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The treeline is alight with the colors of sunset, that orangey-pink that washes away into navy as night begins its forward fall. The hills beyond the castle are quiet now— the semester over, the students away.
Harry flies low over them, one of the school’s practice brooms steady and graceless beneath him. His target is easy enough to find, settled on a quilt in the tall grass. He lands on his feet, grinning already as Draco casts him a glance equally exasperated and endearing.
“You’re a nuisance,” he calls, turning back to his book.
“How’s the research coming?”
“Better when I’m not being bothered.”
The chastise is cut by the softness of his tone. Harry plops down on the blanket, lays back, eyes closing, unrepentant.
“I’ll be quiet.”
At that, something in Draco’s spine tenses, fingers curling tighter around the binding of his book. He snaps it shut, placing it at his side, then turns sharply, lifting himself to hover over Harry, supporting himself on a hand braced against the blanket.
“You really give me no choice,” he murmurs, leaning closer, and Harry wants to kiss the wry smile from his mouth.
“I encourage bad decisions, as a general rule,” Harry breathes, hands lifting to trail up Draco’s sides.
“As a general rule, I’m very good at those,” Draco answers, pressing downward, meeting Harry’s parted lips.
. . .
The kisses trail, slow, lax, and the chill of dusk creeps over the hillside. Draco settles, curling against Harry, pulling his cloak over the both of them. The sound of crickets cuts the night air, and Harry sighs contentedly beneath the weight of him, half-slung over his chest, long legs entangled. A breeze snakes through the meadow grass, and Harry shivers.
“I worry sometimes,” Draco murmurs into the quiet. “That I’ve dreamed you up entirely.”
Harry wraps his arms around him.
“Make me taller next time,” he whispers, and Draco snorts against his shoulder.
Harry holds him tighter.
. . .
Harry shifts, back achy against the earth, bones protesting.
“Have you got something against cushioning charms?” he teases, poking at Draco’s side.
Draco lifts off of him brusquely, all elbows, before sitting upright. “I study potions, Potter, not charms.” He begins gathering his books. “And I’ll remind you,” he says, too fond, “you weren’t invited.”
Harry leans back, a huff of laughter on his lips. “Ah, so it’s my own fault, is it?”
Draco arches an eyebrow. “When isn’t it?”
Heat flares in Harry’s middle, embarrassing, but it can’t be helped, not when Draco is like this. The trouble, of course, being that he’s always like this.
“Come on,” he murmurs, getting to his feet, pulling Draco with him. “We ought to have something to eat.”
As he gathers up the blanket, Draco glances at him sideways. “It’s long past dinnertime,” he remarks.
“And?”
“And what? We’ve missed it.”
Harry shrugs, quilt under his arm. “We’ll pop into the kitchen. I’ll whip something up.”
“We can’t just ‘pop into the kitchen,’ nobody just ‘pops’ into the Hogwarts—”
The sentence trails off as his eyes widen, then narrow. “No.”
Harry grins, helpless.
Draco huffs. “You do.”
“I do.”
“Absolutely unbelievable.” Draco shakes his head, incredulous, suppressing a grin.
“Come on. Its nice. It’s harmless. And,” Harry stresses, “now you get to pop into the kitchen.”
— — —
They pop into the kitchen rather literally, the trademark sound of apparition ringing through the room.
Long rows of wooden butcher block tables are arranged along the length of the space, with sturdy stone countertops and deep-set porcelain sinks ringing the perimeter. There are cobbled stairs to an implied cellar, and the charms of the deceptively small icebox are palpable— chilly and deeply expansive.
Harry begins poking about, pulling out produce and spices and utensils, plates and pots and pans. He passes Draco a few potatoes, a peeler.
“I’m so dreadfully tired,” Draco bemoans. “I don’t think I have the strength.”
Harry grins, already passing him a cutting board. “Find some.”
. . .
The fry-up is worth the effort— pan-fried potatoes and cabbage, Polish sausage, eggs (sunny side-up), salt-and-pepper tomatoes, beans, and perfectly-crisped toast. A veritable late night feast.
Draco only just resists the urge to put on a pot of coffee, and only because it’s nearing 10 o’clock by the time all is said and done. They pick at their plates in easy silence, a backdrop soundtrack of pots and pans washing themselves up in the sink.
“Morning’s going to be rough,” Draco announces, popping a bit of tomato in his mouth.
Harry laughs. “When did you get so old?”
Draco looks affronted. “Excuse you, I am twenty-four.”
“Ancient,” Harry declares, feeling a very smug two months younger.
