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Chapter Text

Draco was having a rather nice time, all things considered.

He’d just eaten a particularly satisfying lunch that he hadn’t had to pay for, his muscles boasted an ache that signified a successful workout, and he had Harry Potter between his legs.

Harry threw himself into sucking cock with the same single-minded vigour that he applied to every task ever presented to him. His head bobbed up and down quickly, lips stretched to accommodate Draco’s girth. His free hand was between his own legs, squeezing his cock through his jeans.

Just as Draco reached for Harry to do … something – he was equally torn between pulling him down onto his cock further and yanking him off before he came too fast – he stalled, hand hovering in the air.

Apparently mistaking Draco’s hesitancy for some kind of blowjob-induced stupor, Harry grinned and began to suck harder. His noise of confusion was cut off by Draco freezing as he caught the sound again: a slight crackle, like a distant campfire.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, pushing Harry away from him and rushing over to the window.

“Uh, Draco?” Harry was still on his knees, though he’d managed to find his glasses. That was good; Draco was in no fit state to pat around the carpet looking for them, not when–

A flash of black caught his eye – about halfway down the long drive, Draco’s mother had stopped to inspect one of her blossoming rose bushes. His father was nowhere to be seen, which meant that he could be anywhere. Lucius had eyes all over the bloody house – something that Draco had learned the hard way.

“Out.”

Harry, never one to pick up on context clues, had the gall to look surprised. “What? Why?” He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, staring up at Draco from his position on the floor. “Don’t you want–”

“Later. Tomorrow. Just – out.” Draco flapped his hands, grasping Harry by the shoulders and pulling him upright. “Quick, out the Floo, before–”

Downstairs, the front door swung open, ancient hinges creaking under its own weight.

Harry’s eyes widened and he quickly reached for his jacket. He let out an ooft when Draco shoved a pair of shoes against his chest as he herded Harry toward the Floo. Harry cracked a smile when Draco all but forced his hand into the pot of powder.

“You’re going to have to tell them eventually.” It was said with jest, but Draco couldn’t ignore that it was the fourth time Harry had made the same joke in as many weeks. He didn’t particularly have the will to argue against it anymore.

“I know.”

Harry’s lips tasted musky when Draco kissed him; just faintly, a hint at the corner of his mouth. Unable to help himself, Draco settled a hand on Harry’s hip and pulled him closer, pressing their lips together. He jerked back with a gasp when the shrill chiming of a bell reached his ears. It was his tried-and-true personal warning system; he’d hung it above the door to his wing way back in his sixth year of school. It had come in handy more than once over the years, though never because of this exact purpose. Usually it just saved Pansy from looking like a tit, or Draco and Blaise from being caught with a veritable pile of explicit magazines.

Harry leaned forward to kiss Draco once more, quickly. He stepped into the Floo, jacket slung over the crook of his arm, shoes held against his chest. The dimple on his left cheek popped when he did it, sending a hot flush of want through Draco’s chest.

Harry had only just disappeared when there was a knock at Draco’s door. It was more perfunctory than anything, although Lucius knew better now than to just waltz on in without properly announcing himself; Blaise’s collection of Knockturn Knockers had done a number on them both.

When the door to Draco’s bedroom did finally swing open, Draco was reclining on the window seat with a book resting on his bent knees. Lucius nodded at him in greeting, though his face quickly froze on a half-smile.

“Father?” Draco asked, after a moment.

Rather than answering him, Lucius turned to call out Draco’s mother’s name over his shoulder. He waited in the doorway as she made her way up the stairs, his beady eyes combing every inch of Draco’s room. In an attempt to work out what had possibly caught his father’s attention, Draco too scoured his room from his reclined position. There were no clothes strewn about – unfortunately, they’d not managed to get quite that far before being interrupted – and the bed seemed to be in order, sheets freshly pressed and unrumpled. As subtly as he could, Draco sniffed the air. There was no lingering smell of sex, just the vanilla and jasmine freshening charms that his mother preferred.

Narcissa stepped into Draco’s room, took one look at him, and raised both eyebrows.

“Well,” she said, turning to glance at Lucius, “I’ll put in an order for formal invitations and start arranging a guest list. How long should we wait, do you think?”

“No more than a month.” Lucius was speaking to Narcissa, but he was looking directly at Draco. “Wouldn’t you agree, Draco?”

“Agree with what?” Sitting up, Draco tossed his prop book to the floor. He watched as his mother’s eyes zeroed in on it and he winced, realising that it was all but certain to have been written by a Muggle novelist.

“A formal statement.” His mother set her shoulders back and glanced around the room, eyes landing on the green dust still swirling in the fireplace. “Draco, dear, it’s not appropriate to sneak lovers around. What would their parents think?”

Darkly, Draco thought that it didn’t much matter in his case. In fact, Harry’s parents, had they been alive, might have gotten a kick out of the whole sordid affair.

“It’s unseemly.” Lucius pursed his lips and Draco was immediately annoyed; he knew he made the exact same face when something displeased him, though his reasons were typically far more valid than his father’s. The physical similarity was a bit of a sore spot for him. “Times may have changed in some respects, but you know full well that we cannot afford another stain on this family’s name. It would seem deceitful, which we must avoid at all costs.”

Draco blinked in horror. He glanced around the room again, noting that everything was still in order; Harry’s pants hadn’t somehow materialised, swinging happily from the light fixture. He was at a loss as to what had brought this on. “Sorry, but why would you even assume such a thing? I’ve just been enjoying the afternoon sunshine and the collected works of the, uh…” Draco swiped for his abandoned book, gripping it in the tips of his fingers. He raised it in front of his face as he read out the title. “… the Kama Sutra.” He pursed his lips and slid the book slowly underneath his thighs. “Poetry. Lovely poetry. Renowned, even.”

“Draco.” His mother looked rather pissed off, actually. “The last thing that this family needs is an accidental pregnancy. That would truly burn every last scrap of goodwill we still have with those in good standing. Tomorrow, I expect you to present yourself at lunch ready to discuss plans for a formal presentation of your relationship.” She turned off and flounced down the hall, muttering to herself all the while.

“How the fuck…” Draco whispered, clutching at the window seat.

Lucius raised a pale eyebrow. “Go look in the mirror.”

Draco was up like a shot before his father had even fully closed the door, sprinting into his ensuite bathroom. When he caught sight of his reflection, he began to laugh hysterically. Clutching at the marble countertop, he took stock of his mussed hair, thrown into disarray by Harry’s eager fingers. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a number of red marks at the base of his throat and the top of his chest, left by Harry’s heated mouth. There was a smear of white on his lower lip, for Merlin’s sake.

He looked utterly debauched. It certainly wouldn’t have taken a genius to figure out what had been going on in his parents’ absence.

“Lissy,” Draco called, gasping between bouts of uncontrollable laughter.

His family’s house elf popped into the room, fixing him with a concerned look. “Is Master Draco–”

“Master Draco is not fine at all, in fact, but don’t tell my parents that. Run me a bath, please, and throw in every single oil we have in this godforsaken house.”

Peering at him, Lissy asked, “Is Master Draco ill?”

Though he very much wanted to respond in the affirmative, that would likely have Lissy running straight to his mother. Instead, he shook his head and leaned against the countertop.

“No, I’m not ill. I just need to have a nice long soak and think about how to salvage my future, that’s all.”

*

Draco walked to lunch the next day like he was walking to his own trial.

In a way, that’s exactly what this was.

He’d spent the morning practicing what to say, what details to add in and what to leave out, how to best convince his parents that a public confirmation of his secret relationship was a terrible idea.

All forethought and careful planning went out the window, however, when faced with the deadly serious expressions of his parents, levelled at him over a stack of miniature sandwiches and their fanciest heirloom tea set.

“Tell me, darling,” Narcissa said, primly pouring herself a fresh cup of tea. “Why the need for secrecy? I understand that you’ve always preferred to keep things close to your chest, but this is your future we’re discussing. It’s a family matter, as you well know.”

For a moment, Draco considered asking why Harry Potter’s untameable thirst for cock was something to discuss with the ancestral portraits, but Lucius piped up before he could fully consider it.

“You are well aware of the expectations regarding your position in this family.” The set of Lucius’ jaw was severe; it very much did not match the vibe of the rest of him – he stirred his tea rather daintily as he stared Draco down. “You are my sole heir and the future of this family. You shouldn’t need to be reminded of this.”

