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His Summoning Spells went first.

Harry barely noticed. He’d murmur a distracted Accio and would get a flash of surprise when nothing filled his waiting hand—the stomach-clenching jolt of falling into one of Hogwarts’s trick steps, thin air where something solid should be. On an insistent second attempt, whatever he’d wanted would soar right to him; he chalked up the initial lapse to lack of attention, to sloppy spell-casting.

His Shield Charms went next. He didn’t make the connection to the misbehaving Summoning Spells. He didn’t even realise—actually felt a stab of pride whenever it happened, assuming his students had improved under his tutelage. He even awarded twenty house points to the ever-anxious Aoife O’Neill when her ordinarily shaky Stunning Spell knocked him out cold in the middle of a lesson.

Slowly, over the next six months, more and more of Harry’s spells failed. It made sense, really: he was getting lazy. After all, since becoming a teacher, he was no longer being challenged by learning new spells every day. And Voldemort was long dead—Harry’s magic had probably been fuelled by sheer panic for the previous thirteen years. It was only natural that his spells would be weaker once he finally started to relax.

But then, on his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry Apparated from Grimmauld Place to Diagon Alley to meet Ron and Hermione. He landed outside the Leaky Cauldron—or, rather, most of him landed outside the Leaky Cauldron. The rest of him stayed in Islington.

Harry had never Splinched himself before, and for a long second, he was confused why his appearance had caused an outbreak of horrified screaming instead of the usual whispers and stares. He looked down at himself—at most of himself. As if it had been waiting for his brain to catch up, pain abruptly flooded through him. Harry inhaled sharply, once, and collapsed on the spot.

He woke in St Mungo’s two days later, limbs reattached and organs reinserted and wounds closed without a trace. He didn’t have time to feel relieved—Hermione, her lip bitten bloody, immediately flung herself on him, a stream of words gushing from her mouth into his shoulder. Harry didn’t understand a single one.

“Hermione! Shh, it’s okay, I’m okay. Slow down.”

“Sorry.” She sniffed and pulled away, wiping her eyes. “You gave us such a fright. I’d forgotten what it was like, worrying about you.” At that, she hit him sharply on the arm.

“Ow! Careful, you’ll knock it off again!”

“How could you not tell us?” she demanded. “And how could you be stupid enough to Apparate? Do you actually miss nearly dying that much?”

Harry rubbed the spot where Hermione’s blow had landed. Truthfully, it had barely hurt—he’d had worse Stinging Hexes from second years, especially over the last few months—but he needed something to do with his hands. Something to distract him from the uneasiness growing in the pit of his stomach.

“What are you talking about?”

Hermione’s face fell. “Oh. You haven’t noticed.”

“Haven’t noticed what?” Harry pulled himself upright. The cold metal bars of the headboard dug into his back. “Hermione, what is it?”

Hermione glanced around the room as if checking for back-up. Finding it empty, she looked at him despairingly, then set her shoulders.

“Your magic, Harry,” she said. A quiver in her voice betrayed her. “The Healers ran checks on you after they fixed you up to make sure nothing was amiss. Your magic is a quarter of what it should be.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean? My magic is a quarter of—? I don’t understand.”

“The potency of a person’s magic can be measured, like your heart rate, or oxygen level, or anything else. And yours is dangerously low, Harry. Dangerously low. The Healers are surprised you could Apparate at all, never mind that you didn’t Splinch yourself worse.” She shuddered, and grabbed Harry’s hand. Harry let her squeeze it, grateful for the grounding sensation of her touch.

“How can my magic be dangerously low, though? I’m fine.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows and looked pointedly at his hospital gown.

“Aside from that one thing, I’m fine,” Harry amended. “It’s not a big deal, though, right? People Splinch themselves all the time. And technically I still haven’t taken my test, so it’s hardly surprising.” He grinned, but Hermione still looked grave.

“The Healers say there’s evidence that this has been happening for a while. Haven’t you noticed your spells getting weaker?”

Harry’s grin faded, memories of shoddy Summoning Spells and shattered Shield Charms taking on a new, unpleasant meaning.

“Well, I’ve been—I haven’t been at school, have I? I mean, I’m not a student. I’m casting the same spells over and over, not learning anything new, so… And I’m not looking over my shoulder for Death Eaters any more, either, so I’m not—not as alert…” But the excuses he’d been telling himself for months suddenly sounded much less reasonable when said aloud.

Hermione shook her head. “There’s something else going on, but they don’t know what. They mentioned that it could be a curse—”

“A curse?” Harry said sharply. “Who could curse me? I’m at Hogwarts all the time. I’ve only been back in London since the beginning of the summer holidays. So, unless Flitwick’s finally had enough of seeing me around the castle…”

“I don’t know, Harry!” Hermione bit her lip again, and Harry suddenly felt so guilty that he kept doing this, kept attracting trouble, kept making her worry.

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” he said, slipping into the voice he used for soothing frazzled students. “I promise I’ll take it easy. And I won’t Apparate anywhere. We’ve figured out worse things than this, haven’t we? There’s no need to panic.”

Maybe he was talking sense—or maybe a Teacher Voice worked on Hermione like nothing else could—but Hermione took a deep breath and nodded shakily.

“You’re right,” she said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. You’re going to be absolutely fine.”

August passed without incident, and on September the first, Harry went back to Hogwarts.

At least, he tried to go back to Hogwarts.

Following the Healers’ instructions not to Apparate—and deciding he’d rather not wrestle his trunk through his too-small fireplace—Harry took the Knight Bus. Stan Shunpike cheerfully dropped him off at the Entrance Gates, and Harry waved to him as the bus drove away, privately thinking that he’d rather Splinch himself again than sit through another stomach-churning journey with Stan cheerfully chattering about everything he’d done while under the Imperius Curse during the war.

Once the bus had disappeared, Harry turned to the castle. Then he froze.

Because where Hogwarts should have been, there stood a crumbling ruin. A sign was chained to the rusted gates:

DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, UNSAFE.

The rest of September was the worst month Harry had had in years.

Clearly unfit to teach, since he couldn’t even see the castle, he returned glumly to London. His magic was now so depleted that even his attempts at Lumos produced the weakest flickers of light, the dying sputter of a candle almost burned out. He was vaguely concerned that Grimmauld Place would kick him out, too—he was well aware of the Black family’s attitude towards Muggles and Squibs—but Kreacher assured him that Master Harry is a good master, and Kreacher will serve him until his dying day, even if Master Harry could do with taking advantage of one of his five bathrooms to wash himself in, for he is beginning to smell very strongly of body odour and Firewhisky, sir.

By October, even his weak Lumos had gone. He’d lived without magic for years, so he was surprised at the strength of his reaction to its loss now; he felt like he was ten years old again, locked inside the cupboard under the stairs, powerless and worthless. He stopped going outside, feeling far too vulnerable with no means of defending himself from a possible attack.

In November, the Aurors found out what had happened to him. Harry had expected the discovery to be a comfort.

It wasn’t.

“Can you— Can you tell me again? But slower? And maybe with smaller words?”

He was sitting across a dark wooden desk from Head Auror Robards, Harry’s former (and Ron’s current) boss. Ron and Hermione were with him—Ron in the chair next to him, Hermione on her feet, pacing anxiously.

