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The fire in the hearth crackled like it was trying to speak, each pop and hiss a word in a language Harry had forgotten how to understand. He sat across from Draco in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, the walls still scorched from spells that had never been cleaned—battle scars left deliberately visible, like a warning or a reminder. The December wind rattled the windows, but inside, the silence was heavier than snow.
Draco didn't speak much these days. He moved like smoke—present, but impossible to hold. His fingers traced the rim of his teacup in endless circles, a nervous habit he'd developed since the trials ended. The porcelain was chipped along the edge where someone had thrown it against the wall months ago. Neither of them had bothered to repair it with magic. Some breaks were meant to stay broken.
You always come back, Draco said finally, his voice low and rough from disuse. His eyes remained fixed on the flames, watching them dance and writhe like trapped spirits.
Harry didn't answer immediately. How could he explain that the world outside was too loud, too bright, too full of people who wanted him to be their savior again? Too full of reporters asking about his plans, friends asking about his healing, strangers asking for autographs on their copies of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. They all wanted him to be whole, to be the golden boy who'd saved them all and emerged unscathed.
Draco never asked him to be anything except present.
I dream about it, Draco continued, his voice barely above a whisper. The fire. Crabbe's fire. It's in the walls now, in my chest. Sometimes I think it's the only thing keeping me warm. He paused, lifting the teacup to his lips with shaking hands. Sometimes I think I died in that room, and this is just... what comes after.
Harry looked at him then, really looked. The hollows beneath his eyes had deepened since his last visit, purple-black shadows that spoke of sleepless nights and restless dreams. His cheekbones were sharper now, carved by weight loss and worry. When he reached for his tea, his fingers trembled—not from cold, but from something deeper, something that lived in his bones.
Harry thought of the song Hermione had played once, something foreign and aching from a Muggle film, where the singer whispered about a fire that never went out, about love that burned long after everything else had turned to ash. The melody had haunted him for weeks afterward, surfacing at odd moments—while shaving, while walking through Diagon Alley, while lying awake at 3 AM wondering why he couldn't feel anything anymore.
I don't dream anymore, Harry said, the words falling into the space between them like stones into still water. I just came here.
Draco's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile, wasn't quite a grimace. It was the expression of someone who understood that some admissions were too heavy for proper responses. Then stay.
The word hung in the air, neither question nor command, but something more dangerous, an invitation to a place Harry wasn't sure either of them could return from.
Three days later, Harry stood in the hallway outside Draco's room at half past midnight, his fingers grazing the faded wallpaper. The pattern had once been elegant silver serpents twining through emerald vines, but now it was water-stained and peeling, coming apart at the seams like everything else in the manor. He could hear the fire crackling inside, but it wasn't enough to chase away the chill that had settled in his bones since the war ended.
A chill that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the hollow space where his purpose used to live.
Draco hadn't come down for dinner. Again.
For the past week, house-elves had been bringing trays up to his room, only to collect them hours later, the food barely touched. Harry had watched from the kitchen window as they dumped plate after plate into the garden compost, their faces carefully neutral. Even they knew better than to comment on the young master's habits these days.
Harry pushed the door open without knocking. They were past the point of pretense, past the careful politeness that had marked the first few months of these visits. What was privacy between two people who'd seen each other at their absolute worst?
Draco was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs stretched out toward the hearth. His wand lay discarded beside him, dark wood against pale carpet, like he'd simply let it fall from nerveless fingers. The fire cast flickering shadows across his face, making him look older, sharper, like grief had taken a chisel to his features and carved him hollow.
He was wearing the same clothes he'd had on two days ago, dark trousers and a white shirt that had seen better decades, the collar loose around his throat. His hair, once so carefully styled, fell across his forehead in unwashed strands. He looked like a ghost of himself, or perhaps like he was finally becoming who he'd always been beneath the performance.
You're avoiding me, Harry said, settling down beside him on the floor. The carpet was thick but worn, expensive wool that had absorbed decades of footsteps, conversations, secrets.
Draco didn't look up. His gaze remained fixed on the flames, as if they held answers to questions he was afraid to ask. I'm avoiding everyone.
