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A twenty-five-year-old Draco Malfoy tugs at his sleeves and fixes his tie before stepping inside the coffee shop. Although it is far from being his first time in such a place, remnants of nervousness stick to his skin and he shrugs them off to keep a semblance of composure. He’s a Malfoy, after all—and even if that fact means nothing in this world, appearances do matter to people like him.

Yet, in spite of the dozen people present, no one spares him a second glance. Draco feels that he is not entirely uncomfortable with the outcome; his teenage self would probably beat him up for thinking this, but at times being unimportant can feel good. Anyhow, teenage Draco has not gone through the war yet, so he doesn’t know what it’s like to be hexed every step he takes or stared at with such disdain he wishes he were gone—thus, Draco enjoys the feeling of being unknown, teenage Draco be damned.

He ignores why his palms are sweaty, why they betray his chill demeanour, a carefully-built facade that protects him from it all. With a sigh, he makes his way to the counter. “Good morning. I will have a coffee, black with no sugar thank you.”

“Hi, that will be one pound and fifty cents pleas—Malfoy? Blimey!”

The familiar voice makes Draco, quite frankly still groggy, look up at the barista with wide eyes. But the eyes that meet his own are the same green he’s longed for more than he cared to admit. Whatever sleep remained in his body has exited with the force of the shock and all he can do is stare agape at the unbelievable sight.

What the bloody hell is The Chosen One doing serving coffee in muggle London?

“P-Potter? What are you doing here?” He replies at last, unable to look away.

“What are you doing here?”

The reply does not come easily. Truth be told, Draco has not seen him in years. This was the last place where he’d expected to find him. As far as he knew, Potter had finished his training to become an Auror. But no, it seems he has left all that behind, and now likes working in the muggle world and wearing muggle clothes, which he looks ridiculously pretty in. A sage green sweater, no less… Sweet Merlin. Maybe, Draco could crack a joke about his Slytherin-coded clothes and Potter would laugh like they’re old friends and not enemies-turned-reluctant-I-don’t-know-what-who-can-stand-each-other-but-not-really. He tugs at his sleeve and breaks their eye contact to get his wallet. It’s only then that he notices he’s been holding his breath. Potter tends to have that effect on him.

“Why, Potter, the reason one would usually enter a coffee shop is to get coffee. I see your time away has not helped with your thick-headedness,” Draco snorts.

“I see your time away has not helped with your attitude. You know what I meant.”

“I am quite afraid this is none of your business.”

Draco places the money on the counter—just the right amount—then steps away to let the next customer take their order and simultaneously escape the green eyes that had so often sought him out.

When Potter hands him his coffee, their fingers brush, and Draco nearly drops the cup. Saint Potter and his warm fingers, he thinks as he gets to the table farthest from the counter—and from him.

Quietly, he retrieves his notes from his satchel and starts writing. Focusing takes time, it always does. A part of him always believes that they're watching him. That the muggles around him somehow know who he is and what he has done. That someone is waiting for him to have his back turned so they can strike and make him pay for his still-haunting mistakes. It takes him furtive glances around the shop to realise his mind is playing tricks on him again. Just because Potter is here today doesn’t mean they’re back to the Wizarding world. I’m safe, he repeats like a mantra. A sip of his black, bitter coffee later, his head is cleared enough to go on working.

He’s still scribbling down notes when someone comes disturbing his peace.

“Erm… Fancy seeing you here.”

Draco doesn’t need to glance up to know who is talking. There is but one person in this world stupid enough to bother a man visibly busy without a care in the world.

“Can’t you see I’m working?”

“It’s just, I’m… curious. Can’t say I was expecting to see you in such a setting.”

“Well, as you’ve been aware, the Wizarding world does not exactly welcome my kind around there. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

“As in—Malfoys?”

“As in Death Eaters.” Draco goes back to his notes hoping Potter would get the hint that he does not want to partake in that conversation.

He should have known meddlesome Gryffindors like this one are way too stubborn to know when to stop.

“Former Death Eaters,” Potter corrects.

“It’s all the same to them. Muggles are more pleasant to be around.”

He has not meant to say that. He would never hear the end of it. Merlin. “Anyway,” he quickly adds after clearing his throat. “I came here so I could work in peace, in case you haven't figured yet.”

Whatever Potter meant to say dies on his tongue. “You’ve changed.”

Draco stills. He wonders what gave him away: the fact that he went to a muggle coffee shop or something else, such as the vulnerability he has issues concealing nowadays. He decides to dodge the comment, not ready for that kind of conversation. “Well, so have you,” he replies easily. “Last thing I knew you were chasing Dark wizards around Britain and now you're making coffee for muggles. Quite the change, I see.”

“Maybe I was just tired.”

Draco knows it’s risky, but his curiosity gets the upper hand. He has been attempting to get Harry Potter's attention for years, and knowing he finally has the chance to get to know him a little more makes him feel strangely warm inside. “Of what?”

“Of everything.” Silence. “And I think you were, too,” Potter adds more quietly.

“You don't know the first thing about me,” Draco snaps.

But of course, his little outburst has not shaken Potter the slightest. Potter’s lips curve up slowly, as if he’s just figured something out. Draco loathes it. Unfortunately, Draco likes it just as much.

“I think I do, actually. There’s a reason why we both found ourselves here, in the middle of muggle London.”

“And that reason is…?”

“I want to be just Harry as much as you want to be just Draco. Am I wrong?”

Draco hates Potter’s ability to see right through him. He hates how easily he can break the barrier Draco had meticulously constructed over the years, or how useless this self-made protection becomes in front of keen green eyes, leaving him exposed and naked.

Before he has the time to find a fitting answer, a voice calls from across the room, “Harry! The morning rush is coming, we need you here!”

“Coming!” Potter turns to Draco then. “I have to go, maybe we can talk after my shift…?”

“In your dreams.”

As he’s about to protest, his name is called once more, and he has to rush to the counter to handle the mass of customers that just came in, leaving Draco contemplating what the bloody hell just happened. Of course, their short interaction seems intent on bothering Draco, such that he gets very little work done in the following hour. Furthermore, the bespectacled curly-haired idiot standing on the other side of the room keeps on sending glances his way, and it takes Draco all his willpower to appear annoyed when he catches his eyes and hide the flush spreading on his cheeks at the not-actually-unwelcome attention. When he’s convinced he won’t get any more done today, he gathers his things and goes for the door.

He has barely made it out when the equally bothersome and attractive voice calls his last name, but Draco keeps walking.

“Draco!”

The use of his first name forces him to come to a halt. He feels pressure against his heart, shortening his breath and spreading colours in his cheeks pale in the cold of winter. At last, he lets himself turn around, mostly because the call risks attracting too much public attention, which he is avoiding right now—but another, tiny part of him is curious about what Potter can possibly want with him. He doesn’t let the glint of hope in his body burn for more than a single moment. Hope is not something post-war Draco Malfoy can rely on. It will only break him more, and he cannot allow that.

“What do you want, Potter?”

Potter walks closer, steps on the rain-soaked cobblestones echoing in the air. “I thought we could start over…”

It’s hard to remain stone-faced when Potter’s offer is everything Draco has ever wanted. He stares as the hand outstretched towards him for a while but makes no move to shake it.

“Start over?” The laughter that follows is bitter. “Are you serious? Just because I had the unfortunate experience of meeting you in the most unlikely of places doesn’t mean we should hang out or start any kind of relationship. It’s best if we stay out of each other’s way.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I can’t—I can’t let you go just like that!” The extended hand grabs Draco’s left wrist. Shame and anger rush through Draco as he tries to make sense of the scene. Is the gesture deliberate? Is he aware of the mark covered by his mere shirt, that he’s touching now? Is he sending Draco a signal or mocking him? Although Draco doubts that a do-gooder such as Harry Potter would stoop to such acts—after all, it’s thanks to his intervention that he managed to stay out of Azkaban—self-doubt is clouding his mind. He tries to pull his arm out of Potter’s reach but the touch is too firm. Because he doesn’t want to cause a scene in the middle of the streets, he drags Potter to an alleyway, far from the public gaze, where he can finally pull away.

“And why, pray tell? Heroes and villains do not belong together. Trust me, it’s better this way.”

“You’re not a villain, Draco. I wouldn’t have spoken at your trial if I believed that was the case! I don’t care about your past!”

Draco is hanging to his every word. There's something in the way Potter says his first name that leaves him all feverish. But despite how much he wants to believe him, he is unable to.

“I’m not the good person you seem to think I am. I can’t—and you’re so righteous and perfect—”

“That’s where you're wrong. You’re good, Draco,” Potter cuts him off. “Give me a chance to prove it to you. You’re lying because you’re scared. I know, Draco. I know what that feels like. You can be honest with me.”

The blond-haired man swallows because that’s all he can do when faced with Potter’s raw honesty, which is too much to deal with right now.

“And let me be honest with you too.” Potter’s eyes lock with Draco's, that are already on him, a mixture of fear and shock on his features. “I’m not perfect, don’t believe the shite you see in the papers. You and I both know they twist everything to fit their narratives. I get nightmares, I get lonely, I feel like I could have done more, I feel like I failed people, I even spill coffee on my shirts more often than not and—my point is, I’m not the perfect hero you think I am. Not now, not ever. I want to be just Harry. Harry, the barista with his stupid glasses or whatever. Not The Boy-Who-Lived or The Chosen One or the epitome of good everyone seems so keen on believing I am!” Potter’s raised voice resonates in the empty alleyway. “And just Harry… would like to start over with you. Draco. Just Draco.”

Draco blinks. Repeatedly. Potter’s hand is still hanging in the space between them.

“Bugger off, Potter.”

“You're running away because you know I’m right.”

Draco ignores both the words and the tightness in his chest as he walks away from a potential future he knows bloody well he can’t have.

* * *

The manor is not as unwelcoming as he remembers.

