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"Get out of here." Father hisses. His voice is still scathing and cold as the draft in the Manor's empty hallways, but his body is fragile, and the scruff on his face looks unkempt. His skin adapted to the permanent decay of Azkaban. Long since gone are the glowing hue and the softness of luxury.
For a moment, Draco's chin trembles. "But Father -"
"Enough, Draco." Lucius cuts him off with the same finality he conveyed so often in Draco's childhood. "Your shameful conduct is a disgrace to our family, and I will not tolerate another minute of it. You are to cut all ties with -" His lips curl in disgust. "- your dalliance immediately. Your mother may still be able to salvage this. Don't come back until you have rectified your mistakes."
Draco's eyes burn, and anger twists the cords of emotion in his chest. He stands from the ice-cold chair the guards have given him. "Then rest assured, Father, you will never see me again."
It's worth it, for that split second of disbelief that crosses Lucius' face. It's worth it for the stunned silence that follows and the way his steps echo on the harsh stone floor like a resolution. But when the bars open to let him out of the visitors' chamber, he can't stop himself from looking back one last time, at once a child pleading for forgiveness and a man hoping for an apology. Lucius' eyes are frost and steel. There's no regret in them. No chance of reconciliation.
"Goodbye." Draco whispers and leaves.
The first day after the war was like floating in water. Weightless, but unanchored. He spent most of it in his bed, staring at the light that crawled over his room's floor until the sun set. His relief was too immense to be overshadowed by the dread of his due punishment. On that single, wonderful day, he couldn't care less whether he was going to be sent to Azkaban or branded an enemy for life in Wizarding Britain. Because, with the Dark Lord and Bellatrix and most of the other fuckers gone, he knew he avoided a torturous death. And his parents were alive. That was all that mattered in those few sunny hours. It was a blessing.
Then, the next morning, the pain started.
His arm burnt. There was no outward sign of it, but the skin was on fire, it was flayed down to his bones and prodded with a thousand needles, crushed and pulled apart. The Mark became distorted. It looked smudged first, then shapeless and dark, until it caught on a black fire that no Aguamenti could put out. It took a month. After the scarring settled, there was nothing left. He'd never feel that part of his body again. It was taken from him forever.
They didn't dare go to St Mungo's at first, but when days passed and he couldn't eat, his mother approached the Aurors keeping them in house arrest. They were allowed to go when he started puking. Unfortunately, the Healers couldn't help him. A few refused to, even, but those who did try, failed. They fed him potions and when the worst of the pain hit, they knocked him out in a magical coma. He missed the first day of his trial to it, which, his lawyer said, played into his favour.
Cleared of all charges.
The Wizengamot felt sorry for him. Upon seeing himself in a mirror that day, he realized he would have pitied himself too.
But. Phoenixes and ashes and all that.
He burnt. He slipped away from consciousness. He returned. It wasn't impossible, he thought, to handle his second chance like a new life.
Not impossible, but bloody hard, it turned out. Even with seven Outstanding NEWTs, he kept being turned away. His father's verdict didn't help - twenty years in Azkaban was nothing but a slow death sentence and an irrevocable stain on their family's name. The papers loved the vicious scandal of it. Fallen from grace. King to rags. Death Eater turns Dementor prey. Some headlines were more creative than others.
His father's assets were seized. However, the vaults under Draco's and his mum's name remained theirs, at least. It was enough not to worry for their mere existence. After a group of vigilantes ransacked the place, the Ministry gave him the Manor's keys too. No more than an empty relic by that time - still, he got off lucky, he thought. He prodded at the unfeeling stretch of skin on his arm and thought of Granger. How much it must have hurt when Bellatrix marked her… How terrible a scar it must have left. On a whim, Draco owled her. He wished for a Christmas miracle to make peace with his conscience.
They met in a Muggle park. Neutral territory, where they could have their peace and keep their distance both. It was tense. The unbearable awkwardness of keeping eye contact with a person he mistreated so badly almost snapped his spine. She was quiet though. Too tired of the war to be angry, perhaps, and attentive as always. Merlin knows why, he spilled his guts out. Thick, ugly truths dripped from his lips like molasses until he lost his words, sick from his own cruelty. How humiliating. He said sorry, over and over again, and when she asked to see his Mark, he let her touch the dead flesh there. He cried, and she teared up with him. It's a long way to forgiveness, but you're on the right path, she said. But she didn't forgive him until he put substance behind his words.