An antique chest sat on the desk. It was about the size of a Muggle toaster, and was made from iron, dark and rusted. It was decorated with thick, unfriendly curlicues that didn’t exactly look like snakes, but certainly called them to mind. There was a keyhole in the front, from which thin wisps of smoke were slowly unfurling.

“The Aurors are investigating every property owned by known Death Eaters to make sure nobody is hiding anything nasty,” Hermione said, when Robards seemed stumped by the idea of slow and simple. “They found this in a hidden room in Malfoy Manor.”

Harry waved a hand. “Yeah, I get that bit,” he said. “It’s what’s inside that’s not making sense. It’s a—a contract, you said?” He looked at Robards for confirmation.

Robards nodded. “A marriage contract.”

“A marriage contract,” Harry repeated. “With… With my name on it.”

“Yours and Draco Malfoy’s, yes.”

That had been one of the things that had stumped him the first time, too. “So you’re saying I’m…married? To Malfoy?”

“Not married yet,” Hermione said. Her bottom lip was already reddening from renewed nervous lip-biting. “But—you might have to be.”

“It seems either Lucius or Narcissa—or both—suspected You-Know-Who’s attempt at power would not succeed, and put a safeguard in place for Draco. A contract, tying his life to yours, with consequences in place if the stipulations were not fulfilled.”

“Consequences? Stipulations?”

“Your magic, Harry,” said Hermione. “You haven’t married Malfoy, so the contract took your magic.”

Harry rubbed his forehead. “But how can they just do that? Why isn’t everyone writing up secret magical marriage contracts for their enemies, if it’s that easy?”

“For it to be valid, they would have needed an element of you, like with Polyjuice. Your blood, your hair, something like that.”

Harry remembered being on his knees in Malfoy Manor, his head jerked back by Greyback’s tight grip on his hair as he was presented to Malfoy, his face swollen beyond recognition. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that a few long, black strands had been yanked out, had drifted to the floor, had been picked up by a desperate, keen-eyed Narcissa Malfoy.

“There also needs to be a familial connection. This is old magic, Harry, from a time when it was common for the head of families to arrange marriages for the younger members. It seems that when Sirius named you as his heir, he marked you as officially being of Black lineage. That’s why Grimmauld Place—”

“Why Grimmauld Place still lets me in,” Harry finished hollowly. “Even though I don’t have magic.”

“Exactly. And it’s why Narcissa was able to evoke the contract in your name. The magic recognises her as your elder relative. She has authority over you.”

“Fuck.” Harry’s head was reeling. Over the last few months, ruminating over his depleted magic, he’d suspected everything from the lingering effects of the Horcrux to nutritional damage from the summer he’d eaten nothing but grapefruit and birthday cake. He’d considered poisons, Dark creatures, cursed items of clothing. An unfulfilled marriage contract had not occurred to him.

“Now we know what it is, we might be able to undo it,” Hermione said earnestly. “It might not be— You might be back to normal before you know it.”

Ron cleared his throat and looked at Harry apologetically. “I wouldn’t be so sure. You can’t get out of a marriage contract. That was the whole point of them: signing one was the ultimate mark of commitment. No avoiding it. No loopholes.”

No avoiding it. No loopholes.

It took four days to track down Malfoy. They found him in a Muggle village in rural Wales, quite by accident—Mr Griffiths, the husband of a Muggle-born Auror, was visiting his sister-in-law and saw Malfoy frowning at a carton of milk in the corner shop. Mr Griffiths had a startled moment of recognition, then skirted around Malfoy to get to the pet food shelf. He happened to mention the encounter to his wife during a Floo call that evening, in between complaining about the rain and holding up his sister-in-law’s new puppy (which, Mr Griffiths later told Harry earnestly, had the cutest little face he’d ever seen).

Apparently, Malfoy didn’t resist when the Aurors hammered on his door and insisted he join them at the Ministry immediately. He flinched when he saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione waiting for him, stony-faced, in Robards’s office, then failed to cast a simple Wingardium Leviosa at Robards’s request. He answered their questions in a bored monotone (“When did your magic start disappearing?”—“I don’t know. I don’t use magic if I can help it.”—“Why did you move to Wales?”—“Why would I stay here?”—“Were you aware of the existence of a marriage contract with your name on it?”—“What? No. Are you serious? To whom?”) then sat silently, shoulders back and eyes narrowed, as Robards explained. He gave Harry a look of pure disgust at the end of it, then bowed his head and said in a quiet voice, “My mother did this?”

“She is the most likely suspect,” Robards confirmed. “Though, given that both of your parents are deceased, we cannot be certain. Do you maintain that you had no knowledge of it?”

An echo of the old sneer flickered over Malfoy’s pointed face. “Of course I didn’t.”

“We might yet find a solution,” Hermione said with a glance at Harry. “You might not have to go through with it.”

“You can’t get out of a marriage contract.” Malfoy’s voice was still quiet. “And even if you could, if my mother… She would have made sure.” He sighed, then locked eyes with Harry. “So. When are we doing this?”

“Well,” Harry said. “I’m free literally all the time.”

“Right. We’ll need at least a month to prepare.”

“A month?” Harry spun in his chair so he could glare incredulously at Malfoy properly. “We don’t need a month. It’s not like it’s going to be a real wedding, is it? We just need to sign a bit of paper and move on with our— What— What’s it doing?”

The lid of the antique chest on Robards’s desk sprang open. Distinctly unfriendly sparks of magic crackled from within.

“Oh, well done, Potter. Keep talking about how you don’t intend to properly fulfil the binding magical contract while you’re right in front of it.”

“But— I thought we could just— I’m not actually going to marry—”

The chest shuddered, thick iron legs thudding against the desk. Malfoy rolled his eyes, gestured sharply for Ron to stand up, then flung himself into Ron’s vacated chair. He grabbed Harry’s hand—Harry, stunned, let him take it. Malfoy’s fingers were cold.

“I think February would be nice,” Malfoy said loudly over the clamour of metal on wood. “That should give us enough time to get everything in order, but it’s not so far away that we’ll have to wait too much longer than we already have.” He paused and looked meaningfully at the chest, which had stopped shuddering but was still sparking threateningly.

“How about Valentine’s Day?” Hermione suggested, also eyeing the chest.

“Valentine’s—?!”

“Wonderful idea, Granger,” Malfoy said in that same loud voice. “Don’t you think, Potter? Wouldn’t it be romantic?”

Harry looked from Malfoy’s gritted teeth to Hermione’s wide eyes to the grim, determined line of Ron’s mouth. “Ron?” Harry asked beseechingly.

“Dead romantic, yeah,” Ron said, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “It’d really show everyone”—he nodded at the chest—“how serious you are about fulfilling the— I mean, how serious you are about each other.”

“I…” Everyone was silent, waiting for him to finish. Even the chest calmed, as if it, too, was waiting to hear what he had to say. “Right,” Harry said eventually, his voice sounding hollow even to his own ears. “Right. A Valentine’s Day wedding to Draco Malfoy. Wonderful. I can’t wait.”

Harry had never put much thought into the concept of marriage. He had never really pictured himself as a husband, living a domestic life with someone he wanted to be with forever. So it was quite a surprise when he found himself grieving, over the next few months, for the future that had been snatched away from him.

