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The mornings were soft now.
Gone were the frantic dawns of war, the hurried dressing in half-lit corridors of Hogwarts, the scent of ash and adrenaline. Harry woke to sunlight pooling through white curtains and the scent of warm tea Ginny left by the bedside. The little flat they shared was modest but bright, filled with plants and postcards from Molly, and every corner held evidence of a life carefully chosen. It was… peaceful.
Ginny moved through life like a sunbeam—steady, golden, patient. She talked about the wedding with ease, weaving together details like flower arrangements, seating charts, and cake tastings with the calm of someone who truly believed everything would be fine. She kissed Harry’s temple when he got overwhelmed, teased him for dodging dance lessons and stepping on her toes whenever they did attend some, and never once seemed to doubt the life they were building.
He loved her. Of course he did.
Sometimes, when he watched her laugh with George or slow-dance barefoot in the kitchen, he’d feel a swell of affection so strong it anchored him. This was what he fought for. A normal life. A future. A home.
And yet.
There were nights—quiet, inexplicably lonely nights—when he’d find himself staring out the window, wondering what was missing. Not a thing he could name. Not something he could explain without sounding ungrateful or unwell.
It all began to unravel—or maybe finally began, properly—on a Thursday.
They were at the Ministry, going over final security details for the wedding. It was going to be a high-profile event—war hero marries war heroine, of course—and Kingsley was personally involved in coordinating the protective charms and guest logistics. Harry sat at a long, polished table, fiddling with a quill, half-listening as an unfamiliar voice laid out perimeter strategy.
He wasn’t paying attention—not until a new voice cut through the air like silk over steel.
‘…so unless you want uninvited guests Apparating into the champagne toast, I’d suggest a double ward with blood recognition.’
Harry looked up.
And saw him.
Draco Malfoy stood at the head of the room, all pressed lines and pale elegance, one hand resting lightly on a stack of parchment, the other gesturing lazily as he spoke. His hair was shorter now—neater—and there was a faint scar along his jaw that Harry didn’t remember. He was thinner, taller, more composed than any memory could justify.
But those eyes. Cool, grey, impossible.
Harry’s heart stuttered in his chest.
Malfoy glanced at him. A flicker of recognition, of something unreadable. Then—nothing. Back to the papers. Back to the room.
Back to pretending Harry bloody Potter didn’t exist.
The meeting went on and Harry tried to pretend everything was fine.
Shacklebolt was speaking now, something about guest arrival times and potential press wards, but Harry wasn’t listening. Not really. His quill scratched aimlessly at the parchment in front of him, carving spirals into the margin of the seating chart. His eyes, traitorous and unwilling, kept drifting down the table—to him.
Malfoy looked entirely at ease, as if he belonged there, in the room where Aurors and Heads of Department swapped spells and strategies. He wore black—not robes, but a sharp-cut suit with a charcoal vest, wand holstered discreetly at his hip. His posture was relaxed, one elbow resting on the table, fingers tapping silently to a rhythm only he knew.
He wasn’t speaking anymore, just listening. Absorbing. Occasionally, he scribbled something in a notebook with a self-inking quill—very elegant, of course, probably custom-made—and once or twice he leaned in to mutter something to the witch beside him, a new Department Head Harry barely knew.
Harry hated how familiar Malfoy still looked, even changed as he was. Same sharp cheekbones, same bloody aristocratic disdain in the corner of his mouth. But there was something else, too—something softer. More worn-in. Like the years had sanded down the edges just enough to make him... real.
Their eyes met once. Brief. Accidental.
Draco didn’t look away immediately. His gaze held Harry’s, unreadable, steady—like a silent question, or maybe a dare. Harry felt his throat tighten. Then, as quickly as it began, Malfoy blinked and turned his head, back to the notes, back to business.
Nothing.
Of course.
Harry told himself it meant nothing. But his fingers wouldn’t stop fidgeting, and he couldn’t remember the last sentence anyone had said.
By the end of the meeting, Harry’s name had been said twice, and both times he startled slightly before answering. Kingsley gave him a long look. Hermione, seated beside him with a folder of logistics, nudged his ankle under the table.
‘You all right?’ she murmured, not looking at him.
Harry nodded. ‘Yeah. Fine.’
But his pulse hadn’t stopped its quiet, traitorous pounding.
When they stood to leave, Draco gathered his notes in one clean motion, murmured something polite to Kingsley, and swept out of the room before Harry had even pushed his chair back.
No nod. No smirk. No clever insult.
Just... nothing.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything else could have.
*
The flat smelled like cinnamon and lemon balm.
Ginny was curled up on the couch, barefoot, wearing one of Harry’s old jumpers with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The fire crackled. The wind hummed outside of the window. Everything was fine.
And yet.
Harry sat opposite her, legs tucked under himself in the armchair, a mug of tea cooling slowly in his hands. He hadn’t taken a sip. He wasn’t even sure how it had gotten there. Ginny must’ve handed it to him ten minutes ago, with a kiss on his hair and a quiet, ‘Long day?’