Although it has been five years since he left and never looked back, he still comes to visit his mother. She’s growing weaker day by day, and the war is a constant reminder of how fragile life is. The war has changed her, of course—her husband has been sentenced to a lifelong sentence to Azkaban, their reputation in the Wizarding world is ruined—not that she cares about it that much anyway—most of their possessions have been seized by the Ministry, but amidst all the tragedy and shame, they have been able to keep the Manor. The hardest part for her might be the loneliness and the changes that come with this new lifestyle. Narcissa lives there alone, since Lucius is rotting away in Azkaban. Thankfully, her sister Andromeda also comes for tea, with Teddy at times. Although Teddy is his second-cousin-once-removed, Draco cannot shake the unease whenever he finds himself in his company. The thought that he doesn’t deserve him is relentless and prevents him from spending more time with his aunt and cousin.

Narcissa has made a lot of transformations to the Manor, and Draco likes that it’s nearly unrecognizable now. It helps keep at bay the memories of the Dark Lord’s residence and all the torturing and killing he has done in this place Draco had once called home. Narcissa tends to the garden most days, and Draco has noticed the several plants growing all across the Manor. He knows she does it because it gives her some purpose.

His visits are never long. No matter how different the Manor appears, he still gets random flashbacks of the snake roaming around the house, of the many screams of muggleborns and so-called ‘blood traitors’—as his father would say—taking their last breaths, of corpses dropping on the floor like vulgar animals, and although he’s no stranger to panic attacks, he'd rather avoid them as much as possible.

He knows he can’t ask his mother to move, so he comes even when he is exhausted and his heart isn’t in it. She’s grateful for his presence. It shows in the way she always holds him, in her tired eyes that spark when she addresses him. And Draco watches, powerless, the toll of the years, and that same sense of mortal dread overcomes him.

He had never expected to survive the war, but now that he has, dealing with the aftermath proves to be arduous. When he bids her goodbye, it’s with a lump in his throat.

He doesn’t mention Harry Potter.

* * *

What Draco considers home now is his small apartment in muggle London. After the war, he’d quickly found out he would never belong in Wizarding society. With his reputation ruined, he had taken to keeping his head low in public and making himself as discreet as possible. His attempts had done nothing to stop the hexes that would come his way anytime he ventured outside. As he lies awake in bed that night, he thinks of that one time Potter had witnessed an attack in Diagon Alley and how he had immediately stepped in to protect Draco as though he cared. This was the last time Draco had seen him… until today.

Potter and his Saviour complex, he mutters aloud with no one but the stars as company.

It surprises him when he finds himself standing in front of the same coffee shop two days later. He hates how his body does as it pleases and totally ignores the signals sent by his brain. It’s not that he wants to see Potter again, per se. No, it’s just their previous conversation still lingering in his mind. Just Harry would like to start over with you. Draco. Just Draco. And it’s post-war Draco’s dearest wish, he would be a fool to deny it. That is why he left in the first place, isn’t it? He wanted to be just Draco. Not Draco Malfoy. Not the Death Eater. Not Lucius Malfoy’s son. Just Draco. And sodding hell, the offer is so tempting his hand shakes with the strength of the yearning.

But people like him can only admire the sun from afar, for its light will burn if he ever dares near too close.

He’s so bright, and Draco is darkness. It doesn’t matter that nowaday’s context differs, because darkness will never leave him alone. It’s a shadow he carries every day with him, a life companion of sorts that repulses the light, where Harry Potter belongs.

But when a black tuft emerges from behind the counter, Draco can’t stop peeping from across the glass door, and his hand, moving on its own accord, turns the handle.

Although it’s the middle of January, he’s sweating when he comes in, though he’s aware it's not the weather responsible for the droplets of sweat falling from his forehead. In a hasty gesture he rolls up his sleeves and exhales slowly.

“Hi there! What can I get you?” Someone asks, and it takes Draco a minute to notice that they’re speaking to him.

“Hello,” his voice is wavering as he says it. “Black coffee with no sugar please.”

“Coming right up! That will be—”

He places one pound and fifty cents on the counter before they can finish.

“Nice tattoo, by the way.”

It’s obvious they said it because he seemed nervous and they wanted to make him comfortable. However, their attempt only increases the degree of restlessness in his body and he rubs at his mark with his gaze elsewhere.

No words come out of his mouth.

He can’t even say ‘thank you.’

“Oh, Harry. Hey!” they say to someone but Draco can’t hear any of it. His ears are ringing and his forearm itchy and he feels hot all over and he can't breathe.

“Draco.”

He feels dizzy.

“Draco.”

There’s a warmth around his hand.

“Draco!”

Potter is standing before him with his hand around his. Through his blurry surroundings, Draco notices worried green eyes.

“I’m—I’m fine, Potter,” he says in-between breaths. A lie to save his face.

But Potter does not back away. “No you’re not,” he replies. “Come here, I’ll bring you water.”

Draco is in no position to refuse and drinks the provided glass of water in one go. With his eyelids closed, he takes deep breaths. He hates being vulnerable. This is why he always keeps his mask on. Unfortunately for him, his mask has cracked and Potter has been here to witness all of it. It’s undeniably terrifying.

“How are you feeling?”

When he opens his eyes, his expression is carefully sculpted into one of evenness and mild annoyance. “I told you I’m fine.”

What he wants to say is Go away, go away, go away.

It's easier to tuck his vulnerability back into the depth of his mind when Potter is not standing so close and prying him open with these green eyes of his.

“You don’t need to be ashamed, Draco. I get them all the time.” Harry gives him a soft look, devoid of any mockery.

The mask falls off.

“You do?”

“Yeah. Getting away from it all doesn’t make all the trauma go away. It helps, though.”

Draco is at a loss for words. There is so much he wants to tell him, but he’s scared. What good would a Potter and a Malfoy be together? And yet, Potter is the only one who has managed to figure him out, effortlessly cracked his shell open, really sees him and in spite of all still wants to associate with the likes of him.

His hand urges to reach out but stops midway. “Potter, I—”

“Harry.”

“What?”

“Call me Harry.”

It’s all he's ever wanted. It’s all he can't allow himself to want.

“No.”

He tries to tear his eyes away but insisting eyes follow his own.

“Please?”

Draco huffs. Potter’s pleading look is getting to him, and he knows he is done for. “You’re insufferable,” he replies without any venom.

“Sure am. But will you? It would really make me happy.”

Draco can’t help but wonder why being on a first name basis would bring him happiness. He refuses to dwell on the potential implications or indulge in wishful thinking.

“What an odd thing to be happy about.”

“What can I say, I’m an odd lad. That’s pretty much in my genes. So. Just Harry and just Draco… what do you say?” He asks with a tentative smile.

Yes. A million times yes.

“If I say it, will you leave me alone?”

“Maybe.”

Every ounce of self-preservation evaporates from his body the moment he sees the smile directed at him—solar and hopeful and alive.

Screw it.

“...Fine, Harry.”

He loves the way the name rolls on his tongue, not that he would ever admit it out loud.

At this, Potter—no, Harry—breaks into a wide grin. “Can you say it again? I didn't quite catch it.”

“Fuck off,” Draco mutters as he turns away in an attempt to hide his flushed face.

“You git. Fine, have it your way. But I’m not giving up!”

Their conversation is cut short by Harry’s colleague. It’s like fate is trying to separate them. “I have to go but we can talk later.” As he turns to leave, he adds, “I’m glad you came back, Draco,” with a smile that fills Draco’s stomach with warmth.

The rush of joy stemming from their conversation gives Draco all the energy he needs to work, though he can’t help his thoughts from drifting away.

Potter is Harry now. It’s a privilege he’s overjoyed to have. It’s a privilege that awakens an untameable greed—he wants more. Whatever Harry is willing to give him, Draco is eager to take, and it’s a dangerous game to play.

Absent-mindedly, his fingers trace the outline of the mark hidden by his white shirt—the reminder that he and Harry belong to different worlds. Draco has for long wished he could change the past to stop the weight of his mistakes from crushing him. Alas, he has learned the hard way that he can only live with it and move forward. He wrote apology letters to all the people he had hurt, Harry included, and thought then they would leave it at that. He'll spend the rest of his life atoning for his shameful deeds hoping he might be and feel good enough one day.

As soon as his paper is finished, he leaves. He has to owl it to his correspondent. It’ll make the headlines tomorrow for sure. After all, his writing style is well-liked among readers, or so he’s heard. That is why he had received the job offer in the first place. The offer was simple: receive information from reliable sources, ghost-write articles, send them to his correspondent, and get paid. Draco likes it that way: it allows him to keep track on the Wizarding world, which he still misses from time to time. He can fulfil his passion, writing, all while staying out of the spotlight. His past self would probably laugh at this ridiculous job, but the thought doesn’t bother him much.

He doesn’t stay too long in his flat. It tends to get lonely, and he doesn’t receive many visitors if none at all. It’s a mix of curiosity and something else he cannot exactly pinpoint that drags him back to the coffee shop. He makes the journey by bike in spite of the windy weather so as to feel the pressure of the wind on his face. The cold reminds him that he’s alive and breathing and real. It’s grounding and Draco awfully needs it.

His face is flushed due to the exercise when he arrives. It’s no use taming his hair that has fallen victim to the wind. Harry won’t mind, his hair is always an utter mess, Draco convinces himself to ease the nervousness weaving its way into his body. As if on cue, Harry comes out of the shop. Fate, it seems, has not given up on them.

“Draco!” Harry looks ecstatic. “You’re here.”

“No word or I’m hexing you.”

“Do you even have your wand with you?”

Draco laughs at that, because Harry is right, as always. He’d gotten his wand back from him after the trial but it’s safely tucked away in a drawer in his bedroom right now.

The look Harry sends him is amiable as he silently admires Draco laughing. And Circe, Draco would do anything just for Harry to look at him that way again.

Harry Potter is an addiction Draco has long ago surrendered himself to.

“Do you want to… erm… get lunch?” Harry asks.

Draco takes a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to be seen out with me?”

“Nobody knows who we are here. And even if they did, it wouldn't matter to me. I meant it when I asked to start over. So… may just Harry and just Draco get lunch together?”

