Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re making me nervous with all that fidgeting.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “How on earth am I making you nervous? You have this in the bag.”

“Yes, well.” Hermione shrugs. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Not like this, no.”

Hermione’s hand settles on top of Harry’s intertwined fingers to still them. His legs still shake despite her soothing touch.

“I don’t know if this is the best idea for me, ‘Mione, I should probably just go home and think it over a bit. I’m not sure I’m ready—”

“Harry,” Hermione says, fixing him with a very familiar look, equal parts kind and stern. “You’re going to regret it if you don’t.”

“But it’s not like I have to do it right now,” Harry says, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes uncomfortably. It’s still far too early in the morning for him to be thinking straight, let alone doing this. He’s been holding off for almost a year now, and really had no intention of ever coming in.

“If you can look me in the eye and promise me it won’t drive you crazy until you do, then we’ll leave,” Hermione says.

The door swings open and someone else enters the waiting room. Harry feels entirely relieved that it’s not one of the assistants waiting to take them to the back office. The witch regards him and Hermione with an expression of awe before settling into her seat. She seems excited, but Harry only feels his stomach turn over restlessly in reaction.

Harry glares at the flickering sign above the receptionist’s desk. The waiting room itself is clean and sterile, and reminds him of a Muggle hospital, though he considers that he’d rather be there than here at all. Britain’s Premier Corepairing glints on the wall, and Harry feels a bit sick every time he sees it.

“I don’t want a soulmate. This is stupid.”

“Harry, you know it’s not like that.”

And Harry knows it isn’t. Because, well, he wouldn’t be here if it was.

In the years after the war, and in an effort to boost rapidly declining birth rates, it wasn’t unusual that the Ministry had made an effort in reviving the soulmates program. When Harry had first heard about it, he had been skeptical that such a thing could even exist, likening it to a Muggle matchmaking service. Ron, surprisingly enough, had quickly shut down such an idea.

“You don’t understand,” Ron had said dismissively. “This isn’t something like dating. It’s literally being able to find out who pairs to your magical core.”

“Magical core?” Harry wrinkled his nose. “That sounds odd.”

“Well you know how you and Voldemort had twin cores in your wands. It’s kind of like that, but with people.”

“Oh, well that makes it loads better, doesn’t it?”

Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I think what Ron’s trying to say is that this is something that runs deep within your magic. Wizard cores can only match with a single other core. There is, well there always has been, a person out there who was made specifically for you.”

Harry snorted, maintaining a guarded, suspicious look on his face. “I’m not sure I’d even want to know who it is.”

“Don’t say that,” Ron said. “Of course you do. You have to.”

“Well if it’s so important to know, why are they only just now bringing this program back now? What happened to it in the past one hundred years, did everyone just forget they had a literal soulmate out in the world somewhere and decide not to care?” Harry’s voice was bordering on crazed, and he could feel his face turning a bit red and hot. He wasn’t sure why the idea of a soulmate could fluster him so much and why he felt the need to be so defensive, but he wasn’t really sure he needed an adoring fan to become someone he would have to spend the rest of his life with. Or even better, knowing his luck, he’d be the only wizard without one.

“It’s a fair question,” Ron shrugged. “From what my parents have told me, there were issues during some of the first wizarding wars, and people began to use soulmates as leverage. I guess taking them hostage or killing them or something. I think it’s hard to survive without one of them, especially once you know who they are. You can always feel their magic.”

“The Ministry decided it was best, and safest, to stop the practise. Usually soulmates found each other anyway,” Hermione explained. “I would bet a fair amount that Molly and Arthur share complementary magical cores.”

Ron nodded in response.

Harry knew that the only reason Hermione knew so much about the program was because the second she’d found out about it, she had gone and purchased an entire shelf of books to familiarise herself with the concept. He often wondered if maybe he should’ve done a little more research on the subject too. If anything, so he wouldn't seem so clueless on the matter.

“Do you think you two do?” Harry said thoughtlessly, before catching his mistake. The last thing he wanted to do was bring up something they had probably worried about already.

Ron smiled though, hooking his arm casually around Hermione’s waist. “I’m sure of it.”

Hermione looked back up at him with so much love in her eyes that Harry would have cried right there out of sheer loneliness. He didn’t, though, and left their home quickly after that.

Now, sitting back into his chair and digging the palms of his hands into his thighs, Harry feels nervous and dizzy and like he doesn’t even care to know who his soulmate is at all. He’d rather just spend his time in Grimmauld Place with Claude, the terrible long-haired cat that had strolled onto his front porch and made himself at home three years ago and had never left.

“Morale is low,” Hermione says, paging listlessly through a copy of Witch Weekly. “This is helping.”

“Like hell it is,” Harry grumbles.

“Just because you’ve been avoiding doing this doesn’t mean everyone else has, you know. You can’t tell me that Luna and Neville are a mistake. What about Ginny and Blaise? Are those people who would have ever gotten together without the system?”

Harry averts his eyes. “Well, maybe Luna and Neville might have.”

“Don’t just focus on one aspect of my point,” Hermione says narrowly. “They are happier, you can't argue that.”

“But their lives are so much more complicated.”

“God, you’re stubborn.” Hermione shakes her head. “Complicated doesn’t necessarily mean bad.”

Before Harry can respond, he hears his name being called from the doorway, and his heart drops through his ribs and out of his stomach.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Hermione asks, her forehead instantly creasing with worry in response to the expression on Harry’s face. “You look a bit pale.”

“Er.” Harry considers for a moment. It might be nice to have a shoulder to lean on if it happens to be someone he does know, or doesn’t particularly like, but it’s far more likely that he’ll get a stranger. “I’ll be fine on my own," he decides. "Let me know how yours goes, yeah?” he says instead.

“It’ll be Ron,” Hermione says, the corner of her mouth twitching up into a smile. There’s no reason why Hermione needs to get her core checked, but with work she’d been quite busy and hadn’t been able to. Ron had already had his consult, and it, of course, matched with Hermione. But she’d put it off for whatever reason—likely because Ron already knew, and it would be rare that she wouldn’t register as his pair.

“It always is, isn’t it?” Harry says before following the woman into the back.

“Right this way, Mr. Potter,” she says brightly, leading him down a hallway just as sterile and empty as the waiting room. In a strange way, it reminds him of King’s Cross Station on the night of the battle. All white.

She leads him into a room that’s bare, with a simple desk and two chairs in the middle. Piled high on the surface are large, though neatly organised, stacks of paperwork filing themselves gently into cabinets that sit to the far right of the space. The woman raises her wand, and the flying papers still. She motions forward for Harry to take a seat as she crosses to the other side and comfortably settles into her chair.

“My name is Ethel,” she says, with a sweet and reassuring smile pasted upon her features. Harry doesn’t feel comfortable around her, though her expression indicates that he probably should.

“Harry,” he says unnecessarily, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“I’m assuming, since you’re here, you know at least the bare bones of this program,” Ethel says warmly. She waves her wand and a large, ancient-looking leather book appears on her desk. She licks her finger before heaving it open and turning a few pages.

For some reason, Harry notices, she seems to be reading words on a page that he can’t see. The entire length of the book that is visible to him is one long and suspicious blank page.

“I know a little bit about it,” Harry says, feeling guilty for not caring enough to know more.

He’d avoided learning who his soulmate was for one whole year. Various adoring witches and wizards, armed with Amortentia, suggestibility potions, and sometimes the stray Felix Felicis had landed on the steps of the Ministry in hopes of convincing Harry that he was, in fact, their soulmate. He wonders, at times, if he sent them away too quickly because it isn't entirely impossible that one of them might actually be telling the truth. But it was too much work to discern honest people from all the liars, and Harry wasn’t particularly in the mood to meet his soulmate in such a fashion. A large part of him liked the idea of being able to choose who he spent the rest of his life with. It hardly seemed fair that this would be another choice snatched from him without a second thought.

Still, although everyone seems to know that Harry hasn’t found his match yet, it worries him more than he’s willing to admit.

“Well, allow me to preface by saying, you don’t necessarily need to be romantically involved with your pair if you choose not to be. Becoming close friends, confidants, or lovers all constitute safe and healthy ways to go about this process,” she says.

Harry’s shaking leg slows beneath the desk. “So, once I find out, I don’t necessarily have to tell the person, or talk to them?”

“No, Mr Potter, that’s not what I mean,” Ethel’s face becomes serious. “Let me be clear: once you know who the person is, over the course of a few days you’ll begin to feel their core, their magic in your body. It’ll be subtle, but you will be aware of another presence there. After knowing a specific name, your core will fight back if you try to push it away.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” Harry says nervously. “Like it’ll get angry?”

“Magical cores are akin to living things,” Ethel explains, wonder in her eyes at the subject. “They have desires, likes, dislikes, passions, if you will. If your core knows its pair, and you refuse to give it what it wants, it’ll destroy you.”

“My own magic will betray me?” Harry asks, his voice going a little higher in pitch than he’d like.

“Yes indeed, and it could kill you,” Ethel says sternly. “It wants to protect you, but it would undoubtedly protect itself first. Please do not take this lightly, Mr Potter. I know how challenging it can be for those raised in the Muggle world to come to terms with something like this. I’ve been working here and matching people since the Ministry opened the program back up, and I've studied soulmate magic for several years. Things can either go very right or very wrong.”

Harry swallows, feeling his throat tighten with worry. “Do you have any water?” he asks hoarsely.

“How about tea,” Ethel offers kindly, her features softening at the anxiety in Harry’s tone.

He nods, and she goes to the corner table to busy herself with the kettle and cups.

“I know this can be incredibly stressful,” she says into the silence. The soft bubble of the kettle has been replaced by emptiness, and Harry can hear nothing but unpleasent buzzing in his ears. “But this is a good thing.”

Harry can hardly agree. Between balancing his hectic career as an Auror, embarrassingly obvious lack of a social life, and questions from his friends due to both of those things, the last thing he really needs is to add fuel to the flames. But Hermione had also insisted that this would be a “good thing,” and Harry had become increasingly irritated by the barrage of harassment from suitors attempting to claim him as their soulmate. If he publicly acknowledged that he had found his, there was no need to be woken every morning at the crack of dawn by a peeping Tom. So really, he’s trying to convince himself that he’s doing this for pure reasons. If the reality is that there’s a lingering curiosity as well, Harry chooses to ignore that aspect entirely.

“What if it’s someone I don’t know?” Harry asks, mostly to himself.

“It usually isn’t,” Ethel says. “Soulmates tend to find their way to each other no matter what. It’s very rare that paired cores are complete strangers. In a fascinating way, magic will bring people together without them even realising it.”

“I think that makes it scarier,” Harry says, flushing at the admission.

“It probably does, but you’re meant to be a part of this person’s life. It can be scary, but it can also be deeply fulfilling.”

Ethel brings two cups of tea back to the desk, setting one in front of Harry. He thanks her and takes a tentative sip, burning his tongue immediately on the hot liquid. He’s never been one for patience.

As the anticipation builds, he finds his head clearing just a bit. It feels better to know that he won’t need to force a romantic relationship if he doesn’t want one, but he’ll have to maintain a friendship at least. He hopes it’ll be someone nice, someone sensitive to his reservations too.

“I think I’m ready to find out now,” Harry says.

“Alright.” Ethel takes a final sip of her tea before setting the cup down onto the desk. It clatters roughly against the wood and, for a moment, Harry wonders if the liquid will spill over. “Best to get to it quickly. Just sit still for me, please.”

Harry does, feeling an uncomfortable pressure intensify in his chest as Ethel begins a set of incantations foreign to him entirely.

“You’ll just feel a slight twinge—”

“Ah! Fuck—” Harry cries out unexpectedly, gripping the sides of his chair until his knuckles are snow white.

There’s a sharp pain blooming behind his ribs, and a soft crackle of energy, as something glowing orange and stringy emerges from the middle of his chest and floats itself to Ethel. Harry stares, mesmerised as the coil of light hovers just above the large book.

“This is a small portion of your magical core, Mr Potter. I’ll just send it in to the book here, and it’ll come back to us with its partner.”

The coil disappears silkily into the parchment before returning just seconds later, wrapped around another. The second coil is significantly smaller, glowing much softer than Harry’s own, and more of a faded and dim yellow to his burning orange.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” Harry asks through gritted teeth. His body feels a bit uneasy, even with just that small portion of his magical core removed.

Ethel frowns for a moment before schooling her expression back into professionalism. Still, she hesitates for a moment too long, and Harry takes notice. “All wizards have unique cores,” she says, but doesn’t offer more than that.

Harry feels a bit like he’s being drained of energy and neglects to question her any further.

She thumbs through a couple more pages, clicking her tongue as she reaches what is presumably the necessary one. Scanning her index finger down the page, she stops just a hair from the bottom. Her eyes widen almost comically, and she looks up at Harry with an indiscernible expression. Quickly, she waves her wand, muttering a soft incantation, and Harry’s core shoots back into his chest with a force that leaves him feeling as though he’s been punched in the stomach. Doubling over on the desk, he forces one breath and then another.

“Mr Potter,” Ethel says nervously, “I think it would be wise to have Ms Granger in here with you.”

“Why,” Harry coughs out, despite his healthy physique, heaving as though he’s run a marathon. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Ethel squeaks. “I’m just going to fetch her, give me one moment.”

Harry takes another sip of tea, too overwhelmed and confused to go after her or really even wonder why she’s bringing Hermione in. It’s only a minute later that Hermione enters, wide-eyed and wary. Ethel effortlessly transfigures a stepstool into a chair for Hermione, who takes a seat next to Harry.

“Is everything alright?” Hermione whispers.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, bewildered.

“Mr Potter.” Ethel closes the book in a single, sweeping motion. “I’m going to cut to the chase here. Although I wish the circumstances were different, and someone as noble and important to our society was matched with someone of the same stature, it doesn’t always work out like that. Magical cores are rooted in fate and destiny, two words plenty of wizards like to pretend do not exist.”

Harry can practically feel Hermione roll her eyes next to him, and Ethel huffs.

“Okay,” Harry says cautiously. “So, who is it?”

“Mr Draco Malfoy bears the complementary magical core to your own,” Ethel says reluctantly. Harry thinks he must be hallucinating. “If I could change the fact that your soulmate is a Death Eater, it would be the first thing that I would do.”

There’s an unpleasantly loud silence in the room as Harry struggles to come to terms with what has just been said. He must be going crazy.

“There’s definitely been a mistake,” Harry finally says. He’s too calm and casual for it to be normal, but he just knows this is wrong. It’s all wrong. “Try again.”

“Mr Potter, I unfortunately cannot try again. To reach back into your magical core would be too dangerous at this point. I am certain of the name.” Ethel fidgets against the desk, as though she’d rather be anywhere in the entire world than in the room with Harry.

Hermione has neglected to speak, seemingly stunned into silence, and Harry looks to her for direction.

“Hermione, this is a joke, there must have been an error in the system. Help me out here,” Harry pleads, frowning at the two of them.

“I don’t think it’s a joke.” Hermione’s voice is barely above a whisper as she speaks it, but she looks guilty enough that Harry feels his chest swell with rage.

“Absolutely not.” Harry shakes his head and a small, uncomfortable laugh escapes his lips. “This is, no—definitely not.”

He stands quickly, the chair rattling against the floor as he pushes it aside, and a crazed laugh escapes his lips.

“Harry—” Hermione says, moving to catch his hand in her own.

Harry pulls away, feeling suddenly suffocated by the space. He forces himself to walk, not run, and leaves the office with a stinging feeling in his chest. As he re-enters the waiting area, the receptionist gives him a warm smile and a thumbs up. The witch who had gawked at him and Hermione earlier is still seated, excitement and nervousness plain on her face. Harry wishes he could tell her not to get her hopes up, but he stays silent as he passes her to the exit.

When he’s finally Apparated into the foyer of Grimmauld Place and hung up his raincoat and umbrella on the rack to dry, he puts a hole through the wall in the hallway. His fist comes back brown and bloody, and Harry feels guilty just looking at it. His hand hurts as he flexes it experimentally, but he doesn’t much care to make use of a Healing Charm. The constant throbbing feels like a familiar friend, especially in his line of duty.

A soft meow from the kitchen pulls his attention, and he heads in the direction of the pantry. While he’s not quite hungry enough for a proper breakfast, something in his stomach might soothe the ache there.

“Claude,” he says, with a nod of his head toward the cat sitting unassumingly on the countertop.

Claude licks his paw, eyeing Harry and his bleeding hand warily.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Harry says, washing his purpled knuckles under running water. “You would’ve done the same thing if you were in my situation.”

Claude cocks his head to the side as if to say, no, I most certainly would not have.

There’s the distinct woosh of the Floo from the parlour, and Harry doesn’t bother turning around as he hears Hermione stumble into his foyer and then into the kitchen.

“Harry, you just left,” she says crossly, though the frustration quickly disappears from her face. “What in Merlin’s name did you do to your hand?”

“Biscuits,” Harry asks instead, pulling a plastic container out of the cupboard and placing a few on a plate in front of them. He waves his wand, and the kettle pours scorching hot water into a Chudley Cannons mug courtesy of Ron.

“No,” Hermione says warily. “Thank you.”

Harry pulls up a barstool at the island, and Hermione stands across from him, her arms folded over the length of her torso.

“We need to talk about this,” she says after a few moments of silence.

Harry takes a tentative sip of tea, and then dips the edge of a custard cream into the liquid. He chews slowly and deliberately before forcing himself to swallow.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You can’t ignore what just happened,” Hermione argues, leaning her hips up against the counter.

“I’m not going to ignore it,” Harry says listlessly, “I’m just not going to think about it.”

Hermione groans, putting a hand to her forehead. “Harry that's the same thing. You are going to make your life, and Malfoy’s, hell if you don’t sort this out somehow.”

“Did you get Ron?” Harry asks, meeting her eyes after a long while.

Hermione nods, and Harry feels his heart clench painfully in his chest. It's not an entirely fair or true thought and is one he'll never voice aloud, but he often wonders why things always seem to be so easy and straightforward for them when they can be so painfully hard for himself.

Harry sighs, brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face. He’s due for a haircut, as Hermione will soon be pointing out.

“Listen,” Hermione says, pulling out the barstool next to Harry and taking a seat. “I will never be able to force you to do something you don’t want to do, but this isn’t a choice. This is a matter of life and death here. Even if you never explicitly tell him you’re soulmates, your body will still need to be around him, and you have to honour that.”

“But what if I don’t want to,” Harry replies stubbornly.

“It’s not a question of whether you want to or not. I hope you know that.” Hermione shakes her head. “Things in life have never been easy for you, Harry. You’ve survived so much. Don’t let this be the one thing that ruins all of that.”

“This is Malfoy we’re talking about here; you do realise that, don’t you?” Harry protests. “I cannot, no, I will not spend the rest of my life around the git just to satisfy some ancient wizarding practise. That hardly seems fair.”

“It’s not fair.” Hermione shrugs, pity layering her tone. “You’ve sacrificed so much, and now this too. I can’t imagine how you feel.”

“I don’t feel great.”

Hermione is silent then, and Harry offers her a custard cream. She accepts it with a small smile.

“This isn’t the end of the world,” she says. “You don’t need to be romantically involved, just on good terms.”

“Good terms?” Harry gives a scornful laugh. “I’m not sure how that’s ever going to happen.”

Hermione fixes him with a stern gaze. “You’re going to have to make it happen if you hope to live for the next however many years.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “At this point, I’m not even sure where the hell I’m supposed to find him.”

“Well, his home would be a good start.”

“I should just knock on the door and ask for Narcissa to take me to his room?” Harry asks incredulously. “I can’t just do that!”

“Harry,” Hermione groans. “You don’t have to tell him he’s your soulmate. You just need to patch up your relationship and become friends. That’s not the hardest task in the world.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “We don’t even have a relationship to start with. He’ll just throw me back out onto the doorstep with the rest of us impure half-breeds.”

“Things aren’t like that anymore. You testified for them,” Hermione points out.

“I thought it was the right thing to do,” Harry says, his statement losing some of its fire and becoming quiet.

“There must have been a reason that you thought it was the right thing to do then, don’t you think?” Hermione says softly as she takes his hand in hers.

“I know,” Harry squeezes her hand reassuringly. “It’s fine. Everything will be fine.” He seems to be saying it more to himself than to Hermione at all.

“I think you should go see him,” Hermione implores.

The thought of even going to the Manor sets Harry on edge more than he’d been the entire morning. There’s something still so visceral and raw that he remembers about the place. Too many terrible memories living within its walls.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell when I go to Malfoy Manor again,” he says, with a pained expression on his face.

Chapter Text

Harry shivers as his dragonhide boots make imprints in the snow-buried walking path of Malfoy Manor.

It’s been a couple of weeks since he’d received the news, and Harry has already begun to feel the effects of being apart from Malfoy, whether he is going to admit to it or not. He’s come down with a terrible cold and fever, which he is sure isn’t from the bad weather, since he’s been at home or at the office for most of his days. The following week, he had been sent out on a surveillance job; he’d merely tripped down a flight of stairs and shattered several bones as a result. The Healer who had mended them remarked that his bones were entirely too brittle for someone of his age and wanted to order more tests out of urgent concern. Harry had refused, knowing what was causing his sudden deterioration, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it out loud.

The most startling occurrence of the past two weeks had hardly been the revelation of his soulmate as Malfoy, but the reactions that both Ron and Ginny had expressed after he’d told them and sworn them to secrecy.

“Mate, I saw this coming from a mile away,” Ron said, shaking his head in amusement as Harry held back from releasing unbridled fury out into The Burrow’s calm Sunday brunch atmosphere.

“Yeah, Harry, I have to say this isn’t much of a surprise,” Ginny said through a mouthful of roast she’d snagged from Molly’s slow cooker before the meal. “You were always obsessed with each other. Anyone with eyes would have noticed.”

Harry had stormed away in a huff, locking himself up in Ron’s old bedroom before being coaxed down by Hermione to come eat.

He had known he was acting incredibly juvenile but couldn’t help it. Malfoy always managed to bring that side out of him.

There’s something about the Manor at Christmas that looks entirely too cosy for Harry’s liking. Warm and inviting yellow lights glow from large bay windows, and Harry can see a Christmas tree, decorated with embellished bulbs, just inside. The estate seems alive in a way that it hadn’t been to Harry when he’d been here during the war. There is colour and life to the whole place that makes him uneasy. He thinks it's unfair that Malfoy lives in what appears to be a welcoming and enchanting home while Harry’s place is so cold that it looks like it belongs to someone else completely.

He’d moved into Grimmauld Place just after the war. Ron and Hermione had stayed with him for a couple of years, until they were all twenty, and Hermione was saying that they were adults and needed to live adult lives properly.

At twenty-three, Harry feels even younger than when the battle first ended.

He’s up to the large brass knocker and the front door much faster than he would’ve liked to be. If it were a warmer day, Harry might meander around the front gardens for a bit, just to kill time or avoid the inevitable. He’s surprised at himself that it took so little time for him to crack. If it weren’t for the physical aspects of the separation, Harry would never have found himself at the Manor at all.

He steels himself before the door for a moment, replaying the hypothetical conversation he had with the mirror that morning. When Draco opens the door, he’s just going to be upfront. He’s going to tell him what’s going on and everything will be fine and will eventually go back to normal. Harry reaches up, pulling woolen mittens off to raise the snake-coiled knocker against the door. It makes a loud ringing noise as it collides with the wood and is much louder than Harry would’ve expected. Waiting for a while longer, he resists the urge to do it again and is sure someone inside must have heard by now.

The temperature drops a few degrees as Harry waits, and his breath in front of him is nothing but white smoke. His nose is cold and numb, and probably red.

After much too long, the door opens itself, and Harry walks inside. There’s no one waiting in the foyer for him, but Harry’s content to give it a moment. He begins to take off his overcoat, and a nearby coat rack outstretches two arms to ease it from his shoulders.

There’s a warm fire crackling away in the hearth and sounds of soft classical music stream from somewhere upstairs. Yellow light pours down from ornate sconces, casting the room alight in a soft glow.

Harry aims a quick Drying Charm at his shoes because he’s embarrassed to notice how he’s tracking water and snow onto the large rococo rugs that carpet the entryway.

He hears footsteps before he sees anyone, coming from the far right side of the foyer. While he expects to see Malfoy himself, he’s not entirely surprised when Narcissa emerges from a dark hallway in a pair of fitted charcoal robes. He’s surprised that a house-elf hadn’t greeted him first, or that any sort of wards hadn’t alerted her of his presence.

“Mr Potter,” she says smoothly, seemingly unconcerned by his unexpected arrival in her home.

“Please, call me Harry.”

“Harry then,” she agrees. “Do you care to come in?”

“Er,” Harry pauses for a moment, wondering if he should just get to the point and then take his leave. “Sure, I guess.”

Narcissa raises an eyebrow, but then beckons him inside to follow. They turn down a hallway before she’s drawing him into a sunroom, although it is far too grey outside to be considered as such.

Still, the room is just as cosy and welcoming as the foyer. Large leather couches, walls of bookshelves, and hovering candles remind him, in the strangest way, of the Gryffindor common room.

“Please, sit,” she says, extending an arm toward one of many couches.

Harry takes a seat on the side of one, while Narcissa elects the armchair nearby.

“Kipsy?” she enquires aloud, and the familiar pop of a house-elf’s arrival alerts Harry to a new presence in the room.

“Yes, Mrs Malfoy,” she says, clasping her hands together excitedly, as though she isn’t called often.

“Tea for Harry and I would be lovely, and maybe some afternoon fare, please.”

Kipsy can barely contain her excitement, nodding her head vigorously. She Disapparates with another pop and a wide smile on her face.

“She doesn’t call you Master,” Harry observes before he can stop himself. He curses himself for speaking without thinking.

“I’ve instructed her not to. She was far too distressed to call me Narcissa, though, so we’ve come to a fair compromise.”

“Well that’s...nice,” Harry offers hesitantly. His eyes wander around the room, and despite the warm temperature of the space, he shivers.

“Would you like a blanket?” Narcissa offers. “You seem cold.”

Harry is taken aback by the query, especially the show of motherliness from a woman he would never have expected it from. It’s a very Molly kind of question. He shakes his head in response but burrows deeper into the soft leather of the sofa.

Kipsy Apparates in a moment later, with a tray of finger sandwiches and tea. She serves Harry coronation chicken onto a plate, though surprisingly, leaves Narcissa to her own devices. Seconds later, Kipsy is gone, and the room is silent save for the sounds in the fireplace.

Narcissa takes a bite of a sandwich and a slow sip of tea. She’s casual in her environment in a way that Harry has never seen her before. He doesn’t feel too hungry and places his plate back onto the coffee table.

“Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, may I ask why you’ve come so far from London?” Narcissa says coolly. There is no malice or disdain in her tone, rather a gentle and impassive curiosity.

