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When Hermione suggested he move away, Harry had been reluctant.
Nearly five months after the attack, he had grown used to staying inside Grimmauld Place, and he was honestly fine with it.
What was the point of moving to France?
Of course, Hermione had mentioned it would help him cope and stop isolating himself, especially since the place he’d be going to was Muggle, meaning he could go out without being hounded by the press or crazed fans. Ron, being a good husband, had agreed with her, although he didn’t think it was necessary for Harry to leave the country altogether. After a pointed look from his wife, however, he corrected himself and set off to find Harry’s things and start packing.
And that’s how Harry ended up in a small Muggle village in France.
The place was lovely to look at, the neighbours were kind, and his new home was comfortable. Harry quickly settled into his new life, despite the inconveniences of his current condition.
Ron and Hermione visited every full moon to help him with whatever he needed. Harry was deeply grateful to them for this new sense of freedom, far away from prejudice and disappointed stares.
Everything was going wonderfully. His days were a mix of long walks, tending to his garden, reading books from Hermione’s recommendation list, replying to Luna’s letters about her expeditions with Rolf, cooking meals, and beginning to learn the basics of baking.
Still, knowing how bad his luck could be, Harry really should have been more careful.
‧₊˚✩彡
"Are you Harry Potter? You look so much like him! Oh, wait, let me see—"
The woman stepped towards Harry eagerly, trying to peer beneath the hooded sweatshirt he was wearing.
"It is you, Mr Potter! You've got the scar from the Killing Curse and—"
Harry pulled back abruptly, grabbing the woman by the wrist to stop her from getting any closer. Perhaps due to the nerves surging through him, he misjudged his strength and released her the moment she let out a pained sound.
Then he tried to flee.
Never before, in any of his previous visits to the bakery near his house, had he been recognised. Harry couldn’t understand how she had figured it out. He had been so careless. It was entirely his fault.
He should never have let his guard down. Nor should he have been so naive as to believe she would simply let him go.
With hurried steps, he made his way back home. He hadn’t even had the chance to buy anything for breakfast, and the hollowness in his stomach grew heavier. The full moon was still a couple of days away, yet Harry felt the same tight anxiety he usually got only hours before his transformation.
The woman’s voice, now behind him, became a murmur drowned out by the ringing in his ears.
Harry picked up his pace. He turned down a side street, then another. But she was still following him. Her voice, calling his name, grew louder, as if she had started shouting it without a care for discretion. People were beginning to stare.
Harry’s heart pounded against his ribs. He needed to get out of there. This was exactly what he’d fled London to avoid: the stares, the whispers, being treated like some sort of oddity.
That was when he felt a hand on his arm.
Before he could react, he was yanked inside a nearby house. He stumbled backwards slightly, landing against the chest of whoever had pulled him in.
Harry turned sharply, wand already drawn by instinct, but a familiar voice stopped him cold.
"Don’t hex me, Potter. Wouldn’t be very polite, though I’ll admit I probably deserve it."
Malfoy.
Draco Malfoy.
Tall, lean, with flawless skin and a natural elegance that Harry found infuriatingly attractive. He was wearing Muggle clothes, a black shirt and well-fitted trousers, specifically. Harry, on the other hand, felt like a rather depressing version of himself: rumpled hoodie, worn-out jeans, patchy stubble, and a new scar on the right side of his face. He’d grown too, nearly as tall as his former nemesis, but in that moment he felt completely out of place.
Harry stepped back instinctively. It had been years since he’d seen him. Years without even thinking he’d ever cross paths with him again. And now, here he was. And he was looking at him with a mix of caution and, to Harry’s surprise, understanding.
“What… what are you doing here?” Harry asked, wand still trembling in his hand.
“I live here,” Draco replied calmly, raising his hands slightly, gesturing around to show he wasn’t holding his wand. “We’re only a few streets away from your place. And, well… I suppose I work for you now.”
Harry blinked, confused.
“Granger contacted me. Said she needed a trustworthy potioneer.”
“I didn’t know she trusted you…”
“Neither did I, to be honest. But I signed a binding contract, and it helps that we live in the same neighbourhood,” Draco added with a faint, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to pretend you’re not uncomfortable. I know you didn’t expect to see me.”
Harry lowered his wand slowly. He still struggled to fully trust Malfoy. There was a mix of pain and fear at being exposed. He hadn’t been the same since the accident.
“It’s not that. It’s just… a lot has happened.”
“I know,” Draco said, nodding without a trace of mockery. “You don’t have to be afraid, Potter. I’m not the same arse I used to be.”
“You’re seriously going to… help me?” Harry asked in a low voice.
Draco took a step closer.
