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Ron sighs dramatically from the couch.
“I’m knackered.” He picks languidly at the fat, pink loops of Aunt Muriel’s crocheted afghan draped across the cushions.
“I can’t fathom why,” Ginny drawls. She tosses a Quaffle at his head. “You’ve done fuck-all this morning.”
Ron catches the ball before it smacks him in the face. “Says you. Harry and I de-gnomed the garden before sunrise. Oi, mate!”
The Quaffle whizzes past Harry’s head. It knocks over the blue and white ginger jar full of purple asters, upon which Harry had been fixated, his mind preoccupied with a delicious and rather confusing new development involving one pointy blond prat.
The jar shatters, and Harry blinks his vision clear. “Huh?”
Ginny flips a page of her Quidditch Weekly and peruses the images with a lofty ginger eyebrow. “You’re awfully distracted.”
Harry tugs at a curl caught in his glasses. “Don’t know what you mean."
“You know, you play with your hair when you’re lying.” She turns another page. “You’re seeing someone.”
Harry’s stomach drops. “I’m not!”
And his tell doesn’t tempt him because it’s not a lie. It’s… well, it’s nothing, really.
Sure, two weeks ago, he had snogged Draco sloppily in the loo at that bar. But it was whatever, a one-off fueled by beer goggles and Draco’s tight leather trousers. Those bloody trousers should be illegal. If Harry hadn’t snogged him, at least five other blokes would have.
Harry was doing him a favour, really.
And, sure, they’d kissed in the pantry at Hermione and Theo’s flat last week. But Harry blamed the abundance of joy and general gushiness pervading the party in the wake of Theo’s proposal. Besides, he’d kissed Pansy, too. And Ginny. Well, pecks, really. And definitely not with tongue.
Nor that bit of grinding.
But yesterday, in the dressing room at Blaise’s flagship shop in Soho, with Draco tossing around words like atelier and sartorial and bespoke suiting in a button-up the shade of purple matching the asters now littering the floor—
“Who would he be seeing?” Ron scoffs.
“That is the question.”
Harry ignores Ginny’s eerily clairvoyant stare.
“If he were dating,” Ron adds. “I’d be the first to know. And I know nothing. Ergo, Harry is not dating.”
“Only one of your statements is true, Ergo.” Ginny rolls her eyes. She flips another page, and Ron flips her two fingers.
“Out!” Molly barks from the kitchen doorway. She’s holding the Quaffle under one arm, the other hand firmly perched on her hip. It’s a commanding stance, and for a moment, Harry can visualize her outfitted in a Gryffindor red and gold Quidditch uniform.
“Sorry,” he says. He moves to repair the jar, casting non-verbally, magic tickling his palm. The jar repairs itself and hovers into place on the lace-covered table.
Molly smiles sweetly. “I’m sure it wasn’t you, dear.” She bangs the Quaffle onto the dining table. “It’s not the first time that ginger jar has been repaired. The jar that has”—Ron and Ginny both pantomime Molly’s words—”been in the Prewett family for generations.”
Molly huffs and casts a stern eye to her sniggering children. “I’m sending you lot out into the countryside. The fresh air will do you good.”
“And the room could use a good airing.” Ginny wrinkles her nose. “Smells of… stinky boy.”
“Yes, off with you now.” Molly shoos at them with her dish towel.
“Ugh.” Ron flails his legs off the sofa. “Fine.”
Harry sniffs his pits and shrugs, standing to follow Ron into the front foyer. Ginny snags his pant leg with pinching, white-polished toes. “Tell me,” she says, eyebrows wagging. “Could it be a pointy blond prat?”
“I’ll tell you shit.”
In a flash, she wields her wand, and Harry has just enough time to shield his privates before a brisk cleaning charm zaps him. He shivers. “T-Thank you, ma’am, may I have another.”
She hits him again. His skin stings and smokes just a tad. “Fuck, ow! I was bloody joking.”