“Yeah, er, I was hoping I could speak with Malfoy—no, sorry, Draco,” Harry says, stumbling over his words like he’s speaking for the first time. “I have some business with him and it’s quite urgent.”

Immediate concern flashes across Narcissa’s features before it is schooled back into careful nonchalance. “He’s not dead, is he?”

Harry suppresses a sound of surprise, eyes widening from behind his glasses. “Merlin, no, he’s not dead!”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with his sentencing, right? I’ve served my time quietly. As far as I’ve been informed, Draco has too. I assume we’ve done what has been asked of us?”

“No, no,” Harry says. “There’s nothing wrong with any of that. I just need to speak to him. It’s a personal matter.”

“You have just said it was business related,” Narcissa narrows her eyes, and takes another long sip from her cup.

Harry finds himself inexplicably and terrifyingly worried as to why her first instinct about Draco would be that he is dead.

“I guess it’s both,” Harry says, his voice weak. “Either way, is it possible to speak to him today? I’m sorry for showing up out of the blue, I probably should’ve sent an owl but I figured—”

“That I’d be here,” Narcissa finishes.

“Yes.”

Draco had only received a year of house arrest, while Narcissa had been given five. Lucius, deemed mentally unfit for Azkaban, was to be given care at home to serve out a sentence of fifteen years. Harry hates that he knows Lucius is in the house somewhere, probably bed-ridden, unable to speak, but still there.

“This is my last year here,” Narcissa says, looking around. “Kipsy assisted me in redecoration efforts. I attempted to make it as warm as possible because it never was.”

Harry nods, feeling awkward and uncomfortable and too intrusive to be inside her carefully crafted home. This version of the Manor is different, Harry concedes. It’s more of a home than it ever was.

“It looks nice,” Harry offers in lieu of an uneasy silence.

“Doesn’t it?” Narcissa hums, content with his praise. “Unfortunately, Draco hasn’t seen it like this yet.”

“He hasn’t been home recently?” Harry asks, his brow furrowing.

“He hasn’t been home since the war.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and he suddenly feels ill. “Well, he’s alive, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is. I haven’t spoken to him since the trial.” Narcissa’s eyes water just a bit, and she averts her gaze, fixating on something on the carpet until they clear.

“Do you know where he is?” Harry asks, feeling his heart thumping away unpleasantly in his ribcage. There are quiet alarm bells going off in his head, and something feels a bit wrong. If anybody would know what Draco was doing after the war, Harry would have bet that it would be his precious mother. Now, he’s not so sure. But if Draco doesn't have her, then who does he have?

“People change,” Narcissa says softly, after a moment. “Even my own son. I don’t blame him for refusing to come home. This was never really a home to him, after all.”

“I can understand that,” Harry says, playing with his wand in his fingers and remembering the Dursley's house. A place to live and a home are, as he recognises, two very disparate concepts.

“Draco is different from how he used to be when he was younger.”

“Different?”

“Yes,” Narcissa says, without offering much more of an explanation. Harry doesn’t feel as though it’s his place to push.

“Is he alright?” Harry asks, unsure if his question stems from a place of pure curiosity or underlying concern.

“Truthfully, I’m unsure. My owls deliver him messages, but they never return with responses. I assume he’s receiving my correspondence, but I don’t want to pester him.”

“Well, do you know where he is?” Harry asks again, this time more demanding. He can’t believe Narcissa would remain so apathetic about her own son’s disappearance. Let alone her former Death Eater son. Harry finds himself a little furious that the Ministry wouldn’t keep better tabs. “I would think that you would go find him if you didn’t.”

“I do,” Narcissa says sharply. “Harry, you and Draco were never friends, so this is something that you will never understand about him. The more he is chased, the faster he runs away.”

Harry blinks, letting the statement sit heavy in his lap for a moment.

“What do you need him for?” she asks when Harry refuses a reply to her statement. “Official Ministry business would make more sense than your unannounced arrival at my door.”

“It’s complicated,” Harry says quietly, unsure if he’s ready to divulge any information to Narcissa just yet. If it would help him access Malfoy, then maybe, but he’s not entirely certain how she’ll react to the news.

And then, without forewarning, Harry’s mind begins to wander.

“You don’t happen to know who Malfoy’s soulmate is, do you?” Harry asks abruptly, unsure if he’s about to blow his cover or not. He knows it's a tactless move, and he wants to snatch the words back as they leave his lips.

Narcissa pauses for a moment, cocking her head to one side in confusion. “As far as I know,” she begins joylessly, “he hasn’t bothered to find out.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, this time, less eager and more careful.

“Well,” she clears her throat. “As I’ve already made you aware of, we haven’t spoken much recently, but I’ve heard from Pansy that he expressed no desire to find out.”

“He just doesn’t care,” Harry states plainly, and a large part of him can understand that.

“I’m not sure,” Narcissa says. “He’s not exactly in a state right now to be focusing on such things. That, I am certain of.”

“And what kind of state is he in then,” Harry says, failing to hide the ridicule threaded deep into his tone.

“It’s probably best that you see for yourself.” Narcissa stands then as if to say their time together is over.

Harry stands too, feeling small next to her although he matches her in height. He feels unmistakably as though he's overstayed his welcome.

As they make their way towards the door, Harry feels a certain sense of unease cloud his stomach. He had intended to come to the Manor and get the job done; in other words, he’d prepared himself for the uncomfortable conversation and subsequent repercussions. Now he’s at a loose end, unsure of where to go next, and if he should pursue Draco despite Narcissa’s strange warnings.

It’s odd to think of Malfoy as Draco, but Harry supposes it must be the first micro-step in an arduous journey.

Still, her words echo through Harry’s mind as they arrive in the foyer and the coat rack extends its arms to help his coat onto his shoulders. The evening was quick to come, and the sky is now a sheen of glimmering cobalt blue.

The more he is chased, the faster he runs away.

As Harry reaches for the door handle, Narcissa clears her throat.

“Harry,” she says gently, softer than she’s been since he’s arrived. “Take this.”

She holds out a ripped piece of parchment, folded in on itself, almost too crumbled to seem like anything important. He smooths it out in his palm, noticing the nearly illegible scratch of an address in crimson ink.

“I don’t—” Harry begins.

“Bring him home, Harry.” Narcissa exhales. “If you can.”

As Harry steps out into the frigid winter air, he feels the paper wet and the address mar against raindrops petering down from the sky. He barely registers himself walking the long length of the grounds and edging past the wrought iron gates before he’s Apparating directly into his bedroom, tearing through wards with a loud pop.

Harry scrambles for a notebook, a piece of stray parchment, anything really. In the end, he manages to locate a paper receipt from a Muggle convenience store he’d visited just the other day for a quick snack. Scrambling through his bedside drawer for a self-inking quill and finally locating one, Harry copies down the address before he can forget it, sticking it directly into his wall with a push-pin Sirius had used to hang up his posters.

He feels like the paper is looking right at him when he takes a step back from the wall and finally allows himself to breathe.

457 Mansfield Place, London NW3 1HS, is scrawled in Harry’s chicken-scratch. If it wasn’t his own handwriting, he’d probably be unable to make out the words and numbers himself.

He sits on his bed for an hour, dragging around a feather for Claude to paw at as he considers what his next steps are. If this is the home of Draco himself, Harry would need to strategise better than to simply show up on any given evening and just dump out life-altering information onto him. But on the other hand, Harry cannot get Narcissa’s words out of his head. If Draco is prone to running away, it would be unwise to alert him of Harry’s arrival at all. Maybe it would be smarter to catch him off-guard; that way, there would be no room for error or avoidance.

And it’s with a stubborn resolve and unbearable impulsivity that Harry decides he might as well go see Draco tonight. It’s bordering upon eight in the evening, and he has nothing better to do with the remaining hours of the day besides letting Claude harass him until he goes mad, so what better to do than announce to Draco sodding Malfoy that they’re fated to spend the rest of their lives together.

Harry feels he might be going a little crazy with the information inside of his head, and it doesn’t help that he’s physically completely out of sorts as well. Simply walking downstairs to gather his things feels like it’ll be a trek across the Sahara. He forces himself to stand anyway, groaning as his bones adjust uncomfortably into place. His fever had broken earlier that morning, but despite numerous Pepper-Up potions, he doesn’t really feel much better. Claude mewls disconcertedly at his leave, but Harry only rolls his eyes. The cat is the dramatic sort.

Downstairs, Harry grabs his coat before pausing to look down at his dirty work boots. He hadn’t noticed how terribly muddy they were when visiting Narcissa at the Manor, but now that he knows he is going to see Draco for certain, things are different. It isn’t that he wants to look good for him, but he wants to appear presentable and leave little room for any harsh insults or teases. Despite the protests from his aching body, he takes the stairs two at a time to put on a pair of sleek lace-up tobacco boots. He was never the best at dressing himself, but one peek in the mirror and a half-hearted run of his fingers through his hair is enough to convince him that he looks just fine, thank you very much.

After locking up Grimmauld Place, Harry heads for the tube.

He can’t visualise the area that Draco lives in well enough to properly Apparate there, though he thinks he knows of the place. Harry finds he lives quite far from Hampstead once he’s been on the train about a half hour and still hasn’t reached his destination.

He reaches the Hampstead stop soon after that. Using a discreet Point-Me Charm, he takes a deliberate right onto Heath Street, trudging down the dimly lit main road toward what can only be the general area of Mansfield Place. It’s a nice area, Harry thinks, as he begins his walk down a narrow, wooded path. It’s too dark for him to make out more than shapes, but he knows that if it were light out the whole place would be green and lush and gorgeous.

Number 457 Mansfield Place is nothing like what Harry would’ve expected when he opens the small iron gate and lets himself inside the front garden. What takes him off-guard almost immediately is how homely the place is, almost more so than the Manor. Stalks of emerald ivy and philodendron climb up the worn stucco walls, gnarling around wooden-framed windows, each a different shape from the next. The structure itself is oddly tall and skinny, reminding Harry distinctly of The Burrow in the way it feels like the whole thing will just keel over at any moment and crumble on top of him. In a way, it almost seems like there are two houses stacked one on top of the other: a small, white cottage on the lower half and a bricked townhouse with a spiral staircase on the outside emerging from the top. It has to be the strangest wizarding home that Harry has ever seen, and there's no doubt it must be Disillusioned from Muggles.

The front garden is cramped at best and feels even more claustrophobic due to overgrown plants, weeds, and flowers that litter the small planter boxes haphazardly interspersed amidst the mossy cobblestone patio.

The place is so far from what Harry would picture Draco Malfoy living in that he checks the address on his parchment once, then twice to make absolutely sure he isn’t about to walk into a poor old lady’s home at a quarter past nine in the evening and scare her shitless.

The street is quiet save for the occasional passing car as Harry gathers the courage to head for the front door. He’s not the tallest person in the world, but he knows he’ll certainly have to duck under the entryway to get inside. Draco’s quite lanky himself, and Harry wonders if it doesn’t bother him to do that every single day. It seems like something that would.

Harry brings his hand up to knock, slowing as it gets closer to the wood. The door is gothic-shaped, with a point at the top that, for some reason, makes him anxious to look at. There’s a small arched window at the centre, but Harry can only see blackness inside. It almost seems like no one is home.

He steels himself before the door for the second time that night, wondering why Draco couldn’t have just made this easier on him by staying at the Manor like he damn well was expected to. But Harry supposes after spending a year under house arrest, one might grow tired of the same surroundings. Maybe that’s why he chose to live in such an eccentric place, in a quiet and residential part of town. There’s not much excitement in Hampstead. Mostly families and the occasional tourist. But it’s not the liveliest after hours, by any means.

So, Harry takes a deep breath and then one more before deciding it’s probably the right time to stop skulking around the front garden of a house that isn’t his, in the dark, like some sort of burglar. He knocks before he can change his mind and cringes when it comes out loud and echoey through the empty neighbourhood.

There’s no answer for much longer than he expects, and he taps his toes impatiently against the welcome mat. It pleasantly reads: Piss off!, in some curly font, highly-contradictory to its meaning.

As Harry is bringing up his fist to knock again, the door swings open, and he takes an instinctive step back.

Seamus Finnigan is grinning at home from behind the door.

“Harry?” He yelps the question, his hooded eyes going wide with excitement. “It’s nice to see you, mate.”

Chapter Text

Harry can only hear the bass, a pounding rhythm circling throughout the house and reverberating through every bone in his body. The lights are dim and low, and figures sway back and forth attuned to roaring music that he doesn’t particularly like.

Seamus leads him inside, and the party rages on without taking note of a new arrival.

It feels strange that Draco Malfoy would be throwing a party in his home, and that Seamus would be in attendance. As Harry gets further inside, he is surprised to see various familiar faces: the Patil twins chug something from red cups in the corner, both of their arms hooked around, of all people, Astoria Greengrass. Lavender and Dean sit hazy-eyed, tucked up next to each other on the couch, enraptured by Millicent fucking Bulstrode recounting some sort of tale that elicits quite a reaction from her audience. Goyle is kissing Katie Bell on an armchair by the fireplace.

Harry feels like he’s walked into some sort of alternate universe where, suddenly, Slytherins and Gryffindors actually can get along. He’d known, albeit bitterly, that it was possible for a while, Blaise and Ginny’s picture-perfect relationship being the perfect example of such, but he often finds himself hard-pressed to let go of the past and is surprised that his fellow schoolmates are not.

“Seamus,” Harry yells over the music, “what is all this?”

“Can’t hear you, mate!” Seamus calls back, tapping his ears. “Just follow me!”

Harry does, and Seamus guides him expertly through the crowd as though he’s navigated it several times before. No one seems surprised to see Harry there, though many still wave and smile.

“Harry!” Parvati calls from across the sitting room. “S’nice to see you.”

She says it like they don’t work together and talk almost every single day. Harry can tell she’s drunk by the way the words come out of her mouth all slurred and meshed together. He offers a sheepish smile and a one-armed hug before grabbing for Seamus, who leads him into the kitchen.

It’s quieter in here, Harry notices, and the sound of thumping music is fading into background buzz. Luna is sitting cross-legged on the counter, organising bottles of alcohol by height and colour.

“Harry.” She smiles, beckoning him forward for a hug.

He lets himself be pulled in, breathing in the scent of crushed lavender and root vegetables. She’s presumably been working in the garden.

“Luna,” Harry breathes when she releases him from the tight squeeze.

Seamus pours himself a drink and motions to Harry.

He probably shouldn’t drink but fuck it. If he is going to see Draco tonight, one drink can't hurt. He nods back at Seamus who gives a toothy grin.

“I didn’t know you knew, er, Malfoy,” Harry says awkwardly.

Luna responds with a tinkling laugh, “I don’t know him well, but he invites me to these often, and I enjoy speaking with him. He has interesting things to say.”

“Does he?” Harry resists the urge to snort.

“He does, you know!” Seamus defends, sliding a drink smoothly into Harry’s open hand. He can already smell how strong it is without putting it to his nose at all. “He’s changed a lot since the war.”

“Has he?” Harry replies breathlessly, taking a sip of his drink. It tastes foul, though he’s never loved alcohol anyway.

He wonders where Draco is in the mess of his own home.

“Doesn’t hurt that he throws us consolation parties for his sins every weekend,” Seamus remarks, taking another swig of his drink. “It’s almost like an apology.”

“It’s Friday,” Harry remembers warily, recalling that he had elected to take a half day from work and would realistically have to go back to the office tomorrow to make up for it. “Do none of you have work?”

“Oh, we all have work,” Seamus laughs. “But unlike you, Mister Auror Potter, we get to take our weekends off. We were in a war and never had a normal year of school. I would say all of us, especially you, mate, deserve to let go a bit in spare time.”

Harry doesn’t necessarily disagree, but they’re not children anymore. It has been a couple of years since the war.

“I’m going to head back out there, mate, but you have fun. You’re all wound up sometimes, just let yourself enjoy this.” With those words, Seamus leaves Harry and Luna alone in the kitchen. Harry finds himself strangely stung by the comment.

“Would you like something to eat?” Luna asks. “I made Neville and Seamus grilled cheese sandwiches with fresh truffles, earlier this evening. Draco seems to have a whole stock in the pantry. He accumulates some amazing things.”

“Draco,” Harry plays with the foreign word on his tongue and then decides he doesn't quite like it. “Where’s Neville?” he asks abruptly, changing tack.

“Oh, he’s probably outside or upstairs,” Luna says, returning to her re-organising of the liquor bottles. “Sometimes he needs a moment or two to be alone. I’ll join him later.”

Harry nods. “And you two are well?”

Luna beams, her ocean eyes shining bright and sharp. “We’re very lucky, Harry,” she says softly. “How are you?”

Harry knows he pauses for a moment too long before answering, but he’s never been able to lie well to Luna, no one really can. “I’m fine.”

She quirks an eyebrow in response. “Go out there, Harry. Do something that makes you happy.”

Harry doesn’t really want to leave the quiet haven of the kitchen for the loud party, but he’s reluctant to voice those concerns to Luna at all. He offers her a small smile before venturing back out the way that Seamus came in. If it were possible, the sitting room has gotten darker, and is more packed than when he’d walked in. There are more unfamiliar faces now.

He never drinks much at all, which is probably why, when he looks down to see an empty cup in his hand, his stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch. The room isn’t spinning quite yet, but Harry is dazed and fuzzy-headed, just at the brink of tipsy and waiting to fall into inebriation. It feels good to let go.

Harry refills his cup with a stray bottle on the fireplace mantel and clumsily finds his way to the couch. He collapses on the other side of Lavender, as Dean has fallen asleep on her shoulder.

“Harry Potter,” Lavender smiles brightly, reaching out a hand for Harry to take. With her other hand, she casts a charm that removes much of the noise in the room. Harry’s ears ring out in the silence.

Harry shakes her hand, feeling awkward and uncomfortable and completely out of his element. He hasn’t spoken to her since the war. “Hi Lavender,” he says. “It’s nice to see you.”

As much as he tries to hide it, he can’t help how his eye is drawn to three long and red scars that tear open the otherwise spotless skin of her cheek. One runs deep and rough, just across her eye.

“Nice to see you too, love. It’s been too long. I’d ask you about work but I don’t think you’re here to talk about it,” Lavender chuckles, swiping a lock of curly blonde out of her eyes.

Harry shakes his head with a small smile. “I’m really not.”

“I haven’t ever seen you at Draco’s,” she remarks, stroking fingers through Dean’s hair as he dozes quietly.

Harry wonders when everyone has begun to accept him as Draco and not Malfoy. And while he’s certain he knows why he’s never been invited to one of these events, he can’t help but feel a stab of jealousy at the fact that everyone has been getting together without him. If Luna and Neville know, Harry guesses that Ron and Hermione might as well.

But Harry will, and always will be, just another reminder of the war. The singular person who symbolises the atrocities they all lived through, even if he was just a kid, too. Nobody wants that kind of buzzkill at a party.

“I don’t get out often,” Harry says truthfully. “Work keeps me busy, among other things.”

Lavender nods, like she already knows. “I work at the Ministry, too, you know. Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

Harry coughs awkwardly and leaves the question in the air before trying to cover himself. “Yes, er, of course, I know that.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” Lavender chuckles, looking down at Dean with affection. “We all have our priorities.”

“So, you and Dean,” Harry says, noticing how close they are.

“Just friends.” Lavender smiles gently. “Soulmates, but we’ve decided to keep it platonic. We love each other, of course, but it’ll never be romantic.”

“Does that make you sad?” Harry asks, the words tumbling from his lips before he can keep them in. He curses himself for getting tipsy enough to loosen an already loose filter.

Lavender doesn’t seem to take any offense though, returning her long, manicured nails to Dean’s hair. “Not at all. We agreed quite quickly after we found out. I’m not really interested in men anyway—romantically, that is. I’m actually with Parvati right now.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “That’s wonderful then. It seems like you’re doing really well.”

“We’re all doing the best we can,” she says earnestly.

Harry takes another sip of his drink, even though he knows he probably shouldn’t. He checks his watch, and it’s almost eleven. He’s not sure where the time went.

“Somewhere to be?” Lavender asks.

“No, not really.”

“Go upstairs then.”

“Sorry?” Harry asks, resisting the urge to cough as the rough feeling of Firewhisky burns a tunnel down the length of his throat.

“Upstairs,” Lavender repeats, picking up her wand to end the Silencing Charm. “I think you’ll be intrigued by what you find there.”

Suddenly, the noise of the party comes roaring back in full force, and Harry feels distinctly more intoxicated. His vision has gone a little blurry around the edges, and there’s the unmistakable feeling of unequivocal happiness that lingers every time his mind goes numb.

Harry can’t tell where the flashing lights are coming from, but he’s mesmerised by the different colours dancing in shadowy shapes across his limbs.

He ventures out of the sitting room and back into the foyer where a set of steep steps ascend into a dark hallway. Harry’s unsure if anyone is upstairs at all, but he’s feeling confident and drunk and like Lavender would know what she was talking about.

He climbs them slowly, taking care to balance himself on the railing. When he reaches the landing, there’s hardly any light except for some that seeps out from under the crack of the first door he sees.

When Harry opens the door, he notices the design of the bedroom first. Everything is a lovely walnut wood from the floorboards to the dressers to the looming bookcased walls. A large ornamental rug is spread across the hardwood, and there are floor pillows littering the ground, surrounded by trays of tea, biscuits, and a soft white powder that Harry can’t identify. But what draws his eye is the bed that is far too large to sleep one person. Gauzy olive-green curtains surround the frame, obscuring shadowed figures. There’s a light, and breathy laughter, coming from inside.

He doesn’t think anyone’s really heard him, and the music playing from downstairs is still far too loud. Harry closes the door gently behind him and approaches the bed. When he pulls back the gauze, he finds himself less surprised than he should be by the scene in front of him.

“Potter,” Draco says slowly, drooping eyes drawing themselves up Harry’s body to meet his own.

Draco, Theodore Nott, and Pansy Parkinson are arranged in a circle on the large bed. Harry, finding himself drunker than he expects, sits just on the edge for some stability. Draco, with a slender and pale finger, beckons him forward. Harry complies without thought, scooting forward just enough so that he completes the missing link in their circle.

“Potter, Potter, Potter,” Draco chants, as though saying it three times will somehow make Harry disappear.

“S’my name,” Harry mumbles incoherently.

Draco’s wearing a pair of clubmaster eyeglasses, but from behind the frames, Harry can barely see any silver. His pupils are dilated to the point of almost black.

“He’s an Auror,” Pansy quips, swirling a negligible amount of champagne around in a flute.

“Oh, an Auror,” Draco says, drawing out the last syllable and rolling it out around on his tongue. “You won’t arrest us for this right?”

Despite the valid question, there’s a cool ease to the way Draco gestures to the baggies in front of him. Now that they’re easily in view, Harry recognises them for what they are.

“Drugs,” he identifies.

“Observant, isn’t he?” Draco says, as though he’s trying to show off Harry to the group.

Theo thumps his head down on the pillow, his eyes staring fixedly on the ceiling.

“Is he okay?” Harry asks.

“Probably not,” Pansy sighs, reaching a skinny arm out to shake at Theo’s leg. “Wake up.”

“Are you all on drugs?” Harry asks, biting his lip.

“Well,” Draco begins coyly, “I shouldn’t be admitting to things like that around an Auror. Merlin only knows what you’ll do to me when you’re sober.”

“Draco,” Harry says, unsure of what else he is planning on saying next.

Draco cocks his head to the side with a puzzled smirk. “You call me Malfoy, usually.” He adjusts himself so he’s sitting closer to Harry, cross-legged on the comforter in a pair of ridiculous Christmas-striped fuzzy socks.

“Don’t you think we’re too old for last names?”

“We’re only twenty-three,” Draco points out. “I’d hardly call that old.”

“I, for one, feel old,” Pansy announces, leaning back onto the bedpost with a dramatic sigh. “All the body aches.”

“Hm,” Draco hums, using a rolled-up Muggle banknote to do another line off the cover of a book. “It’s probably the drugs.”

Harry sucks in a breath. He feels a bit like he’s going to be sick. “Isn’t that stuff bad for you?”

“It’s certainly not good,” Pansy sighs, narrowing her eyes disapprovingly at Draco going in for another line. “Slow down.”

Draco looks up at her haughtily. “I’ll do another if you say that again. Don't mother me.”

Pansy holds her hands up in surrender. “I’m going to take Theo to the bathroom. Yell out if Potter tries to murder you.”

Harry makes an exasperated sound, and Draco only laughs.

“It’s more likely that he’d kill me, you know?” Harry calls after Pansy. She has already hoisted Theo up into her arms and is walking him slowly from the bedroom.

“Play nice,” she warns the two of them, before closing the door loudly behind her.

Harry sits with the silence for a moment, and Draco leans back down on the pillow. He pats the open area next to him, and Harry lies down, too. It would be more strange if there wasn’t a valley of space between their bodies.

“You’re drunk, Potter,” Draco says, tearing his eyes away from the ceiling that Harry now notices has been enchanted to look like the night sky. "I don't believe I've ever seen you drunk.”

With a stab of sadness, he remembers the Great Hall.

“You can call me Harry.”

“Alright,” Draco concedes. “Harry, then.”

“I am drunk, probably.”

“You don’t seem like the type to drink.”

“Well, you don’t seem like the type to do—” Harry gestures at the powder-covered books between them.

“Don’t I?” Draco smirks, drawing his gaze back up to the sky. He lifts a hand up and points. “That’s my constellation.”

“You could probably go outside and see all of this instead,” Harry says. “Why stay in here?”

“It’s cold outside,” Draco shrugs. “My bed is much safer.”

Harry isn’t sure what he means, but he doesn’t continue the line of questioning.

“You’re in my home,” Draco observes, his breath coming unnatural and forced from his chest.

Harry isn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed it before, but Draco is so skinny. Too skinny. He’s about to mention it, though he holds his tongue. It’s probably not the politest thing to communicate to the host of a party.

“I am indeed,” he replies instead, letting himself sink further into the soft comfort of Draco’s squishy mattress. “Your bed is like a cloud.”

“It’s safe,” Draco repeats, his voice far off and distant as though someone else has spoken the words entirely.

Harry can practically see Draco riding out his high as his breaths turn shallower and shorter and time passes between them too slowly to make sense.

“What does it feel like?” Harry asks.

“The drugs?”

Harry nods.

“It feels like everything in my life, the good and the bad, fall away into nothing. And every worry, hope, or fear I’ve ever had is gone, and it’s just me alone with my high.” Draco inhales and then exhales. “Basically, it feels really fucking good.”

Harry turns his head, staring at Draco who is staring at the stars. He has cheekbones that could cut glass, and deep amaranthine circles under his eyes that look like special effects makeup from Muggle horror films. Harry isn’t sure how he had failed to notice it before, or if he is just sobering up now, but Draco looks skeletal, like a dying version of himself.

“The last time I saw you was at the trials.”