He wouldn’t get to pick someone. He wouldn’t get to propose. He wouldn’t get to plan a perfect future with his favourite person. He’d just have…Malfoy.

Malfoy, who insisted on doing everything properly, even though the talk of invitations and venues and caterers made Harry feel a bit sick.

Malfoy, who didn’t say a single negative word about the situation, but managed to make his disdain for Harry quite clear with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a curled lip.

Malfoy, who, without Harry noticing, slowly but surely installed himself in Grimmauld Place, until one frosty January morning, Harry woke to the sound of running water from the bathroom and realised Malfoy had been living with him for weeks.

Harry lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Malfoy hum a song Harry didn’t recognise. He reluctantly admitted to himself that it made quite a nice change, waking to the sound of life, of absently murmured music, instead of the crushing silence he’d lived with since September; he’d spent too much time alone at the Dursleys’ to relish solitude as an adult. That was part of the reason he loved Hogwarts so much—there was always noise, always activity, always the reminder that he wasn’t alone, wasn’t locked up, wasn’t hidden away in shame.

God, he missed the castle so much it burned. If marrying Malfoy was what it took to be able to go back, was that really so bad? They’d already lived together for weeks—apparently—and Harry had barely seen him. Was waking up to the sound of the shower really such a big price to pay?

The last twisted fingers of his grief relaxed into acceptance.

There were three weeks left until his wedding day.

On the morning of February 14th, Harry woke to an empty house. Malfoy had stayed at his old Kensington flat—another nod to tradition Harry thought was unnecessary, but, as usual, his opinion had not been consulted.

Actually, he did feel a bit guilty about how little he had contributed to the proceedings. On the rare occasions that Malfoy had insisted Harry needed to be involved, he’d allowed himself to be dragged to meetings and consultations and fittings, but the rest of the time, he’d moped at home while Malfoy flitted in and out of the house, a quill behind his ear and a smudge of ink on his cheek, rolls of parchment stuffed under his arm and ash on his shoulders from endless Floo calls.

But what could Harry contribute, really? He didn’t know a thing about weddings. He certainly didn’t know anything about magical contractually obligated weddings. And although he had grudgingly accepted his fate, he still couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for the day itself, no matter how hard he tried.

Luckily, Malfoy hadn’t expected much from him. Harry considered being insulted by the condescendingly detailed instructions Malfoy had left pinned to the inside of Harry’s bedroom door, but honestly, he needed it. The robes that Malfoy had picked for him were alarmingly complex, and it took Harry a solid forty minutes (and a lot of rereading Malfoy’s note) before he was confident he was wearing them properly.

And make sure you arrive by 1 o’clock sharp. I’ve told the carriage company to await your owl. Please, for the love of Merlin, have them pick you up by 11 o’clock at the very latest. DO NOT TRAVEL BY FLOO. You can’t show up to your own wedding with soot all over you.

Harry pulled a face. He’d seen the carriages Malfoy had recommended—awful, ostentatious things, pulled by silver adolescent unicorns with red ribbons woven into their manes. Harry wouldn’t be seen dead ten feet near one, much less riding one through London.

Besides, he’d likely be spending the rest of his life doing ostentatious things to appease Draco Malfoy. So, at quarter past eleven, Harry squared his shoulders, tucked Malfoy’s note into the pocket of his stupid fancy robes, and strode determinedly to Highbury & Islington tube station.

He realised his mistake as soon as he was on the station concourse, squinting at the large map of the London Underground that hung on the wall.

“You all right there, darlin’?”

Harry jumped as a woman in a blue uniform appeared at his side.

“Er, yeah,” he said quickly, the wary sympathy (or was that, god forbid, pity?) in her smile setting him on edge. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

His dismissal failed to get rid of her, but at least seemed to convince her he was sober—and somewhat sane. Harry was still frowning at the map—a complex puzzle of lines that no regular person could interpret, surely—but out of the corner of his eye, he saw her relax.

“Ah, fancy dress party, is it? What are you supposed to be, some kind of fancy monk?” The woman chuckled. “Bit early in the day for that kind of thing, innit?”

Harry compulsively checked his watch—half past. He still had time.

“We’re making a day of it,” Harry said, smiling tightly. “Listen—could you tell me how to get to Hampton Court?”

Ten minutes later, Harry found himself on the train, muttering the route to himself and checking the map at every stop, as if it might have changed since he last looked. There are planned track closures on the Victoria line, the Underground worker had told him matter-of-factly—he had nodded, not understanding in the slightest, but it seemed to mean that instead of a relatively simple journey, he had to take a complex route involving four Underground trains, one mainline train, and a bus.

Still, it was better than Cyrille Clairmont’s Ceremonial Carriages for Celebratory Occasions.

The trouble was, Harry hadn’t travelled in a Muggle way since his last trip on the Hogwarts Express, and he had quite forgotten how long it took to get anywhere without magic. By the time he fought his way off the bus outside Hampton Court Palace, he was anxious, sweaty and twenty minutes late.

Also, it had started to rain.

Slightly panicked, Harry wove through umbrellas and shopping bags and teenagers gliding on wheeled trainers. He was following his gut rather than any specific memory or sense of direction, a move he knew Hermione and Malfoy both would be outraged at—and so he felt a savage shot of victory when the cafés, pubs and clothes shops gave way to a tree-lined street and a set of imposing metal gates.

He hurried through them and followed the path to the ridiculously huge venue that Malfoy had chosen. A person in buttercup yellow robes was waiting for him by the building’s impressive entrance. Harry’s glasses were too splattered with rain to see who it was, but he knew. Luna.

“God, I’m so late,” he panted once he’d splashed through the courtyard to reach her. “How fucked am I?”

“Not at all. You’re right on time,” Luna said with a serene smile. As soon as she finished speaking, bells began to peal from some indeterminate point in the clouds above their heads.

“You should go in, I think. Draco will be happy to see you.”

Harry snorted, still trying to catch his breath. “Will he?”

“Yes,” Luna said simply. “But I think he would prefer it if you didn’t drip everywhere. He put a lot of effort into the decorations.”

Harry looked down at the puddle that had formed beneath his feet. “Right,” he said. “Should I… Is there time for me to find a towel?”

“Oh, you don’t need a towel. Here—hold still.”

With no other option, Harry froze. Luna waved her wand and a gust of warm air whirled around him, surrounding him head to foot. Once it had died down, Harry found himself ruffled, but completely dry.

“You should have brought an umbrella,” Luna told him. “They trap your thoughts, so I understand why you didn’t want to, but it probably would have been for the best. I couldn’t save your flower.”

Harry fruitlessly tried to straighten the petals of the white flower that was pinned to his chest. “Don’t worry. A sad flower is the least of anyone’s worries today.”

“Oh? Why? What else are you worried about?”

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, I’m marrying Draco Malfoy today,” he said.

“Mmm, you’re right. You had better go in before you really are late,” she said, blinking her large eyes at him. “And if you think he looks nice, you should tell him. He’s very nervous, and he responds well to compliments.”

