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-1-
Harry woke drenched with sweat, his teeth clenched so hard he could taste copper. His heart pounded, a wild, startled thing in the cage beneath his chest. Involuntary, a reflex, his hand went for his scar. He caught himself halfway, using it to cover his mouth and stifle a shaky exhale. It took him far too long to get his breathing under control, to lull his heartbeat out of its panicked rhythm.
He reached beside him, seeking Draco’s shape in the dark. Quiet, measured rise-and-fall breaths under his hand.
Safe. Hale.
Needlessly careful, Harry then slipped from the bed. He stole across the hall, silent-quick in a way learned only from years of sneaking in the night—to the kitchen, through the school, through the woods—Harry had practice being quiet. He opened the door and pressed through the wards protecting the room; he listened, eyes closed, to the sound of his daughter breathing.
Safe. Hale.
Satisfied, he withdrew and closed the door so gently it made no noise.
The thought of going back to bed made his skin itch.
Instead, Harry sought the quiet isolation of the kitchen, absent—almost removed from himself. He chugged half a glass of water while the kettle boiled. He made a cup of tea. He opened a pack of biscuits—chocolate, of course. Then he sat, alone at the table, and let the silence of the kitchen bear down on him.
A habitual practice. Ritual, almost.
Exhaustion pulled at him, but if he went back to bed now, he wouldn’t sleep. What good would it do, lying there beside Draco and staring up at the ceiling, aching to hear him? He could wake him, of course, but then they would talk. And talking, Harry thought, felt like far too much effort. He didn’t want to stumble through half-whispers as if he’d forgotten how to speak, or as if his voice had simply left him.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst in a kaleidoscope of color. Better this way, he thought. With a sigh, he reached for his mug.
“Daddy,” a hushed whisper drifted from the hall.
Harry startled horribly, his heart jumping into his throat. “Merlin’s beard, Lily,” he gasped, grabbing his chest. “You can’t sneak up on people like that.”
Lily giggled, undeterred. “Sorry! Sorry, Daddy.” Her little feet pattered on the tile as she rushed over. “What are you doing? Are you having a snack? Why are you up? It’s awfully late. Are those biscuits? Can I have one?”
“What am I doing up?” He scoffed, pulling her up on his lap. “And just what are you doing up?”
“Can I have a biscuit, Daddy?” She asked instead of answering. Then, as an afterthought, added, “Please?”
Harry buried his face in her hair with a soft laugh. She smelled of edelweiss shampoo—the very one Draco imported from an alpine potioneer (who, Harry thought, charged a few too many galleons for cosmetics). Draco washed her hair with reverence, delighted that her locks resembled his own despite the difference in color, and chose products with an enthusiasm that matched his devotion. He had bathed her not three hours ago, and Harry cringed at the thought that he’d woken her after all of Draco’s hard work to get her into bed.
But…
“One biscuit, Lily,” he conceded, because how could he not? “But just the one, and then we’ve got to go back to bed.” Before she could reach for the packet, he added, “And we don’t tell Papa.”
“Oh!” Lily stuck out her pinky finger and Harry, smiling, hooked it with his. She gave him a wicked little lopsided grin. “Our secret.”
“Our secret,” he agreed, pulling her hand up to kiss it. He watched her fumble with the packet to retrieve a biscuit, enjoying the weight of his daughter on his lap, the smell of her, freshly-bathed. It felt, sometimes, that he didn’t deserve it—the love that swelled up in him every time she was near. He knew that he’d earned it, of course; but his hands, his soul, had touched death and horror. It was strange to hold something so precious with them.
“Why are you up?” Lily’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked down to find her biting around the edge of her snack to make it last longer.
Harry smoothed a hand over her hair, his throat tightening at the innocence in her question — and at the lack of it in the answer. Some things were better kept in the dark. He’d given his life for it, once, after all.
“Bad dreams,” he said simply, the words no more than a whisper.
“Oh,” she said. Her little leg swung where it hung off of his. “When I have bad dreams, I sleep with you and Papa.”
He’d never had anyone to crawl into bed with for his nightmares. Draco, who’d had a structured but loving childhood, simply scooped her up on his chest every time without a word. It had floored him, as it often did, that such things came naturally to the both of them. Harry smiled despite himself.
