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It’s a Tuesday, the night Draco’s world collapses. And it’s Harry who tells him.
Draco’s up late, waiting for him religiously as he does every time Harry sends his Patronus with news that there’s been an emergency and he doesn’t know when he’ll be back. Harry used to plead that he shouldn’t, it was unnecessary and please, Draco, you need your sleep—but stopped after Draco had slept through him bleeding out, near death, on the kitchen floor.
Nearly a year later, he hasn’t come home hurt since, but Draco knows not to let his guard down, not completely. He’s terrified that once he does, the worst will happen.
Draco’s sprawled on a chaise on the back patio, reading the ridiculous romance novel Pansy’s been nagging at him for months to try. It’s uncomfortably hot and humid out, but Draco doesn’t mind it. Being outside in the August warmth reminds him of summers at the Manor as a child, helping his mother tend her gardens.
She’d never allowed the hired gardeners to lay a hand on her rare, exotic roses; adamant that she was the only person who would properly care for them. Draco was eventually trusted with them, but only after she’d taught him the proper methods, as her mother had taught her.
Draco hadn’t taken up gardening again until he and Harry had bought this house with its sprawling blank canvas of a backyard. With his mother’s guidance and years of work, it’s become his and Harry’s favourite place to be.
A shower before bed is in order, though. He’s more than a little sticky.
The whoosh of the kitchen Floo sounds from the front of the house. He hears footsteps on the wood floors heading toward him and breathes a sigh of relief. If Harry’s upright and walking, everything’s likely to be okay.
He sets the book down on a small wrought-iron table and quickly stands to meet his husband at the garden door.
No matter how difficult a day he’s had, Harry always, always lights up when he sees Draco. Not tonight. Tonight he’s ashen, lips pressed tight together, green eyes distant and haunted. When he catches sight of Draco, his brows draw together, and his expression twists into something indecipherable.
It frightens him.
“Are you hurt?” Draco asks in a rush. The shake of Harry’s head is so small that Draco might not have caught it if he wasn’t looking so closely.
Harry takes a step closer and runs his hand down Draco’s arm. “Draco…sit down with me,” he says, quiet but firm.
He has a sudden, intense urge to flee. His breath falters, and he feels like he’s going to be sick, though he doesn’t understand why. All he knows— feels —is that something is very, very wrong.
His spine straightens. “No. Tell me what’s happened. Now, Potter.”
Harry’s other hand moves to the back of Draco’s neck, his thumb rubbing in what he surely intends to be a soothing gesture. He isn’t looking at Draco, his gaze turned towards the ground, and he isn’t saying anything, either. This isn’t normal; Harry doesn’t act this way, and Draco wants to scream, to get away from whatever Harry’s about to say. But he can’t—dread roots him to the spot.
There’s a long, torturous stretch of silence before Harry lifts his head to look Draco in the eye, every inch of his face etched with pain. The summer air, so fragrant and pleasant to Draco’s senses not a minute prior, suddenly feels suffocating.
“We—” Harry falters, his voice breaking. He swallows hard and starts again. “Their house-elf summoned the Aurors to the Manor. Your…your mother…”
He doesn’t realise he’s falling until Harry catches him.
—
Harry had always thought he’d endured every sort of pain imaginable, but as he sinks to the damp patio stones, Draco’s trembling body tight in his arms, he realises he’d been foolish. Delivering this awful news and then watching his husband suffer through such brutal, heartbreaking anguish is a new type of hell.
And Draco’s not breathing right. It’s too rapid, too uneven. He’s hyperventilating.
“I’m so sorry,” Harry chokes out. “Try and breathe for me, please.”
It’s a mistake. Draco rips himself out of his arms, scrambling away to stand, backing towards the house. His teeth are bared, his nostrils flaring.
“Let me go,” he growls at Harry before turning on his heel and disappearing through the open door.
Harry’s frozen with indecision. He never knows what the right thing to do is when someone’s had a shock. Even as an Auror, his partners tend to handle telling families the worst when necessary since he’s laughably shit at it, always saying the wrong thing. But this…this is his husband. He cannot fail.