“I bloody wasn’t. Details, Mr Potter.”
“Nothing to tell.”
Ginny’s foot shoves him in the direction of the front door.
In the foyer, Harry retrieves his jean jacket off the hook. He’s sliding his arms into the sleeves when Molly appears. She’s holding two metal pails upon which the Prewett family crest is barely visible in faded red paint.
Ron pulls an orange beanie crowned with a large pom over his buzz cut and groans into a shoulder sag. “It’s too late in the season for blackberries.”
“The devil hasn’t put his foot in those brambles yet! We’ve a few days before Michaelmas, and I want to make some jam.”
Ron’s eyes glaze wistfully. “Mmmm, bramble jam.”
Molly swishes her wand to open the front door and pushes them out into the bright afternoon. Harry jostles into Ron and slams into another solid body stood on the porch, accidentally trodding on a polished brogue.
“Draco, darling!” Molly trills. “Good to see you again, love!”
Harry’s heart skitters in his chest, and he stumbles out of Molly’s way as she collects Draco into a fierce embrace.
Ron wrinkles his nose as if he’s smelled something dodgy. “Ferret.”
“Weasel,” Draco sniffs. He levitates to Molly a trunk-shaped basket large enough to store a body and tied shut with leather buckles.
Molly smiles knowingly. “Is this…?”
“Arthur’s favorite hawberry wine, of course, as requested. And a goose for Michaelmas Dinner and various trimmings.” He leans in conspiratorially. “I shot the game myself.”
Molly’s eyes light up. “You little devil!”
Draco appraises Harry with a sweeping glance. “Are you leaving?” He parts his overcoat to slide his hands into his trouser pockets, and he’s wearing that shirt. The aster purple shifts Draco’s grey eyes violet, and the pearly buttons glint. Harry’s magic expands to push hot against the inside of his skin.
“The boys are headed out blackberrying—”
“Come with us,” Harry says. It’s not a question.
“Well, I don’t think—” Ron grunts and hisses. He rubs the back of his arm and frowns at Ginny standing in the doorway.
“Since when do you ever?” She levitates to Draco a Prewett bucket.
Draco hooks the handle onto his finger and smirks.
* * *
Beyond the hedgerow boxing the wide field behind the Burrow lies a wooded copse that extends alongside a walking lane. It’s a lane Harry appreciates for its familiarity, having lost and found himself traversing its length many times over the half-decade since the war ended.
Ron’s long legs have carried him farther ahead on the path to disappear around a bend, which suits Harry just fine. He’s left alone to walk alongside Draco, a slow stroll that allows for an occasional brush of knuckle, a bump of elbow, a brush of knuckle again.
“Nice of you to bring the goose and such,” he says. He plucks a daisy from the vivid purple clumps dotting the lane and pulls a petal free from the flower’s golden center. To kiss him?
“Do you come here often?” he asks. “To the Burrow! Do you come to the Burrow often?”
Draco sniggers, and Harry cringes. He frees another petal and tosses it away— to kiss him not, then.
“Abysmal, Potter. If this is you flirting—”
“It’s not! Er, I mean…” More petals flutter to the ground, petals the exact purple of oxford cotton that Harry knows wrinkles softly under his clutching fingers. To kiss him—to kiss him not. “Is it working?”
Draco halts and stares, the twist of his lips stretching the moment thin. Petals drift in the wind around their feet.
To kiss him, to kiss him, to kiss him.
“Oi, you tossers!” Ron calls, trotting back into view. “I spy blackberries.” He hops over the hedgerow that runs along the path’s right side through which brambles poke in tangly scraggly clumps.
“Right.” Harry exhales forcefully. “Blackberries.”
Draco holds up the pail and shrugs, throwing a leg over the hedge.
“To answer your question,” Draco says. “I come to the Burrow every Quarter Day—”
“We can’t bloody get rid of him,” Ron interjects.
