Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Dark Lord is holding court in the drawing room and there are Death Eaters in the hall… loud and vulgar and, frankly, terrifying, but if Draco slips out of the drawing room through his mother’s parlor, and then up the back staircases, there are only three dark passageways between him and the safety of his bedroom.

He is at the end of the second passage, the noises in the downstairs hall becoming distinct again… only a few doors, really, from his bedroom... when he feels rough hands grab him.

He is strong, but the hands are stronger. With horrifying suddenness, he finds himself face down, the hard stone of the floor digging into is cheekbone.

Robes, trousers, and pants are all swept away. He feels it then… something hard pressing against him. Fury turns to terror and revulsion gives way to a searing pain.

He can separate the sensations… his cheek against the rough floor, scraping minutely back and forth, burning… something warm and wet trickling down his leg that a more detached part of his brain identifies as blood… and the rhythm, terrible and insistent, each thrust sending red and yellow starbursts to smash into the backs of his closed eyelids.

He isn’t sure if it was a well-placed Silencio or simple self-preservation that keeps him quiet. It’s better not to know, he thinks.

He gives in to the sensations, moving with them, letting them carry him, like one does when swimming in a heavy sea: don’t fight, breathe only when your head is above water.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. Realistically, it can only be minutes… but it is the beginning and the end of his existence.

There is a final thrust, a groan that is not his, and a moment of absolute stillness. The hands release him as suddenly as the grabbed him.

And Draco is left, empty and alone, in the passageway that leads to his bedroom.

He puts extra effort into his appearance the next morning. He glamours his bruised and scraped cheek. He spells his eyes clear and hides the deep shadows… removing all evidence of a night spent curled in his bed, hurting and unable to sleep, with tears leaking from his eyes.

He’s had his moment of weakness; it must be over now.

His dark shirt and trousers… his robes… they will hide the telltale bruises that have blossomed on his arm… on his hip.

He takes pains to walk and sit as normal.

Draco doesn’t know his attacker, and it is possible—unlikely, but possible—that his attacker doesn’t know his victim.

There was no light. And Draco hadn’t made a sound.

It may be that he really is the only one who knows that he was raped in the dark halls of his own home… and if this information is something that Draco still keeps for himself, he is not going to give it away.

“Good morning, darling,” his mother says, as he enters the dining room. He leans in to kiss her cheek. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you, mother.”

She smiles up at him. If she knows he is lying, she gives no indication. Narcissa Malfoy sits at the head of the table, looking every inch the gracious hostess… not like her husband is in Azkaban… not like her home is overrun with Death Eaters… not like she is terrified.

Knowing perfectly well that he is more than likely about to sit down to breakfast with his attacker … probably a man he has known since childhood… Draco takes his seat. He forces himself to eat his eggs, to spread marmalade on his toast, to drink his tea. Just like any other morning.

No one is watching him closely… no one is acting oddly at all. But, then, he isn’t either.

Had they been waiting for him to leave the drawing room alone and slightly sickened by the antics of the Dark Lord? Had the attack been motivated by lust… or retaliation? Draco can’t recall anyone he has, personally, slighted but there are a great many people angry with Lucius Malfoy at the moment.

Or had he simply been a body in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Had they really thought they could get away with it?

Draco bites into his toast and bits of orange-flavored bitterness spark against his tongue. Well, they have, haven’t they?

The Dark Lord does not leave his rooms until late morning and breakfast table conversations are refreshingly light: his mother and Antonin Dolohov are at the far end of the table discussing roses, and Antonie Pucey, his uncle Rodolphus, and a few others are discussing the favorites for the Quidditch World Cup.

“It’ll be Egypt and Portugal this year,” Draco says, joining the conversation on Antonie’s side. “Portugal’s too good. There is no way Romania can beat them.”

Rodolphus is still arguing for Romania when another voice joins in, suggesting that the Jamaican team, which isn’t completely out of the running yet, might take a place in the World Cup.

Antonie scoffs. Draco starts to comment—when has Jamaica ever won at an international sports event?—but the mention of Jamaica brings to mind Blaise; his mother was born there.

Blaise… Draco takes a moment to wonder if his attacker was, somehow, encouraged by the idea that he had spent the last half of fifth year snogging Blaise in secluded corners all over the castle. Their relationship wasn’t exactly common knowledge… but it wasn’t a secret either.

Antonie could have gotten it from his brother. He could have told someone… Draco forces himself not to look around the table… not to study the men sitting there. It could have been Antonie. Draco does risk a glance at him, thinking of hands, hard and cruel, thinking of pain. He shifts in his seat… and wishes he hadn’t.

Antonie’s younger than the others, maybe even more his friend than his father’s; he was a Seventh Year, Head Boy, top marks, excellent family connections, the undisputed king of Slytherin house the year Draco first came to Hogwarts. He had already achieved every goal Draco had set for himself.

Draco wants to trust him… and knows that would be foolish.

He swallows and takes Antonie’s side again. “It’s true that Jamaica has an excellent keeper,” he says, “but that’s not going to be enough to beat Egypt.”

If Jamaica somehow manages it, though... Blaise will be thrilled; he has a special place in his heart for the country his mother still calls home.

He tries to let the memory of Blaise be a comfort. He fails.

Blaise always wanted to be completely open about their relationship… to walk through the halls, hands clasped, light and dark. Draco thinks of Blaise’s hands … he thinks of his lips, soft and gentle against his own. The thought of touching… kissing… of the more that was always there, a treasure trove of imagined delights being saved for when they were just a little older… just a little more ready… It turns his stomach now—as surely as it would turn Blaise’s.

If he learns the truth.

Which he won’t. Draco will make sure of it.

Antonie drops his napkin on the table and rises. His plate disappears in the magic of the house elves. “See you later, Draco,” he says, striding from the dining room.

Draco takes a sip of tea, forcing it down past eggs and toast that are suggesting they might make a reappearance.

He refuses to consider the real question: Will they—or someone else—try again? Will they succeed?

Draco will not be afraid to walk down the halls of his own home. He is not afraid!

It’s a lie. But Draco is actually rather good at lying… especially to himself.

The Dark Mark is a relief. It turns a frightened child into a member of the most powerful… most feared group in the Wizarding world.

He holds out his arm for the Dark Lord. He watches, expressionless, as lines of black twist and burn through his flesh, forming themselves into the skull and snake. He doesn’t utter a sound.

Other things have hurt worse.

Now Draco lives and breathes lies.

He lies about his ability to kill Dumbledore.

He lies to Blaise when he flings out, in sharp, cutting words, that their relationship meant nothing to him… that he was merely passing time before moving on to other things. Don’t touch me. I’m a Death Eater. I don’t have time for schoolboy crushes.

The last bit is unfortunately true. What is also true is that when Blaise… kind, gentle Blaise… reached out to touch him, he flinched away, his breath coming short. Draco can’t let Blaise—or anyone—touch him now.

He lies to his mother about his eating and sleeping habits—they don’t exist, but he assures her that he sleeps soundly and that he’s eating well.

He lies to Severus… I’m fine. I don’t need your help.

He lies about his ability to bring the Death Eaters into the school… until that awful moment when he isn’t lying anymore, and he turns a werewolf loose among his classmates. When he lets Death Eaters into his school to torture and maim. That ends with Dumbledore dead and Draco running for his life.

He lies about preforming the Cruciatus curse on First Years… as if he could really point his wand and torture a child.

He lies for Ginny Weasley once, saving her from something far worse than a Cruciatus.

He lies for Harry Potter. Draco can think of no possible way in which he would ever not know Harry Potter. Nor can he think of any circumstance where he would turn him over to the Dark Lord to be murdered… slowly and painfully… to be gone, forever, from his life.

The fact that he needs Harry Potter in his life bothers him… so he ignores it.

Draco Malfoy hates Harry Potter. This is his favorite lie. One he repeats, if only to himself, over and over as he sits in his cell… in Azkaban… waiting for his trial. Waiting to be told that he will spend the rest of his life behind bars.

He can’t imagine any other option.

He isn’t being poorly treated. He could be… there isn’t anyone who would care. But he is in one of the holding cells on the ground floor, not in the bowels of the prison, surrounded by the damp and dark, nor yet in the towers with dementors endlessly moving past him in their slow, menacing circles.

He is fed, he is clothed, and the light that comes into his cell is natural and tinted with salt and seaweed. His guards are human and they are not unkind.

Nevertheless, his second favorite lie is that he’s not terrified.

Harry Potter does not tell lies.

It says so… in silvery scars of messy handwriting etched onto the back of his fucking hand. Draco can see it clearly—the hand has wrapped itself around the bars of his cell.

“I’m not going to let them keep you locked up in here,” he says, green eyes blazing in that way they have… when he is chasing a snitch. Or evading a dragon.