He knows staying here isn’t an option—he has to go after him. He’ll try to figure out what to say and what to do when he gets to Draco. Harry pushes himself up and goes through the door into the kitchen, listening for where Draco might be, but it’s quiet. And then he hears the distinctive sound of Apparition from somewhere near the living room.
“Oh fuck, no —”
Harry spins on the spot, immediately Apparating back to Malfoy Manor.
He lands just outside the gates. The Malfoys (Lucius, more so) had never fully accepted Harry as family, and therefore never allowed him direct access through the wards. They swing open with a touch of his wand. Harry sprints up the long gravel drive and skids through the front door, breathing hard.
“DRACO!” he bellows, his voice echoing through the cavernous front hall. He pauses, listening again for any sounds of movement.
He hears something upstairs, in the direction of the east wing. Thank Merlin he’s there and not in the west—Draco cannot see the west wing. Harry runs up the staircase and down the hall, and as he moves, he hears Draco’s voice, raised in search of his parents.
Harry finds him at the far end of a hallway lined with bedroom suites. Tamsy, the house-elf who had summoned the Aurors, is trailing behind Draco, pleading with him to stop.
“Master Draco, you musn’t! You is not listening, there was—an accident—”
“ Shut up !” Draco snarls. She cowers, sobbing.
Then, Draco catches sight of Harry. He stops, draws his wand, and points it right at him.
“No. Don’t you dare.” Draco’s eyes are wild and his wand hand is shaking. “Where are my parents, Harry?” His voice reverberates through the empty, dark hall.
The last time Harry had seen Draco so distraught was atop the Astronomy tower, the night Dumbledore died. He’d been in such fear for himself, for his family. And now…now they’re gone. Harry doesn’t know what to say—there’s nothing he can say to make this easier. So he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—he just waits. Only Tamsy’s wails break the silence.
Draco’s lip curls in a vicious, familiar sneer. He stalks closer to Harry, close enough to press the tip of his wand into the centre of Harry’s chest. “ Where is my mother? This isn’t fucking funny, Harry— where…is…she?”
Harry just stops himself from losing it and crying—he cannot fall apart. Draco needs him. But Merlin, this is one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do.
Draco drops his sneer and the panic returns. His skin, already so pale, loses more of its colour. His voice turns to a whisper. “Where are my parents, Harry?”
Harry stays silent.
Draco’s breath hitches and his wand clatters to the floor. His face crumples and he pitches forward, his forehead hitting Harry’s shoulder. His fists grab and twist into the fabric of Harry’s Auror robes as he lets out a devastating, keening noise of pain. Harry gathers him close, wrapping both arms tight around Draco’s back, supporting his weight.
“We need to go—you shouldn’t be here,” Harry murmurs into Draco’s hair. He rubs his hand up and down Draco’s spine as Draco takes huge, gulping breaths. Poor, traumatised Tamsy shouldn’t be left here, either. But he knows she won’t leave, not without an order, a task.
Harry looks at her, speaking low and hushed. “Tamsy, could you please find my friends Ron and Hermione? Tell them what happened, and tell them I asked if you could stay at their house for the night. I’ll call for you tomorrow, I promise.”
The house-elf wipes at her running nose and nods bravely, then disappears.
He turns his focus back to Draco, who is still and quiet in his arms, but thankfully remains upright. “Let me take you home, love. We’ll have to Floo—I don’t have access through the wards.”
Draco doesn’t say anything and doesn’t move for several moments, but then he moves back slightly and bends to grab his wand off the floor. He closes his eyes and murmurs some sort of spell, then opens them again. His grey eyes are rimmed with red.
“You do now,” Draco says.
—
Harry side-alongs Draco into the middle of their bedroom. It’s pitch-black, with only the faint light of the stars illuminating the space. When he releases Draco’s arm, Draco doesn’t move, just stands, staring at nothing, gaze unfocused. His breathing has evened out. In some ways, Harry thinks, this quiet calm is much more distressing than the panic.
