Archive of Our Own

NOW

Even from afar, the building looked intimidating, with its austere grey façade, barred windows, and sharp-edged design. Harry’s heart jumped a little in his chest when he caught sight of it up ahead and he swallowed, willing himself to remain calm.

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have Apparated,” Draco Malfoy said, sitting in the front passenger seat of the car like it was a throne.

“I told you, Muggles don’t generally appreciate people popping in out of nowhere,” Harry replied patiently, squinting up ahead.

He spotted a sign for the car park and made the turn. The parking area was bordered by hedges trimmed so neatly, not a leaf out of place, that they looked unnatural. They fit in perfectly with the rest of the building, thought Harry.

There were only three other cars parked there. Harry chose a spot closest to the entrance of the building, and backed the car into it.

“I really don’t understand how you can do this without crashing the car,” Draco commented as Harry pulled up the hand brake.

“Well, that’s what the mirrors are for,” Harry replied absently, undoing his seatbelt. “And the Parking Charms.”

“I can’t make sense of them,” Draco said, in a lofty tone that implied he was somehow above having to drive.

“That’s why I drive, and you sit there and marvel at my talents.” Harry turned the heating off, and adjusted the wing mirrors arbitrarily. There was nothing wrong with them, but he turned them here and there anyway, until he felt satisfied and left them alone.

“Well?” Draco sounded a little impatient now. “Why aren’t we getting out?”

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, admitted to himself that there was nothing else in the car he could busy himself with, and then turned it off. “Let’s go, then,” he said, getting out of the car.

Draco did the same on the other side. They shut their respective doors, and Harry locked it with the key fob before pocketing it.

“I’ll say one thing for Muggles, though,” Draco said almost grudgingly as they made their way up to the entrance of the building. “They manage fine without magic.”

Harry made a noncommittal sound of agreement; all of his attention was now on the sliding glass doors up ahead of them.

“Harry,” Draco said quietly, following Harry’s line of sight. “It’ll be all right.”

Harry took in a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

He steeled himself, and entered the building.

St. Anthony’s Home for the Elderly and Infirm, declared a large shiny sign behind the reception desk. Harry walked up to it, heart beating loudly in his chest. The only reason he felt any measure of calm was Draco’s steadying presence by his side.

“Hi,” he said to the lady behind the counter. She looked up from her computer inquisitively, but did not talk. “Um - I’m here to - to visit someone.”

“Name?” she asked.

“My aunt,” Harry said nervously.

“Her name?” the lady repeated, raising a brow like Harry was being stupid.

Harry swallowed. “Right, er, sorry. Petunia. Petunia Dursley.”

The lady clacked at her keyboard, the sounds echoing in the wide, empty lobby. Draco looked irritated at the noise, which, oddly enough, Harry found comforting. Trust Draco to be so utterly snooty about the smallest, strangest things.

“Room 314, third floor,” the lady at the reception told Harry briskly. “Your name?”

“Harry,” he said. “Harry Potter.”

“Right you are, then,” she replied, writing it down on a sheet of paper and handing it to Harry along with a pen. “Sign here, and write down the time.”

Harry did as directed, while Draco waited with his foot tapping impatiently. That was making noise too, the heel of his boot clicking against tile, but this sound did not seem to be bothering Draco despite being just as loud as the typing.

“Let’s go, then, shall we?” he said, when Harry had handed the sheet and pen back.

Harry nodded, and together they set off in the direction of the lifts.

THEN

They’d been having breakfast when the doorbell rang.

“That’s odd,” Draco said, not making a single move to get up. “Are we expecting company?”

“At this time of morning? Don’t think so,” Harry said, perplexed. He put down his cup of tea and got to his feet, rolling his eyes when Draco winced at the sound of the chair legs dragging against the floor. “Oh, get over yourself,” he teased over his shoulder.

“Learn some manners and I won’t have to,” Draco replied snippily.

“Not the snappy retort you think it is,” Harry told him, eyes bright with mirth, before he opened the door.

“Harry Potter?” It was a man in a dark uniform, with bags under his eyes and a mouth constantly on the verge of yawning. Muggle, from the looks of him, thought Draco.

“Yes?” said Harry.

“You’ve got mail,” the man told him, handing him a letter. “It’s important, apparently.”

“Mail?” Harry sounded confused. “From?”

The man shrugged. Mailmen, Draco thought they were called. That’s what he’d heard Hermione Granger refer to them as, once. A rather redundant title, in his opinion.

Draco slid his chair further out, angling it so he could have a better view of the front door of their little flat. Harry was turning the letter over in his hands, and even from the kitchen Draco could see that he had gone very still. 

“Important?” he repeated finally, sounding stunned.

The mailman nodded. “Someone’s clearly been trying to get a hold of you for a while,” he told Harry. “This is my twelfth time at your flat.”

“Sorry,” Harry replied, clearly only barely paying attention. “Been out of the country.” His eyes were still fixed on the envelope, and Draco could feel his curiosity increasing.

“Right, well,” the mailman said. “At least you’ve got it now.” And with that, he turned and left.

Harry remained standing in the doorway. Draco waited a moment for him to return, but when that didn’t happen, he stood up and walked over himself.

This close, he could see the slight tremor coursing through Harry’s hands. “What is it?” he asked, more concerned than curious now. He’d never seen Harry react like this to anything - and they’d seen some serious shit together.

Instead of replying, Harry thrust the letter into Draco’s hands, and walked off to the kitchen. Draco watched him sink into his chair. He looked down at the letter he was holding, and then he closed the door and rejoined Harry at the kitchen table.

“This is from your cousin,” he realized, looking at the address on the back.

Harry nodded, wordlessly holding his hand out for the letter. Draco returned it, keeping his eyes on Harry’s face as he tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of expensive cream-coloured paper.

Harry scanned the letter quickly, green eyes moving down it so fast that Draco wondered if a single word was registering. Then he passed it back to Draco, who put it face down on the table and said, “Well?”

Harry looked annoyed at having to explain, which was what Draco had been aiming for. The best way to distract Harry from strong and unpleasant emotions, he’d learned, was to irritate him. 

“My aunt’s in a care home,” Harry told him. He seemed to have forgotten about breakfast entirely. “For, you know, old people who have nowhere else to go. Dudley wrote to ask if I could just, uh. Drop in and see her, sometimes.”

Draco frowned. “This would be the same aunt that helped make your life a living hell as a child, yes?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Harry raised an eyebrow right back, visibly irritated. Good, thought Draco to himself.