Draco stiffens next to him. “Yeah,” he says, his tone clipped. “But you’re here now.”

“I am.”

“I don’t recall inviting you,” Draco says, but there isn’t any malice behind his observation.

“I wasn’t invited,” Harry admits, with a contrite smile.

“Ah,” Draco simpers, clearing his throat as his nonchalant demeanour returns. “A gatecrasher, are you?”

“I guess so.”

“Why are you here, Harry?”

Harry swallows, feeling a lump grow in his dry throat. He’s not sure right now, or ever, is the best time to inform Draco of their unfortunate predicament. But they’re close now, physically, and Harry feels like a small pressing weight has been lifted from his chest.

He doesn’t really feel sick anymore.

“Do you think if you weren’t high right now we’d be having a normal conversation?” Harry asks, countering Draco’s question with one of his own.

Draco pauses for a moment, tearing his eyes reluctantly away from the night sky to meet Harry’s. Harry finds himself feeling suffocated under the gaze, as though it burns him to hold contact for too long.

“I don’t think so,” Draco muses. “But this is nice.”

“Nice,” Harry repeats. “I think I’m sober now.”

Draco scoffs. “You might feel like it, but I can guarantee you that whatever Seamus put in that punch will have you loopy all evening.”

Harry laughs, but it feels forced. Their moment of casual conversation, and little introspection, feels ruined by the burden of their intoxication. By the reality that, in the morning, this will be all gone.

“Do you think Theo’s okay?” Harry asks.

Draco shakes his head. “Can’t be sure.”

“You’re not worried?”

“If I worried every time one of us left planet Earth for a little too long, I’m not sure I’d ever be happy,” Draco chuckles, though he seems cheerless and resigned to the reality of such a statement.

Harry finds himself overwhelmed by the need to touch him. To feel his fingers, trace gently along Draco’s bone-white arms, linger around the exposed strip of skin just under his navel, and continue down his legs all the way to his bony, arched feet.

“So, you are happy?” Harry enquires, feeling foolish for needing to ask. But he’s not sure he believes Draco at all.

Draco doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to answer,” Harry says after a long while, knowing that he probably wasn’t planning on offering a response anyway.

“Do you want to try something amazing?” Draco asks suddenly, sitting up slowly in the bed and reaching out a steadying arm to the bedpost.

“What is it?” Harry asks cautiously. He’s not sure he’s ready to snort anything foreign and somehow fail a Ministry drug test.

“Will you trust me for once?” Draco says impatiently, reaching for a silver box on his nightstand. It opens with an inviting click.

He taps out a few pink diamond-shaped pills into his palm and holds one out for Harry. He takes it without really thinking twice, examining its figure between his thumb and forefinger.

“What will it do to me?”

“You ask too many questions,” Draco remarks, rolling onto his stomach and popping the pill into his mouth like a hard candy. He holds a hand out, indicating he wants Harry’s drink. Taking a quick sip, he swallows the drug and motions for Harry to do the same.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Harry confesses.

“It’s only ecstasy,” Draco says. “There’s far worse out there to start out with. I would know.”

“I don’t know about that,” Harry says uncertainly, but he takes the pill anyway. Harry hasn’t heard much about the drug, but the name doesn’t make it sound so bad. He knows he is definitely not sober, because only a severely inebriated version of himself would ever accept some sort of mystery drug from Draco Malfoy of all people.

It has to be about forty-five minutes later, though it feels like maybe five, when Harry starts to trip. Something inside of him feels lifted and unabridged. Free in a way he’s never felt before.

Still, he scrambles for Draco’s hand across the bed, unthinkingly wrapping his fingers up in Draco’s own, craving any kind of contact. Harry gasps.

“Feels good doesn’t it,” Draco slurs, flexing his fingers in Harry’s hand. “How something so simple, so human, as touch could feel so euphoric is beyond me.”

“It feels—” Harry pauses, unsure of what to say.

A part of him had expected to hallucinate or freak out. But this is better. Everything seems brighter and happier. Every sense is alight with electricity, waiting to be tested out and made use of.

“Like heaven?” Draco fills in.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“I’m ready to go,” Draco says.

“Go where?’

“The garden.”

Draco stands first, fuzzy socks slipping against the frictionless hardwood. Harry stands too, feeling a bit like he’s learning to walk for the first time. He reaches a steadying arm out, and Draco meets him on the other side, offering an elbow. Harry holds tight.

Downstairs, the party continues, and Harry can feel each distinct note of the music settling somewhere deep within the confines of his body. Every little movement feels different and new.

“We should dance,” Harry says breathlessly, pressed up against Draco’s side in the packed room. He’s surprised that he doesn’t feel overwhelmed. There’s a pervasive sense of calm. He knows he’s okay, and that Draco will have his back if he isn’t.

Draco hums, leading Harry to the middle of the floor.

There are unfamiliar faces all around them, though Harry spots Seamus in the corner chatting up a fit older man.

A shock of pleasure rushes through as he feels Draco press up against him, swaying to the music. Harry’s body moves with the beat, frenzied and unrestrained and probably wildly unattractive, though he can’t find it in himself to care. There’s no self-consciousness left to critique and pick apart every little aspect of his appearance anymore. He simply moves in a way that makes him feel good, enjoying how Draco’s warm arms wrap around his waist and pull him close.

Harry’s not sure how long they dance together like that before he’s being tugged away from the crowd. He’s outside before he realises it, chilling winter air feeling like sweet release from the sweaty atmosphere inside.

“Potter, I’ll never admit to saying this, but you’re not terrible company,” Draco remarks, bringing a Marlboro Red to his lips and lighting it with a half-hearted Incendio.

“Harry,” he corrects lazily, hazy eyes combing over the front garden. “And thanks, I think. You have a lot of plants.”

“They grow without my permission,” Draco says, puffing out a ring of smoke. “Do you want some?”

Harry shakes his head. “Do you do this often?”

Draco nods.

“Too often?” Harry asks.

Draco nods again. “Why would I want to stop feeling this good?”

Harry supposes it’s a fair question. He’s too high, too blissfully unaware, to consider why that answer may not sit well in the morning.

“You never told me why you came here,” Draco says after a few moments have passed.

Harry pauses for a moment. It would be the poorest time to tell Draco the real reason and would undoubtedly cause a rift in what seems like a tolerable relationship. He looks at the ground, pushing a stray pebble around with the tip of his boot. Somehow, the question sobers him.

“I came to see you,” Harry says truthfully, because he’s never been the best at lying and something tells him Draco will notice that.

“How flattering,” Draco deadpans.

“I haven’t seen many people since the war,” Harry says, quieter this time.

Draco stills next to him, ashing his cigarette in the soil.

“I don’t think I would’ve come if you’d invited me, but I’m curious as to why you didn’t.” Harry looks away as he says the words, unsure of why he’s even spoken them in the first place. The happiness of his high is already wearing thin.

Draco only shrugs. “Theo and Pansy usually invite people, and I stay upstairs when I can. I’ve never had much of a hand in planning these things, though even if I did, I can’t say I would’ve invited you. I don’t think you would, if you threw a party.”

“That’s true,” Harry says. “This must be the only civil conversation we’ve ever had with each other.”

“And you know why that is?” Draco smirks.

“Drugs?” Harry laughs.

“Drugs, indeed.”

Draco stands, dusting off his trousers and holding a hand out for Harry.

“Maybe we should head back inside, I’m starting to feel a little dizzy.”

Harry nods, taking Draco’s hand. They don’t let go as they walk back into the house together.

Chapter Text

Harsh and glaring sunlight streams cruelly through a set of open windows. Harry blearily opens one eye, and then the other, blinking multiple times to clear his vision before realising he’s not wearing any glasses. Reaching blindly for his nightstand, he feels around half-heartedly, fingers searching for his wire frames. As he puts them on, a bedroom comes to view, but one that he certainly doesn’t recognise.

The room is small and square, with dark walnut flooring and a nice desk in one corner, a Muggle computer hooked up to the wall. Harry notices the abrasive light is coming through a bay window, with a pillow and selection of classic novels piled high next to the seating area. Next, Harry notices the sheets, which are a vivid aubergine purple that even garish Aunt Petunia would never select for her home.

He suppresses a gasp as he turns his head to see a body buried under the coloured comforter, only the small peek of an exposed, freckled back to give any clue as to who it might be.

Harry sits up in the bed, regretting the decision immediately as his head spins unpleasantly in place. He knows he probably shouldn’t wake the sleeping body next to him, but it’s not someone he recognises immediately, and it sends a jolt of worry through his chest. While he can’t remember much of the night before, he certainly wouldn’t sleep with someone random…

So, with a strong resolve, he leans over to prod at the person next to him. Harry had figured he’d have to do it a couple times, but the person startles quickly.

“What the fuck,” Theo lifts his head from where it had been face-down in the pillow, creasing red lines across his cheek. “Potter, can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?”

Harry, with surprise, brings up a hand to cover his mouth.

“We didn’t—” Harry begins weakly.

“Fuck no!” Theo snaps, flopping back down unceremoniously onto his pillow. “D’you really think, if I had to actually sleep with a man, you’d be my first choice? Draco’s fit as hell, and I don’t even think he’d be able to turn me. Now, Seamus on the other hand...”

Harry doesn’t even have time to process the fact that he might have just outed himself to Theo, or that Theo had just outed Draco to him. With a burning sense of embarrassment, Harry begins to remember the events from the night before. His mind is full of images of Draco. Sitting in his bed, flush-cheeked, looking up at the scattering of stars in the night sky blending in with gauzy curtains. He remembers taking something small, a pill, feeling every sense like electricity thrumming through his body, Draco’s body against his, their bodies pressing against each other’s. Outside, Draco taking his hand, Harry feeling sad when he had to let it go.

He shakes himself out of the memories.

“Is this your bedroom?” Harry asks.

“What do you think?” Theo sneers, but there isn’t much anger behind the statement. He seems more tired and irritated than anything serious.

Harry eyes the ugly sheets again.

“For Merlin’s sake, I didn’t pick them out,” Theo sighs, aiming a look of pure disgust at his bed. “Pansy felt as though she needed to decorate the place in a style that would feel the most familiar to us. She doesn’t even live here, and somehow tasked herself with a highly unnecessary job. Now the whole place is a horrible mix of Sacred Twenty-Eight and cottage chic.”

“Oh,” is all Harry can muster, feeling distinctly out of his element and like he’s certain the last thing he wants to do is encounter either Draco or Pansy in the morning. “Pansy stays here?”

“Too often,” Theo grumbles. “It’s like she and Draco are trying to break some sort of world record for longest sleepover. It’s sickening, if you ask me.”

“God, you’re so dramatic, Theo darling,” Pansy crows from the doorway. Harry hadn’t even heard her come in.

Harry flinches instinctively at the nasally tone of her voice. It’s a sharp and unwelcome sound that his still mildly inebriated mind does not want nearby.

“So, you and Draco are together?” Harry asks her slowly, feeling inexplicably annoyed, as he tries to connect red strings in his mind.

Theo and Pansy burst into laughter, and Harry finds himself a bit horrified by the fact that their strong reactions relieve him.

“You know,” Pansy makes her way toward them, perching herself delicately on the edge of Theo’s bed. “I honestly thought last night was an entire hallucination, and Harry Potter hadn’t strolled into our house and made himself right at home.”

“Technically this isn’t your house,” Theo mutters, and then swats Pansy away as she tries to ruffle his hair.

“Oh, please.” Pansy laughs lightly, before leaning forward to press a soft and gentle kiss to his lips. “At this point, what’s mine is yours.”

Harry’s eyes widen for a moment before he schools his expression back into normalcy.

“I didn’t know you two were together,” he says, feeling acutely as though his presence isn't enough of an obstacle to stop them from jumping each other's bones.

“Is it not obvious?” Pansy frowns.

“You talk to each other like you’re always annoyed,” Harry explains. He can always count on himself for an ever-present, and poorly-timed sense of honesty.

Neither Pansy nor Theo seem to take offence to this observation.

“That’s because we are always annoyed with each other,” Theo says as he pulls Pansy into a one-armed embrace. “How’s Draco?”

Pansy hesitates for a moment, her lips flattening into a thin line. “He’s Draco,” she says, as though that means something more than she’s letting on.

Theo nods in understanding, and Harry doesn’t miss the flicker of concern crossing silently between the two of them.

“Should I check on him?” Theo asks.

Pansy shakes her head. “I did earlier this morning. I think he just wants to be alone.”

They curl tighter into one another as though there’s something to be afraid of, and Harry feels like much of the air has been sucked out of the room. The humourous atmosphere that he’d awoken to is long gone, replaced by a pervasive sense of unease.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Harry announces unnecessarily, collecting his own items of clothing strewn across the floor. He doesn’t even remember taking them off, or how he’d ended up in the bed in the first place. He eases a shirt onto his body as he stands, resisting the urge to double over and sick up all over the floor.

And then it hits Harry quickly, a touch of sadness that he can’t quite seem to pinpoint the reasons for. He stands with it for a moment, feeling confused and disoriented, before neglecting to put on his trousers, pretending not to notice as Pansy and Theo snicker at his behind. He stumbles out of the room in boxers and a t-shirt, peeking in various doors of the small, dark hallway.

There’s one room that has light seeping out from underneath the crack. Harry knocks gently, and there’s no answer from inside. He knocks again, this time a little more forcefully. He underestimates his own strength, because the door seems to open just a bit, and Harry pushes it forward without much of a second thought.

Draco is doubled over the toilet, eyes closed as shallow breaths puff from his small body. His slender arms wrap around the bowl, clutching the edges like they are a lifeline.

“Jesus, Mal—” Harry pauses, correcting himself. “Draco.”

He walks forwardly slowly, like someone would approach an animal in the wild. But Draco doesn’t respond to him, and the toilet is almost sparkling clean. There’s a sheen of sweat slicked across Draco’s forehead, and his eyebrows are knitted together in discomfort.

“Draco, are you alright?” Harry asks.

Draco allows a soft moan to escape his lips, but it sounds more like a gasp for air than anything substantial. He lazily opens one eye, and then the other.

“Potter,” he breathes.

“Harry.”

The corner of Draco’s mouth upturns slightly at the correction, but he turns his head away quickly.

“What do you need? Can I get you water?” Harry sits on the edge of the tub, reaching a hand out instinctively to rub at Draco’s back.

Draco stills against the toilet.

“No,” Draco says, softly, a pleading note in his voice.

Harry removes his hand.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Just go,” Draco says, heaving against the toilet.

“I don’t know if you should be left here alone,” Harry starts.

“Go, now,” Draco repeats through gritted teeth. He looks feverish, a pile of limbs on the bathroom floor. Harry very much dislikes the sight of it all.

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry exclaims, “I’m not just going to leave you here.”

“You don’t always have to be the saviour,” Draco says under his breath, but the harsh words echo unpleasantly through the small bathroom.

Harry draws himself up, even though he knows Draco isn’t looking at him.

“I don’t,” he bites out. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“You’re welcome to take your helpfulness somewhere else,” Draco says, sitting back against the wall and smacking the toilet lid closed. It makes a loud noise that sends gooseflesh down the length of Harry’s arm.

“You can be such an arsehole,” Harry frowns.

Draco narrows his eyes, and suddenly they look a lot crueller than they did the evening before.

“Fuck you,” Draco says, scowling.

Harry liked him much better when he was high.

“So let me get this straight,” Harry grumbles. “You’re only nice when you’re fucked out of your mind? That’s insane.”

If it’s possible, Draco’s expression grows colder and meaner, and Harry wishes he could rewind time and start the entire conversation, or even morning, over again.

“Why are you still here?” Draco sneers. He looks as though he wants to get up, like he’s uncomfortable that Harry sits taller than him on the bathtub, but he can’t seem to find the strength. A small, childish part of Harry likes the idea that he might have the upper hand.

“I just woke up.”

“It’s naive of you to think that I was ever nice to you,” Draco says, gaze hardening against Harry’s own.

Harry takes a deep breath, and then another. He’s not here to pick a fight, and as the reality of the soulmate situation comes back to him, he realises he needs to be on Draco’s good side for the rest of his life and this isn’t a good start.

“Listen, I don’t want to argue, we’re not children.”

“How mature of you, Potter,” Draco says, practically spitting Harry’s name from his tongue. “Always so saintly.”

“I came here in the first place because I thought that we could be friends.”

“Get out,” Draco repeats coldly. “It’s laughable that you think we’ll ever be friends in this lifetime.”

Harry despises how much the comment stings.

Before he can find the will within him to argue, Pansy appears in the doorway, her arms crossed over her narrow waist. Draco stares at him like he’s a bit of rubbish on the floor.

“You heard the man,” she says, stepping aside to make room.

Harry leaves, feeling distinctly like his tail is caught between his legs. Theo’s not in the bedroom when he returns to it, gathering his trousers and coat like he’s leaving the site of a particularly awkward one night stand. In many ways, his night with Draco seems to reflect such an experience.

He climbs down the stairs to what looks like the site of a crime scene. Red cups are strewn across the shag carpet in the sitting room, and various bodies lay positioned on armchairs and sofas passed out from the night of heavy drinking. Seamus is curled up on a disgustingly ornate chaise lounge. Harry feels more hungover after seeing him than he did before. The winter chill outside does nothing for the state of his body either.

Then, there it is again, a sense of impending sadness that he can’t entirely place. A small part of him worries that it’s because he’s leaving Draco behind. He pushes the thought away, making for the door before he can try and go back upstairs.

It’s still early in the morning, and although it’s a Saturday, Harry remembers he probably needs to be at work. He checks his watch, and it tells him that he should’ve been in the office an hour ago.

From the front steps of Draco’s bizarre cottage, Harry, despite protests from his body, Apparates directly to the Ministry.

He steps off from the Apparition point, realising he probably looks exactly the way he feels when he becomes victim to stares from many onlookers. He stumbles out into the main lobby, resolving to reach his office as quickly as possible and cover up his rumpled clothing with uniform robes.

Ron catches up with him on the way.

“Mate,” Ron says warily as he approaches.

“Don’t even start.” Harry massages his temples, falling into step beside Ron as they approach the elevators.

“I usually wouldn’t, but I think this needs to be acknowledged,” Ron chuckles. “You’re a right mess.”

“Trust me, I’m very self-aware.”

Ron lets out a loud, infectious laugh, and Harry can’t seem to match it as he usually would. It disappears quickly, though, as the delight on Ron’s face turns into confusion.

“Where the hell were you last night?” Ron asks. “‘Mione and I popped around your place to see if you wanted to grab a drink.”

“I wasn’t home,” Harry offers, knowing it won’t be enough to satiate Ron’s curiosity. “Did you say hello to Claude for me at least?”

“The menace scratched my legs up pretty fucking badly,” Ron groans. “But of course, he was an angel to Hermione the entire time.”

“Cats do love her, I don’t know why you expect any different,” Harry replies as they step off the elevator onto the department floor.

“You couldn’t have gotten a dog? Or something without claws.”

Harry laughs joylessly. “Nope.”

Ron rolls his eyes and gives him a shove as they enter their office. They’ve been partners for years, and the majority of the time, Harry is grateful for it. But he also knows that even with the maximum amount of distractions, Ron will push until he knows where Harry had been the night before. It is probably best to simply come clean.

“I was at Draco’s last night,” Harry says abruptly as they settle into their respective chairs.

Ron nearly falls out of his.

“What,” he says, eyes widening. “Come off it.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“He is,” Parvati supplies from the doorway. She enters with a stack of files, floating half the pile to each of their desks. “Saw him with my own eyes. Anyway, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s a paperwork kind of day. Robards is on another organising kick, and he wants these completed by the end of day.”

Ron is too startled by the news to react with his usual stream of whinging. Parvati, very clearly noticing this, backs out of the room shooting Harry an apologetic, closed-mouth smile in the process.

“I thought you didn’t want to see him,” Ron says, and the words are quieter than Harry expects.

“I kind of have to see him. The idiot is my soulmate,” Harry whispers like he is saying something illegal. In plenty of ways, the words are almost worse.

“I know,” Ron says slowly. “I just didn’t expect you to follow through so quickly.”

“I didn’t think I would, but I was feeling the physical effects more than I liked,” Harry admits. “And you and Hermione got in my head about the whole thing.”

“Did you tell him?” Ron asks, coming over to sit in the chair across from Harry’s desk. He begins to fiddle with the collection of chocolate frog cards on the surface, just to do something with his hands.

“No,” Harry says. “Wasn’t the right environment.”

“Another party?” Ron says knowingly.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Am I really the only person who didn’t know he threw those?”

Ron shrugs sheepishly. “Maybe. I mean, I’ve never been to one, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t, thanks,” Harry says, hating the bitterness that creeps into his tone. “I’m just surprised I didn’t know about them.”

“Harry, you can’t expect him to have invited you.”

“Well, if he invited Seamus, Dean, Parvati, Neville, Luna and plenty more, why not?” Harry asks, unable to stop himself from feeling resentful because of it. “He seems to be all chummy with our group.”

“I’m sure he’s not,” Ron says reassuringly. “And you wouldn’t have gone anyways if he asked you there, you know that.”

Harry does, but it doesn’t help how he feels one bit.

“Has everyone just forgotten he’s a Death Eater?”

“He’s not technically one anymore,” Ron corrects.

Harry’s mouth hangs open. “Would’ve never pegged you as one to defend a Malfoy.”

Ron’s gaze hardens. “Come on, be reasonable. I hate him, too, but realistically it makes sense that he wouldn’t have just asked you over.”

“Yeah. Knowing him, he wouldn’t have invited me anyway unless he was up to something.”

Ron only offers him a pitying smile.

There’s something about the day that’s making Harry feel down. Almost like a cloud of grey washing over what would’ve usually been a morning alight with colour. Harry loves his work, he really does, even on days that Robards forces them all to do paperwork, but there is something different in the air, and he doesn't like it one bit.

“So, are you going to tell me why you were there?”

Harry clears his throat, straightening up in his chair as though posturing will somehow make him feel better. “Well, I was going to tell him—”

“Just like that?” Ron rasps. “No warning or anything!”

“It seemed like a good plan at the time!” Harry argues. He doesn’t want to be defensive, because he knows it wasn’t his smartest idea.

“Merlin,” Ron rubs his forehead.

“I went to his house, if you could even call it that, and he just happened to be having a party. Seamus let me in and I, well, I spent the night.”

“You what!” Ron shouts, a vein in his forehead pulsing through skin. “Absolutely not, Harry.”

“Nothing happened!” Harry says quickly, because technically nothing did.

He’s not sure he’s quite ready yet to share any details of Draco’s state of mind during the night versus his demeanour in the morning. If he did, then he’d need to explain the drug use, and Ron would not take kindly to that.

Harry leaves the words there and hopes the department won’t select him for a random drug screening any time soon. He doesn’t want to admit how wildly irresponsible he’s been, especially to Ron. Something about being around Draco seems to throw him off his axis.

“Wow,” is all Ron can say, leaning back into his chair and exhaling through his teeth.

“I know.” Harry shakes his head. He thinks about the morning. “He hasn’t changed much.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Ron says. “Once a tosser, always a tosser.”

Harry laughs humourlessly. “I wish there was something I could do to change this. To have literally anyone else in the world.”

“I wish that could happen too, Harry. And I know you were mad at Ginny and me for saying this earlier, but it just makes sense. This explains why you were both so obsessed with each other at Hogwarts. I’m not saying that you need to love him, or that you ever will, but you can’t deny there’s always been a strong connection there.”

“Don’t be daft, there’s never been any connection,” Harry retorts grumpily, toying at the end of a quill with his fingers.

“You’re missing my point. There’s energy between you two, even if it’s bad energy,” Ron explains.

Harry supposes he agrees, though he’s not necessarily in the headspace to say it out loud.

“Fine,” Harry says. “I don’t really want to talk about it anymore.”

“I’ll leave you alone for now because you look like last night has taken years off your life, but you know Hermione and I will have questions later,” Ron teases.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry chuckles, cracking open the first file on the stack that Parvati had brought in. “No chance I’ll be able to do anything without coffee. Your usual?”

Ron nods. “Thanks, mate! I’ll get it next time.”

“You always say that,” Harry jests.

Ron makes a face as Harry leaves the office. He’s glad to be walking a bit because his stiff limbs feel better when they’re moving. He’s noticed since seeing Draco that he’s physically feeling better. While his mood is nowhere near where it usually is, still, there’s something about his body that feels like it has somehow bounced back. He’s hungover, but he feels healthy and strangely complete for the first time in a bit.

Harry pushes the thoughts from his head, reluctant to acknowledge that it must have been Draco’s presence that helped him through it. Instead, he treks back down to the lobby where Esmeralda is running the coffee cart with a bright look in her eyes.

“Harry,” she says happily as he approaches. “You look well.”

“You’re the first person to say that to me today,” Harry says.

“It’s all in the eyes, dear.”

Harry’s not sure what that means, but he offers her a smile. She returns one back two-fold and begins making both his and Ron’s orders unprompted.

“Terrible that you have to be here on a Saturday,” Esmeralda frowns, as she sets out two paper cups onto the surface of her work station. “I always say the weekends are for rest and relaxation.”

“Well, you have to be here too,” Harry points out.

“Fair, but I enjoy my work,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching just slightly.

Harry blinks. “I enjoy it most of the time,” he argues, before pausing.

“Hmm,” Esmeralda hums thoughtfully. “Something to think about, that’s all.”

Harry stares at a spot on the ground, scuffing his shoes against it. He realises too quickly that he had forgotten to stop at home for his work boots and finds himself surprisingly relieved that Robards has chosen to designate the day as strictly paperwork. Harry loves his job. He’s repeated that phrase the entire time he’s worked at the department. And it’s no secret that Robards is practically grooming him to become the next Head Auror when he retires. He would be the youngest department head in all of Ministry history.

But in some ways, Harry’s tired of making headlines.

“I wish I could make coffee,” Harry says thoughtfully.

“You can.” Esmeralda quirks a smile, pushing two warm cups to the edge of the counter. “I’ll see you Monday, love.”

Harry nods. He’s continuing down the hallway back to the elevators and has barely turned the first corner when he smacks into a body coming from the opposite way. Harry feels like he’s watching the scene play out in slow motion as both cups of hot coffee splatter against a crisp white button-down and crash to the floor over a pair of expensive-looking chocolate loafers.

Harry, mortified, looks up to meet the pale and angry face of Draco himself. Draco’s lips crease into a thin line, and he glowers down at Harry. Now that they’re standing in front of each other, Harry realises how much shorter he is in comparison.

“Thanks,” Draco remarks.

Harry’s surprised Draco hadn’t reacted much to the scalding coffee on his skin, but if he’s in pain he doesn’t show it.

“I’m sorry,” Harry begins frantically. He can feel his eyes widen in surprise, and his cheeks grow hot. “I didn’t realise you’d be right there.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Draco drawls, his features cold and pointy and undeniably unpleasant. “You’re unobservant.”