Or in those last moments of life and death and life when the Dark Lord crumpled and Harry Potter remained standing.

They are standing only a few feet apart… separated by cold iron bars and seven years of animosity… hexes… cruel words… by hands not shaken….

Of course, Harry Potter had taken his hand the one time it had really mattered, hadn’t he? He had flown out of the fire and death like an avenging angel, his eyes blazing through the sea of smoke and flame, his hand stretched out… for Draco.

“They’re treating you well?” he asks.

All Draco can do is nod.

“I’ve seen your mother,” he says. “She saved my life in the forest… did you know that? Anyway, I gave evidence and she was pardoned. Completely. She didn’t want to go back to the Manor, though, so she’s in a little cottage out in Cornwall. Right by the sea. She sends her love.”

“I… thank you.”

Draco is most definitely not going to cry.

That’s also a lie as it turns out, and a moment later, Harry Potter is reaching through the bars of his cell to wipe a tear from his cheek.

“Hey… Draco…” He says his name like an experiment… one that turns out rather well, apparently. “Draco, it’s going to be all right.” His words are soft… warm. “It’s not for much longer. That’s why I came; your trial’s scheduled for tomorrow.”

Trial. Draco shudders. Tomorrow.

“It’s going to be okay.” He is cupping Draco’s cheek, ever so gently… his fingers tracing his jaw. And Draco finds that he doesn’t mind the touch. He leans into it. “I promise.”

A chime rings in the distance and Harry Potter looks over his shoulder, his hand falling away. “Here,” he says, and something drops into Draco’s palm. “I have to go… I’m only allowed five minutes. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

For a moment his eyes blaze again, then Harry Potter disappears down the hall, and Draco looks at what he has given him. It is a peach.

It fits comfortably in the palm of his hand, slightly fuzzy, and warm. Incongruously warm; it might be the only warm thing in the whole prison. And it’s like holding his own little bit of sunshine.

Harry Potter does not tell lies.

He stands up before the Wizengamot and a courtroom packed full of observers, most of whom would wish to see Draco locked up forever in Azkaban, and explains how Draco was forced to take the Dark Mark… that he is not an evil wizard. He talks about how he lowered his wand on the Astronomy Tower and how he didn’t betray them at Malfoy Manor. He reminds the court that he used Draco’s wand to defeat Lord Voldemort.

He insists in a loud, clear voice, his eyes blazing, that Draco Malfoy doesn’t deserve Azkaban.

Draco isn’t entirely sure that it’s true—except that it must be, because Harry Potter is saying it.

And he was telling the truth when he promised Draco that everything would be all right. Draco is cleared of most charges and pardoned of the rest. He is to spend the summer with his mother and return to Hogwarts for Eighth Year.

Harry Potter has spoken for him, and for his mother, but Harry Potter does not tell lies… and Lucius Malfoy is left to the mercy of the Wizengamot… where there isn’t any to be had. His father will spend the rest of his days in Azkaban. Draco tells himself that he’s heartbroken—it’s a lie. He also tells himself that he’s relieved—that’s a lie, too.

Draco’s guards release his bindings. And he slowly makes his way over to where Harry Potter is standing.

“I… thank you…,” Draco says. Harry.

He wants to say it… he’s wanted to say it… for as long as he can remember.

Not a lie.

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy have buried their animosity. They can say “good morning” and “may I borrow your quill” and “do you think these frog spleens are chopped finely enough” without resorting to hexes.

Or lies.

Draco can play chess with Weasley, or check an Arithmancy proof with Granger, or even just sit, reading, on one end of the couch while Potter flips through a Quidditch magazine on the other.

Draco is in the back corner of the library looking for, and not finding, a very specific Arithmancy book. When he looks up, Harry Potter is standing beside him.

Technically, Draco is trapped. Shelves rise up on either side of him; his back is to the thick stone of the castle wall. There isn’t even a window.

And he finds that doesn’t mind at all.

“Hey… um… Draco…?” Potter-Harry-Potter is stuttering. But his eyes are doing that blazing thing again.

Draco’s heart is pounding, but the frantic rhythm seems to be the exact opposite of terror. “Yes?” Draco hears himself say.

“I… um… IwaswonderingifyouwouldliketogointoHogsmeadewithme?"

“I… what?”

“Oh.” Harry Potter is bright red. “It’s okay… I mean, I thought you might want to… but it’s not a big deal… if you don’t… want to, I mean. I was just wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“I was wondering if you would like to go into Hogsmeade? With me?”

“Oh. I… yes… I would like that.” The moment lengthens. “Harry,” he whispers.

Draco finds his eyes cannot seem to let go of Harry’s… or Harry’s cannot seem to let go of his.

Draco’s hand is in Harry’s. Or Harry’s hand is in his. Their fingers are laced, palm to palm, and Draco has no idea who reached for whom, or even when it happened. They might have been standing there all afternoon, just staring and holding hands.

“Harry? Was there something else you wanted?” Draco asks. It comes out breathy.

“I… yeah… I just really want to kiss you right now.”

Draco can feel Harry’s heart beating through their joined hands. He can feel the barest whisper of his breath, brushing against his own. It occurs to him… as slowly and as suddenly as the moment when night becomes day: Harry is not going to touch him without his permission.

Draco leans forward… brushing his lips softly against Harry’s. Once… then again. Draco runs his tongue across Harry’s lips, and Harry makes the smallest, most endearing sound, as he opens his mouth, allowing Draco to taste and be tasted.

“I’ve wanted that for a really long time,” Harry says at last, his voice a caress.

“Me too,” Draco says. It is the truth.

Draco lies when he tells Harry he is a virgin.

He doesn’t exactly mean to. But the truth is too hard to face… and far far too hard to explain. The lie lies heavy on his tongue, coating it like rancid oil… a film that cannot be swallowed away.

“Well, so am I,” Harry says, almost laughs. “I mean… when would I have found the time?”

“You have been kind of busy,” Draco says, running his fingers down Harry’s chest. They are both barefoot and bare chested, together on Harry’s bed, but Harry’s ratty jeans and Draco’s tailored trousers have remained firmly in place. They are alone in the room, and probably in the whole dormitory; most people have gone home for the weekend—an Eighth Year privilege.

“I’m not busy now,” Harry says, the laugh still running through his voice.

Draco stills. Freezes. His hand resting on the wall of muscle that is Harry’s stomach.

Harry picks up his hand and kisses the palm.

“Do you want to? Now?” Draco hears his voice, and it is tiny.

Harry kisses his palm again before he answers. “A bit. Maybe more than a bit. But I think you don’t… not right now, anyway. Am I right?”

Draco lets out the breath he has been holding. He’s not sure what he would have done if Harry had said yes. “I… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Not for that. Besides…” Harry works tiny kisses up his wrist... up the inside of his arm. “We’ve got time. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Harry’s tongue touches the inside of his elbow, and Draco shivers, arching his whole body into the touch.

“You know,” Harry says, “I wasn’t even sure I liked blokes until… I guess I don’t know when. But it seems like it should be something I’ve just always known… you know? But I didn’t.”

“I’m not sure it always works like that,” Draco says. “And you really have been busy. Saving the world and all that.”

Harry snorts and continues his kisses, up Draco’s arm, running his tongue along the edge of his bicep, nibbling along his collarbone.

He stops, almost suddenly. “I don’t think I could have even thought it when I was living with my aunt and uncle. They were really always against anything different, you know? Magic, of course. But also gay people, people with messy hair, motorbikes… I’ve always wanted one.”

“Sounds like they didn’t much care for you.”

“They hated me.” Harry doesn’t sound particularly bitter, though Draco certainly thinks he should. He decides to let it go.

“Why would you want a motorbike?” he asks instead. “Those things are death traps.” He rolls over, pinning Harry underneath him. “You’ll get killed.”

“Nope.” Harry’s change of position doesn’t seem to alter his determination to kiss every inch of Draco, and he trails little bites up his neck. “I’m gonna wear my helmet.” He kisses along Draco’s jaw. “And my leather jacket. And boots. And tight leather pants.”

Draco makes a small noise. He is completely unsure if it is due to Harry’s tongue hitting the particularly sensitive spot just under his jaw… or the mental image of Harry in tight leather pants that his imagination threw, almost violently, forth.

“And a good cushioning charm, just in case,” Harry says, sweeping his tongue across Draco’s mouth… demanding… no begging to be invited in.

“Will you ride with me?”

“Oh, gods, yes!”

“Good. ‘Cause I want to feel your arms wrapped tight around me, and this…” Harry raises his hips into Draco’s, “…pressed tight up against me.”

“You’ll crash,” Draco says, sounding hoarse.

“Cushioning charm.”