“And this would be the same cousin who tortured you for years on end?”

“No, this is my other cousin,” Harry replied sarcastically, crossing his arms and glaring at Draco. “You know, my other Aunt Petunia’s son.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco said. “Why can’t he go and see her?”

“Says he’s busy,” Harry answered, nodding towards the letter. “Also says that she’d like to see me but he thinks she’s too proud to ever admit it,” he added.

Draco thought of his father. “What are you going to do?” he asked, after a few moments of silence.

Harry uncrossed his arms so he could shrug. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you don’t have to decide now,” Draco said. “Do you?”

“I mean, she’s not actively dying or anything, I don’t think,” Harry said after a moment. 

“That’s good then, I suppose,” said Draco. “Gives you some time to think about what you want to do.”

“I suppose,” Harry repeated uncertainly.

Draco watched him for a moment, and then slid the letter aside so he could pick up his teacup once more. He took a sip and immediately grimaced. “Oh, perfect, it’s gone all cold and disgusting.”

It worked once more; the thoughtful expression on Harry’s face vanished, immediately replaced with annoyance. “Go heat it up, then,” he told Draco.

“Heat up tea?” Draco repeated, scandalised. “Disgusting. Absolutely unthinkable. One would think you were a Muggle.” He gave an affected little shudder at the last word.

Harry rolled his eyes, but grabbed his wand off the kitchen counter and charmed the tea back to an acceptable temperature again. That was one of his favourite things about him, thought Draco - the way he indulged him despite acting like he didn’t want to.

The whole thing seemed to remind Harry of his own breakfast; to Draco’s pleasure, he picked up his tea and took a sip too, looking completely unaffected by how cold it was. He looked Draco in the eyes the entire time, as if proving how drinking cold tea wasn’t the end of the world, and Draco found himself feeling something disgustingly similar to love in his chest.

“You’re not serious?” Ron asked, voice high with disbelief. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Draco. “He’s not serious, is he?”

Draco shrugged.

“You’ve got to be joking,” said Ron, staring at Harry. “Mate, c’mon. She made your entire childhood absolute hell! You can’t seriously be thinking about going to see her?”

“Going to see who?” Hermione asked, sliding into the chair next to Ron’s. “What’s going on?”

“Hello, Hermione.”

“Hi, Harry. Draco.”

Draco nodded at her. “Granger.”

“So,” said Hermione, leaning forward towards Harry. “What’s happening?”

“That fugly cousin of Harry’s-”

“Ron!”

“What?” said Ron defensively. “He is!”

Hermione continued glaring. Harry snorted, and Draco hid his smirk behind his butterbeer.

“Fine, okay,” Ron said, capitulating with a roll of his eyes. “That extremely handsome, very charming cousin of Harry’s, you know the one, that absolute looker, he wrote to Harry asking him to go see his very lovely aunt in the old age home he’s plunked her in.”

“What?” Hermione looked so surprised it seemed she’d forgotten to take offense to Ron’s descriptions. “Why on earth would he do that?”

“‘S what I said,” Ron said with a meaningful look at Harry.

“I didn’t say I’d go,” Harry said, a little annoyed now. “I just said I was thinking about it.”

“Well, what’s there to think about?” Ron demanded. “Write back and tell him to go see her himself, if he’s so fuckin’ miffed about it-”

“Ron, honestly, your language-”

“Anyway, what do you think?” Ron continued, ignoring her.

Draco blinked. “Er,” he said. “I think it’s up to Harry.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “C’mon. You must have some opinion.”

Draco took a sip of his butterbeer to stall, well-aware of Harry’s eyes on him. Then he said, choosing his words carefully, “I’ve never met her, but she doesn’t sound pleasant to me, either. But she is Harry’s aunt, and I think in the end, it’s up to him to decide if he wants to go see her or not.”

“And?” Hermione turned to Harry. 

“I don’t know,” Harry said uncomfortably. “Like I said. Still thinking about it.”

“Well…” Hermione took in a deep breath. “Whatever you want to do, Harry, we’ll support you. Won’t we, Ron?”

“‘Course we will,” Ron said at once. “Always, mate. You know that.”

“Yeah.” Harry gave them both a little grin. “Thanks.”

“You don’t like it, do you?” Ron muttered to Draco, voice low. 

Draco looked around to make sure Harry and Hermione were still occupied with Neville, whom they’d run into a few minutes prior. “No,” he said, once he was satisfied they were out of earshot. “I don’t, not at all. But like I said, it’s Harry’s choice.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ron said. “But I don’t like it either. You know Harry. He’s a bit too forgiving for his own good.”

Draco exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

“I don’t mean you,” Ron said hastily.

“Yeah, you did, but that’s all right,” Draco said with a small, tired smile. He got along fine with Ron now, but that hadn’t always been the case.

“Okay, maybe,” Ron said, conceding. “But it’s different with you, though! You got better, you made up for it. You tried. His aunt on the other hand…” Ron shook his head. “He could have died and it wouldn’t have mattered to her.”

“His cousin says she’d like to see him but she’s too proud to admit it,” Draco said after a moment.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure, that’s convincing. She misses him that much, she can write to him herself, can’t she?” 

“Maybe, yeah,” said Draco. He thought of Lucius, and wondered if his father was too proud to write, or if he cared at all. He wondered if his father even regretted the fight that had led to their falling out, or if he was still convinced he was right.

“Either way,” Ron said, interrupting Draco’s thoughts, “like you said, it’s up to Harry. Guess all we can do is support him.”

Draco nodded.

“Though if I see his cousin again, I’m going to hex him,” Ron muttered darkly.

That made Draco grin. “Sounds like a plan.”

“What would you do?” Harry asked, later in bed that night.

“Mm?” Draco hummed absently, turning a page of his book. 

“What would you do?” Harry repeated, propping himself up on his elbow. “If you were me?” 

“If I were you, I’d lie back down and go to sleep so that my long-suffering partner could finish his book,” Draco answered, not looking up.

In the next moment he found his book snatched out of his hands and snapped shut, before being put down on Harry’s side-table. “Seriously,” Harry said.

“I didn’t mark my page,” Draco said mildly.

“Tragic,” said Harry with a roll of his eyes. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and continued, “This is really messing me up.”

“No, really?” Draco said sarcastically. “I couldn’t tell.”

“Draco.”