‘Mm,’ he’d probably said.
She was flipping through pages of a Quidditch magazine with one knee propped up and her hair falling over her eyes. Harry watched her fingers move, turning a page. Noticed the chipped nail polish on her pinky. The small burn scar on her wrist from a careless cooking experiment two years ago.
He loved her.
Of course he did.
But he felt like he was underwater.
The memory of the meeting—of him—pressed like a weight behind his eyes. Not even something dramatic. Just presence. A ghost he hadn’t expected to see again. Draco Malfoy, of all people, fitting into the world like he had every right to be there. Calm. Professional. Unbothered.
And absolutely beautiful, in a way Harry was furious with himself for noticing.
‘I was thinking,’ Ginny said, stretching a little, ‘we should go see the florist again on Saturday. Mum says the arrangements we picked might wilt if the heat charms aren’t properly layered—which is ridiculous, but now I’m overthinking it.’
Harry blinked. ‘Yeah. Saturday’s fine.’
She paused. Looked up from the magazine, tilting her head slightly. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, too fast. Then, softer, ‘Just tired.’
‘Of course you are. You’ve been running in seven directions lately.‘ She smiled and reached for her tea. ‘It’s good, though, isn’t it? All of this. It’s starting to feel real.’
He nodded. ‘Yeah.’
He meant it. Sort of.
Ginny turned back to the magazine, humming lightly under her breath. Harry stared at the flames in the fireplace, watching them flick and twist, dancing in a rhythm he couldn’t follow.
His tea was still untouched.
And all he could see, behind the blur of firelight, was a pair of grey eyes that had looked straight through him—and still managed to see everything.
*
When the next meeting at the Ministry was to take place, Harry showed up ten minutes early, hoping—stupidly—to collect himself before the others arrived. But when he stepped into the Ministry’s conference room, Malfoy was already there.
Of course he was.
Standing by the enchanted projection board, muttering instructions to a floating schematic of the wedding venue, he looked infuriatingly put together. A high-collared black coat, deep emerald lining peeking when he moved. Hair swept back, sharp cheekbones catching the morning light, and a calm, unreadable expression as he worked.
Harry hated how his stomach reacted. Like a bloody teenager. Like a fool.
Malfoy glanced up as he entered. ‘Potter,’ he said, like it was a simple fact, not a name that still curled around Harry’s nerves like wire.
‘Malfoy,’ Harry returned, trying to sound normal. Confident. Steady.
He sat down. Pretended to go over his notes. Didn’t look up.
The meeting began moments later. Kingsley led, Hermione offered a detailed timeline, and Draco—Draco—spoke with the dry efficiency of someone who’d done this a hundred times before.
‘In the event of magical interference,’ he said, gesturing across the projected venue, ‘guests will be lead toward designated safety points. There are four exit paths with Disillusionment-enhanced signage.’
Harry watched him move his wand with surgical precision, and something in his chest ached.
Why was he here?
Why did it feel like this?
When the meeting adjourned, people filtered out quickly—lunch breaks, memos to send, children to pick up. Harry stood up slower than usual. Malfoy was gathering his things—parchment, wand, notebook—but not in a hurry.
He hadn’t left yet.
Harry took a breath. Then another. And before he could overthink it, he said, ‘Wait.’
Draco paused. Looked up.
A single eyebrow arched, cool and curious. ‘Yes?’
‘I—‘ Harry swallowed. ‘Why are you doing this?’
A beat. A flicker of amusement crossed Malfoy’s face. ‘Planning your wedding? Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.’
Harry blinked. ‘Then whose?’
Draco closed his notebook with a soft snap. ‘Kingsley’s. Apparently, I’m the Ministry’s go-to for complex magical security on high-profile events. You’d be surprised how many threats a wedding like yours attracts.’
‘Right,’ Harry muttered. ‘That makes sense.’
Draco tilted his head. ‘I hope so. I’d be worried if you thought I was here for the canapés.’
Harry huffed a small laugh—involuntary. Malfoy’s lips twitched. Just a fraction.
There was a pause—not awkward, just weighted. Delicate.
‘You seem… different,’ Harry said before he could stop himself.
‘I should hope so,’ Malfoy replied, tone light but gaze sharp. ‘It’s been years.’
Harry nodded, eyes searching his face. ‘Yeah. I guess I just didn’t expect…’
‘Didn’t expect me to grow up?’ Malfoy finished. ‘To wear nice coats and stop cursing people in hallways?’
Harry smirked, barely. ‘Something like that.’
Draco stepped closer, not much—but enough for the air between them to tighten. ‘I’ve changed, Potter,’ he said quietly. ‘People do that sometimes. But you? You still look at me like I’m going to hex you the second you turn your back.’
Harry swallowed. ‘I don’t.’
‘You do.’ Another faint smile, and then Malfoy leaned in, voice low. ‘Relax. I’m not here to ruin your wedding.’