“Oh yeah?”
Lily gave a vigorous nod. “Oh yeah!”
“And does that help?”
“Always,” Lily said, oblivious to how Harry tucked her closer, pressing his face to her hair again. “Oh, I know! You can sleep with me, Daddy. I’ll let you hold Grif.”
Harry imagined curling up in her small bed, her plush griffin between them, and smiled. “Thanks, baby,” he said, his voice soft, and Lily hummed. “I love you.”
“Thank you,” she said, quite seriously. “I love biscuits. Can I have one more?”
Harry thought of Draco’s heavy disapproval—but then he thought of lying awake in the night with his stomach cramping, of slinking into the kitchen in the dark with his heart pounding in his throat—
“Yes,” he managed—then realized, with quiet horror, that his eyes were burning. He blinked, scrubbing at them under his glasses, and cleared his throat. “You can—You can have as many as you want, Lil.”
Lily gasped, whirling to look up at him. “Really—!” Her face fell. “Why are you crying?” Before he could speak, she quickly said, “I’ll go to bed, Daddy, I will, please don’t cry—“
“No,” he cut her off firmly. “No, love, it’s—Daddy’s just tired. You’re fine. Absolutely perfect, you are.” He kissed her forehead, then her cheeks, smacking loud enough to make her laugh and squirm away. Her giggles masked the sound of approaching footsteps; neither of them noticed until it was too late.
A shadow fell over the doorway and cleared its throat.
Lily whipped around to look. “Oh, crumbs,” she whispered. Harry bit back a smile.
“Lillian,” Draco said dryly, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s past your bedtime.” His gaze flicked to Harry. “Which you very well know.”
Harry leaned close and whispered conspiratorially, “I think we’ve been caught, Lilypad.”
She shot him a frown. “Obviously, Daddy.”
“Bed, Lillian. Come along.” Draco held out a hand.
With an eye-roll and a put-upon sigh, Lily wiggled off of Harry’s lap. She paused, and though she was barely tall enough to see over the table, shot Draco a pout. “Can I have a biscuit before I go to bed, Papa? Just one, please?”
Harry couldn’t help but look down at her in adoration. The audacity, truly.
“May you,” Draco corrected.
Lily’s eyes narrowed, then softened as she tried again in a sweet, pleading voice, “May I have a biscuit, Papa?”
“No,” Draco said. He shook his hand with impatient finality.
Lily huffed but scampered around the table to slap her hand in his. As she was led into the hall, she turned back, declaring, “Don’t forget you can sleep with me, Daddy—the bad dreams won’t know what hit ‘em!” She punctuated her words with a little shake of her fist.
Harry laughed, though Draco’s frown deepened as he glanced between them. He dropped his gaze to avoid the scrutiny, focusing on Lily. “I’ll remember that. Now mind your father and go to bed.”
“Fine,” Lily grumbled, and then she was the one tugging Draco along. “Come on, Papa. You have to tuck me in.”
“I already have, Lillian. You’re the one who got up. Little girls need their rest and young ladies even more so…” Draco's voice trailed off as they made their way upstairs.
-2-
Harry remained at the table long after they left. The nightmares came less often than they used to, but they still unsettled him. And they were worse, now, when he had something to lose and his mind knew it. Memories of the war had twisted into ugly, horrible scenes—Draco in that graveyard, his platinum hair stained with blood, grey eyes blank; and it wasn’t Colin that Neville carried, but his little girl, so small and pale and cold, her dark hair swaying with every step—
Harry made a sick, choking sound and buried his face in his hands. He heard Draco approach, the soft padding of his slippers stopping in the doorway. Only then did he look up. They stared at each other for a long, quiet moment.
Finally, Draco broke the silence. “You too,” he murmured, extending his hand the way he did for Lily.
Harry rose, his limbs heavy, moving as if he were fighting his way through water. Draco’s fingers laced with his. He hardly noticed his surroundings until they were back in bed and Draco was pressed against him, his head a warm, steady weight on his chest.
“Nightmares again,” a soft voice murmured in the dark. Although it wasn’t a question, Harry nodded. “You know you can always wake me,” Draco offered, his voice gentling. For a long moment, Harry said nothing, and during that silence, Draco’s hand slipped up his shirt, fingertips light and cool against his skin. “Harry?”