“No, I’m not,” Harry says defensively. “Why the hell would you be skulking around a corner like that, how was I supposed to know?”

“I could ask the same thing of you,” Draco says coolly. He seems to be calmer than Harry, and it’s all the more frustrating.

To match his terrible attitude, Draco looks like hell. There had at least been some life and colour in his face in the morning. But now, Draco seems like a shell of himself, cheekbones cutting sharply through the skin of his face, and blue lips cracked, discoloured and flaking with dry skin. Harry wonders if it was the drug he’d taken the night before, but he couldn’t remember Draco looking so awful at all. In fact, he’d been almost ethereal.

Harry notices his eyes then. Anxious, darting around, and unfocused as though he isn't sober.

“Why are you here?” Harry asks, suspicious, a small part of him wondering if Draco had somehow, for some reason, come looking for him.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m checking in with my Auror.”

“Your Auror?” Harry asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Draco says tightly. “Terms of my parole.”

“Ah,” Harry responds, feeling stupid for having questioned him. He bites his tongue, unable to stop thinking about how irresponsible it is for Draco to come to the Ministry wired out. He must still be feeling the effects from the night before.

Harry realises they’ve forgotten about the mess, and instinctively brings his wand out to clear up the spilt liquid. Harry would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been right next to him, but Draco flinches as Harry casts the Cleaning Spell at the ground.

“About last night,” Harry begins.

“Please,” Draco sneers, waving a hand. “We don’t need to speak of it. Just try not to show up unannounced to places where you’re not invited. It’s proper etiquette to ask first, and then be told you’re not welcome.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Didn’t seem like you were too choosy with the guest list, though did it? Are you already getting so tired of your Slytherins?”

“No,” Draco snaps. “It was a party for my friends.”

“So, you’re friends with all the Gryffindors then,” Harry states blankly.

“Does that bother you?” Draco smiles cruelly, as though he wants Harry to say yes.

Harry knows he’s lying when he shakes his head, but he forces himself to take a breath and think before he speaks, which is something very new for him. He’s embarrassed by how many times he has to remind himself they aren’t schoolchildren anymore. “You’re allowed to have friends. I won’t be the one to get in the way of that,” he says.

A surprised expression crosses Draco’s face, and he seems to unwind a bit, too. He frowns, looking down at his shoes, and inhaling for a moment. “Good,” Draco says.

There’s a look on his face that indicates nothing less than severe discomfort at the situation, and Harry doesn’t blame him. But his brow is all pinched in a way that makes him look a bit worried, and Harry’s not quite sure what to do next because neither of them is moving to leave.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks slowly, knowing that, although the question seems well-placed, there’s nothing concrete telling him that Draco isn’t.

“I’m covered in coffee, and this shirt was fucking expensive,” Draco bites. “So no, not really.”

“Here, let me clean it,” Harry says, aiming his wand at Draco’s chest. The tip just barely touches the bare part of Draco’s chest where his dress shirt has been unbuttoned to reveal a smooth expanse of skin.

Draco blanches, his face going even paler than before. “Don’t,” he says hoarsely, a pained look crossing his features.

Quickly, he pushes past Harry and out into the hallway, disappearing down the corridor with hurried steps. Harry lowers his wand, feeling confused, exhausted, and sad all over again.

“What the fuck,” he whispers to himself, leaning heavily against the wall.

“That was indubitably uncomfortable,” a portrait declares, resting his hands on top of his portly belly. The plaque beneath his frame reads Basil Flack, Minister for Magic in the year 1752.

“Yeah, no shit,” Harry mutters, dusting off his robes and making for the elevators empty-handed. He’s barely thinking of what excuse to use on Ron in regard to where his coffee is.

Chapter Text

“You did what?” Ginny yelps, tossing a coat in Harry’s direction. “Oi, shoes off the bed!”

Harry artfully dodges, kicking off his trainers and putting his feet back up on her mattress. It’s a Friday evening, and there isn’t much for him to do. Ron and Hermione have designated it a date night, and Harry’s hard-pressed to intervene in their domestic bliss. He’s not bitter at all. Really, not at all. He’s happy for them with every fibre of his being, but if there was one week he could’ve used a pub night with the two of them, it would’ve been this one.

Blaise is in the kitchen making chicken piccata, and Ginny’s cleaning out her closet. Harry figures this is at least something to do with his evening rather than moping around Grimmauld Place with his angry cat, subjecting himself to a terrible frozen tv dinner because he can’t be bothered to cook something proper.

“He offered it to me, so I tried it,” Harry explains. “In my defense, I was a bit drunk and definitely would not have done it if I was sober. Does that help?”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Not really. I would never peg you as the type to try any drug at all, even if you were drunk. And with Draco Malfoy, of all people?”

“Well, I don’t have that much of a stick up my arse,” Harry jokes, but Ginny narrows her eyes.

“Things like that can get dangerous, you know,” she says, flicking her wand in the direction of her wardrobe. A collection of jumpers emerge from inside and line themselves up dutifully against the wall. “Yellow or pink?”

“I prefer the yellow,” Harry decides.

Ginny snorts, flicking her wand again and sending the yellow jumper directly into the rubbish bin.

“I’m just saying next time you should probably be a bit more careful about accepting mystery pills from your school bully slash soulmate,” Ginny points out.

“Hold on,” Harry argues. “He was not my school bully! I was not bullied!”

“If you say so.” Ginny shrugs and leaps to the side as Harry throws his coat at her. They dissolve into a fit of laughter, and Harry’s stomach cramps by the time he comes up for a breath of air.

Blaise pops his head in curiously through the open door.

“What’s all the noise?” he asks, amused. Catching sight of his wife across the room, his eyes sparkle and Harry’s heart aches.

There’s so much love around him, and it’s beautiful to see his best friends so happy. Even then, sometimes it hurts all the same.

“Harry ended up at one of Draco’s famed gatherings,” Ginny explains.

Blaise and Draco were not nearly as close as they had been during their Hogwarts days, in large part because the former had managed to turn his life entirely around. Ginny, at least to Harry’s knowledge, hadn’t shared the whole soulmates debacle between him and Draco because it wasn’t her place. And they had all learned the hard way that Slytherins loved to gossip.

“Famed?” Harry quirks an eyebrow.

“Definitely famed,” Blaise hums in agreement. “They’re massive. You were there?”

“Yeah,” Harry says sheepishly. “I don’t think I knew quite what I was walking into.”

“It happens like that,” Blaise concedes. “Pansy owled me this morning that they’re having another get-together tonight. I might pop over just to show my face for a bit if you’re interested in coming with me.”

Before Harry can vehemently object to such a situation, although his body is telling him he needs to see Draco soon, Ginny perks up from the other side of the room.

“Oh, Harry would love to go,” she says, smiling pitilessly.

Harry resists the urge to make a scene, but he glowers at her in response.

“Er, I actually might be busy tonight.”

“Nonsense,” Blaise says. “You’re already having dinner with us; you might as well come with! I won’t stay for too long, I promise. Just haven’t seen the group in a while.”

Now that Harry’s come to think of it, he hasn’t seen Blaise interact with his friends from school much at all. He recalls that Blaise and Pansy used to be very close, and wonders what happened to all that. But people grow out of people and that was the way things went sometimes.

“Alright, fine.” Harry surrenders, shaking his head at Ginny in disbelief.

It had been a week since he’d first encountered Draco at his home, and six days since he’d spilled a drink all over him in the Ministry. Harry’s sure their next encounter will also not go so splendidly, but third time’s a charm.

“Dinner will be ready in ten,” Blaise says. “I'll call out.”

“Thanks, love,” Ginny says, returning to folding the pink jumper and floating it back inside the closet.

“Are you serious?” Harry asks her, once Blaise has left and a thick silence blankets the room.

“Don’t start with me, Harry,” Ginny warns. “You know what being soulmates means. You don’t get to just fuck off from each other for a week, your core will not let you. Don’t be stubborn, because this time around it’ll kill you.”

“You sound like Hermione,” Harry says.

“Is it that surprising for me to be a voice of reason?” Ginny replies, tucking the next batch of jumpers away.

“I guess I’m just not grasping how serious this all is,” Harry says quietly, in a moment of honesty. “It’s ridiculous to think that time away from him will literally kill me. That seems dramatic.”

Ginny sighs. “Harry, you haven’t been a part of the magical world for that long. And you didn’t hear the stories that we all did growing up. This whole soulmates thing can be a blessing and a curse, that’s why they did away with it in the first place.”

“Then why would the Ministry bring it back?”

“Because,” Ginny smiles to herself. “At the end of the day it’s more of a blessing to most.”

Harry frowns. “Of course it’s not to me.”

“You’ve been through a lot, Harry,” Ginny says gently. “I won’t deny that. But this can be wonderful for you whether or not you want to be romantically involved.”

“I don’t,” Harry says rather quickly. “We’re having a hard enough time saying one civil thing to each other already.”

“It’s hard work,” Ginny says. “You know how it went with Blaise. I wasn’t happy at all when I found out. I cried myself to sleep for a week because I really thought it would be you.”

Harry pauses, and lets the statement sit with him for a bit.

“I thought it would be you, too,” he says.

“It wouldn’t have been right,” Ginny smiles. “You love who you love. Take some comfort in that. And don’t be fucking stubborn, go a few more weeks without seeing him and trust me, you’ll attach yourselves at the hip after that ordeal.”

Harry considers this for a moment, reluctant to admit that her words ring true. He knows he’s notorious for being obstinate and set in his ways, but he supposes that this is the one time he can’t really let himself be.

“I don’t understand why I have to go to another party, though.”

“You’re telling me you’d just go find him in the middle of the day, and you two would have a civil conversation over some tea and biscuits?” Ginny says dubiously. “Call me crazy, but I just don’t believe that’s how that would go.”

“I guess not,” Harry admits, toying with a loose strand of thread on his jeans. “Will you at least come with, so I don’t have to go to this thing alone?”

“Fuck no,” Ginny laughs. “I have a date with a glass of wine and Quidditch Weekly tonight. Plus, I have morning practice tomorrow. You’ll have Blaise with you! Come on, Harry. You have to start putting yourself out there a bit more.”

Harry frowns, pricked by a statement he knows means no harm at all.

Ginny makes her way over to the bed, perching herself on the edge and taking his hand gently between her own. “This whole situation sucks, and I’m really sorry you have to deal with it.”

“Yeah,” Harry says mirthlessly. “It does.” It feels nice, at least, to know that she recognises the unfairness of it all.

“But if it goes balls-up, I’ll be here and so will the rest of us,” Ginny smiles encouragingly.

Harry can only offer a weak smile back.

Dinner goes too quickly, and it’s barely two hours before the dishes are washing themselves in the sink, and Blaise is picking out something to match his dress shirt. Ginny selects for him a nicely fitting dinner jacket. Only he would somehow be able to pull off something so formal with the rest of his casual outfit. Harry feels severely under equipped in his stained jeans and Puddlemere United tee, though he’s never been one to learn how to dress for an occasion.

“You look lovely boys,” Ginny says, genuinely meaning it, and Harry can’t help but cringe as he catches sight of his rumpled appearance in the mirror next to Blaise. Surely, she’s just being nice.

Blaise kisses the tip of her nose before stepping back to stand next to Harry. He offers his arm, and Harry takes it, although he’d probably prefer to Apparate alone instead of subjecting himself to a Side-Along. Harry’s stomach has never much liked this mode of transport, and it always feels worse to be Apparated by someone else.

Before Harry knows it, he’s twirling through the air, landing roughly on the doorstep of Draco’s funny little home. Though the sight of it is familiar, Harry still finds himself unable to look away from the looming structure.

“A bit intimidating, isn’t it?” Blaise chuckles.

“It’s just strange,” Harry says, with a wrinkled nose. He’s not sure he entirely likes the place, but mostly because it doesn’t fit with Draco’s sensibilities at all. At least, what he knows of the things Draco might be partial to.

“I can only assume it’s the work of Pansy,” Blaise says knowingly, reaching a hand up to rap at the door. “She’s too controlling to let Draco or Theo, even, make any proper decisions.”

Before Harry can respond, Seamus is opening the door with a lazy grin plastered upon his soft features. He corrals both Harry and Blaise into a group hug.

“Just the people I wanted to see!” Seamus exclaims, leading them inside and locking the door dutifully behind the group.

Again, Harry is distracted and overwhelmed by the loud music, but he’s surprised to see the dimly lit living room isn’t too crowded. He supposes they’re earlier to the party than he had been in the week prior, but it’s still an unsettling feeling, like the calm before a storm.

“Pansy’s in the kitchen,” Seamus says, addressing Blaise, who dutifully takes off in that direction.

Harry stands awkwardly in the doorway, hugging his coat tighter over his body. The house is much colder than he remembers, and the absence of light isn’t doing much to help.

“How are you Seamus?” Harry asks, if only to break the awkward pause.

Seamus smiles, “I’m alright, Harry. Hope you are, too.”

Seamus disappears into the sitting room, and Harry’s unwilling to follow. He’s not necessarily in the mood to drink, or take any kind of pills, and he’s really only here because Ginny had insisted so publicly. After all, Harry would never admit it, but she isn’t wrong. It is easy for him to shrug off worry from Hermione or Ron because they pester him so often about his state of affairs. But it’s always serious when Ginny begins to care about something, as she worries so sparingly.

“Harry.”

Harry’s eyes snap up to the familiar voice, and he watches Draco descend from the stairs, floating down like a ghost. There are unpleasant purple circles underneath glassy eyes that seem to look through Harry’s face as though it’s transparent.

“Draco,” Harry breathes, unsure if it would even be heard above the sound of pounding music that rattles through the walls of the house.

Draco stumbles a bit on the last step, and Harry moves forward quickly on instinct. He reaches out his arms, steadying Draco against the bannister. He’s slack-jawed and unresponsive to the touch, and it makes Harry feel sick and frightened.

Draco looks even more wrecked than when Harry had seen him in the Ministry.

“Harry,” Draco repeats, slurred and happy in Harry’s arms.

“I think you should go back upstairs,” Harry says carefully, guiding one of Draco’s arms over his shoulders for support. “Is someone up there with you?”

“No, s’just me,” Draco mumbles, a little smile upturning the corner of his lips. “I wanted water.”

“I’ll get you some,” Harry says, keeping his words slow. “Let’s just get you back in bed first.”

Harry helps him up the stairs slowly and finds himself horrified at how easy it is to guide Draco wherever he wants. He’s even more worried to find that when he puts his arm around Draco’s waist, there’s practically nothing to grab ahold of. He feels as though the boy might just snap under the lightest touch.

It doesn’t take them long to get to the landing with Draco dazed and pliant in Harry’s hands. Harry finds himself surprised at how okay he is with having Draco in his arms. How nice it feels to just touch someone like this, and care for them. The door to his bedroom is already open, streaming soft yellow light from inside. Harry takes him to the bed, pulling back gauzy curtains to reveal an unmade bed. There’s a tray in the middle of the sheets, with hardcover books stacked on top of one another. Harry pretends not to notice the baggies.

“Harry?” Draco enquires, once he’s comfortably settled back down onto the bed.

“That’s my name.”

“You’re here.”

“I am,” Harry says. He notices a glass of water is already on the nightstand, bringing it up to Draco’s lips and tipping his head back with care.

“Tastes like nothing.” Draco smacks his lips with displeasure.

“It’s water,” Harry retorts. “I’m not sure it’s supposed to taste like anything.”

“Hm,” Draco says, leaning his head back heavily into the pillow.

There isn’t an enchanted night sky in the ceiling anymore, and all Harry can see is black. They stay like that for a long time, Harry thinks from the ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall, but it feels like seconds when Draco turns over to look at him. He seems to have cleared his head by just the slightest bit. He doesn’t look better, but he looks like he feels more sober.

“What are you on?” Harry asks impulsively. His eyes linger on Draco’s cheeks just underneath his hollowed eyes. The skin there looks soft and young, in opposition with how dark the circles are just above.

“Ha,” Draco smiles. “That obvious?”

Harry nods.

“Cocaine and ketamine are some of my most valuable acquaintances,” Draco says listlessly, eyes closing as he leans further back into his high.

“Are they?” Harry asks, his voice hoarse.

He’s unsure of why the statement bothers him so much. Draco might be his soulmate, but Harry barely knows him. He shouldn’t feel the need to take care of Draco like this, but something in him pulls him to do so. He doesn’t want to leave him alone.

Draco smiles, his head bobbing to one side as though he has little control over any kind of motor function.

“What about Pansy or Theo?” Harry asks, feeling as though he’s conversing with a small child. “They’re your friends.”

“They don’t make me feel like this, do they?” Draco leans his head back, exposing the length of his neck.

Harry, suddenly the most horrified by himself that he’s ever been, finds himself just wanting to bend over and suck on it.

“No,” Harry says tentatively. “I suppose they don’t.”

“Do you want some?” Draco asks, his fingers twitching as he attempts to point at the spot where Harry had noticed the white powder earlier.

“No, thanks,” Harry says.

“Not even a drink?”

“No.”

“You must be fun at parties,” Draco jokes. “Get it? Because we’re at a party.”

“Yeah, I got it,” Harry says quietly, without amusement. “Draco, I don’t know if all of this is good for you.”

Harry finds himself surprised by his own honesty and willingness to show any kind of concern for Draco. Before Draco had been revealed to be his soulmate, Harry had to admit that he barely thought of him at all. Now, images of Draco heaving over a toilet, or looking ghostly pale in the hallways of the Ministry, seem to plague his mind. He’s not sure he’s ready to say he likes Draco just yet, but he can’t deny that he is worried.

“All of what?” Draco asks innocently, turning over on his side so that he faces away from Harry.

Harry pinches his brow and forces himself to breathe past the pounding of his heart. He knows it’s not his place, but in a way that Draco doesn’t know about, it kind of is. His hand reaches out almost mechanically, tapping Draco’s shoulder and easing him back over. Draco looks up at Harry through long, white eyelashes. Harry remembers why he thought Draco looked ethereal in the week before. It’s clear now with gentle moonlight streaming in through the large windows, casting black shadows over the room. Draco’s eyes practically sparkle with life, and it’s a disconcerting contrast to the rest of his fading physique.

Harry reaches forward, plucking a small, thumb-sized plastic baggie from the surface of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender Is the Night. “Whatever’s in here,” he says.

Draco frowns. “D’you want some?”

“No, Draco, I don’t.”

“It’s strange,” Draco muses, a wan smile playing upon his features. “That you call me that.”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” Harry replies.

“It is indeed, though I’d gotten used to hearing Malfoy from your lips.”

“Listen, we don’t need to talk about that right now. I just don’t think this is healthy, and I wish you could see that.” Harry knows he shouldn’t get emotional, but he feels his voice crack as he says the words. He’s not ready to have this conversation. “This could kill you.”

“You know,” Draco says, his eyes tracking something Harry can’t see across the ceiling. “I’ve always preferred a kind of French ending.”

“A what?”

“Something tragic and dramatic. Equal parts miserable and exciting.” Draco brings his fingers up to his face, translucent fingernails tracing circles around the skin of his cheek. “No one remembers a happy ending.”

Harry feels something clench in his chest. “Everyone remembers a happy ending.”

“Everyone likes one,” Draco corrects. “But what’s most compelling about a surprising death is how utterly unforgettable it is.”

“Are you saying you want to die?” Harry asks blankly. He tangles his hands into the bedsheets, if only to ground himself in such a dizzying, painful conversation.

“Harry,” Draco chuckles, saying the name like it’s something foreign in his mouth. “Don’t we all?”

Before Harry can reply, the door creaks open, and Theo enters with a few bowls in his hand. He kicks the door shut with a bare foot and stumbles over to the bed, climbing onto the mattress with all the grace of a Hippogriff foal.

“I brought dinner,” he says, placing a bowl of vegetable soup in front of Draco.

Harry resists the urge to put it on the nightstand, feeling distinctly like it’s going to tip over and spill over them all. Theo begins to eat like he’s been starved for centuries, but Draco refuses to look at the bowl.

“Do you want some?” Theo asks, looking at Harry. “Luna’s serving in the kitchen.”

“No, thank you,” Harry says quietly, unable to take his eyes off of Draco. “Do you want to eat?”

Draco pretends like he hasn’t heard him, although Harry can tell that he has. Instead, he picks up a book from a stack on the bedside table, thumbing through the pages lazily as though he would much rather be doing anything else.

“He does that sometimes,” Theo says, through a mouthful of vegetables.

“Does what?”

“Pretends,” is all Theo offers, as though that’s supposed to make complete sense.

Harry worries why, on some level, it does.

After a few hours of mindless chatting, Draco sobers up enough that he and Theo head down to the party. Draco pauses for a moment, tilting his head to see if he’ll follow. Harry’s not really in the mood to follow or deal with any more human interaction for the evening, and Draco simply shrugs and continues out.

He picks up a book from Draco’s bedside table. It looks to be thoroughly loved, and as Harry pages through it, he sees notes scribbled in the margins. He flips back to the cover, running his fingers over the raised lettering of Anna Karenina.

Harry hasn’t read it yet, but he turns to the first page and makes his start.

***

A large crash wakes Harry quickly. He stretches in place and knocks into his glasses as he goes to rub his eyes. The book lays folded open, abandoned on his chest. It’s still dark outside, and the moon is higher in the sky than he expects it to be.

Harry can’t see very well, but he knows he’s still in Draco’s bed. There’s no one next to him, and the grandfather clock on the wall would probably say it was sometime in the early morning if he could see it properly. He steps off the bed gingerly, curling his toes into the carpet beneath his feet.

There’s another noise coming from outside, something like whispered arguments and hushed fragments of sentences that Harry can’t quite make out. Yellow light seeps out from under the crack in the doorway of the bathroom. He approaches slowly, unwilling to be heard.

“Theo, we need to get him to St Mungo’s or call a Healer,” someone says from inside, their voice strained.

“No,” Theo replies roughly. “He wouldn’t want us to make a scene.”

“A scene! He could die!”

“He won’t, he just needs to sleep. This will make headlines if we call Healers, and what, with Potter here, too? It’s too messy.”

Harry takes a step forward and cringes immediately as he realises his mistake. He knows he’s been made when he shifts his weight, the floorboards letting out an agonised creak. The door swings open, and Pansy pokes her head through the threshold.

“Potter,” she growls, reaching an arm out to drag Harry inside. She slams the door quickly behind him, and it clicks shut. “You don’t breathe a word of this to anyone or I’ll personally finish what Voldemort started with you, are we clear?”

Harry’s too surprised at the name to react well, but he offers an obedient nod. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, and his vision blurs as he attempts to adjust to the harsh overhead lighting.

Draco’s slumped over the toilet again, which Harry is surprised to find isn’t much of a concerning sight anymore. But his skin is grey and pallid, almost corpse-like. He’s breathing shallowly, but his eyes are closed. Harry kneels down next to him, putting a hand to his forehead. It’s sweaty and cold.

“Draco?” Harry asks gently, putting a hand on the bare skin of his back. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s high out of his mind,” Theo says. He leans back on the countertop, and Harry would expect he’s entirely unconcerned if he wasn’t biting at his fingernails like a nervous child. “This isn’t anything new.”

Pansy catches her bottom lip in her teeth, and she looks too scared for Harry not to start panicking. “He’s always like this the morning after,” she says, “but I think he might’ve taken something bad. He always sleeps it off, or at least is responsive when we talk to him.” She wrings her hands.

“Pansy,” Harry says, his voice serious and hard. “He needs to get to St Mungo’s, this isn’t safe.”

“We can’t,” Theo argues, strained. “He’s not supposed to be using anything, if he’s reported they might put him in Azkaban for violating the terms of his parole.”

“I’d rather he be in prison than dead on our bathroom floor,” Pansy rasps.

“Shit,” Harry says, as Draco’s breaths become softer and less frequent. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t you always know what to do?” Pansy scowls.

“Pansy,” Theo warns.

Harry cradles Draco in his arms. He feels so small, and Harry never wants to let go.

“Wake up,” Harry says again, shaking him gently, but there’s no response.

“Fuck,” Pansy breathes. “We don’t even have a first aid kit.”

Harry blinks, and then like a miracle, he remembers. “I do.”

“What?” Pansy says, turning to face him.

“At Grimmauld Place, my home. I have a kit from the Ministry. They have Aurors carry it around, it has something for drug reactions. I’m sure of it.”

“Okay, fuck, well what are we waiting for?” Theo asks.

Harry doesn’t hesitate a second longer. He collects Draco’s limp body in his arms, without question from Pansy or Theo, and the four of them creep steadily down the staircase. Harry finds himself horrified at how easy it is to manoeuvre around despite the dead weight.

“You're alright carrying him?” Theo asks when they step out into the chilled winter air.

“He weighs nothing,” Harry says tightly, aware his tone is the slightest bit accusatory. Theo frowns, and Pansy looks down. Harry’s a bit relieved that they, at least, feel guilty too.

Pansy and Theo each grab onto one of Harry’s arms. He visualises his home in his mind, and sickening seconds later, they’re standing outside the wrought iron gate.

“Get him on the couch,” Harry commands Theo, passing Draco swiftly over like he’s a ragdoll. “I’ll get the kit.”

Harry leaves them to find the living room, and he takes the steps two at a time. He bursts into the bedroom, breathing heavily against the doorframe for a millisecond before jumping for his spare set of uniform robes in the closet. He’s lucky that Hermione had forced both him and Ron to keep a pair at home, just for emergencies, because standard protocol was to leave them in the office while off-duty.

The crimson red fabric peeks out from behind a set of unused suit jackets, and Harry is quick to grab for it, sending the contents of half of his wardrobe crashing to the floor. He rummages through the pockets for far too long before locating a small, palm-sized box.

Downstairs, Pansy has begun to cry.

“Harry, please, I don’t think he’s breathing,” she gasps. Her legs have gone wobbly and unsure, and she leans her weight heavily into Theo’s body.

Draco is sprawled out on the sofa, his blonde hair matted unpleasantly to his slick forehead. He has a finger curled loosely around Theo’s hand, and his mouth is slack and open. Harry has a horrible vision that this is what Draco might look like in a coffin.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, his heart threatening to hammer right through his chest.

He enlarges the box and swings it open.

“Muggle drugs, right?” Harry asks quickly. “Right?”

Pansy nods fiercely, a sick combination of fear and shame playing upon her features.

Harry’s not sure how he remembers, because he’s certain that he and Ron had fucked around during this seminar of Auror training, but he works mechanically. He remembers what Hermione had mentioned to him at Hogwarts, how wizarding curatives couldn’t work properly when it came to Muggle substances. Especially with a rise in substance abuse after the war, it was precisely why Aurors were taught to administer Muggle medication.