Before Harry could process Luna’s bizarre words, she had ushered him through the front door. He found himself in a small but extremely grand foyer. The next set of doors were made from a rich wood with dark iron fixtures that reminded him jarringly of the sinister curlicues on the antique iron chest that held the marriage contract. On the other side of the doors, he could hear a low murmur of voices. For a second, he imagined himself walking through them and up the aisle as a bride would do, the guests standing as he walked in, and cold dread locked his limbs in place. But he and Malfoy had agreed—neither of them were doing that. They’d each take a side entrance and appear at the front. No aisle parade. No wedding march. No organ. It was hardly a win, but Harry would take whatever he could get.

Repeating this mantra to himself—no aisle parade, no wedding march, no organ—Harry found the door he was looking for: an innocuous little thing to the left of the foyer, laughably small next to the ornate double doors that led to the back of the main chamber. Harry rushed through it and into a plain passageway. The door fell closed behind him. Then he reeled back, his throat tight.

This simple stone corridor was painfully similar to the halls and passageways of Hogwarts. His footsteps echoed in the same way—muffled by dust but still stark against the flagstones. The air carried the same chill that came from bare stone walls and draughty windows. Even the smell was similar: a comforting mustiness that nearly overwhelmed him with homesickness. He leaned heavily against the wall and took several slow, deep breaths.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice.

Harry cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” There was a murmur, and Hermione’s otter Patronus swam past him and disappeared through the door to the foyer. Harry followed the direction it had come from and found Hermione waiting, tapping her foot. “I was worried you’d changed your mind,” she said. “Parkinson is with Malfoy, she’s been nagging me relentlessly for— Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

A silvery cat streaked up to them. “About fucking time,” it hissed in Pansy Parkinson’s voice, then promptly vanished in a wisp of smoke.

“Lord, I regret teaching her how to do that,” Hermione said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I thought it would make it easier to communicate, but she’s been a nightmare all morning. Anyway, you’re here! How are you feeling?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Bit stressed, maybe—I thought I was late, but Luna said I’m okay? Wasn’t it supposed to start at one o’clock?”

“No, half past. Did he tell you one? Well, it’s a good thing, I suppose. You look like you flew here—you didn’t, did you?!”

“Of course not,” Harry said in an insulted sort of voice, deciding to keep the details of his adventures on Muggle public transport to himself.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Well, it hardly matters. But your gardenia is all squished. Don’t worry, here, I brought a spare. And—Harry, you’ve got dust all down your side. How did you get here? I told you, you should have come with us, we could have shared a taxi. Honestly. Keep still.”

Harry allowed Hermione to fuss over him, swapping his flower and tweaking his robes and tidying his hair. As he waited, he inhaled another big lungful of castle-scented air and held his breath, keeping in the comforting mustiness for as long as possible.

If this wedding thing worked, he told himself, he would be teaching again by next half term. The return of his magic was almost secondary to the idea of being back at Hogwarts, in those hallways, in his classroom. Home.

The thought strengthened him, and he managed a rueful smile when Hermione stepped back, her gaze raking critically over him.

“There you go,” she said. “Good as new.” She paused, then smiled mischievously. “You do look very handsome, you know. The robes suit you.”

Harry snorted and plucked at the buttons of the—the waistcoaty bit. “If I’d’ve seen them before today, I’d’ve refused to wear them. God knows what Malfoy was thinking. I swear Bill’s robes weren’t nearly this fussy at his wedding.”

Hermione paused in smoothing down the fabric that Harry had just tweaked. “Malfoy chose them? That’s interesting.”

“Is it? Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Just—Well.” She shot him a smirk. “They’re the exact same shade as your eyes. Did you notice?”

Parkinson’s Patronus reappeared while Harry was still gaping.

“Granger, I swear on all that is magical, if I have to come over there and shove him out of the door myself—”

“Oh, yes, fine.” Hermione jabbed her wand at the Patronus; it hissed and fled. “Come on, then,” she said to Harry. “It’ll be over soon.”

Over soon? It was never going to be over. He was going to be tied to Draco Malfoy for the rest of his life. But Harry did appreciate the thought—he really would feel better once the farce of the ceremony was done with and he could go back to Grimmauld Place. They had to have two weeks together, away from other people—Ron and Malfoy both called it a honeymoon; Hermione insisted it was just a settling period for the spell and they wouldn’t actually need to—to do what couples usually did on a honeymoon. And then…

And then Harry could go back to Hogwarts, and they’d figure everything else out.

He took a final second to allow the mustiness of the passageway to fill his lungs. Then, Hermione’s hand a firm pressure on his back, he opened his eyes, squared his shoulders, and pushed open the door to the main chamber.

The murmur of voices quietened immediately. Harry let his eyes rake over the congregation, unable to take in any individual faces, coming away with nothing more than an impression of a collective held breath, a large blur of red hair to his right, and some strange shapes emerging above the crowd—which he assumed was a selection of truly astonishing hats.

Some more red hair was ahead of him. Harry gratefully followed the beacon of it until it sharpened: Ron, his best man, a solid presence at the front of the room. And behind Ron…

Harry’s stomach lurched. Malfoy was emerging from the passageway directly across from Harry’s. Harry didn’t need to wait for the image of him to come into focus; he was already so sharp, so pale, that he made the rest of the world seem indistinct and gloomy by comparison.

His robes were just as fancy as Harry’s, but his were a shimmering deep turquoise that called to mind the sort of oceans that decorated the covers of travel brochures. His hair fell differently, somehow, in a way Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on. It looked softer. It suited him.

Harry was so busy taking in Malfoy that he had almost forgotten where he was or why they were there. It came back to him suddenly and unpleasantly when a wizard at the front of the chamber that Harry had overlooked cleared his throat. He was small and tufty-haired, and it took Harry a moment to place him. When he did, his stomach lurched again. The officiant.

“If you could both join me at the front, gentlemen,” the officiwizard said kindly, gesturing to the empty space in front of him.

It took Harry a few seconds and a great deal of effort to force his feet to move. He made his way jerkily to stand next to Ron, while Malfoy came to a halt beside the hulking figure of Goyle. The chest that contained the contract was on a small table behind the officiwizard. The rusted metal of it looked darker, more threatening, against the rich colours of their formal robes.

“Friends, family, honoured guests,” the officiwizard began. Harry’s back prickled with sweat. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two souls: Harry James Potter and Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

Ron shifted at Harry’s side. Harry glanced at him. His face was set, his mouth a determinedly neutral line.

“… the ritual of the marriage contract.”

Harry still felt uneasy about the word ritual, which reminded him of graveyards and large cauldrons—but Hermione had talked him through the stages of it, had assured him over and over that it was nothing like that, not at all, Harry, really, it’s quite romantic when you think about it—

“If the grooms could present their contributions?”

Harry yanked out a strand of hair and held it up; on his right, Malfoy did the same. The officiwizard peered at them, nodded, then conjured a small stone bowl that hovered in front of him. He waved his wand again, twirling it over the bowl, and began to murmur a long, flowing incantation. A bright, sparkling liquid poured from his wand into the bowl.