Until he joined the Aurors.
They were desperate for competent recruits. The war wiped too many of them out. Their advertisements were plastered everywhere, tempting Draco to try, to give it just one chance, so he did. Got rejected. Applied again. Rejected. Begged in his cover letter, rejected with a derisive reply from the DMLE's hiring official. So, he contacted his solicitor, and he got Draco a personal interview - or, rather, an interrogation - with the Head Auror himself. They gave him Veritaserum and saw for themselves how truly pitiful and yet still determined he was to make this happen. It was a humbling experience, to say the least.
A week later, he received a letter from Shacklebolt himself to tell him he would get a chance, if he agreed to talk to a Ministry Mind Healer once a week. Not a hard decision, was it? Even if he knew that the Healer was more of a handler, required to report anything suspicious he confessed. He agreed.
Truth be told, it was a horrible year. He had the misfortune to join at the same time Potter and Weasley did. He tried to avoid them, but fate had other plans - ones that included him choking on the blood that oozed from his broken nose. Lovely hand-to-hand training. He should have blocked the blow, but he felt frozen and scared of laying a finger on the Chosen One. He couldn't afford being kicked out. So, he took every hit without complaint, and when Potter realized his mistake, Draco accepted the apology. He forced himself to follow him and Weasley to their favourite pub and tried with every word and move he made to find his place among them.
It was the only way to move forward. Out of his ashes.
Then, in the secrecy of his bedroom, he cried his eyes out. Rinse, repeat, minus the broken nose. Training, classes, struggling at the pub. Mind Healer consultations. Derision. Potter's suspicious glares. His father's disappointment. He endured them all, no matter how miserable they made him feel. It would get better.
One would think that crying every night for half a year would drain one's tears for life. Apparently not, though, because Draco is once again - surprise, surprise - sobbing under his duvet. With the iron cables of his self-control, he held it together after he left the prison until he was back inside his own apartment. In a space that's his alone. But once the front door closed, his composure shattered, and he slid to the floor like a puppet. He barely remembers how he made it to the bed.
"It's over." He sniffles, trying to calm himself. "Over."
There's a knock on the window. He startles, but it's just an owl. He doesn't recognise it. Maybe some hate mail? Hopefully not a howler. It has been a while. Draco doesn't want to see that letter. He doesn't want to get up. Why make an effort if he just fails everything anyway? He can't move a muscle. The bird isn't to be deterred though - it keeps hooting and knocking on the window until it realizes that Draco left it cracked open. With an indignant screech, it drops the letter in through the gap and flies away. Draco pulls the blanket over his head.
When he wakes up, dusk is a dirty pink shadow in the sky and the windows of the office across the street glow tired yellow. Feeling marginally closer to a functional human being, he crawls out of bed and grabs the letter abandoned on the carpet. It's more of a note, really, and he wants to kick something for not reading it sooner.
Dinner tonight? I got your favourite dessert. You could tell me about your day. And stay the night? I hate it when you're on leave while I'm stuck in the Ministry all day. Love you - H
PS. Her name's Freya. She reminds me of you - she likes messing with my hair too.
Draco glances at the clock - half past eight - that's not too late, is it? Harry asked him to stay over, anyway. He could grab a quick shower, blast his blotchy face with a charm or two and Harry would be none the wiser. It would be easy to make up an excuse. He could go. But his eyes catch on the photos propped up on the mantel of his fireplace, and his heart grows heavy again.
Sometimes, he thinks it's a childishly sentimental thing to keep them there, but he could never bring himself to take them off. One of him and his mum when he was around fourteen, before his future took a nosedive. An old one of him and Harry standing over a ridiculous bronze statue they confiscated in a bust. He cut it out of the Prophet because it was the first piece of positive press he received since the war, and his only picture with Harry for a long time. Then there's the third one, the photo he reaches for now - his beloved family of three, back when the world was perfect and sunny and his five-year-old mind thought it would always be. He grabs the silver frame, stares at the serene faces for a moment, then throws it at the wall.
The glass shatters.
It's satisfying only for a moment, like standing up to his father was. Then the guilt crashes into him like waves tumble into a seawall, and he's on his knees on the carpet, putting it back together with a Reparo. The shards fly back into place. The three figures smile again. Holding the repaired photo to his chest, he falls back into his bed and fights the sickness in his throat.
His Floo chooses that moment to flare to life.
"Draco? Are you there?" Harry's voice crackles through the connection. "I'm getting worried."