Draco knows he can’t deny him anything.

“You’ll regret this,” he says at last.

“That’s up to me. I know a place. It’s a long walk, but it—” his eyes dart to the bike Draco is holding. “Oh! We can take your bike!”

“You're mental. It’s not made to support two people!”

“I’ve seen people do it before. Come on!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, let’s get lunch, Draco.”

“Reckless Gryffindors,” Draco mumbles but hops on his bike nevertheless. Harry sits behind him and wraps his arms around Draco’s waist to steady himself.

Thank Merlin he can’t see my face right now. Draco’s emotions are all over the place—he feels himself blush at the proximity, but doesn’t let it show in his actions. Then, he starts pedaling.

Maybe this is what life is, Draco thinks as he rides his bike with Harry holding his waist. He can feel Harry’s forehead pressing against his back, his curls brushing against his neck, and it dawns on him it’s the most alive he’s felt in years.

“So, Draco, what do you do?”

Harry has picked a nice muggle restaurant not actually far from Draco’s flat.

“I’m a journalist. And before you ask, no I’m not going to write about The Chosen One’s whereabouts in muggle London. You see, I have way more fascinating topics to write about.” The white lie comes easily. He’s not insane enough to mention the real reasons. That he understands Harry’s liking for anonymity—he’d be a hypocrite not to—and that he doesn’t wish for the vulture that is the public eye to get its hands on Harry’s life. He has suffered enough from that in the past.

“Journalist? For a muggle newspaper?”

“You have too much faith in me,” Draco slowly shakes his head. “No, I work for the Wizarding World News. Anonymously, of course. I’m a ghost-writer of sorts.”

Harry is amused. “Who would have thought Draco Malfoy would enjoy someone else taking credit and getting attention for his own work.”

“I don’t want to be scrutinized by the public so I enjoy anonymity. My past self could never.”

Harry smiles. “I like this new Draco way better.”

It almost sounds like flirting. Almost.

Draco is flushing before he knows it. “Whatever.” He takes a sip from his glass of cider. “Why did you quit being an Auror?”

“I found out I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life catching criminals and working for the Ministry. And the reminder of the war was everywhere around me. I realised after a while that I had become an Auror because it was expected of me. After giving it some thought, it dawned on me that I longed for a quieter life, away from it all,” Harry replies honestly.

Draco knows the feeling all too well. “It’s indeed quieter here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I’m right, then? You’ve also left because you wanted peace?”

“Hmm. After that altercation in Diagon Alley… I came to the conclusion that I could never live here. That the memory of the war was too fresh and I’d never find work or a mundane life. I was searching for a potions apprenticeship, you know. No one would hire me. That’s fair, of course, given everything I’ve done… But the constant judgment was too much to handle. Pathetic of me.”

Draco hasn’t been honest in so long. He isn’t exactly sure why he’s sharing such private thoughts with Harry Potter. No—not Harry Potter, just Harry. Harry, who has chosen the same path as him. A path of anonymity, away from magic.

It’s freeing, to be here with him, to be honest and not be judged in return.

When his eyes find Harry, the latter has a frown on his face, disagreement written all over. “I don’t think it’s pathetic. It’s tiring to be known for what you had no say in. And exhausting to have assumptions be made about you whatever you do when you’re only trying to live your life.” Then, softly, “It takes bravery to leave.”

It takes a while for the reply to come. Harry thinks he is brave? When he wasn’t even brave enough to do the right thing? “You mean cowardice. I’m just a coward, P-Harry.”

“Then I’m also a coward.”

“Don’t be daft. We’re nothing alike. I left because I couldn’t deal with the consequences of my own actions. You left because you’ve given too much to this world and have been rewarded with exploitation. Because they all ask more of you that you can give. And that’s entirely understandable, if you ask me.”

There’s a glimmer in Harry’s eyes that Draco isn’t sure how to interpret. “How does it take you one day to get it when it took my own friends years?”

Draco shrugs. “You’re still in contact with Weasley and Granger?”

“Of course. I try to visit them every month, but they’re busy. They have a kid, you know? Rose. She’s adorable. I spend most of my Christmases at the Burrow but it’s just not the same as before… Molly—I mean Mrs. Weasley really expected Ginny and I to work out. Maybe if I bring someone over, she'll understand. But I’m painfully single, so.”

“The Chosen One, single? Would you believe that,” Draco teases.

“Stop calling me that! It’s not my fault I can’t find a bloke or girl interested in me! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve snogged someone?”

Draco’s laugh echoes in the restaurant. It’s probably been longer for him, though. He isn’t fond of strangers touching him so hookups have never been a possibility, and getting to know someone requires energy he doesn’t have. Plus, it’s very unfortunate that every black-haired guy that catches his attention fades to Harry every time. His bloody embarrassing crush on the man before him will be his doom one day.

Is it bad that he’s delighted Harry is single and interested in blokes?

“It’s been long for me too. Not that muggle men disgust me or anything, it’s just… you know…” He tugs at his sleeve. He is aware he hasn’t found anyone because he can’t bear being vulnerable. Adding to that his mark and scars that would get people too curious for his liking.

Harry nods, but his head tilts slightly to the side, as if confused. “Men?”

“I’m gay, much to my father’s displeasure. If he weren’t locked up he’d be trying to arrange a wedding with some girl from a pureblood family of better standing. So cheers, I guess.”

Harry seems horrified. “Arranged marriages are a thing in pureblood culture?”

“Unfortunately so. Very few purebloods marry for love.”

“Maybe you will.”

“I doubt that.” Draco would need to find someone who wants him in spite of his identity first. He doesn’t think he could marry a muggle—he would have to hide such a huge part of himself and that’s unthinkable.

They carry on talking after they’re outside, Draco pushing his bike with his hands while standing on its left with Harry indulging him in mindless chatter. Draco doesn’t even register which direction they're going until he finds himself standing in front of his flat.

“That’s my flat,” he says blankly, catching on a little too late.

“Oh.”

Silence hangs in the air between them. Draco doesn’t want Harry to leave, but to take him inside his own sanctuary is something else entirely. Would Harry even want to? Whatever has been going on between them lately might be strange, but there are boundaries he knows he can’t cross. Inviting your rival-turned-acquaintance to your home isn’t crossing the line, is it?

After a while, he looks back at Harry. One second spent with these sparkling green eyes and all remaining doubt is gone. There's no use debating with himself when his traitorous heart has already given in. “Want to come in?”

“With pleasure.”

As Draco welcomes Harry in, he promises not to let his greedy self take more than he deserves.

* * *

Harry has magical effects on his flat, Draco finds. It might just be him being smitten but whenever Harry smiles, or when his laughter fills the usually silent living room, the darkness disappears. Harry is so bright that the apartment is awash with life thanks to his mere presence. Draco wishes he could stay forever. Harry belongs right here with him—he feels it, the flat itself feels it. But Harry has to leave eventually because good things never last, and the darkness takes him back, vanishing the light like it had never been there.

That night, inside the dark apartment, sleep doesn’t come.

Because Draco is a masochist, he finds himself coming back to that coffee shop often. Harry always takes his order, and has taken to leaving notes on a tiny paper underneath the cup, on which friendly comments are scribbled. It takes Draco ten minutes to decipher Harry’s writing each time, but when he does colour spreads on his cheeks and Harry is smirking from the other side of the room. Today, he wrote I love when your hair is all ruffled like this.

If Draco doesn’t put as much care into taming his hair afterwards, then it's his business and no one else’s.

Harry comes over sometimes, filling Draco’s flat with all-consuming brightness. The aftermath of his visits are painful. Retreating to the dark after tasting the light gets harder every time, but Draco would endure it over and over again just to be by Harry’s side for a while longer.

It’s two months after their little routine started that Harry invites Draco for a drive.

“A drive? You have your driver’s license? And a car?”

Harry grins. “Yeah, got it a couple of years back. It’s sunny today, come on, don’t you want to go for a drive? Leave London city life.”

“I’m not sure I trust your driving skills.”

Draco knows he would go anywhere with him anyway.

“Git,” Harry says with a smile.

“Right back at you.” Draco opens the car door and plops on the passenger seat.

Harry drives for hours, while Draco stares at him when he thinks he isn’t looking. Harry is absolutely breathtaking in that green sweater of his, Draco’s favourite to Harry’s utmost obliviousness. The glasses perched on his nose barely differ from the round ones he’d had in school—they’re the same colour and shape if only a little more modern. His hair looks atrocious, unstyled and untamed, and regrettably Draco finds it absolutely endearing. In Draco’s wildest fantasies, he’s running his fingers through them as he kisses him senseless. The reminder stings, because none of it can ever happen. Although they hang out often and what they have might be considered by some a tentative friendship, Draco cannot forget about the barrier pulled up between them.

Harry glances his way briefly and smiles when he finds Draco already staring—the kind of smile that brightens up his entire face, the kind that drives Draco absolutely mad because of how much he longs for it.

They listen to the radio on the way, and Draco is pleased at Harry’s surprise when he finds out the extent of the pureblood household raised man’s muggle music knowledge.

They reach Dover in mid afternoon. Draco, who has been unaware of their destination, watches out the window with curious eyes. “Is this Dover?”

“Yeah! Do you want to go to the cliffs?”

“I’d love to, Harry. Pretend I didn’t say that but that’s a fantastic idea.”

“Thanks, Draco.”

The wind welcomes them when they step out of the car once they've parked. Although it’s a sunny March afternoon, the breeze is chilling, and up here the temperature will get colder. Thankfully, they’ve both brought scarves and warm coats—on Draco’s part, at least. He’s not sure Harry’s coat is any warm and wouldn't put it past him to grab the first thing available in his wardrobe.

“I can’t believe you're wearing a grey scarf,” Draco observes as they begin ascending the cliff. “Would've thought you’d be wearing a red, Gryffindorish one for some reason.”

“Red doesn’t mix well with green, does it?”