Old habits were hard to break. “No point in both of us losing sleep.”
Draco’s fingers stilled. “I didn’t marry a coward,” he said. Harry tensed. “You’ve never been afraid to tell me anything.” Then, correcting himself, “Well, perhaps a better way to put it is that you’ve never been afraid to speak your mind.”
“I know, but it’s just. Just the—” Harry’s voice trailed off as he struggled for the words. He closed his eyes. “There are things I wish I could unsee, Draco,” he continued, and in a slow exhale, admitted, “I think… I think it’s ruined me.”
Draco hummed, his fingers starting their idle patterns again. “What does your mind healer say?”
Harry exhaled again, this time in a bitter huff. “That I’ve got a trauma disorder like she’s never seen before.”
“Oh, of course,” Draco drawled. “Another thing Harry Potter has to be the best at. You could save some for the rest of us, you know.” Despite himself, Harry scoffed a laugh. “And? What else, darling?”
With a sigh, Harry muttered, “That it doesn’t define me as a person, though I think that’s rubbish.” The familiar rush of frustration bubbled up, hot and prickling. “How else would I be defined, if not by the fact that I spent my childhood in a hole, raised by people who hated me, and then spent my teen years thinking I was going to die at any moment—and then did exactly that to save the entire world?”
Patient as ever, Draco only hummed again. “And what does Healer Keane say when you mouth off like that?”
“That I’m—” he swallowed thickly. “That I’m…”
“More than a weapon,” Draco supplied gently, tone encouraging.
Harry closed his eyes. He wanted to believe it. He needed to. “More than a weapon,” he repeated, letting the words settle in his chest. “I was always more than a weapon, and what happened to me wasn’t fair. Emotions are good. Normal. I don’t have to… I don’t have to always be strong. I shouldn’t bottle it up. But I—”
“No,” Draco interrupted. “No buts.”
“But what about Lily?” Harry asked through the lump in his throat. “I can’t—If I’m not strong, then—” In a whisper, he admitted, “I don’t want to ruin her, Draco.”
“You’re not the one with the Mark on his arm,” came the dry response.
Harry’s attention snapped to him. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” Draco said, turning his face up to hold his gaze. “If your past could ruin her, what do you think mine could do?” He reached up to cradle Harry’s face, his thumb catching at the corner of his mouth. “I am an infinitely worse influence on our daughter.”
“Don’t say that,” Harry repeated in a whisper, a thread of hurt sewing itself into his words. “You know I hate it.”
“Because you know it’s true?”
“No, because—” he sighed, realizing he’d walked straight into the trap Draco set for him.
“Because?” The prompt came with a teasing pinch as if Draco were trying to force his lips up in a smile.
Harry let his head fall back on the pillow and he stared up at the ceiling. “Because you’ve changed. Who you were at seventeen doesn’t define you now.”
“Oh,” said Draco airily. Harry rolled his eyes. “How interesting. It’s almost as if you should take your own advice—“
“That’s different—“
Draco snorted. “I don’t see how. We were both tiny little bastards with far too much on our shoulders. Granted, you saved the world while it took me a trifle longer to see the error of my ways—“
“You’ve apologized,” Harry interrupted firmly, shifting down to lay on his side to be face-to-face with his husband. He took both of his hands, their arms becoming a strange, intimate knot between them. “You’re not Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater anymore, you—“
“Merlin, it does have a certain sort of edge to it, doesn’t it? Do you think I could file to have my name changed?”
That startled a laugh out of Harry, weak but soaked with love and reverence. “I take it all back. You’re still a bastard. I’m trying to be serious here, Draco.”
“Yes, well, it’s exhausting. You’re a good husband, a good father, and a good Healer. I think we’ve done quite well for ourselves, all things considered. We’re in this far too deep for either of us to back out now, and if you try, I’ll hex your bollocks off.” One hand left the knot to slip down his chest and stomach, teasing at the waistband of his joggers. “You’ll be so smooth you’ll look like one of Lillian’s dolls. And what a loss that would be.”
Harry sucked in a breath, his pulse kicking up. “I can’t tell if you’re threatening me or flirting with me.”