“Trust me, Father, I’m well aware.” Painfully so, in fact. The expectations of those words had settled on Draco’s shoulders like iron chains from a very tender age. Thirteen, in fact – coincidentally the exact year when he first realised he didn’t want to marry Pansy and pop out a horde of screeching Slytherin toddlers. Coming to terms with the fact that he’d likely have to – quite literally – lie back and think of England if he wanted his parents’ approval in his adult years was … frightening, to say the least. He still hadn’t fully processed it, if he was honest.

“Tell me, darling, what is she like?” His mother offered him a small smile. Her attempt to lighten the mood was rather blatant, even for her. “Beautiful, I would assume?”

“Yes,” Draco replied, before snapping his mouth closed. It wasn’t a lie – Harry did look rather fetching with a cock in his mouth. And in the mornings, when he woke up sprawled across Draco’s chest. And when he’d recently come – he did this thing where he blinked over and over as a grin took over his face. He got a look in his eyes too that–

Narcissa cleared her throat. “Any particular talents?”

“Quidditch,” Draco said, slower this time. “And, uh…” Don’t say cocksucking, don’t say politics, don’t say anything about killing the Dark fucking Lord. “Negotiating.”

Lucius’ eyes narrowed slightly. “What an interesting paramour. Where did the two of you meet?”

“School.” That was a safe answer. Loads of people went to Hogwarts.

“I would be correct in assuming that we know the family?” Narcissa clicked her fingers and Lissy appeared next to her chair. She leaned down to whisper something to the elf that Draco couldn’t hear. It unnerved him.

“Uh, yes.” His mother had known Sirius Black; he’d been Harry’s family, in a way. And his parents certainly knew the Weasleys.

“It’s about time that you were formally presented to society.” Lucius set down his cutlery, raising his eyebrows at Draco meaningfully. “This seems like a fitting time, given that you clearly,” His eyes dropped to the very tightly buttoned collar of Draco’s shirt, “…enjoy their company.”

A bite of cucumber sandwich became lodged in Draco’s throat. He took a sip of tea for both courage and lubrication, turning his thoughts over in his head. This wouldn’t go down well – the sandwich or what he was about to say. “I don’t think that’s the best idea, Father.”

“I think,” Lucius said seriously, “you’ll find that it is.”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not quite as simple as–”

“Then I will put this simply for you, Draco.” Lucius’ eyes were hard, his face impassive. Narcissa had also gone silent, watching and waiting. “Either you publicly link yourself to your paramour, or you end your little dalliance. Your mother and I have had quite enough of you refusing to seriously consider your future and the longevity of this family. And if you refuse, we will know.” He picked up his knife and fork and resumed cutting. “Make your choice.”

*

“I’m fucked.” Draco groaned against the fabric of Harry’s corduroy jacket, inhaling the sweet smell of red liquorice. “Have I said that I’m fucked? Beyond, actually.”

“It can’t be that bad.” There was a smile in Harry’s voice, as though this whole thing was some funny joke that would just blow over. He frowned when Draco voiced exactly that, rubbing his hand up and down Draco’s back. “Can’t you just … I don’t know, tell them to get bent?”

“No,” Draco replied, rather miserably.

“Why not? It’s not like you’re a kid anymore. They can’t force you to reveal your secret girlfriend.”

Draco bit down hard on his tongue to prevent himself from saying something awful like, It’s not as though you would understand anything about listening to your parents. Instead, he shuffled out of Harry’s hold and flopped down onto the couch, kicking his feet out in front of him. “My life is over.”

“It’s not.” Harry’s face was an interesting mix of amused and concerned. He sat down next to Draco, nudging Draco’s hip with his toes. “Is about money? Your inheritance? Because if it is, you don’t need to worry about it. You know I’ve got more vaults than I know what to do with.”

It made Draco wince, the casual generosity combined with the flippancy directed at the hefty parental expectations that had laid the very foundation of his upbringing. Quite frankly, Draco wasn’t sure that he knew who he was without those expectations, and he had no idea how to explain that to someone who had no concept of such a thing.

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s bent leg, resting his chin on Harry’s knee. “Do you remember the first thing I said to you when we met?”

Harry quirked an eyebrow, a soft smile taking over his face. “‘Hogwarts too?’”

There was that warmth again, rushing through his chest. “No, after. On the train.”

“What, when you were being a right tit about Ron?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “When I introduced myself to you, I told you my last name first. I didn’t say my name was Draco, I said–”

“Malfoy,” Harry cut in, doing a piss poor impression of eleven-year-old Draco’s squeaky voice, “Draco Malfoy. Like you were James bloody Bond.”

“Yes, thanks.” Rather than flipping Harry off, Draco pressed a discrete kiss to the cap of Harry’s knee. It wasn’t as hidden as he’d hoped, given the sickly-sweet look that crossed Harry’s face when he did it. “The point is, I said my family name first. It meant something to me – it still does. Legacy is important in the wizarding world, particularly to people like my parents. It forms the very fabric of our society.”

“I get it,” Harry said. He brushed Draco’s hair back from his forehead, smiling tenderly. “I know you’re thinking that I don’t, but I do. Ron would have been the same if his parents had kicked up a fuss about Hermione.”

That wasn’t remotely the same situation, but Draco didn’t press it. The Weasley legacy wasn’t even in the same realm as the Malfoy one.

Harry smiled that lovely lopsided grin of his, the one that made Draco weak at the knees. It had been the final nail in the coffin of them jumping into bed together. “So, telling them to bugger off is definitely off the table?”

Draco closed his eyes and moved his head, resting his cheek on Harry’s knee instead. He thought for a moment about what it would be like, to finally tell his parents that he wasn’t interested in the life that they had painstakingly crafted for him since before he was born. Disobeying their wishes and going against them publicly? It was as good as intentionally slandering their names. He couldn’t do it; the very thought of it made his skin crawl.

Harry’s fingers moved through his hair, scratching gently down the nape of his neck. “I’ll meet with them, if you like. Talk it through, do the whole movie spiel about my intentions and all that rot.”

“Merlin,” Draco muttered, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “I can picture it now – a steaming crater where the Manor once stood, my father in the centre of it looking ready to murder someone.”

They were both silent for a moment. Harry swallowed before he began to speak, his fingers never pausing in their movements. “You could always just move in with me. You wouldn’t have to hide here, and it would give you a bit of space to, you know, be you. Read all the Kama Sutra’s you like, take up cooking, dance around with your shirt off.”

The proposition excited Draco more than he would have liked. He could actually feel his heart start to beat faster, like he was a heroine in one of those shonky old romance movies that Pansy and Daphne used to force him to watch in school.

What he wanted to say was, Fuck, yes, please. Can we do it now? I’ll have everything moved in by tomorrow evening. I want the left side of the wardrobe, the one with the extra shelf. Please never tell me no.

But this wasn’t the type of movie where the leads rode off into the sunset in a convertible with the top down. This was Draco’s sad, shitty little life, and he didn’t expect to ever get that sort of ending.

Squeezing his eyes shut tight, Draco tried to keep his voice free of emotion. “It’s a bit soon, don’t you think?”

He felt Harry shrug. “I don’t mind.” He cupped the back of Draco’s head, thumb rubbing the nape. “I’m pretty sure you’re it for me anyway.”

Unable to help himself, Draco’s eyes flew open. He half sat up, hands still clutching at Harry’s calf. His mouth was definitely open and he probably looked frightfully stupid, but Harry didn’t appear to mind, given the insanely fond look he had on his face. Heart in his throat yet somehow still beating like mad, Draco asked, “How can you be that bloody sure already? It’s been, what, four months?”

“If you don’t count the grope in the toilets at the Leaky. Or the proper feeling up you gave me when we danced at Hot Rogers.”

“I do not, as a matter of fact, count nearly coming in my trousers like an intoxicated yet randy teenager as the official start of our relationship, no.”

“Ah.” Harry’s eyes twinkled. “Guess we have a difference of opinion then.”

Draco pinched him gently on the leg. “Be serious.”

“I am.” Harry’s fingers resumed their scratching; the feeling of it nearly had Draco’s eyes rolling back. “You’re it for me. I’ve always gone with my gut, and now it’s telling me that it’s you.”

Draco rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the odd array of physical sensations that abruptly made themselves known. His eyes felt quite scratchy, for one. His throat was a tad thick, too. And there was a churning in his stomach that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. His bloody heartrate had yet to calm down, which was worrying. Could you die from what was effectively a raincheck on a proposal from your boyfriend of a few months? No, he couldn’t think of it like that, or he might devolve into hysterics.