He turned and walked out, coat sweeping behind him, leaving Harry alone in the echo of that maddening, perfect calm.
And Harry stood there, pulse thundering, wondering which part of that statement was the lie.
*
The Ministry atrium was nearly empty when Harry stepped into the Floo. He didn’t go home. Not yet. He muttered an address to a café near the edge of Diagon Alley—somewhere quiet, where no one would ask questions or expect smiles.
The fireplace flared green, then faded, and he stepped out into the low hum of early evening traffic. The air smelled like parchment and roasted almonds from a nearby vendor, and the sky was bruising into twilight.
Harry shoved his hands into his coat pockets and started walking.
He didn’t know where he was going. Only that if he went home now, Ginny would kiss him, and the flat would smell like lavender, and he’d feel like a man who didn’t know himself at all.
Because all day—all meeting—all week, if he was being honest—he’d been thinking about him.
About Draco Malfoy.
Not just today’s version: the crisp suit, the clever mouth, the steady presence. No—it was deeper than that. Older. Buried.
He remembered the way Malfoy used to infuriate him at school. The shouting matches. The reckless hexes. The way his name tasted when Harry spat it across a corridor. But it wasn’t just anger. It never was.
There had been a night—sixth year—dark corridors, a half-finished duel outside the library. Malfoy’s face lit only by the flickering torchlight. Harry remembered the sting of adrenaline, the pounding in his chest—not from fear. From something else.
It had been nothing. Was nothing. He’d shoved it down, hard, and never let it see light.
He’d kissed Ginny after the war. Held her like an anchor. Built a life. A good one. He’d never questioned it. Not really.
But seeing Malfoy now—this Malfoy—it was like something cracked open. That old ache, sharp and unwelcome, worming its way to the surface. His heart beat too loudly in his ears. His skin felt too tight.
He stopped outside a bookstore, breath fogging in the cooling air.
You still look at me like I’m going to hex you.
Harry closed his eyes.
No—he looked at Malfoy like he wanted to touch him. And he hated that he knew the difference now.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. ‘Get a grip,’ he muttered aloud.
But the words rang hollow.
Because buried under all the denial, all the years of pretending, one truth echoed loud and clear:
He’d had a thing for Draco Malfoy.
And he never really got over it.
The pub was dim and warm when Harry reached it, tucked away on a quiet street just off Knockturn Alley—not shady, exactly, but private. The kind of place that served strong Firewhiskey and didn’t ask for headlines in return. Perfect for someone like Harry Potter, who just wanted to disappear for a bit.
He sat in a back booth, fingers curled loosely around his third glass. Maybe fourth. He’d stopped counting when the knot in his chest refused to loosen.
He sat with his jaw tight and his thoughts louder than the hum of conversation around him. Every time he blinked, he saw Malfoy’s face. That stupid smirk, those maddeningly calm eyes. He replayed their conversation over and over, trying to find the part where it had gotten under his skin so easily.
He was halfway through another drink when the pub door opened.
He didn’t look up at first.
Didn’t need to.
He felt it.
The shift in the air. The sudden tightening in his gut. A beat of silence, just enough to make him glance toward the entrance—
—and there he was.
Draco Malfoy.
Framed by the doorway in a storm-grey coat, smiling gently, and looking—unfairly—like he’d walked straight out of one of Harry’s suppressed daydreams.
But he wasn’t alone.
A man walked in beside him, laughing softly at something Draco had just said. He was tall. Dark-haired. Handsome in a clean, model-perfect way. And Draco’s hand was casually tucked into his, fingers loosely intertwined like it was the most natural thing in the world.
They made their way to the bar.
Draco didn’t see him.
Harry watched—paralyzed—as Draco leaned in to order, gesturing toward a table. The other man smiled. Draco smiled back.
And something inside Harry split.
It wasn’t jealousy, not really. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was heartbreak, too—except he had no right to feel heartbroken over someone he’d never had. Over something he’d never let himself want.
He downed the rest of his drink too fast, the burn tearing down his throat. His hands were shaking.
Harry didn’t know why he didn’t leave, there and then.
He should’ve. He should’ve paid and walked out the moment he saw them—Malfoy and his perfect boyfriend, all easy laughter and effortless beauty. But something rooted him there. Some sick part of him wanted to see. Wanted it to hurt.
He stared into his empty glass, pulse pounding, willing himself to feel nothing.
It didn’t work.
He didn’t realize Draco had seen him until a quiet voice cut through the din at his table.
‘Potter.’
Harry looked up. Slowly.
Draco was standing there. Alone.
The boyfriend was at the bar, still laughing with the bartender, oblivious. And Malfoy—Merlin—Malfoy was right in front of him, one eyebrow arched, face unreadable, but eyes sharp.
‘You all right?’ Draco asked. It was too casual. Too careful.
Harry huffed a laugh. ‘That’s a hell of a question coming from you.’
Draco didn’t flinch. ‘You’ve had a few.’
‘Yeah,’ Harry said, tipping the empty glass towards Draco in a toast. ‘Had a few thoughts, too. Dangerous combination.’