“Draco,” Harry prompts, trying to catch his eyes. No response.
Harry moves, gently manoeuvring Draco to sit on the edge of the bed without a fight. He’s still looking aimlessly at the wall, and Harry’s worried that he’s withdrawing into his mind. It frightens him, and he hates himself for not knowing how to pull Draco out of it. He’s not even sure he should.
What he does is lie down, leaning against the mountain of decorative pillows Draco insists on keeping on their bed. He winds his arms under Draco’s and pulls until Draco's back rests against his front. He keeps his arms around Draco’s lean torso and props his chin on Draco’s shoulder. Harry holds him in total silence. Once, in a rare moment of wisdom, Ron had said that sometimes, what people needed most was your presence, rather than your words.
Eventually, Harry really needs the loo, but he doesn’t dare budge. Such a long time passes that Harry thinks Draco must have fallen asleep, and he’s thankful for it, thankful that Draco has a reprieve from his grief.
But then Draco’s body shifts almost imperceptibly. “I want to know what happened to them,” he says. His voice is gravelly with exhaustion.
Harry shakes his head where it still rests on Draco’s shoulder. “We don’t have to. It can wait until morning, after you’ve gotten some sleep.”
“Now. Tell me now, Harry.”
Harry’s certain that he’d rather relive walking to his certain death in the Forbidden Forest than have to face breaking his husband’s heart with the truth. But he knows, of course, that he must.
He tries strengthening his grip around Draco before speaking, but Draco disentangles himself. He turns to face Harry, his knees drawn tight to his chest. For a man taller than Harry with such a large presence, it’s startling to see him look so diminished and small, the way he’s curled into himself.
Draco visibly braces himself when Harry opens his mouth to speak. He has no idea where to begin.
“Your father…he had one of his episodes tonight.”
Lucius Malfoy had spent nearly twenty long, much-deserved years in isolation at Azkaban before he’d been released into Narcissa’s custody, under house arrest. He hadn’t been in his right mind. Harry, who’d only just moved into Draco’s London flat, had been assigned to the small team assembled to escort Lucius to Malfoy Manor. In one short hour, Harry realised that Malfoy’s mind had been completely broken, that his grip on reality was tenuous, at best. He spoke to people who weren’t there, people who were, in fact, long dead. Seemed to jump to twenty, thirty, fifty years in the past in no particular order.
Harry hadn’t liked it, not at all. Hadn’t thought him mentally sound enough to not be under the constant, watchful eye of professionals. He’d pulled Narcissa aside to privately share his concerns out of earshot of the other Aurors, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
Lucius’s insanity had been manageable for several years. When Draco would visit, he’d be present in the moment—but not always. Occasionally, he recognized Draco and treated him normally. Other times, he believed Draco was his own father. But often, he’d have no idea who Draco was at all.
Draco’s eyes are slightly squinted as if Harry’s words aren’t registering.
“Tamsy said he couldn’t…didn’t recognize your mother. Thought she was an intruder. And he—he—” Harry can’t get the words out.
But Draco understands. Harry can tell by how Draco loses all his colour once more and lurches backwards. He reaches towards him, but Draco dry heaves, then rushes up from the bed and runs across the carpet towards their ensuite bathroom.
Draco’s knees hit the tile floor with a thud and then there’s the sound of retching into the toilet.
From experience, Harry knows Draco won’t stand for him entering the bathroom while he’s actively sick. So he waits, waiting for it to ease. Harry can’t even bring himself to be entirely angry with Lucius for what happened tonight—he wasn’t at all of sound mind. But he can be furious with pre-Azkaban Lucius, whose awful choices had led to his incarceration, had led to the destruction of his family and Draco’s current anguish. And, Harry thinks with no small amount of guilt, he’s a tiny bit angry with Narcissa, who’d kept Lucius in their home despite knowing how unstable he was.
Would Harry do differently, if he were in Narcissa’s shoes? If Draco, Merlin forbid, lost his sanity? Would he want him in the care of strangers? Probably not.