“Fine, fine.” Draco gave up on getting his book back, and instead slid down the bed until he was lying down. “Look. What do you want to do? And don’t tell me you don’t know,” he added before Harry could say it.

Harry sighed, lying down so that they were facing each other. “I honestly don’t, though,” he said. “Look, I was just a kid. I know I didn’t deserve all the shit they put me through. But - but she wasn’t the worst of it.”

“She looked the other way when it happened,” Draco pointed out. “That’s just as bad, don't you think?” 

“Is it?” 

Draco thought about being frozen in place while Bellatrix Lestrange tortured Hermione. He thought about her screams. “It is,” he said after a moment.

“She never raised a hand to me,” Harry said.

“That’s not the only form of abuse there is,” Draco replied.

“She’s my mother’s only living relative.”

Draco thought of his father, his aunts. He thought of Sirius Black and Nymphadora Tonks. “Blood doesn’t make a family, Harry.” 

“What would you do?” Harry asked after a long moment. “If your mum wrote you to come see your dad?”

Draco took in a sharp breath. He’d asked himself that so many times he’d lost count; he’d never had an answer, not until just now, when Harry looked right at him and asked the question out loud.

“I think I’d go,” he admitted. “Just… to know.”

Harry looked at him, and it felt like he was seeing right through him. “To know what?” he asked quietly, though it looked like he already knew the answer.

Draco said it out loud anyway. “I’d want to know why,” he said, matching his tone to Harry’s. “I’d ask him all the questions I had, but mostly I’d just ask why his status was more important to him than his own son’s happiness.”

“What if he couldn’t answer?” 

“I’d ask anyway,” Draco said softly. “Because it’s for me, not for him.”

Harry seemed to consider this for a few seconds. Then he turned over to switch his table lamp off - the non-magic way, which was how Draco knew he was giving himself some time to process the conversation.

Draco murmured Nox and his lamp went out too, plunging the room into darkness. A moment later he felt a soft touch to his arm, and then Harry was burrowing into his side, face pushing into his neck.

“You’re all right?” Draco murmured.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. His lashes tickled Draco’s skin as he closed his eyes. “Thanks,” he added, so quiet Draco almost missed it.

“Don’t be an idiot, Potter.”

“Oh, shut up, Malfoy,” Harry muttered sleepily.

Draco smiled to himself in the dark as he closed his eyes.

The thing was, Draco knew Harry. Very well by now, if he did say so himself. They’d been together for years, they’d had their fair share of ups and downs, and he was quite well-acquainted with the way his partner’s mind worked. It had been frustrating as hell in the beginning - still was, at times, the bloody Gryffindor recklessness, the lack of self-preservation instincts, and most of all, the knack for forgiveness.

Then again, reflected Draco, that was what he signed up for, the first time he’d kissed Harry in the moonlit Quidditch pitch, their last year at Hogwarts. It felt like yesterday, and like forever ago.

Keeping all of that in mind, it really wasn’t surprising when Harry spoke up the next morning after about ten minutes of staring pensively at his coffee.

“She kept misgendering me,” he said. “When I was younger.”

Draco’s head snapped up. “What?” he said sharply.

“My aunt,” Harry clarified, as if there was any doubt who he’d been referring to. “She would keep misgendering me. I stopped correcting her after my uncle put me in the cupboard for a week for accidental magic. I’d corrected her, she hadn’t listened, and I’d accidentally blown up her favorite tea set from across the room.”

“Serves her right,” said Draco, putting that morning’s Prophet down so he could fully engage himself in the conversation.

Harry grinned weakly at that. “Yeah, I s’pose. She finally got it right, but only because things kept breaking around her whenever she or anyone else would - you know. Come to think of it, I think the only reason I got boys’ clothes was because it saved them money to give me Dudley’s old stuff.”

Draco sucked in a sharp breath. “You know, I’m beginning to see Weasley’s point now.”

Harry frowned at him. “What, that I shouldn’t go?”

Draco nodded. “I wouldn’t, just for that. But again,” he added, “it’s your decision.”

“She eventually stopped completely,” Harry said after a moment. “By the time I got my Hogwarts letter, they’d all stopped doing it.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Draco said pointedly. “Fuck’s sake, Harry. How many parts of you did she let them deny? How many parts did she deny herself?”

“Pretty much everything,” admitted Harry. “Everything from my race to my gender, to being a wizard.”

“And you’re still considering seeing her?” Draco shook his head. “Bloody Gryffindors, I swear to Merlin.”

“What’s being a Gryffindor got to do with it?” Harry asked, raising a brow.

Draco rolled his eyes. “More than you’d think.”

Harry ignored that. He seemed lost in thought again. Draco waited him out, sure that he’d speak again soon.

Sure enough, presently Harry said, voice far away, “I got her flowers once, when I was maybe four? I plucked them from the garden. It was spring and they looked so pretty, and I’d seen a kid in my neighborhood do the same for his mum. I thought maybe, if she liked them, she might be nicer to me.” He exhaled slowly. “She locked me in the cupboard for three days for ruining her garden.”

Draco’s heart sank. He didn’t really know what to say to that. He’d done something similar as a child, and his mother had been over the moon about it. Not a word about ruining her garden. She’d put the flowers in a vase and kept it in the middle of the dining table, and hadn't removed them until even the sturdiest of charms couldn’t keep them going.

“D’you know I hugged her once?” Harry said, and Draco looked up at him. “It was Mother’s Day, and Dudley didn’t say a word about it. And I thought maybe he’d forgotten. She looked like she wanted him to say something, but he didn’t, and I thought maybe if I did…” He trailed off. “She pushed me off and told me never to put my dirty little hands on her again. My uncle threatened to break my fingers if I ever tried anything like that ever again.”

The ache in Draco’s heart vanished instantaneously, to be replaced with fury. “Dammit, Harry,” he said, loud enough to make Harry jump a little. “If that’s not abuse, I don’t know what is. How can you say she never raised a hand to you? She hurt you all the same!”

Harry looked at him, and all the fight went out of Draco at the sight of tears in Harry’s eyes. “I know,” he said, voice steady despite everything. “I know she did.”

Draco thought of a young Harry, tiny and malnourished, wanting to hug his aunt on Mother’s Day. He thought of that same child, locked in a dusty, damp cupboard for days on end. Who knew if they’d even fed him? They probably hadn’t. Draco remembered seeing Harry properly for the first time, on the Hogwarts Express their first year - he’d been smaller than everyone else in their year. He’d looked eight or nine instead of eleven, positively drowning in his cousin’s hand-me-downs, wearing that starved look.