“Some of us,” Draco says archly, “have work to do in the morning. You child.”
— — —
On the stairs, Harry takes his hand, and they ascend toward the instructors’ quarters together, full and sluggish. As they reach their hall, Harry tugs Draco closer.
“Come to bed with me.”
Draco grins. “I’d be of very little use at present. Believe it or not, Potter, I am actually tired.”
Harry shakes his head. “You’re a warm body, aren’t you? We can sleep.” He tugs him towards his room, and Draco goes willingly.
They go through the motions of bedtime— teeth brushed, faces washed. Harry dresses down to his pants, and Draco snags a pair of cotton pajama bottoms from his armoire.
They fall into bed, shuffling under the covers, pressed loosely together, bare-chested, breathing easily, a steady rise and fall.
The night wraps around them, and Harry goes quiet and somber, hands slowing and faltering over Draco’s chest, tracing the deep pink scar tissue that criss-crosses his torso.
“Ah. Nasty bit of work, that,” Draco says lightly.
“I don’t think I’ll ever stop being sorry,” Harry murmurs into the small space between them.
Draco hums, running his fingers through Harry’s hair, gently scraping over his scalp. “Nonsense, Potter. Bygones. Besides,” he adds, “men love scars.”
Harry huffs a laugh, looking up into his eyes. “And you know this how?”
Draco smiles at him softly. “Personal experience.”
He leans forward, pressing his lips to the pale bolt of lightning where it cuts Harry’s brow.
. . .
Sleep comes easy. Tucked under the sheets, open window breezy.
Draco dreams that night.
The shape of the forest is clear, and as he walks through it, certain footsteps, the previous autumn’s leaves catch on his boots, turn over, decayed. It’s daylight in the forest. He swears he can almost smell it, can feel the press of sunlight in narrow pillars through the heavy shade.
His heart catches as he rounds a bend in the trail.
Harry kneels in the dirt, digging a plant out by its roots. He turns to Draco, mud caked up past his elbows, fingers raw, holding the plant aloft like a prize.
“For Dittany,” he says hollowly, eyes glossy.
Draco crosses the clearing to him in wide strides, drops to his knees, prying the plant from his fingers and tossing it aside.
“Stop, Harry. Stop, please, stop.”
His hands are so bloody. Draco reaches for his wand, but his holster is empty, the pocket of his cloak— no, he’s not wearing a— wasn’t he— oh. Yes, right. Dreaming.
And then he’s pulled awake.
. . .
He wakes in Harry’s bed, and it is daylight, just barely. He rolls from under the covers, and Harry rouses beside him.
“Alright?” he mumbles, fumbling for his glasses.
“Yes,” Draco murmurs, dropping a kiss on the corner of his mouth.
He rises and steps into the en-suite, splashing water over his face. He takes a few steadying breaths before padding back into the room.
Harry smiles up at him from bed, watching as Draco wanders towards his desk, flipping through papers and poking at his books.
He picks up a stone Harry’d kept from a beach trip to Brighton, a pretty, pearly thing, smooth to the touch.
“Keep it,” Harry calls, and Draco starts, raising the stone slowly, cradling it in his palm.
“You’re sure?” he says, running a thumb across it, feeling more settled by the second.
Harry nods and reaches for him, and Draco shuffles to his side.
“For luck,” he says, pulling Draco down, back into his arms. He presses his nose into his neck, warm and sleepy and rumpled.
“Not that you need it.”
— — —
After a morning of broom maintenance and more testing on his (as-yet-in-progress) training wheels charm, Harry finds Draco in the tertiary lab. It’s small and unadorned and the one McGonagall set aside for Draco to complete his Owl-post potions mastery program.
Draco sits at his scattered desk, flipping through envelopes and scribbling into his notebook. The work table is a stark contrast, organized carefully, neat as a pin. A small pewter cauldron bubbles over the low simmer of a charmed hearth stone.
“Wolfsbane?” Harry murmurs, finally catching Draco’s attention.
His gaze snaps up, a smile flicking over his face before falling away.
“The mod I’ve been working on. I’m trying to imbue some of the elements of a Pepper-Up, so the characteristic crash isn’t quite so abrupt, but the bicorn horn and the occamy egg powder are counteractive— I mean, obviously. I thought I could use dried occamy as a substitute, but it doesn’t perform as efficiently alongside the necessary dosage of Sopophorous beans.”
He taps his fingers across the desktop, thoughtful.