“Pull down his trousers,” Harry orders, and is relieved to see Theo work without asking questions. He fumbles with the buckle for far too long, before pulling Draco’s trousers down, just above his knee.

Harry draws up the Naloxone to the first indicator on the syringe. He’s always hated needles but knows this isn’t the time to focus on that. He practically pushes Theo out of the way to reach Draco. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to keep his eyes open as he injects the needle directly into the muscle of Draco’s thigh and watches as the clear liquid drains from the cylinder.

The seminar had taught him that the next thing to do was rescue breathing. Harry acts without thinking, removing the empty syringe from Draco’s leg. He pumps at Draco’s chest with his hands, breathing as much life as he can back into his open mouth at intervals.

Five excruciating minutes pass before Draco takes his first proper breath. Pansy weeps, and Harry feels like he needs to as well, but he sits back on the floor, letting his burning arms down to rest for a moment. Draco’s chest is beginning to purple after the pressure, and Harry worries that he might have broken a few bones. Either way, he’ll take it over the alternative.

Draco opens his eyes, and Harry’s surprised at the swiftness of the Muggle drug.

“Draco,” Harry says.

He blinks and mumbles something unintelligible but can’t seem to get out anything proper.

“Don’t talk,” Harry says. “Just give it a few moments.”

They sit in silence for a while, Draco on his back, bleary-eyed and focused on his breathing. He seems far too calm, but Harry supposes it must be something in the drug. Pansy has stopped crying, and Theo is holding onto her hand as though it’ll physically hurt him to let go. Draco’s eyes close to sleep, and Harry resists the urge to wake him, if only to know that he’s alive and breathing and alright.

“Should we take him home?” Pansy asks softly, so as to not wake him.

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “Just leave him here with me. If he’s not doing better in the morning, and I have to take him to St Mungo’s, it’ll be far less suspicious than you two.”

Pansy nods. “We’ll stay with him then.”

“Go home,” Harry says softly. “Get some rest. I have this under control for tonight. I just want to be here if something happens again.”

“Are you sure, Harry?” Pansy says reluctantly. “I don’t want to leave him.”

“He’ll be alright, you can come see him in the morning,” Harry promises.

“Come on, Pans,” Theo says. “I think Draco will be more stressed if we’re all here crowding him when he’s awake.”

They leave slowly and almost involuntarily, but Harry doesn’t blame them. He knows that if Ron or Hermione were in this situation, he would sacrifice anything in the world to make sure they were going to be okay. He glances at the clock, realising it’s already three in the morning. He’s not sure he’ll be able to actually get any sleep, but he doesn’t really want to. If he falls asleep and something happens to Draco in the nighttime, Harry would never know and would never forgive himself for it.

He easily picks up Draco from the couch, heading for his bedroom because he’s hard-pressed to leave Draco anywhere out of his sight for the next few hours. He shoos Claude from the bed when he enters. Setting him down gently on the bed, Harry tugs off Draco’s trousers and tucks the boy underneath the blankets.

Breathing out a sigh of terror and relief, Harry climbs into bed completely dressed, propping himself up on the pillow. He looks down at Draco dozing next to him, and his heart squeezes painfully in his chest. He wonders what life would be like if Draco knew how to be happy without the drugs. Would that make things better? Harry can’t be sure.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes to fingers prodding insistently at his side. His sore eyes snap open quickly, and the room is dark. The curtains aren’t drawn, and the sun is still slung low in the grey sky. It must still be very early.

Draco is leaned up against the headboard, and while he still looks sickly and frail, there’s a bit more colour in his cheeks that Harry feels too relieved to see. Draco reaches up, tucking a small strand of blonde hair behind his ear before looking down at his lap. He wears an almost sheepish expression, as though he's embarrassed to be next to him at all. Harry blinks, unsure if he should break their delicate silence and acknowledge the harrowing events of the prior night. But he doesn't want to say something just to say it. For once, he’d rather be deliberate with his words and make sure he's not doing something to set Draco off.

“I threw up in your toilet a few times,” Draco says. “I hope that’s alright.”

Harry processes the words slowly. “Better than in my bed,” he offers.

Draco doesn’t smile, and he shifts uncomfortably underneath the covers. He opens his mouth as though he’s going to say something but neglects to do so.

“Do you want breakfast?” Harry asks. He begins to sit up, realising that he’s still in yesterday’s clothing. Somehow, it feels wrong and makes the night even more real than it already is.

“No, er, my stomach doesn’t feel quite right yet,” Draco says.

There's an awkward, lengthy pause as Harry struggles to come up with what to say next.

“We debated taking you to St Mungo’s last night,” he offers, eventually.

“We,” Draco repeats slowly, as though he doesn’t know who Harry is talking about. Memory loss is a common aspect of drug abuse, and definitely an overdose, but somehow being presented with it makes Harry feel even worse.

“Pansy and Theo,” Harry supplies.

“I don’t want to go to St Mungo’s.”

“That’s fine,” Harry says, though he worries his bottom lip with his teeth.

The mattress makes a squeaking noise as Harry pulls himself from it, rummaging through his closet for a set of sweatpants and a shirt. He doesn’t think much about it as he strips in front of Draco, and when he’s dressed, he turns to find him looking very purposefully at a poster in the opposite direction.

Draco makes a small sound, and Harry turns his head.

“Could I—” he gestures at the clothes Harry is wearing.

“Borrow something? Yeah, of course,” Harry replies quickly.

He pulls out a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt of Ginny’s that would probably fit Draco more loosely than on Harry himself. Harry turns away as Draco dresses and notices it takes far longer than he expects.

“Dressed,” Draco announces quietly, and Harry returns to the bed.

He's rolled the pyjama bottoms far too many times on his waist, and they still hang loosely from his hips, exposing his navel and faint line of translucent hair. Harry tears his eyes away to meet Draco’s, watching him intently.

“How do you feel?” Harry prompts.

A pained look crosses Draco’s features, and he pulls his knees up to his chest in a way that reminds Harry of how he used to curl up on his bed as a child.

“I’ve had better days,” Draco admits.

“I don’t doubt it,” Harry says seriously. “Things last night were—”

“Quite a lot,” Draco supplies.

“That’s one way to describe it.” Harry shakes his head, passing Draco a glass of water from his nightstand. “Do you remember what happened?”

Draco sips it slowly, his long fingers trembling as they wrap around the cold glass.

“I don’t remember enough.”

Harry chews at his lip, unsure of what he should say. It would probably be best to bring Pansy and Theo here for this kind of conversation, but Harry knows that whether Draco is aware or not, he owes it to him to be honest. The clock on the wall reads six in the morning, and they probably wouldn’t be awake anyway. And, although Draco doesn't know it, Harry has a stake in his life too.

“I think you might have overdosed,” Harry says carefully. “I gave you Naloxone. I don’t know much about it, but we’re required to keep it in our kits.”

“Oh,” is all Draco says stiffly, eyes unfocused and shifting in direction. “I have bad highs sometimes.”

“I think bad might be too gentle of a word to explain what happened,” Harry says.

Draco frowns. “I don’t need you to save me.”

“You did last night,” Harry says, upset, and then he regrets the words instantly. It’s like a mask slams down over Draco’s features. The side of him that was open to listening and understanding what Harry has to say seems to be entirely gone.

“Nice, Potter.”

“Draco,” Harry sighs. “I didn’t mean to make light of a serious situation.”

“Why do you insist on calling me that?” Draco retorts.

“It’s your name, we’ve been over this.”

“People who call me by my name are my friends.”

“You wouldn’t consider us friends?” Harry quirks a smile. “I’d say we get along rather well now.”

Draco gets more frustrated at the joke, his face screwing up tightly. The sight of him in clothes far too large for him, curled into the bed in the cold morning, is entirely too sweet to get Harry riled up too. Then, he’s immediately horrified at finding Draco anything but totally unpleasant and maddening. He supposes, with a bit of reluctance, that both sides exist comfortably in his mind.

“I would consider us acquaintances,” Draco grumbles.

Harry suppresses the urge to roll his eyes because the statement couldn't get more Draco than that. “And why’s that?” he asks.

“You hang around me much more often than I expect these days,” Draco replies, pulling the comforter further up his body.

Harry wandlessly lights the fireplace.

“I’ve only seen you a handful of times,” Harry reasons. He sits up from the headboard, facing Draco head on. “But I would argue those times are worth much more than what you're willing to give them.”

“That’s still been too many times,” Draco says, though his tone lacks an edge, and Harry finds himself unable to stop the smile that comes out. “Can I ask you something?”

Harry nods.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

The question lingers in the space between them for a moment before Harry really lets it sink in. Because honestly, he can’t be sure. It’s easy to say that he’s only doing all of this for his soulmate because that is, truthfully, what he’s been told is required of him. Though now, he’s not so sure. It’s not that he pictures something romantic with Draco, but he can’t deny that there is some semblance of attraction there. Harry feels protective in a way that he's not sure is only a result of their shared connection, and it's beginning to scare him.

“I’m a nice person,” Harry winds up responding. It’s a statement that he, at least, knows to be true.

“You are, aren’t you,” Draco muses. “Always there for everyone.”

“If you call me a saviour,” Harry warns.

The corner of Draco’s mouth gives a slight upturn. “I wouldn’t be falsely accusing you if I did say that.”

“I hate the word,” Harry says quietly. “I don’t just want to be the person that saves everyone else.”

“You know that’s a good thing,” Draco points out. “To be the person that sacrifices themselves for others.”

“I’m not looking to be a martyr,” Harry says. “I just want to be normal.”

“Join the club,” Draco snorts, though there is something like hurt in his voice that makes Harry’s heart squeeze. “But normal is boring. Always has been.”

“Now, can I ask you something?”

“A question for a question is fair, I suppose.”

Harry takes a steadying breath before he speaks, knowing that what he wants to ask could push Draco away entirely. But he can’t deny now that he cares for Draco’s well-being. Not only as a soulmate, but as a concerned friend, as well. He wants Draco to be okay.

“The drugs you do.” Harry stops for a moment as Draco jaw tightens. “They’re so dangerous.”

“That’s not exactly a question, Potter.”

Harry, he wants to correct but doesn’t bother.

“You almost died last night, and Draco, I’m not your mother or a close friend, so I can’t tell you what to do here. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried.” Harry finds himself surprised at his honesty. He closes his eyes, as if that’s somehow going to make his words go away and he’ll pretend it’s not hurting to see Draco like this as much as it is.

“I still don’t hear a question,” Draco finally breathes out.

“Why do you do this to yourself?”

Silence hangs in the space for much longer than Harry cares for it to, and every breath he takes feels forced and totally wrong. But he knows that a large part of himself is too invested now to turn back.

When Harry opens his eyes, Draco is crying.

They’re small tears that prick gently at the corner where his eyes meet his nose and threaten to run down his face. Harry hates that he notices how expressive, how beautiful Draco looks with bright, watery eyes.

“Draco,” Harry says, surprised, moving forward on the bed to sit closer to him. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Draco swallows, looking away at something on the carpeted floor. He wipes his face quickly, as though he’s ashamed to be too emotional.

Harry scoots closer so that his knee bumps into Draco’s.

“Hey,” Harry says softly. He reaches a hand out, delicately turning Draco’s head back to him.

Harry drops his hand. “It’s alright.” He wandlessly Summons a tissue box from the dresser, leftover from when he’d had a cold in the weeks before meeting Draco again.

“You’re good at that,” Draco sniffles.

“At what?”

“Wandless magic,” Draco says, taking a tissue and dabbing gently at his eyes. “I’ve always wanted to master something like that. Ever since I was a kid my father always told me I had to be the best at every subject.”

“I mean you practically were,” Harry says, thinking back to Hogwarts when he was entirely taken aback at Draco ranking second best in their year to Hermione. But if there was one thing he knew for sure at the time, it was that Draco Malfoy was never unintelligent.

“‘Practically’ isn’t good enough,” Draco says, as though those words had been repeated to him, drilled into his subconscious, on a number of occasions. Harry’s almost positive they have been.

“I think being good at everything is stupid,” Harry says. “It’s best to focus on something that drives you and perfect it, instead of trying to do everything all at once.”

“‘Jack of all trades, master of none,’” Draco replies shortly.

“I don’t think that’s what you are.”

“Isn’t it?” Draco shrugs. “It’s not a bad thing. I just don’t have much of a drive for anything anymore.”

Harry resists the urge to reach out and take Draco’s hands in his. Because he knows, in part, that those are the drugs speaking whether Draco is willing to acknowledge it or not.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to yet,” Draco says simply.

Harry nods. “I understand.”

After a pause, Draco gets up with a soft groan, as though supporting weight on his legs is too taxing of a job.

“Thank you for last night,” Draco says. “I would appreciate it if we could, you know...”

“Keep this between us?” Harry interjects.

“Yes,” Draco says.

“Are you okay to get home?” Harry asks. “It’s still early, but I could owl Theo or Pansy to come help you.”

“It’s fine,” Draco says too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Alright,” Harry nods. He’s reluctant to let Draco go alone, but doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries just yet.

He follows behind Draco down the staircase, noticing it takes them an exceptionally long time to get to the bottom. Harry’s unsure how, after the night he’d had, Draco’s even able to walk, let alone manage to take himself home. But he reminds himself again that he’s not Draco’s keeper. He’s not allowed to be worrying as much as he is.

They reach the door, and it swings open by itself, the house seemingly excited to be tending to a real Black.

“Eager, isn’t it?” Draco remarks.

“It’s not this nice to me,” Harry laughs, catching the door in his fingers. “Get home safe okay?”

“I’m not twelve, Potter,” Draco replies, bundling his clothes up tighter in his arms and walking out the door.

“You have to start calling me Harry again.”

Draco doesn’t Apparate after he passes the gates, instead opting to head in the direction that Harry knows is near the tube station. He feels distinct amusement at the fact that Draco looks like he’s walking away from a particularly brutal one-night stand, clad in Harry’s oversized flannel pyjama bottoms and all.

“Muggles are going to think you look crazy!” Harry yells out.

Draco doesn’t bother turning around, electing to flip Harry off instead.

Harry turns back inside, and his amusement at the situation disappears quickly as he sees the used syringe and first aid kit abandoned on the coffee table in the sitting room. It was easy to pretend that Draco was sleeping over as a friend might after staying too late. But when the reality of the situation is staring him right in the face, he’s unable to push the trauma of it all away.

He calls Ron through the fire before he realises what he’s doing.

“Can you come over?” Harry asks weakly.

“What’s wrong?” Ron says with surprising immediacy, noticing the way Harry's words waver. Ron's voice is rough and unused, as though he’s just awoken. “Be there in a minute, I’m bringing ‘Mione.”

Seven minutes later, Ron and Hermione are in the sitting room in their pyjamas, and Harry is explaining his night with a hand running nervously through thick black hair.

“He told me not to tell anyone but I—” Harry pauses, his throat tightening. “I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione furrows her brows, holding his hands in hers. “I’m so sorry you have to deal with this, it's so unfair. We won’t tell a soul.”

But Harry doesn’t even know if he’s sorry. “That’s the thing, though. I want to deal with this. I want to help him get better.”

“You have such a big heart, Harry, but you can’t help everyone,” Hermione says. The pity in her tone doesn’t make him feel any more relieved.

“I know that I can’t,” he says, irritated. “But with Draco I want to.”

“I mean, maybe he’s right, ‘Mione. You can’t just hang him out to dry,” Ron says. “It’s not going to be an easy life if your soulmate is a drug addict. You know if he dies—”

“Ron!” Hermione yelps.

“What?” Harry asks with narrowed eyes. “What happens if he dies?”

Ron looks down at the floor guiltily. “I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t mean to put it like that.”

“What are you on about?” Harry asks.

“If he dies,” Hermione begins slowly, as though she’s coming to terms with the words herself. “If he dies, you won’t be able to survive long without him.”

Harry widens his eyes, his gaze falling back to the syringe on his coffee table. He really should throw it away.

“I’ll die, too?” Harry asks. “That hardly seems fair.”

“It’s not,” Ron shakes his head. “But magical cores can’t survive for long without their partners. He’s being selfish, putting you both at risk like this.”

“Ron, have some empathy,” Hermione says, exasperated.

“I do have empathy,” he argues, “But it’s true. He’s not only endangering his own life, but also yours.”

“He doesn’t know that though,” Harry argues. “He just needs an escape.”

“Can’t he have a pint and relax?” Ron says, rubbing his temple.

Hermione smacks him on the shoulder.

“I’m not trying to be a dick,” he says, justifying himself. “Harry, he’s throwing his life away right in front of you. Do you really think he won’t go back to the drugs immediately? Charlie’s ex-boyfriend was an addict, and it tore him apart, even without a shared core. I won’t let you get hurt like this.”

“It’s not his fault,” Hermione says pragmatically. “But I don’t disagree with Ron.”

“I’m just worried for you, Harry,” Ron shrugs. “You need to tell him.”

“I can’t.” Harry shakes his head. “He won’t react well, I can’t just drop a bomb like this on him. He'll be angry that I've been keeping it from him this whole time.”

“I don’t want to be harsh,” Ron says, more gently this time. “But you need to do it soon, or he’ll kill you both.”

Ron and Hermione leave his place soon after the conversation, once Harry promises he’s not just going to sit on this new, terrible piece of information and wait for something bad to happen. He’s absolutely certain that he won’t be ready to tell Draco about the soulmates thing any time soon, but he knows something significant needs to change if he wants to keep both of them alive.

The only solution, although it’s a miserable one, seems to be encouraging Draco to seek help. And before he can even do that, he has to somehow convince Draco that they are close enough for Harry to be trustworthy. Which will be a mission and a half all by itself.

Claude emerges from behind the sofa, jumping up gently into Harry’s lap. He’s usually not very affectionate unless he’s demanding food or scratches, but he seems to sense how Harry is feeling. He leans forward, nuzzling his head against Harry’s belly.

“You’re a good cat,” Harry sighs, patting his head. “Sometimes.”

Claude mewls in response, looking up at Harry with wide, expressionless eyes.

Harry leans back on the couch and turns on the television. He needs a moment alone before he can get himself ready to start his day.

***

Harry is at the supermarket a week later when he sees Draco next.

It’s not that he’s stingy with his money, because he doesn’t really need to be considering the state of his Gringotts vault, but Tesco is just so much cheaper than the places in Diagon Alley, and infinitely more convenient to the Ministry than the hassle of a Floo. It still begs the question as to why Draco’s hanging around around the dairy aisle, picking up cartons of milk, inspecting them carefully for a moment, before putting them right back.

“Draco?” Harry calls out.

Draco snaps his head around. He’s so well-dressed it almost hurts Harry to see. He’s not sure why or how, but the perfectly tailored trousers and tucked in dress-shirt make him look like some sort of fully-clothed Greek sculpture, and it takes Harry’s breath away.

Draco waves from across the way as Harry walks over.

“You’re in Tesco,” Harry says, once he’s approached.

“Observant,” Draco says, eyes still focused on a bottle of soy milk in his hand. “Pansy and I have been trying to expand our horizons when it comes to the product we take in our tea.”

“Are you really?” Harry raises an eyebrow, adjusting the basket on his hip.

“Dairy isn’t great for the stomach,” Draco says. “And gut health is very important.”

Harry hates the irony of it all, but he neglects to comment.

“You’re all dressed up,” Harry says instead. His eyes rake over Draco’s frame, but he tears them away quickly in fear of being noticed.

When Draco turns to him, Harry lets out a gasp.

“Merlin, Draco,” Harry says, shocked.

“It feels better than it looks,” Draco shrugs. “I promise.”

A large gash opens across the skin of Draco’s cheek. It looks like a scabbed over wound, torn open by his consistent movements. It’s bleeding little droplets of red down the left side of his face.

“What the fuck,” Harry says. “Who did this to you?”

Draco throws up a hand, seemingly feigning nonchalance. “Please.”

“Draco, answer me,” Harry says through gritted teeth.

He frowns, touching his cheek gently, pulling his hand away to reveal a fresh layer of crimson on his fingertips.

“An individual who still has a bone to pick with some of us Death Eaters. You know I don’t blame him for having the balls to at least do what everyone else dreams of doing to me.” Draco flashes a resigned smile that Harry finds makes the croissant he ate for breakfast flip over in his stomach. “At least he follows through.”

“Stop it,” Harry shakes his head. “That’s so screwed up.”

Draco turns back to the selection of milk in front of him.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” Harry says decidedly. He abandons his shopping basket on the ground.

“This isn’t your problem,” Draco says with a huff. “Leave me alone.”

“Draco someone attacked you, how is this not a problem?”

“Oh, it is one, but it’s mine.”

“Don’t be so stubborn,” Harry groans. “You’re going to bleed all over a Muggle grocery store, that can’t be sanitary or safe. And don’t tell me you’re alright with letting your face scar up like that.”

That grabs Draco’s attention, and he turns back to face Harry.

“My office is just around the corner, I have dittany and healing potions there,” Harry says. "Doesn't that sound tempting?"

Draco puts a hand on his hip, seeming to consider the offer for a moment. “Your office?” he asks, his voice unsure.

“We’ll be quick,” Harry promises. “In and out.”

“Alright,” Draco agrees.

Harry is surprised at how little time it takes them to get there. He feels like he’s somehow smuggling him in, but Draco’s blonde hair is more of an eye turner than the wound on his face.

Nobody seems to sneer at him, or give him a hard time, with Harry by his side.

After an entirely too uncomfortable elevator ride with Susan Silverberry, a stout woman and the head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, they make it to the right floor. Harry’s grateful that he and Ron have their own office in times like these. He was embarrassed by it at first, the obvious favouritism he’s shown each and every day in comparison to his colleagues out in the bullpen. But, before anyone can notice, he and Draco are swiftly behind a closed door, and Harry lets out a breath.

Ron isn’t there, thankfully, probably still out on his lunch break with Hermione.

“You have your own office,” Draco remarks.

“Yeah,” Harry says sheepishly. He clears off some space on the edge of his desk. “Sit.”

Draco perches gently on the desk as Harry rummages through his cabinets for his first aid kit. Once located, he opens it quickly, spreading the contents across the wooden surface.

He comes back around to the other side, unthinkingly tucking a strand of Draco’s hair behind his ear so it won’t get in the way.

“Your hair’s getting long,” Harry says quietly, dabbing a soft tissue across his cheek.

“I know,” Draco breathes. His words are so soft, but Harry hangs on to every sound. “I need to get it cut. Pansy has been mentioning it.”

“I like it long,” Harry says. “Suits you.”

Draco doesn’t respond, training his eyes down to a spot on the ground. Harry continues wiping up the blood, until the area looks as clean as it can get.

“This might sting,” he warns. He tips the bottle of dittany onto his finger, dabbing it gently over the area of Draco’s cut.

Draco closes his eyes at the probably painful sensation, though he doesn't make a noise. Harry can’t take his gaze off of his long, translucent eyelashes. He can feel Draco’s breath, hot against his open mouth.

“Why would someone do this?” Harry asks pointlessly, as though neither of them knows the answer.

Draco stays silent, now letting out a soft hiss as Harry dabs more dittany onto the wound. It looks better already, less red and angry, and pinker around the edges, as though it’s beginning to heal. He takes out a small vial, made up of a myriad of herbs he’s unfamiliar with, but it’s very clearly labeled “For Cuts.” The Healers at St Mungo’s who created the kits knew what they were doing when it came to Aurors.

“People need someone to blame, and I’m not a terrible choice,” Draco concedes.

“You were just a teenager, Draco. I don’t know what someone else in your position would have been able to do. You served your time.”

Draco pauses, adjusting on the desk. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“For saying that and believing it. For speaking at my trial,” Draco says reluctantly, as though this is the last thing he wants to be discussing. But Harry knows, without a shred of a doubt, that it's earnest.

Harry steps closer, aware of how his body is positioned between Draco’s legs. He dabs another layer of liquid from the vial on, letting it settle into the skin.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he says. “I did what I thought was right.”

“That’s…” Draco hesitates on the thought. “It’s selfless.”

Harry’s hands shake a bit as he moves to retrieve another tissue.

“I did terrible things,” Draco says. “And you gave me and my mother another chance.”

Harry nods. “You saved my life, so I think returning the favour was the least I could do.”

Draco blinks. “I didn’t—”

“In the manor,” Harry says. “You recognised me, I know you did. I saw it in your eyes.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Draco says carefully, his hand curling into a tight fist at his side. Harry watches as he digs his fingernails into the skin of his palm.

“I spent so much time watching you in the Great Hall, Draco. I just knew.”

A moment of silence endures between them as Harry applies the last of the potion. The air in the room is charged with electricity, thick with unfamiliar tension.

“How does it feel?” Harry asks, as he stoppers the bottle.

“Better,” Draco says, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “Thank you.”

The wound is beginning to close, and Draco’s cheek looks less marred than it did before.

“You’ve been thanking me an awful lot recently,” Harry jokes, reluctantly stepping away from his place in front of Draco.

“I better stop before it gets to your head. Your ego is big enough as it is,” Draco smiles, and it’s a genuine thing that creases the corners of his eyes and makes his pale face come alive with light. It makes Harry happy to see.

“Listen,” Harry says. “I know we’re not friends, or you won’t consider us to be, but I’d like to see you more.”

Draco stands. “You’d like to see me more?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs. “As friends. Like, coffee or something.”

A wry smile plays upon Draco’s lips. “Are you asking me on a coffee date, Potter? You know, I’m more of a tea man myself.”

Harry flushes quickly, his cheeks hot with embarrassment. “No, er, I meant like, just to get to know each other better, you know? Or we don’t have to, if you don’t want—”

“I’m teasing you, Merlin,” Draco says coyly, making for the door. “But yes, we can be friends.”

When he leaves, the silence in the office seems so much louder than when they’d been talking. Harry sits at his desk, putting a hand to his forehead.

“He’s going to kill me,” he says aloud, to no one in particular.

Chapter Text

Harry’s just gotten home from work after a gruelling Monday when he hears a knock on his door. He’s not expecting Ron or Hermione, or anyone for that matter, but knows most of his friends would choose to use the Floo anyway.

He’s taken aback when he opens the front door to reveal Draco bundled in an oversized coat with a cosy maroon scarf wrapped multiple times around his neck. Flecks of white snow dot the knit cap and strands of blonde hair that peek out from beneath. His face is a flushed pink, as though he’s been out in the cold for much longer than is ideal.

“Draco,” Harry breathes.

The gash on his cheek is completely gone. Clearly, he’d been taking care of it, and Harry hates that he’s pleasantly surprised by that.

“Can I come in?” Draco asks. “It’s cold.”

“Of course,” Harry says quickly, stepping aside to let Draco enter.

The house warms almost immediately at Draco’s presence, and Harry finds himself irritated at the fact that it’s often so stubborn with him.

“I’m sorry to show up unannounced,” he says.

It’s only then that Harry notices a large paper bag in his hands, filled with what looks like groceries.