It was hard to look at, but Harry couldn’t look away. He couldn’t decide what colour it was. Blue? Silver? Or was it, in fact, completely transparent? Whatever colour it was, it clung to his attention, drawing his gaze and capturing it. Even once the officiwizard had finished and the bowl was full, Harry couldn’t stop staring. Something about it called to mind spring mornings, the Hogwarts lake, the glint of a Snitch…

A sharp elbow to the ribs jolted Harry from his trance. He scowled at Ron; Ron rolled his eyes and nodded towards the front of the room.

“Ready, Mr Potter?” the officiwizard said kindly.

“Oh. Sorry,” Harry said. “Yeah, I’m ready.” He joined Malfoy in holding the strand of his hair over the bowl.

“You must let go together, gentlemen. On the count of three. One… Two…”

On three, Harry let his hair fall. The two strands—one black, one almost white—floated down and landed simultaneously on the surface of the potion. Harry expected ripples, but they sunk under the surface without disturbing it at all. Harry felt his attention beginning to stick again. He fought to stay present.

The officiwizard waved his wand and one bowl became two, though Harry did not see how it happened, did not see them separate or duplicate—it was as if there had been two bowls the whole time.

Another wave, and one of the bowls floated over to Malfoy; the other towards Harry. Harry plucked it out of the air instinctively.

“Very good. On three again, now. One… Two…”

Hermione’s detailed instructions about the ritual seemed very far away in Harry’s mind, yet he knew exactly what to do. He drank from the bowl in one long gulp. In his peripheral vision, he saw Malfoy do the same.

The potion was somehow both hot and cool, sharp and sweet. Harry lowered the empty bowl and blinked; with the potion out of sight, no longer enthralling him, he felt like he’d been released from a spell. He looked at Malfoy uneasily to see if he felt the same, but Malfoy was standing tall, his chin raised, his gaze forwards.

“Excellent,” the officiwizard said. “Now, if the grooms could join hands?”

Malfoy did look at him, then—his eyebrow quirking when he saw Harry already facing him. He held out his left hand. Harry (surprised to find his own hand empty, the stone bowl having vanished without him noticing) grasped it with his own. He was gratified to find that, despite his unruffled appearance, Malfoy’s palm was sweaty.

“Mr Weasley, if you could?”

Ron rested the tip of his wand on their joined hands. He spoke an incantation, the words not flowing quite as smoothly from his mouth as they had done from the officiwizard’s, but they were still melodic, song-like. A golden thread of light crept from the tip of his wand and wrapped around Harry and Malfoy’s hands. By the time Ron had finished, the light circled their joined hands three times, criss-crossing from fingertip to wrist.

“Do you, Harry James Potter, take Draco Lucius Malfoy to be your husband?”

The thud of Harry’s heartbeat was loud in the silence of the room.

“I do.”

The golden thread of light flared. The hair on the back of Harry’s neck stood up.

“Now, Mr Goyle?”

Goyle stepped forwards and put the tip of his wand where Ron’s had been. He, too, began to speak, pronouncing each syllable of the incantation slowly and carefully. A silver thread emerged and joined the gold. Once it had wrapped around their joined hands three times, Goyle stepped back, visibly relieved. Harry felt strangely proud of him.

“Do you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, take Harry James Potter to be your husband?”

“I do.”

Shit. No going back now.

There was a crackle of magic. The air felt charged—Harry could have sworn his robes were moving, as if buffeted by wind, but he was unable to look away from the light that surrounded their joined hands, his gaze stuck on the flare of silver and gold.

A sharpness stabbed at Harry’s palm. Harry flinched and instinctively tried to pull away, but Malfoy’s fingers tightened around his, holding him in place.

“Jesus,” he couldn’t help but mutter. Hermione had warned him about this, too—it was the sensation of his magic returning to him. But it was his magic mixed with Malfoy’s—which his body would resist. Harry had to relax, to let it in.

Harry filled his mind with the image of Hogwarts, of his Defence classroom, of Hagrid’s hut with smoke curling from the chimney, and tried to loosen his rigid muscles.

The sharpness spread to his wrist, crept up his arm. Malfoy’s knuckles were white.

Needles of ice made it to Harry’s shoulder and wound their way through the rest of his body.

“It feels like I’m being stabbed with hundreds of tiny icicles,” he said quietly, half-awed.

“I feel like I’m being dunked in boiling potion,” Malfoy replied through gritted teeth. “So I wouldn’t complain.”

Harry considered that as the sensation slipped down his chest, his stomach, lower. He and Malfoy winced at the exact same time, and Harry ultimately decided that he probably would prefer stabbing ice to boiling liquid—though his balls felt like they had retreated to somewhere in the region of his kidneys.

By the time Harry had de-clenched, the chill had reached his ankles, his feet, his toes—and then it was over.

The iciness hadn’t disappeared, but the pain had transformed into something refreshing—a cool flannel on hot skin, a cold pumpkin juice on a summer’s day. And mixed with it, complementing it—a hot, restless energy that was both the most comforting and the most thrilling thing Harry had ever felt. He knew at once that it was his own magic, and triumph flared through him. He resisted the urge to draw his wand and cast every spell he could think of.

“Congratulations, gentlemen,” the officiwizard said, a smile in his voice. “The Ministry recognises you as a married couple. You may kiss.”

The chamber echoed with applause and wolf-whistles, and all of Harry’s thoughts fled his brain. Draco was still holding Harry’s hand. He was watching Harry carefully.

They had decided that, although it was important that they convince the contract that they were legitimately marrying, there were certain wedding customs they could skip: the traditional honeymoon activities being one of them. They also decided against speeches, for obvious reasons. And Draco had conceded that a formal sit-down meal, which would require a seating plan that somehow did not result in a duel breaking out, was not a good idea.

But everyone had reluctantly agreed that scrapping the first kiss would be an obvious sign that Harry and Draco weren’t taking the marriage seriously. So, Harry had to kiss Draco Malfoy in front of a hundred pairs of watchful eyes (and one watchful marriage contract). And he had to seem happy about it.

He took a deep breath and leant forwards. Draco followed Harry’s lead immediately, as if he’d been waiting for Harry to move first. There was a strange pressure at the back of Harry’s mind, an urge to get closer, closer. Was that the new ice-cold magic that thrummed in Harry’s veins, wanting to reunite with its true owner? Or was it something else?

Draco smelled nice. Harry couldn’t place the scent—it was warm, and masculine, and clean.

Closer.

Their noses brushed before their mouths touched. Harry waited for it to feel weird, to feel wrong. It never did.

Closer.

Harry had intended the kiss to be a quick peck, a brush of lips and an immediate retreat, but something about the smell of him, the heat of him, had him kissing Draco properly without thinking about it. It was definitely not a peck. It was the sort of kiss that led to more. The sort that meant you wanted.

Closer.

Harry lifted his free hand to Draco’s sharp jaw, tilting Draco’s head with the smallest pressure of his thumb. God, he smelled so good. Draco’s lips parted easily, and Harry darted his tongue out to taste him. It wasn’t enough. It was too much. Everyone was looking at them. Draco was his husband.

Harry tore his mouth away, breathing raggedly. Draco’s eyes were wide, his cheeks pink. Harry wanted to kiss him again. He would have done if Draco hadn’t tightened his grip on Harry’s hand, hadn’t shaken his head minutely. The refusal made Harry blink. The rest of the world came into abrupt focus.