“I’m wondering if I could supplement the dried occamy with porcupine quills, but there have been limited studies on their interactions, and there’s nothing that’s gone to the clinical stages, and I don’t really have time to start from scratch, at least not right now, but I thought— what?”
Draco falters.
“Nothing,” Harry says, lopsided grin unchecked.
Draco frowns.
“You’re remarkable,” Harry huffs, approaching his desk.
The tips of Draco’s ears go pink.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says.
“Don’t be modest,” Harry answers.
Harry props himself against the desk, plucking Draco’s quill from his fingertips.
“Potter,” Draco drawls, reaching out. “I need that, if you please.”
Harry twirls the quill a moment, striped and ink-mottled, teasing, before placing it back in Draco’s outstretched hand.
“Have you responded to Monsieur Maudrillard?”
Draco scratches something out in his notebook, eyes averted.
“Not yet.”
“Well,” Harry says, reaching for the quill again, “are you going to?”
Draco pulls the feather away, out of reach, and glances up to him.
“I’m thinking about it,” he says, and that could be all it is. It could mean nothing.
(But it could mean anything. It could mean everything.)
Harry rounds to Draco’s side of the desk, rifles through the top drawer until he finds the miniature snitch he knows Draco keeps there. He looses it into the classroom, watching it whir away into the rafters.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Draco murmurs, looking up, exasperated.
“He’s the best,” Harry says, and Draco’s gaze draws away again.
“I know that.”
“I know, that you know that. I just—”
“He’s in Vienna, Harry. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Vienna. Austria, Vienna. Two thousand kilometers away Vienna.”
“I know.”
The snitch has circled its way through the lab and, unsated, has begun a gentle but emphatic tap-tap-tap at one of the windows.
Harry summons it back, holding it in his palm, fluttering.
Draco sighs, snatching a letter from a stack shoved to the corner of his desktop.
“Here. From Bordeaux’s, in Nice.”
He grabs another. “Delventhal’s Apothecary, Berlin.”
Then another and another and another.
“Madrid. London. Edinburgh.”
He gestures to the stack.
“They keep… sending them.” He drags his fingers to his temple, up through his hair. Sighs again. His words come out quiet.
“I thought I’d get some kind of offer from a place in France, a small one, south, if I was lucky. Maybe the newer chain in Manchester, or a conditional offer from London, if— if they were feeling generous.”
He gestures at the letters again, then out, to the lab. “But this— I—” He shakes his head, baffled. “I never imagined. After everything. I couldn’t have even hoped.”
Harry takes his hand then.
“You’ve done the work, Draco. You’re good. You’ve done good, and you’re good at this.”
He takes the stack of letters and shoves it forward, placing Draco’s hand atop them.
“You deserve it. Whatever you want, whichever you choose. You deserve the best.”
The Wolfsbane brew bubbles, and the lab has taken on the thick smell of it, medicinal, tinged with the sharp spiced scent of a Pepper-Up.
“The work you’re doing, the things you care about— Draco, they matter.”
Harry pulls him upright and to the locked cabinet along the wall. He points inside, where Draco’s potions sit, labeled in his slanting scrawl.
Antidotes and ointments, vials of Draught of Peace and Dreamless Sleep, Pepper-Up and Calming Draught. A blood-replenishing potion, a burn protection potion. Antidote for love potions, antidote for Veritaserum. Oculus Potion. Murtlap Essence. Skele-Gro. Wolfsbane.
And alongside them, the test brews. The new inventions, concoctions. Efforts to make the former more palatable, longer-lasting, more effective, less painful.
Efforts to make them better. To make things better, easier, gentler for those who need them.
“This is important,” Harry says, softly, tapping his finger against the glass. “And if you won’t do it for yourself, you should do it for that.”
Draco deflates, leaning back against the wall.
“I just don’t know. It’s— I’m being… selfish, I suppose. Again. Everything I know is here.”
His eyes trail the rafters, inky fingers spinning his quill in lazy loops.
“You’re here,” he says, not sparing a sideways glance.
“Hey,” Harry starts, but Draco draws himself back up, posture proper, shoulders squared.
”They want me to answer. Soon. Maudrillard, and the rest.”
Harry nods, slow, something painful wresting through his middle.
“How soon?”
A rueful smile twists over Draco’s mouth.
“By June.”
“Well,” Harry says, unsteady, “you already know what I think.”
“Indeed,” Draco answers shortly, a stifling silence stretching between them. “I’ll just… go, then. Away.”
“Yeah, okay,” Harry says.
“Fine.”