Draco takes control of the kiss then, stroking Harry’s tongue with his own, wishing with all his heart that the more he knows Harry wants so badly was something he is able to give.

Draco tries. He imagines.

Harry’s hands are clever and gentle. He imagines them touching him… everywhere… in all of the places he hasn’t allowed anyone to touch him.

Since.

Where he hasn’t allowed anyone to touch him. Ever.

He imagines the feel of himself inside Harry, or Harry inside him… tender, adoring, exquisite.

He imagines kneeling before Harry, taking him into his mouth, watching him come undone before him. For him.

When they are together, and Harry’s hands are there, really ready to touch him, he imagines pain.

It’s ridiculous. Harry won’t hurt him… he knows this… and it doesn’t matter.

Harry’s hands are on the waistband of his trousers, the tips of his fingers barely slipped inside. “There’s something I want to try. Will you let me?” he asks.

Harry always asks.

Something stirs in Draco’s stomach… butterflies… or fire-breathing dragons? Or fire-breathing dragons devouring butterflies?

Draco finds that he can’t lie to Harry Potter. But neither can he tell him the truth. He pulls Harry’s hands away. He loses track of one, but the other he brings to his lips, pressing a kiss into his palm… trailing tongue and teeth up his fingers, until he sucks one of Harry’s fingers into his mouth, then another, tongue swirling.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry says. Harry’s other hand is in his hair, caressing him with trembling fingers.

“I… just want to kiss you right now,” Draco whispers.

Not a lie. But, perhaps, not the truth either.

In a surge of barely-controlled wandless magic, Draco bursts through the door to Harry’s room… their room, really; Draco hasn’t set foot in the room he was assigned in weeks.

He slams his books down on the desk. “I… I have had sex,” he all but shouts. A few lights flicker.

Harry is sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall, his Potions notes spread out before him. He looks up and blinks twice.

“Oh,” he says, blinking again.

Draco watches the shock and hurt writing themselves across Harry’s face.

“Is… this a… recent… thing?” he asks at last.

“No!” It’s Draco’s turn to be shocked. “Gods, no. It… it was a long time ago.”

Harry’s expression softens, though he still looks hurt. “Hey… Draco… it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I lied to you! I didn’t mean to, but I did.” He picks up his books, turning towards the door. “That’s not okay.”

“Where are you going?”

His hand is on the doorknob. “I… I don’t know. Back to my own room, I guess.”

“Wait… Draco…” Harry waves his wand, vanishing the papers. “Come here. Come here and sit with me. Please.”

Draco does wait. Harry’s voice sounds… fragile. And it is all Draco’s fault. He turns, setting his books back on the desk. “Harry, you idiot. You still haven’t figured out how to undo that spell.”

“Do you think I care about that? Right now you think I care about… a bunch of papers?”

“You will care when you fail Potions.” Draco is standing next to the bed now. “Give me your wand.”

With a swish of Harry’s wand, Draco conjures the papers and stacks them as neatly as possible on the desk. Beside his own books. They sit there, together, crumpled papers and immaculate textbooks… a perfect sort of balance. Or things that have no business sharing the same space.

He hands back the wand, still feeling like, maybe, he should just go.

It must be visible on his face, or in the fact that he can’t help but lean towards the door.

“Draco, please.” Harry is holding out his hand.

Draco can do nothing but climb into the bed. He allows Harry to take his hand… to interlace their fingers. He doesn’t know how long they sit there, Harry’s thumb making small movements across the back of his own hand. Silent. Except for the rain that is falling in a steady dripping sound off the roof and past their window.

“Harry… I… I didn’t mean to lie to you… I just…” The truth was too hard.

“It’s okay, Draco.” Harry’s thumb is still making its gentle half-circles.

“There’s nothing about it… nothing about any of it… that’s okay!” The words burst from Draco causing them both to jump. The lights flicker again.

“Hey… I only meant that you… Obviously if you’ve been with someone… and you don’t want to tell me… I only meant that you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“What if I do want to tell you?” Draco is looking at their joined hands. “What if I want to tell you… have been wanting to tell you… and it’s just too fucking hard?”

“I will hear anything you want to tell me.” Harry’s fingers tighten on his. “Now… or later. Whenever you want.”

“I do want to tell you…” And then Draco says nothing. Harry’s hand is steady, but Draco can feel his own trembling.

After a few long moments, Harry squeezes gently. “Did he—or she, I suppose—did they…”

“He.” Draco’s voice cracks.

“Did he die, then… in the War?”

The question takes Draco by surprise. Did he?

“Or… erm…?” Harry’s voice drops off. He’s too polite to ask if Draco’s former lover is a Death Eater now serving a life sentence in Azkaban.

Is he?

Not since that first morning has Draco spent any time imagining who he might have been. He is pain and fear… like a monster under the bed… or an illness. He isn’t a person that’s dead or in Azkaban… or even someone who’s still walking free. He doesn’t have a face… or a name. Draco isn’t sure he wants him to.

“I don’t know,” he says. He feels lost. “I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know…? But…? Oh. Do you want to… I don’t know… try to find out? Look it up somewhere? I’m sure that Mr. Weas--”

“Harry!”

Harry stops talking rather abruptly.

Draco pulls his hand free, turning his arm over. The Dark Mark hasn’t faded. Obvious black lines, a symbol of hate, are etched forever into his arm. Draco drags a finger across it.

“It was the summer… right before I got this… So many people were staying at the Manor that summer…”

Draco can’t bring himself to look anywhere but the Mark.

“I didn’t see who… It was dark… the hallway was so dark… I just wanted to be in my room… away from the Dark… Vol-… Him… and I’d gone up the back stairs… I just wanted to be in my room… but they grabbed me… Harry, it hurt... so much... And it was so dark. I couldn’t see… I don’t know if they’re dead… or in Azkaban… I want them to be… but I don’t know. I couldn’t see! I don’t know who they are!

Draco can feel himself shaking. “I got this a week later. No one ever touched me again.”

He forces himself to look up… to look at Harry… afraid of what he’s going to see.

Harry is going to hate him now. For lying. For letting that Death Eater touch him. For being a Death Eater… because Harry will know. That Draco chose it… because the alternative was worse.

Instead, Harry looks like he’s been gutted.

“Draco…,” Harry begins, but the words fall away… For a moment he says nothing, does nothing, and the next thing Harry’s eyes blaze green and Harry’s mouth is descending on his.

The kiss is demanding. Almost violent. Harry is both giving something and taking something away… like waves on a beach; old things are swept away, new things are left behind… leaving the beach different, but still the same.

Draco’s cheeks are wet, but he is not the one crying.

“I… I’m sorry,” Harry says, pulling back a little. “That, maybe, wasn’t the best thing to do.”

Draco thinks it might have been exactly the best thing to do. “Do it again.”

Harry does… and he doesn’t. His mouth descends slowly this time, but with no less intensity, his eyes blazing green. It starts slowly, a brush of the lips, then a taste and a nibble, while Harry’s hand… his fingers… make gentle love to Draco’s own hand, while Harry’s other hand caresses Draco’s cheek, until Draco can no longer tell where his body stops and Harry’s begins.

Harry is offering absolute, wordless proof that every endearment, every touch, has been the truth.

And still is. Even now.

“You didn’t lie to me,” Harry says at last, his lips still against Draco’s. “You’ve never lied to me. I didn’t… I didn’t ask the right question.”

Something inside Draco bursts. Harry pulls him tight and doesn’t say anything.

Chapter Text

Somehow Harry took the attack that made up very worst moments of Draco’s life, looked it briefly in the eye, and then simply pushed it aside, giving it no more attention than it deserved. And then turned around and gave Draco the all space… all the gentle support… to feel everything he needed to feel.

Draco doesn’t know how long Harry held him… carefully encouraging Draco to let wave after wave of emotion wash over them both. Hours, at least, until exhaustion pulled Draco into sleep.

Draco’s eyes ache, and the remnants of tears, gritty on his eyelashes, fight him as he peels his eyes open. He is as stiff and sore as if he’s done three Quidditch practices in a row… in a freezing rain, besides… and he has the aching head and scratchy throat to match. He is also alone in the bed, and it takes him a moment to realize that the blue-ish light coming through the cracks in the drapes is twilight, not dawn.

These bits of information haven’t the time to congeal into a proper thought when he realizes that he isn’t actually alone; Harry Potter is sitting at the desk, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey,” Harry says, standing, “you’re awake.” He pushes a cup of tea into Draco’s hands.

The warmth of the cup makes him realize he is cold.

Draco takes a sip before asking, his voice hoarse and harsh, “What time is it?”

“Dunno… half-five, maybe? Most people are at dinner.”

He’s missed an entire day. His classes… The sharp panic he should be feeling resolves into nothing more than mild concern.