Clutching at every last shred of sanity that he still possessed, Draco joked, “I bet you say that to all your boyfriends.”

“Well, yeah, I suppose, since you’re the only one I’ve had.”

Bad train of thought. Must steer clear of the knowledge of being Harry Potter’s first official gay relationship. Too fragile to process at current moment. Disengage.

“Girlfriends, then.” Lifting his eyebrows, Draco asked, “Did you whisper that sweet nothing into Ginevra’s ear on a slow Sunday morning?”

Harry snorted, eyes crinkling at the corners. He grabbed at Draco’s shoulders and hauled him closer, right into his lap. “It never felt like this with Ginny. No one else, either.” His face was deadly serious when he said, “I’m not lying, Draco.”

Ah, there was that prickliness in the eyes again. Drat. “No,” Draco sniffed. “You’re a shit liar, I’d be able to tell.”

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him tight. A gentle hand guided Draco’s head to rest on Harry’s shoulder, fingers in his hair. “Promise me you’ll consider it, at least – moving in. It’s an option for you, whether you take it or not.” Harry leaned his head against the top of Draco’s, his words muffled in Draco’s hair. “You’re not alone in this. I don’t want you to think that you’re floating without a tether. I’m here, whenever you need me.”

Quietly, Draco agreed. His head nodded without his direction, and he felt Harry’s lips curve into a smile.

“And I’ll meet with your parents. We’ll talk, I’ll show off my scar, pull my Order of Merlin out of my pocket. It’ll be fine.”

Draco possessed absolutely none of the blinding optimism that Harry seemed to have, but he was rapidly running out of options. He couldn’t end things with Harry – despite it sounding like the saddest thing he’d ever come up with, Harry was everything to him. There wasn’t a minute of the day where Draco wasn’t thinking about him. Every decision he made, he considered how it would impact Harry. Every thought, every choice, it was all Harry. Draco was a Slytherin, for fuck’s sake – it didn’t make any sense.

Perhaps there was a chance that it would all work out. His parents had seemed genuinely happy at the thought that he’d found someone, after all. Harry might not be a girl, or a Pureblood, or from an approved family, but he made Draco happy. Anyone with eyes could see it; Pansy teased him mercilessly for it, the absolute bint. Maybe, just maybe, they would simply be happy for him, and that would be that – he and Harry could skip off into the sunset together with Draco’s dignity, family name, and inheritance intact.

It was unlikely, but odder things had happened.

If nothing else, it was a nice thought.

“I’ll consider it,” Draco whispered. “And I’ll … speak with them. Arrange a time to introduce you properly.” He didn’t want to point out how horribly it might go or how nervous he was about it. He didn’t need to, he expected – Harry probably already knew. “Thank you.”

Harry pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “Anytime.”

There was one thing he should flag with Harry first, though, to avoid any surprise awkwardness.

“Don’t be alarmed if my parents ask about our sex life.”

Warily, Harry asked, “Why?”

“They caught me reading the Kama Sutra after you left through the Floo.”

Harry’s laughter could likely have been heard clear across London.

*

His mother was out in the garden when Draco approached her – he thought it best to tackle his parents separately, rather than as a united front. She was using a trimming charm to cut back one of the rose bushes; it had inched a good five centimetres closer to the path than those around it, so was clearly in dire straits.

His mother had spent most of her time in the garden while he was growing up. She took great pride in it, sourcing seedlings from all across the globe and employing a team of gardeners to assist her in their cultivation. Of course, there were only two now – a far cry from the fifteen she’d had when Draco had first gone off to Hogwarts. He could still see the particular shade of grey that had crossed his father’s face as Lucius authorised the salary payment for number fifteen. He’d turned to Draco with a haunted expression as he stamped the letter with the Malfoy sigil, telling Draco to ‘keep a tight grip on the purse strings’ – a phrase he’d not understood at the time.

Harry liked gardening too. Well, in the ‘let’s pop down to the garden centre and grab whatever we can find, who cares what kind of soil it needs’ type of way. The antithesis of his mother, really. He didn’t even know why he was thinking about it. It wasn’t as though the two of them would ever sit down with a cup of tea and a plate of scones as they discussed soil health and pruning techniques. The idea of it was utterly mad. But still…

Draco cleared his throat, holding his arms behind his back in the way that he’d been instructed to as a small child; he hoped it would buy him some small scrap of goodwill.

Narcissa turned to face him, large sunhat flopping over her eyes. She laughed once, pushing it back and smiling at Draco. “Hello, darling. You’re looking a bit peaky. Should I call for Lissy?”

“Uh, no.” He cleared his throat again. “I wanted to ask your permission to invite my … person to the Manor for lunch this weekend. Formally.”

There was a gleam in Narcissa’s grey eyes. “Oh, your father will be so pleased. I’ll put together a guest list, though you’ll have to tell me if I miss any of your lady’s family members.” She winked. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scandal before you’ve officially announced anything, would we?”

Draco’s bark of laughter sounded weak even to his own ears. “See, about that…”

There was strife, as he’d expected. Neither of his parents took too kindly to being told that they couldn’t invite every Wizengamot member, their great aunt, and their dog to the luncheon. Even less happily received was the plea of not inviting anyone at all.

“It’s simply not done.” Narcissa’s lips were pressed so tightly together they’d almost disappeared. She’d marched Draco straight up the drive as soon as he’d ‘begun talking nonsense’, depositing him in the foyer and calling for Lucius.

The most embarrassing thing about the whole ordeal was that he’d gotten a right proper telling off about it from his father, having apparently caused his mother a ‘great deal of stress’.

He was left flustered, drained, chastised, but winning – it had been agreed upon that the first meeting between his parents and Harry would happen in private, rather than with an audience of every member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Not that his parents knew that they were meeting Harry. Again. Not for the first time, obviously. That was a fact that Draco quite liked to forget.

A voice in the back of his head shouted that he should definitely inform his parents about the identity of his paramour before flinging said paramour at them.

Another, louder, voice countered that with the knowledge that his parents would be incensed either way, it was better to prolong his life as long as possible before it got turned completely on its head. There was no shame in that, surely.

And it wasn’t as though his parents would stoop so low as to hex him or Harry. They might ban Harry from the premises, sure, but that was the worst that could happen.

Maybe.

Probably.

*

Everything was perfect. The heirloom crystalware was out, the napkins folded into roses, the centrepieces crafted to perfection. Over by the French doors, the Manor’s grandest of grand pianos was playing Debussy, the notes seeing to twist and dance in the air.

Draco was wearing his best robes – the ones that his father had ordered custom-made for the most recent Ministry benefit. Lucius was still angling for a Wizengamot position for Draco, despite being told time and time again of his son’s lack of interest in the dreary side of politics. The robes were a deep periwinkle, with a silver thread running along the border. Tiny spots of magic had been sewn into the expanse of fabric, giving the appearance of carrying the universe on one’s back. How oddly fitting that was; Draco loved a spot of irony.

Narcissa was busying herself by micromanaging the house elves; she’d hired five more of them for the afternoon and she kept flitting about, as though expecting that they’d pilfer through the drawers or purposefully burn the boeuf bourguignon out of spite.

Despite the seemingly permanent purse of her lips, Draco’s mother was in her element. She’d been preparing for this very day since he was born; bringing a daughter-in-law into the fold, cultivating the next generation of Malfoy’s.

It was like watching a car crash in slow motion. Draco was the only one with his hand on the brake, but he couldn’t seem to stop it.

He was in the sitting room with his parents when there was a knock on the front door. Six knocks, actually, in quick succession. Harry tapped to a tune in his head, some Muggle pop song that he’d played for Draco a few times. Draco hadn’t understood the hype at all – even Celestina was better than that – but Harry had been so excited about it, grabbing for Draco’s hand and turning up the radio, beaming widely as he demonstrated the rap of his knuckles in time with the beat of the song.

Lucius’ upper lip curled. He glanced at Draco, voice a drawl. “Knocking on the front door? How … modern.”

“Does she not use the Floo, darling?” Narcissa rose to stand, outfit perfect and creaseless. “I suppose it might only take one bad experience with the network to scare you off, if you’re particularly sensitive.”

“Quite.” Lucius jerked his head in the direction of the hallway. “Go greet your guest, Draco. Good Merlin.”