This sentence could be interpreted in several ways, but Draco stops his mind before it goes into overthinking mode. Harry is here, with him, smiling—he can’t possibly be hinting at their incompatibility or implying they’d be better off as strangers. Instead, he decides to take it literally, and it immediately triggers the urge to comment on how well the green sweater fits Harry. He has to control himself before he ends up accidentally complimenting him or calling him beautiful or some gay shite.

“Very Slytherin of you,” he finally comments with the most neutral tone he can manage.

“Well, I was almost sorted into Slytherin.”

Draco stops in his tracks. What? “No fucking way. You're taking the piss out of me.”

“I’m not! The sorting hat said I’d do well there, but I begged him not to put me in Slytherin. Maybe we could have been friends if I had.”

Draco is staring at the ground. “Maybe we would if you had shaken my hand,” he says pensively.

All of a sudden, shoes are blocking the way, and when he raises his head Harry is extending his hand with a bright smile illuminating his features.

“What are you doing?”

“Shaking your hand. I’m Harry. Just Harry.”

Oh, how Draco is hopelessly in love with that man.

He holds his hand up, before shaking Harry’s and mirroring his smile. “Draco. Just Draco.”

Flashbacks of first year rush through them both, and the adrenaline of it makes Draco feel all fuzzy inside. It’s a lifelong dream that has just come true. He is now officially friends with Harry.

Their smiles stick to their faces for the rest of the ascension.

Standing on the cliffs with the vast sea stretching down below as far as the eye can see arouses a feeling of freedom he’s never been familiar with before. They have taken the narrow path to the cliffs, meeting cows along the way, feeling the breeze tickle their noses, and that might be the happiest Draco has ever been.

Harry puts his thumbs under his chin and his palms on each side of his mouth before he lets out a scream.

This absolute idiot.

“Are you mad?” Draco reprimands under Harry’s entertained eyes. “There are people here!”

“Come on, Draco, try it! It feels good!”

“No.” In spite of the disapprobation, he copies Harry’s gesture and screams as well. It does feel good, of course, and it’s as maddening as endearing that Harry is always right.

Their laughter blends with the wind as they watch the ferries together. The sun is covering Harry’s face in a tender glow, making him look extremely kissable.

You’re beautiful, Draco yearns to say but doesn’t.

“Thank you for coming with me, Draco.”

“It’s not so terrible to hang out with you.” Harry knows Draco is only teasing him—it's his way of being nice.

“You’re not so bad either, for a Slytherin.”

“You hanging out with devils. What would people say?”

The light-hearted character of the sentence hides an insecurity that is still eating him from the inside out and that Harry notices because of course he does.

“I forgave you a long time ago. Whoever has a problem with who I choose to spend time with can bugger off for all I care. They don’t know you like I do. They don’t know the man you’ve become.”

They don’t know you like I do. The words resonate in Draco’s mind endlessly like a broken record player. He’s resisting the urge to cry right now.

If only it were that easy.

“There’s a darkness in me, Harry. It’s what will always make us different.”

Harry is sitting with his knees brought up to his chest beside him, elbow resting on his knee, gaze on Draco soft. “What is that darkness telling you?”

Letting out a long sigh, Draco starts fiddling with his many rings to control his anxiety. To be honest, he’s tired of keeping it all to himself. Harry makes all of it sound so easy and most of all he understands. This ability of his only pushes Draco to open up and let all his fears go. So he does. “The truth. That you and I, we’re bound to break. You belong with the light while darkness is consuming me. There’s no amount of good that can atone for what I’ve done and make me deserve you,” his throat constricts with the grief of the confession. He can’t bring himself to seek Harry’s eye contact, terrified of what he might find in those green eyes of his.

“You don’t get to choose whether you deserve me or not. Did you know, Draco, that there's darkness in each and every one of us? Yes, even me. I’ve used Unforgivables you know, I’m not as perfect as you think. We have both done things we regret.” Draco tugs at his sleeve under which his dark mark is. “We have both known the darkness before and made mistakes we still bear the consequences of. But although they might be a part of us, we’re more than just that. Imperfection makes us human.”

Draco does not seem entirely convinced.

Slowly, Harry inches his hand closer, before covering Draco’s with it, whose face immediately slants leftwards. He says nothing, but Harry can feel the slight shake of his fingers in his.

Harry’s gaze is fond, causing Draco’s stomach to churn. “I wish you saw yourself the way I see you.”

“How…?”

“Brave, annoyingly well-dressed, adaptable, perceptible, elegant and refined but not snobbish, and so bright. It’s in the way you talk, laugh, hold yourself. You’ve grown, and the result is this man who’s given up his family’s prejudices to go live with the muggles he’s been taught to despise and embraced this new lifestyle. A man who still struggles to be vulnerable sometimes but who’s good, so good.”

That’s when he hears sniffling that Harry notices Draco is crying. He’s covering his mouth with his right hand to prevent the sobs from escaping his lips, his face hidden from Harry’s sight.

Draco had no idea Harry perceived him that way. And Merlin, it hurts. He sees himself as a coward, a bad person filled with regret, a prey for the darkness. But Harry sees light where Draco can’t, and it’s overwhelming to the point his heart aches.

Draco could give Harry the world and it still wouldn’t be enough to deserve him.

“Want to watch the sunset on the beach?” Harry suggests once Draco’s crying has subsided. Draco is grateful he isn’t asked to reply because he’s sure what would come out would be something along the lines of “I love you” and he is not stupid enough to risk ruining their preciously-nurtured friendship.

Harry is still holding his hand when they descend the cliff, and Draco—well, is enjoying the sensation too much to retreat his hand. He briefly wonders whether Gryffindors are all so clingy with their friends, not that he is complaining. It can’t be flirting, because Harry doesn’t like Draco, and hoping for his fantasies to come true will only be his demise.

The sun is already setting when they reach the pebble beach. The surroundings are painted in gorgeous shades of red and orange and both can’t help but stare at the sight. Sunsets on the beach do feel special. Perhaps, the presence of a certain black-haired man beside Draco has something to do with it.

They sit near the sea, though not too close to avoid the cold splash of the waves. It’s already cold enough with the wind gusting, ruffling both their hair in the process. Draco, ever so observant, notices Harry attempting to hide his shivers. Is he trying to do that so we can spend more time together? He thinks, but shakes the thought off right afterwards. No, that would be ridiculous.

Their hands are not linked anymore but they’re still close. If Draco didn’t feel like a coward, he would move an inch so they’d be touching. “We can go back, if you’d like.”

“It’s alright.”

“You halfwit, come here.” He takes off his coat and puts it around Harry’s shoulders. Their gazes meet, surprised and embarrassed.

“You—aren’t you cold?”

“Unlike you, I’m wearing a warm jumper. You know that green sweater of yours barely protects you from the cold, right?”

He cannot decode the expression on Harry’s face; it’s warm and kind but there’s another emotion unknown to Draco, a mystery to be seen right through.

His eyes wrinkle in confusion as he tries to figure it out. “What?”

But all Harry does is smile in answer. It’s infuriating, truly.

Still, they remain here until the sun disappears behind the horizon and the temperatures begin to drop. They walk to the car in comfortable silence and listen to the radio on the drive back to London.

* * *

Their meetings become more frequent after that day. Draco cannot explain it, but feels that something in their relationship has shifted. Because Harry acts like usual, if only a little more clingy than before, he doesn’t mention any of it out of fear of risking their friendship. When Draco doesn’t visit the coffee shop, they have drinks at his flat or go for a drive in the British countryside.

Muggle life with just Harry could not get any better.

Before meeting Harry in the coffee shop, Draco's life was an endless routine: he would write articles, mostly in random coffee shops and rarely in the quiet of his flat, he would visit his mother at least once every fortnight, meet with Aunt Andromeda and Teddy occasionally if they came to the Manor. There were also his meetings with Pansy, his best friend whom he misses dearly but lives farther away in the country and without using magic the long journey is so bothersome that he rarely visits. Harry forcing his way into Draco's life has broken down that routine, especially now that they have decided to go on drives every other day. For the first time in years, Draco feels like he's actually going somewhere.

“You’re happier,” his mother notes during another visit, a hot tea in hand.

There’s no way around it. “I met someone.”

Narcissa stays silent, inciting him to go on.

“We’re just friends, but he’s—he’s everything. You can come meet him some other day, if you visit.”

Narcissa has never come to his flat before. She gets anxious about leaving the Manor. Moreover, because Draco’s flat is muggle, she can’t just floo there. She would need to apparate to Diagon Alley and directly walk to his home. He’d suggest meeting her at the apparition point, but even so, she’ll most likely refuse.

Against all odds, her face lights up ever so slightly. “That is a wonderful idea.”

Today’s visit feels less bittersweet.

* * *

When May rears its head, Draco’s feelings for Harry have grown a hundred times stronger, which is ridiculous because he was already madly in love before. Madly in love has turned into hopelessly, pathetically, irrevocably in love, and hiding it proves to be a complicated task.

It’s harder to resist the urge to slide a hand in Harry’s wild strand when he’s had them brush against his skin before, harder to resist the urge to take his hand now that he’s known the warmth of Harry’s fingers around his own. Fortunately, Harry seems as oblivious as ever to Draco’s inner turmoil. He's clingy and friendly like he usually is and invites him for a drive in their free time, Draco’s newest favourite activity.

“Let’s go for a drive, Draco.”

“I still don’t trust your driving skills,” Draco contests, sliding into the seat next to Harry nevertheless. “Where to?”

“Wherever you want.”

I’d go anywhere with you, Draco almost mouths but contains himself. “What about Seven Sisters? Must be lovely at that time of the year. I miss the cliffs.”

I miss the cliffs with you, he doesn’t add.

“Seven Sisters it is.”

Harry is still wearing this jade green sweater that Draco finds hard to resist. “Feeling Slytherin today?”

The Gryffindor’s face grows a little hot, but it might as well just be Draco's sentimental-natured imagination. “Must be your influence.”