Draco rolls his eyes. “I bring seasonal offerings ever since…”
Ever since he formally apologized to the Weasleys. To all of them.
The thickening underbrush snags at pant legs with prickly thorns as they pass through a natural archway, bramble vines towering overhead. The seasonal shift into autumn is palpable here; the decaying leaves trod underfoot kick up an earthy musk.
Ron barrels ahead to disappear through the bushes, his acid-orange hat contrasting with leaves just turning warm golds.
“As subtle as a Hippogriff in a china shop,” Draco mutters.
He snags a blackberry from a vine heavy with shiny, plump fruit, and bites into it. Dark juice stains the dip cleaving his bottom lip, and Harry wants. The fierceness of it overwhelms him, a dull ache that coats the back of his tongue.
He focuses on plucking fruit, shoving his hands deeper into the brambles, letting the thorns prick him back to his senses. Even in his limited experience, he recognizes the fragility of this thing between them, like autumn fruit, heavy with promise, yet easily bruised.
Harry drops another berry into the pail, and Draco takes hold of his wrist. Red welts and nettle pricks mar the skin on the back of Harry’s hand.
“You’re no better,” Draco says, a reprimand gently delivered. He caresses into Harry’s hands a healing magic that scratches beneath Harry’s skin and it’s doing things to Harry, hot expansive things, sweet juicy things.
Harry swallows the saliva pooling under his tongue. “I’ve no sense of self-preservation,” he announces, chuckling at Draco’s lifted brow. “Hermione says.”
“Yes, well,” Draco huffs, “there’s more than one way to collect berries.”
Harry is so distracted by soft fingers and tart magic, he doesn’t see Draco take his wand from his pocket.
“Wait! Don’t—”
The moment Draco speaks the Summoning Charm, the berries explode like tiny grenades, pelting Draco with pips and berry flesh.
“Use magic,” Harry finishes, guffawing into his fist. “Magic and berries don’t mix.”
“Really,” Draco deadpans. “You don’t say.”
Harry sniggers at juice dripping from Draco’s dark scowl.
“Think this is funny, do you?”
“Oh my god!” Harry’s laugh bends him double. “Say that again.”
Draco’s stern expression transforms as he laughs, and Harry can’t help but to touch, to get his hands on pale skin.
“You’ve a bit on your face,” he says, breathless as he cups Draco’s jaw. The juice bead smears beneath his thumb as he trails it along Draco’s jawline and down under his chin. Draco’s smile fades and he swallows, his Adam’s apple rolling under Harry’s thumbpad.
Peeking out from Draco’s open collar, Harry spies a love bite as berry pink as the juice dotting his skin. “You didn’t heal it.”
Draco’s eyes darken as purple-black as a pail full of berries. “Why would I?”
They come together, a mutual tug of fingers curled in Harry’s denim, and a firm hand to the back of Draco’s neck. Harry leans in to Draco’s body, a solid weight novel yet achingly familiar. His magic buzzes, fat and honey-drunk like the flies hovering around the fruit.
“Your magic, fuck,” Draco taunts with hot open-mouthed nuzzles. “You’re driving me mad.”
“I want—” Harry groans, chasing Draco’s mouth. “Fuck, I want you, to kiss you.”
Draco pants against Harry’s lips. “Do it, you gorgeous prat.”
A loud commotion sends branches rattling and flies scattering. Ron bursts through the brambles, tripping over grabby vines, leaves stuck to his hat and shirt. He freezes and stares, eyes wide, at Harry and Draco still in their intimate embrace.
“What the bloody fuck—”
“Hooligans!” An aged voice yells from beyond the foliage. “Bloody Weasleys! Stealing my berries! I’ve caught you red-handed this time!”
Ron’s eyes bulge. “Gotta go!” He takes off at a full sprint, knocking Harry out of Draco’s arms.