He’d grown, eventually. But he was still on the smaller side, shorter than Draco, shorter than Ron, only a little taller than Hermione. And sometimes he still had that starved look to him, like he was scared he’d have to go hungry again. Years and years, and it hadn’t left him.

Draco hated the Muggles.

“You said you’d see your dad again, if you could,” Harry said, and Draco snapped back to the present. “Despite what he did-”

“My father never starved me, or threatened to break my fingers for touching him,” Draco interrupted, tone sharp. 

“Yeah, he was great,” Harry said sarcastically. “Or are we pretending that what he did didn’t hurt you, too?”

Draco faltered. “That’s - that’s different.”

“How?” demanded Harry. “He’s supposed to love you unconditionally, and he all but told you that you were dead to him just ‘cause you said you weren’t interested in marrying a pureblood and continuing the family name-”

They’d had this argument more times than Draco could count, and he was tired of it. “We’re not talking about my father right now, Harry,” he reminded him. “We’re talking about your aunt.”

“I’m just saying, it’s a bit hypocritical to not want me to see her, when you said yourself you’d see your dad,” Harry argued.

“Oh, I’m the hypocrite now, am I?” snapped Draco, losing what remained of his patience. “What about you, then? You know full well that if Weasley or Granger had a relative like that, you’d never want them to go visit. Why is it different for you? Too special for the rules, or is it your martyr complex acting up again, Saint Potter?”

He regretted the words the moment they’d left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back. Harry stood and slammed his plate down in the sink, glaring venomously at Draco as he shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his cloak. “I’m going to work,” he spat. “Let me know when you’re done being a prick.”

And he’d Disapparated with a loud crack before Draco could do more than open his mouth.

He spent the rest of the day in an exceptionally terrible mood, snapping at his patients more than usual and ignoring his colleagues entirely when they tried to ask what was wrong. The sudden appearance of Ron’s head in his fireplace did nothing to improve matters.

“Oi,” began Ron.

The witch Draco was examining jumped about a foot into the air. Draco sighed. “I’m busy, Weasley,” he snapped.

“Who’s that?” the witch asked.

Ron opened his mouth to say something, and then caught sight of what he’d Flooed into. The witch was lying on the examining table with her legs spread, and Draco was bent in between them, looking at Ron with irritation.

“Fuck,” swore Ron, and even the fireplace couldn’t disguise the redness of his face, “sorry, I’m sorry-” 

And then he was gone, leaving Draco to continue his examination in peace. 

“You’ve got the clap,” Draco told the witch a moment later. “Probably explains the, ah, clapping.”

The witch groaned. “Gordon swore he was clean.”

Draco snorted. “Yeah, clearly.” She glared at him. He ignored her. “I’ll write you a potion for it, and it’ll clear up. As long as you stay away from Gordon,” added Draco, standing.

She snapped her legs shut. “I’ll kill him,” she grumbled.

“You do that,” Draco said, scribbling something down on a piece of parchment and handing it to her. “You can get this from the apothecary downstairs. Oh, and this goes without saying, but avoid intercourse until your genitals stop applauding.”

She huffed. “Well, obviously!” she said, snatching the parchment from him. “I’m not an idiot, you know!”

Draco, instead of replying, just raised a brow at her. She huffed again and stormed out of the office, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “fucking prat.”

He waited till he was sure she was gone, and then cast a Locking Charm on his door. Then he followed it up with a Silencing Charm just to be safe, because Ron had no concept of discretion and Draco was not in the mood to end up losing one of the only Healer’s offices with a fireplace.

Sure enough, Ron was back within a few minutes of the witch’s departure. “Is she gone?” he asked, only the top of his head showing in the Floo.

“Yes,” Draco said wearily.

“Oh, good.” Ron’s relief lasted only a second, and then he put the rest of his head in the fireplace and got straight to the point. “What the hell did you say to Harry?”

“What do you mean?” asked Draco, though he knew exactly what Ron meant.

“He’s in a foul mood,” Ron told him. “I Flooed him to ask if he wanted to go for drinks tonight and he almost Aguamenti’d me. Figured you’ve probably done something.”

“Why do you assume it’s me?” Draco demanded.

Ron gave him a pointed look that was no less sharp even through the Floo. 

“Okay, fine,” conceded Draco. “We may have had a row over breakfast this morning.”

“What about?” asked Ron.

“His sodding aunt,” Draco told him with a glower. “He was telling me all about his childhood with her, and I asked why he wanted to see her if she was that awful, and he brought up my father.”

“Well, your father’s not exactly a role model, is he?” Ron pointed out. 

“Not the point,” Draco snapped. “Look, I said some things I really should not have, and he got mad.”

Ron watched him for a moment, and then sighed. The action caused sparks to fly out of his mouth. “You’re a prat, Malfoy, you know that?” he said.

“Me?” Draco said, outraged. “He’s the one who’s actually considering going to see that blasted woman!”

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Ron reminded him, “but like Hermione said, it’s his choice, innit.”

“I don’t have to agree with it,” said Draco stubbornly, crossing his arms.

Ron rolled his eyes. “No, you don’t,” he said, “but if you want to keep shagging him, you do have to support him.”

“Can’t I just shag him without supporting him?” Draco said, well-aware that he sounded like he was whining.

“No, because that’s not what you signed up for,” Ron reminded him. It was maddening how mature he was being about the entire thing. He hadn’t threatened violence upon Draco even once, so far.

(“You hurt one hair on his head and I’ll fuck you up,” he’d said to Draco, when Harry had told him about their relationship. It had taken everything in Draco not to respond in kind, and in the end he’d just nodded, which had seemed to appease Ron.)

“Since when are you this level-headed, anyway?” Draco snapped at Ron, for lack of anything else to say. “Isn’t this usually Granger’s job?”

“Mate, you should be thanking your lucky stars it’s me who Flooed you and not her,” Ron told Draco seriously. “She’d have ripped you apart.”

(Hermione hadn’t threatened Draco, when she’d found out about him and Harry. She’d just given him an incredibly serious look, and somehow that had been scarier. Ron was impulsive in his rage; Hermione was cool, composed, and that was worse.)

“I don’t doubt it,” Draco muttered under his breath. “Look, I’ll fix it, all right? Though maybe you shouldn’t count on having him for drinks tonight.”