Draco cocks a brow. “Didn’t know I was such a model to you.”

“You are,” Harry replies genuinely.

Draco cannot let his embarrassment show, so he turns to the road instead and pretends the words don’t affect him. “Whatever.”

“Feeling muggle today?” The man driving mirrors in the same teasing manner.

Draco looks down at his casual grey polo-necked jumper. It’s different from his usual white shirt and tie, for sure. “Must be your influence,” he smirks in Harry’s direction.

The weather at Seven Sisters Country Park is pleasant and warm. Though a soft spring breeze tousles their hair as they get out of the car, it’s gentler than what they have been subjected to last winter.

Harry is smiling. He’s been smiling ever since they started proceeding to the viewpoint, and when Draco asks about it, he is met with a plain “nothing” that only increases his frustration. What is Harry not telling him?

Therefore—and so as not to spoil his mood—Draco tries his best not to look his way and instead focuses on the surreal surroundings and white cliffs welcoming his sight. Walking in the grass with Harry’s hand close enough to touch fills him with irrepressible want. He wants to be journeying with Harry for the rest of his days; he wants to hold his hand, to kiss that annoying smile off his face, to be in the passenger seat while Harry drives forever, to nowhere and anywhere. The craving for it is timid at first, then he’s consumed all at once, unable to subtract his mind from the forbidden reveries that cling onto him like a leech.

“Harry,” he lets out before he can stop himself. He swallows sheepishly at the urgency of his tone. His walls are already down and he knows he can’t get them back up, and even otherwise, it’s no use against Harry, who sees right through them anyway.

“Hm?” Harry’s reply is soft and sweet and Merlin, how badly Draco wants to kiss him.

“I—” But he can’t. “Never mind.” His gaze falls to the ground, hands curling into fists in frustration. He’s been expecting it, but the epiphany comes with full force, pressing its claws to his throat. All Draco can do is powerlessly acknowledge and accept that his love will bring about their doom. This raw, all-consuming love will target Harry if it can’t burn Draco. Better himself than him. His love will taint Harry in its wake. Draco would rather keep it contained and let it consume him from the inside out. Better to forget all about his passionate feelings and content himself with being a friend.

“Draco.”

The blonde man ignores the voice, for he knows he will lash out otherwise.

Unexpectedly, though, hands are cupping his face and then Harry is standing close, too close. “Draco, look at me.”

How can Draco resist when his first name is being called in such a tender way? Slowly, he raises his head and meets Harry’s eyes, sparkling and beautiful and so green, and Draco’s heart hurts with the intensity of the love felt.

“Harry,” he calls, unsure, vulnerability dripping from his word.

“Draco.”

Harry shoots him a tentative smile before inching closer and pressing their foreheads together.

Draco’s pale, shaky hands wrap themselves around Harry’s forearms. He tries to mirror the smile directed at him but when he does, it’s closer to a grimace. There is no escape and no chance to conceal the fact that he’s unquestionably terrified.

Meanwhile, Harry is absolutely radiant, bathed in the gentle afternoon glow. Draco is jealous of the way the sun kisses his features—he’d very much like to be the one to kiss him instead. Harry’s curls are all over the place, his green eyes staring at him from behind his black spectacles, and his hands feel warm and comforting on his skin. With a close look, Draco can discern every shade of green in the black-haired man’s irises and every imperfection on his skin—it’s strange, how alive Harry feels around his fingertips. Draco cannot believe he’s been allowed such proximity with the man of his every dream. Yet, Harry is here and real with his breath on Draco’s lips.

His own eyes close before Draco himself realises what is about to happen. There’s a slight press of lips against his own and he reciprocates on instinct. Harry is cradling his face, kissing him softly and Draco swears he could cry from the sheer bliss of it.

Soon afterwards, however, panic surges, wild and brutal, keeping his heart prisoner and Draco has to push Harry away with a hand on his chest before he goes frantic.

He’s promised himself he would never cross the line. He’s betrayed himself. Betrayed Harry and their friendship. He’s ruined everything.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, his voice strained and uneven. He can’t even look at Harry, who might be hating him right now.

“Do you not feel the same way? I thought—well, er, I figured you did but—”

Draco turns to the man responsible for his agitation with a frown. It can’t be. “In what way do you mean?”

Harry gives him an embarrassed, lopsided grin. “I’m sort of crazy about you. I thought that was obvious?”

Draco’s eyes widen as he tries to make sense of the words. Harry can’t like him. Why would he like someone like Draco, who’s broken and mean and such a bloody coward? “What? No, no you can’t fancy me Harry, you deserve better. Way better.”

Harry is shouting at this point. “I don’t want better, Draco! I want you!”

Draco’s heart is racing in a mix of stress and excitement. If it’s all he’s ever dreamed of, why does the prospect of Harry feeling that way hurt so bloody much?

He does what he knows best when he’s panicking: he pushes him away. “You don’t want me. You’re just confused because we both like blokes.”

“Fuck off. I’ve been trying to flirt with you for the past five months!”

Silence.

Draco stares, his body going rigid.

Merlin’s pants.

His face contorts in a frown as he repeatedly shakes his head, like he can’t believe it. “No you haven’t. You’re only being friendly.”

“Why else do you think I’m wearing this Slytherin-looking sweater so often when I’m with you, you tosser?”

It takes ten long seconds for the words to sink in, and ten others to realise that Harry has been wearing this sweater specifically for him. He’s so endeared by the ridiculous attempt at flirting he might puke.

“That’s what you call flirting?”

“I don’t have much experience in that field! I’m just trying my best alright? Is it so hard to believe I fancy you?”

With a sigh, Draco plops on the grass beneath his shoes. It’s grounding, to feel the tangible nature all around him, covering his every sense. The gentle breeze caressing his face, the sound of the waves crashing ashore down below, the strong sunshine making him squint, the scent of nature, the hazelnut taste of Harry’s lips… He’s intoxicated by the memory of those lips, yearning to taste them anew.

“I don’t get why you possibly could,” he admits as he follows the few clouds overhead moving across the blue.

Harry takes place beside him, lying on his side to face him. “Draco,” he calls softly, “You know I don’t give a shite about your history, I told you so before. I got to know you over the past months and I know who you truly are. The man behind the mask is positively wonderful and nothing like the bully he used to be ages ago. He’s fun and nice to be around and I’m lucky to know him, Draco. I’m so lucky and grateful. We match well, don’t you think so? If you feel the same, it’d be a shame not to let yourself live the quite possibly brilliant love story awaiting us.”

Draco is only protecting the both of them—if they get into a relationship and Harry regrets ever giving him a chance, he’ll break their hearts and Draco won’t survive the impact of the blow. “You’re too good for me, Harry. I’ll only ruin you.”

“It’s about time you let go of that hero-worship of yours that you use to punish yourself. Stop that, Draco. You don’t deserve to put yourself through that,” Harry's voice is firm yet soft as his hand grips Draco’s shoulder.

“But in the end, people will hate you if you’re involved with me. Your friends might never talk to you ever again. You’re making the wrong choice.”

“The people who matter will be happy for me. The others can have a go at me, I don’t give a flying fuck. I will let no one take my happiness. No one. Not nosey journalists, not even you. I’ve had enough of other people deciding on what is good for me. I can make bloody good choices, you know? And it’s you. I’m choosing you, Draco. No matter what the world has to say about it.”

Draco’s feelings are so intense that he feels close to tears. “You really think so?”

“Yeah. just Harry and just Draco will be relatively safe amidst muggles, won’t they? You don’t need to be scared.” Harry’s hand has moved to Draco’s wrist, curling around his bare skin, then sliding onto his palm. “Trust me.”

Draco huffs in indignation. “I’m not bloody scared, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then kiss me.”

“That’s called blackmailing.”

“Scared, Draco?” Harry smirks, a gesture immediately reciprocated by the blonde-haired man beside him. Déjà-vu.

This bloody idiot. My idiot.

“You wish.”

Draco’s hand moves to cup Harry’s jaw and he crashes their mouths together in an affectionate, grounding kiss with the cliffs and the waves as witness. It feels just like coming home.

Harry is smiling against his lips, hands sliding onto Draco’s back to pull him closer. Draco can only oblige as his hands easily find Harry’s maddening strands. Harry makes a little noise at that, and Draco uses this opportunity to deepen the kiss. Harry’s lips feel bloody fantastic on his own, and he wishes nothing more than to be able to kiss him until his very last breath.

“I’ve been fantasising about this for way too long,” Draco whispers close to his ear, causing Harry’s heart to flutter dangerously.

“Really? Since when?”

“Not telling you, it’s embarrassing.”

“Draco, please—” Harry’s pleading is interrupted by another kiss. Eager, he reciprocates, and Draco satisfyingly notes that he’s found an effective way to shut this chatty man up. This might be useful for later.

The kiss goes on for minutes or hours, no one knows. Draco would say it feels like time has stopped, except it’s not quite the case. It feels instead like time is moving its course and has left Harry and Draco in their own world, the passing of time ignored amidst their blooming love.

And then, an occurrence that makes Draco’s heart nearly leap out of his chest: Harry resting his head on his torso, his eyelids half-closed and his hand on Draco's waist. Harry’s ever so messy hair is shining, blessed with the afternoon sunlight and Draco’s throat squeezes at the godlike sight. Because he is now allowed to, his fingers curl around the black strands and he admires the man that might just be his.

Draco still doesn’t think he honestly deserves him, but he'll take all Harry is willing to offer. He has tasted happiness once—he wants to be selfish and cling onto it. Addicted, he yearns for more and more of this joy buzzing in his body like electricity.

“So this is what muggles call ‘Heaven’,” he says at the peak of bliss, his grey irises unable to tear away from the man cuddling him.

Harry’s soft giggle makes his body shake, the vibration of which reaching Draco who can’t help but bring the man he loves even closer to him with a grin.

“Watch it. I might call you smitten if you keep this up.”

“Git.”

Harry's expression turns into one of mock-sulking. “Is it really that hard to go one minute without swearing at me?”