“I just saved you from a mad fan, didn’t I? What do you think?”
Harry stared at him, still wary, but something inside him began to soften.
“If you’re still not sure,” Draco said, gesturing for Harry to step further into the house, “then come on, let’s have breakfast.”
For a moment, Harry considered refusing, but his empty stomach agreed with the suggestion and he followed Malfoy.
‧₊˚✩彡
From that encounter on, Harry’s days began to fill with Malfoy.
At first, Malfoy showed up under the excuse of checking whether the potion dosages were working properly.
Then he started turning up at Harry’s house with some dish or dessert in hand.
“I’ve moved and I don’t have any elves, remember?” he’d say, letting himself in without waiting for an invitation. “I didn’t come here out of generosity, I just made far too much.”
Harry didn’t buy it. Not when the pasta was made exactly the way he liked it, or when the biscuits were decorated nearly perfectly. But he didn’t dare point it out. Days felt quieter, more bearable, when Malfoy appeared at his door.
Sometimes they would sit chatting in the small dining room, and other times they were in the garden. There weren’t many topics of conversation, really, but Harry refused to let Malfoy leave and Malfoy refused to go.
Then, one day, Harry bought a television, hoping it would give them more reason to spend time together and talk about shows or films. It turned out to be a good decision, as Malfoy became Draco and began visiting him every day.
Harry also started visiting Draco. He especially enjoyed watching him work in his lab. It was clear that Draco loved his job; he did it with precision and care. Harry liked to watch, and watch. This Draco was… different. Special.
‧₊˚✩彡
When the dangerous days drew near, Harry withdrew. He didn’t want Draco to see him like that, so he pretended not to be home and didn’t respond to the letters that slipped under his door.
But despite it all, Draco began showing up every day after the full moon. He would arrive at dawn the following morning. Ron was usually the one to let him in, and Draco would quietly make his way upstairs. There, he would tend to Harry’s wounds with steady, careful hands. Harry never said a word, he simply allowed himself to be looked after.
One night, after an especially difficult moon, Ron and Hermione decided to help Draco tend to Harry’s injuries. It had been comforting to have his favourite people at his side, though it was far less pleasant when Draco stepped out of the room and Hermione raised an eyebrow while Ron asked just how close he was to Draco these days. Harry ignored them and closed his eyes to feign sleep, but he couldn’t suppress the warmth that spread through his chest at the thought of Draco returning to him later that night.
From the next full moon onwards, Harry allowed Draco to join Ron and Hermione during the transformation.
‧₊˚✩彡
The days passed. Then the weeks.
One evening, while Draco was washing the dishes and Harry was drying them, a song came on the radio. One Draco recognised instantly.
He turned around, a barely-there smile playing on his lips.
“I want to dance,” he said suddenly, holding out his hand. “Come on, Potter. Don’t be a coward.”
Harry dropped the tea towel and stared at him in disbelief.
“Seriously?”
“Afraid of stepping on my feet?”
“I’m afraid of many things,” Harry murmured, but he took his hand anyway.
Draco pulled him gently. At first, their movements were clumsy, bumping into one another and laughing under their breath. But then they relaxed into it, letting themselves sway with the music.
And without thinking, Harry leaned in and kissed him. It was brief, uncertain. The moment they pulled apart, regret washed over Harry.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ha—”
Draco cut him off by kissing him again. This time with certainty, with longing, with fire. When they broke apart, lips still brushing, he whispered:
“Take me to your room.”
And Harry did. He couldn’t possibly refuse such a request.
‧₊˚✩彡
It was a fact that Harry hadn’t had many relationships, but never, never, had he felt so genuinely happy to be with someone until he and Draco made things official.
From the moment of their first kiss, and everything that followed, Draco couldn’t seem to keep his hands off Harry. Not that Harry minded. It was just... overwhelming how Draco always seemed so excited just to be able to touch him.
And for the first time since the bite, Harry felt comfortable in his body again. Draco had made it his mission to kiss the scar on Harry’s face countless times, that scar on the right side of his face that Harry had cursed endlessly, the one that marked him as different, as damaged.
For his part, Harry made sure to cherish every part of Draco as well. When he saw the scars on Draco’s chest, he had the sudden urge to drop to his knees and apologise. But Draco didn’t let him.
Draco reminded him that they had both hurt each other too much in the past, but now, they had a second chance. And no one in the world was going to stop them from taking it.
‧₊˚✩彡
Harry had known for weeks, the tightness in his chest was a sign that something bad was coming.
Draco told him there was nothing to worry about. Hermione reassured him that there was no reason to fear. And Ron, of course, agreed with his wife.
But Harry hadn’t been wrong.