“Nah, yeah, that’s all right,” Ron said. “As long as you fix it,” he added. The don’t fuck it up was heavily implied.

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Piss off now, Weasley, I’ve got work to do.”

Ron responded by raising a hand into the Floo and performing an incredibly lewd gesture, and then he was gone.

The flat was quiet when Draco finally got home, late at night. He’d intended to be home a lot earlier, but some idiot had decided to take four of his friends somewhere with Side-Along Apparition and had ended up Splinching them all in addition to himself. Draco had been stuck cleaning the mess, reattaching fingers and toes, and memorably, a penis.

Merlin, but he hated his job sometimes.

The only indication that Harry was home was the note on the table that told Draco where to find the leftovers. Even though Harry hadn’t signed it with an x after his name the way he usually did, it filled Draco with warmth. It didn’t matter how angry Harry was with him; he never let it get in the way of looking after him. Suddenly Draco felt more like crap than he had the entire day, and the argument from earlier replayed in his mind as he charmed the leftovers to an acceptable temperature and began to eat.

He had to apologise. He had to fix it, like he’d promised Ron.

The bedroom was dark when Draco crept in after dinner. He could just barely make out Harry in the pale moonlight coming in through the curtains, curled on the bed and appearing, for all intents and purposes, fast asleep.

But Draco knew him, inside and out, and Draco knew when he was faking.

Instead of calling Harry out on it, however, Draco quietly slid off his shoes and got into bed behind Harry, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him into his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the knob of Harry’s spine, just above his collar. “I don’t know why I said all that. It was - I was lashing out. I’m sorry.”

Harry exhaled slowly, giving up all pretense of sleep. “It’s not me being noble, or being Saint Potter, or whatever you think it is,” he muttered wearily. “It’s… I don’t know how to explain it. But I thought you’d understand.”

Draco’s heart twinged painfully in his chest. “I don’t, not entirely,” he confessed. “But I’ll try harder.”

There was silence for a minute, and then Harry said, “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me, you idiot,” Draco retorted, though his words were tempered with fondness. “I’m just doing… well, what any halfway decent person would.”

“Yes, most decent people call their partners idiots while apologising to them,” Harry shot back. 

“I said halfway decent,” Draco reminded him.

Harry sighed. “Yeah, you did.” 

“Well?” demanded Draco after a few seconds passed by. “Am I forgiven, or not?”

Instead of replying, Harry took the arm Draco had draped over him, and pulled it tighter around his middle. He didn’t let go when he was done, leaving his hand over Draco’s, his fingers warm on  Draco’s skin.

“So that’s a yes?”

That made Harry laugh, much to Draco’s pleasure. “Yes, you berk.”

“Good,” said Draco, pleased. On a whim, he kissed the back of Harry’s neck, noting absently (as he always did) how lovely Harry’s skin looked in the moonlight. Though he’d never say it out loud, not on pain of death, he loved the way it contrasted with his, the way Harry’s hand looked in his when their fingers were intertwined.

“‘Night, Draco,” Harry murmured, and then yawned.

“Yeah. ‘Night,” Draco replied, closing his eyes and pressing his nose to Harry’s nape, taking in the warm scent of his skin.

The food, as always, was excellent, and the company was much less awkward than it used to be. Draco put his fork and knife beside his plate primly, like he’d been taught to do, and then sat back in his chair, discreetly loosening his belt.

Molly Weasley smiled kindly at him as she watched over the dishes that were stacking themselves on one end of the table. “Ate your fill, dear?” she asked.

Draco nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“And you, Harry?” 

Next to him, Harry beamed. “Yes, Mrs. Weasley,” he replied. “The treacle tart was wonderful.”

Ron, who’d just taken his third helping of it, nodded enthusiastically. “Have you got any left over, Mum?” he asked, thankfully after swallowing.

“Not at the rate you’re going,” muttered his sister, glowering.

“Now, now,” said Mr. Weasley, “I’m sure there will be enough for both of you.”

It hadn’t always been like this. The first year after he’d begun seeing Harry had been difficult. The Weasleys had still been grieving their son, and the war was still too fresh in their minds. The first few times Draco had accompanied Harry to the Burrow, he’d been on edge, waiting to be hexed the moment his back was turned.

That hadn’t happened.

It took time, but as soon as Molly Weasley had realized that Draco really had changed, that he really was trying to do his best, she’d done her best to make him feel welcome. There had been no mention of all the times his father had made Arthur Weasley’s life difficult, or the taunts he himself had dished out over the years. They treated Draco exactly as they treated Fleur Delacour, Angelina Johnson, Percy Weasley's wife Audrey, and Luna Lovegood (who was going to be celebrating her fifth anniversary with Ginny Weasley soon). The only one who got preferential treatment was Hermione, but Draco supposed that was to be expected. Hermione had more than earned her place in the Weasley family.

After dinner, Ron and Hermione retreated to the living-room with Ginny and Mr. Weasley. Hermione had introduced the Weasleys to a Muggle board game called Monopoly, which apparently came with more rules and instructions than Draco could make sense of. All he really understood was that it involved money, and you could get sent to prison. The worst part was that you had to move the pieces yourself.

Mr. Weasley, it seemed, was in the same boat; he had a look of utter befuddlement on his face as Hermione explained property rules to him in an extremely patient tone, while Ron and Ginny laughed silently in the background. Harry smiled at them warmly on his way to the kitchen, a stack of dishes floating in front of him. Draco decided to follow him, because if he had to listen to another diatribe about real estate he was going to lose his mind.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley set the dishes to washing themselves in the sink, while Harry put the leftovers away. Draco watched him sneak himself a piece of treacle tart, and couldn’t help but think about his bloody aunt again. How many times had Harry, as a child, been made to go hungry? Had he even been allowed dessert?

Mrs. Weasley was thinking the same thing, apparently. Draco watched her give Harry a look full of fondness, but there was an edge of sorrow to it too, and then she said, her tone gentle, “Ron told me about your aunt, dear.”

Harry froze. “He did?”

She nodded. “He said you’re thinking about going and seeing her.”

“Oh.” Harry looked tense. “Er. I haven’t decided, yet.”

“I don’t think he should go,” Draco said, and then added quickly, “but of course, it’s his decision and I shall support him either way.”

Harry, convinced easily it seemed, shot him a grateful smile. 