That's not true. You talk to the portraits more than you talk to me. Harry had heard him sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, having long conversations with his ancestors.
Their painted eyes would track Harry's movements when he passed their frames, but they never spoke to him directly. He was an outsider here, tolerated but not welcomed.
A bitter smile tugged at Draco's lips, the expression Harry had come to recognize as his default response to uncomfortable truths. They don't ask me to be better. They don't ask me to move on, or find closure, or make something meaningful of my second chance. The words came out sharp, practiced, like he'd been rehearsing this speech in his head for weeks. They just want to complain about the state of the gardens and reminisce about parties that happened before I was born.
Harry drew his knees up to his chest, mirroring Draco's posture without conscious thought. I don't ask you to be better. I just ask you to be here.
Draco's eyes finally met his, and Harry saw something flicker there—surprise, maybe, or recognition. And what does that mean, Potter? You want me to sit beside you while you pretend we're not broken? You want me to smile and nod and pretend I don't wake up screaming? Pretend I don't see Crabbe burning every time I close my eyes?
The questions came out in a rush, like water through a broken dam. Draco's hands were shaking now, not just trembling but actively shaking, and Harry could see the exact moment he realized it and tried to hide them in the folds of his sleeves.
I wake up screaming, too, Harry said, his voice cracking on the admission. It was the first time he'd said it out loud, even to himself. But I come here because you don't flinch when I do. You don't try to fix it or explain it away or tell me it will get better with time.
Silence stretched between them, taut and trembling like a wire pulled too tight. The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney, and somewhere in the walls, the old house creaked and settled. Outside, Harry could hear the wind picking up, rattling the windows in their frames.
Draco stood slowly, the firelight catching the silver in his eyes and turning them molten. You think this is some kind of healing? It's not, Potter. It's a slow burn. It's the kind of fire that doesn't warm, it consumes.
He moved to the window, pressing his palm against the glass. His reflection stared back at him, pale and hollow-eyed, a stranger wearing his face. Every time you come here, every time we sit together in the dark and pretend this isn't exactly what it looks like, we're feeding something that should have been left to die.
Harry stood as well, crossing the room until he was close enough to feel the heat radiating off Draco's skin, close enough to see the way his breath fogged the window glass. Then let it consume me.
Draco's reflection met Harry's eyes in the glass. You don't know what you're asking.
I do, Harry whispered, and meant it. I've been asking it since the war ended. Since I saw you in that courtroom, standing alone while everyone else had someone to hold their hand. He remembered that day with crystalline clarity the way Draco had stood ramrod straight in his defendant's chair, chin raised in defiance or desperation, while his parents sat in the gallery looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. Since I realized that I understood you better than I understood any of them.
Draco turned then, abandoning his reflection for the real thing. They were close now, close enough that Harry could count the faint freckles scattered across Draco's nose, close enough to see the way his pulse jumped in the hollow of his throat.
If you stay, Draco said, reaching out with fingers that barely brushed Harry's wrist, a touch so light it might have been imagined, you'll burn.
Harry leaned in, resting his forehead against Draco's, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke, expensive soap, old books, and the faint metallic tang of barely-controlled magic. Then burn with me.
They didn't kiss.
That would come later, weeks later, when the snow had melted and the first tentative shoots of spring pushed through the soil in the manor's neglected gardens. When Draco finally let Harry help him clear the breakfast dishes, their hands brushing over the sink full of soapy water, and Harry turned to find Draco watching him with an expression of such naked longing that the space between them seemed to collapse of its own accord.
But that night, in the dying light of the fire, they simply stood there, foreheads touching, breathing the same air, existing in the same moment. It was enough. More than enough. It was everything.
I can't promise you healing, Draco whispered, his words little more than breath against Harry's lips.
I'm not asking for healing, Harry replied. I'm asking for you.
Draco's eyes slipped closed, and for a moment, he looked younger, less careworn, like the boy Harry remembered from school, the one who'd been just as scared as the rest of them, just better at hiding it. I'm not good company these days.