Draco slid into the seat across from him without asking. Just like that. As if this were normal. As if they were friends. As if they weren’t some tangled knot of history and silence.
‘You’re staring,’ Draco said softly.
Harry blinked. ‘What?’
‘Earlier. At the Ministry. And now,’ he folded his arms. ‘I’m not offended. Just curious.’
Harry glared at him. ‘You think I came here to stare at you?’
‘No,’ Draco said. ‘I think you didn’t expect to see me. And now you don’t know what to do about it.’
Harry opened his mouth—to argue, maybe. To deny. But nothing came out.
Draco leaned forward slightly. His voice dropped. ‘You looked… gutted.’
Harry let out a bitter laugh. ‘Well, that’s embarrassing.’
They sat there in silence for a moment. The bar buzzed quietly around them. A slow song played in the background, melancholy and too fitting.
‘I didn’t know you were—‘ Harry gestured vaguely. ‘Seeing someone.’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘Right. Of course not. Because we don’t… talk.’
‘Do you want to?’ Draco asked, almost gently.
That stopped Harry cold.
He looked at him, really looked—at the man who had once been all sharp words and spite, now sitting here with softened edges and tired eyes and a question hanging between them like smoke.
‘I don’t know,’ Harry said honestly. ‘I think I used to. Used to want to talk to you.’
Draco’s expression shifted—something flickered. Regret, maybe. Or understanding.
‘Back then?’ he asked.
Harry nodded. ‘Yeah.’
Another silence. Heavy. Honest.
Draco glanced over his shoulder—toward the bar, where his boyfriend was still distracted. Then back at Harry.
‘Too late now, isn’t it?’
Harry swallowed. ‘Seems like it.’
Draco stood. Smoothed down his coat. ‘Still. It’s good to know.’
He gave Harry a last look—something warm, and sad, and far too kind.
And then he walked away.
Back to his perfect boyfriend. Back to his perfect night.
And Harry stayed exactly where he was, heart in pieces, finally understanding just how much he had wanted something he could never have.
*
The weeks slipped past like smoke through fingers.
Harry moved through them half-awake—suit fittings, menu tastings, final security walkthroughs with Ministry officials. Every conversation with Ginny felt like it happened underwater. She glowed. She smiled. She held his hand and talked about candle colours and her Aunt Muriel’s seating demands, and Harry nodded and smiled and felt like he was watching someone else’s life unfold.
And all the while, Draco Malfoy hovered at the edges. Efficient. Professional. Impossibly composed.
And everywhere.
Harry caught glimpses of him at meetings, walking the halls of the Ministry, ducking out of a lift just as Harry stepped in. He dreamed of him—of fingers brushing in passing, of grey eyes catching his in a crowded room, of words unspoken thick in the air like rain.
He woke with guilt gnawing at his ribs.
He kissed Ginny harder the next day, trying to chase it away.
But it didn’t go. It never went.
And then, somehow, it was the night before the wedding.
Ron and Dean and a few others had dragged him to a celebratory pub crawl—nothing wild, just a few pints, some reminiscing, some clapping on the back. But it was all too much. Too loud. Too cheery. Too final.
At some point, Harry slipped away.
No one noticed.
Now, he was slumped in a quiet, half-empty bar near Charing Cross. His tie was loose, his shirt wrinkled, and his fourth drink sat untouched beside him. He stared blankly at the wall.
And that’s when the bell above the door rang.
Footsteps.
And then:
‘Potter.’
He didn’t need to look.
‘I’m hallucinating you now,’ Harry muttered. ‘Brilliant.’
Draco’s voice was soft. ‘Unfortunately for both of us, I’m real.’
Harry turned his head, slowly.
Draco stood a few feet away, wrapped in a dark coat that gleamed slightly in the firelight. His hair looked wind-tousled. His expression—cautious. Concerned.
‘What are you doing here?’ Harry asked, voice rough.
‘I could ask you the same,’ Draco said. ‘It’s your wedding tomorrow. Shouldn’t you be off soaking in a tub of rose petals or getting blessed by centaurs or whatever Gryffindors do before they ruin their lives?’
Harry barked a laugh. It was ugly. Honest.
‘I didn’t think you’d show up.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ Draco admitted. ‘But I… I had a feeling.’
‘A feeling?’ Harry snorted. ‘What, like a sixth sense for disasters?’
Draco’s lips twitched. ‘Something like that.’
Harry looked back at the fire. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’
The words slipped out before he could filter them. They dropped like stones into the silence.
Draco didn’t speak.
‘I’m not saying this to be cruel,’ Harry went on, eyes on the flames. ‘I’m saying it because I can’t breathe. I walk through my life like it’s happening to someone else, and then I see you—and I’m awake. For five seconds. And then you’re gone and it hurts more than it should.’
Another silence.
Then Draco sat down beside him.
Not across. Beside.
Close enough for their arms to brush.