“I don’t like that woman, not at all,” Mrs. Weasley said with a glower. “She’s lucky she’s never crossed paths with me, or I’d have hexed her till she forgot her own name.”

“Believe me,” Draco said agreeably, “I am not looking forward to meeting her either.”

Something shifted in Mrs. Weasley’s expression; she looked from Draco to Harry, who looked apprehensive, and then turned back to the dishes in the sink. She didn’t speak, and for a moment Draco worried he’d done something wrong. Harry was clearly thinking the same thing; he’d begun fidgeting nervously, biting his lip, looking like he wanted nothing more than to run.

Then she turned around and said, voice steady, “Harry, dear, I understand she’s your aunt. I understand you lived with her for your entire childhood, that she gave you a roof above your head. I understand she’s your mum’s sister, and therefore probably the closest thing you have to her. If you want to go see her-”

But she didn’t get the chance to finish. Harry, looking stunned, spoke up immediately. “What - no!”

Mrs. Weasley paused, looking at him in surprise.

“She’s not - she’s not the closest thing I have to my mum, or anything like that!” Harry said, looking pained at the very thought. “You are! She’s not the one who took care of me and made sure I had food and that I was happy and safe, that’s you! You’re my family, all of you!”

There was a moment of absolute silence, during which Mrs. Weasley’s eyes welled up with emotion. Harry was a little flushed in the face too, and with a sudden clarity Draco understood what was going to happen. Taking advantage of their distraction, he plucked the tart from Harry’s hand; Harry was going to need both his hands free in about three seconds.

Sure enough, Mrs. Weasley said, “Oh, Harry, my darling,” in a very wet sort of voice, and in the next moment she had her arms around him and was hugging him for dear life. He hugged her back immediately (but not before discreetly wiping his sticky hand on his jeans), burying his face in her shoulder as she held him.

Feeling awkward suddenly, in spite of the fact that it was not his first time bearing witness to Weasley displays of emotion, Draco stuffed the treacle tart in his mouth and made to exit the kitchen. In the next second, however, Mrs. Weasley’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm, reeling him into the embrace, and he resigned himself to it because there were few vices tighter than her grip when she was determined to shower affection upon someone.

She did give nice hugs, Draco admitted to himself a little grudgingly as he wiped his hands on the back of Harry’s shirt. Nowhere close to his mother’s, of course, when Narcissa deigned to hug him - but nice. He could understand why Harry was in no hurry to extricate himself from her embrace.

She loved him like a son, Draco knew. Something Harry had never had during his childhood. And for that, Draco would endure all the awkward displays of affection and all the complicated Muggle board games in the world.

Draco came home the following Monday to an empty flat. There was a note on the kitchen table, and the lingering scent of something spicy and delicious in the air. Draco took off his cloak and slung it over the back of a chair, and picked up the note.

Gone flying. Be back soon.
-Harry x

Draco put it back, and moved to the bedroom so he could change into something more comfortable. Harry must have needed to clear his head. Good for him, thought Draco. Flying always helped. For a moment Draco debated joining him, but then decided against it - Harry could do with the time alone, and besides, he was too tired.

Instead he returned to the kitchen, stomach rumbling embarrassingly loudly as he inhaled the scent of whatever Harry had made. It was surprising that Harry had had time to cook, considering how long his hours tended to be, but Draco supposed he must have left work early.

He’d just lifted the lid off the cooking pot when the door opened and Harry came in, hair windswept and cheeks red from the wind. He grinned when he saw that Draco was home, and put aside the Firebolt so he could go hug him.

“You’re in a good mood,” Draco noted, returning the hug with one arm - the other was still holding the lid of the pot. “Good day at work?”

“It was fine,” Harry told him. “You?”

“The usual,” Draco answered. “I see you’ve made biryani.”

“Was in the mood,” Harry said with a smile.

“You don’t usually cook,” Draco pointed out. 

“Well, I don’t usually have the time for it, do I?” replied Harry. He tasted some of the biryani with a tablespoon, and then wrinkled his nose a little. “Pass me the salt, would you?”

Draco obliged, putting the lid down on the counter so he could sit at the kitchen table. This was one of the little things he found endearing about Harry, though he’d never ordinarily admit it. Despite years in the wizarding world, some of Harry’s mannerisms were undoubtedly non-magic - such as the way he turned his bedside lamp off using the switch; and the way he asked Draco to pass him things instead of Summoning them like anyone else would have done; and even the fact that he’d gotten himself a Muggle driving license despite the fact that he barely drove, preferring magical modes of transport to the hassle of traffic and car maintenance.

“It’s ready,” announced Harry, jolting Draco from his thoughts.

They ate in near-silence. Draco found himself suddenly ravenous, and the food tasted great, and so he mostly focused on his plate, taking a break once just to compliment Harry before diving back in. Harry grinned at him as he ate his own rice, looking pleased with himself.

“Mrs. Weasley helped me learn how to make it,” he told Draco as they cleaned up afterward.

“Bless her,” Draco said fervently in response. It really was good.

Harry grinned widely, and Draco wished he could bottle the way that expression made him feel.

They made love that night, leisurely and unhurried, and Draco took Harry apart with his hands and mouth and body, until all Harry knew was his name and nothing else. And afterwards, when they were both sated and clean and sleepy, Harry curled into Draco’s side, humming contentedly into Draco’s skin.

“I think I’ll go,” he murmured sleepily. “Not ‘cause she deserves it. But ‘cause I do.”

Draco turned that over in his head, and remembered how he’d told Harry all the questions he’d have asked his father given the chance - for his own sake, not his father’s. It made sense, he had to admit grudgingly, even though every single part of him wanted nothing more than to keep Harry away from whoever had hurt him.

He had too, once upon a time. The only thing that kept him able to look himself in the eye was the fact that he’d done his best to make amends.

“All right,” he said in the end. “If that’s what you want to do.”

“Mm,” mumbled Harry. “Thanks, Draco.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Potter.” The words were well-worn and familiar, and Draco found himself smiling as he said them.

“Oh, shut up, Malfoy,” came Harry’s rehearsed response, and Draco smiled wider.

NOW

Petunia Dursley looked the same as she always had - bony, long-necked, haughty. But the longer Harry looked, the more he found ways in which she was different too - the grey in her hair, the lines on her face, and the way her shoulders stooped.

She looked up when Harry entered, and her face did something very complicated that Harry could not entirely decipher. For a moment the two of them just took each other in, and then she said, “Close the door behind you, boy.”