Neither am I
I have nightmares. Real ones, not just dreams. I wake up thinking the house is on fire, and sometimes I can't tell if it's real or not."
I'll wake up with you.
I forget to eat. I forget to sleep. Sometimes I forget how to be a person instead of just... this collection of regrets wearing my face.
Harry opened his eyes, pulling back just enough to meet Draco's gaze. Then I'll remind you.
Something shifted in Draco's expression, not quite hope, but maybe the possibility of hope. Like a door opening just a crack, letting in the first sliver of light. You're mad, he said, but there was fondness in it, the kind of exasperated affection that spoke of deep understanding.
Probably. Harry smiled, and it felt strange on his face, like a muscle he'd forgotten how to use. But I'd rather be mad with you than sane without you.
Draco laughed, a sound caught somewhere between a sob and genuine amusement. That's the most Gryffindor thing you've ever said.
And that's the most Slytherin response you could have given.
They were still standing there, still close enough to share breath, when the fire finally died down to embers. The room grew darker, shadows creeping in from the corners, but neither of them moved to rekindle the flames. Something was fitting about letting the light fade, about learning to navigate by touch and instinct instead of sight.
Will you stay tonight? Draco asked, and Harry could hear the vulnerability in the question, the way it cost him to ask.
If you want me to.
I do. The admission came out barely above a whisper. I don't sleep well alone anymore. The bed feels too big, and the room gets too quiet, and I start thinking about things I shouldn't think about."
Harry understood. His flat in London was the same way, too empty, too silent, filled with spaces where other people's lives should be. He'd taken to leaving the wireless on all night, just to have the sound of other voices, other stories, something to distract from the endless loop of his own thoughts.
"There's a spare bedroom across the hall," Draco continued, already moving toward the door, retreating into politeness and propriety.
No, Harry said, catching his wrist. The contact was gentle but firm, an anchor in the shifting dynamics of whatever this was between them. Here. With you.
Draco's eyes widened slightly, not in shock but in something deeper recognition, maybe, or the dawning realization that they were crossing a line they couldn't uncross. Harry...
Not like that, Harry said quickly, though even as he said it, he wasn't entirely sure what 'like that' meant. Just... here. So you're not alone when the nightmares come.
Draco nodded slowly, understanding passing between them like a shared secret. They'd both spent too many nights alone with their demons, too many hours staring at ceilings and trying to outrun the memories that lived behind their eyelids. Maybe they couldn't heal each other, maybe healing was too much to ask, but they could bear witness, could offer presence in the face of darkness.
The bed was larger than Harry's, draped in silver and green linens that had probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Draco moved around the room with practiced efficiency, banking the fire, drawing the curtains, performing the small rituals of preparing for sleep. He paused at his wardrobe, fingers hovering over the handles.
I should probably... he gestured vaguely at his clothes.
Whatever makes you comfortable, Harry said, settling onto the edge of the mattress. The springs creaked softly under his weight, and he realized this was the first time he'd sat on anyone's bed since the war ended. The first time he'd been in anyone's bedroom, actually, except for his own.
Draco disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, and Harry could hear the sound of running water, the soft rustle of clothing being changed. When he emerged, he was wearing simple cotton pajamas, dark blue and clearly expensive but worn soft with age. He looked younger in them, more vulnerable, like he'd shed the armor of his daytime persona along with his clothes.
Harry was still fully dressed, still wearing his jeans and jumper from dinner. He felt suddenly overdressed, out of place, like he was contaminating Draco's carefully ordered space with his presence.
You can borrow something if you want, Draco offered, reading his discomfort with the ease of someone who'd spent years studying his reactions. There's a drawer full of things that might fit.
Twenty minutes later, they were both lying in the dark, each occupying their own side of the enormous mattress with a careful foot of space between them. The room was warm from the dying fire, and Harry could hear Draco's breathing gradually evening out, could feel the mattress shift as he settled into sleep.
He'd expected awkwardness, expected the strange intimacy of sharing a bed to make him restless, hyperaware. Instead, he found himself relaxing for the first time in months, his body finally accepting what his mind had been trying to tell him for weeks: this was where he belonged.