The room was filled with the resonant sound of ringing bells. Everyone was on their feet, still clapping; the officiwizard waved his wand and the rows of chairs vanished. Another wave and tables appeared along the edges of the room, laden with food.

Harry barely noticed. His gaze strayed back to Draco. Whatever he had done differently to his hair really did suit him.

The officiwizard cleared his throat. “You can let go now,” he said kindly. “Look, the bind has gone. The ritual is over.”

And, indeed, the threads of light that had been wrapped around their clasped hands had disappeared. In their place were two simple silver-and-gold rings: one on Harry’s third finger; one on Draco’s.

“On three?” Draco murmured.

Harry nodded, grateful for the countdown.

“One…”

Harry steeled himself.

”Two…”

It was just the lingering effects of the ritual. It was their newly shared magic’s reluctance to separate. That had to be the reason it felt like he’d float off the face of the earth if he let go.

“Three.”

For a panicked moment, Harry thought he would fall over without Draco’s hand holding him upright. But then the chill of Draco’s magic flared in his chest, settling him. Harry shook his head, unnerved.

“It might take some getting used to,” the officiwizard said sympathetically. “Marriage contracts are old magic. I’m not sure it would pass Ministry safety regulations if it was submitted today, you know.” He seemed to notice the twin looks of alarm on Harry and Draco’s faces, and hastened to add, “There haven’t been any recorded cases of anything going wrong, of course! Not for at least a century. Of course, they’re not as popular as they once were, so that might have something to do with… I mean, you’ll be used to it in no time at all, I’m sure!” He laughed awkwardly. “Congratulations again, gentlemen!”

“Very kind,” Draco said drily. Then he smiled. “You will stay for the reception, won’t you, Mr Fryer? We’ve lined up the very best food and entertainment, if I say so myself. The No-Maj Matrix will be here in a few hours.”

“The No-Maj Matrix, you say? Really?” The officiwizard’s eyes lit up. “I saw them perform at a MACUSA event back in ’85, you know! Slip Your Tater Tot Into My Quodpot is a work of musical genius. The lyrics are complete nonsense, of course, but that’s Americans for you, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “Yes, I think I will stay, in that case. Very kind of you! And are those Rosmerta’s sausage rolls I see over there? You do know how to put on a party, don’t you? You’re a lucky man, Mr Potter! Yes, I’ll just nip over and join the queue, I think—Excuse me.”

“Thank you again, Mr Fryer,” Draco said, but the officiwizard was already out of earshot, scurrying over to join Hagrid at the buffet table.

“‘Slip Your Tater Tot Into My Quodpot’?” Harry repeated, nonplussed. Draco snickered. Harry couldn’t identify why the sound was strange, for a second—and then he realised: Harry had never made Draco laugh before. He was so used to Draco’s snicker being malevolent, accompanied by eyes alight with malice and a cutting remark. He much preferred the soft sound of uncomplicated amusement. He wanted to hear it again.

“You managed to dress yourself, then?” Draco asked, looking Harry up and down. “Or did poor Kreacher have to help you?”

“No, I got there eventually,” Harry said, trying not to squirm under Draco’s lingering gaze. “Not that Kreacher didn’t try to help, the perv. He practically broke down my bedroom door, he was so desperate. He was never this weird before—what have you been teaching him?”

“Depravity, hedonism, general wrongdoing,” Draco said, ticking them off his fingers. His wedding ring glinted as he moved. “Why, is that a problem?”

“Mmm, no, but we should probably agree on a curriculum for him. I was going to start depravity in April.”

“Were you?” Draco said in an entirely new sort of voice. Then Pansy Parkinson showed up.

“Thank fuck that’s over. Millie was sniffling through the whole thing. I was this close to cursing her nose right off her face. Merlin knows what was setting her off—you didn’t put much effort into sentimentality, did you? Though I don’t blame you, Draco—I wouldn’t be able to think of anything nice to say about Potter, either. No offence.”

Draco snorted. It was much more familiar than the soft snicker. Harry abruptly remembered who he was standing next to.

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” he said shortly. “I’m going to say hello to people. See you later.”

It was hard to walk away. That new coolness inside Harry’s chest protested at each step; he almost gave in, almost turned around and grabbed Draco’s hand, intending to drag him along—then he heard Parkinson drawl, “Miserable little shit, isn’t he?” and he found that his desire to get away from the former Death Eater he’d just magically committed himself to for life was stronger than any stupid icy tug at his heart. He distracted himself by tentatively summoning a glass of champagne—and nearly stumbled in joy and relief when the glass sailed into his hand without hesitation. He drank the whole thing in one gulp. Summoned another, just because he could. Drank that too.

He stayed away from Draco for the next hour, though he couldn’t seem to stop his gaze following him as he worked the room. He was in his element, smirking and tossing his hair, obviously enjoying the attention. Not that Harry was managing to stay out of the limelight, himself. People were lining up to talk to him—and since nobody except Harry, Ron, Hermione, Robards and Draco knew about the truth about the contract (most of the guests seemed to assume it was a romantic gimmick), Harry had to endure several crushingly awkward conversations about how well-suited Harry and Draco were. Pomona Sprout spent ten tearful minutes telling Harry she had seen the spark between them all along and was so glad they’d finally realised it themselves. Then she asked whether Draco would be joining Harry at the castle when Harry resumed teaching.

Harry hesitated. He’d been so preoccupied with his own return to Hogwarts that he hadn’t considered what Draco would do. They certainly hadn’t talked about it. What if he wanted to go back to that Muggle village in Wales? There was no way Harry was going with him, not after he’d married Draco Malfoy to get his magic back, to be able to go home. Would the contract know if they didn’t live together? If they didn’t share a bedroom? A bed? Hermione had said they wouldn’t have to partake in any “marital relations”, as she had blushingly called it, so there was that, at least—but how much couple-like behaviour would the contract expect before it took their magic again? How much of Harry’s life had Narcissa Malfoy stolen?

“Time to cut the cake,” said a voice, interrupting Harry’s spiralling thoughts. Harry would have recognised the crisp accent anywhere, but he would have known who it was anyway; his recently regained magic lit up at Draco’s proximity.

“Right,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “Excuse me, Pomona. Thanks again for coming.”

Pomona waved them away, dabbing her eyes at the sight of Draco steering Harry towards the buffet table by the elbow. Harry wanted to snatch his arm back. Draco’s grip provoked a frisson of pleasure, even through three layers of fabric.

Molly had been in charge of the cake. She’d let out such a joyful shriek when Harry had told her about his engagement that he hadn’t had the heart to explain about the contract. She had quizzed him relentlessly about plans for the wedding and had been extremely disappointed that Draco was handling it all; afterwards, Harry had suggested to Draco that Molly might be able to help, and Draco had given Harry such a scathing look that Harry had nearly called the whole thing off right there.

So, as a compromise, Molly had been given free rein over the cake. Neither Harry nor Draco had seen it yet—a fact that Draco had ranted about on more than one occasion over the last few days, but since he’d been ranting about everything from napkin folds to shoe buckles, Harry hadn’t taken him seriously.

But with a beam and a flourish, Molly’s surprise was finally unveiled: a six-tiered masterpiece, with an edible tableau of Harry and Draco’s lives winding up the tiers, culminating in miniature icing-sugar figures of Harry and Draco holding hands, gazing at each other adoringly.