Idly, and perhaps somewhat inappropriately, Draco wondered if this is what Harry felt like walking into the Forest on that awful evening in May of ’98. Resigned to his fate, accepting of the consequences, perhaps hoping that he wouldn’t have to deal with them because some manic had killed him first.

When he entered the foyer, Draco noted a rather odd noise. It took him a moment to realise that he was making it himself; a choked kind of gasp, somewhere between a sob and a whimper.

Harry shot him a look of concern, brows drawing up and together. He thanked Lissy for letting him in, nodding his head at her and doing a daft impression of what might have been a curtsey. It made her giggle, a tinkling sound that Draco had heard so infrequently in his home growing up that it shocked him out of whatever odd trance he’d fallen into.

Meeting Harry’s gaze nearly made Draco lose it. His stomach churned something awful, a violent tempest of anxiety and apprehension and more than a little bit of guilt because…

Standing there, in the foyer of Draco’s parents’ house, was the most visible display of love that Draco had ever been shown.

Gone were Harry’s jeans, his Muggle band shirts, his trusty leather jacket, the flannels that might as well have been fused to his skin, given how attached he was to them. There were no Converse, no ratty trainers that Draco begged him to toss.

Instead, he was clad in the latest line from Twilfitt’s – the fancy one that put French fashion in the centre and was priced high enough to raise even Narcissa’s eyebrows. His deep emerald robes had anti-wrinkle charms built in, along with Merlin know what else. They shimmered in the light of the entryway fireplace, giving Draco’s periwinkle ones a run for their money.

He’d even swapped out his watch, trading in the one with the dented back and worn leather strap for one of the Goblin-made ones that could only be ordered through Gringotts. He’d had his hair trimmed, preventing the locks from curling around the shells of his ears. Draco liked to toy with those strands, winding them around his fingers and pulling Harry in for slow, deep kisses. He’d shined his shoes, spritzed himself with cologne, dug out one of the Black family signet rings from some dusty old drawer in Grimmauld Place.

He'd never looked more like a traditional wizard in his life.

He’d never looked less like himself.

Yet here he was, in the foyer of Malfoy Manor, smiling at Draco like it was all his idea. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be than right there, taking Draco’s hand and kissing the back of it, whispering, hello, love, in that deep voice that had raised Draco from damnation.

He hadn’t told Harry to do any of that. Hadn’t pulled him aside and asked him to file down the parts of himself that were unpalatable to Draco’s parents. He hadn’t asked Harry to do anything but come to lunch, sit at the table where a megalomanic once reigned, and make polite small talk with a man who had tried to arrange his demise more than once.

Fuck, he’d probably gotten on the Floo and asked Weasley or Longbottom for advice about what to wear, how to act. How not to step on any toes, what Pureblood customs to be aware of, what fucking salad fork to use.

Draco hadn’t asked, but Harry had done it anyway. He’d done everything he could think of to make things easier for Draco, because that’s just who he was.

Harry loved him. He loved him. And Draco was about to throw him to the wolves.

Harry’s smile faltered, his brows turning down. He dropped his voice to a whisper as he pulled Draco’s hand against his chest. “Are you alright, love?” The deep timbre of his voice sunk into Draco’s palm. He curled his fingers in the emerald fabric, wanting nothing more than to Apparate them both out of there, to say fuck it and go.

But he couldn’t. Because he had a duty to do.

Lissy appeared in the foyer, wringing her hands in front of her. “Mistress Narcissa is wanting Lissy to make sure there isn’t a problem, and that Master Draco is alright.”

“Draco?” Harry brushed his thumb over Draco’s cheek. His gaze was searing, boring into Draco’s very soul. “We don’t have to do this. We can go.”

There was a distant crack, like a tree branch snapping in a faraway field. Belatedly, Draco realised it was the sound of his teeth clacking together as he clenched his jaw. He forced a smile in Lissy’s direction, then Harry’s.

“Come, we’re having boeuf bourguignon. Lissy’s been toiling away all day getting everything ready.” His stomach rolled as he took a step towards the double doors that led to the formal sitting room. “Would you like a drink first? Or an hors d'oeuvre? Maybe a potion to take the edge off? I can–”

Harry squeezed his hand tightly. He tapped his finger on Draco’s shoulder in the same rhythm that he’d used to knock on the front door. Smiling softly, he said, “It’s going to be alright.” Taking his first proper stride towards Draco’s ruination, he declared, “We can do this.”

It was not alright.

It was far from alright.

Both Lucius and Narcissa seemed to think that Harry was there to arrest them, despite him not having been an Auror for going on three years now. Lucius’ eye twitched as he gradually came to the realisation of why Harry was standing in their sitting room, making polite introductions. Draco’s mother was either still blissfully unaware, or completely in denial.

“While it’s been … enlightening to see you, Mister Potter, we are expecting guests and the elves have already set the table.” Narcissa smiled, though it was visibly strained. “Lissy can show you out.”

“Uh…” Harry’s gaze slid over to Draco, catching it for just a moment. “Actually, I’m here for the luncheon?” He flashed Narcissa one of his famous Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Bachelor smiles. It didn’t appear to win her over.

“Draco,” Lucius said, his tone a warning.

Narcissa blinked once, then twice. Her face had taken on a rather pinched quality. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Draco has obviously given you the wrong date for whatever business you’ve come to conduct. See, we’re expecting his suitress any moment now.”

If this were any other situation – if Harry were any less of a kind, decent man – he might have laughed. He might have shouted surprise, just to see the looks on Draco’s parents faces.

Instead, he ducked his head and said, in the calmest voice Draco had ever heard, “I know this must be quite a shock, but I hope I can prove to you how much I adore your son, and how brilliant I think he is. One day I hope to be worthy of him.” Harry looked up then, meeting Draco’s eyes.

It would have been possible to hear a pin drop.

Lucius’ fingernails scraping on the silver pommel of his cane carried straight to Draco’s ears, like knives on a blackboard. His eyes, when Draco could muster up the courage to glance in his direction, were murderous.

Narcissa looked … well, horrified was the only word for it. She looked like she’d seen a Boggart change shape right in front of her.

Stepping forward, Draco reached a hand towards her. “Mother–”

“Lunch will not be wasted.” Narcissa’s voice shook as she spoke; with sadness or anger, Draco couldn’t tell. “We’ve spent a fortune on those blasted quails. All the way from Cape Verde.” She’d always had impeccable posture, but her spine seemed to straighten even more, shoulders set back painfully far. She held out a shaking hand, directing them all towards the formal dining room. “If you would.”

Harry went, a strained smile fixed on his face.

Lucius met Draco’s eyes as they both turned to follow Narcissa. Though he said nothing, Draco could hear his father’s words as clearly as if he were using Legilimency: You are a disappointment.

He didn’t need it verbalised; Draco felt every bit of it.

Throughout the long, arduous meal, Harry was unfailingly polite.

He asked all the right questions, enquiring about Narcissa’s hobbies and Lucius’ business ventures, complimenting the food and the house and the extravagant outfits of every member of the family. He kept his elbows off the table, didn’t fiddle with his sleeves, and used the correct cutlery for every course.

He’d practised ahead of time. He’d so obviously sat down – likely with Granger – and made a list of acceptable topics of conversation. He’d prepared for this, wanting to do well, to succeed, to impress Draco’s parents and win them over, despite their history.

The muscles in Harry’s jaw clenched tighter and tighter as the lunch progressed, cinching with every underhanded insult, each brushing off of his polite questions. His eyes grew stormy as he watched the destruction of Draco’s relationship with his parents in real time, playing out silently across the ancient oak table.

Most notably, neither Lucius nor Narcissa said a word to Draco.

Draco didn’t say anything to anyone.

Harry tried to speak to every person at the table, before instead grabbing for Draco’s hand and squeezing it so tightly it hurt.

Dessert couldn’t come soon enough.

Draco Vanished the plate of caneles that Lissy set down in the centre of the table, drawing a blistering look from his mother and a loud scoff from his father. He rose to stand, tugging Harry along with him.

“I think it best that Mister Potter takes his leave now.” Lucius curled his lip, eyes locked on Harry’s fingers as they gripped Draco’s wrist. “Don’t you agree?”

If Harry replied, Draco didn’t hear it. Knowing him, he probably thanked everyone for the meal and offered to set a date for a follow-up luncheon.

Draco found himself in a sort of fugue state as he dragged Harry into the foyer. He hoped Harry wouldn’t want to make conversation with him because he had no ethereal idea of what to say.