He was drifting off when Draco spoke, voice thick with approaching sleep.
Harry?
Mm?
Thank you.
For what?
A long pause, filled with the small sounds of the old house settling around them. For seeing me. The real me. Not the person everyone else wants me to be.
Harry turned onto his side, though he couldn't see Draco's face in the darkness. Thank you for letting me.
Harry woke to the sound of screaming.
Not his own, he'd grown used to the way his own nightmares sounded, the particular pitch and timber of his sleeping terror. This was different, rawer, edged with a panic that made his heart race even before he was fully conscious.
Draco was sitting up in bed, eyes wide and unseeing, his chest heaving with the kind of desperate breaths that spoke of drowning. His hands were pressed flat against his throat, fingers spread wide like he was trying to hold something in, or keep something out.
Draco. Harry sat up as well, reaching out instinctively before stopping himself. He'd learned, in the months since the war ended, that touching someone in the grip of a nightmare could sometimes make things worse. Draco, you're safe. You're in your room.
No response. Draco's gaze was fixed on something Harry couldn't see, something that existed only in the landscape of his dreams. His whole body was shaking now, tremors that started deep and worked their way outward until even his voice shook.
I can't get out, he whispered, the words barely recognizable. The fire, it's everywhere, and I can't, Vincent, where's Vincent? He was right there, he was—
Draco. Harry moved closer, not touching but close enough that his presence might register. It's Harry. It's December 2001. You're in Malfoy Manor. There's no fire.
Draco's eyes snapped to his face, but Harry could tell he wasn't really seeing him. Potter?" The name came out confused, uncertain. But you left. You were going to leave me there, in the fire.
No. Harry's voice was steady, sure. I came back for you. Remember? I came back and got you out.
You came back, Draco repeated, like he was testing the words, trying to determine if they were real or just another part of the nightmare.
I came back, Harry confirmed. And I'm here now. The fire is out. Crabbe is... Crabbe is gone, but you're safe.
Slowly, incrementally, awareness crept back into Draco's eyes. His breathing began to slow, his grip on his throat loosening. He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time, the familiar furniture, the dying embers in the grate, the winter moonlight streaming through the windows.
Fuck, he breathed, dropping his hands to his lap. Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-
Don't apologize. Harry did reach out then, covering one of Draco's shaking hands with his own. You have nothing to apologize for.
Draco stared down at their joined hands, his thumb tracing over Harry's knuckles in small, unconscious movements. I thought I was getting better. It's been almost a week since the last one.
Recovery isn't linear, Harry said, repeating something Hermione had told him months ago when he'd broken down in her kitchen, sobbing over a cup of tea that had gone cold while he tried to explain why he couldn't seem to move forward. It's not like healing a broken bone. It's more like... learning to live with a scar that sometimes still hurts.
Draco looked up at him, really looked, and Harry saw recognition there—the understanding that came from shared experience, from walking similar paths through similar darkness. Do you have them too? The nightmares?
Different ones, Harry admitted. But yes.
What about?
Harry hesitated. He'd never told anyone about the dreams, not even Hermione. They felt too private, too revealing, like windows into parts of himself he wasn't ready to expose. But sitting here in the dark with Draco, both of them raw and honest in the way that only came in the small hours of the morning, the words came easier than expected.
Sometimes it's the forest. Sometimes it's the graveyard. But mostly…
He paused, gathering courage. Mostly it's the moment when I thought you were going to die on the bathroom floor, and I realized I cared more than I should have.
Draco went very still. Sixth year?
Yeah. Harry's cheek burned with the memory of it—the blood, the panic, the way his hands had shaken as he'd tried spell after spell to stop the bleeding. I dream that I don't get there in time. That I'm too late, and you're just... gone.
But you did get there in time.
I know. But dreams don't care about logic.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, hands still joined, both lost in their own thoughts. The clock on the mantle ticked steadily, marking the passage of time in small, measured increments. Outside, Harry could hear the wind in the trees, the distant hoot of an owl, all the small sounds that made up a winter night.