The day had started off normally. Draco kissed him on the cheek and told him it was time to get up. Harry, as he did every morning, clung to Draco’s waist and mumbled that he wanted five more minutes. Draco always gave in.
Afterwards, Harry went downstairs to make breakfast while Draco headed to his office to check the shipment of potion batches for St Mungo’s. Hermione had recently recommended him as a potioneer, and he was now overseeing production for the hospital, a big step in his career, and one Harry was immensely proud of.
That’s how Harry found him: sorting through the potion crates, humming a French tune that had played on the radio the night before, when they’d shared a glass of wine before bed.
“There you are,” Draco said, smiling. “Could you check Hermione’s letter for me, love? I think it arrived yesterday.”
Harry nodded and picked up the letter from his best friend.
The uneasy feeling that had been sitting in his stomach for weeks intensified as he read Hermione’s brief message:
“Hey, Ron and I talked and thought it best to give you a heads-up. The Prophet has published an article about you. Apart from malicious words and speculation about your relationship, they have no real information. So don’t worry. I’ll make sure Skeeter doesn’t speak another word.
With love, Hermione.”
“Did Hugo get up to something?” Draco asked playfully, but his expression changed when he noticed Harry standing frozen, eyes fixed on the letter. “Harry? What’s wrong?”
Harry didn’t answer. He simply handed Draco the previous day’s edition of The Daily Prophet.
On the front page was a photograph of them on holiday in Italy the week before, having lunch on a balcony, both visibly happy. But beneath the photo, the headline dripped with malice:
“THE CHOSEN ONE AND THE DEATH EATER: ROMANCE OR MANIPULATION?”
Draco flipped through the article quickly, his eyes scanning over the cruel insinuations. Without saying a word, he crumpled it and threw it straight into the bin.
“Idiots,” he muttered coldly. “They’re not worth it. Like starving vultures. They know they have to invent something just to keep people reading.”
Harry didn’t reply. He simply helped Draco finish sorting the batches, and afterwards they went downstairs to eat.
Draco began breakfast as if nothing had happened, outwardly calm, but Harry could see right through him. He knew Draco was furious, barely holding it together. As for himself, the anger and sadness washed over Harry, stealing his appetite, though he forced himself to eat a little, not wanting to worry Draco.
After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Draco stood, composed as ever.
“I’d best take these to the courier. I won’t be long.”
Harry nodded, not looking up. The door shut behind Draco, and silence wrapped around the room.
Several minutes passed before, compelled by something he couldn’t name, Harry stood up, returned to the office, retrieved the crumpled newspaper, and began to read it carefully.
Draco had been right, they were idiots.
“What if Malfoy is just using him to clean up his image?”
“Isn’t Potter a werewolf now? Who in their right mind would date that?”
“Let’s not forget Death Eaters know how to manipulate.”
“I bet as a werewolf he can’t control himself, and sooner or later, Malfoy will end up hurt.”
Little by little, despite what Draco had said, Harry began to wonder if maybe they were right. Of course he’d adapted to his new condition, and thanks to the support he’d had from the start, he had grown to accept himself. But the truth was, every word stung more than the last. Who could guarantee that he’d never hurt Draco? And what if some deranged fan came after them and Draco was the one to suffer? Could he stop it? Would Draco come to hate him?
Harry hated overthinking but that’s exactly what he did, right up until Draco came back.
‧₊˚✩彡
An hour later, Draco returned with a small plastic bag in hand.
“I stopped by that ice cream place you like and brought some for both of us.”
Harry looked at him, standing in the kitchen, the newspaper still lying on the table.
“We have to end this, Draco.”
Silence fell like a weight. Draco didn’t frown, didn’t ask questions. He simply looked at him.
“I can’t let them do this to you,” Harry continued. “They’re attacking you for being with me, and you don’t deserve it. You’ve spent years working to rebuild your life, you shouldn’t risk all that for me. I don’t want you stepping out of the house afraid of what people might say. They think I might hurt you, that I’m dangerous. And maybe…”
“No,” Draco interrupted calmly. He walked to the freezer and put the ice cream away as if Harry hadn’t said anything of importance.
“Draco…” Harry tried again, frustrated.
“I said no,” Draco repeated, never raising his voice. “We’re not ending this because a bunch of cowards who call themselves journalists think they have the right to judge something they neither understand nor own.”
Harry swallowed hard, searching for the right words.
“I just want to protect you.”
“And who protects you?” Draco asked, his voice softer now, more wounded than angry. “Who tells you that you deserve this? Because you do, Harry. You deserve a quiet life with me. We both deserve this. Let me protect you, love you, be there for you. I know you’d do the same for me.”