“Don’t worry about today,” Harry says. “I told McGonagall that you were feeling a bit under the weather... she says not to worry. She says to only come back to classes when you’re ready. I did try to take notes for you… but Hermione says she’ll copy her notes for you.”

Draco feels the corners of his mouth turn up.

“And she’ll go over them with you if you like… whenever you feel up to it.”

“I… thank you, Harry.”

Harry leans forward, pressing a kiss onto his lips. “Any time.”

Draco leans into Harry… trying to decide if he feels better or worse than he did the day before… trying to decide if it even matters…

“I asked Kreacher to bring us something to eat. I didn’t… I didn’t think you’d want to go down for dinner.”

“You’re right… I--” He’s cut off by the arrival of the house elf carrying a tray of sandwiches. Sandwiches that are warm and smell delightfully meaty and cheesy.

Harry smiles. “Thanks, Kreacher. These are perfect.”

“They is not perfect. They is not a fitting meal for the heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.” The elf is scowling. “Or Master,” he adds belatedly.

Without waiting to be dismissed, Kreacher sketches out a barely respectful bow and disappears.

“Kreacher doesn’t approve of meatloaf sandwiches,” Harry says. “But he really doesn’t approve of me making them myself… so he’s learned to get over it.”

Draco takes a bite of sandwich. Ground meat and melted cheese combine with the bite of ketchup on toasted bread. If a hug were a sandwich, he thinks, it would taste like this.

“Harry, this is delicious.”

“When I was a kid… sometimes if I couldn’t eat dinner… I’d wait until the Dursleys were asleep and then sneak into the kitchen to make sandwiches. Lots of time it was just cold ham and cheese or something, but if I could… toasty meatloaf sandwiches were my favorite.”

Draco almost misses the ache in Harry’s voice.

“Harry… when you say you couldn’t eat dinner…?”

“It’s not… important...”

Draco thinks it is, but he doesn’t have the strength to argue at the moment.

“It’s just…” Harry pauses, the desire for honesty and the desire for privacy… and maybe even the desire to not upset Draco… are clearly at war with each other.

Not surprisingly, it’s honesty that wins out.

“Sometimes it was just a punishment. But sometimes…” He shrugs. “Usually I had to stay in my room when there were guests. When Dudley had a friend over or something. My aunt wouldn’t always remember to bring something up for me.”

“That’s… terrible.” The word seems utterly inadequate, but Draco can’t come up with a better one.

“It wasn’t great. But I didn’t starve, Draco.”

Harry has fallen asleep, looking ashen and exhausted, but Draco, who has been asleep all day finds he can’t. After lying there, trying to hold still… trying not to not wake Harry, he finally decides to get up. He pulls the covers back over Harry and kisses him gently.

Harry doesn’t stir.

Draco pushes open the door and steps into the common room.

It’s is mostly empty. A few people are gathered around on of the tables, obviously studying. They look up, smiling when they see him, before returning to their work. Ron Weasley is seated, alone, at the chess board.

Eighth Years don’t have a curfew, but habit brings most people back to the common room by nine… it must be earlier than he thought.

Draco takes the seat across from Weasley.

“Fancy a game?” Weasley asks.

“Not really.”

The white queen huffs at him, but he ignores her. He is looking down at the chess board… but not really seeing it.

“How’s Harry?”

“Asleep.”

“I think he had kind of a rough day. He was worried about you…” Weasley is frowning. “I’m going to guess that you weren’t just in bed with a nasty cold, right?”

“I…” Draco doesn’t know what to say. He’s certainty not going to tell Weasley the truth. Not about this.

“Do you remember when Dean locked himself in his room for a week. Or when Parvati used to wake us all up screaming in… what was that Hindi?”

“Tamil, I think.”

“Sometimes I just need to get out of the castle and walk… for hours sometimes. I know it worries Harry and Hermione… but they understand. We’re all a bit broken, I’d say. That’s why McGonagall wanted us all back here so badly. So we could heal a bit.”

“Except that you all have nightmares about Death Eaters… and I was a Death Eater.”

“And You Know Who moved into your house when you were fifteen. It’s probably not best to start comparing horror stories, yeah?”

Draco looks at him for a long moment. “Yeah,” he says at last.

Draco refocuses his gaze back to the chessboard. The white queen is tapping her foot.

He’s exhausted, but not sleepy… and feels gritty and knows he smells less than fresh. He never changed into pajamas last night… and has now been wearing the same clothes for almost thirty-six hours straight.

“Look, if you want a shower, I’ll make sure no one goes in,” Weasley says.

Of course Weasley would notice that he only showers very early or very late… when he can be assured of absolute privacy.

“I… yeah. That’d be great. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

The world simply goes on… and Draco lets it.

Classes… studying… more studying… The routine is comforting. In the common room no one hates him; in their bedroom, Harry’s touch is love.

They go to a motorbike show on the outskirts of London and spend the whole day looking at shiny bike after shiny bike.

“I can afford one of these,” Harry admits. “But I think I’d rather get an old one and fix it up, you know? Arthur Weasley said I could use his shed.”

Draco doesn’t know, but he nods intelligently. He’s of the opinion that the shiny red one that Harry’s gaze lingers over would suit him perfectly.

Harry does buy two helmets. And then two leather jackets, two pairs of boots, and two pairs of tight-fitting leather pants.

“What… for me?” Draco says, a little amused and more than a little touched.

“I want you to be safe,” Harry says, running his hand across Draco’s cheek. “And I really want to see your perfect arse squeezed into these.” Harry pulls him close.

“You really will crash.”

“Cushioning charm,” Harry says with a smirk.

They spend Christmas Eve with his mother in Cornwall, sipping tea and listening to the waves because conversation is difficult… and Christmas Day at the Burrow with dozens of Weasleys, where conversation is impossible.

Draco feels like an outsider, though not an unwelcome one, and he receives a hand-knitted jumper from Mrs. Weasley, green with a silver dragon-shaped “D” on the front.

“Mrs. Weasley… I…” It takes everything Draco has not to burst into tears. “Thank you.”

She pulls him into a hug. “I’m so glad you like it, dear,” she says.

Weasley and Granger decide to stay the night, but Draco is happy when Harry declines Mrs. Weasley’s kind offer… for one thing, Draco can tell she isn’t sure where to put them. In separate rooms, of course... and Draco fears he is about to find himself squeezed into a room with Granger and Ginny Weasley. Or, worse, maybe Harry will be and he will be sharing with Ronald Weasley.

Draco isn’t sure he could cope. It’s a testament, he thinks, to how awful his Sixth and Seventh Years were that he ever managed to snatch any sleep… unguarded and unprotected… alone with four other boys… in the Slytherin dorms.

When they return to Hogwarts, they find the Eighth Year common room, predictably, deserted. Harry builds up the fire and they sit in front of it.

Draco is bolder in the theoretically public space that is the common room. He finds himself rubbing against Harry, the friction perfection. He reaches down, grasping Harry through his jeans, and Harry moans, low in his throat.

He begins to move his hand, and Harry arches into him. “Yes! Like that!”

Draco’s palm aches to touch flesh, and he has just about resolved to do it when a snake of dread crawls up from his belly and his hand jerks back, quite without his permission.

“I… I…” Draco is trembling. “I’m sorry.”

Harry catches his hand. “Shhh…”

“Harry, I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t be. Please. It’s okay. Don’t be sorry. We’ve got time, Draco. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Draco strains to hear frustration, even irritation, in Harry’s voice.

It just isn’t there.

What is there is tenderness… and Harry pulls Draco’s hand up until it is cupping Harry’s own face. Until he is holding Draco’s eyes with his own.

Draco is not going to lie to Harry Potter. Not again. Not ever again. “What if I can’t?” he asks, finally giving voice to his very real fear. “What if I can’t ever?”

Draco’s hand drops.

“Do you want to…? Someday, I mean.”

“Yes… so much… But what if I just can’t?”

“Then you can’t.” Harry says it calmly, as if Draco hasn’t confessed his darkest secret, his most terrifying fear. “It’s okay.”

“But…”

“Hey… Draco…” Harry interlaces their fingers. “Can I have this?”

Draco nods. “Yes.”

“And this?” Harry’s lips brush his, then trail his jaw to nip gently where neck and jaw meet. “And this?”

“Yes… yes!”

“Will you sleep in my bed… and hold my hand when we’re out… and brew my Pepperup Potion so I don’t poison myself?”

“You know I will.”

“Then, even if we live to be one hundred and fifty, it will be enough.”

“Don’t you… want to have… sex… with me?”

“Of course I do.” Harry’s smile is shy. “But… if we can’t, ever, this will always be enough. I want you.”

“But…” Draco’s argument dies unsaid. He means it: Harry Potter does not tell lies. He replaces his hand on Harry’s cheek. “I love you.”