A hex slices through the air, sizzling orange, and grazes Harry’s shoulder. Draco stumbles back, and another hex explodes a grouping of berries overhead, splashing berry shrapnel over Draco again.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
He takes off running at a fast clip, Harry following close at his heels. They crash through the brambles and hurtle over the hedge. Ron’s already on the path, arms and legs pumping as he runs.
“What the fuck, Weasley?” Draco cries, cringing as another hex whizzes by.
“What the fuck!?” Ron yells, his voice a high screech between gasps. “You’ve… the cheek… to ask me what the fuck?”
They glare at each other and run faster. Harry’s stride falters, and he falls behind. He presses his fingers into a side stitch. Fuck, he hates running. Ron and Draco pull ahead, neck and neck, Ron’s height working both for and against him.
Another hex pops nearby and fizzles out in the crisp autumn air. Draco bursts out laughing and, glancing over his shoulder, extends his arm to offer Harry his hand.
Harry’s heart inflates, filling his chest, and he realizes… he’s gone for this boy—completely and undeniably, truly and rightly buggered.
Harry reaches. Fingertips clutch, and he feels the pull of Apparition as Draco’s magic, aster bright and berry sweet, hooks warmly behind his navel.
* * *
The first thing Harry registers is the blue and white ginger jar full of asters before Draco is on him, kissing him. Warm lips move against Harry’s urgently, desperately, and he opens into the kiss, blissfully, finally.
A muffled yell recalls him to the Burrow’s den. Ron has flung himself onto the sofa, face buried into Aunt Muriel’s afghan.
“Bollocks,” Draco mutters, and Harry couldn’t agree more, because fuck, he could drown in Draco’s mouth all day.
Ginny tosses her magazine onto the coffee table. “Have fun?” She shifts her satisfied smirk from Harry and Draco to Ron’s flailings.
“Obliviate me, Gin!” Ron yells into the blanket. “I beg of you!”
“What’s all this ruckus?” Molly says from the kitchen doorway. She wipes her brow with a dishtowel. “Merlin, as if the Howler from Mrs Higgenbotham wasn’t enough.” She plunks her hands on her hips. “Ronald Weasley, you know better than to trespass, even if her berries are the best!” She blows errant hair out of her eyes. “At least the bramble jam will be worth the effort.”
“Er,” Harry says, blushing. “About that…”
Molly lifts her brows expectantly.
“No berries?” Ginny asks. “You boys are in quite a jam. Or no jam, apparently.”
“Well, you see,” Harry says. He stares pointedly at Ron. “We were too busy running—”
“And dodging hexes,” Draco adds.
“You poor dears!” Molly exclaims. She glares at her son.
“And snogging!” Ron yells, waving his arms. “They were bloody snogging!”
“No berries, only kissing,” Ginny grins. “Brilliant.”
Ron collapses back onto the sofa, clutching his chest. “Someone, anyone, please Obliviate me.” Draco wields his wand, and Ron glares. “Except you!” He flails his legs. ”Fuck, the ferret and my best mate!”
“Not yet.” Draco hums in Harry’s ear. Harry grabs hold of Draco’s hand and laces their fingers, skin tingling at the promise of not yet.
“You know,” Molly says, smiling wistfully, a devious glint in her eye. “Arthur and I had our first kiss blackberrying at Michaelmas.”
“Ew.” Ron and Ginny blanch in unison.
“Too bad it wasn’t their first,” Ginny says.
Ron squacks. “What?”
Ginny sighs. “You poor, poor daft man.”
“I am sorry about the berries, Molly,” Harry says. “I was looking forward to bramble jam.”
“You’re forgiven,” Molly says, patting Harry and Draco’s cheeks in turn. “And the jam you shall have! I’ll send Ron out to fetch more berries. Besides,” she says over his protests, “he needs to collect those pails, they’ve—”
Ron and Ginny both say, ”been in the Prewett family for generations!”