It’s quieter now—Draco must have stopped sicking up. Harry summons a glass from the kitchen, fills it with water from his wand, and gingerly steps into the dark bathroom.
Draco is collapsed on the floor in front of the toilet, his head resting on the seat. He’s gasping as he fights to suppress the tremors racking his body. Draco’s always hated showing what he perceives as weakness, even to Harry. Undeterred, Harry lowers himself to the floor, too, and sets the glass down nearby, pressing a cautious hand to Draco’s back.
Harry’s relieved, to a degree, when Draco breaks. He turns, sags against Harry, and finally lets go. His sobs are guttural, heart-wrenching, and Harry holds him through it, bowing his head to rest against the top of Draco’s. He strokes his fingers along Draco’s arm and kisses his hair.
They stay there until Draco’s crying starts subsiding and his breathing evens out a bit. When it does, Harry carefully lifts him upright, still keeping a firm hold. He reaches in the dark for the glass of water, and when he finds it, raises it to Draco’s lips.
“Drink,” Harry says, pleading more than commanding. Draco obediently parts his lips and allows Harry to tip out a small amount of water into his mouth.
He looks wretched.
Draco’s eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, his face splotchy and stained with tear tracks. Harry summons a flannel and dampens it, then brings it to Draco’s cheeks to carefully wipe them clean. He dabs it against his nose, too. Draco’s eyes are downturned through it all, and as Harry finishes up, another tear escapes the corner of his eye.
Harry’s heart aches. He drops the cloth and frames Draco’s face with his hands, then leans in close until their foreheads touch.
“I love you,” Harry says, hushed. It’s not something they often tell each other. Harry thinks the last time he’d said it might’ve been the day they married. He says it now in the hopes of conveying his commitment to him, that Draco isn’t alone in this—that he’ll never be alone, not as long as Harry draws breath.
Draco bites his lip, wraps his arms around himself and then asks, “Did she suffer?”
“No,” Harry answers truthfully. Draco exhales in a rush.
It wasn’t the swift end an Avada Kedavra brings—Lucius hadn’t used magic at all, they’d discovered—but her death had been quick. Harry doesn’t want to have to explain the particulars, and he hopes Draco never asks.
“And my—” Draco’s voice hitches, “—my father?”
“We took him to St. Mungo’s.”
Draco’s head shoots up, his eyes wide, and Harry realises with no small amount of guilt that Draco hadn’t realised his father was alive. “Janus Thickey ward,” Harry explains. “It’s…unlikely that he’ll ever be released.”
It’s said as a kindness. Lucius will remain there, monitored and heavily medicated, for the rest of his life.
If he could, Harry would take on the pain and despair he sees in Draco’s eyes. Would give anything to return to him the vibrancy they usually hold. But he can’t; he can only do what little he can to ease the burden.
Draco covers his face with his hands. “I’m so tired, Harry.”
Harry’s expression softens. He stands, then reaches down to pull Draco up, too, leading him by the hand back to their bedroom. Before they get into bed, Harry strips Draco down to his pants. Once Draco’s lying down, Harry slips in beside him and pulls the sheets over them both.
“Stay?” Draco asks.
Harry’s confused—where would he possibly go? But he simply replies, “Of course.”
“I don’t want to wake up alone,” Draco confesses, his voice small. The words hang heavy in the air. It’s a stark admission of vulnerability, one Harry doesn’t take lightly.
Harry presses his lips to the back of Draco’s neck. “You won’t, I promise. Sleep, love. I’ll be here in the morning.”
—
11 months later
Draco closes his eyes and tips his face skyward, the late afternoon sun warming his skin. He sits cross-legged on the trimmed grass in the middle of the Manor’s garden, a gentle breeze rolling through, mussing his hair.
It’s gorgeous out. His mother would’ve loved it.
“You would’ve spent the entire day outside,” he says absently, running his fingertips along her name etched into the polished granite of her headstone. “The roses are thriving. A friend of Harry’s tends to them now. It pains me to say, truly, but he’s—more than competent at what he does.”