“I was thinking I could cook you dinner,” Draco says. “As a thank you for the past few weeks.”

Harry bites his lip. “There’s no need to thank me for any of this.”

“Well, there is,” Draco says removing his coat and his snow-wet boots. “You seem to have saved my arse more than once. And I already know your kitchen is probably far too unused for how nice it is. You know, I used to visit here a lot when I was younger.”

Harry snorts. “There’s no possible way you could know that.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “There’s a reason I brought groceries, you know. I’m betting your pantry is full of instant noodles and box mac and cheese.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue and then closes it again.

Draco smirks. “See? I know you.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “No you don't," he says, although Draco definitely does.

“Come on, then,” Draco says, leading Harry into his own house as though it shouldn’t be the other way around. “I’m making curry.”

Harry perches himself on a barstool at the island as Draco busies his hands with chopping vegetables and preparing their meal. As many times as Harry asks to help, Draco refuses to entrust him with even the smallest of tasks.

“You know I’m not an entirely incapable adult,” Harry says, frustrated. “I can cube potatoes.”

“No way I’m letting you touch a knife.” Draco waves a hand. “Just trust me.”

Harry reluctantly does, opting to snack on the carrots Draco has begun cutting instead.

“You know, if you eat them all, we won’t have any left for dinner.”

Harry’s almost forgotten that that’s what they’re doing. Dinner together, alone, in the lantern-lit kitchen of Harry’s home. Candles that he has never touched have lit themselves on the countertop. The house knows what it’s doing, and Harry feels nervousness, along with irritation at his betraying home, rise in his chest.

They’d been spending more time with each other recently without even purposefully meaning to do so. Sometimes, Harry would just show up at Draco’s with takeout and a film recommendation, and he’d simply let him in like it was a normal thing to be doing. Draco would dutifully try to sober up before Harry could take any notice, but it never really worked. Sometimes Draco met him outside work, and they went for long meandering walks in the freezing weather. Somehow, Harry liked that better. When they were both in their right state of mind.

“You really don’t need to be doing this,” Harry says gesturing at the spread of vegetables before him. “A simple thank you was enough.”

“I know,” Draco says, focusing his eyes down on the cutting board. “But I don’t like to leave any debts.”

“Debts?” Harry repeats. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Maybe not literally,” Draco says. “But in many ways, I do.”

“So you think dinner will just cancel that out,” Harry jokes, dying to break a bit of the serious tension laden over the room.

Draco laughs. “It will. And besides, maybe I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

Harry feels warmth bloom in his chest at the thought. He watches Draco’s delicate fingers whiten as he presses down into the knife.

“You don’t use magic to cook,” Harry observes.

He doesn’t miss how Draco stiffens a bit at the statement.

“It’s not,” Harry starts awkwardly. “You’re allowed to—”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Oh.”

“My magic isn’t as reliable anymore,” Draco says. He’s unable to make eye contact with Harry, who’s searching his face for an explanation. “The drugs, they don’t help, they drain me.”

Harry frowns, looking down at his hands. “Maybe you should stop, then.”

“It’s not that simple,” Draco says tightly. He removes a potato from the paper bag and begins to peel it.

“It could be,” Harry says. “There are organizations and people that are trained to help with this sort of thing you know, I could connect you—”

“Stop,” Draco says. He drops the peeler, and it makes a loud clattering noise against the cutting board that reverberates throughout the space. It feels a little colder in the room, and Harry notices how Draco shrugs his loose jumper tighter on his shoulders.

It hurts him to see Draco letting himself waste away.

“You won’t tell anyone, right?” Draco asks.

“Nothing makes us as lonely as our secrets,” Harry speaks quietly, his voice just above a whisper. “But no, I won't.”

Draco preps largely in silence as the evening ticks by. Harry, if only to fill the room, puts on the Muggle wireless and The Smiths croon through the radio. Usually, Harry would sit back and pour himself a glass of Merlot but finds himself a bit repulsed by the idea all of a sudden. He doesn’t really care to drink around Draco.

“You were reading my book the other night,” Draco mentions from over by the stovetop.

Harry turns himself from where he’s seated at the table, paperwork sprawled in front of him. He always brings too much work home with him.

“Anna Karenina, right?” Harry asks. “I only got through the first few pages before I fell asleep, to be honest.”

Draco huffs. “You would.”

“Do you read often?” Harry asks, pushing his glasses up further on his nose from where they’ve slipped down.

Draco considers the question for a moment. “I’ve always loved reading. I don’t tend to make the time for it anymore like I used to.”

“You sound a bit like Hermione,” Harry observes, amused.

To Harry’s surprise, Draco looks pleased with the comment.

“I take that as a compliment,” Draco says. “I’ve always wanted to open a bookstore or work at a small, curated library. Ever since I was young.”

Harry finds himself smiling. “Well, why don’t you?”

Draco scoffs. “Well for starters, no one would want to buy books from a Death Eater.”

“I would buy your books,” Harry offers. “And that says a lot because I don’t really pleasure read.”

Draco’s eyes widen at the comment, and he wipes his hands on a dishcloth. “I appreciate that, Harry.”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t open one,” Harry shrugs. “Life’s too short to not be doing something that you love.”

“Are you happy with what you’re doing?”

“Career-wise, yes.”

“And otherwise?”

Harry pauses then, suddenly interested by the words on the page in front of him. Draco doesn’t prompt him again, so he continues to read through the case file: a burglary in Diagon Alley.

“You know, if you hypothetically opened up this bookshop,” Harry says, “you wouldn’t necessarily have to deal with many people from the Wizarding World.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asks. He serves the curry into two large bowls, atop a bed of jasmine rice.

“Well, what’s stopping you from opening a store in a Muggle neighbourhood?” Harry asks. He puts his work aside and comes to join Draco at the countertop.

“Hm,” Draco hums, bringing the bowls to the island. He claims a barstool next to Harry. “You’re not wrong.”

“I know I’m not,” Harry says with a wicked smile.

Harry looks down at the yellow curry, the delicious smell wafting across the kitchen. He hasn’t eaten something so nice since Luna and Neville’s housewarming party months ago. Harry takes a tentative bite, burning himself a bit at the tip of his tongue, and then promptly moaning around the spoon.

“What the fuck,” Harry says, eagerly going in for another bite. “This is unreal.”

Draco grins. “Sometimes Luna and I will cook together at my parties. I’m a great chef, if I do say so myself.”

“I won’t disagree with you,” Harry says. He finds himself feeling distinct relief that Draco is eating too and isn’t being shy about it.

Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried about Draco’s weight. There wasn’t anything to indicate an eating disorder or something of that sort, but he seems to be particularly bad at taking care of himself. When explaining this fact to Ron at the office earlier in the morning, Harry had been angry with Theo and Pansy and their lack of involvement in getting Draco back up on his feet. Ron had said that things weren’t so simple.

Seeing Draco tuck into his meal enthusiastically made that abundantly clear.

“You don’t really get hungry when you’re using, do you?” Harry says carefully, reluctant to venture into dangerous territory.

Draco’s shoulders tighten a bit, and he sits up straighter on the barstool. His eyes remain focused on his bowl. “Not really.”

Harry nods, picking out a potato from his bowl and depositing it in Draco’s.

“I noticed you liked them,” Harry says at the confusion in Draco’s face. “And I could do without them.”

“Potatoes are the best part!” Draco exclaims, a mixture of both surprise, and what Harry aches to call fondness on his features.

Harry shrugs. “I prefer the beef.”

“Of course, you do,” Draco smiles around his spoon. “I like cooking for myself. I just find it hard when I’m not sober.”

“I don’t blame you,” Harry says. “I would imagine it’s really hard to take care of anything when you’re in that state.”

Draco nods.

“Listen, I know it’s not my business, but I want to put you in touch with someone,” Harry says gently. “You can say no.”

“With who?” Draco asks instead, skeptically.

“A friend of mine at the Ministry. She’s not affiliated with my department, but I think she could really help you,” Harry says earnestly.

He’d thought through the decision for a while before asking for the business card of Azalea Otter’s contact information. Harry knew, through various drug-related incidents and offences he’d been assigned to, that there was often a type of social worker and liaison that helped with recovery options. Ron had told him not to involve himself like this just yet, but Harry couldn't help it. He’d been growing increasingly worried, and while Draco’s demeanour seems to be happy and light now, his body has been showing signs of wear like it never has before.

There was a time at Hogwarts when Harry knew Draco to wear the most perfectly tailored outfits, as though every piece of clothing was exactly sized to his measurements. Now, he seems to prefer sweatpants, loose jumpers and coats that are far too large for his frame.

Draco doesn’t seem to be annoyed, but he brushes away Harry’s worry quickly. “I know you’re only trying to help, but I don’t know how many times I can tell you that I don’t need it.”

Harry takes a sip of water from his glass, if only to keep his hands busy.

He’s grown to care for Draco’s well being in a way that he knows is separate from the fact that they are soulmates. It had been a bit of an abrupt realisation, but an important one all the same. Whether he likes it or not, Draco meant, and would always mean, something to him. If an overdose were to happen again, Harry wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

He thinks back to what Narcissa had told him the month before.

The more he is chased, the faster he runs away.

“Alright,” Harry says, closing the conversation. “We don’t need to talk about this.”

Draco hums in agreement, and they continue eating their dinner, chattering on about topics that Harry would never find interesting unless spoken from Draco’s lips themselves.

When Draco’s in the bathroom getting ready to leave, Harry slips Azalea’s business card into Draco’s coat pocket. Just in case he needs it on a particularly hard night.

Harry sleeps fitfully that night, tossing and turning uncomfortably upon his mattress. He can’t seem to get comfortable enough to go to bed, scenes of Draco lying high and sad in his bed playing through his mind like a montage of old videos.

He wakes the next morning after only a few hours of sleep and calls off from work.

“I’m sick,” he says into the fire.

“With what?” Robards says skeptically back.

“Winter flu, probably. Wouldn’t want to pass it around during the holidays,” Harry says seriously, putting on a grave face.

“Alright, have Ron owl you some Pepper-Up or something, we need you back sooner rather than later.”

Robards ends the call swiftly, and Harry feels relieved and a little surprised at how easy it is for him to lie and how ready people are to believe him.

He dresses quickly and with purpose, knowing exactly how he’s going to spend the day and feeling entirely too good about it. He considers taking the Floo or Apparating, but something about the Tube on a cold day seems far more appealing. Harry likes a train ride and to be alone with his thoughts for a quiet minute.

Any semblance of peacefulness is struck from his mind when he realises he’s chosen to leave at rush hour. But the journey to Draco’s goes faster than he expects it to, and before he knows it, he’s standing on the doorstep and a sleepy-eyed Theo is opening the door.

“Potter?” he asks, his voice low and confused.

Harry walks inside without much of a second thought.

“Is Draco expecting you?” Theo says, raising an eyebrow and shivering as a gust of wind pulls the door shut.

“Nope,” Harry says cheerily. “But I’ll just go get him.”

Theo frowns. “He’s not having a good morning...”

Harry doesn't falter. He takes the steps two at time as Theo ventures back out into the sitting room. Pansy is curled protectively around Draco, whose eyes are closed, but is breathing heavily enough to indicate that he’s awake.

“Potter?” Pansy queries when she sees him approach the bed.

Draco lazily opens an eye and then closes it again.

“Can I have a moment with him, Pansy?” Harry asks.

Pansy looks hard-pressed to leave them in the room together, but to Harry’s surprise, she does as he requested of her without a fuss.

“Draco?” Harry prompts gently, pulling back the gauzy curtain further and perching at the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

Draco makes a sound, curling tighter in on himself.

“Come on now,” Harry says, tugging him onto his back. Draco complies, pliant at Harry’s touch. He’s ice-cold underneath his fingertips.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asks after a few seconds of silence.

Harry smiles sheepishly. “I had some things to do today and wanted some company.”

“I’m not feeling up to it today,” Draco says decidedly, but Harry’s not having it.

“Your comedown is going to be worse if you lie in bed all day,” Harry says. He figures cutting to the chase is a better tactic. “I’ll buy you a coffee even, but you’re coming with me no matter what.”

Draco groans, “Merlin, I don’t want to be one of your projects.”

“You’re not!” Harry argues. “But we’re friends now, and I like to spend time with my friends.”

It takes a little more coaxing, but Harry’s able to cajole Draco out of bed. He dresses in the bathroom, in a pair of nice trousers and an oversized jumper. On Harry, the outfit would look unkempt, but Draco, of course, manages to pull it off. Harry doesn’t think he really understands what the word ‘chic’ means, but this is definitely a look that Blaise and Ginny would deem so.

Harry hands over Draco’s usual scarf and beanie.

Still, as much as he loves to admire Draco’s appearance, he can’t help but notice his hollow eyes. Sharp silver irises are dimmed to a muted grey. Circles so dark they stain Draco’s porcelain skin sit deep into his face, giving him a gaunt look that Harry just wants to fix.

“You look nice,” Harry says awkwardly because despite how sickly Draco looks, he’ll never be unattractive.

“Thanks,” Draco says listlessly. He bends down to put on a pair of loafers. “Where are we going?”

“Christmas shopping,” Harry says with a grin. He knows Draco’s in a bad mood, but all he really wants is to cheer him up. To make him feel something more than crushing emptiness.

“Merlin,” Draco breaths, raising an eyebrow. “You forced me out of bed to do errands with you?”

“Technically, yes,” Harry says slowly, “but I think it’ll be fun.”

Draco kisses Pansy and Theo goodbye; they’re folded together on the couch in the sitting room, an unnamed sitcom playing on the Muggle television. When they step outside, Harry wishes he’d bundled up more. The December chill cuts sharply through his coat, and he wonders how Draco manages the cold with a body that’s only skin and bones.

Harry Side-Along’s Draco to his favourite, discreet Apparition point in Diagon Alley, the tug in his stomach settling as his feet touch gently down onto firm ground. Draco looks like he might be sick, and his cheeks are blue in the winter air.

“You okay?” Harry asks.

He steadies Draco next to him in his arms, thoroughly resisting the urge to wrap him up and never let go. Draco looks down at him through his eyelashes, and Harry feels his heart almost give out right there.

“I’m fine,” Draco says faintly.

“Let’s start with some breakfast,” Harry decides.

Diagon Alley during the wintertime has always been his favourite. There’s something unendingly challenging about spending the holiday largely alone, but the Alley is always bustling with a life force that fuels Harry’s happiness. Twinkling lights and hovering candles are strung up over shop windows, Christmas wreaths that smell like pine and cinnamon cover the doorways, and carolers sing in the distance. It’s a Tuesday morning, but everyone seems to be buying their presents last minute.

Harry leads them to a small bakery around the corner, and Draco finds a seat by the large windows while he goes to order. It’s beginning to snow outside, little spots of white stippling the glass. Draco pulls his cap down to cover his ears.

“Two croissants please,” Harry says to the barista, “and two hot chocolates.”

When Harry brings their items back to the table, Draco wrinkles his nose. He takes the lid off of the cup to inspect the drink.

“Hot chocolate?”

“I thought it would be more in the spirit of the holidays,” Harry shrugs. He takes a sip, and it’s the perfect temperature.

Draco waits a bit for his to cool down.

“Rough night?” Harry asks into the silence, watching Draco pick uninterestedly at his food.

Draco nods. Harry’s getting used to the drastic highs and lows that he seems to have, but wishes, somehow, things could be different. It’s just so hard to see him like this, so numb and reserved, and not himself. He takes a tentative sip of the hot chocolate, smacking his lips gently together as though he’s trying to decide if he likes it or not.

The barista emerges from behind the counter with copies of Witch Weekly and the Daily Prophet.

“Care for a read?” she asks, smiling at Harry. She very decidedly chooses to ignore Draco’s presence.

Harry frowns, but reaches for a copy of the Prophet. The headline is big and bold, and Harry, with an ache in his chest, sees Draco eyeing it too.

CELESTINA WARBECK FINDS LOVE: A SOULMATE IN AN UNLIKELY PLACE.

“I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing that stuff like this is making the headlines of the Prophet now,” Harry jokes.

Draco offers a smile, pulling the paper closer to him. “Seems like her soulmate is a woodworker. How romantic.”

Harry pauses, training his eyes back down to a half-eaten croissant. “Have you ever given any thought to this whole thing?” he asks vaguely, carefully, because he doesn’t want to spook Draco away.

“Celestina Warbeck?” Draco snorts. “Not recently, no.”

“Come on,” Harry chides, “you know what I mean.”

Draco swallows, opting to take an actual bite of his croissant before answering the question. He chews slowly, like he really doesn’t want to swallow.

“I’ve thought about it, yes.” Draco admits. “My mother raised me on stories about soulmates. It was important, especially in the pure-blood communities.”

“Was important,” Harry repeats, taking note of the tense.

“Still is,” Draco corrects. “But not as much to me.”

Harry wonders on the words for a moment, curious to know if there was ever a time that Draco fantasised about his soulmate the way the Weasleys did. If he romanticised it like so many other people or shoved it to the side like Harry chose to do. The latter seemed more plausible, because if he’d bothered to find out, Draco would already know why Harry was in his life so often now.

“I can understand that,” Harry offers. He looks out the window to see two children playing in the snow. “Do you know who yours is yet?”

Draco shakes his head. “I don’t have any plans to find out.”

Harry tries to feign surprise, though he’d already expected such an answer. For what reason though, he wasn’t sure.

“You don’t want to know?”

Draco seems to be scuffling his feet, knocking his knee into Harry accidentally. “I don’t think whoever I have would want to know either.”

Harry swallows. He’s not going to tell him right now. “I don’t think that’s true,” he says instead. “Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

Draco scoffs, a rough sound that makes Harry’s heart ache. “Please, Harry. Don’t patronise me.”

“I’m not!” Harry says earnestly. “I genuinely think so. I really enjoy spending time with you.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve already established you’re mad,” Draco says, but there’s a faint pink blush appearing on his cheeks. “I just don’t want to put that kind of pressure on someone. Imagine finding out your soulmate used to be a Death Eater: what a disappointment.”

Harry doesn’t need to imagine.

Draco takes a breath. “I suppose what I mean is that everyone deserves to have someone good. I don’t want to be a burden on anyone.”

“And what if they seek you out?” Harry says quietly.

“No one has yet,” Draco shrugs. “At this point, I don’t think I have one. That or someone would rather let themselves die than spend any time with me for which I don’t blame them.”

Harry doesn’t know how to answer. He owes it to Draco to tell him, to reassure him that he’s not all alone in the world, and there actually is someone out there who wants him more than anything. Because if there’s one thing Harry’s willing to admit to himself now, it’s that he wants Draco. And he wants him in a way that is growing far past physical attraction.

“Draco, you’re not a burden,” Harry says, voice low. “I don’t want you to think that about yourself.”

“Please,” Draco snorts. “Imagine the luck of the poor person who would get me, not only a Death Eater but also a drug-addict. What a package deal. At this point, I’m glad no one has me.”

“I’m sure you have a soulmate,” Harry says, pained. “You deserve one.”

Draco smiles ruefully down at the table. “It’s possible that I have one, but I know I don’t deserve one.”

Harry’s brows knit together. He’s not sure why Draco can’t see his value, and it’s a painful realisation. Because, he does deserve something good after all he’s been through, and everything he’s done to become a better person. It doesn’t matter if he thinks he has one or doesn’t; it matters that he can’t see how much Harry wants him to be happy.

It’s enough to make Harry consider telling him right there, but he holds himself back.

“I’m serious,” he frowns. “You deserve someone great, and it’s honestly baffling to me that you don’t see that. You’re a world-class cook, you are intelligent and educated and well-read, you’re kind-hearted, and you care about your friends. You’re not bad company either.”

Draco sits with the words for a moment as Harry nervously plays with his fingers.

“You really mean that?” Draco asks.

“Absolutely,” Harry replies without missing a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile.

A silence falls over the table for a while as Harry considers the words spoken between them. He’d surmised already that Draco probably was avoiding finding out who his soulmate is, but he hadn’t really expected this. A deeply rooted self-hatred that makes Harry’s eyes sting. Anyone would be lucky to have Draco in their life, he realises, because for his terrible past and numerous flaws he’s more than them, he’s offered Harry a chance at real happiness without even coming to recognise it. How could Draco not see that about himself? How, in Merlin’s name, could he perceive himself to be so valueless? The questions are enough to make his head spin.

Harry considers it’s not really about finding the perfect person to spend the rest of his life with. It’s about finding someone who will love him as he is. Because that’s all Harry wants, really, is just to be accepted, and to be loved for the person he’s become. It had been hard, at first, to approach the subject of soulmates with the idea of the perfect, pure match. But, really getting to know the person Draco’s becoming is eye-opening. Because, despite all the pain, and struggle, and mistakes, he is more worthy of love than any person Harry knows.

“So, Christmas shopping?” Draco asks eventually, breaking the quiet.

“Yeah,” Harry says, pushing the sad thoughts from his mind. He’s determined to have a good day with Draco.

They head out of the bakery and into the busy street. If it’s possible, the Alley has grown more crowded, and people bustle around with their new purchases. Harry directs them to Flourish and Blotts first, because if there’s an easy person to buy a gift for, it has always been Hermione.

As Harry peruses the shelves for a specific book on Magical Contract Law that she had requested, Draco has found a book and is already settling into a cushy chair to read. Harry watches him intently, noticing how his eyes seem to devour the words. He spends much more time than he needs to on each page, flipping back to take note of what he’s already read. It’s far different from the way Harry skims through anything he’s assigned like it’s a chore. Draco seems to really enjoy the act of reading without the frills.

Harry’s there for longer than he needs to be, mostly to give Draco more time with the book he’s chosen. He knows for a fact that without him, Draco would never be allowed into Flourish and Blotts.

“What’s he reading?” Harry asks the clerk as he’s buying the book.

The man looks over at where Draco’s seated, pushing his glasses further up on his nose and squinting to see. “Jane Austen, judging by the cover. One of our First Editions.”

“I’ll take it,” Harry says.

He pays a hefty sum for both the books and goes to meet Draco by the doorway. As he goes to put the book back where he found it, Harry stops him, his hands wrapping gently around Draco’s forearm.

“I bought it for you,” Harry says. “Keep it.”

Draco’s eyes widen with a small panic. “No, you didn’t. This is a first print of Emma, it must have been expensive.”

Harry shrugs. “What’s the use of having money if you can’t use it to make the people you care about happy.” He holds open the door for Draco. “Are you coming?”

A mixture of surprise and disbelief play upon his features.

“I don’t need you to buy things for me,” Draco frowns.

“Consider it an early Christmas gift then,” Harry says. “I get them for everyone.”

Draco isn’t entirely convinced, but he seems happier with the answer.

They leave the shop, and Harry heads north toward Quality Quidditch Supplies for Ron. He loves how easy it is to shop for his friends as they’re a very steady constant.

The rest of the day is spent in a flurry, Harry and Draco joking around as they bounce from shop to shop picking out personal presents for each member of the Weasley family and enjoying the cheer in the air. Draco’s mood is looking up, and he can’t stop thumbing through the pages of his new novel. Harry feels his heart swell at the sight.

It’s no secret to him anymore that he’ll do anything to make Draco happy.

Chapter Text

It’s a rainy Christmas morning, not quite cold enough to snow, and the Burrow is glowing a warm orange from the inside out. Harry’s always loved Christmas here; it feels nice to be surrounded by family. It’s strange because he relishes the small arguments, the bickering, the debating that comes with the Weasleys and their Christmas Days. Everyone is just happy to be here, despite all the sibling rivalry.

Harry stands on the doorstep patiently, his hair beginning to wet.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Draco looks back at him through hooded eyes. He’s wringing his hands together underneath knitted mittens. There’s fear in his expression that makes Harry’s want to wrap him up in a hug and refuse to let go.

“I’m not fantastic,” Draco admits, too nervous to quip back at Harry as he usually would.

Harry had invited Draco to Christmas quite last minute when it became clear he didn’t have any concrete plans. He had, in all honesty, expected Draco to decline the offer. But Pansy and Theo were going to their respective families and Draco, in his own words, couldn’t bear to be around more old family ties than necessary. So, Harry had invited him in the hopes that he would actually come, but with distinct expectations that he wouldn’t.

Instead, they were now standing on the front steps waiting for someone to open the door.

Harry had informed everyone that Draco would be joining them, and it wasn’t a surprise to Ron or Hermione. In the nicest way, they’d pointed out how little time he was spending with them and how much time he had spent with Draco in the last few weeks. Whether it be stopping by after work for dinner, or Draco learning to feel comfortable coming to the office to share lunch with Harry and Ron, he was becoming a more regular occurrence in all of their lives. It was getting to a point where Harry couldn’t bear to spend days apart from him.

“You’ll be just fine,” Harry reassures him. “Blaise will be here, too.”

“But they like Blaise,” he says.

“They learned to like Blaise,” Harry corrects. “Just as they will with you.”

He gives Draco’s hand a light, comforting squeeze and pulls away as Hermione opens the door with a beaming smile.

“Happy Christmas,” she grins, crushing Harry into a hug.

She’s softer with Draco, but she shamelessly wraps her arms around him anyway, and Harry smiles at the look of genuine surprise on his face.

“Come in, Molly and Ginny are cooking still, but lunch should be ready soon.”

Harry follows her inside, with Draco trailing closely behind. He grabs onto the fabric of Harry’s coat, as though he’s afraid he’ll get lost if he lets go.

“It’s okay,” Harry repeats, when Hermione is just out of earshot.

Draco bites his lip, but he nods in agreement; if anything, it's to convince himself.

The sitting room is abuzz with activity. George is playing with Victoire on the carpet as Fleur watches him with the hawk-eyed stare that only a mother could have. Oliver and Percy are very clearly undergoing some sort of lovers quarrel in the corner, at which Ron and Charlie continuously snicker. Arthur is probably somewhere upstairs.

It seems as though all the noise and excitement are sucked out of the room as Harry and Draco enter. He knows for a fact that only Ron, Hermione, and Ginny know that they’re soulmates, but for a moment he panics. They’re standing too close together, and in a moment of silly fright, Harry steps away. Draco is alarmed at that.

“Come sit,” Hermione says into the silence.

They take seats on the far side of the couch, next to where Ron and Charlie are trying to squeeze themselves both into what has been deemed the best armchair in the room.

“This is Draco,” Harry announces as though no one recognises him from the war, from his father’s hair.

A chorus of stiff and awkward hi’s and hello’s greet Draco back, and despite how small he is, he sinks further into the cushions. For a moment, Harry wonders if this was a bad idea.

He takes the thought back as Blaise enters the room, his face lighting up as he catches sight of Draco. It’s like the room feels comfortable once two Slytherins are in it rather than one. Blaise comes to sit next to Draco, engaging him in a conversation about something Harry doesn’t know anything about, and Hermione perches next to him.

“How are you, Harry?” she asks with worry in her tone.