Draco stepped closer, and Harry let him because he was weak to his touch. When Draco caressed his face, Harry wanted to beg him never to stop, but he had to stay firm in his decision.
“You’re not going to lose me just because other people can’t stand to see us happy.”
And then, just as Harry was about to protest, Draco turned and left the kitchen, heading back to his office.
‧₊˚✩彡
Harry had tried to act normal, but the truth was he looked more like a shadow of himself drifting through the house. It didn’t help that the full moon was only a week away.
He wanted to say something to Draco, but he didn’t know what. As much as Draco’s certainty had warmed his heart, the thought still lingered that Draco would never know peace at his side. Harry wanted Draco to understand that.
Draco, for his part, continued treating Harry as he always did, gently and with patience, trying to understand him but Harry knew Draco was also fighting his own internal storm.
“Harry,” Draco said one morning, on the third day of silence. “I think... I think we need some time alone.”
Harry looked up from the Quidditch magazine he’d been pretending to read.
“You’re leaving?” he asked quietly, fear already beginning to build.
“Just for a couple of days,” Draco replied. “I’ve got work to catch up on anyway. I’ll be back before the full moon.”
And Harry couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t form the words that asked Draco to let him come along. Technically, it wasn’t a break-up. Not yet. Draco had been firm about staying together, but the silence he left behind still hurt just the same.
‧₊˚✩彡
Harry tried to distract himself. He went for a run, cleaned out the pantry, tended the garden, baked something sweet. But no matter what he was doing, his mind always returned to Draco.
That afternoon, he sat down in front of the fireplace and, staring into the flames, he finally allowed himself to say it loud even if only in a whisper to no one in particular.
“I love him.”
It had been nine months since he’d run into Draco again, five months since they started a relationship.
He loved him.
He loved Draco with the weariness of someone who had seen the worst of the world and still chose to stay. With the quiet of someone who had found refuge in the middle of a storm.
Harry had always seen life in shades of deep blue until Draco came along with his crooked smile and wandering hands. Draco was radiant, and little by little, he brought colour back into Harry’s life. Every part of Draco was flecked with gold, and those flecks had lit up Harry’s world with a new brightness, a new beginning.
The Harry of the past would never have believed it. That his twenty-five-year-old self would love Draco Malfoy. His teenage self had hated Malfoy with everything he had. And the Harry after the bite had feared he was a danger, believing he deserved nothing but loneliness.
But this Harry... the Harry of now was ready to fight. For Draco. For the life they’d begun to build together.
So Harry stood up from the sofa, resolute, he was going to find Draco.
It didn’t matter that it was eleven at night, or that he was tired, or that he didn’t have the right words yet. All that mattered was getting there and telling Draco that he chose him, that he chose them, above whatever anyone else had to say.
Harry went to the door and grabbed his coat with clumsy hands. He was just about to turn the handle when the door opened from the other side.
Draco.
He was soaked through from the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, lips trembling, eyes shining as though he’d run the whole way.
And without a word, without hesitation, Draco flung himself into Harry’s arms.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against Harry’s chest, clinging to him as though the world might tear them apart at any second. “I was an idiot. I shouldn’t have left like that.”
Harry hugged him tightly. He felt him warm and alive against his chest and gently stroked his rain-soaked hair.
“No,” Harry murmured. “The stupid thing was what I said. How could I ever think of ending this?”
Draco looked up, breath shaky, eyes vulnerable.
“Promise me you’ll never say that again. Not ever.”
Harry nodded. And kissed him.
It was a desperate kiss, wet with rain, clumsy with need.
A kiss that tasted like reunion. Like home.
Harry knew, with utter certainty, that the world could fall apart around them, he would never leave Draco. Not ever.
‧₊˚✩彡
It had been two months since The Prophet published the article about their relationship when they decided to return to Britain and tell their friends and family.
But their relationship remained deeply private. They loved each other in quiet moments, in the comfort of the new flat they rented together.
No one could see the way Draco traced his fingers down Harry’s back when he thought Harry was asleep. Or how Harry would tuck a blanket over Draco when he dozed off reading.
One afternoon, while Harry was cooking, Draco came in wearing nothing but one of Harry’s old t-shirts. He wrapped his arms around Harry from behind, rested his cheek on his shoulder, and murmured:
“Dance with me.”
Harry set the knife down and smiled.
“I’m cooking, love.”
“And I’m having a romantic impulse. Come on, before it passes.”
That was a lie. Draco always asked him to dance when the radio played in the background and they were cooking or cleaning. It had become a thing between them.
As they began to sway, Harry thought — as he often did these days — that he could spend the rest of his life like this.
Harry looked at Draco and thought: a lifetime wouldn’t be enough.