The cadence of Draco’s voice shifts, and Harry has to work to keep his level, to sound something like sincere.
“Fine.”
“Splendid.”
“Great. I think that’s great.”
Draco’s patience for the back-and-forth blinks out. “Would you just—”
Harry kisses him then.
Draco folds, back to the cobbles, pulling Harry forward with handfuls of his robes.
And it’s not fair, Harry knows it’s not fair, and it’s not— He’s not trying to make him stay. That isn’t— He doesn’t have to stay. But Harry wants… something.
He— he wants.
To kiss Draco as many times as time will allow. To press his fingers into his hips and think: here, together, real. To pull their bodies flush and think nothing at all.
To not think of losing him while he still has him, right here, against the cold stones of the castle, so warm and bright and lovely.
. . .
“You can’t just kiss me any time—”
Harry kisses him.
“Potter,” Draco seethes, cheeks pink, fighting the uptick of his lips.
Harry smiles at him. “Alright, go on.”
Draco pulls away from him, mere inches.
“I’ll think about it,” he murmurs.
“Alright,” Harry says. “Do that.”
Draco leans into his touch, his voice gone quiet.
“I think… I think I’d like it. If I went.”
“Yeah,” Harry says. “I reckon.”
“I think— it could be good.”
“Draco,” Harry hums, pressing him back against the cobbles.
“Release me,” Draco laughs.
Harry takes his face in his hands.
“Write the letter.”
— — —
Draco is not precious with his response. Efficient, even.
Monsieur Maudrillard,
I would be most pleased to accept your invitation.
Are you certain you would like to extend this invitation?
Find attached the notes on my latest work and references from my esteemed colleagues.
Is it good enough? Have they convinced you? Merlin, I hope it’s enough.
If there is additional information I can provide in advance of the apprenticeship, please inform me at your earliest convenience.
Best regards,
Respectfully,
Sincerely,
D. Malfoy
— — —
That evening, Harry’s hands are on his stomach, gripping his thighs, his lips at his jaw, pressing over his neck. He’s everywhere, he’s everything, the burning point that steadies Draco’s orbit.
“What if it’s wrong? What if I— chose wrong?”
Draco huffs his fears through soft sighs, easier when he’s… indisposed.
His hands knit through the bedsheets, fitful, distracted.
Harry’s teeth graze over his earlobe.
“You haven’t,” he breathes.
“But what if I—”
“Then you’ll come home. If it’s wrong, you’ll come home, and I’ll be here.”
Draco groans as Harry’s hands move over him.
“And if it’s— ah— right?”
Harry pulls back, a fraction, and Draco loathes his own nerves, his impulse for interruption.
“Then I’ll still be here,” Harry whispers. “Waiting.”
Then Draco kisses him.
— — —
It’s easier, after he decides. They don’t have to dance around it, don’t have to pretend. The time is finite and certain and theirs to do with as they please.
They spend it in bed & in the kitchens & down in the meadow.
The lab & the broom shed & the greenhouse.
They meander to Hogsmeade, take aimless flights, sit on the shore with their bare feet in the Great Lake.
They make every small space sacred.
They weave memories (new and roaring and quiet and steady and frantic and warm and wounded and joyful) into every corner.
Days roll into nights, and nights back into days, and June looms ever closer, a deadline, a hard stop.
Time ticks. Sand falls.
They try to keep it from feeling like an ending.
— — —
Lying in the meadow, Draco reads aloud from his newest potions text, a narrative that weaves historical context with recent research findings, new subfields, innovations. His voice lilts through the story bits, picks up as he describes clinical experiments.
The content, for Harry, is far less important than the reader. His eyes are closed, the sun heavy in the western sky, dotted with occasional cloud cover.
Draco pauses and sips a bit of brandy from the thermos they’d spirited away. He turns to Harry, cheeks flush, eyes bright and crinkled. “Are you retaining any of this, Potter?”
Harry grins lazily, eyes fluttering open. “Not a word,” he confesses. “But I like it. When you read.”
Draco leans over him, fingers tangling in his hair, firm, just the right side of sharp. “I like that you like it.”
Harry laughs, face warming, and draws Draco forward onto his chest.
“You’re horrible,” he murmurs.
“I can’t stand you,” Draco answers, toothy grin grazing Harry’s lips.
The meadow grass rustles, the chatter of insects and the call of birdsong a quiet cacophony. A cloud drifts over the sun, and the air cools in accord.
Harry leans in. “I’m going to miss you,” he mumbles into the smooth expanse of Draco’s neck.