Can I tell you something? Draco asked eventually.
Anything.
I don't actually remember much about the fire. I remember being in the Room of Requirement, looking for the diadem. I remember the flames starting, and then... He shrugged, a gesture that tried to be casual but didn't quite succeed. The next clear memory I have is waking up in St. Mungo's three days later.
Harry nodded. He'd suspected as much, had seen the confusion in Draco's eyes when the newspapers had printed their dramatic accounts of the rescue. That's normal. Trauma can do that, create gaps.
But I dream about it every night. I dream about things I don't even remember experiencing. I dream about the heat, about not being able to breathe, about calling for help and having no one answer. Draco's voice was getting quieter, more fragmented. How can I have nightmares about things I don't remember?
Because your body remembers, even when your mind doesn't, Harry said gently. The fear, the panic, the sense of being trapped that gets stored somewhere deeper than conscious memory.
Is that what happened to you? With your dreams about sixth year?"
Harry considered this. Maybe. I think... I think some of it is guilt. For casting that spell, for hurting you. And some of it is fear of what I almost lost, even though I didn't understand what it meant at the time.
Draco was quiet for a long moment, processing this. Do you regret it? Using that spell?
Every day, Harry said without hesitation. Not because you didn't deserve consequences for your actions, but because I should have found another way. Because the person I want to be doesn't solve problems with dark magic, no matter how justified it might seem in the moment.
And do you regret saving me? In the fire?
Harry turned to look at him properly, taking in the vulnerability in Draco's expression, the way he held himself like he was bracing for a blow. Never. Not for a single second.
Something shifted in Draco's face, a wall coming down, a door opening, the slow dawn of understanding that he was safe here, valued here, wanted in a way that had nothing to do with obligation or guilt.
I should have thanked you, he said. "For saving my life. I never thanked you properly.
You don't need to-
I do. Draco's grip on Harry's hand tightened. You saved my life, and I never even acknowledged it. I was so caught up in my own shame, my own anger at needing to be saved, that I forgot the most basic courtesy.
Draco-
Thank you, Draco said firmly, cutting off Harry's protest. Thank you for coming back for me. Thank you for pulling me out of that fire. Thank you for seeing something in me that was worth saving, even when I couldn't see it myself.
The words hung in the air between them, formal and weighty, a debt acknowledged and accepted. Harry felt something ease in his chest, a tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying.
You're welcome, he said simply.
Draco smiled then, the first real smile Harry had seen from him since these visits began. It transformed his entire face, bringing back echoes of the boy he'd been before the war, before everything went wrong.
Now what? he asked. It's nearly dawn, and I'm not sure I can go back to sleep.
Harry glanced toward the windows, where the first pale hints of sunrise were beginning to show through the curtains. Want to go watch it rise? There's that big window in the library that faces east.
The one with the window seat?
"That's the one."
Draco nodded, already pushing back the covers. Let me make coffee first. Real coffee, not that swill the house-elves brew.
They made their way through the quiet corridors of the manor, their footsteps muffled by thick carpets and years of accumulated silence. The library was exactly as Harry remembered it, floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with leather-bound volumes, comfortable chairs arranged around small tables, and yes, a wide window seat overlooking the gardens.
Draco busied himself with an elaborate coffee service that had probably been in his family for generations, grinding beans by hand and heating water in a copper pot over a small flame. The ritual seemed to calm him, giving his hands something to do while his mind processed the remnants of his nightmare.
My mother used to make coffee this way, he said, measuring grounds with practiced precision. She said it was the only civilized way to start the day. Looking back, I think it was just her way of creating a moment of peace before dealing with Father's moods.
Harry settled onto the window seat, drawing his knees up to his chest. Do you miss her? Your parents?
Draco was quiet for so long that Harry thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled, like he was discussing the weather rather than the people who'd raised him.
I miss who I thought they were, he said eventually. I miss the parents I believed in when I was eleven years old and thought the world was divided into simple categories of good and evil, with us firmly on the side of good. He poured hot water over the coffee grounds, filling the library with rich, bitter fragrance. I don't miss who they actually turned out to be.