Draco should answer. He opens his mouth to say something, Merlin knows what, but Harry's patience wanes.
"I'm coming through." He says, and five seconds later, his voice comes bright and clear from Draco's living room. "Draco?"
"Hey." The word is a fading whisper.
Harry's footsteps approach the room, then the mattress dips and a hand falls on Draco's shoulder. "Hey." Harry replies quietly.
He's still rubbish at providing comfort, but he's been trying. Learning. Nine months of dating does have its effect. When Draco doesn't say anything, he lies down behind Draco and hugs him close. His indecision lingers in every movement. Ask, not to ask? Talk, make a joke, take his mind off it with sex? He decides on a tentative caress. It would be amusing if Draco found it in himself to laugh. Instead, he bursts into tears again.
"Oh." Harry's hand slides under his cheek and strokes his skin. The wetness gathers on his fingers. "Darling."
He has never called Draco anything so sweet before. Never. Just how miserable does he appear? He pushes the photo aside. It hurts. It aches so deeply that Draco turns and tries to crawl into Harry, to bury himself in Harry's goodness, to be held whole and safe there. He hides his face in Harry's chest, where there's nothing but warmth and peace. Harry's arms are a confused but tight band around his body.
"You visited your father again, didn't you? You could have told me. I would have gone with you." Harry strokes his back. He must have noticed the framed picture by now.
"It's over." Draco whispers back. His words are muffled in Harry's hoodie. "I'll never see him again."
There's hesitation in Harry's voice. "You don't know that."
"I do." Draco sniffs, then the flood starts again. It's bitter on his tongue and tight in his chest. Decades' worth of hurt washes out of him. It's over. Time to let go. He cries uninterrupted for several minutes before he gets a grip on himself again. His nose is blocked and his head throbs in pain. "Merlin, I'm disgusting."
There's an awkward pause. "Don't worry about it."
A wet laugh bursts out of Draco's throat. His sobs finally quiet into hiccups. "You're supposed to say I'm not repulsive."
"You're not repulsive." Harry says immediately. "But, um. Your face is a little… messy."
"You suck at this, Potter."
"I know." Harry sighs. He shifts in Draco's hold. "How about a shower?"
"Together?"
Harry sounds surprised. "If you want to."
Draco tries to stop his chest from hitching in the aftershocks of his meltdown. He really is too much of a mess to bear. He sits up and grimaces at the damp spot he left on Harry's clothes. "You've never done that before, have you?"
Harry raises his shoulders. "Never had anyone to do it with."
That elicits a small smile.
It was an open secret in the department that Harry's dating history after the war was a disaster. When someone asked him out, he turned tail and ran after the first date. He slept around with Muggles but didn't seem happy or satisfied with it at all. He wasn't that kind of person. He was often covered in bruises when Draco caught a glimpse of him in the changing rooms, but didn't join in when someone made a crude joke about his escapades. He couldn't establish a single romantic relationship no matter how he tried.
Weasley thought it was just the lack of chemistry, but Draco knew better. As his feelings changed from their post-war tangle to attraction and a creeping, reluctant fondness, he started watching him. He saw Harry countless times after his one-night stands in those early hours at the Ministry, when they were alone and Harry's guards were still down. He recognised the look in Harry's eyes. He used to look like that in their Hogwarts years, whenever Draco managed to land a truly cruel insult. He was hurt, frustrated and, strangely enough, threatened.
A puzzle. Draco always liked those.
It took him ages to put this one together. Why couldn't Harry form a stable relationship when he so obviously wanted to? What did all those lucky people who had a chance do wrong? Did they ever consider that Harry could be struggling with an attachment problem? None of them had been a Slytherin, he bet.
It was the way their old animosity developed into friendship that clued him in at last. In particular, their little morning ritual. They liked to come in early - and after a while, they started hanging around each other in the quiet office. When Draco made Harry a perfect, sweet cup of tea for the first time, Harry vanished it behind his back. But after a few weeks, he grew comfortable enough to drink whatever Draco made for him. He got used to it. Soon enough, he smiled if Draco poured him a cup. In a month, he began to anticipate it and sought Draco out every day.
The conclusion was simple. Harry wasn't receptive to force, but he craved commitment. Anything that came at him too fast unbalanced him and pushed him in the opposite direction. When Draco tried too hard to be friendly, Harry resisted and avoided him. However, when he took his time, when he made sure that Harry wouldn't even notice the change from courtesy to kindness, he got closer. It was an exhilarating realization.