‘You’re getting married in less than twelve hours,’ Draco said. Calm. Flat.
‘I know.’
‘To someone good. Someone who loves you.’
‘I know.’
Draco turned to him—slowly. ‘Then what the hell, Potter?’
Harry finally looked at him.
And his voice broke when he whispered, ‘I don’t know.’
He looked so tired. So wrecked. And Draco—for all his cool, all his practiced detachment—looked like he’d been holding back a storm for weeks.
Draco leaned in slightly. His voice was low. ‘You can’t do this to me.’
‘I’m not trying to,’ Harry said, desperate.
‘Then stop.’
‘I can’t.’
They were so close now. So stupidly close.
‘I hate you,’ Draco whispered.
Harry smiled. Broken. ‘No, you don’t.’
Draco’s fingers brushed against Harry’s on the table—a ghost of a touch, but it sent lightning through his nerves.
Neither of them moved away.
‘You ruin me,’ Draco said softly.
Harry’s hand turned—palm up, inviting.
Draco stared at it.
Then he took it.
His fingers laced into Harry’s like they belonged there.
And that was it. That was the tipping point.
Harry leaned in.
And this time, so did Draco.
Their foreheads touched first. Barely. A whisper. Harry closed his eyes and breathed him in—Firewhiskey, cologne, something sharp and so familiar that it made his chest hurt.
‘Tell me to stop,’ Draco whispered.
Harry’s voice trembled. ‘I can’t.’
And then Draco kissed him.
It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t soft violin music.
It was desperate.
It was wrong.
It was everything.
Harry pressed in like he’d been holding his breath for years. Draco’s hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers tightening in his hair. They kissed like it was the first and last time they'd ever be allowed to—no space, no questions, just heat and ache and desperation.
They broke apart only when the need for air forced them to, and even then, their foreheads stayed pressed together, breath mingling.
Draco’s voice was wrecked when he said, ‘I told myself I wouldn’t let this happen.’
Harry’s eyes were wild. ‘Then don’t stop,’ he said, like a plea.
Draco looked at him, eyes full of war and surrender all at once.
And with a sharp inhale—he kissed him again.
Rougher this time. Less hesitation, more want.
His hands fisted in Harry’s shirt, dragging him forward like he needed to feel every inch of him. Harry gasped into the kiss, fingers threading into Draco’s hair, tugging him closer, closer, closer—as if they could disappear into each other and forget the rest of the world existed.
Draco pulled back, just slightly, lips swollen, eyes searching. ‘Tell me to stop,’ he said again.
Harry’s breath hitched. ‘But I don’t want you to stop.’
He said it like a confession, like a surrender.
And that was it.
That was the thing.
Draco froze—just for a beat—like the words had winded him.
His voice was hoarse when he said, ‘You can’t say things like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it makes it real,’ Draco said. ‘And if this is real, Harry, then everything else is—‘ He broke off, looking away. ‘It’s all wrong.’
Harry cupped his cheek, forcing Draco to look at him again. ‘It feels real.’
Draco laughed, bitter and breathless. ‘Of course it does. We’ve been circling this for years. You think I don’t know what this is?’
‘What is it, then?’ Harry asked quietly.
Draco didn’t answer at first. He looked at him closely like he was memorizing every feature of his face.
Then, softly, he said, ‘It’s the thing I stopped letting myself hope for.’
Harry felt that like a punch to the ribs. He dropped his forehead against Draco’s. ‘This is insane.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m getting married tomorrow.’
‘I know.’
‘I should go.’
‘You won’t.’
They stayed like that for a long moment, tangled in a silence that felt almost holy.
Then Harry whispered, ‘Did you ever… back then? At school?’
Draco smiled, small and devastating. ‘Of course I did. You were the only thing I ever wanted that I couldn’t have.’
Harry’s fingers tightened against him. ‘Why didn’t you—?’
‘You were Harry Potter,’ Draco said. ‘I hated you. I needed to hate you. Because if I didn’t…’
‘Then what?’
Draco’s voice cracked. ‘Then I’d have had to admit how badly I wanted you.’
Harry exhaled shakily. ‘This is going to ruin me.’
‘Yeah,’ Draco said. ‘Me too.’
They kissed again—slower this time. No less intense, but laced with something fragile. Something unbearably true.
Harry broke the kiss first, chest heaving. ‘What the fuck am I going to do?’
Draco didn’t answer.
Because they both knew: there wasn’t an easy answer. There never had been.
Harry stood up and slammed his empty glass down onto the bar.
‘Another.’
The bartender looked mildly concerned. Draco did not.
‘I think you’ve hit your poetic self-destruction quota for the evening, Potter,’ Draco said dryly, his hand on Harry’s arm. ‘Let’s not round off the night by vomiting on my shoes.’
Harry glanced at him, eyes dark. ‘Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve done tonight.’
The drink arrived. He didn’t touch it right away. Just stared at the amber liquid, like it might hold answers.