An odd, soft look crosses Harry’s face. Two tears fall. He leans his face into Draco’s hand, and more tears fall.

“Harry…?”

“No one’s ever said it before.”

“But… Oh, Harry…” His parents were dead before he could talk. His godfather was in prison… and then he died. His aunt and uncle hated him, Harry’s told him that.

“I mean I do know that Ron and Hermione… Molly… Professor McGonagall, maybe, but they’ve never said."

Draco leans forward, kissing him gently. “I love you, Harry Potter.” He kisses him again. “I love you.”

Draco pulls Harry even closer, right into his lap, wrapping his arms around him, and letting him bury his face into Draco’s neck. The fire is warm, orange and yellow flames dancing, with an occasional flicker of blue. He presses a kiss to Harry’s temple. “I love you.”

Draco watches the flames and listens to Harry breathing. Either or both of them might have fallen asleep. Draco loses feeling in both legs… still he doesn’t move. He just holds Harry close.

If he could, he would never move again.

Away from the fire, their bedroom is cool and dark. It feels like a haven, utterly safe: a secret cave hiding them from the world.

Draco usually falls asleep in Harry’s arms… but tonight he holds Harry close, letting him snuggle into his chest. Draco strokes his hair and kisses his forehead, watching him drift, slowly, towards sleep.

“At the Manor…,” Harry says, his voice heavy, “you didn’t save me because it was the right thing to do… or because you thought I was destined to save the world. You saved me because I’m me.”

It’s true, Draco realizes. It is absolutely true.

Harry snuggles even closer into Draco’s chest and doesn’t say anything else.

“I don’t know the moment when I started loving you, Harry Potter, but I know for absolute certain that I’m never going to stop.”

Harry’s breathing changes, and Draco thinks he’s fallen asleep.

He loves me… Harry hadn’t said it out loud, but Draco has never been more sure of anything in his life.

Draco blinks once… twice… his eyelids are so heavy… and falls asleep.

The steps necessary to translate an act that Draco has only ever known as violent—and Harry has never known at all—into one of love must be taken slowly… carefully… tenderly.

Nothing you don’t want. Harry lives by that line. Is this okay? … Can I…? … Do you like this?

Draco finds the truth before he answers… and he can feel his boundaries shift, his fears slip away.

Not fast enough. Never fast enough.

He wants them to fall, like great chunks of cliff, into the sea. They don’t. They melt like an overgrazed hill during a spring rain. But they melt.

Nothing you don’t want.

The room is chilly, but Harry is shirtless. Draco is shirtless, too, but he’s just come from the shower and is looking to snag one of Harry’s tee-shirts to wear under his new Weasley sweater.

Harry stops him, his hand is warm on his hip. “Can I kiss you?”

Draco smiles. “You hardly need to ask if you can kiss me, Potter.”

“Maybe not here.” Harry’s lips are soft on his. “Or here…” Harry nibbles down his neck and Draco moans, tilting his head a little, until Harry’s mouth finds the perfect spot.

Harry moves down Draco’s chest, kissing and licking and sucking. “Maybe not even here,” Harry says around teeth clamped gently on Draco’s nipple.

The Sectumsempra scars are barely visible, the faintest spider web of silver across Draco’s chest, but they are sensitive, and Harry knows it. He runs his tongue over the raised flesh… and Draco shivers as Harry follows the line to his hip. “Or even here.”

Harry is on his knees before Draco, the green and black checked flannel of his pajama pants just inches from Harry’s nose.

“But can I kiss you here?” He can feel the words, warm and slightly damp, through the fabric. His erection strains towards Harry.

“I… I…”

Harry’s fingertips rest lightly on the tops of Draco’s bare feet. One finger is making gentle, sneaky circles on his leg, just above the hem of his pajamas… but he is otherwise completely motionless.

Draco’s not sure Harry’s even breathing; he knows he isn’t.

Harry reaches up, finds one of Draco’s hands and places it gently in his hair. He finds the other one and does the same. Harry’s messy hair is soft as silk under Draco’s fingertips, and he has to fight his fingers to keep them steady.

Harry’s own hands drop back to Draco’s feet, gently ghosting up his ankles, his eyes never leaving Draco’s.

“Harry…?” There’s a question there, but Draco can’t even identify it… much less articulate it.

“Nothing you don’t want, Draco.”

“I want you to.”

Harry nuzzles in... letting out a little sigh as his nose makes contact with Draco’s flannel-covered cock. He kisses along it until he reaches the head. “Do you like this?”

“Y-yeah, I do,” Draco breathes.

Harry sucks on the head, pulling it as far into his mouth as the fabric will allow. Draco lets out his own sigh.

Draco can feel a growing dampness, his own precome mixing with Harry’s hot breath… the wet of his tongue… as he licks him, nibbling and sucking. He’s beautiful there, his vibrant green eyes constantly flicking upwards… wordlessly asking is this okay?

It’s more than.

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to come.” Draco’s voice wobbles.

“I want you to come,” Harry says, his words muffled. They are muffled because Harry’s mouth is still on him… not minding the rough flannel on his tongue, not minding that the floor is cold, not minding that Draco probably will not be able to return the favor.

“The… mess…” Draco manages.

“I know a good cleaning charm.” Draco can hear the smile in Harry’s words. “Please. I want you to come for me.”

“H-Harry…”

Harry lifts one hand to Draco’s, where it is still entangled in Harry’s own curls, and threads his fingers through Draco’s… and squeezes gently.

His mouth resumes its work… and Draco comes.

For a moment he doesn’t know if he’s standing or floating or falling. Harry’s hands, one on his hand, the other still on his ankle, are the only things keeping him grounded.

When Draco opens his eyes, Harry is looking up at him… his mouth wet and red and in a shape that could be a smile. Or a look of pure awe. “I love you,” Harry says.

Draco finds that he can no longer stand. He drops to the floor, heedless of the slippery dampness coating his pajama pants. Heedless of the cold and the hard floor. Heedless of everything, really, because he needs to be pressing his mouth to Harry’s.

Somehow his hand is still in Harry’s hair and he uses it to hold him still for a kiss that is as rough as it is tender. “I love you, too,” he says.

Harry’s own flannel pants are damp, and Draco rubs his thumb over the head of Harry’s cock.

“You don’t have to… oh my god… Draco! Will you do that again?”

The movement of his hand is Draco’s only response.

Draco concentrates on nothing but Harry… the little gasps he makes, and how he smells of Earl Grey tea and wood shavings and sunshine, and how he fills Draco’s hand, and how the ridges of his cock slide under the pajamas under his palm, and how he arches into Draco with a moan that is at least half sob.

Draco feels the hot rush of fluid as Harry comes under his hand.

Draco slips a finger down the waistband of Harry’s pajamas, and brings it back out, glistening with milky fluid. He tastes it and it is musky and bitter and brilliant.

Harry has opened his eyes and is watching him closely.

“You don’t know how much I wanted to use my mouth,” he whispers, almost afraid to say it out loud. It’s the truth, though. “How much I wanted to taste all of you.”

“I think I do,” Harry says.

Harry kisses him. Deeply. As if he is chasing the taste of himself on Draco’s tongue. “Oh my god, I love you,” Harry says. “You don’t know how much I love you.”

“I think I do.”

The floor is meeting uncomfortably with Draco’s hip and elbow… and his leg, trapped under Harry’s is asleep. His pajama bottoms are cold and sticking uncomfortably to his leg.

“It’s freezing down here, Harry. Why are we still on the floor?”

“Laziness, I think. The bed looks really far away right now.”

Draco pulls his leg out from under Harry’s… and immediately wishes he hadn’t as blood, wielding pins and needles, flows back into his leg. He stands up anyway, tugging on Harry’s arm.

“Come on, then. I refuse to die of hypothermia on this floor with my pajamas slowly gluing themselves to my leg.” He tries for a drawl, but thinks he’s failed. “Also, I was promised a cleaning charm.”

Harry laughs. “I have bits of fuzz in my mouth.”

Draco pulls harder and Harry stands up, wrapping Draco in his arms as he does.

Harry says the charm and most of the stickiness disappears.

“I wouldn’t call that a good cleaning charm, Potter. At best, I would say that was an adequate cleaning charm.”

“Yeah…” Harry frowns. “Might need a shower, really. And probably to toss these pants into the laundry. Do you want to go first?”

“I just came from the shower, Potter.” Draco can feel his mouth twisting into a smile that is more than half smirk. “And I’m not entirely sure that it wouldn’t be pointless.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah… because…” and Draco hates that he is blushing… “Because I really think I’d like to get the insides of my pajamas—and yours—all sticky again at least once more tonight.”

“I’d like that, too, really.”