“It’s my love language, take it or leave it darling.”

“I’ll take all of it thank you,” Harry beams and kisses Draco again to seal his promise.

They see very little of the cliffs that day.

* * *

Draco rubs his temples to soothe the headache he can already feel building in. Such is the backwash of an hour spent wallowing in self-doubt while the very subject of his negative thoughts is driving them both home. Draco can only blame himself for the outcome. There is a price to pay for happiness and that price is proving to be his sanity. This afternoon in Harry’s company has been such a joyful moment, a remedy to his lonesome days, and Merlin, Draco can already imagine a future with him, indulging in these fantasies that drive his mind to euphoria. However, that same old fear pooling in his stomach is warning him against it, and if that fear were not so insistent he could have pretended it weren’t there taunting him. But the headache persists, and he swears disgruntledly as the lovesick scenes unfolding in his mind give way to ones of heartache and heartbreak, an inevitable fallout for a notorious man like him.

Harry notices, because that’s what he does. His oblivious character has been the target of countless teasing but when it comes to Draco nothing escapes him. His obsession with him has seen the day more than a decade ago, in his first school years, and had only worsened from sixth year onwards to Ron and Hermione’s greatest inconvenience. “Everything alright?”

His voice drags Draco out of his pessimism and to the bright, guiding light that is Harry’s presence in his life.

“Just a nasty headache.”

He can’t voice out his thoughts. It’s too raw and vulnerable and although he is trying, vulnerability remains a challenge to display.

One day or another, Harry is bound to get bored and leave. There are so many better people out there. People who have never taken a dark path. People who have never strayed from the light. People who aren’t former Death Eaters, that won’t taint Harry with darkness.

“Er… I don’t have any meds with me, sorry. I’d suggest we stop by the chemist’s but I doubt anything is open at this time of the evening. I didn’t even bring my wand with me. I do have water in my bag if you want.”

Draco doesn’t need to look back to know that Harry is sending him an apologetic look. It somehow only makes him feel worse. “It’s fine… I just…” A long sigh is drawn from his pink, kiss-chapped lips. He hates feeling vulnerable. After all, vulnerability has never rhymed with Malfoy. However, now that he's Just Draco, it's a different story, isn't it? It’s dawning on him that he doesn't risk being called to order should he ever so dare show a hint of vulnerability. He has free will. It’s as freeing as it is terrifying. Bracing himself for the incoming discussion, he slides a hand into his blonde hair, pulling it backwards and letting it fall back on his forehead. “Are you sure about,” he gestures vaguely at the two of them, index swiftly moving from one to the other. “us?”

“Never been more sure about anything in my bloody life.”

Thrown a little off-guard by the blatant integrity in Harry’s voice, Draco’s mind swirls and swirls, his deep-rooted self-doubt fought by Harry’s truth, leaving him unable to figure out what part is real and what is a mere fabrication of his messed-up mind, distorting the very fabric of reality.

So, Harry wants Draco. That much is clear. But one question remains: for how long? What of when he grows tired of this ghost of a man, repressed in character but who feels too much, this man no one in Wizarding society wants to be around, this man whom many want to see dead? Draco isn’t a fool. No one in their right mind would choose him. Happiness is within reach and all it would take is acceptance to fully embrace it—he desires it with all his might; such a shame his tainted soul is destined to destroy this precious thing he’s undeserving of.

“I’m selfish Harry, I’ve always been. I want to take everything you’re willing to give me, and to hell with the consequences. But I’m…” he closes his eyes, “scared you might realise what a grave mistake you made one day, that you regret it and start to resent me for it. I couldn’t bear it. It’s like there’s a time bomb ticking over my head, dooming what we could have.”

The tires’ spinning dance progressively slows before the car comes to a stop. Harry has parked on the side of a country road. Draco watches as Harry’s hands on the wheel move to go rest on each side of Draco's shoulders.

“I’m just as selfish as you, you know. Now that I got you I’m not planning on letting you go, so don’t expect any less of me. I’ll have you for as long as you'll have me, Draco. And how could I regret something I’ve been craving for so bloody long?”

Emerald green eyes are surveying his every reaction. Upon seeing Draco’s thoughtful expression, he adds, “Whatever your mind is trying to tell you, don’t listen. Listen to me instead.”

This, at least, succeeds in bringing a smile to Draco’s face. “You’re such a bloody idiot.”

“But your idiot…?” Harry turns for an instant to smile expectantly at him.

Oh, how Draco loves that stupid man.

His extensive vocabulary seems to vanish this instant. “Yeah. Yeah.”

All it took was an insufferable Gryffindor to render him, a man of many words, speechless. It’s pathetic, really. He’ll ensure to take that smug smile off Harry’s face later.

Stroking briefly Draco’s cheek, Harry turns back to the road before starting the car. “Cool. Let’s go home.”

* * *

Harry spends the night at Draco’s.

Draco relishes feeling his usually-vacant flat light up with happiness and life, an instance that helps keep his loneliness at bay. Harry looks disgustingly domestic as he is cozily settled in Draco’s armchair in this Slytherin-like sweater of his with a tea-filled mug in hand. Draco is sitting opposite him, silent as he beholds the gorgeous sight granted to him by some miracle.

It’s strange, how easily it is for Harry to look like he’s always meant to be sitting here in Draco’s living room, and how quickly Draco is getting used to such a situation.

“Ignore what I’m about to say but that monstrosity of a sweater doesn’t look so awful on you.”

Harry shoots him an amused look. “Only not awful?”

“Your ego is already stratospheric, Saviour of the Wizarding world and all. Wouldn’t want your head to get too big and explode,” Draco retaliates, though his face is devoid of any malice, a hint of teasing displayed instead.

“You git. What happened to the nice Draco who can’t refrain from kissing me? I miss him very dearly.”

“I am not nice, Harry. That’s what happened.”

“I know you have a reputation to uphold, but unfortunately for you I have already witnessed your nice side so you can’t fool me. Come on, Draco. Tell me what you really think.”

Draco doesn’t yield.

“Please?”

The moment he meets Harry’s gaze, he knows he can only give in. These stupid doe eyes of his, all shiny and beautiful—he shakes his head to dismiss that train of thoughts before they become too sentimental.

“What do you want me to say, Harry?” The words pour out of his treacherous lips before he can stop them. “That you drive me bonkers with that green sweater of yours? That this colour fits you so bloody well it looks like it was made for you? That every time you wear it I pretend you’re mine if only for a single second? That it reminds me so badly of my House I can’t help but fantasise about you in my own Slytherin clothes and I loathe how possessive that makes me? Is that it?”

Harry can only gape, eyelashes blinking swiftly in surprise. Then, his lips curve upwards, causing his cheeks to puff up, and he shows Draco the brightest grin known to man. His face has visibly taken some colour too, and Circe, Draco can’t believe he’s allowed to see him in such a state. He can’t believe he has that effect on Harry. The revelation is absurdly satisfactory, he finds.

Harry’s still grinning as he replies, “I knew you were lying, you smitten git! Honesty feels great, doesn’t it?”

Draco can only snort in answer. Although he’s fully clothed, he feels naked—exposed. It’s unlike him, to say his thoughts out loud, to let vulnerability show. It feels like some sort of self-betrayal. Now that he’s letting it all out, there is no shell to retreat back to. No protection from the consequences of his words. His mind is forced to be out there, by Harry's side. This act’s therapeutic effect tones down the fear of it if only a little.

When his eyes focus back on the velvet armchair, they find it empty. Quickly enough, a pair of glasses fill his view, and the dark-haired idiot that wears them is smiling in a mischievous manner, his face getting bigger in Draco’s eyes as he gets closer— “If you like it that much,” his voice is merely a whisper, “I’m inclined to wear it more often.”

And before Draco can muster up a reply, Harry’s legs are pressed against his lap and he’s kissing him.

Tea is long forgotten in favour of their snogging session. Draco could do this all night, fingers intertwined in Harry’s divine curls, lips bruised from the recurrent biting on Harry’s part, eager and greedy against Draco's lips. Draco is holding on to the little restraint he still possesses, for he fears Harry might get appalled by the intensity of the emotions burning inside his ribcage.

Draco’s fear of giving Harry his all and being left with nothing but emptiness—the mind-numbing, aching kind—eats at him and pushes his feelings back in.

He’s terror-struck.

Harry is the best thing that ever happened to his miserable, pathetic life.

The revelation fills him with a sense of possessiveness, as his free hand pushes Harry’s chest close to his own. He wishes, desperately so, that Harry’s heart would anchor to him, invited by the proximity of their two frantically-beating love organs. With Harry’s heart anchored to his, Draco would stop being so bloody afraid of being left. If he focuses for a second, he can hear the drumming of Harry’s heart, the proof that he’s alive and that all of this is real. If he lets his mind run wild, Harry has intentionally let him get them closer because he knows what’s going on and lets it happen.

It’s another matter for Draco. His heart has been anchored to Harry’s long ago already, before Harry had even started reciprocating. He’s always been Harry’s, even when Harry would have crushed his heart and stomped on the fractured fragments; even when Harry probably wished for his death, he had been his. And maybe, that’s life’s greatest tragedy, to give yourself to someone who would rather be rid of you. It’s romantic, how life’s greatest mystery, love, the very perpetrator of his misery, has been his salvation.

Harry sharing his feelings is as unexpected as it is welcomed.

That night ends with a kiss on Draco’s temple and cuddles in bed.

* * *

“My mother agreed to meet you,” Draco announces over lunch at Harry’s flat. The two of them have been dating for a few weeks now, though they have never gotten beyond kissing. It’s not that Draco doesn't want to, far from that fact, rather the anxiety that comes with the scars covering his chest and the ones on his left forearm. Harry likes him now, but will the feeling remain once he sees the ugly scars he's marked with that highlight how much of a coward he was? Thankfully, Harry doesn’t pry. Draco is aware that with love comes vulnerability—that for a relationship to work, they have to both let their walls down. But the persistent fear that Harry's love is conditional and that he will put an end to what they have the moment Draco truly lets him in haunt his every thought. Because Harry’s here with him, he pushes his fear to the back of his mind.