Draco knew something no one else did - that all Harry needed was a tremendous amount of patience. Someone who could play the long game.
To this day, he doesn't know how he did it. It was unbearable at times, to be so close but still so far away. He wanted Harry for far longer than Harry realized, and it killed him a little every day to hold back when he knew he could have had him already. To say stop when Harry pushed for more, to be around him all the time but contain the fire. But Draco wanted to keep him. He couldn't let it be a short flame. He had to get Harry used to being in a relationship before actually letting him consummate it. He had to stick to his plan.
Sometimes, it's still hard to believe that it got him this - Harry's lips on his temple, his arms around Draco's torso, their naked bodies pressed together under the gentle waterfall of the shower. They used a charm to enlarge the shower head, and the steam heats up the room now. The smell of lavender drifts through the air as they lather each other's bodies with Draco's shower gel. It's relaxing. Draco traces the line of Harry's spine with his soapy fingers and kneads at a tense knot of muscle that makes Harry snort. So ticklish.
Harry's head tips back. "This feels amazing."
Draco hums. "Baths are even better."
"Grimmauld Place has a huge one on the second floor."
Draco smiles. "I know." He runs a hand up to Harry's shoulder blade and kisses his stubbled jawline from his chin to the spot under his ear. "Imagine soaking in the water with me after a long stakeout."
Harry's lips brush Draco's. They steal a noisy kiss, then another. "Is that your roundabout way of saying you'll finally move in with me?"
"Maybe."
Harry smiles back, but it fades away as his thumbs find Draco's cheeks. The tear stains have been washed away, but Draco's tired eyes still hurt, and the skin around them feels heavy and tender. They must be red. "Are you okay?"
This should be the point where he lies, but he can't bring himself to do it. "Not really." He presses his palms to Harry's chest, ghost pale skin a glowing contrast, Harry's heartbeat under his touch. He chases the soap suds out of the hair there, down Harry's abdomen. "I feel like something has just died in me."
Harry's hands move to Draco's shoulders. "What did he say that hurt you so much?"
Draco shrugs. "The usual."
"Something must have been different."
"Well, what if I was?" Draco snaps, then looks away in embarrassment. "He didn't do anything different. I just couldn't take it anymore. I told him I wouldn't go back again."
Harry stays silent for a long time, waiting for him to continue, but he can't, not without prompting. It's like pulling out a splinter, he can't just squeeze it out. He needs help. Otherwise the pain remains stuck in his heart.
Harry rubs Draco's arms. "I'm sorry."
Something in Draco closes off again. He shakes his head. "Whatever. It's over. He doesn't have any influence in my life anymore."
"I don't think that's true."
"Oh, how interesting." Draco pushes his right hand into Harry's hair and strokes the wet strands away from his forehead, a bit rougher than necessary. "Did you become a Mind Healer overnight?"
Harry's brilliant eyes flash. "Stop that."
"What?"
"You're trying to brush it off again."
"So?"
"You never talk to me about it."
"I don't talk to anyone about it."
"I think you should."
In his distress, Draco hisses. "Make me."
Harry grabs his wrists and pulls them to the center of his chest, staring Draco down. "Draco."
The fight leaves Draco's limbs. When Harry lets him go, he slides his arms around Harry's neck and sighs. "Can we finish up here first?"
Harry turns his head to kiss Draco's forearm. "Alright."
Befriending Harry was one of the hardest things Draco has ever done, but falling in love with him - it was like gliding on a current on his broom. Effortless. He can't pinpoint the exact moment when it happened, but he remembers the day the fact settled in his mind. Almost two years ago now.
Harry caught a nasty flu, so Draco decided to bring him some Pepper-Up, just in case. A pathetic excuse to be close to him outside of work, but he took what he could get. He dropped by and saved Harry from Kreacher's horrible soup with some takeaway curry, and they spent the afternoon listening to the wireless together. Then, during a lull in their conversation, Harry fell asleep.
It was a show of trust that made the tendrils of affection in Draco's chest glow. Stretched out on the couch with his socked feet and worn clothes, Harry looked so peaceful that he wanted to burrow under his arm and doze in his embrace. He wanted something he hadn't longed for since the war - to be held. Maybe one day, he hoped. After a moment, he walked over and took Harry's glasses off. He could smell Harry's scent, the simple laundry detergent and the warmth of his skin, and he thought, I love you.