‘She’s good,’ Harry said after a while, voice low. ‘Ginny. She’s brilliant. Strong. Kind. Funny. I love her.’
Draco said nothing. His jaw was tight. His hands were balled into fists on the bar top.
‘I do,’ Harry went on. ‘But it’s like... she’s sunlight. I look at her and it’s all warmth and home and comfort. But you—‘
Draco flinched. Just a little.
Harry turned toward him. ‘You’re a fucking storm.’
Draco let out a short laugh, bitter and broken. ‘How flattering.’
‘You twist me up,’ Harry said. ‘You make me feel things I didn’t even think I could feel anymore. It was enough for me to see you once. Once. And everything changed.’
Draco didn’t look at him. ‘And yet you’re marrying someone else tomorrow.’
‘I was.’
That made Draco’s head snap around.
Harry’s voice was shaking now. ‘I don’t think I can do it.’
And Draco—Malfoy, always the picture of cold control—suddenly looked wrecked.
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he spoke, ‘You don’t get to say that to me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ Draco spat, ‘you can’t just toss your entire life into chaos for me like it’s romantic. It’s not. It’s stupid. It’s cruel. And I’m not available, in case you conveniently forgot.’
Harry blinked. ‘You and him…’
Draco smiled sharply. ‘He’s safe. He’s good. Isn’t that the whole point?’
That hit too close to home.
Harry stared at him. ‘Do you love him?’
Draco looked away. ‘Not like this.’
Silence.
‘Not like you love me?’
Draco didn’t reply.
Harry leaned in, desperate now. ‘So what do we do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Draco whispered.
Harry looked at him—the man who had once been an enemy, who now had his heart in a fist.
‘You want me.’
‘Gods, yes,’ Draco breathed. ‘I always have.’
Harry exhaled.
‘Then say it.’
Draco met his gaze. ‘I want you. But I won’t be your mistake.’
That landed like a dagger between them.
And Harry knew—this was the moment. The turning point.
Everything in his chest screamed. Stay. Kiss him. Run. Burn it all down.
He looked at the full glass in front of him.
Then back at Draco.
‘I have to make a choice.’
Draco nodded. ‘And for once, Potter, no one's going to make it for you.’
The silence between them stretched, wound tight, humming with everything they couldn’t say out loud. The bar felt far away—too quiet, too small to hold the weight of the night.
Harry looked at Draco, really looked at him.
The sharp line of his jaw. The flicker of pain in his eyes. The way his chest rose and fell too quickly, like he was keeping himself from running.
‘Come home with me,’ Harry said, barely a whisper.
Draco's expression flickered—longing, devastation, restraint. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if I go with you tonight, you’ll wake up tomorrow and call this a mistake. And I can’t survive that, Potter.’
Draco spoke quietly and looked as if every word caused him pain.
‘Draco,’ Harry whispered.
He reached for him—and Draco let him.
Their mouths met again.
It wasn’t soft.
It was everything they’d been holding back—teeth, breath, desperation, and the crushing truth that there might not be another chance.
Draco’s fingers curled into Harry’s jacket, dragging him closer, swallowing the groan Harry tried to muffle. They kissed like they were furious about it. Like they knew this was a disaster. Like they didn’t care.
When they finally tore apart, their lips were red, their eyes wild.
Draco rested his forehead against Harry’s.
Then he said it—quietly, like it cost him something, ‘I’ll be waiting.’
Harry blinked. ‘What?’
Draco didn’t move. ‘Tomorrow. 5 o’clock. Albert Bridge.’
Harry’s heart thudded painfully.
‘If you go through with it,’ Draco said, ‘I’ll know. I won’t come back after that. But if you don’t…’
A beat.
‘You know where to find me, Potter.’
Harry couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
Draco leaned back, his hand slipping from Harry’s chest like it hurt to let go.
Then he turned.
And walked away.
*
The morning light filtered through the tall windows of Grimmauld Place, a soft, golden thing—gentle, kind. The kind of light that made everything look more beautiful than it was. But Harry didn’t feel beautiful. He didn’t feel kind. He didn’t feel ready.
He sat on the edge of the bed, wedding robes neatly laid out beside him like a costume. His hands were locked in his lap, knuckles white. The silence in the room was deafening, punctuated only by the ticking of the old wall clock. Each second that passed felt heavier than the last.
This was the day he was supposed to become a husband.
To Ginny.
Sweet, lovely Ginny, who was probably laughing with Hermione right now, slipping into her dress, cheeks flushed with happiness. She’d woken him with a kiss to the forehead and a bright smile, whispering, ‘We made it, Harry.’ As if they’d won something. As if all of this had been leading to bliss.
He should be grateful. He was grateful. Ginny was kind. She was home. She was history. She had been there in the wreckage of the war, when everything was ash and bone and Harry couldn’t sleep through a single night without waking up screaming.
But that was years ago. And things were different now.
He stood slowly, rubbing his hands over his face. His reflection in the mirror looked pale, drawn. Like someone who hadn’t slept—because he hadn’t.