Draco nudged the door shut with his boot.

“Aunt Petunia,” said Harry, for lack of anything else to say.

She looked at him from where she was sitting in a rocking chair by the window. There were blankets on her lap, and she had a book resting on top of them, her knobby hand stuck between the pages so she wouldn’t lose her place. “Harry,” she said quietly.

It felt strange, hearing her use his given name.

“Sit,” she said belatedly.

Harry sat down gingerly in a stuffed chintz chair. Draco did not, despite the presence of another similar chair; he chose instead to stand next to Harry in some unspoken solidarity.

“This is Draco,” Harry said after a few painfully awkward moments. “My, er, my partner.”

She gave Draco an assessing once-over. “I see. And he’s… like you, I suppose.”

Draco let out a snort that Harry ignored. “He’s a wizard too, yes. We met at school.”

Another painful silence.

“He’s a Healer,” Harry added, almost desperately. “At St. Mungo’s Hospital.”

That seemed to work; Aunt Petunia gave Draco another searching glance, and then asked, “So like a doctor, then?”

“Merlin, no,” Draco said at once, before Harry could talk. He sounded horrified at the comparison. “No, no, we’re nothing like those butchers. We don’t cut people up and then stitch them together, how absolutely barbaric-”

“What he means is,” Harry said hastily before Aunt Petunia’s eyes could pop out of her head, “is that they use magic to heal people.”

“And potions,” Draco added. 

“Potions,” Aunt Petunia repeated, a little faintly. “Yes, I suppose your lot wouldn’t care about penicillin and all that.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he decided to look around the room in an attempt to buy himself some time to gather his thoughts. It wasn’t bad - there was a queen-sized bed, a cupboard, a small dresser, and a round table with two little chairs. A fruit basket sat atop the table, and there were fresh flowers in a vase on the dresser. The room looked cozy and comfortable, and Harry had to admit that as far as care homes went, it could have been far worse.

“You like it?” Aunt Petunia asked, following his gaze. “Dudders chose the place.”

Draco made a funny coughing sound, presumably in response to the nickname. Harry elbowed him discreetly, and said, “It’s nice.”

“It’s the best there is,” she told him, a note of pride in her voice. “He’s doing quite well, Dudders is. A hotshot lawyer, now. Working for Grunnings like his daddy.”

“I heard, yes,” Harry said. His name in big letters on the company stationery he’d written his letter on was sort of a dead giveaway, too.

“What is it that you do, again?” she asked, peering at him over her glasses.

“Er, I’m an Auror. You know, law enforcement.”

She looked disappointed that he hadn’t given her a disappointing answer. Which, Harry supposed, was par for the course.

“Don’t suppose it pays very well?” Aunt Petunia said, eyeing the jeans and t-shirt Harry was wearing.

“Is that really any of your business?” Draco asked loudly.

Harry elbowed him again, and he shut up, but not before shooting Harry a glare and making a show of rubbing his arm.

“Dudley’s job pays very well,” Aunt Petunia went on, like Draco hadn’t spoken. “He’s got a lovely house in the suburbs, you know. It’s got its own swimming pool.”

“We’ve got a flat in Greenwich,” Harry said. “It doesn’t have a swimming pool, but we do have a nice hot tub.”

“Can you afford Greenwich?” Aunt Petunia asked, looking vaguely strained.

“Well, of course, since we’re living there,” Harry pointed out, as politely as he could considering the awkwardness in the room was practically asphyxiating at this point.

Draco opened his mouth to say something, but thankfully shut it before Harry could elbow him a third time. Pretending she hadn’t seen that, Aunt Petunia said, almost grudgingly, “Well, it was… considerate of you to come. I haven’t had company in a while.”

“What, does Dudley not visit?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Well, he’s a busy man,” Aunt Petunia said after a rather telling pause. “I don’t imagine he has the time to make silly trips out here.” There was an edge of sorrow to her voice, though, and despite himself, Harry’s heart gave a twinge of sympathy.

“You’re his mum,” he found himself saying quietly. “If he has this huge house and all that money, you shouldn’t be here to begin with.”

“It’s for the best,” Aunt Petunia said after a moment. “I’ve got my peace and quiet, and I’m not in his or his wife’s way. He works hard, you know, he hasn’t got time to worry about me. Especially not since Vernon.”

Harry remembered the letter a few years ago, informing him of Vernon’s passing. The funeral had been the last time he’d seen his aunt in person. She’d looked alone and incomplete, without her husband's hulking presence beside her.

She looked much the same way now. 

“I wasn’t going to come, you know,” Harry said. “I almost didn’t.”

Aunt Petunia did not seem surprised at that. “What changed your mind?”

Harry shrugged. 

She turned back to the window by her chair, looking out of it to the car park below. “We raised you,” she said. “Gave you a roof over your head, fed you, clothed you. Your coming here is not a favour. You owe me this much.”

Next to Harry, Draco shifted, one hand twitching towards where he kept his wand. Harry reached out, put a hand on his arm, and then said, keeping his voice as even as he could considering his heart was beating loudly in his chest, “You were awful to me. You made my life hell my entire childhood.”

She turned back, and now she looked outraged, face reddening. “How dare you - you ungrateful little - you would have been dead if I hadn’t convinced my husband to take you in!”

“No, he wouldn’t have been.” Draco, it seemed, could no longer hold himself back. “You don’t know anything, do you? What he means to people in our world. What he’s done for us.”

“I know he got rid of that Dark Lord fellow,” Petunia said, raising an eyebrow at Draco. “That does not change anything I just said.”

“You starved me,” Harry reminded her, and now his blood was thundering in his ears. “You kept me locked in that cupboard, you kept using the wrong pronouns, and you never stopped Vernon or Dudley from hitting me! You lied to me about my parents, and you never lost a chance to insult them in front of me. What exactly is it that I’m supposed to be grateful for, again?”

“We were trying to stamp the freakishness from you,” hissed Petunia. “This - this magic nonsense that got your parents blown up-”

“Stop it,” Harry snapped. 

She glared at him. “Don’t take that tone with me, boy-”

“He’s not a child anymore,” interrupted Draco, and Harry could hear barely restrained fury in his tone. It filled him up with warmth, that tone of voice from his normally controlled, composed partner - it felt good to know that he had someone standing beside him, someone fighting on his behalf. “He’s not yours to control, so don’t you dare talk to him like that! You should be grateful he even bothered to show up, because let me tell you, none of us in his life wanted him to ever have to go near you again!”