Sorry that my parents are such bigots?

I can’t believe you sat through that for me?

Let’s sack off England altogether and buy a chateau in France?

Nothing seemed right; if there were words to convey the absolute tempest of emotions churning in Draco’s stomach, constricting his chest, he didn’t know them. Making sense of any of it was impossible.

“Draco.” Harry turned Draco’s face towards him; the movement was insistent, but the touch of his fingers was gentle. “Let’s go, come on.”

Something cracked inside Draco then, the first chip in the glass.

He couldn’t go. He had to return to the dining room, sit down and explain himself. He had to make sure that everything was alright, calm his parents down, redirect whatever plans they were surely putting in place. He had to make sure that they weren’t angry with him.

It was idiotic because of course they were angry with him. They were incensed, as evidenced by the expressions on both of their faces. But they might not be, if Draco could turn it around.

He had to be sure that they weren’t disappointed.

Stepping back, Draco shook his head. His chest felt awfully tight, constricting his breathing just enough to be uncomfortable. “I need to go talk to them.”

“You don’t.” Harry’s hands came down on his shoulders. They slipped lower, cupping his biceps, dragging down his arms until their fingers were linked. “You already know what they’re going to say.”

“They might …” Draco swallowed heavily, struggling to get the words out around his suddenly thick tongue. “They might change their minds. I just need to … need to check. It’s what’s right.”

Eyes full of anguish, Harry said, “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’re not coming with me tonight?”

“I…” I want to, Draco thought. Make me go with you. Please make me go. “I need to smooth things over. But I’ll … I’ll owl you.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, a long breath leaving Harry’s lungs – it rattled, like a loose windowpane in a summer storm. His hands cupped Draco’s face, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “My wards will always open for you. Tonight, tomorrow, next month, they’ll open. If you need to do this, do it. But don’t …” He swallowed again. “… don’t forget what you want. They might be your parents, but they won’t always do what’s best for you.”

I know that, Draco wanted to shout. Don’t you think that I know that? My own father tossed me at the Dark Lord’s feet, for fuck’s sake. My mother would have me bound by a loveless marriage, if it meant carrying on the family line. Do you think I’m under any illusions about what my role is here? What they want from me?

Instead, what came out was, “Have a safe Floo home, Harry. I’ll owl you.”

It was awful, seeing something break behind Harry’s eyes. He nodded, dropping Draco’s hands and stepping towards the Floo. He wanted to say something – it was obvious. There were probably a thousand things he’d like to say, starting and ending with fuck you.

Alongside the pain, there was disappointment too. In trying to please everyone, Draco had managed to turn everyone away. It was a hard thing to grasp, a bitter pill to swallow. And he didn’t want to do it.

Breath catching in his throat, Draco reached out towards Harry. His hand closed around empty air, hanging uselessly in front of him. Harry stopped, turning in the Floo to face Draco. Waiting. Hoping.

There was a beat of silence. Then, “Don’t forget to top up Adger’s seeds, alright? You know how he gets.”

The tiniest of smiles crossed Harry’s face, though it didn’t cut through even once ounce of the pain in his eyes. “Thanks, love.” And then he was gone, whisked away in a flash of green.

The world could have fallen out from under Draco’s feet and he wouldn’t have noticed.

Perhaps it had.

As Draco stood there, watching the ash settle in the fireplace, his heart began to beat faster. His hands clenched at his sides, fingernails digging into his palms. The sick feeling in his stomach melted away, only to be replaced with white-hot anger.

He was angry. He’d never been this angry in his life. He’d sent Harry away and for what? To be chastised for his sexuality? For a fault that didn’t exist? For having someone who loved him, genuinely and wholeheartedly?

With his heart in his throat, Draco strode back into the dining room. It was empty, all evidence of the disastrous lunch cleared away, as though it had never happened.

He found his parents in one of the sitting rooms at the rear of the house – neither were concerned with appearances anymore, as evidenced by the coat that his father had tossed over the back of the chaise, and the glass of elf wine dangling loosely from his mother’s fingertips.

They both turned when he walked into the room, unreadable expressions on their faces.

Then, “Apologise, Draco.” Lucius’ hand clenched around the pommel of his cane, the whites of his knuckles standing out.

Anger rolled through him, frustration, hurt. “I’ve nothing to apologise for.”

Lucius’ scoff was harsh. “Have you any idea of the stress you’ve just put your mother under? How she might feel about all of this ridiculous business? All her hard work gone to waste.”

Narcissa pat at her cheeks with a lacy handkerchief. “Darling, you didn’t even tell us that you … had those persuasions.”

“I thought you better than this.” Lucius set his hand on Narcissa’s shoulder. The two of them stood there, facing him as a united front. “Have you given even a single moment of thought to what might happen to our family name if you were to give into your misguided beliefs. You have a duty.”

“Draco, are you doing this to punish us? If you’re still angry about what happened while you were in school, you should remember that your father–”

There was a sharp buzzing in Draco’s ears. He felt his hands clench into fists, his teeth clacking together. His answering shout was unexpected enough that it cracked through the layer of disappointment on his parents faces, just for a moment.

“You’re right – I’m angry. I’m really fucking angry, but that’s not what this is about.”

“Draco,” Lucius scolded, raising his eyebrows. “Were you raised in a barn? Clearly you’ve been associating with the wrong sort if you’ve taken up that kind of language.”

“I’m not a child.” His voice cracked on the last word, frustration and despair bleeding through. “Harry’s not … he’s not a rebellion, father. Or a phase, or–”

“Have you thought about what others will think?” His mother dabbed at her eyes, though they didn’t appear to be all that wet. “You’ll be accused of luring Potter through nefarious means, of course. What will that mean for your career prospects? Your societal standing? Our family name?”

A harsh laugh burst from Draco’s chest, so violent that it hurt a little. “I know that and so does Harry. And it’s my fucking name to smear if I want to. Father might have had it first, but it’s mine too. I’m not just a Malfoy – I’m Draco too.”

Lucius’ gaze turned calculating. His upper lip curled menacingly, sending a shiver down Draco’s spine. “It’s true that you might think that you know your own motivations, but what of Potter’s? Surely you’ve considered that defiling my only son would be an effective way for him to feel that justice has been served for so-called crimes.” He laughed, loud and humourless. “You’re not so naïve, Draco, that you can’t think that it’s crossed his mind.”

It was as if time had ground to a halt.

Despite knowing so little about his son as an adult, his father always managed to cut straight to the heart of whatever problem was hanging heavy on Draco’s shoulders; he’d always known the right buttons to press, how deeply his words cut.

Because, yes, Draco had thought about it. Early on, when Harry was still Potter and Draco’s head was spinning trying to work out how the two of them could have possibly ended up where they were. He’d dismissed those thoughts, obviously, but they were still there, lying dormant – the aching, bone-deep thought that there was no way that Harry could truly love him. That Draco couldn’t ever be worthy of him.

It must have shown clear on his face that his father’s words had hit their mark. Lucius smiled wryly, having a sigh. “Come now, Draco. We’ll reconvene after breakfast tomorrow. That should give you enough time to decide if you’re ready to be serious about your future.”

The mocking amusement vanished from Lucius’ eyes as Draco yanked at his own hand, pulling off his family signet ring. He hurled it at the fireplace; it pinged off a vase that sat atop the mantle, leaving a tiny chip in the blue and white porcelain.

Turning on his heel, Draco stormed out the front door without thinking twice, yanking his wand from his pocket and Apparating as his foot touched the stoop. It was raining outside, he quickly realised. A bead of water ran down his cheek just as he completed his turn. It was joined by another, then another, before his whole face was wet, hair sticking to his forehead.

He was stood on a new front walk now, one that was concrete instead of marble, grey instead of white. He waited there a moment, catching his breath. He felt as though he’d just completed the most taxing game of Quidditch in his life, instead of just walking out of his front door. Adrenaline coursed through him, solidifying in his veins as his heartrate slowed, his limbs growing tired and sluggish.

His shoes were loud on the pavement as he approached the house. The rickety old gate creaked as he pushed it aside; it opened readily for him, as it always did. Harry hadn’t ever replaced it, despite the absolute racket it made. He would just grin and call it an heirloom, tell Draco that he needed to respect the classics. Secretly, Draco suspected that Harry liked the gate because it let him know when someone was coming, before they got to the front door. Years on from the war, Harry still got jumpy when he was surprised.