Longbottom, of all people. Like his mother, he hadn’t thought anyone worthy of caring for her flowers. It had taken quite a bit of convincing from Harry, plus a visit to Longbottom’s greenhouses at Hogwarts, for Draco to agree. Draco had buzzed over Longbottom’s shoulder the first time he’d come by, pestering him with pointed suggestions and biting questions while Harry lounged on a nearby bench, trying and failing at hiding his smile.
Longbottom knew how much the garden meant to Draco. He’d been patient; hadn’t left and didn’t complain once. Draco knows it wasn’t for his sake but for Harry’s.
“Father…” Draco falters. It’s still extremely difficult for him to think of his father in context with his mother. The brief number of times Draco’s gone to see him at St. Mungo’s, he’d had to compartmentalize—separating the disturbed man from the father he’d known, the one who had loved him, and loved his wife.
“He’s stable. Doesn’t remember much—he still believes I’m a naughty young child,” Draco says with a wistful smile. “They treat him well enough there, so that’s something.”
It’s a kindness, he supposes, that his father has no memory of his mother’s death. Draco doesn’t always feel that he deserves it, all things considered.
Draco reaches out and straightens the ivory roses he’d placed at the foot of the stone. He’d clipped only the most perfect blossoms—he’d accept no less for her. “Happy birthday, mother.”
Before he stands to leave, he rests his palm flat on the stone for a few more moments. Closes his eyes, remembering his mother as she’d been on days like this in his youth—beautiful, happy, and carefree.
Draco renews the enchantments protecting her resting spot, then turns on the spot to Apparate home.
There’s noisy, chaotic music playing from the direction of the kitchen—some Muggle band Harry likes. Draco finds him there, humming along as he whisks eggs in a bowl. He smells something citrussy.
“What are you making?” Draco asks, peering curiously over Harry’s shoulder.
Harry startles so violently that he drops the bowl onto the counter, shattering the bowl and splashing eggy mess everywhere. He scowls at Draco’s laughter.
“Fantastic,” Harry says, crossing his arms. “Thanks for alerting me, from a safe, normal distance, that you’re home. Appreciate it.”
Draco vanishes the broken pieces of ceramic and the now-useless eggs, still laughing. “It’s not my fault you insist on playing that horrid music at a ridiculous volume.”
“You’re horrid.”
“Sure,” Draco says, pressing his lips briefly against Harry’s cheek. “Are there any more eggs? I’ll get them.”
Mollified, Harry turns Draco’s chin and kisses him properly. “Yeah, Tamsy brought over a ton. There’s still most of a carton, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Draco finds them and carries them over to Harry, then props his hip against the counter. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Harry turns back to his baking, whisking the eggs again in a different bowl. He smiles softly. “Lemon tart.”
Draco bows his head and warmth spreads through his chest. Lemon tart was his mother’s favourite dessert—she’d have it every year on her birthday instead of cake.
Harry’s sheer goodness shouldn’t surprise him anymore, but it does, the same way he’s astounded each time he falls even harder for his husband. He knows to his core that he doesn’t deserve him and doubts, as he always does, how someone so wonderful could tie themselves to, could marry, someone like Draco.
He’s much too selfish to ever give him up, though.
Draco reaches out and lays a hand on Harry’s cheek, who stops his whisking and turns to look at him. His eyes roam Harry’s face, still so handsome even as he ages, and brushes his thumb along his jaw. He doesn’t say anything—knows Harry doesn’t need him to.
He pulls away to let Harry continue with the dessert. “Can I help?”
Surely remembering how it went the last time Draco ‘helped’ in the kitchen, Harry wrinkles his nose. “I’d prefer this to come out edible, thanks.”
Draco scowls, but it’s ruined by his traitorous mouth that quivers as he tries to mask his amusement. “Rude.”
“Sensible, more like. Go sit down and look pretty, or something.”
“Rude.”
Harry laughs and shoulders him out of the way. Before Draco moves, he leans back in and trails the tip of his nose along the delicate skin behind Harry’s ear. Harry shivers.
“Thank you,” Draco whispers, but it means so much more.