The hand-holding was not the worst part. The bottom tier was innocent enough: a tiny Harry was surrounded by tiny Weasleys, and a tiny Draco was flanked by a tiny Lucius and Narcissa. A tiny nougat Hogwarts Express stood between them.

The second tier was okay, too: Draco and Harry were on brooms, reaching for a Fizzing Whizzbee Snitch.

Then tier three showed Harry laughing at a white-chocolate ferret, who was chasing its tail.

The fourth tier had Harry sitting cross-legged outside a tent on a snowy landscape; Draco stood on the Manor grounds between two albino peacocks, a green smudge in the sky behind him.

Tier five showed Harry being carted to St Mungo’s on a stretcher and Draco shut inside a neat little cottage, a Welsh flag in the window.

Then, tier six: the adoring embrace.

“Goodness me,” Draco said weakly.

“Wow,” Harry agreed. “Is that— I’m on a stretcher?”

“Yes, dear. From when you were an Auror.” She smiled fondly. “I can’t tell you how pleased I was when you went into teaching. An Auror is such a dangerous career, and you’re still so young. I do wish Ron would hurry up and follow your lead. He’s awfully overworked, and George is desperate to have him in the shop.” She cocked her head. “So, do you like it?”

Harry schooled his features into something he hoped resembled grateful delight. “Oh—yes! It’s wonderful! It must have taken ages. How did you know about the ferret?” He glanced at Draco.

“Ron told me. He said you’d both find it funny, I hope he wasn’t having me on…?” Molly looked at Draco too. Her smile faltered.

Draco was staring, not at the ferret, but at the green smudge in the sky over the white fondant Manor. It could have been a Dark Mark. Maybe the flash of a Killing Curse. It could also have just been a green smudge.

“Draco?” Molly prompted.

Harry held his breath. He remembered the scathing look Draco had given him when he’d suggested Molly help organise the wedding. He imagined Draco’s thin mouth curling into an insult, a sneer of And you wonder why I didn’t want her involved?

But after a tense moment, Draco blinked, and his blank expression became a smile, only a little strained at the edges. “It’s absolutely lovely, Mrs Weasley. So thoughtful of you. Did you do all the charmwork yourself?”

Harry’s relief buoyed him through the thrill of Draco’s hand over his as they cut the cake, through flashes of camera bulbs and more applause. His face was just starting to ache from his fixed smile when his reprieve came in the form of The No-Maj Matrix, four witches who were, they yelled at the crowd, from Salem, Massachusetts and were ready to party.

Draco nudged Harry and nodded to the front of the room. A stage had appeared, replete with a drum kit, a harpsichord, a set of bagpipes and a saxophone. The space in front of the stage had been cleared of chairs and tables, transformed into something that looked awfully like a dance floor.

“No,” Harry said, horrified.

“Yes.” Draco could have sounded a bit less smug, the little shit.

“You never said anything about dancing!”

“Are you joking? Or were you genuinely not listening the four separate times I brought it up?”

“That didn’t happen,” Harry insisted, “because if it had done, I would have told you that I’m not dancing.”

“You are dancing. The first dance is traditional for newlyweds, which is what we are.”

“I know that! I know what we are! Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Excellent, so you agree.”

“What? That’s not—Wait—Hang on—”

Harry had been so distracted by the argument, by the thought of dancing, by Draco’s hand in the small of his back, that he hadn’t noticed Draco slowly leading them to the front of the room. They were standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, every face turned towards them.

“Oh no,” Harry said hollowly.

“Off we go, twinkle toes.” Draco took Harry’s hand and placed it on his own shoulder.

“Fuck you.” Harry twined his fingers with Draco’s and felt the weight of Draco’s other hand settle on his waist. “I can’t dance,” he warned.

They were standing so close that the warmth of Draco’s soft snicker—the nice one again—played over Harry’s mouth. “See if your ego will let me lead, then.”

Harry was about to protest, but a tap of drumsticks rang out, and The No-Maj Matrix sprung into action. The haphazard combination of instruments somehow produced a gently flowing waltz, Harry found himself being led across the floor.

It was all so bizarre—the wedding, The No-Maj Matrix, dancing with Draco Malfoy—that Harry forgot to be self-conscious, even though a year ago, waltzing in front of a hundred people would have been high on his list of Things I Would Literally Rather Fly Naked Through Diagon Alley Than Do. Harry’s fingers kept brushing the hair at the nape of Draco’s neck; every time they did, Draco’s eyes would meet his, and Harry would trip over his own feet. And, every time, Draco would smirk with one corner of his mouth, would adjust his grip on Harry’s waist, and would continue to guide them to the music, his movements smooth and sure.

By the time the song came to an end, Harry was dizzy, and his hand was somehow buried in Draco’s hair, soft strands wound between his fingers.

He was so warm. It must have been the champagne.

“Good job,” Draco said, only lightly mocking.

Harry was dimly aware of applause, of other people on the dance floor with them, of the first notes of a new, livelier song. His head was still spinning.

“You too,” he said gruffly. “Good job with all of it, really. All the stuff for today, I mean. It all looks great.”

“Mmm, I did do well, didn’t I?” Draco’s head moved against Harry’s fingers as he preened. Harry imagined tightening his grip.

“So, is that everything, then? Or is there another awful wedding tradition you’re going to spring on me and pretend I was warned about?”

“No, that’s—” Draco frowned. His shoulder grew tense under Harry’s forearm. “That’s everything.”

“Thank god. So what’s next? We just get drunk?”

“Next,” Draco repeated, his eyes strangely unfocused under his furrowed brow. “Next is… Is…”

“More dancing!” crowed Ginny, appearing at their side and pulling Harry away from Draco. The magic inside him fizzed unhappily. “Is it okay if I borrow him for a bit, Malfoy? I swear I’ll give him back.” She cackled, and didn’t wait for Draco’s Oh—yes, of course before pulling Harry into a group of his friends, all swaying to the crooning vocals of the No-Maj Matrix.

It took two songs for Harry’s magic to settle, and two more for his hands not to feel empty, his fingers remembering the soft tangle of white-blond hair, the warmth of another palm against his. By the fifth song, Harry found himself swept away by the persistent joy of his friends—of Neville belting out the lyrics to Slip Your Tater Tot Into My Quodpot, of Dean laughing till he cried at Seamus’s attempt at breakdancing, at Ginny and George’s straight-faced formal dance to an incredibly upbeat song that seemed to be called The Womp-Womp Wampus.

It was only after Harry had rescued Luna from dancing with Blaise Zabini that he caught sight of Draco again. He was lingering alone by the buffet table, a champagne glass held loosely in his hand. Harry always felt a bit silly, holding a wineglass—his fingers always felt clumsy with such a delicate thing. But Draco thoughtlessly pinched the stem as if he’d been served champagne every day of his life, the glass held straight and sure even as he stared into space.

Luna followed the direction of Harry’s gaze.

“Oh dear,” she said sadly. “You forgot to tell him he looked nice, didn’t you?”

“What’s up with him, do you reckon? Why isn’t he out here, soaking up the attention like before?”