Light illuminated the pavement as Harry threw open his front door, the old hinges protesting the sharp movement. He looked at Draco for a moment, not saying anything. He’d changed out of his formal robes and into a set of pyjamas, though it wasn’t yet dark out. His eyes were a little red around the edges, but, then again, Draco suspected that his probably were too.

Without saying a word, Harry stepped down onto the stoop, bare feet against the wet ground. He wrapped his arms around Draco and buried his face in Draco’s neck. His breaths hitched when Draco pulled him in closer, resting his chin atop Harry’s head. It was a nice feeling, almost like Draco was the one doing the comforting, rather than the other way around.

“Your hair,” Harry muttered, pushing the damp strands back from Draco’s forehead. “You’ll hate yourself for how it’ll look tomorrow. Bloody hell, you’re going to get sick. I’m drying it when we get inside, I don’t care what you say. I’ll use a charm or, Merlin forbid, a hand towel, and I don’t want a single bit of moaning about it.” He ran his thumb across Draco’s cheek, swiping at the wetness there. “Ok, maybe just a small whinge. You wouldn’t be you, otherwise.”

He dragged Draco inside and straight up the stairs to his bedroom. It was the converted master suite; all silver wallpaper and hardwood furniture and the loveliest window seat Draco had ever laid eyes on.

Talking to himself under his breath, Harry unfastened Draco’s robes, letting them fall to the floor with a wet thud. His undershirt was damp too, as were his trousers; they joined the robes on the floor. Harry handed Draco an old jumper with an ‘H’ on it – the kind that smelled of early mornings on the couch, cup of coffee and a slice of buttered toast in hand. Unable to help himself, Draco held the jumper up to his face and breathed in the comforting scent.

“Bloody hell, where’s … I’ve put them all in the wash. Of bloody course.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest, staring at Draco’s bare thighs with a concerned look on his face. He seemed to reach a decision quickly, yanking off his tartan pyjama bottoms and throwing them at Draco.

The sight of Harry’s knobbly knees, abruptly unveiled, was the final crack in the dam of Draco’s supressed emotions. He began to laugh, body shaking with a mix of humour and adrenaline and then, finally, grief.

Harry’s arms came around him, tight and all-encompassing. He pressed their foreheads together and there they stayed, for longer than Draco would have thought possible.

*

It wasn’t until the next morning, when Draco was lounging on the couch with the Wireless turned up, that Harry asked him about it. He was shuffling around the ground floor of the house – quite literally pottering – in his fluffy orange dressing gown with a cartoon duck on the breast, a half-drunk mug of coffee in his hand. His knees were still out, Draco noted. He’d not put any form of covering on his legs after stripping them bare the night before, in favour of covering Draco’s. His knees looked even knobblier in the morning light. Somewhat ferally, Draco wanted to bite them.

“Budge over,” Harry said, nudging at Draco’s shoulder with his mug. He all but collapsed into the space left available, leaning into Draco’s side with a soft smile. After a moment, he whispered, “I’m guessing it didn’t go so great? The talk with your parents?”

The radio host on the Wireless laughed; the sound was grating.

“Observant, you are,” Draco muttered. He plucked Harry’s mug from his fingers and took a sip, screwing up his face at the taste. “Fucking hell, put some milk in that – it’s toxic.”

He could feel Harry’s mouth curving against his shoulder. “It’s a defence mechanism so you’ll leave it alone.” Then, “We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

If left up to him, Draco would have much rather stuck his head in a cauldron and not thought about it at all, pretend the whole thing never happened. That his evening had consisted of listening to his father make poor jokes about the pâté while his mother giggled girlishly. That he’d simply left the house of his own accord, not questioned or been put under suspicion. That he’d stayed over at Harry’s as he’d done many nights before, curling up after a bout of athletic sex.

As it were, life didn’t revolve around the whims of one Draco Malfoy, much as he might like it to.

He knew he should talk to Harry about it. He’d trust the idiot with his life, so why not this?

Embarrassment slipped through the bones of his ribcage to pool in his stomach, hot and acidic. It was unthinkable, airing out his family’s dirty laundry, even to his boyfriend. That were to be kept at home, locked behind the ancestral wards. It had been ingrained in him since birth to uphold the family name, not mar it whenever he got slightly pissed off at his father.

And, selfishly, he wanted Harry to like his parents. Logically, he knew that wasn’t the case; Harry all but certainly would have been happy to see Lucius exiled to the continent – and that was before the luncheon. With good reason. Draco did not, however, want to add to those negative feelings. Telling Harry about his mother’s hysterics and his father’s threats would turn any scrap of goodwill Harry still had left towards Draco’s parents to ash. Surely there was still something that could be salvaged for the future, even now. Whether his parents would want that was another matter entirely, but … Draco might have thrown his signet ring rather dramatically, but that didn’t mean that he was done, not entirely.

Things felt different in the morning light, less heated, more … of the same. Draco could feel himself reverting back to his standard way of doing things, returning to normal. It made his stomach churn rather oddly, the thought that he might undo everything he’d said the night before, everything he’d fought for, because it took too much energy to act otherwise.

He was confused. That much was clear to himself.

“Which side of your family do you think you got your shite taste in coffee from?” Blinking, Draco turned his head to face the window. It was grey outside, though it didn’t seem as though it would rain.

“My dad,” Harry said, without missing a beat. “Sirius said he used to drink swill. Although Sirius was a bit of a coffee snob, so who knows where the bar for that was set.” His hand moved across Draco’s chest, dragging up his throat to cup his jaw. “I’m not pushing you, I promise. But I … I just want to remind you that my offer still stands. Stay here. Move in with me properly.”

Perhaps it was going to rain – the windows had started to mist up a bit, like a watercolour. Although, so had the curtains, and the carpet. Everything was a tad blurry, really.

“I’ll cause trouble,” Draco said, quietly. His voice was oddly thick, and rather throaty. “My parents might come banging on the door when I don’t come home. Embarrassing, really. Would definitely make the papers.”

“I’m not embarrassed by you, Draco. I never could be.” Harry’s tone was deadly serious, leaving no room for questions. His hand tightened on Draco’s jaw at the same time that he pressed his face against Draco’s shoulder. His lips were soft, slightly warm from his coffee. “I want you. I’m choosing you, and I know exactly what baggage comes with that. I want it anyway.”

It might as well have been storming inside the house then, for all Draco could see. Not that he’d have been able to tell – he spent the rest of the morning with his head buried in Harry’s dressing gown, anyway.

*

One of the first orders of business was to redirect his owl post.

The Manor had charms built into the wards which filtered out all mail that hadn’t been sent by someone on the ‘approved’ list. It wasn’t all that exclusive, given that every member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight was on there, but his parents liked to brag about the efficiencies of it all the same.

Without the protection of the ancestral wards, Draco was liable to get his mail dumped on his head at any moment like some common peasant – after the owls had been left circling Islington trying to find him through Grimmauld’s Fidelius.

It was a simple enough process, though embarrassing all the same. The witch at the post office who served him had purple lipstick smeared on her teeth and talked slowly enough that Draco found himself loosing focus when she reached the halfway point of each sentence. Despite the annoyance, it was done – all of his post, bar things from Harry, Pansy, Blaise, or Greg, would be automatically sent to his box at the post office.

Which was why it was so unexpected to see a letter lying on the kitchen table of Grimmauld Place with his name on it. The handwriting didn’t match Pansy’s practiced script, nor did it match Blaise’s loops or Greg’s scrawl. Even more curiously, it had Twelve Grimmauld Place in the top right corner, bypassing the need for any postal sorting charms. It could only mean that the sender was on Harry’s ‘approved’ list – far shorter than that of Draco’s parents.

“Uh,” Harry said, picking up the letter and flipping it over, brows furrowing. “Why is Molly Weasley writing to you?”

“Merlin only knows. Threatening to hex me, perhaps? Wanting to shout about my actions during the war? Curse my bloodline? Could be anything, really.” He was mostly joking. Maybe.

Harry held the letter out to Draco, lifting an eyebrow when he didn’t immediately take it. “She wouldn’t put a curse in there – she sent it to my place.”

“And why–”

“She knows you’re here because I told her. I told all the Weasleys at lunch last Sunday.”

“I wasn’t here last Sunday.”

“No, but … I told them that I wanted you to move in. And she probably heard from someone about the whole thing with your parents so … it’s not that much of a wild guess for her to make.”