“I’m actually quite good,” Harry says, relieved at how the dynamic in the room has changed. Several eyes still linger on Blaise and Draco, but Harry supposes that’s how things go.

Someone turns on the wireless, and Christmas music cheers up the sitting room.

“So, you and Draco,” Hermione says, taking care to keep her face low, though no one else seems to be paying attention. “You two are together quite a bit.”

Harry nods sheepishly. “I’m finding it hard to stay away.”

Hermione offers an earnest smile. “So, don’t.”

Harry looks back at Draco, feeling so dizzy with fondness that it makes his head spin. A large part of him is proud to bring someone like Draco back to his family. At least, this person. The sweet, quiet, well-mannered and good-intentioned soul that he really is.

“Are you guys together?” Hermione asks, again her voice soft.

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t know if he wants that from me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He finally trusts me as a friend. I don’t want him to think I’m only with him because I want something from him.”

Hermione lets out a laugh. “You don’t see the way he looks at you.”

Harry creases his brow. “And how’s that?”

Before she can respond, Ginny emerges from the kitchen in a food-stained apron patterned with small forest animals. Her hair is tied back into a messy bun, and she looks as though Molly has somehow put her through hell and back—something Harry very much does not doubt.

She waves at Harry from the doorway.

“Mum’s requesting you,” Ginny says. “Come say hello.”

“Draco,” Harry enquires. “Want to come with?”

Draco looks as though he very sincerely does not want to, but he follows behind Harry anyway. Molly is humming a Christmas tune at the stovetop as a pot stirs itself in front of her. The sounds of root vegetables being chopped on a cutting board draw Harry’s attention before she does. Warm sunlight begins to spill through the windowpanes, despite the rain, and Harry wonders if there will be a rainbow.

“Harry, my darling,” Molly croons as soon as she catches sight of him.

She shuffles over with her arms preemptively outstretched, crowding him into a hug that lasts for seconds too long. Harry loves it anyway, feeling safe and loved in her embrace. She pulls back when she notices Draco hovering just behind in the doorway. Her expression cools off a bit, but not by much, as Harry knows she’s always excited to have family in the Burrow.

“Draco,” she says.

“Mrs Weasley, thank you so much for having me.” Draco bows his head, politely, playing with his fingers. “I don’t usually spend Christmas with my...family anymore, and I really appreciate it.”

“We’re happy to have you,” she says warmly. Her crow’s feet crease when she smiles and Harry knows that she means it. She gives Draco a much shorter hug, but a hug nonetheless, and he relaxes into her arms. “Please, make yourself at home.”

“Thank you,” Draco smiles. “If there’s anything I can do to help in the kitchen, Harry can attest to the fact that I’m not a terrible cook.”

“He’s being modest,” Harry argues. “He’s fantastic.”

Draco blushes, and Molly beams, and Harry feels so happy he can barely contain it.

“Well, thank you for the offer, but you boys enjoy yourselves today.” Molly waves a hand. “I have everything under control.”

They’re eating lunch soon after, something they always do before presents so nobody goes hungry. Harry notices himself watching Draco’s conversations. He and Charlie seem to be getting on well. Charlie’s making him laugh, and a small pit of jealousy makes itself known in Harry’s stomach.

“You alright, mate?” Ron says from next to him.

Harry clears his throat, taking another bite of stew. “Just fine.”

He wishes Molly had let Draco sit next to him, but table placements are always very particular to her. And Harry doesn’t want to be suffocating, it is great that Draco and Charlie are getting on. Really, he should be happy for him.

“I hear you work with dragons,” Draco is saying from across the table.

“Yes sir, dangerous job, you know,” Charlie says, flashing a one-sided smile that could bring anyone to their knees. Suddenly, he flinches, shooting an irritated look at Ginny who seems to have given him a swift kick under the table.

Harry could kiss her for it if he wasn't so painfully obsessed with someone else at the table.

They chatter mindlessly over lunch, and Harry tries not to think about the flirting. He focuses on how good the food is and how lovely it is to see Draco open up to his family. Everyone takes to him quickly. He’s much sweeter and softer than any of them remember. Hermione, under her breath, makes this comment to Harry a few times, and he nods knowingly.

“He’s such a charmer,” Harry says quietly, wistfully.

Hermione gives him a knowing look. “Come on, Harry.”

“What?”

“You should tell him.”

Harry blinks. “Keep your voice down,” he says, but Draco seems to be distracted by something George is talking about next to him. “I can’t just yet.”

“Don’t lose him because you’re scared,” Hermione whispers, and then leaves it at that.

Harry thinks about her words through the rest of the meal.

Afterwards, the group congregates in the sitting room to open presents. Harry unintentionally receives more than he gives, as usual, and insists that no one get him anything the following year. This statement never goes over well, and Molly promises him a lifetime of presents to make up for the Dursleys. Draco receives presents too, which neither he nor Harry really expected.

He opens his gift from Molly last, a deep blue knitted jumper with a yellow lettered D stitched into the fabric. Harry’s mouth hangs open.

“I’m hoping you’ll be here next year,” Molly smiles. “To grow the collection.”

Draco opens his mouth and then closes it again, and apart from Percy and Oliver’s baby son babbling in the corner, the room is thick with silence.

“Thank you, Mrs Weasley,” he says, softly, with cracks in his voice.

Then, Draco stands and quickly walks out of the room.

Blaise rises to go after him, but Ginny pulls him back by the arm. “Wait,” she says quietly.

Harry’s grateful for it because he stands and follows Draco down the hallway where he’d disappeared. He finds him in Ginny’s old bedroom, as it’s the first down the hall. The walls are covered in various moving posters of The Weird Sisters, Gilderoy Lockhart, Viktor Krum and more, which makes for an interesting backdrop to Draco perched delicately on the patchwork quilt covers.

The bedside lamp is turned on low, casting long black shadows across the room. Harry comes to sit beside him silently.

“I’m sorry,” Draco starts. “I don’t mean to embarrass you in front of them.”

Harry is taken aback. “You’re not embarrassing me, Draco. I just want to know if you’re alright.”

Draco pauses, fumbling with a thread loose in the comforter. “I’m not used to this.”

“This?” Harry repeats in question.

“All this love. Easy acceptance.”

“Oh,” Harry says knowingly. He puts a hand reassuringly over Draco’s own. It’s cold. “I wasn’t either, if it helps.”

“You weren’t?”

Harry shakes his head. “It was really overwhelming for me. The Weasleys are amazing. They’re unbelievable, actually. Changed my life in so many ways that I could never thank them enough for. Their hearts are so open, you know? So willing to let anyone in.”

“Even a Death Eater,” Draco laughs joylessly.

“You have to stop calling yourself that,” Harry says, frustrated.

“It’s who I am.” Draco shrugs his shoulders.

“It’s who you were,” Harry admonishes. “Who you are now is this kind and caring person that I think I’d do anything for.” The words slip from his mouth before he realises it.

Draco looks up at him, eyes clear and full. Harry notices then, that their legs are pressed up next to each other on the mattress, fingers intertwined with one another, faces almost too close. His heart thumps away painfully in his chest, as though it might give it out right there. And then Draco pulls back.

Harry feels disappointment and rejection hit him swiftly. He frowns down at his hands. Had he misjudged the situation? It’s quite possible, as he’s never been one to read the signs very well.

“You’re too nice to me, Harry,” Draco says quietly.

Harry doesn’t know what to say, so he remains silent.

When Harry and Draco head back into London, it’s dark out. They’d stayed for dinner, and then subsequent dessert and then tea, before deciding it would probably be best to head home before it got too late.

Harry Apparates them to Grimmauld Place, as Draco’s body isn’t strong enough to do so. The mere idea of that is enough to upset him.

“I had a lovely time today,” Draco says as they step into the warmth of Harry’s home. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Harry shakes his head. “You really don’t need to thank me, I wanted you there. No one should have to spend Christmas alone.”

Draco nods, leaning heavily against the wall.

“Tired?” Harry laughs.

“The Weasleys are wonderful,” Draco prefaces, with a slight smile. “But they’re an exhausting group.”

Harry lets out a laugh, hanging up his coat on the rack. “I did warn you they’d be a lot.”

Draco hums in agreement, moving to open the front door once more as some colour returns to his cheeks standing inside.

“It’s late,” Harry says, observing the clock on the wall in his foyer. “Why don’t you just stay?”

“I can take the Tube home,” Draco shrugs. “I don’t mind, it’s easy enough.”

Harry thinks about Draco arriving back in Hampstead to an empty, cold home.

“Just stay...please?” Harry finds himself saying, his voice breaking just a bit in the process.

Draco blinks and then takes off his coat.

Harry sets him up in the untouched guest bedroom down the hall with a pair of pyjamas and an extra toothbrush. He collapses back onto his bed, wondering where the day has gone and when exactly he fell in love with Draco Malfoy.

He sits up quickly at the revelation. Because as much as he wants to push the complications of it all away, there’s no doubt that he loves Draco.

“I love him,” Harry says quietly, out into the open room, the only response is the pitter-patter of rain against the window, the sound of Claude scratching unclipped claws at walls by the doorway.

Eventually, Harry turns over a few times underneath the covers, willing himself to go to sleep, but thoughts of Draco swarm through his memory. Because as much as he wants this to work, there are overarching reasons why they both know it might not. Draco isn’t defined by his addiction, but it’s certainly a factor to consider. He needs to get better first.

A light in the doorway wakes him after a few hours.

“Harry?” Draco calls softly into the darkness, the shadowy outline of Claude tangled up in his arms.

Harry blinks a couple of times, letting his eyes adjust in the blackness. “Are you okay?”

Draco walks over to the bed, standing by the edge. He strokes a hand through Claude’s fur, who mewls happily in response.

“I can’t sleep,” he admits, guiltily. “Pansy’s usually with me at night, or Theo.”

Harry, unthinkingly, holds up the covers. “Get in.”

Draco’s eyes widen with surprise, and he pauses for a moment as though considering his options. His eyes track back to the door for a quick second, but he climbs in, Claude jumping out of his grasp to settle by Harry’s feet.

Harry doesn’t know if he’s too sleepy to register what he’s doing, but he pulls Draco’s cold body close into his chest, closing his eyes to the sound of his soft breathing in the pillow. He presses his forehead gently against Draco’s, who exhales, relieved in his arms.

“I’m here,” Harry breathes in softly, inhaling the scent of fresh cedarwood that clings to Draco’s body.

“Harry?” he asks, his words muffled against the sheets.

“Hm,” Harry replies, his voice sleep-heavy from being woken.

“I think I need to talk to you about something,” Draco says so quietly that Harry barely hears it.

He’s too tired, his brain too foggy to think straight when he answers. Closing his eyes, he’s already falling back to sleep.

“Tell me later,” he mumbles, and Draco doesn’t respond.

The night is still.

***

When Harry sees Draco next, it’s New Year's Eve, and he’s severely disappointed.

Harry had been too busy with an unexpected caseload to do much outside of stay at the office late each evening and grab takeout meals with Ron. He’d want to prioritise seeing Draco, but Robards had kept a close eye on him. There wasn’t really a moment where he could’ve made something work, even during the supposed holiday.

“You’re high out of your mind,” he says blankly.

Draco, blissed out on his mattress, surrounded by a group of unknowns, only offers a lazy smile.

“Harry,” he says, louder than Harry expects him to. “You’re here.”

“You owled me,” Harry frowns. “Told me to come over.”

He supposes it’s only right that he rings in the New Year with someone else. Ron and Hermione are at a pub with Ginny and Blaise. Harry, of course, had been invited but he’d preferred to spend the evening alone. And although those plans have been derailed, he’s still eager to see Draco and some of his friends.

“No, I didn’t,” Draco argues, sitting up in the bed abruptly, and the group around him scoot back to make room for Harry, who joins them, unceremoniously, on the bed. “It’s going to be a whole new year in only one hour.”

Harry isn’t an idiot. He holds the crumpled-up note, in Draco’s handwriting, in his palm. He’s not sure why they’re pretending. Instead of pointing it out, he raises an eyebrow. He’s sober as a bird, and not necessarily excited to see Draco dipping back into his habit.

For a while there, things had seemed okay.

It’s not that Harry had necessarily been privy to every time Draco had used. But he seemed to be in better spirits, spending more endless hours with Harry than back at his home, where he is more likely to take something. And now that Harry thinks of it, he’s never explicitly stated that he wants to quit, and Harry had honestly just assumed he might do it since he has someone to care about him. Which is, by all means, a very selfish assumption.

Still, especially after their perfect Christmas, Harry had wondered if Draco would be able to pull himself out of the cycle. If he was using drugs to make himself happy, and he appears to be happier, then what is Harry doing wrong?

“It’s not your job to fix him,” Hermione had said. “He has to be willing to do the hard work by himself.”

“Can you give us the room?” Harry asks the group surrounding Draco sternly.

They scatter obediently at his words, despite them not being so serious.

“They listen to you because you’re a war hero,” Draco says.

“I know.”

Draco pats the space next to him, and Harry reluctantly moves closer, leaning up against one of the bedposts. The curtains are drawn around the bed and usually, Harry would feel safe and relieved in the little enclave Draco has created but worry creases lines into his forehead. Draco’s pupils are black, and the skin of his face is translucent, almost ghost-like in its appearance, a sheen of sweat across his forehead. If there’s one thing Harry has learned recently, it’s that this state is only temporary. Highs don’t usually last as long as people seem to think.

I thought we were past this, Harry wants to say, but he doesn’t. Because it is unfair of him to assume that Draco will change for him, even if it’s ultimately for the better.

“What do you think my mother is doing tonight?” Draco asks, leaning back against the headboard. His hands are in his lap, where he’s tracing patterns across the spine of a novel.

Harry’s eyes snap up at the mention. “I’m not sure,” he says truthfully. “I’d assume something at the Manor, where she usually is.”

“I know you went to see her,” Draco says, but there’s nothing in his tone to indicate any sense of betrayal.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He knows it hasn’t been long since they’ve known each other, but somehow, seeing Narcissa still feels like a secret, like he’s hiding something terrible from Draco.

“But you haven’t spoken to her,” Harry points out.

“No,” Draco concedes. “Pansy does sometimes. She says that even though we aren’t close, she’s my mother, and she deserves to know if I’m alright.”

Harry nods in agreement.

“What did you talk to her about?” Draco asks. His eyes don’t shift away from their focus. Draco doesn’t like making eye contact through hard conversations.

Harry figures he cannot reveal the whole truth, but he doesn’t want to lie entirely. “I went there looking for you. I didn’t realise you’d served your house arrest somewhere else.”

Draco lets out a humourless laugh. “I couldn’t bear to be there for another second, Harry. Theo and I used much of our inheritance to buy this place together. It looks so strange because Pansy took creative licence, but it’s a Muggle home. We just wanted to get away.”

Harry knows that Theo’s father was a Death Eater, though not nearly as involved as Lucius had been.

“I don’t blame you,” he says, blankly.

“Theo, he,” Draco pauses, clearing his throat before going on. “He didn’t have to, but he practically served my house arrest with me. I know it was only a year, and honestly, I deserved a far worse sentence, but he stayed the whole time. People have forgiven us now, mostly because they’ll do anything for free booze and parties, but it wasn’t so easy in the beginning, winning everyone over. We had to find ways to cope.”

Harry swallows uncomfortably, knowing exactly where Draco means to take him.

“So, the drugs,” Harry supplies, but his tone is colder than he expects it to be.

He’s more irritated than he’d like to be, knowing that Draco had only owled him under the influence, and not necessarily because he’d really wanted to spend time with him.

“Yes,” Draco draws his knees up to his chest, as he seems to do whenever he’s uncomfortable. “They made us both feel better at first and be better versions of ourselves. On my highs, I feel limitless. Like I’m the exact person I want to be in that very moment.”

“You don’t feel that way anymore, though,” Harry guesses.

“The good highs only last for so long,” Draco shrugs. “The bad ones become more frequent visitors.”

“Do you ever think about cutting back, by just a bit?” Harry asks carefully. He’s reluctant to say something out of place, but Draco seems to be open to the discussion more than usual.

He blinks though, pausing on the thought. “For every few bad highs, there are exceptional ones.”

Harry frowns. “That’s really not a smart way to be thinking about things, Draco.”

Draco laughs, a cruel sound that rises up through his throat and slips out too loudly. “Do you think I care?” he asks, unknowingly shattering Harry’s heart into several pieces.

“You don’t care about yourself enough to get better,” Harry repeats the words back to make sure he’s heard them correctly.

Draco only shakes his head. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I wish you could talk to me like this when you’re sober,” Harry says thoughtlessly after a few moments of charged silence. “You’re never open with me.”

The colour seems to drain from Draco’s face as he hears the words.

“I’m more open with you than with anyone,” Draco replies, his eyes flashing with hurt.

A beat passes as Harry registers the confession with surprise.

“Draco, your definition of openness is skewed,” Harry frowns, and he can’t help but feel slightly irritated. “I never know how you’re feeling, and I don’t understand why you still put yourself through this. Forgive me, if I don’t think you’re the most honest with me while you’re sober.”

A flickering candle on his bedside temporarily illuminates a sad, torn grimace upon Draco’s mouth. And even then, Harry thinks he still might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Fuck you,” he says abruptly, standing from his perch on the bed and storming out of the room.

Harry sits, stunned into silence for a while, reluctant to leave the quiet haven of the bedroom. But he knows he should go after Draco and apologise. He just can’t find it within himself to do so, though. It’s hard, seeing Draco act so self-destructive without offering a concrete reason as to why.

Still, Harry doesn’t realise his mistake soon enough. He knows he’s practically given Draco the green light to continue getting high. He’s told him he likes him better high. He curses himself for catching on so slowly. No one should have to hear that.

He heads downstairs, in pursuit of Draco.

Luna spots him first, waving him over enthusiastically, a fun, purple-coloured drink in her hand looking like it’ll slosh over onto Neville’s white-collared shirt. Harry follows her direction, and he watches as Draco is sucked into the black mass of the crowd. Harry hates how they seem to lose each other in large groups.

“Happy early New Year, Harry,” Luna says, reaching up to give him a soft, chaste peck on the cheek. “Do you have a resolution in mind?”

Harry thinks about it for a minute. Usually, he does, and it’s something related to turning in his paperwork on time or earning a promotion in the department. He doesn’t often make one so personal to himself, because there’s never really been anything he’s wanted so badly. But somehow, he’d come to the party with expectations that he and Draco might be starting anew together. Facing the challenges that a new chapter presents with one another instead of entirely alone. Somehow, Harry feels like he’s cocked that up now.

“I think I just want to do more,” Harry says, with a grimace, parsing his own words out in his head.

“What do you mean?” Neville asks from the side, offering him a swig of the strange-looking drink that Luna had been holding too.

Harry takes the cup impulsively and finishes it in one fell swoop. Neville chuckles.

“I guess, I just want to make sure the people in my life are happy,” he says, thinking of Draco's troubled, humiliated expression in his bedroom. I want Draco to be happy.

“Well, you already do that, Harry,” Neville says, wrapping an arm around Luna’s exposed shoulder.

Harry isn’t really listening as she begins to talk about her own resolution. It’s something about ridding Wrackspurts from their family home and perfecting a potion that she and Neville use in their vegetable garden.

“I need to do something for him,” Harry speaks again, but Luna is chatting to Neville, and no one is listening to him. “I need to tell him.”

He fights his way through the crowd, pounding music drowning out any semblance of rational thought in his mind. He’s looking for blonde hair, literally anywhere in the room, but apart from Luna the only one he spots is Lavender. She’s wrapped around Parvati on the dancefloor, their bodies pressed together as they sway to the rhythm.

Harry looks at the clock as it ticks down to midnight: five minutes left until a brand new year. While he’s not quite sure exactly what he wants to do with it yet, he’s absolutely certain he wants to spend it with Draco by his side.

Something loud and bass-heavy comes on over the speakers, and the walls of the house seem to rattle with energy. There’s anticipation, excitement, nervousness all building together in the room. Harry fears this moment, the part just before midnight where everyone seems just on the precipice, as though they’re about to tip right over into the unfamiliar.

He searches through, using his arms to push people gently out of his way, like taking a fine-toothed comb through the crowd and looking for Draco. He doesn’t see anyone he knows before Seamus comes into view.

He needs to apologise, to make everything okay.

“Harry!” he yelps, always excitable like a golden retriever.

Harry can barely hear him above the noise, but he watches his lips move. Seamus is saying something about Dean, about his life. He seems happier than the last time they met. Less empty. He watches Seamus mouth something unintelligible before wandering back off the way that he came.

There are two minutes left until midnight.

Harry’s not sure what fast-acting liquor had been in Neville’s cup, but he’s woozy, his body loose and languid as he parts the way. Even still, his head has never been clearer.

The crowd starts counting down when Harry spots Draco.

He’s still high as far as Harry can tell, sipping something out of a cup, his head rested lazily back on the wall where he’s leaned up, his jaw slack and open, exposing white teeth. His eyes flit erratically across the crowd, bouncing across objects in the room.

Harry practically throws himself through the people in front of him, and at the count of five, he’s standing across from Draco.

“Draco,” Harry says low and whispered, but he’s sure Draco hears it perfectly. “I need to talk to you.”

“Harry,” Draco slurs. “Do you trust me?”

There are three seconds left.

Harry nods hesitantly, confused, but that seems to be all the affirmation Draco needs.

Draco surges forward with a quiet intensity, pressing his lips to Harry’s. He can’t comprehend what it feels like when the crowd goes wild at midnight, and Draco’s still in his arms kissing him back, exploring his mouth like their lives depend on it. Everyone’s screaming and shouting and crying, and Harry’s unapologetically happy for just one single moment, until it disappears.

The euphoria is shocked right out of him as he realises what’s happening. Draco’s leaning heavily against him as though he can’t support his own weight. He’s missing Harry’s mouth with the kiss, and incoherent mumbles spill from his lips. He’s still so high.

This isn’t right, Harry thinks.

“Stop.” Harry pulls his lips away from Draco’s, wiping his mouth with the back of his shirtsleeve.

Draco looks up at him, confusion written into his eyes.

Harry turns his head, tears pricking insistently at the corners of his eyes. He exhales roughly, willing them away. Their bodies are still pressed together, warm and pliant in each other’s embrace.

“Not like this, Draco,” he says, taking a purposeful step back and running a hand through his messy hair.

“Fine,” Draco accepts more readily than Harry expects. His eyes are unfocused, distracted in a way that only the drugs can make someone look. Harry knows it isn’t his Draco in there. This one is numb.

Draco pauses for only a moment before stalking away, swallowed back into the crowd.

Harry can feel his glasses slightly askew on his nose, but he can’t bring himself to move and straighten them. The grandfather clock is chiming out, competing for volume with the overhead speakers.

Somewhere amidst all the chaos, Harry feels more alone than he has in a while.

***

It’s over an hour later when Harry finds Draco.

He’s a bit too intoxicated to get himself home properly, and thoughts of a certain, stubborn blonde swimming through his mind aren’t helping him sober up.

Theo suggests he check the rooftop, though it’s freezing outside, and Draco is sure to get sick. Harry finds himself feeling significantly less intoxicated as he finds the hidden entrance on the second level of the house faster than he expects to. There is a pull-down ladder in the broom closet. The reality of confronting Draco seems to clear his head.

He ascends the ladder quickly, a blanket in hand that he’d snagged from the couch downstairs. People are beginning to clear out quickly, the evening cheer drowned out by the impending reality that all of them, whether they like it or not, have to face a whole new year in the morning.

Draco is standing on the edge of the roof, barefoot, his toes hanging just off the edge. He turns his head ever so slightly as he hears Harry step out of the doorway but doesn’t back away from the ledge.

Harry clambers out of the trapdoor and approaches him as one might slowly inch toward an animal prone to spooking. Carefully, and without much noise at all.

“Draco,” Harry calls out gently, like saying it too loud will push him over the edge.

He doesn’t respond, rubbing his bare arms with his hands.

“Please,” Harry says, his voice breaking in the thin, winter air. “Can you step away from there?”

Draco takes a moment too long to do so, but he turns around eventually, meeting Harry in the middle of the rooftop.

There aren’t many lights on in Hampstead, and the midnight blue sky shines with stars, casting dancing rays of moonlight across Draco’s pale features. He looks ethereal and angelic against the backdrop of the night.

Harry, without question, wraps the blanket securely over Draco’s shoulders, pulling it tight at his chest. Harry’s chattering teeth begin to slow as he buries his hands further in his pockets. He sits first, and Draco is slow to follow, but they lean back against the wall of the doorway and look together to the faraway skyline of London.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Draco says. “One of the main reasons I chose this place in particular.”

“It’s beautiful,” Harry agrees. He presses his side instinctively closer into Draco, their warm bodies begging for more heat.

There’s a moment of silence then, as Harry listens to both of them breathing together, watching the rise and fall of Draco’s chest underneath the blanket. His face is going blue in the cold.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Harry says sincerely. “I never meant to imply that you’re a more honest version of yourself when you’re high. Because, really, that’s not who you are. And I like you.”

“You like me,” Draco repeats, looking away from Harry, presumably so Harry cannot see the expression on his face. “Then, why don’t you want me?”

“Oh, Draco,” Harry winces, turning his head back gently with a finger. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

As soon as he says the words, he knows they’re the entire truth. Because even this Draco, the flawed, addicted, uncontrollable one with big silver eyes and a huge heart is his soulmate. The person that he wants, no needs, to spend the rest of his life with.

Tears fill Draco’s eyes as he comprehends the words, and Harry can tell he’s sober enough to understand what Harry’s getting at.

“Then why?” he asks, as though he doesn’t already know the answer

“Draco,” Harry takes a deep breath. He knows Draco will not want to hear what he has to say, but it’s a necessary subject. “We have to stop pretending.”

Draco’s gaze wanders to the skyline, his eyes tracking a plane over the horizon. Tears flow freely, silently down his cheeks, and in that moment, Harry thinks of the Draco of his past. Alone in the Manor as a child, alone in the astronomy tower at seventeen, and alone after the war, serving time for a crime he was forced to commit.

“I see you,” Harry says quietly, taking Draco’s hand in his and squeezing lightly. “I know it feels impossible to stop.”

Draco catches his bottom lip in his teeth, biting until crimson droplets of blood breach the surface. Harry wipes them away with his thumb.

“I’m scared, Harry,” Draco leans his head back against the wall. “I don’t know how to be happy without them.”

“You’ll have to learn,” Harry replies, sternly but with all the love he can muster. “You’re so strong, and you need to push through.”

Draco’s breathing is growing heavier as his anxiety increases. His nails dig crescent-shaped indents into the skin of Harry’s palms.

“But I’m not hurting anyone,” Draco begins to argue, distressed. “I just need something to help me forget.”