Luna hummed. “It’s much easier to walk when you can see where your next step is going to be.”

Harry considered this. “Should I go and see if he’s okay?”

“That would be nice of you. And I’d better get back to Blaise. He’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.” She whirled away, her sunny robes fanning out around her.

Draco didn’t look up as Harry approached. His eyes were still strangely unfocused, his gaze fixed on some vague spot across the room. Up close, the casual grip on the wineglass was much less casual than Harry had assumed; Draco’s knuckles were again stark white.

“You look nice today, by the way,” Harry said by way of greeting.

Draco looked at him, but Harry got the sense he wasn’t seeing him at all. “I’m sorry?”

“Your robes.” Harry nodded at the shimmer of turquoise. “They look nice.”

“Oh. Thank you. Very kind,” he said, an echo of a polite smile on his lips.

Harry frowned. He himself had just started to have a good time—and while Draco wasn’t stomping around, scowling (which was Harry’s personal go-to when it came to expressing discontent), it was obvious that something was up: he had never before—not once, not since they’d met in Madam Malkin’s when they were eleven years old—been polite to Harry.

Music and merriment echoed around the room. It made it hard to think.

“Listen,” Harry said, “let’s go outside for a minute. Have a little break. It’s so loud.”

“Oh— No, I couldn’t possibly. The guests. And the contract…”

“Just for a bit. Everyone’s dancing, nobody will even notice we’ve gone. And the contract won’t mind where we are if we’re together.”

Draco still looked unconvinced. Harry wasn’t entirely sure it was the right thing to do, but he had never been good at wallowing in indecision; he took Draco’s free hand and dragged him towards the exit. Sparks of delight splintered from where they were touching, up his wrist, his forearm…

It was much cooler and much quieter in the foyer—the hush was a welcome reprieve after the volume of the main chamber. Harry pulled Draco over to the wooden bench that stood along the wall. Draco sat without protest. Harry could have let go of Draco’s hand then. He didn’t.

The large door that led out to the courtyard hung open, revealing a dark blanket of cloud hanging low, from which poured sheets and sheets of rain. As Harry desperately tried to think of something to say, a rumble of thunder growled overhead.

“At least the flowers will be happy,” Harry said, nodding at the arrangements that lined the courtyard. They didn’t seem too happy at all, actually—the delicate petals were taking a battering from the heavy rainfall—but Draco hummed in vague agreement.

“They’re nice, the flowers,” Harry tried, remembering Luna’s advice about compliments. “Pretty. What are they?”

“Gardenias,” Draco said. “One of my mum’s favourites.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm. One whole wall of our conservatory used to be—well. I thought it would be nice to— If she were here, I thought she might like…” He shrugged.

Harry hadn’t given Narcissa Malfoy much thought, other than resenting her for signing their lives away. It hadn’t occurred to him that Draco might feel differently—might actually have wanted her here, if she were still alive.

“Did you ever talk about it with her? Your wedding?”

“I already told the Aurors I had no idea she’d drawn up the contract,” Draco said flatly. “I wasn’t lying.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No?”

“No.”

A flash of lightning. A rumble of thunder. The storm was getting closer.

“We did talk about it a bit. When I was really young,” Draco said eventually. “She loved her wedding day, you know. She’d get the photographs out all the time. Said it was the best day of her life.” He swallowed, his voice going funny. “She said she couldn’t wait for me to have the same happiness. A big, grand wedding day, with lots of flowers and food and music and hundreds of guests to be impressed by me.”

“Well, you did that, didn’t you?” Harry said, nudging him. “People can’t stop talking about how well you did, putting it all together. They’re very impressed, I’d say.”

Perhaps Luna had been off the mark with the compliment tip; it was the third one Harry had given in the last ten minutes, and Draco still wasn’t cheered.

“Good thing she did evoke the contract, really. It wasn’t going to happen any other way, was it?”

Harry paused. It hadn’t made sense before, why Draco agreed to the wedding when he lived as a Muggle, when he didn’t even notice his magic disappearing.

“Is… Draco, is that why you put so much effort into today? Why you agreed to it in the first place? For your mum?”

Draco scuffed the toe of his boot against the floor. “She wanted me to be safe,” he said. “If me having the Saviour’s protection for the rest of my life brings her peace, then…” He shrugged.

“I’m not sure she realised what a magnet I am for trouble,” Harry said wryly. “She could have picked a better protector.”

“She wanted me to be happy, too.”

At that, Harry snorted. “Well, she definitely fucked up, there, didn’t she?”

Draco stared at the floor. A flash of lightning lit up his profile, painting him bone white.

“Draco?” Harry asked uncertainly.

The great wooden doors slammed open and two giggling women—the Greengrass sisters, possibly—burst through. They stopped dead when they saw Harry and Draco. The younger one’s eyes flicked to their laps. No—to their hands, which Harry belatedly realised were still joined. Draco straightened, tried to pull his hand away. Harry held on. He wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Sorry!” the older sister said, still giggling. “We just wanted a bit of fresh air. Are we interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Draco said. Harry hadn’t noticed his voice slipping out of that distant politeness, but it must have done, because it was jarring to hear it again. “We were just about to go back inside.”

“Actually,” Harry said, “you are interrupting. Can you give us a minute?”

“Harry,” Draco hissed, but the Greengrasses were already stumbling back into the main chamber.

“We’ll stand guard,” the younger one said, winking. “You look so good together, by the way!” The sound of their fresh giggles was quickly muffled by the great wooden doors.

“Why on earth did you do that?”

“Let’s go somewhere,” Harry said, looking Draco in the eye. “Somewhere we can talk properly, for once.”

“What? Harry, I’m honestly not sure you’ve noticed, but this is our wedding.”

Harry. It was the second time he’d said it. But Harry himself had been unable to think of Draco as Malfoy since the ritual.

“Exactly,” Harry said. “It’s our wedding. People think we’re madly in love. They won’t mind if we sneak off for a bit. They might even expect it.”

Draco pulled a face. “I…”

Harry stood, pulling Draco up with him. “There’s a coffee shop down the road. I have Muggle money with me—I’ll get you a frappuccino.”

“What in Merlin’s name is a frappuccino?”

Harry grinned. “Coffee and sugar. Your two favourite things.” It was strange that he remembered Draco’s fondness for both, but he knew it as certainly as if someone had told him that very morning. “You’ll love it. Come on.”

It occurred to him, as they stood in the doorway on the precipice of the downpour, that they could conjure an umbrella. They could cast an Impervius. They could Apparate.

He kept his wand in his pocket.

“On three!” He had to yell to be heard over the pounding rain.

“You’re joking!”

“I’m not!”

For all Draco’s protests, he made no attempt to detach his hand from Harry’s.

“One…!”

“I hate you!”

“Don’t let the contract hear you say that! Two…!”

“Fuck!” Draco squeezed Harry’s hand and squared his shoulders. “Fuck!”

Harry laughed wildly. “Three!” He ran into the courtyard, yanking Draco with him.

It might be easier to walk when you can see where your next step is going to be. But, Harry thought, splashing through ankle-deep puddles, his glasses all but opaque from cold rain and hot breath—sometimes it’s much more fun to grab someone’s hand, leap into the unknown, and see where you land.