“Oh,” Draco said, voice suddenly small. “So, she’s probably not about to demand my head on a spike?”

“Doubt it.”

Draco sighed. “I suppose we might as well rip off both of the ‘disapproving family’ plasters in one go then?”

Despite his forced casualness, Draco did not want to open that letter. What if Molly demanded that Draco keep his distance from Harry? What if she went on about how much she disapproved and how awful Draco was as a person? What if Harry realised that he agreed with her? Where would that leave Draco?

“Hey,” Harry said, his voice low. “Do you want me to read it?”

“Yes,” Draco replied. He sat stiffly as Harry smoothed out the parchment on the tabletop, fingers gripping his teacup painfully tight.

Harry’s gaze flicked up to meet his. “I don’t need to put on a funny voice or anything, do I?”

“No.”

“She says: “Dear Draco. My name is Molly Weasley, mother of Harry’s good friend Ron–”

“You probably don’t need to read it word-for-word. Just the basics will do.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he also reached over to grab Draco’s hand. He read silently, expression softening as he did so. He had a look on his face; it was one that Draco sometimes had directed at him, in the mornings when his hair was all messy, or when he smacked Harry’s arse as they got in the shower, or the one time he nearly put salt in his tea instead of sugar.

“She wants you to come round for lunch next Sunday at the Burrow. And she, um, says some other things about me that are slightly embarrassing. All the usual ‘happiness’ and ‘destiny’ shite that you hear from mums.”

Draco’s voice sounded faraway even to himself. “Quite.”

“Well not, uh, all mums, obviously. But some. She’d be the type to bring out baby photos of me to show you, if she had any. She probably has some of Ron, if that would make things easier? He could deal with being embarrassed for an afternoon, though he might threaten to Obliviate you. Not that you have to go, obviously, but it, uh, might be nice. If you wanted to.”

This time it was Draco squeezing Harry’s hand. “Stop babbling.”

“Right. Sorry.” Harry let out a chuckle. He pushed the letter towards Draco. “She said that she hopes to hear from you, but that you can just pass your answer on to me, if you want. And she asked if you’re allergic to anything.”

“Purebloods don’t have allergies,” Draco replied. It was completely untrue – Penelope Clearwater swelled up like a balloon whenever she got near a horse and Greg went all spotty if he ate bananas. But Draco’s father had parroted the saying when Draco was small, and it had stuck.

“So,” Harry asked, brushing his thumb over Draco’s knuckles. “Do you want to go?”

No, Draco wanted to say. No, I do not.

But Harry looked hopeful, was the thing. He had that soft look on his face again, though apprehension had started to seep into the corners of his eyes, tightening them. He wanted Draco to say yes, that much was clear.

Draco sighed. “It’ll go awfully, you realise?”

“It won’t.” Harry smiled then, bright as the sun. “She wouldn’t have asked if she just wanted to have a go at you. I’ll owl her back and let her know that we’ll be there.” He leaned over and kissed Draco, once on the top of his head, and again on the corner of his mouth. “It’ll be good, I promise. I’ll make sure of it.”

*

Despite his masterful attempts at feigning aloofness in the days leading up to the ill-conceived visit to the Weasley lair, not even Merlin himself could have hidden Draco’s obvious nerves on Sunday morning.

He hands shook as he got ready, stomach tied up in knots. Steam crept into the room through the open bathroom door, giving the space a rather ominous vibe that matched Draco’s feelings about the day.

Whistling to himself, Harry wandered into the bedroom, flicking his wet hair out of his eyes. He stopped to drop a kiss to Draco’s shoulder, hands winding around Draco’s front until they were crushed together in something that vaguely resembled a hug, but also could have been mistaken for a surprise attack by a Devil’s Snare.

“You’re worrying again,” Harry said. His words were muffled by Draco’s hair as he pressed his face into it.

“You’ll give Granger a run for her money with those smarts,” Draco muttered. He couldn’t help but smile when Harry huffed a laugh against his skin. “I don’t know what to wear. My usual attire seems … lacking, in this circumstance.”

“What, because you’ll look too posh?”

“No need to say it like it’s an insult.”

Harry smiled as he stepped back. “Against you, or them?”

Draco didn’t bother to reply. Worrying at his nail bed, he stared at the pile of clothes that he’d spread out on the dresser. Nothing seemed right; it was all too showy or too expensive or the type of thing that nobody but Harry or Pansy should ever see him in. He certainly couldn’t turn up at Molly Weasley’s door in joggers now, could he?

A wad of denim hit him square in the chest.

“Wear those,” Harry said. “A plain white shirt will go, I reckon. Or one of those toffy polos you cart about in sometimes.”

Shaking out the jeans, Draco lifted an eyebrow. “I thought that was what we were trying to avoid? And these are your jeans.”

“Yeah, because you refuse to buy yourself some.” Harry dragged his eyes up and down Draco’s front, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “They’ll fit. We’re nearly the same size. Although your cock might–”

“Shut up.”

It wasn’t until Draco was standing in the lounge, waiting for Harry to finish sorting himself out, that his hands began to shake again.

“It’ll only be for an hour or two,” he whispered to himself. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”

It didn’t feel fine. Merlin, if his parents could see him now – clad in jeans and a Muggle polo, nervous about impressing the Weasleys. They’d disown him on the spot – if they hadn’t already, that was. Draco had been too nervous to pop down to Gringotts to check.

“Here.” Harry shoved something at Draco as he bent down to tie his shoelace. For whatever reason, he was still highly resistant to using charms to do menial tasks such as that.

He also, Draco noted, wasn’t wearing one of his Weasley jumpers. It was odd, because he always did, when he went over for Sunday lunches, or caught up with a group of them for a pint. They were his most used item of clothing. He was particularly partial to the red one; it was so worn that there was a hole in the sleeve, and it gaped at the neck just enough for Draco to mouth at Harry’s collarbone when he wore it. But he wasn’t wearing it today.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Are you putting it on, or did you want to leave it here?”

Shrugging, Draco shoved his arms into the jacket and adjusted it on his shoulders. He was immediately hit with the smell of sugar and tobacco and a hint of mallowsweet. The leather was like a sponge, soaking up the scents of the past and depositing them onto Draco’s skin.

It was Sirius Black’s jacket, that much Draco knew. Harry barely let the thing out of his sight, often throwing it on over one of his Weasley jumpers, giving him an odd bad-boy-English-professor look that – Draco was embarrassed to admit – made him salivate.

No doubt the jacket made him look far sillier than it did Harry, but perhaps that could work in his favour. If he looked daft enough, perhaps the Weasleys would collectively forget his less than savoury history with every member of the family? It was worth a shot, anyway.

As it turned out, he didn’t need the help.

Nobody was there to greet them when they Apparated to the front stoop. Instead, Harry just walked on in, grinning as Draco muttered about politeness and courtesy.

“I can’t just waltz into someone’s house the first time I visit,” Draco hissed, tugging at the hem of Harry’s shirt.

Stopping in the hallway, Harry grabbed both of Draco’s hands and squeezed gently. “Everything’s fine. Just relax and stop worrying. I promise.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth, before stepping back and dropping one of his hands. “Come on, they’ll already know we’re here; I’m on the clock in the living room.”

The odd comment was abruptly forgotten at the sound of Molly Weasley shouting Harry’s name. Draco felt goosebumps rise on his arms in response to the noise. His heartbeat quickened, palms growing clammy from nerves.

When she emerged from the kitchen, Harry James, falling from a pointed tongue, it wasn’t as Draco expected. Rather, Molly wiped berry-stained hands on her apron and threw her arms around Draco’s shoulders. She had a wide smile on her face, even as she chastised Harry for not bringing Draco round sooner.

“Don’t judge us on the quality of the table setting, dear, I’ve put Ron and George to work on that, so it’s liable to be absolute rubbish. How have you been getting on? Harry, love, you’d better start looking for a new place soon, that Grimmauld is far too dreary for Draco.”

“Leave him alone, Mum,” someone shouted from the next room.

“Such a handsome thing, you are,” Molly said, giving Draco a pat on the shoulder. An exasperated look crossed her face when the distinct nasally tone of Ron Weasley shouted, “You’d better not be talking about Malfoy, Mum, I swear.” Oddly enough, he sounded more amused than mocking.

Harry took Draco’s hand and led him into the dining room to introduce him to an absolute herd of red-headed people, many of whom Draco recognised either from his days at school, or the papers just after the war ended.