Harry takes two steps back and falls onto the bed, pulling Draco down on top of him.

Chapter Text

Draco doesn’t know what time it is… but he’s been asleep and now he isn’t. The room is dark, he is safe, and the covers are holding in all the warmth that is Harry. Draco’s hand is resting on Harry and he finds one finger twisting, absently, in the slight fuzz that’s gathered in the center of Harry’s chest.

He runs his thumb over a nipple and Harry lets out a little purr.

“Are you awake?” he asks into the darkness.

Harry’s answer is more moan than actual word. “Yes.”

“Can I touch you?”

That sound again.

“Anywhere?” Draco twists the nipple.

“Anywhere… oh god, yes!… Anywhere you want, Draco. Please, touch me.”

Draco does.

Hand flat, he works it down… feeling the slight ridges of Harry’s ribs… slipping his fingers into Harry’s pajamas and resting his hand on the hardness of his hip.

He leans over to kiss Harry. Harry doesn’t try to touch him… with anything other than his tongue, which strokes Draco’s own tongue, licks gently at his lips… almost, but not quite, making Draco forget what he is doing.

Harry’s cock arches up, brushing the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist… begging for attention.

Draco slides his hand down… and, as easily as that, his hand is wrapped around Harry.

“Oh my god, Draco!” Harry’s voice is liquid, ripples on a pond, and the hand that reaches up to cup Draco’s cheek is trembling.

Draco slides his hand up and down, hesitantly, awkwardly.

“Harry…?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t stop talking.”

Harry is still cupping his cheek, his fingers tangling in his hair. His hand is still trembling. “So good… touching me… feels so good…”

Draco’s hand is coated in precome, like silk on his palm. He slides his thumb over the head and is rewarded with an almost desperate, “Draco!”

The waistband of Harry’s pajamas is cutting into his wrist and his heart is doing something funny, its rhythm uneven, caught between excitement and terror.

Harry’s words are soft… and not always entirely coherent. But it is Harry. Harry who smells like sunshine… Harry who is running his thumb gently along Draco’s cheekbone… Harry who is thrusting into his hand… Harry who is whispering, “Ohmygod, Draco, I’m going to come.”

There is nothing but Harry.

Harry who spills all over his hand and trembles in his arms and leans up to kiss him, bruising and being bruised.

Harry whose eyes are the brightest green… though the darkness is absolute and Draco cannot see them… Draco knows they are shining at him. For him.

The mess is everywhere, slippery and cooling on both their stomachs, the sheets, on Draco’s hand, and inside Harry’s pajamas. Their wands are out of reach and Harry slides away from Draco… to reach for his wand… his abandoned tee-shirt… anything to clean it up…

“Don’t let me go!” Draco can hear the panic, the senseless panic in his words.

“Hey…,” Harry pulls him close, obviously willing to ignore the mess in favor of holding Draco. “Hey… I’ve got you… that was so amazing. So perfect. Do you want me to…?”

“No! Just… just…”

Draco is shaking so hard his teeth are chattering and he burrows into Harry’s chest, feeling his strong arms coming around him, feeling his lips press against his temple.

“I’ve got you. I won’t let go.”

They go into Muggle London sometimes… for curry or to this tiny little Italian place with checkered tablecloths, dangerously dim lighting, and huge bowls of pasta. The wine is fruity and uncomplicated and their glasses are filled to the brim by a woman who insists, in a thick London accent, that they should call her Nonnie.

She either doesn’t care, or doesn’t notice, that they hold hands as they wait for their food. She just plies them with more wine and keeps their bread basket full.

Harry takes him to the cinema where the pictures move without magic.

They stay at Hogwarts when there’s a Quidditch match on and watch Ginny Weasley captain the Gryffindor team through what is turning out to be an undefeated season.

“Ginny’s hoping to get signed by the Harpies,” Harry tells him.

“I used to want to play Quidditch,” Draco says, slightly wistfully. “My father would never have let me go pro, of course, but I could have played for England. I was good, you know.”

“I know.”

“Do you know… I never lost a match… unless I was playing against you.”

Harry smiles. “I do know,” he says, shoving him gently. “It was a near thing a couple of times, though.”

“I know,” Draco says, smugly, returning the shove.

Harry’s quiet a moment, his smile slipping off his face. “I almost wish I hadn’t joined the Gryffindor team.” His voice is almost too soft to hear. “I mean I love playing Quidditch… but I hated everyone staring at me. Everyone talking about me. I might have had an easier time… with everything… if I hadn’t been the youngest player in a century.”

“Why’d you do it, then?”

“I wanted to fit in… Somewhere to belong. I’d never… I’d never had a place before. I just wanted to fit in… I never wanted to stand out.”

“Harry, you were the Boy Who Lived.” Draco traces the roughness of Harry’s lightning bolt scar with a gentle finger. “You were never going to not stand out.”

“Yeah… I know... I just…”

Harry falls silent. And Draco remembers how he used to think Harry constantly sought out attention… how jealous he had been… how he used to relentlessly tease Harry.

He wishes he hadn’t… Now.

“So,” Harry asks, his voice artificially bright, “do you think you will play Quidditch? Professionally, I mean.”

Draco shakes his head, putting on his drawing room drawl. “Really, Potter, I am tragically out of shape…”

“You could always train… I mean, I’d help if you—”

“It wouldn’t do any good, Harry.” And Draco hates the catch in his voice almost as much as he hates the way Harry’s face falls. “I’m nowhere near—and never was—good enough to make up for this.” He nods at his arm. At least it doesn’t burn anymore. It just rests quietly and hideously against his skin. “No one would hire me.”

Harry doesn’t argue, which is as telling as it is disturbing.

Draco is grateful for the truth… but an impassioned lie would be nice, he thinks. Maybe just this once.

“What do you want to do?” Harry asks instead.

“Something that helps people,” Draco says. “I just don’t know what.”

“I don’t want to be an Auror.” Harry says it quickly, and his words are sharp, as if he is throwing away something he has long held on to.

“Okay.”

“It’s just that I’m tired of people trying to kill me.” He sounds defensive.

“Harry, it’s okay.” Draco picks up Harry’s hand and presses his lips to his palm. “Nothing you don’t want.”

Harry looks up at him, his eyes unsure… then trusting. His smile returns and it is sunshine. “Thank you.”

His mother writes him, asking if he will move back into the Manor when he graduates from Hogwarts.

The family solicitors write to say that, with his father serving a life sentence in Azkaban, he could (they strongly imply should) petition the courts to have control of the Malfoy fortune given over to him. Draco is surprised by the amount in the Malfoy vaults—he thought more had gone to the Dark Lord and then to fines and legal fees.

It’s a pleasant thought—to use the money to restore Malfoy Manor to the safe, sun-soaked home of his childhood memories. Part of him wants to bring Harry there and have tea in his mother’s rose garden and play Quidditch on the grassy lawns. He wants to take him into the woods and show him the fort he built in the summers before.

Before the Dark Lord returned… and turned his life upside down.

In his thoughts, fuzzy and barely in view, there is a child, maybe more than one, who he loves and spoils with cream buns and teaches to fly…

In the dappled green light of the woods they rebuild the fort.

Another part of him is afraid to go home. Afraid to walk those halls again.

It’s unreasonable; he’s walked down the hall where he was attacked dozens of times. Since. Maybe even a hundred.

There is no sign of it. There never was.

The pain… the fear… they are not in the hallway. They exist only in his memories.

Part of him wants to allow the Manor to rot into nothingness and to throw all of the money into the sea.

Harry buys a motorbike—or at least the pieces of one—along with an assortment of tools—and begins spending most Sundays in the Weasley’s shed trying, first to assemble the thing, then to make it run.

He refuses to use magic, but instead pours over a Muggle repair book, sometimes with the less-than-helpful aid of Mr. Weasley. Then he moves things and twists things and then stands back to admire the results.

The Weasleys aren’t at home today and Harry and Draco are alone in the shed. Draco thinks Harry should have waited to start the project until school ended… and he knows that he, at least, should be spending his weekends studying… but how can he when Harry just looks so damn happy tinkering away at that bike?

Harry is a mess—his jeans and sweatshirt have stains all over them… grease and other unnamable bits of grit, he has dirt in his hair after having spent a considerable amount of time on the floor trying to unstick the bike’s stopping mechanism, and his hands, the side of his nose, a bit of his forehead, and his left cheekbone, are all black.

Draco is far less filthy… but he may be the dirtiest he has ever been. He’s been handing Harry tools all afternoon—and even adding his own muscles to unsticking the stopping mechanism.

If Harry ever gets the bike moving, Draco wants to be sure it can stop.

Harry finishes tightening a bolt and carefully places the wrench back in its box. He wipes his hands on a greasy rag; Draco couldn’t have said whether the hands or the rag is getting filthier from the exercise.