“Well, no one forced him to come,” snapped Petunia.

“You’re bloody unbelievable, you are,” Draco said before Harry could speak, sounding amazed at her response. “He’s your nephew. Your dead sister’s only child, and you - you couldn’t muster up the smallest amount of kindness for him? He was a baby, and you hurt him!”

“I gave him a roof over his head,” she began, but it sounded feeble already.

Draco cut her off again. “Did you know he still has trouble with food sometimes? Did you know he still has nightmares that he’s stuck in that sodding cupboard? Does it even matter to you, what he went through under your so-called care? You act like you’re such a saint, and yet when you’re handed your dead sister’s infant to look after, you treat him like your bloody servant! Merlin, and you think us wizards are the bad ones,” he finished, with a mirthless laugh.

“Draco,” Harry said quietly, past the lump in his throat.

“Don’t ‘Draco’ me,” he snapped. “You know I’m right.”

“Not what I - never mind,” Harry said, deciding to save it for later. His eyes were still on his aunt, who was looking at him with an aghast look on her face. She had gone white, and it seemed that Draco’s words had hit her in some way that she had not anticipated. Her knuckles flexed in her lap, causing her book to fall off, but she paid it no mind.

“What?” Draco said, goading. “Got nothing to say to that, have you, you old hag?”

Petunia’s mouth, which had been slightly open, closed, and she pressed her lips into a thin line. Harry was intimately aware of this expression, disapproval and anger and disappointment all rolled into one, but he was no longer that child in the cupboard, and she did not frighten him anymore.

“He’s right,” he said quietly. “Draco. Everything he said. You used to make me wish I’d died with my parents.”

Petunia took in a deep, shuddering breath, and then said, “Then - why are you here?” Her voice, Harry noted, was shaking a little.

“Because I wanted to know why,” he told her. “Just ‘cause you hated my mum? I know you were jealous she got to do magic and you didn’t. Was that it?”

At that, all the bluster seemed to go out of Petunia; she sagged back in her chair. “Some of it, yes,” she admitted with a sigh. 

“And the rest?” Harry asked.

She did not answer immediately. Harry watched as she fidgeted with the edge of her blankets, and then the wedding ring she still wore, and then her glasses. Next to him, Draco raised his arm, and Harry had the fleeting worry that he would try to hex his aunt, but then Draco put his hand on Harry’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Harry covered Draco’s hand with his own and squeezed it in thanks, before letting it fall back into his lap.

“I don’t know if you know,” Petunia said in the end, and both Harry and Draco turned back to her, “but you’ve got - you’ve got Lily’s eyes. Everything else about you is exactly like your father, except for your eyes.”

Almost against his will, Harry thought of Severus Snape, and his final words. Look at me, he’d said, and Harry knew now he’d wanted a last glimpse of Lily’s eyes. He looked at his aunt now, and he wondered if she felt guilty for the way she’d treated her sister, and if she’d taken that out on him for daring to remind her of Lily.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said in the end, and looked his aunt in the eyes. She flinched, but held his gaze. “It was still wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter?” repeated Petunia. “I am your family. That does not matter?” 

Harry thought of James and Lily dying for him. He thought of Ron and Hermione, his first taste of family; Sirius and Remus, who’d loved him endlessly; the Weasleys, who took him in and made him one of their own, especially Molly, who fed him and held him and learned how to make South Asian food just for him. He thought of McGonagall and the fondness she barely permitted herself to show even now; of Teddy and his wet little kisses and giggles; Andromeda’s smiles and the way she always had ice cream in her kitchen for him. He even thought of Narcissa and the letters she secretly wrote Draco and Harry, and the box of Sirius’s old things she’d dug out of storage to give Harry just this last Christmas. He thought of how she always sent Chocolate Frogs for Harry along with Draco’s stupid fancy French-made mints.

And he thought of Draco, who left his family behind for him, who cut out every part of himself that he’d hated just so he could be worthy of Harry. Who still teased him endlessly about everything from his hair to his intelligence, but who always held him at night and on particularly bad days. He thought of how he’d fall asleep on the sofa watching telly, with his head in Draco’s lap, and how Draco wouldn’t move for hours to avoid waking him up.

And he thought of Draco, now, his hand on Harry’s shoulder, standing next to him like he had been for the last ten years.

“Someone once told me it's not just blood that makes a family,” Harry said, in the end. Draco’s fingers tightened on Harry’s shoulder, and then relaxed once more. Harry continued, “So - no, it doesn’t matter. My mother’s eyes are not an excuse for people to treat me as they wish. I - I’m not her. You can’t just expect to take your guilt out on me and think I’ll be grateful for it.”

He stood, letting Draco’s hand fall off his shoulder. “You’re right, though,” he said, and now his heartbeat had returned to normal, and his thoughts were calmer, “that no one forced me to come. And I think it’s obvious you’d rather I didn’t, so-”

He’d just reached the door when Petunia said suddenly, sharply, “Wait.”

Draco made an impatient noise in the back of his throat, but Harry turned. “Yes?”

She hesitated. “I… I am sorry, you know,” she said in the end. “For - for it all. For what it’s worth.”

“Worth about as much as Flobberworm waste,” muttered Draco so that only Harry heard.

He suppressed his snort at Draco’s colourful phrasing. “I know,” he told her simply.

She looked expectant, like she was waiting for him to say something else, perhaps to absolve her, but instead Harry just gave her a cursory farewell nod, and stepped out of the room before she could say anything else.

“That went well,” Draco said wryly once they were in the welcome solitude of the lifts.

“About as well as expected,” Harry replied, feeling tired all of a sudden.

“She’s about as pleasant as a slug,” noted Draco. “Really, I don’t know how you didn’t just hex her when she pissed you off.”

“She wasn’t worth risking expulsion from Hogwarts,” Harry told him. “That’s about it, really.”

“We could go back and hex her now,” Draco suggested with barely suppressed longing in his voice.

“Not worth the arse-kicking we’d get from Kingsley and the DMLE,” Harry reminded him with a small grin.

The lift doors opened, and they made their way back across the lobby. The woman at reception looked up at the sound of Draco’s boots on the polished floor, and asked, “Will you be returning? If so, you can register with us-”

“No, thank you,” Harry said politely, cutting across her. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

And with that, he took Draco’s hand and stepped out into the sun, leaving the Dursleys behind for the final time.