Because all he could see behind his eyes was Draco Malfoy.
That kiss hadn’t left him. It had sunk into his bloodstream like something fatal. He could still feel Draco’s hands on him, his breath against his cheek, the sharp bite of ‘Tell me to stop.’ But Harry hadn’t told him to stop. He couldn’t.
And then—Tomorrow. 5 o’clock. Albert Bridge. If you go through with it, I’ll know. If you don’t... you know where to find me, Potter.
It echoed in his skull now, louder than the ticking clock.
He pulled on his robes in silence, the fabric heavy, suffocating. Every button he fastened felt like a nail. With every movement, he became more of what everyone expected him to be. The perfect fiancé. The loyal friend. The brave boy who had grown up and finally found peace.
But he wasn’t at peace. He was unravelling.
And no one knew. No one saw. Not Ron, who had clapped him on the back at breakfast and said, ‘This is it, mate.’ Not Hermione, who gave him that teary smile like she was watching her child grow up. Not even Ginny.
Maybe especially not Ginny.
Because if she really saw him—really saw him—she’d know he’d already left. Not physically. Not yet. But something had fractured inside of him. Something was already halfway across London, standing on a bridge painted white and pink, a memory burning like a fuse.
Harry sat back down, clutching the edge of the bed. His palms were slick with sweat. His heart was a drumbeat in his throat.
Could he do this?
Could he say the vows?
Could he promise something forever when half his soul was screaming for elsewhere?
He thought of Ginny’s laugh. He thought of her holding his hand through nightmares. He thought of the life they’d built—one of quiet routines and warm meals and long Sunday mornings.
And then he thought of Malfoy. The sharp glint in his eyes. The way he had looked last night, lips swollen from kissing, voice rough when he said Harry’s name like it meant something.
Harry buried his face in his hands.
He didn’t know what to do. But he knew one thing:
He was running out of time.
The music was playing.
Soft strings floated through the garden air, light and lovely. There were flowers everywhere—white lilies and deep red roses blooming like hope. Chairs filled with smiling faces. Ron shifting nervously near the front. Hermione already dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Everything was perfect.
And Harry felt like he couldn’t breathe.
He stood at the end of the aisle, stiff in his wedding robes, hands clenched at his sides. People kept clapping him on the back, smiling too widely, mouthing ‘you’re lucky,’ ‘she’s beautiful,’‘you’re going to be so happy.’
He nodded. He smiled. He died.
His watch read 4:32.
Ginny would be here any minute.
And Draco—Draco would be waiting at Albert Bridge at five o’clock.
A gust of wind rustled through the trees as the music shifted, and all heads turned.
There she was.
Ginny looked radiant. Her dress was simple and elegant, hair curled loosely over her shoulders, freckles glowing in the golden light. She smiled when she saw him. She smiled like she loved him. And Harry’s stomach turned.
Because he loved her. In some way, he did.
But he wasn’t in love.
Not with her.
Not anymore.
She reached him, took his hand in hers. Her grip was warm, steady.
‘Hi,’ she whispered.
Harry swallowed, nodded. ‘Hi.’
The officiant began to speak. The world narrowed into a tunnel of white noise, faces blurred, air thick.
Harry’s eyes flicked to his watch.
4:47.
Ginny turned to him, gaze shining, and began to speak her vows. Her voice was soft, trembling with emotion.
‘I’ve loved you since I was eleven. I didn’t think I ever stopped. Through war, and silence, and coming back together—you’ve been my peace, Harry. My home. I promise to keep choosing you, every day. To build a life with you, one full of light. You’re everything I waited for.’
Harry stared at her.
At her trembling lips. At her teary eyes.
And all he could think was I can’t do this.
It was 4:51.
He was supposed to say something next. His vows. He’d written them days ago. He couldn’t even remember a single line.
Time froze.
He opened his mouth.
No words came out.
He looked at Ginny.
And then he looked past her.
To the sky. To the sliver of the city beyond the trees.
To a bridge waiting by the river.
He stepped back.
Ginny’s voice, full of hope, still hung in the air like an unfinished song. She stood across from Harry, the hem of her dress gently swaying, hands clasped tightly at her front.
The officiant cleared his throat. ‘Harry?’
Harry opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Ginny’s brow furrowed. ‘Harry?’
He looked at her. At the freckles across her nose, the curl at her temple coming loose, the way her eyes shimmered with something between love and fear.
She knew.
She didn’t know what, not yet, but she knew something was wrong.
‘Harry, what’s going on?’ she whispered, a tiny, broken thread of sound.
The guests were shifting now. Chairs creaking. A few gasps, a murmur starting to ripple through the pews.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, voice like glass.
Ginny blinked. Her mouth parted slightly. ‘What do you mean?’
He couldn’t look at her anymore. Couldn’t breathe under the weight of it. ‘I can’t. I thought I could, but I can’t.’
Her breath hitched. ‘Is it someone else?’
He said nothing.
That was answer enough.
Tears welled in her eyes—bright, immediate. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? It’s still him?’