“It’s getting late,” Harry says. “We should probably be getting back.”

Draco is not going to argue; the day didn’t start out cold, but a chill has settled into his bones and an eerie mist has settled over the moors. He casts a cleaning charm on his hands which is almost completely ineffective… and he finds himself staring at his own hands, black and grimy.

Draco can’t read Harry’s expression: on the one hand, the heated look he is giving Draco is making his own blood warm and his cock perk up expectantly, but on the other… Harry looks as if he fears Draco is going to start shouting and cursing things at any moment.

“Do I look like a Muggle?” Draco asks, trying for a joke, as he holds out his hand for Harry’s inspection. He’s slightly unnerved by the look on Harry’s face.

Harry swallows visibly. “I have some special soap for greasy hands.”

The soap is gritty, smells strongly of oranges, and almost magically scrubs away most of the grease. When Harry casts a second cleaning charm over both their hands, Draco can find only the barest traces of black remaining, outlining the swirls of his fingerprints and the lines on his palms. He thinks he likes it. It makes him feel that he has done something useful, maybe even valuable.

“Some Muggles are very clean, you know.” Harry’s voice sounds odd. “My aunt’s hands certainly never looked like that. Anything that would have gotten her hands dirty, she made me do. All the gardening… most of the cleaning. When she made me scrub out the oven my hands would be black for a week… or burned red from the chemicals…”

Harry stops talking, his eyes raising to Draco’s.

Draco isn’t entirely sure what a chemical is, but the expression on Harry’s face makes his heart clench.

He picks up Harry’s hand, which still smells faintly orangey, even after the cleaning charm, and brings it to his mouth. In proper courtly form, he kisses the backs of Harry’s fingers before turning his hand over to press his lips into his palm.

Harry lets out a little sigh.

Draco uses his tongue to trace each of Harry’s fingers, sucking each one into his mouth before moving on to the next. “I love you, Harry Potter,” he says.

“Let’s go home.”

They don’t talk about after.

After they graduate. After they leave the safe space that is Hogwarts.

Harry fears the world will judge him for being gay: homo, faggot, fairy… those words, in his uncle’s harsh voice, sometimes with a blow to match, haunt him. He’s said.

Draco is afraid the world will try to destroy Harry for loving a Death Eater.

The spring rains come and the snow melts.

They lie in bed as the nights grow shorter and shorter… making gentle love with hands and lips. Flannel gives way to thin cotton and Draco’s whole body aches for Harry’s touch.

Soon, he tells it. It’s not a lie.

Forever is a fact between them. But it’s a fact without any real details.

“It’s not like the Muggle world, Harry,” Draco says. “Even the Muggle world isn’t really like your uncle’s world. Not really. We go out together all the time… to the cinema, that restaurant. We hold hands and one cares.”

Draco takes Harry’s hand now, interlacing their fingers.

“It’s true that there aren’t exactly a lot of gay wizards. Or witches,” he adds, fairly, “but it’s been almost fourteen hundred years since being gay was considered… you know, not on. And even then it was a pretty brief thing, mostly the result of a sloppily preformed translation charm. On one of the Christian texts, you know.”

They’re walking together by the lake. Springtime has painted the grounds of Hogwarts a hopeful green and, from under trees and beside rocks, patches of vibrant daffodils explode out of the earth. The sky is grey and threatening, but the flowers make the world seem bright.

“They’ll publish it in the papers, though, won’t they?”

“Yes. Along with your shoe size, and what you’re drinking at the Leaky Cauldron, and how your ironing charms are abysmal.” Applying a mild smoothing charm to Harry’s shirts has become almost routine for Draco. “They are far more likely to judge you for your ironing charms than who you love.”

“I know you do them for me when I’m not looking,” Harry says.

“And Merlin forbid I should ever not. Your shirts come off their hangers looking like they were stuffed, damp, in a sack and forgotten about for weeks.”

“I’m not that bad,” Harry says, laughing outright.

Draco can’t join in. His feet have stopped moving, he realizes, and he’s standing holding Harry’s hand like it’s the most important thing in the world. The lake is flat and bluish-grey at their feet.

“I’m lying,” he admits. “They won’t judge you for your ironing charms, Harry… they’ll judge you for… for me. You could date any other wizard in the world… and they’d talk about it, sure. But they wouldn’t care. But if you’re with me… they’ll say the Hero of the Wizarding World shouldn’t be with a Death Eater.”

Draco takes a deep breath and drops Harry’s hand, taking a step away. A step towards the water. “They’re probably even right.”

“The Wizarding World can go fuck itself.” Harry’s words are harsh, but the hand that reaches out… that pulls him back… that cups his cheek… is gentle. “You aren’t a Death Eater… you never were. Not really. And I don’t want to be with without you. Ever.”

“Harry… the things they’ll say… They’ll say that I’ve imperiused you… or that I’m blackmailing you somehow… that you would never be with… with someone like me unless you were forced… or confounded. They’ll say that I’m lying to you… using you to keep out of Azkaban…” Draco can hear his voice shaking.

It’s too close to the truth. Three years ago it would have been the truth.

“I know that you aren’t, Draco. Whatever else, I know that you love me.”

Draco just stares… it’s true. It’s so very, very true.

What is also true is that sometimes out of nowhere… a cold dread will settle on him whispering, Harry Potter has finally come to his senses. He is leaving you.

“And I know that I love you.” Harry’s strokes his face.

Draco makes a noise that is almost a sob.

“Hey… come here.” Harry sits on a large rock, pulling Draco down beside him. The rock isn’t wet… but it isn’t dry either. Harry presses a long kiss onto Draco’s forehead… then kisses the corner of his eye… then kisses down the trail of tears that Draco hadn’t know he was crying… and finds his lips.

It’s a gentle kind of kiss… made up of hearts, not fire.

“I would have lied to keep you out of Azkaban,” Harry says not moving his lips from Draco’s.

Draco pulls back a bit. Harry’s eyes are blazing bright green.

“I didn’t. But I would have. I would have said… anything to get you out of there.”

Draco stares. He thinks his mouth is open. But he has no voice.

Draco reaches for Harry’s hand, his thumb tracing the silver I must not tell lies. He brings it to his lips, kissing the rough words.

“Only for you,” Harry says. “I’m not ashamed of us… and I’m not ashamed of who I am. And I am absolutely not ashamed of you. I don’t want the attention… I don’t want people talking about me. But I want you... and I don’t care who knows... or what they say about it.”

“You don’t want people talking about you, but you also don’t want to hide the fact that your boyfriend used to be a Death Eater?”

Harry’s mouth twitches.

“You know that doesn’t make any sense, right?”

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Harry says. “It’s the truth.”

“I love you, Harry Potter,” Draco says, pushing Harry back on the rock… straddling him… kissing him gently, but only at first. “You don’t make any fucking sense, but I love you.”

The rain that had been holding off all afternoon gives up… throws out a few warning drops… before beginning to fall in earnest.

They don’t notice.

They go to visit Harry’s godson… Teddy... who regards Draco somberly before his hair changes from a sort of bluish-green to platinum blond. Teddy holds his arms up to Draco who, after a nod from Harry, picks him up and hold him close.

The baby isn’t quite a year old, but there something about holding his solid form securely on one hip makes Draco feel that maybe… just maybe… everything is going to be all right.

His Aunt Andromeda smiles and sets out tea and doesn’t say anything about the fact that she was disowned by Draco’s grandparents, or that during the war Draco was on the side that murdered her entire family, save the baby. She doesn’t mention the fact that it was his aunt who killed her daughter.

When Teddy abandons him for Harry, she simply holds out her arms and pulls him close. “I’m so glad to finally meet you, darling.”

She smells like his mother… except with undertones of vanilla rather than springtime flowers.

“Your mother’s been to visit a few times. I’ve owled her and she should be arriving soon. Then we’ll all have tea.”

Draco lets himself be held a moment longer. If he said he wasn’t crying, just a little, he would be lying.

“I’m afraid of hurting you.” Draco whispers the words into the darkness.

He’s not even sure Harry’s still awake… until he feels the brush of an illumination charm and the room glows softly. It’s enough to make out Harry’s features, beautiful and worried, but not much else.

The room is full of shadows.

They’d been so close earlier… before Draco had needed to stop. He’s far more afraid of hurting Harry than of being hurt himself.

Harry’s hand strokes his hair. Soothing. “You won’t,” he says.

“You don’t know… It hurt. Harry, it hurt so much. And he held me down… I couldn’t move… I could hardly breathe… I was so completely helpless…” For a moment he cannot speak. “I couldn’t make you feel like that. Ever.”