It's the same emotion that courses through him as Harry sits down with him at Draco's tiny dining table and slides a cup of tea in front of him. Draco presses the warm ceramic to his chest and raises an eyebrow. Harry really is getting better at this.
"Thank you."
"Anytime."
Draco pulls one of his knees up, fiddling with his pyjama bottoms. In his restlessness, he tugs at the fabric of his shirt to hide all his scar tissue. "Do you want something to eat?"
Harry shakes his head. His wet hair scatters droplets of water on his t-shirt. His arms rest on the glass tabletop, skin still supple from the shower, and the lean muscles of his thighs stretch the shorts he borrowed from Draco as he shifts in his seat. The clock on the wall ticks the seconds down, ten, fifteen, thirty...
"I haven't seen that photo before." Harry breaks the silence, gesturing at the bedroom door. He takes off his glasses to wipe them with the hem of his shirt. Without the frame, his eyes look wider, younger. Sometimes, it's hard to remember that he's only twenty-four, but looking at him now, it's achingly obvious.
"I hide it when you come over." Draco admits. He looks down at the steam curling from the teacup. "I don't have too many happy photos with them."
"How come?"
"Tradition, I suppose." Draco shoots him a quick smile. "Perhaps it's the Pureblood formality you dread so much."
Harry's lips quirk in response. "Of course."
Draco casts his eyes down again. "Father was unusually happy that day because my tutor had told him I was a gifted child."
"You were."
Draco huffs a laugh. "Granger was a gifted child." He puts his cup on the table but keeps staring at its amber surface.
"I was just rich. But my parents, especially Father - they believed that I was special. That I would be the best of the best because they raised me to be that. Pure blood, good upbringing, swimming in money… Anything less than the best was a failure in his eyes. Because he thought everything was laid out for my success." He glances up. "Do you - do you understand, Harry?"
"I think so." Harry opens his hand on the table between them. After a moment, Draco takes it.
"If something I did wasn't perfect, it meant that I had failed. And it was all my fault. I couldn't blame the circumstances." Draco says bitterly. Harry's thumb swipes over his knuckles. "Just like you, I know - I understand that I'm not worthless if I don't do things a certain way, but I don't believe it."
Harry's exhale escapes him in a rush. "You feel insecure."
"All the time." Draco presses his knee to Harry's bare thigh. "There's this - this pressure in me. I think it's similar to how you feel. You feel compelled to make sacrifices. I, well..."
"You need to be perfect."
Draco's face tightens. He nods. "But I'll never be. I always fail."
"You're just looking at it the wrong way."
Draco pulls his hand away to bury his face in his palms. "Fuck, I know that. I know." In the darkness of his covered eyes, more of the truth slips out.
"There's a switch in me, Harry. One imperfection and I lose all rationality. Once -" He laughs, hating himself. "Once, I messed up your drink order at the pub and I spent the rest of the night feeling like a waste of space."
Something about those words makes Harry flinch. He grabs both of Draco's hands and pulls them towards himself. "You're not a waste of space. If you ever feel like that again, remember this. You're perfect - no, don't look at me like that. To me, you are."
Draco's throat feels tight. A telltale burn stings in his eyes again. He tilts his chin up to keep it from brimming over his eyelids.
"No matter how much I -" His voice cracks. "- how much I love you -" He swallows, but a thin path of wetness rolls down his cheek anyway. "- my mind still defers to my father's standards."
Harry drops his forehead to their joined hands for a second before raising his eyes again. "Draco, they're unrealistic and prejudiced."
"I know." Draco tries to blink back the rest of his tears. "I can't shake it off though."
Harry looks pained. "I don't know how to help."
Draco's eyes flick up to Harry's, then away again. "Tell me how much worse I could be."
Harry's brow furrows. "That sounds… counterproductive."
"It's not."
"Wouldn't it be better if I told you positive things?"
"No. I wouldn't believe them."
"Okay. If you're sure." Harry nods and pulls at Draco's hands until Draco slides off his seat and folds into his lap. "I trust you."
A shaky smile tugs at Draco's lips. He affects an over-the-top voice. "My life's fulfilled."
Harry seems exasperated by the joke but he gives Draco a short kiss anyway. "Do you want me to stay the night?"
"Do you want to stay?"
"Yes."
The tension seeps out of Draco's body. "Well then." He strokes Harry's forearm. "Since Father has already decided that you're my ultimate failure, I think we can't make it much worse tonight."
Harry smiles. "Alright. I'll stay."
~End~