That must be harder than just missing them, Harry observed.
It is. Draco brought two cups over to the window seat, settling beside Harry with careful space between them. It's like mourning people who are still alive, who still exist but aren't who you need them to be.
Harry understood that feeling more than he cared to admit. He'd spent years mourning the parents he'd never known, the family he'd never had, but at least his grief was clean, uncomplicated by the messy reality of human failure and disappointment.
They sat in comfortable silence as the sun crept higher, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. The gardens below were beautiful even in their winter dormancy carefully maintained hedges and flower beds that would burst into color come spring. Harry could see the maze in the distance, its high walls casting long shadows across the frost-covered grass.
I used to hide in there when I was little, Draco said, following his gaze. In the maze. Whenever Father was in one of his rages, I'd slip out and run to the very center, where there's a little fountain. I felt safe there, like the walls could protect me from everything outside.
And now?
Draco's smile was wry, tinged with adult understanding. Now I know that walls don't actually protect you from anything that matters. They just give you the illusion of safety while the real threats find other ways in.
The coffee was excellent, rich and complex, nothing like the instant stuff Harry had grown accustomed to in his flat. He found himself thinking about the differences between their lives: Draco in this beautiful, empty manor, surrounded by centuries of family history but utterly alone; Harry in his modest flat, free but adrift, untethered from any meaningful connection to his past or future.
What's it like? Draco asked suddenly. Your life, I mean. Outside of these visits.
Harry considered how to answer. The truth felt too pathetic to voice that he spent most days wandering his flat like a ghost, that he'd turned down three different job offers because none of them felt meaningful, that he sometimes went entire weeks without speaking to another human being except for brief interactions with shopkeepers and strangers.
Empty, he said finally, because honesty seemed to be the theme of the morning. I thought winning the war would give me purpose, direction. Instead, it just left me with a lot of time to think about things I'd rather forget.
The hero's burden, Draco said, but there was no mockery in it, just understanding.
I don't feel like a hero. I feel like someone who got very lucky and is now expected to know what to do with that luck.
And what do you want to do with it?
Harry turned the question over in his mind, tasting its edges. I don't know. For so long, my whole life was about defeating Voldemort. Everything I did, every choice I made, was in service of that goal. Now that it's over... He shrugged. I feel like I'm starting over at twenty-one with no idea who I'm supposed to be.
Maybe that's not a bad thing, Draco suggested. Maybe it's an opportunity to become whoever you want to be, instead of whoever other people expect you to be.
Is that what you're doing here? Becoming who you want to be?
Draco laughed, but there was no humor in it. I'm trying to figure out if there's anything left under all the expectations and conditioning and family legacy. Some days, I'm not sure there is.
There is, Harry said with quiet conviction. I've seen it. In moments like this, when you forget to be who you think you should be and just... are.
Draco looked at him then, really looked, and Harry felt that same electric awareness from the night before, that sense of standing on the edge of something vast and uncharted. The space between them on the window seat felt both too wide and too narrow, charged with possibility and fraught with danger.
Harry, Draco said, and his name sounded different in Draco's voice now, softer, more intimate. What are we doing here?
It was the question Harry had been avoiding for weeks, the one that lurked beneath every conversation, every shared silence, every moment when their eyes met and held just a beat too long. He could deflect, could make a joke, or change the subject, or retreat into safe territory. He could pretend he didn't understand what Draco was asking.
Instead, he chose honesty.
I don't know, he said. But I know I don't want to stop.
The sun was fully up now, streaming through the windows and filling the library with golden light. Outside, Harry could see birds beginning to move through the trees, and somewhere in the house, he could hear the soft sounds of the house-elves beginning their morning routines.
A new day was starting, full of possibility and uncertainty in equal measure.
Draco set down his coffee cup and shifted closer, closing the careful distance they'd maintained. His thigh pressed against Harry's, warm and solid and real.
Then don't stop, he said simply.
And Harry, who had spent the better part of a year feeling disconnected from everything and everyone around him, finally felt like he was exactly where he belonged.