“Really? That’s brills. I haven't seen her in a while. How is she?”

Draco considers lying, if only because honesty is hard. For Harry, though, he wants to try.

“She’s… trying,” he sighs. “But I can feel her struggling. I'm worried, Harry. I asked her to come live with me when I moved out but she can’t even bring herself to leave the Manor, you know? It’s like I’m watching her turn into a ghost. She refuses to see a Mind Healer despite my several attempts at convincing her. She’s losing her appetite too, and I can see her aging and I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Draco. Is there really no way to get her to see a Mind Healer? Or—we could go cook a nice meal at the Manor every other day and invite her over, might already cheer her up a bit—”

“I can hardly bring her to leave the Manor Harry. It’s already a miracle she’s accepted to come meet you at my flat. I guess we can cook for her at the Manor but—are you sure? I don't even feel entirely comfortable in that place, so for you I can’t even imagine—”

Harry’s hand has caught his over the table. “If it’s with you I’ll be alright. And I want to help.”

“You’re too good Harry, how can I repay you, I’m already so indebted to you—”

“Don’t mention it,” Harry interjects. “We’re dating, I’m not doing it to earn any favours. No more of that debt thing, alright? Plus your mother saved my life.”

Hearing Harry mention ‘dating’ is making him feel giddy all over. Draco doesn’t yet dare think of Harry as his boyfriend per se, doesn’t want to take the first step out of fear of scaring Harry off and getting pushed away—but whatever it is they have would for sure fall under what is widely considered the boyfriend umbrella. Harry sleeps over at Draco's and vice versa, they go to the cinema, on drives that involve snogging once they’ve reached their destination, they cuddle and dine together on an almost daily basis.

Harry’s last sentence interrupts Draco’s thoughts and he frowns in confusion. “What? She never mentioned it.”

“Yeah, at the Battle. I’ll do my best to help her, I promise.”

Well. Draco would ask her about that. “Thank you.” He squeezes Harry’s hand in his.

Draco picks up Narcissa at the closest apparition point the following week. Both are wearing disillusionment charms—a necessity when in wizarding crowds—and the magic flowing through his body feels foreign. Accommodating to muggle life had been an ordeal at first, but Draco has grown quite used to non-magical life if he is being honest. Muggle lifestyle also has its perks. One instance he has discovered recently is the joy of driving—though he doesn’t have his licence yet—compared with apparition. In fact, apparition is such a quick act that there’s no gratitude about reaching your destination. Because driving takes effort and time, and constitutes an adventure in itself, the very action of arriving is in most cases filled with thankfulness and contentment.

“I am grateful for your visit, mother,” Draco says, their arms linked as he walks her home. As soon as they leave Wizarding London, Draco can hear her exhale deeply and finds himself doing the same.

Harry is waiting for them at Draco’s flat—they’d agreed that her finding out in public would be too much of a shock and decided that it was best to be in the comfort of their own home. This way, he has time to broach the topic beforehand so she won’t get a heart attack at the discovery.

When asked about the whereabouts of the man who has stolen Draco’s heart, he replies, “He’s already inside. You might get a surprise regarding his identity but you don’t need to be nervous, mother. He knows you and likes you.”

“I know him, you said? Then I reckon he’s a wizard. Am I right?”

“Yes, mother. He’s also living amidst muggles like me.”

“I cannot wait to meet the person who has been making my boy so happy.” The faint hint of a smile crosses her face, which results in Draco smiling as well. He loves her. He will do everything he can to help her get better.

“I… I love him, mother. Very much so.”

Draco has not been brought up talking much about his feelings, as he had learned soon enough from his father's teachings that they were a source of weakness. With his mother, though, he’s more comfortable doing it, especially since Lucius’ incarceration, because he knows he doesn’t risk punishment.

Narcissa’s tired smile stretches a little. “Then I don’t see why I would not love him as well.”

Draco can only hope she does.

It turns out, he had nothing to worry about. Narcissa comes across as very much unsurprised when Harry welcomes them inside.

“Mother,” Draco can’t help but be nervous. “I believe you’ve met Harry before. He’s my…”

What should he say? Lover? Partner? Boyfriend? They’re all big, scary words.

“Boyfriend?” Harry suggests, putting an end to Draco’s inner tumult as he glances at him for approval.

Relieved, Draco nods swiftly. Harry, Draco’s boyfriend. It has a ring to it. He likes it.

“Good to see you, Mrs Malfoy,” Harry greets politely and shakes her hand.

“Call me Narcissa, dear,” she tells him with a smile, genuine and kind.

“Then just Harry is fine with me too. Mrs—Narcissa, would you like anything to drink? It’s all muggle drinks I’m afraid, but we have various kinds of wine, cider, softs as well…”

“I’ll have the same as you.”

Contrary to what Draco believed, there’s no tension in the room nor awkwardness. His mother admits she suspected all along Harry was the special one in question and doesn’t hesitate to spill every detail about Draco’s embarrassing crush on Harry that she’s had to witness from his very first year at Hogwarts. Draco, betrayed by his own mother, turns a dark shade of red and doesn’t make eye contact with his boyfriend for the rest of the meal.

In the end, she agrees to come over for lunch again and even invites Harry to come visit as well—today, she’s even eaten a nearly full meal, and Draco takes that as a win.

It’s in the privacy of Draco’s bedroom that night that anxiety grows in the pit of his stomach, causing his fingers to tremble against Harry’s neck.

“Alright there?” asks compassionate, good-hearted Harry, breaking off their kiss to check up on him.

Draco feels undeserving of such care but swallows down his torturous thoughts. Initially aiming at concealing them, he’s letting them out before he even notices he is, and once he has started, he can’t stop. “I’m—I’m scarred, Harry.” Even though it hurts, even though he feels vulnerable, he forces himself to look at Harry. “Underneath my shirt. I’m scarred all over. The scars are ugly and repulsive and a reminder of everything I used to be. You’d hate them. You'd take to your heels if you saw. What we have is—it’s so good, Harry. Too good. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. But I don’t deserve you and these scars remind me every day the reason why.”

He should be ashamed of me. Why isn't he ashamed?

His left forearm feels itchy, and he can’t help but scratch it, unintentionally shedding light on his words. His eyes are still on Harry, who’s watching him with a strange gleam. They’re bright yet soft, devoid of any disgust to Draco's surprise.

“Draco,” Harry’s eyes are sparkling, hands on each side of Draco's face as he says, “Your scars may be part of who you are, but they don’t define you. They’re a reminder of your past, yes, and you have to live with them every day, but that doesn’t mean you haven't changed. They—they’re also a reminder that you became a better person, aren’t they? Trust me on this, Draco. I wouldn’t be dating you if I thought you were still the same arrogant, blood-purist prat from school. You know that right?”

No matter how hard he tries, Draco can’t reciprocate Harry’s comforting smile. That fear gnawing at his insides abides, as relentless as a virus spreading. He lets his arms fall back at his sides and keeps his head low. “How could you still want me? My scars, they're massive and hideous. You’d hate them.” He repeats then, more quietly, “You’d hate them.”

“Draco, listen to me. I have scars too. So many, actually. How do you think having the scar of a bloody lunatic’s murder attempt on me feels? It’s the very reminder that my parents—” silence follows as Harry blinks back tears. Draco covers Harry’s hand on his jaw with his own to offer him support and Harry’s lips curve up slightly before he resumes, “are gone. But they’re also a mark of love—a reminder that my parents loved me enough to sacrifice their lives for me. And your scars, they remind you of horrible things, I know, but they're proof that even though you made bad choices, even though you took the wrong path, you decided to be better. The fact that they make you feel that way is evidence that you regret what you did. They're evidence that you're a good man now, a man I’ve fallen head over heels in love with.”

Draco is teary-eyed after the confession, a lump in his throat forming and preventing him from speaking up. Merlin, when did he get so emotional? “Harry…” His voice is strained when he speaks, but a bright smile has appeared, overlaying the storm. He will be alright.

I love you too, he burns to confess but can’t yet, the words too scary to let out—for now. Harry doesn’t seem to mind, though, for his green eyes on Draco are tender and loving, and Draco could get lost in them for hours on end.

“I don’t care about your scars. You’re as beautiful with them, I know it,” Harry says truthfully, and Draco—Draco embraces him tightly, for no words can convey the depth of his feelings.

They stay like this until the commotion quiets down, and all that remains is the desire to have Harry close to him, in any and every way, and he catches his boyfriend's breath on his lips, letting Harry's hand venture down his clothed back. When his wandering hand tugs at his long-sleeved shirt, when he breaks off the kiss to ask “Alright?” in such a sweet tone that could send Draco to the edge of insanity, Draco nods and starts unbuttoning it.

The dim glow casts shadows on his bare chest, reflecting the darkness lurking inside, embodying the scars themselves. He hates them. He abhors them and doesn’t need to reciprocate Harry’s glance to reckon what is displayed in there: disgust.

But the hand brushing against his chest is quivering, and when Draco chances glancing at Harry, he finds that his lips are pressed in a thin line and his eyes, filled with tears.

“Did… did I do that to you?”

“Yes.”

Draco can see Harry’s throat move as he swallows, horror evident on his face. “Draco, I—I’m so sorry. I didn't even know what the spell would do. I almost killed you.”

What does he mean by ‘he didn’t know’?

“You didn’t know?”

“No, I swear, it was written ‘spell for enemies’ in that one potions textbook I’d borrowed, and I—bloody hell. If I knew you’d be bleeding out, maybe I wouldn't… maybe…”

Harry’s face displays guilt and darkness, and Draco can’t bear it.

“Harry, it’s fine. I deserved it anyway. I already forgave you.”

“No, it's not fine. You were scared and crying and I— attacked you. You were just a boy.”

A sad smile materialises on Draco’s features. “So were everyone else. It’s alright now.”