Ron shook Draco’s hand firmly and muttered that he never liked his in-laws when he first met them, so Draco was no exception. He then stated that they would ‘have a beer later and hash it out’, which shouldn’t have been quite as frightening as it felt. George asked Draco’s opinion on a new Wheezes product they had in development, Percy nattered on about Ministry policy, and Ginny socked him on the arm and said it was payback for blaming his Valentine’s poem on her when he was in second year. Molly gave her a rather lacklustre scolding about it before pressing her for an explanation, which Ginny couldn’t get through without breaking into peals of laughter.

“You’ve a way with words, Draco,” George said, pretending to swoon. “Do me next. My eyes are as brown as a …”

“Bag of shit?” Ginny offered, which copped her a bread roll to the face.

All the while, Harry sat next to Draco, rubbing his thumb over Draco’s knuckles. He’d not dropped it since they’d walked in the front door – the idiot was eating with his left hand, for Merlin’s sake. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Ron, who kept looking between them with a frighteningly thoughtful expression.

It was nice, was the thing. Being surrounded by a group of people who seemed to want to get to know Draco, who asked him questions about his life and cheered when he offered up a snappy retort to one of George’s jokes, who smiled at him all teary eyed when they looked at his and Harry’s joined hands (in Molly’s case). It was nice, but it wasn’t his. It wasn’t home. It might have been for Harry, but Draco hadn’t grown up wanting handknitted blankets and hot chocolate by an open fire. That wasn’t him. And he found, amidst the wholesome chaos, that he missed his mother even more than he had before.

Later, Ron did pull him aside for a beer – unexpectedly and a tad violently, yanking him through the back door without so much as a warning.

“Sorry about that,” Ron said cheerily, as he set the beers down on a stone ledge. He jumped up onto it, letting his heels bounce off the wall. Draco followed suit, thankful that he was wearing Harry’s clothes rather than his own. He couldn’t help but grimace at the taste of the beer; he’d never liked pale ales, much preferring a stout or a Guiness, if pushed.

The air outside was warm, thick in the way it got when there was a summer storm on the way. Down the garden, there was a repeated chirp of a bug, followed by the grunt and huff of what could only be a garden gnome, roused from slumber.

“You’re not entirely forgiven, you know.” The bottle clinked when Ron set it back down. “But I’m not going to be an arse about it either.”

The knot in Draco’s chest loosened somewhat; he’d much rather be told that to his face than be left guessing, anticipating a retaliatory blow. That, and it was nice to be reminded that he hadn’t woken up in some alternate dimension where his terrible choices as a teenager had never happened.

“And, you know, we all love Harry. We’ll try for him.” Shaking his head, Ron let out a groan. “He’s so fucking gone on you, mate. It’s mental.”

Draco hummed. “Maybe.” He leaned back on his hands, letting the blades of grass prick at his palms.

“No, honestly, it’s painful to watch.” Ron shot Draco an amused look. “He’s not even wearing one of the jumpers Mum made for him.”

“It’s probably in the wash.”

Ron snorted. “It’s not. I don’t need to ask him to know that it’s not. He came round the other day to tell me to be on my best behaviour – Mum’d have my hide if I wasn’t, and I did say I wasn’t going to be an arse about it – and he was going on and on to Mum about you feeling like the odd one out since you didn’t have one. I didn’t hear him say it – Ginny was the one eavesdropping – but Mum apparently wanted to get her needles out right there and knit you one overnight. He said some naff shit about it being you and him on the same side, not you versus everyone else. I don’t get it, but it made Hermione and Mum go all weepy, so I guess it’s a girl thing. Saps, the lot of them.” His eyes widened dramatically, though Draco couldn’t see him too well through the sudden mistiness of his own.

Him and Harry – a team. It was the nicest thought that Draco had had all week. It was true, obviously – recent events proved that – but it was different hearing it from someone else. That Ron could say with certainty that Harry was gone on him … that he’d left his Weasley jumper at home so that Draco wouldn’t stick out any more than was necessary, so he wouldn’t think that Harry wasn’t standing with him in every possible way, no matter the outcome.

“Harry,” Ron shouted, stifling a laugh. “I didn’t mean to make your boyfriend cry.”

“Ron, you git,” Harry snapped, and then his arms were around Draco. He nearly planted himself in Draco’s lap, getting as close as he possibly could without doing so. “Fuck, you promised–”

“He’s not done anything wrong.” Draco swallowed, pressing down the sudden flood of emotion that welled up from within. “It’s you, actually. You being so stupidly thoughtful and kind and I don’t deserve any of it.”

Harry pressed his forehead against Draco’s temple, resting their joined hands on Draco’s thigh. “We both know that you do. If I start listing the reasons why, Ron might throw up on the flowers.”

“You know,” Ron said, gently punching Draco on the arm, “you’re not quite the wanker you were at school. Still pointy, though.”

“And you’re still ginger,” Draco muttered. “We all have our flaws.”

“And Malfoy’s back – just when I was beginning to think you’d been replaced by an imposter.” After a moment, Ron snorted. “Your poem in second year was pretty shit, you know. I get why you blamed it on Ginny.”

“Oi,” Ginny shouted from the doorway. “I was coming to bring you all a Cauldron Cake, but you can go bugger off, in that case.”

“Harry did tell us some other stuff,” Ron said, flipping his sister two fingers. “Is it true that you got caught reading an old Muggle sex book?”

Draco shuddered at the memory. “Yes.”

“And your parents knew what it was?”

“Seemed that way.”

“Fuck.” Crossing his arms, Ron looked up at the sky thoughtfully. “What position would they go for, do you reckon?”

“I will eviscerate you.”

Harry made a sound of anguish. “Just for bringing that up, you can go get me a new beer.” He tossed the empty bottle in Ron’s direction, who caught it easily.

Standing up, Ron waggled his finger at them. “No sex on the grass, we can all see you through the windows.”

“Goodbye,” Harry groaned. Further down the garden, one of the gnomes mimicked the noise. “Fuck, sorry about him.”

“It’s alright.” Draco carded his fingers through Harry’s hair. He tipped his head back to look at the sky. He’d always loved stargazing as a child, would spend hours curled up on the window seat in his room with star charts spread out around him. It connected him to his family, his namesake. “When I was very young, I used to have nightmares about getting lost. Not wandering down the garden path and ending up in the village, but being transported to some far off island where nobody knew who I was. I’d wake up in the night in hysterics, thinking I’d never make it home. Mother would pick me up and carry me over to the window, even when I was far too big for it to be proper, and she’d point out the stars. She always said that wherever I was in the world, I could look up and be comforted while I was waiting for her to find me.”

“You miss them, don’t you?” Harry’s voice was quiet, gentle, not accusatory.

Swallowing, Draco nodded.

“Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“Not as such.” Shifting, Draco pulled Harry closer to him. “They’ll come around, eventually. I’m not going to compromise who am I, and I think they’ll respect that, in time. But some things are nonnegotiable. You are nonnegotiable.”

Tucking his free hand into the pocket of Sirius Black’s leather jacket, Harry under his arm, Draco let himself think that it might actually be alright. Tomorrow, he’ll send a letter to his parents. He’ll tell them again how much Harry meant to him and how he makes Draco a better person. He’ll see what they have to say, but he’ll stand his ground if they push back. He won’t let himself feel doubt, because there isn’t any doubt to feel – not about this. Not about Harry. And if his parents can’t get past that, he’ll carve out something new for himself, with Harry by his side.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry whispered. He traced along the ridges of Draco’s knuckles, dragging his thumb up each of Draco’s fingers, one by one. He seemed to linger over his ring finger, pressing the pad of his thumb firmly against Draco’s skin.

“You,” Draco replied, and it was true. “I’ve been thinking about you nonstop since I first heard your name.”

“Sap,” Harry teased, though he didn’t sound as though he minded.

“Are you done snogging?” Ron shouted from the doorway. “I’ve got beer and Cauldron Cakes, and I'll go arse over tit if I have to shut my eyes.”

“Wanker,” Harry muttered. He pressed a kiss to Draco’s lips, soft and slow. He smiled into it, lingering there.

“Harry,” Ron shouted.

“Bloody hell, alright,” Harry laughed, turning to wave at Ron.

And Draco found himself laughing right alongside them, taking a sip of Harry’s beer while he sat under the stars in the Weasleys’ back garden, Harry tucked under his arm.

Tomorrow, he’d talk to his parents.

Tonight, forever, he had Harry.