on his cheek instead.

“I wish I heard it from you too,” Draco said after a few minutes of silence. 

Harry smiled at the dust and petals scattered ground. “I could say it again.”

“Yes,” Draco said quickly, then flushed. His eyes wide with panic. “I thought it was over,” he moaned.

Harry laughed. “Why don’t you do the asking?”

Draco narrowed his red-rimmed eyes. The red made his eyes look paler, and Harry couldn’t help but grin. He could feel his face giving in to the “gross smitten look” (as Ron put it). 

It was nice to have it back.

“Alright,” Draco said. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Harry shrugged. “I was waiting for the perfect moment.” He flushed at Draco’s raised eyebrow. “Shut up.”

“Perfect moment?” Draco said, clearly gearing some insult up. “Wouldn’t that be every single moment with you—”

He clamped his mouth shut and stared at Harry with wide eyes.

“Oh, my god,” Harry said.

“Shut up,” Draco seethed. “It's the damn Veritaserum. Stop asking me things.”

They both knew very well that Harry hadn’t asked anything, but Harry wasn’t sure he had any spare brain cells left to say anything other than, “Oh, my god.”

“Stop it!”

“Draco,” Harry’s tone was practically melting. He tried to hug Draco but Draco kept kicking him away. “That’s so sappy.”

“Stop!” Draco snapped.“I’m drugged, this isn’t fair!”

“Okay, yeah,” Harry conceded. He felt like he was bubbling over, and his gooey insides were going to spill out like treacle, and he would just keep telling Draco he loved him until someone shut him up; did he accidentally get a small dose of Veritaserum as well? “Yeah, let's not talk.”

Harry missed this. The way Draco’s eyes brightened before drifting shut every time Harry leaned in. He loved the breathless moment before their lips met, the moment when both of them were expecting the kiss.

He missed Draco’s presence beside him. These past few weeks were vastly different from the times they’d spent apart before. Harry never knew he could miss someone —someone alive—like this.

He missed kissing Draco. He missed how Draco’s kisses sunk into Harry’s mind and took roots there. He missed secretly thinking ‘I love you’ to Draco when they were flushed against each other.

“I do love you,” Draco sighed, and kissed him again.

Harry’s eyes stung in that delicate way when you know you won’t feel torn apart and flustered afterward. He missed that, too.

“I love you, too,” Harry said, and the way the words gripped his heart felt violent. It felt better than loving Draco in secret.

“Mother asked about you,” Draco said, folding the letter up and handing it to Lelya for safekeeping. She had the odd new habit of sleeping better when she had a letter in her beak. Draco certainly wasn’t going to question it, as long as she was happy. 

Harry was too comfortable in his current position to bother lifting his head. “About what?”

“She wants to invite you to dinner at our house,” Draco said. “Apparently there’s this French dish made from pixies that’s just positively to die for .”

Harry did lift his head at that. “Pixies?” Harry did not squeak. He was merely concerned in a very manly fashion. 

“You don’t like that?” Draco’s tone took on a hint of uncertainty. “She already ordered it from this small nunnery. She was thrilled when they let her make a last-minute order. . .”

“Er, well,” Harry flushed. Oh, god, did he have to eat pixies? Hermione was going to fucking murder him with his own wand. “Well, I mean, pixies, huh? Uh. . .”

And then Harry caught sight of Draco biting his lips, obviously trying not to laugh. Harry shot up and pushed Draco.

Draco let himself fall over and started chortling in earnest. Harry grabbed Draco’s cloak hood and flipped it over his laughing face, still blushing furiously.

“Prat,” Harry sat down again, tearing up blades of grass and throwing them at Draco, who was still chuckling.

“Were you actually going to eat pixies?” Draco asked, and then started laughing again. “Your face just now!”

“Ugh,” Harry said. “I hate you.”

Draco’s eyes softened, and finally stopped laughing. “Do you?”

“No,” Harry said, groaning. “Merlin, I love you so much I was going to eat pixies and risk Hermione mauling me to death.”

“My, my,” Draco said, and there was a tiny bit of genuine wonderment in his words.  “Romance is really still alive.”

“Let me nap,” Harry said. “I’m tired. Someone kept me up because he couldn’t stop complaining about how his latest mystery novel ended, as if I have the power to change the story.”

“That someone sounds like a delight.” Draco maneuvered Harry so he was draped across his lap. “Sleep.”

Before, when Harry was sixteen and hiding under his cloak on a train, Harry had thought Draco looked awful to cuddle with. He was pointy, too tall, with lean muscles that shouldn’t feel nice to lean on, and pale (Harry didn’t know why that mattered, but it had seemed like it did). Draco looked like ice incarnate. He shouldn’t be nice to fall asleep to.

But he was. Draco always melted into Harry, and his nails trailed soft and tingling pattern from Harry’s back to his neck, to his hair. Draco covered Harry, even when he was underneath Harry. Draco’s long limbs always found their way between whatever surface they were lying on and Harry, and it made him feel as though he was surrounded by warmth from every direction. Draco was pale in his wake and shined in his dreams. If Harry woke up in the middle of the night he could pinpoint Draco without fully waking up, and it made shuffling closer to him that much easier.

Draco shouldn’t be so nice to close his eyes to, but he was.

When Luna showed up, Harry didn’t notice her because Draco had leaned down and kissed him, and they were busy trying to find out how long a human could go without breathing. She didn’t look like she minded waiting.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” she said. Her notebook was a plain and Muggle, and she was writing with a bright pink gel pen that Draco got her when Harry and he went shopping in Edinburgh last weekend. “Daddy was so very happy when he found out you were willing to do an exclusive. This was going to help him sell more of the issue that talks about Blibbering Humdingers trying to take over the world. Your interview will not be the feature of the issue. I hope that’s okay with you two.”

“Not a problem,” Harry said. He leaned back on his hands and tilted his face to the sun.

A pair of lips pressed against his jaw. Harry opened his eyes to see Draco smiling at him. 

“One more kiss?” Draco murmured.

“For now,” Harry promised, and kissed him again.

“I have so many interesting questions lined up!” Luna said.

“I’m sure you do,” Draco said as he sat up, chin on his palm. He looked bright and young, with windswept hair and flushed cheeks; he looked happy. It took Harry a Herculean effort to stop himself from dragging Draco down again.

After the war, when Harry was miserable and aimless, Hermione had told him to stay close to the things that made him glad to be alive. Harry reached out and tangled his fingers with Draco’s. This them, this absoluteness? Harry reckoned this may be it.

Draco turned to smile at Harry and Harry’s heart squeezed until it hurt, until it squeezed into itself so only the good parts were left. 

Yeah, Harry grinned back. No ifs ands or buts about it—Draco was it.

end