“I’m sorry, Draco. I genuinely am. I hope you know that.”

Draco’s palm reaches for Harry’s jaw. “I believe you.”

The couple exchange intimate smiles, the kind no one else is allowed to see. It’s only after minutes spent in comfortable silence that Harry, scratching his neck in what seems to be hesitation, asks, “Can I… er… kiss them?”

“Please,” Draco says, and it feels foreign because he hasn’t grown up asking for things—they were just handed to him. Words like ‘please’ and ‘sorry’ had only entered his vocabulary when he’d decided to become a decent person, much unlike his pre-war self. Nevertheless, they remain a rare occurrence due to his lack of practice. Still, as far as Harry is concerned, ‘please’ slides easily on his tongue as though he’s a regular.

Harry does kiss them then, pressing his lips on the cicatrised bits of skin while Draco’s hand slides familiarly into Harry’s hair. His lips travel from one side of the chest to another, but then his gaze meets the scars on his left forearm, causing Draco to freeze.

Neither men dares speak up—both appear to be searching for the right thing to say. It’s Draco who does, as the silence becomes louder, unbearably so. He’d rather take the band-aid off and get it over with. “I know it’s repulsive. Trust me, I tried to get rid of it. But there’s just no spell or magic strong enough to reverse it.”

Harry's gaze falls on the cuts over the Dark Mark. “Draco… you… you hurt yourself.”

His hand wraps around Draco’s wrist, scanning the scars from a closer perspective.

“Obviously. Who would want such an atrocity on their arm? And it’s marked on me forever now. So every time I look down at it, I am forced to remember the mistake I made, which I know is only fair—”

“No. No, you’re wrong. I’m sorry you can’t get rid of it. But I don't find it particularly repulsive or anything, you know. I don’t mind it.”

Draco shakes his head. “You should. Why would you still—still want me? Look at this, Harry! The reminder that I was a Death Eater! That I joined forces with the Da— V— Voldemort, the very person who tried to kill you and killed your family. How could you not want me dead? I’m such a mess, Harry, I know you think of me as a good person but I don’t think I’m worth being called that.”

“I don’t care. As simple as that. I don’t care about who you were, what you did—I care about who you are now. And who you are is a bloody good person, Draco. And I love and want you regardless.”

Harry’s fingers trail the outlines of the Mark, sending goosebumps to Draco’s skin. When he brings Draco's forearm closer to his mouth, he is met with incredulity; and there, shy but unconcealed, warmth ignites, along with affection and love—oh, so much love. Slowly, he brings his lips to the Mark, threading kisses along it, over the scars, and it’s enough for Draco to let go—to accept that the man before him truly loves him. This Mark has caused Harry immeasurable pain; everything it stands for goes back to the very man who'd killed his entire family. Yet, Harry is kissing it devotedly, like he’s pledging allegiance to Draco, like he’s promising him a future brighter than he could ever fathom—a future with him. Draco will marry that man one day.

“I love you, Harry,” he confesses at last. The words don’t feel as heavy and scary any longer. They feel real.

The man confessed to pauses and his eyes go up to him. That’s when he sees it: the carefree smile, the look of love reserved for him only, but also the acceptance. Harry can feel his face take some colour and beams at his boyfriend.

“Took you long enough.”

Draco can only agree. “Too bloody long, since I’ve been harbouring this stupid crush for more than a decade. Before I ever found out what it meant, can you believe? I love you, Harry. I can say it now. Proudly and almost fearlessly. Fifteen years late.”

“Fifteen years? Fifteen years? So your mother wasn’t kidding?”

At least, he has the decency to appear shocked.

“I wish she were. If you break my heart I’ll kick your arse and make you wish you were never born.”

Harry is grinning. Bickering with Draco never gets old. “Deal. But I won’t, so sorry to inform you but you can’t kick my arse. Disappointing, I know. I can, however, make it up to you…”

Draco, the dramatic man that he is, fake-yawns to feign boredom. “I hope that offer involves less talking and more snogging.”

“That’s the idea, yeah.”

“Then shut up already.”

Harry doesn’t complain as he’s pushed against the mattress—he’s dreamed about such a moment more than once, in fact, and when a fantasy comes to life, well… you don’t refuse it.

* * *

Life runs its course afterwards. Draco still ghost-writes for the Wizarding World News, either working on his articles at Harry’s workplace or at his own flat, which has now become Harry and Draco’s flat. Even when it’s empty, the place doesn't feel haunted and dark any longer, for he knows that at the end of the day Harry will come in and light it up. The domesticity that comes with living together is welcomed by both. If Draco hasn't considered himself a romantic before, he definitely does now. They also visit Narcissa at the Manor and she occasionally comes over to their home. Her health seems to be improving, thankfully. Although they also meet with their respective friends, Pansy is the only one made aware of their relationship for now, which she said about ‘was bound to happen one day or another.’ As for Ron, Hermione and Harry’s other friends, he still hasn’t found the right time. It shouldn’t be a delicate matter, but it unfortunately is; with their history, they still need to quench the flames.

The advantage of having a barista boyfriend is that the coffee at home is always delicious, a remark Harry is nothing less than delighted to hear about.

Of course, living together means laying themselves bare for the other to see. It unveils all secrets, well-guarded or not, and that’s how Draco finds out about Harry’s horrible nightmares. He would wake up sweating in the dead of night, sometimes calling his parents or a deceased loved one, other times screaming until Draco holds him and calms him down. Over the months, Harry tells him all about his traumatic experiences: living with the Dursleys, the several attempts on his, his friends’ or his family’s lives, the torture, the loneliness, the visions of death, Voldemort, all of it. And in return, Draco describes his life at the Manor, Lucius’ severe punishment, Voldemort’s time in his home, the snake, strangers’ screams in his living room, the torture, the fear, sixth year… And Harry listens, lenient and understanding.

Their drives become more frequent now that the temperatures are warming up. Summer finds them going back to Seven Sisters where they had their very first kiss—and they hike this time, though it takes them longer to finish the tour due to their tendency to pull each other into a kiss whenever they see fit. Younger Draco would have found this behaviour improper, however, current Draco finds this way of life exciting. He’s happy, so why would he care about what his miserable past self would have to say about it? If younger Draco had the chance to date Harry, he’d be jealous anyway.

To Draco’s dissatisfaction, even during summertime the water’s temperature is barely tolerable. While he is only dipping his feet in the sun-warmed water, Harry, true to form, has dived from head to toe and is staring amusedly at his delicate boyfriend.

“The water won’t kill you, you know.”

Draco waves a hand dismissively. “Get lost. It’s freezing! How can you bathe so carelessly, you reckless, trouble-loving Gryffindor—”

His sentence remains unfinished, for he’s busy glaring at the man who has just splashed water on him, his boyfriend. “The water won’t kill you but I will.”

The culprit is laughing, open-mouthed. Draco is hilarious when he’s furious. “Try me.”

Follows a cat and mouse game, the blonde man progressing in the water, wincing at the coldness, while his boyfriend giggles.

Draco manages to proceed until his stomach is wet. Then, he decides he’ll be better off reading a book on a towel. He throws a last scornful glance at Harry, pointing fingers at him as he spits, “I hope you drown.”

This only elicits a laugh from Harry. “I hope you get sunburnt all over.”

“I spread sunscreen earlier so this won’t work. You’re getting sluggish. Can’t even make proper insults anymore.”

“Git.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but an endeared smile is tugging at his lips. “Wow, how original.”

Before he has time to comprehend what is going on, Harry has wrapped his legs around Draco’s waist and his arms around his neck, soaking Draco entirely.

Harry needs to pay for this.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The offender smiles in a self-satisfied way, pressing his forehead to Draco’s. “Change in tactics.”

Because Draco is a good partner (and because he can’t resist Harry), he puts his arms around Harry’s back and indulges him. “You’re high maintenance, you know that? Needy and all.”

This results in a fond eye rolling from Harry.

“Founders forbid a man wants to spend time with his boyfriend.”

“Merlin’s beard, you’re such a golden retriever. Do you never stop?”

Harry shows a wide grin. “I can’t, you’d miss me too much. You love the attention, don’t pretend otherwise.”

“Perhaps.”

Draco’s platinum blonde hair is shining under the sun; the irresistible sight urges Harry to do something about it—anything—so he tilts his head downwards to catch Draco’s lips in a soft but loving kiss.

By the time they make it back to the beach, Draco’s hair has fallen victim to the water, but he can’t bring himself to care.

* * *

Godric’s Hollow is chilly in late October, and Draco is thankful he reminded Harry to dress warmly. Though it’s a Wizarding village, they haven't disillusioned themselves per Harry’s request. It’s unlikely there's anyone in the streets at that time of the night anyway; Draco just doesn’t wish to make the headlines and have their relationship jeopardised. Harry wants him to meet his parents, masks off, and well, that’s fair when he thinks about it. That’s how Draco, moved by the invitation, finds himself entering the graveyard, Harry’s fingers intertwined with his own.

He keeps his mouth shut as Harry updates them about his life, as the tears fall, as he introduces his boyfriend. His hand squeezes Harry’s when the sobs come, presses their heads together when Harry’s head comes resting on his shoulder—he supports Harry silently and lets him have his moment with his family.

Then, Harry is pulling him into a tight hug, and Draco reciprocates, moving his hands on Harry’s back as Harry weeps.

Draco has long since learned that vulnerability isn’t a bad thing.

He has learned so much over the course of the years and has a lot more yet to learn in the future.

This Christmas, he’ll meet the Weasley and Granger-Weasley families and learn that they’re not nearly as insufferable as he believed.

Next year, he’ll learn that Teddy’s favourite is not Harry but Draco, and they’ll all laugh about it.

In seven years, he'll learn that Harry can’t keep a secret to save his life and will find a promise ring in the drawer next to his underpants. They’ll marry under the ever-so-capricious British sky in the company of all their loved ones.

He wouldn’t be anyone else, anywhere else. Past, proud, reputation-obsessed Draco has nothing on him.

He loves his life as it is.