“Hey, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. I think you know that.” Harry is studying him carefully. “You know one thing has nothing to do with the other, right? You were attacked, violated. Draco, you were raped.” Harry looks almost ill. “They took something that is supposed to be about love and trust and pleasure and used it as a tool… weapon to hurt you.”

Draco stares at him. It’s not that he doesn’t already know these things. But he doesn’t know them. Not really.

“You won’t hurt me because you love me. I won’t feel helpless because I trust you. I want to feel you inside me… and you’ll be careful and patient and so gentle.”

“Will I?”

“Yes. You’ll say the lubrication charm… and you’ll start with one finger. This finger.”

Harry sucks Draco’s first finger into his mouth, up to the knuckle. He swirls his tongue around it, and sparks of pleasure dance up Draco’s whole arm. He sucks the finger all the way in, and Draco moans.

With an unhurried slip of tongue and teeth, Harry releases the finger. “Then you’ll add another finger, and it might burn just a tiny little bit, but it will feel good. And you’ll move them back and forth… getting me ready for you. And you’ll add a third…”

Harry’s voice is ragged, starting and stopping with little gasps, and his fingers on Draco’s hip at tighter than he might normally like. Right now he doesn’t mind.

Draco’s own cock is leaking and so hard that it aches.

“Draco, say the charm.”

Draco does.

And when he pushes into Harry, Harry’s eyes burn.

Draco’s heart is going to burst.

“…yes… like that… can you stay still a sec… I want more… I like that…Draco!”

Draco has never seen Harry come so hard. They are both coated in sticky ropes and little tears prickle the corners of Harry’s eyes. Draco’s own orgasm roars up from the soles of his feet, from the bottom of his soul, and he’s coming inside of Harry and Harry is cradling him on his own body, pressing his lips to Draco’s.

“I love you so fucking much,” Harry says, the words disappearing as Draco kisses him back.

They are both shaking.

Draco is sure he can’t move, but he feels his ribs, his hipbones, pressing into Harry and tries to pull away.

“No,” Harry says, brushing away his feeble attempt to move. “Stay. Please.”

“Hermione… Can I ask you something?” Draco might have been stalking her just a little, wanting to catch her away from Weasley… away from Harry. Away from everyone, actually.

“Of course.”

“It’s just that… it’s about being… well… Muggleborn.”

The common room is empty and Hermione’s expression turns guarded. “I guess.”

“Your parents… were they kind to you? I mean… you must have done accidental magic sometimes, and that was probably kind of scary for someone who had never seen anything… And I just want to know if they treated you… I don’t know…” Draco finds himself speaking very quickly, his words starting to tumble over one another. He takes a deep breath. “I just want to know… if they were kind…”

“They’re my parents. They love me! Maybe they were a little…unnerved… sometimes, but…” She stops a moment, really looking at him. “What’s this about, Draco?”

“Orphans, really. The Dark… Vol-… oh, You Know Who… He was raised in a Muggle orphanage and… I think… I think it was pretty horrible.”

“So?” Her eyes are narrow. “Are you trying to excuse—because if you are—”

“No!”

“He was evil.”

“I know! Fuck, Hermione. Believe me, I know.” His head drops to his hands as a wave of remembered screams, some of them Hermione’s, wash over him. Taunts… the smell of blood… the sounds begging… the empty sound of a body hitting the floor…

And darkness… And pain, not witnessed but experienced…

“Draco?” Her voice is gentle, but she doesn’t touch him.

“Would he have been the same if he’s been raised by people who understood him… or by parents who loved him anyway?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if your parents weren’t there? What if you’d been raised in a Muggle orphanage? Or with relatives who resented you?”

“I don’t know…”

“Harry’s aunt and uncle made his life a living hell…”

“A living hell? Come on, Draco. Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic?” The corners of Hermione’s mouth turn up a bit. “I mean I know his aunt and uncle didn’t understand magic… and that they were very strict. But it’s not like they beat him… or… or starved him!”

Draco stares at her, barely able to blink. She didn’t know. She really didn’t know.

“Even so,” he says, still scrambling to compose himself. “No one should grow up feeling unloved. My parents had a list of faults a mile long… but they loved me.”

He loves them too. It feels wrong… missing Lucius, loving him still. It feels wrong to not.

“I want… to do something to help. I want to make a place for Muggleborns who don’t have their parents to take care of them… or if they can’t. Wizarding children, too, if they need a home.”

“An orphanage?”

“A home. A big one… with enough space so that no one ever has to grow up feeling unwanted… unloved…”

Hermione looks as though she is choosing her words very carefully. “Do you think you could do that? Love children that aren’t yours? Muggleborn children?”

“Hermione, I think I would spoil them rotten.” His heart takes flight at the thought. “If there’s one good thing my parents taught me, it’s how to spoil a child.”

Hermione purses her lips, looking unnervingly like Professor McGonagall. “And Harry?”

“I think… I hope… he would want to do it. He’s said he wanted a big family… Hermione, I’d give him the world, but I can’t give him that. Except, maybe I can… Will you help me?”

“Of course I will.” For a moment she’s quiet, thinking probably. Already planning. “Are you thinking of using Malfoy Manor?” she asks.

“I… I think so. It’s mine now. But I haven’t been back… Maybe it has too many awful memories… maybe I should just let it rot… But if I can go back… if I can fix it up… put it to good use… I think I would like that very much.”

Hermione suggests that Draco ask Bill Weasley to go with him to the Manor… to check for curses and other dark magic. Ron Weasley invites himself along—for moral support, he says.

They trail Bill as he checks room after room—the Ministry has done a good job; nothing dark or horrible remains. The house elves have done a good job, too. The house is immaculate… and even the smells of fear and death and misery are gone.

A bright shaft of sunlight streams in through the drawing room window and lands on one of the stylized peacocks woven into the Oriental rug. He never told anyone… but when he was very young he had named each of them: Morganna… Salazar Slytherin… Hecate… The sunbeam is illuminating Harry Potter.

To his surprise, Weasley is enchanted with the library.

“Can you imagine curling up in here on a rainy day?”

Draco feels his eyebrows climb.

“Oh, come on, Malfoy. I can read. And that chess set is amazing.”

It was his grandfather’s, the pieces carved from moonstone and jade. “That’s where my grandfather taught me to play.”

There are a lot of empty shelves… presumably once full of dark books now confiscated by the Ministry.

“We’d have to get a bunch more books, though. Kids’ books. Hermione’ll have ideas, and so will my mom. She loved to read to us… when she could get us all to sit still. Which wasn’t very often.”

The hall is just a hall.

“It’s a bit gloomy, don’t you think?” Weasley says. “I bet you can take out this wall and that one. Then this whole area will both morning and afternoon sun. Might make a nice playroom. If you want, I mean.”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

Hermione does research and meets with Ministry officials. Plans are put in place. Draco meets with contractors. He is looking forward to doing some of the work himself.

He will get his hands dirty.

The days turn hot and they sit their N.E.W.T.S.

They go to the Weasleys’ house after graduation where Molly Weasley has a huge party planned.

His mother is there. And so is Andromeda, with Teddy.

There is cake and laughter and so many smiling people.

“The bike is finished,” Harry says. “Do you want to go for a ride?”

Draco thinks that speeding along country roads, holding tightly to Harry’s waist, is better than flying. Better than anything, really.

He cast extra cushioning charms, though, when Harry wasn’t looking.

“How far can we ride this thing?” Draco asks.

“As far as you want.” Harry is smiling at him.

“Drive north, then. There’s something I want to show you.”

The shadows are long when Harry stops the bike. The towers… the bricks… even the hedges already look cheerful. If a house can look cheerful. Hopeful.

“Are we at Malfoy Manor?” Harry asks.

Draco had feared Harry’s expression would show anger. Instead, it’s merely curious.

“Not exactly. Look.”

The sign on the front gates is the only thing that can truly be said to be finished. It’s purple and reads The Albus Dumbledore Academy and Home for Young Witches and Wizards.

“Draco… what…? What is this place?”

“It’s for you. If you want it. It’s going to be a home… for witches and wizards who’ve lost their families… or whose families can’t take care of them. Muggleborn children, especially, who’d otherwise be raised in orphanages… or with relatives who hate them…” Draco promised himself that he wouldn’t cry. A lie. “But it’s for anyone, really. No one should grow up in a home where they aren’t loved.”

Harry Potter is crying. Great tears roll down his cheeks. “I… thank you,” he chokes out.

“I love you, Harry Potter.”

Harry palms the tears off his face. “I actually have something for you, too.”

Harry pulls a small box from his pocket and, very formally, drops to one knee. “Draco Malfoy, will you marry me?”

The ring is titanium and holly wood with an inlay of raw emeralds as bright and beautiful as Harry’s eyes.

“There is nothing in the world that I want more.”