Draco presses his face into Harry’s curls, eyes shut against the onslaught of feeling.
“Yeah.”
— — —
The day of, Draco is dressed in the balanced style of someone well-to-do trying to make an impression on a renowned academic.
His white shirt is a solid cotton, the cuffs buttoned with fine brass links. His trousers are a cool, coffee brown corduroy, hemmed neatly at his ankles. His brogues are shiny, subtly so, his socks an understated charcoal.
It feels a bit much, after months in knit jumpers, soft cotton button-ups, linen pants, the occasional denims, nicking Harry’s tatty tees, feet cozy in woolen socks. Still.
Harry takes him in, gives a low whistle.
“Anybody ever tell you that you clean up well?” he asks, playful, leaning on Draco’s doorframe, now that seeing him so buttoned-up is a novelty and not the norm.
“Menace,” Draco calls with a grin as he turns back to his packing.
. . .
It’s Draco’s idea, that they keep a formal distance once they’re in public, professional and private. Harry understands— doesn’t like it, but agrees.
He fetches Draco’s travel cloak as he fusses over his luggage, performing shrinking and carry-along spells with absolute focus. Harry drapes the cloak, dark blue and silky and sturdy, over Draco’s shoulders.
“Are you ready?” he asks, fingers moving over the clasps, pinning the collar at his throat.
Draco breathes a steadying breath and fixes an easy smile on his face. “Of course.”
He wraps his arm through Harry’s, lifts his carpet bag to his side. “Shall we?”
The side-along is smooth, Harry landing them direct on the Portkey concourse. Draco unwinds his arm and takes a careful step sideways.
At the ticketing window, they hand over a silver teaspoon. “Activation’s in twenty minutes,” the witch behind the counter tells him, a kindly wrinkle to her eyes.
They make their way towards the courtyard, hoping the outdoor air will make the experience altogether a bit less stifling.
They’re already drawing curious glances, though, a hush falling and then a murmur rising from every group they pass. The station is a busy place, and prying eyes abound.
Draco’s posture has gone rigid, and by the time they arrive outside, all trickling fountain and cobbled paths, stone benches and ornamental trees, his breaths are shallow.
“Draco,” Harry calls, and his eyes snap to him.
Harry’s own eyes are doing that careful, searching thing they do sometimes, tracing over Draco’s face, shoulders, chest, hands, and up again.
“Take a breath,” he says, pulling the carpet bag from his white-knuckle grip and setting it on the bench beside them.
Draco does.
And then another.
Another.
The courtyard fades into his awareness, out of vague impression.
Sunlight slants through wanly overhead, and a small breeze rustles the white blossoms of the nearby shrubs, the sweetness of them tangling with the cool and earthy scent of dirt. The fountain burbles, and Draco exhales, glancing back into Harry’s eyes.
“Better?” Harry asks, crease softening between his brows.
“I don’t think you realize,” Draco whispers into the respectable gap between them. “The power that you have over me.”
His fingers curl around the smooth and pearly stone in his pocket. “It’s terrifying.”
“I think I have some idea,” Harry responds lowly, careful, his hand coming up to rest over his own heart. “What that’s like.”
A stricken sort of look falls over Draco’s face, and his hand reaches out unbidden before flinching back. He tucks it deep into his robes.
“Draco,” Harry says, shuffling closer, crowds and cameras and caution be damned. “Let me kiss you.”
The weight of it all is severe— the worries of what they’ll all say, write, believe. The dread that they might turn on Harry, the terror that this thing Draco’s just let himself be brave enough to want might be so easily stripped away.
And yet, it falls away.
In the wake of Harry’s gaze, of Harry’s certainty, of Harry, the weight is nothing.
There is nothing else to say: “Alright.”
Draco steps forward, into Harry’s ready arms.
“Kiss me.”
— — —
Draco’s owl is a beautiful tawny screech owl, all pretty, freckled wings and soft semiplume feathers. Mathilde. She’s particularly fond of Harry.
She arrives in early June, two days after he’s gone, with a great and gentle swish, landing on the sill of Harry’s bedroom window.
Harry fusses over her, gracious, slips her the very best of his treats.
The letter he hastily unties from her leg is the first they exchange.
It is far from the last.
That first letter ends:
I’ll be back soon. I promise.
In Harry’s reply:
P.S. I know. I’ll hold you to it.
The summer unfurls ahead of them, long & achy. But there is light, at the end, and there are letters (lovely, longing), here in the middle.
It’s enough to keep them tethered.
Enough until he’s home.