Draco followed the inhale all the way into Harry’s mouth, drawing it back out of him. “Never doubt that it’s always both,” he murmured.
Harry shivered as the cool touch at his waistband slipped underneath. “I—Jesus, Draco. What are you doing?”
“Oh, my lovely, brooding, lamentably thick —”
Fingers wrapped around him, half-hard in his pants, and squeezed. “Oh my God,” came out in a choked whisper.
“—husband. Can’t you tell?” Draco’s voice was low, honey-sweet. Harry wanted to taste it. “I’m helping you back to sleep. Would you like that?” A nod. "Use your words."
“Yeah,” Harry breathed, already a bit mad for him. “Yes.”
“Say please, darling.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Please.”
Draco leaned in to kiss him again, to consume him. “Such a good boy,” he praised, words like warm silk, and Harry believed him.
-3-
It was weeks before Harry had another nightmare. But one came, as it always did, snapping him awake with his heart pounding and his clothes soaking. The blankets—more like an oven, a straightjacket from hell, a blistering vice stealing his very breath—set his teeth on edge, and he kicked them off, almost frantic.
That’s when he realized he was alone.
Harry bolted upright, on his hands and knees, searching the empty space beside him. Like something had swallowed—
Like something had stolen—
Panic rose in his throat. The bed shifted under him, violent and sudden. He fumbled for his glasses, knocking them and his wand off the nightstand. They clattered on the hardwood. Frantic, unthinking, he followed gracelessly, tumbling to the floor and groping for one, or both.
Then—with a jolt, he remembered his voice, his magic. “ Accio—” His throat clicked as he swallowed dryly. Forcing everything he had into his fingertips, he gasped out, “Accio glasses,” and caught them in midair.
He was on his feet, crossing the bedroom in three strides, the hallway in one, and entering Lily’s bedroom.
Cold, black fear, an icy thing, lanced through him. The world slipped sideways.
Empty, again—Harry whimpered a sick sound that he didn’t hear. His heartbeat was too loud in his ears, drumming away a frenetic they’re gone, they’re gone, they’re gone—
He clutched at the door to steady himself and closed his eyes. Drawing a ragged, deep breath, and exhaling slowly, Harry tried to make the room stop spinning. It took two (Neville and his blood-streaked blank face, the tiny body in his arms, long black hair swaying with every step) three attempts. With an exhale, he opened his eyes.
He’d done this before. He could—he could. He had faced far worse than nightmares, and what good was a Savior who couldn’t breathe?
Five. Lily’s bed with temperature-adjusting blankets—purple, of course. The music box on her dresser. A bookcase charmed to read stories aloud, even though a father’s voice was always preferred. The chandelier, dark now, but often ablaze with colors that matched Lily’s moods. Grif, looking a little worn and showing his age, keeping vigil from his place on Lily’s pillow.
Four. The door, which he loosened his grip on. The flannel pajamas under his clammy palms. The floor, cold beneath his bare feet. His shirt, damp with cooling sweat.
Three. He closed his eyes again, listening. The clock above Lily’s desk, gently ticking time away. The soft flutter of butterfly wings as they shifted into another constellation on the ceiling. A distant giggle and a soft, half-scolding answer in a deeper voice—
Harry stepped back into the hall, head tilted, breath frozen. The giggles came again, and this time he could hear the words clearly—Draco’s familiar, deadpan tone offering a muted “Honestly, Lillian. Just look at you…”
Relief surged through him so fast he almost doubled over. He was weak with it, and he had to steady himself against the banister. His hand was shaking—he was shaking.
Harry sank down, sitting on the top step and listening to the muffled voices, waiting until the sound had soothed him back into himself, gentle and sweet. It was like waking, like breaking through cold water and feeling the sun on your face, like the morning fog lifting to greet the day.
Harry rose, his legs still trembling, but he needed—he wanted—he had to. He slowly made his way downstairs, following the sound of his family to the kitchen, and sagged against the doorway at the sight before him. A stunned little huff of laughter left him.
“Oh, crumbs,” Lily whispered from her spot on Draco’s lap.
“Crumbs indeed,” Draco agreed dryly and popped a whole biscuit in his mouth.
Harry smiled.
Safe. Whole.