His silence was louder than anything.
Ginny stared at him for a long time, something inside her folding in on itself. Her chin trembled, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. She just said, quietly, ‘Then go.’
He didn’t hesitate.
He turned, walked down the aisle—past stunned friends, past Ron, whose mouth hung open in silent horror, past Hermione, whose hand flew to her heart. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Outside, he barely made it down the steps before he apparated with a crack.
He landed hard on the stones of Albert Bridge, the river below catching the gold and lavender of dusk. The wind hit him like a slap—cold, sharp, real.
And there he was.
Draco stood a few feet away, arms crossed, coat whipping slightly in the breeze. His blond hair caught the dying light like it had been waiting for this moment too.
His expression was hard to read, nevertheless, he looked beautiful. Calm. Relieved. Furious. All of it at once.
‘You came,’ he said flatly.
Harry’s chest was heaving. ‘I left her at the altar.’
‘I know.’ Draco stepped closer. ‘I felt it. The shift. The whole fucking universe exhaled.’
‘I bloody left Ginny at the altar,’ Harry let out a choked laugh. ‘I’m a coward.’
‘You’re a disaster,’ Draco snapped. ‘And you’re selfish. And cruel. And—‘
‘And I’m so in love with you I feel like I’m going to suffocate.’
Harry’s eyes stung. He blinked a few times before he spoke again.
‘I didn’t plan this. I didn’t even know I still felt—until you walked into that bloody meeting. And then I couldn’t breathe.’
Draco ran a hand through his hair. ‘You ruined me. Again.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t want you to be sorry,’ Draco hissed. ‘I want you to be sure.’
Harry took a step closer. ‘I’m here.’
‘You left your wedding.’
‘I know.’
‘You left her.’
‘I know.’
Silence.
Then, quieter, ‘What about your boyfriend?’ Harry asked.
Draco looked away. ‘He’s not you.’
Harry’s heart twisted. ‘So what now?’
Draco met his eyes again. ‘Now we stand here, and I hate you, and I want you, and I don’t know what the fuck comes next.’
Harry stepped into him, barely breathing. ‘Can I kiss you?’
Draco didn’t answer. Just grabbed him by the front of his robes and pulled him in like drowning.
They kissed like it was the only thing left in the world.
Like they’d both run through fire to get here—and they had.
It wasn’t graceful. It was messy, and breathless, and angry, and aching. Harry clutched Draco like he might disappear. Draco held on like he wanted to shove Harry away, and couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.
It wasn’t a fairytale.
It wasn’t even close.
It was desperation and years of silent yearning finally ripping apart at the seams.
And when they broke apart, gasping, eyes wet, hearts racing, the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.
It was sharp.
Draco looked away first. His voice was raw when he finally spoke. ‘You just left her.’
Harry didn’t say anything.
‘She looked at you like you hung the bloody stars,’ Draco went on, blinking hard. ‘And you walked away.’
‘I had to.’
Draco scoffed—not cruel, just broken. ‘You always have to, don’t you, Potter? You always have to be the hero. Or the victim. Or the tragic martyr.’ He paused. ‘Do you even know what you want?’
Harry’s voice was hoarse. ‘Yes.’
Another pause. The light off the water shimmered between them.
‘You. I want you.’
Draco’s mouth trembled. ‘You don’t get to say that. Not when it took you this long.’
‘I know,’ Harry said. ‘But I’m saying it anyway. It’s always been you, Draco Malfoy.’
Draco was quiet for a long moment.
Then, he said, ‘I don’t know how to do this.’
‘Me neither.’
‘I’m still with someone,’ Draco said. ‘I’ve built a whole life without you. I’ve built a life waiting for you. Trying to forget you.’
‘I know,’ Harry stepped forward. ‘I’ll wait. Or I’ll walk away. Just say the word.’
A beat.
Then came Draco’s voice, quiet and sharp as a blade, ‘You always were an idiot, Potter.’
And Harry looked at him—really looked—and all the noise in his head stilled. ‘I mean it. I want you, Draco.’
Draco’s face twisted—like the words physically hurt to believe. Like he wanted to run. Like he wanted to cry.
Instead, he leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to Harry’s.
‘I hate you,’ he whispered.
Harry smiled—broken, soft. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Me too.’
The river moved beneath them. The city stretched out on every side—indifferent, endless. And somewhere behind them, a life was unravelling.
But here, in this moment, it was just them. Shaking. Alive.
Draco pulled back, just slightly—enough to look at him.
His eyes were shining. His mouth parted like he might speak again, but nothing came.
He didn’t have to.
Because Harry leaned in and kissed him—slow, certain.
He was certain.
I’m here. I choose this. I choose you.
And when they pulled apart, the sky was dimming. The cold was settling in. And Harry whispered, not even knowing if Draco would follow—
‘Come with me.’
A pause. A breath.
‘It’s always been you,’ he added quietly.
Draco didn’t answer.
He just took his hand.
And that was enough.