“By hurting yourself, you’re hurting me.” Harry frowns, looking down at his hands where his fingers are intertwined with Draco’s. “And I know that's not entirely fair to say, but that's how I feel.”

“You shouldn’t be around me, then,” Draco says plainly. “I’ll only hurt you more, and Harry, you deserve someone so wonderful. Someone who’s as good as you, who’s worthy of you.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. “When will you realise that all I want is you?”

Draco pauses, his breathing laboured and uncomfortable. He puts a hand to his forehead, as though to self-soothe. He’s holding himself together too well, Harry thinks, and if he knows Draco well enough, he’ll crack like fine china before he can put himself back together again.

Within minutes, Draco is unravelling in his arms. Harry’s at a loss, tears streaking his own cheeks as he watches the man he loves come apart at the seams. Draco sobs for the things he lost in the war too, most importantly, his childhood.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Harry says as Draco cries. He’s terrified of what this all means, but Draco seems to need to let go, and he deserves to after everything he’s put himself and his body through.

Without thinking, Harry casts a Warming Charm over the both of them.

Draco inhales, heavy and forced, his head limp in Harry’s lap, wetting the fabric of his jeans. Harry runs rough, calloused fingers through his hair until Draco’s breathing is steady. He sniffles against Harry’s leg.

“Listen,” Harry says sternly then. “I need to tell you something, but do you pinky promise you’re sober?”

Draco wrinkles his nose, a stray tear slipping down his cheek. He wipes it away quickly. “Pinky promise?”

“It’s a Muggle expression,” Harry explains, with a slight smile. He holds his available pinky out. “If you swear by it, you hook your finger around mine and promise me that you do.”

Draco lets out a soft, misplaced laugh at the silliness of it all, but concedes. He wraps his pinky around Harry’s obediently.

“It scares me that you overdosed, and we just moved on,” Harry begins, his hands trembling unintentionally in Draco’s grasp. “That’s not normal.”

Draco squeezes his eyes shut, and he keeps his mouth pressed closed in a thin line. “I know,” he says, and Harry’s proud already because it seems like a hard thing for him to admit.

“And it worries me that you’re only really sober when we’re in public together,” Harry continues. “Something has to change because I care about you too much to lose you. It would break me.”

If it’s possible, Draco folds in on himself tighter.

“Open your eyes, Draco,” Harry says softly.

Harry draws him up from where he’s curled into his lap, wanting to look him in the face when he says it.

Because although he hadn’t wanted to reveal they were soulmates until after Draco had decided to recover, it is clear that will be an increasingly challenging goal. And really, Harry cares for Draco more than he will ever know. He has to accept that while he doesn’t understand Draco’s reasoning for his continued drug use, it’s a harsh reality that they must face together. It’s crucial that he remain in his corner, even when it’s easy to walk away.

“What’s going on?” Draco asks warily, his eyes locked on Harry’s.

“When you said you didn’t deserve a soulmate,” Harry begins, “it broke my heart.”

Draco sucks in a breath through his teeth, his eyes widening, and Harry thinks he might just know where they are going.

“I know you’re flawed. I know you used to say terrible things to me and my friends, and act like a complete prat in school, and defend the wrong side. I know who you used to be,” Harry continues. “And I know who you are now. You’re having a hard time dealing with everything, and I still care for you despite it all.”

Draco’s hand comes up to cover his mouth. “You’re not—”

“I’m all yours, if you’ll have me,” Harry says, glancing down nervously.

“Harry, no,” Draco studies his expression, mouth falling open. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything,” Harry shrugs. “But I want you to know that you’re not alone. If you choose to get better, which I, for the love of Merlin, hope you do, I’m going to be here every step of the way.”

Draco’s eyes seem to well with tears for the third time that evening. “I thought I didn’t have one.”

“You do,” Harry says.

“Please, can I kiss you now?” he asks. “I pinky promise I’m sober.”

Harry’s mouth curves up into a smile. He leans forward without question. The kiss is less sensual than their first. Harry scrapes his teeth accidentally against Draco’s, and their lips catch against each other uncomfortably. Their noses keep bumping together, too, as though they’re teenagers learning to kiss for the first time. There’s a fair amount of awkwardness, and Harry loves every second, feeling giddy with excitement and laughing against Draco’s warm mouth, his arms wrapped possessively around his waist.

I’m so in love with you, Harry wants to shout from the rooftop, but he doesn’t.

Because, for now, this is enough.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes at dawn to the sound of noises in the bathroom down the hall. He turns over on his side, steeling himself for a moment before retrieving a cup of fresh water from the kitchen and bringing it back up to Draco.

He’s bent over the toilet, dry heaving into the bowl. Nothing seems to be coming out, though, and that’s an improvement in Harry’s eyes.

Harry slides down to the ground, leaning his back heavily against the sink cabinet. He hugs his sweatshirt tighter over his body as he sits down on the tiled floor. The first few weeks of January are always especially cold.

“You alright?” Harry asks, as Draco flushes.

“Yeah,” Draco says, accepting the glass of water, gulping it down.

“Slowly,” Harry chides. “Or you’ll make yourself sick.”

“I’m not sure why I even eat anymore,” Draco groans. “If I can’t keep anything down.”

“It’s part of the process,” Harry says, reassuringly.

The statement had been one he’d come to repeat often in the weeks following New Year’s Eve. Draco had practically moved into Grimmauld Place, and with him, he brought light and joy to both Harry and the home itself.

Still, as much as Harry wants to define things as perfect, they are—and will be for a while—far from it. Draco withdrawing is taxing to the both of them. His changes in mood, bouts of depression, and aching desire to relapse are aspects of the ordeal that Harry did not expect to confront. He would do anything for Draco, but it’s a challenging task to tackle the drug abuse head on.

Draco presses his spine to the wall, resting his head back with a soft thump. Somehow the sight of it all makes Harry feel sick too. A slick layer of sweat coats his forehead, damping long blonde strands of hair that fall around his face. His eyes are a bloodshot, unpleasant red that make it look like he hasn’t slept properly in days. Harry doesn’t really think he has.

Harry fumbles around the drawers for washcloth, reaching out to dab the wetness away from Draco’s head.

“I forget how lovely you are sometimes,” Harry finds himself saying without really meaning to.

Draco seems reluctant to speak. He takes another small sip of water.

“I’m a mess.”

And realistically, he is. He looks sickly, and malnourished, and slightly jaundiced in the dimly lit bathroom. But Harry adores him all the same.

It takes him another hour to pick himself up off of the bathroom floor and head down to the kitchen, but Harry stays the entire time.

“I met with Azalea,” Draco says casually, as he puts the kettle to boil.

Harry tries to hide his excitement, but his body betrays itself. He nearly drops the freshly-washed mugs in his hands.

“You what?” Harry says, dazed.

“Clever move,” Draco chuckles, taking the mugs out of Harry’s grasp and setting them securely on the countertop. “You know, slipping her card into my coat.”

“I knew you would eventually use it, it was just a matter of time,” Harry says, trying to hide his surprise.

“I appreciate that,” he says, chewing on his bottom lip, eyes trained down on his hands. He’s placing a tea bag inside each mug. “She runs these group sessions, you know. Muggles call it Narcotics Anonymous.”

He’s heard of them before through various cases he’s worked at the department. “Sounds like that could be something that is really useful for you,” Harry says carefully, testing the waters. It’s still challenging to know what might make Draco snap.

“I’m supposed to go once a week,” Draco says. His cheeks flush, a rosy pink colour that stands out against pale skin. “I was wondering if you might come with me to the first one. You can say no, if you want.” The words rush out of Draco’s mouth quickly as though he doesn’t want to say them at all. He refuses to make eye contact as Harry comes to stand next to him.

“Draco,” he smiles encouragingly, turning him forward by the hips. “I think it’s wonderful that you want to do that. I just don’t know if I should come with you for the first time.”

Draco frowns, his jaw tightening. He turns back to the tea, beginning to pour the hot water into their mugs. “And why’s that?” he says, tone clipped.

“Your recovery should be yours,” Harry says with a firm resolve, because he’s thought about this before. “I want to be there for you in every possible way that I can, but it’s important that you establish your own reasons for staying sober. I can’t be the only one.”

Draco relaxes a bit at the explanation, but he still refuses to draw his gaze back up. “I know,” he reassures. “I’m doing this for myself, first and foremost.”

“Good,” Harry concedes, although a part of him isn’t entirely sure if he believes it.

The conversation is awkward and stilted, but it’s the reality of being with Draco at the moment. Harry knows it’s not feasible to expect everything about their relationship to slip perfectly into place, and they wouldn’t be together if that was how things always went between them.

He points his wand at the wireless radio, turning it on with a quick swish. Something gentle comes through the speakers as Harry extracts a pan from the cabinet to fry an egg. He would make another, but Draco doesn’t seem like he has the stomach for breakfast this early.

The unease fades as Harry slips an arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him close and planting a kiss to his forehead.

“Hello,” Draco says, breathless, as though he’s forgotten that they’re actually together. Sometimes, Harry doesn’t feel like it’s real.

“Hi,” Harry replies, a grin tugging up one corner of his mouth.

The song that plays through the wireless is something slow and complex. It’s a Muggle station for classical music that Draco leaves on while he’s reading or undertaking his new habit of clearing out Harry’s bookshelves.

Harry’s egg is just starting to brown when Draco pulls him into his arms. He’s taller and longer than Harry is, but much smaller, somehow. He still has so much weight to gain back but seeing colour in his face for the first time since they’ve met is enough for Harry to feel a bit better about the whole affair.

“I used to take lessons,” Draco murmurs, placing Harry’s hand expertly on his waist, intertwining their other hands together.

Harry’s eyes widen as he pulls his lower lip between his teeth. “You saw me at the Yule Ball, Draco, you know I’m no good at dancing.”

“I’ll teach you,” Draco smiles.

He draws Harry out from behind the island as the music crescendos into a chorus.

“Step like this,” Draco instructs, moving his feet in a pattern that Harry knows he’ll never understand.

He tries his best, following Draco’s movements, but treads on his toes multiple times.

“Shit,” Harry breathes, concentrating much harder than he really needs to.

Draco lets out a laugh. “Let your body follow the music.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “If I did that my body would walk itself right out of the door.”

Draco ignores him, turning them in a circle around the kitchen.

Harry’s eyes meet his, enraptured. Their bodies press close together, the heat between them warms the winter-cold kitchen. Harry shivers despite it all, wishing he could stay wrapped up in Draco’s arms for the rest of his life. He leans his head happily on Draco’s shoulder, as he guides them around the open space.

“See, you’re dancing,” Draco whispers into his ear. “It’s that easy.”

Harry kisses the space behind Draco’s ear in response. He pulls back, disentangling himself from the position, backing Draco up slowly against the counter. Harry’s lips meet Draco’s, warm and pliant. Just perfect.

A sound in the doorway grasps Harry’s attention, but he doesn’t pull back fast enough.

“Harry, I brought—” Ron begins, but stops in the entrance to the kitchen, his mouth hanging open and low into an o-shape. He holds a stack of files in his hand.

“Ron, move up,” Hermione says, irritated, from behind him.

Ron moves to the side and Hermione comes into view. Draco scrambles away from Harry’s hold.

“Oh,” Hermione says, her voice squeaky and high like it gets when she’s nervous. “We didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“It’s alright,” Harry says.

He was sure that he would be more nervous in this situation, one that was inevitable from the beginning of his relationship with Draco. But he isn’t. In fact, he’s a bit relieved that they know, and now he doesn’t have to have an actual conversation about it.

“We were just—” Draco begins, flustered.

“It’s fine,” Harry says, running a hand casually through his hair. “They already know.”

“They know?” Draco’s eyes narrow, and Harry feels like, somehow, in the few words they’ve exchanged, he’s misspoken.

“Oh yeah, don’t worry Draco,” Hermione pipes up. “Harry told us about the whole soulmates thing when he first found out. It’s so lovely to see you two together, we’ve been waiting quite a while—”

Ron silences her with a concerned look.

Harry curses her in that moment. She always seems to wax poetic about his love life but chooses the precisely wrong moment to be so straightforward.

“He what,” Draco says. His face pinches together in a way that Harry has never seen it before.

“Er, ‘Mione,” Ron says quietly. “I think we should probably head out.”

He places the stack of files gingerly on the countertop, backing away from the two of them.

Hermione, with confusion written across her features, allows herself to be led out, mouthing an apology to Harry and asking him to owl her later. He doesn’t acknowledge it, purely because of the way Draco is watching his every move.

“Listen, Draco,” Harry starts.

“No, you listen,” Draco interrupts, exasperated. “You thought it was right to tell the two of them before me?”

“We hardly spoke!” Harry exclaims because Draco is being ridiculous. “If you had found out first, which you very well would never have, Pansy and Theo would be the first to know.”

“That’s not true,” Draco scowls, suddenly looking a lot like the boy he was during their school days. “I would owe you the courtesy of keeping you in the loop. For Granger and Weasley to know something like that before I did feels like an invasion of my privacy.”

“You can’t get angry with me about this, Hermione was in the room with me when I found out,” Harry argues, feeling distinctly defensive of his friends. “And for fuck’s sake, when I literally arrived on your doorstep to tell you, you were high out of your damn mind. Do you think you were really in a state to hear that?”

Draco pauses for a moment, and Harry wishes he could take the words back. Because while they’re not untrue, the subject is still too sensitive and raw to be prodded at. A blank look crosses Draco’s features, one Harry has come to recognise as something akin to the numbness and disassociation that comes with the drugs. Harry had thought it was strictly limited to when Draco was using, but he seems to let down a mask whenever conversations grow too emotionally taxing, too unsafe.

“Alright,” Draco says, his voice short. “If that’s how you really feel.”

He sulks off to the bedroom, leaving Harry open-mouthed and confused in the kitchen. His egg has burnt in the pan.

Harry gives him an hour before he goes to look for him.

Draco is curled up underneath the covers, thumbing through an ancient copy of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway from the Black collection.

“I despise an omniscient narrator,” Draco says, suddenly, as Harry enters the room. “They act like Gods.”

“You don’t believe in a God?” Harry asks although he knows he doesn’t either.

“Absolutely not,” Draco purses his lips, his eyes firmly fixed on the page in front of him. He doesn’t bother to look up and meet Harry’s eyes. “If there was one, he wouldn’t put us through this shit.”

Harry crosses the room quickly, crawling into bed next to Draco. He’s nervous to do it, but he eventually manoeuvres his way under Draco’s open arm, resting his head on his shoulder. Draco simply accepts it. He doesn’t seem as angry as before, strangely detached from his emotions.

“I don’t want you to do this,” Harry says softly.

Draco doesn’t put his book down, but Harry can tell he’s stopped absorbing the words. He makes a noise in question.

“You go quiet and numb whenever we talk about something hard,” Harry finds himself saying. “We have to be open with each other. If I upset you, you’re allowed to feel that way. You don’t have to tuck it away and pretend like everything’s fine.”

“I’m pretty good at that,” Draco says with a sigh.

“Pretending?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t do that with me,” Harry says, but it comes out as more of a question. “We’re equals in this relationship.”

Draco seems to consider the statement for a moment, turning the page of the novel.

“How did you feel when you first found out?” Draco asks, his gaze unfocused and distant. He has a hard time grounding himself in reality as of late.

Harry considers the question. “It didn’t feel great, at first,” he says, supposing honesty is the best policy when it comes to the two of them.

Draco nods, as though it makes perfect sense. “This whole situation is quite off-putting, isn’t it?”

Without prompting, he draws up his shirtsleeve, exposing the inky black Dark Mark on his forearm. It hasn’t faded a day since the war, though it doesn’t move anymore, stagnant against Draco’s porcelain skin. Harry suppresses an alarmed noise when he sees it, eyebrows rising.

Harry pulls Draco’s hand over, tracing the lines of the Mark. It’s raised high around the edges, scar tissue marring the otherwise smooth expanse of Draco’s arm. Without thinking, he leans forward to kiss it. Draco makes a sharp noise, wrenching his arm back.

“Don’t,” he says, his tone piercing.

“I don’t just want the good parts of you,” Harry says simply. “I’m accepting it all.”

“Don’t be daft, Harry.”

“We don’t need to ignore that you were a Death Eater. The only thing that matters is you’re not anymore. Besides, that’s not even why I was upset when I found out in the first place.”

“It wasn’t?” Draco asks, his interest piqued. He finally sets the book aside.

“I was more concerned with the fact that you’d tortured me unendingly in school, and probably would for the rest of my life,” Harry laughs.

Draco offers a small smile. “Don’t get too comfortable yet, then. We have plenty more years for me to do that.”

Harry finds his heart thrumming happily at the thought.

“I was so obsessed with you at Hogwarts,” Harry admits. “I was surprised that all that had meant something.”

“I wasn’t, really,” Draco says quietly, a red blush creeping through his neck and over his cheeks.

Harry looks up at him through his eyelashes, because there is no way he had heard that correctly. “Really?”

“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember. I’ve been hopelessly pining after you; I watched you from afar every single day be this confident, good, kind-hearted person that I could never measure up to, but who I desperately wanted to have in my life. I never thought it meant we were soulmates, but when you informed me, it all clicked so neatly into place. Funnily, I didn’t feel like I was going quite so crazy anymore.”

“You’re in love with me,” Harry repeats the words, as though he can’t seem to comprehend them properly.

“Now, this is the part where you say it back,” Draco laughs, but the statement is tinged with a layer of anxiety, worry maybe, that Harry might not return the feeling.

But Harry, without realising it, has been waiting for this moment for so long.

He surges up to kiss Draco, pressing their foreheads together, then their bodies, desperate to touch as much of him as he can.

“I love you,” Harry says breathlessly. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chants it like a prayer, like he’ll never be able to say it again.

“I love you,” Draco says it back to him with equal fervor. “I love you.”

They say it like there are no other words left in the world for them to say.

Harry kisses him again, this time fast and messy, lips catching roughly on teeth, fingernails digging painfully into skin. He presses Draco further into the mattress; it squeals in protest at the extra pressure. Harry slides on top, his breath hot and heavy against Draco’s neck.

“Harry,” Draco lets out with a gasp, as he begins to suck.

A small bruise purples underneath Harry’s tongue, and Draco draws in air through his teeth.

“Merlin, you’re so—” Harry begins, before cutting himself off with Draco’s lips.

They kiss for a while, feverishly, and undress each other without much of a second thought. Until Harry notices.

“Don’t,” Draco says insistently.

He covers his chest with his hands, as though they’ll somehow obscure the raised, colourless tissue that patterns lines down the length of his body. The scars reach down, extending their arms over Draco’s stomach, reaching around his hips, and trail back up to his ribs. They are angrier looking than Harry expects them to be.

Harry draws a hand up to cover his mouth.

“Harry,” Draco says softly.

He guides Draco’s hands away to look at the product of his own making. Harry has gone silent, and still.

“I did this,” he says.

“You did,” Draco concedes. “But everything was different.”

Harry tries not to grow emotional because he doesn’t want to ruin the moment they’re sharing with one another. But it’s hard to be confronted by a harsh reality. His hands, his magic tearing Draco’s chest to shreds.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry says, following the scar lines with a finger. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“I know,” Draco says. “Though I would’ve tortured you if you hadn’t done this to me first. We make for quite a compelling pair.”

Harry forces a humourless laugh, but he can’t help but feel a lump form in his throat because how could he hurt someone he loves so much? He had spent the last few months watching Draco grow and change into someone so different, and so good. How could Harry not find love in that fact? How could he not feel guilt for hurting the first person he’d really, truly cared about in years?

Draco, with an encouraging hand, pulls him back down into his arms. “I want you,” he says. “I trust you.” Words Harry never expected to hear spoken from his lips.

“I’ll never hurt you again,” Harry promises.

“I know,” he repeats, his breath faltering as Harry presses down, leaning forward into the heat between Draco’s legs.

Harry has never been so aroused by someone in his entire life. So mad with lust and love and care for the body, the person beneath him. Draco rocks back up against him, and Harry groans softly. He knows already that with Draco, he won’t last long. He’ll come undone, already loose and slack at the seams. Harry’s vision is blurry, obscured with longing until it’s sharp and acutely alert of sensation, every movement of Draco’s body slotted against his.

Harry pulls down Draco’s pants, slowly, and with a deliberateness he’s never done before during sex. He’s looking forward to watching Draco come apart underneath his mouth. His cock springs out from behind the fabric, and Harry, without warning, swallows him to the base, nose poking into the small hairs of Draco’s stomach. He presses his hands into his hips, wrapping fingers around his narrow waist, licking up the shaft and sinking back down as Draco litters the air around them with encouraging swears and groans. Draco’s hand knots into his hair, pushing him down rougher and faster, until Harry’s gasping, choking closed-mouthed around him.

It’s only a few moments later that Draco is saying, “I want you,” wrecked and pliant against Harry’s tongue.

Harry sits up, breathing out shakily, as he wrestles his own pants down. He doesn’t even need to touch himself, his cock already straining up, eager against his stomach.

“How do you want me?” Draco exhales, face flushed crimson red.

“Merlin,” Harry rasps. “How don’t I want you?”

He Summons the lube from the bedside table, and it clatters out noisily from the drawer. He drizzles a fair amount onto his fingers before slicking up Draco’s hole, encouraging him open in lazy circles. Draco hisses as Harry presses a first finger in, and then slowly a second.

It’s only a few moments later that Harry is inching himself in, and Draco is saying “Fuck, oh, Harry, Merlin!” into the palm of his hand.

It’s like he’s relieved when Harry’s seated fully inside of him, throwing his head back against the headboard with a satisfied sigh.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry groans, “you feel so good.”

Draco’s legs wrap insistently around his waist, fucking himself gently back and forth on Harry’s cock. Harry sees stars, leaning forward to explore Draco’s mouth with his tongue, but he stays still.

“Harry, please,” Draco begs, eyes wild with desire. “Please.”

“What do you want?” Harry whispers, nipping at the skin of his earlobe, unmoving inside of him. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” Draco cries out with no hesitation, pure frustration and lust rendering him almost incoherent. “I want you, now, I can’t—”

He lets out a loud and lengthy moan as Harry cuts him off, beginning to slide in and out, gently burying himself deeper inside Draco with every thrust.

“Fucking hell,” Harry slurs, his hold on Draco’s waist tightens as he moves hard and fast with each stroke.

Draco’s cock leaks pre-come onto his stomach, pooling next to his navel, and Harry fucks him harder. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to pull out, the feeling of Draco wrapped so insistently, fitted so perfectly around his cock a sensation that doesn’t compare to anything else. If this is sex, then Harry has been a virgin his whole life.

Harry keeps thrusting, and Draco cries out with each push. He wraps his fingers tightly around Draco’s wrists, pinning them gently above his head.

“Do you like that?” Harry asks roughly, and Draco can barely nod, closing his eyes, his mouth an open O. “You’re so pretty like this,” he says. “All mine.”

Draco moans, his back arching off from the bed, legs quivering where they’re wrapped around Harry’s body.

Harry feels it come on quickly. The build of pressure in his groin, the pooling of desire just below his stomach. The low pull of his release. He bends over Draco, slowing slightly, fucking him open gently, littering kisses down the length of his chest. With his free hand, Harry wraps his fingers around Draco’s cock, tugging in rhythm as Draco whimpers, undone underneath him.

“I’m coming,” Harry barely manages the words. He folds over Draco with a shout, vision going hazy as he rides out his orgasm inside.

Draco sobs into Harry’s neck, coming into his hand with a cry. He buries deeper, clawing his fingernails down the length of Harry’s back.

They stay there, limbs, bodies intertwined for just a moment longer, before Harry reluctantly pulls out, collapsing next to Draco.

“Holy shit,” Harry says, quietly.

Draco turns over, a lazy, lopsided grin on his features. “That was fucking great.”

Harry wets his lips with his tongue and leans in, pressing a kiss gently to Draco’s nose. It’s cold, despite their recent activities.

“We’ll have to do that more often,” Harry says with a chuckle. “Wow.”

“I won’t complain,” Draco replies, attaching himself to Harry’s side and nuzzling into his neck. “I could stay like this forever.”

Harry hums a happy response: “You better.”

They fall back asleep; the only sounds in the room are from the fire Harry eventually lights, crackling warmly in the hearth.

***

Draco is four months into his recovery when Harry attends his first NA meeting.

Harry made it clear early on that he wanted Draco’s recovery to be on him. He was going to support and cheer for him like a good boyfriend and soulmate from the sidelines, but the hard work needed to be undertaken by Draco himself. Which was, of course, challenging for Draco to understand at first.

It had taken a long while. Harry knew it was because they hadn’t known each other well enough yet to understand that this was what was needed to make their relationship work. Clear boundaries and open communication. But, they’re happier now.

Draco is two months sober, today.

He’d relapsed at the end of February, and Harry remembers getting angry.

“Why the fuck would you throw away all that hard work?” he had shouted.

Draco had flared up right back at him. “It was just once,” he’d argued. “One fucking line. What difference does it make to you?”

“I can’t believe you,” Harry had been holding a glass of water and was surprised he hadn’t shattered it against a wall.

“Believe it,” Draco had said, maliciously. “You chose to be with an addict.”

“Technically, I didn’t choose this,” Harry had sneered.

Draco spent three nights in Hampstead with Theo before Harry could pick himself back up again and go apologise.

If there’s one thing Harry has learned, it’s that recovery isn’t a straightforward process and, at least for Draco, even moderation doesn’t work.

“Are you ready?” Draco asks, from the foyer. Claude leaps out of his arms to stand defensively in front of him as Harry enters the room. The damn cat has become entirely too protective.

Draco is shrugging on a light jumper, a deep cobalt colour that brings out the blue in his eyes. He’s gained some weight back, and the jumper doesn’t look like it’s two sizes too large anymore. He fills it out better than he would’ve some time ago. Harry can’t help but drag his eyes up and down Draco’s frame.

Draco snorts in response. “Please, save the ogling for afterwards, we’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”

“I can’t help it!” Harry says, holding his hands up in surrender. He reaches forward, tucking an arm around Draco’s waist, bringing him in for a kiss. “You’re everything.”

Draco blushes and Harry kisses his cheeks where they’ve coloured.

Harry Apparates them to the Ministry where Azalea’s meetings take place. Draco still doesn’t have much of his magic back yet, but he’s getting better every day, and really, it’s not that much of a priority among other things he’s focusing on.

The basement is much more comforting of a room than Harry anticipates it to be. It looks exactly like those Muggle movies: chairs are arranged in a circle, and pastries and beverages sit atop a table to the side.

Draco wanders off to chat with some of his friends and retrieve cups of coffee for the two of them.

Harry finds himself a seat in the circle.

“You’re Harry Potter.” A girl with long blue hair, in the chair next to him, taps him on the shoulder. She must barely be eighteen.

“Er, yes,” Harry says.

“Ollie,” she says, as a greeting. She holds a hand out, and Harry takes it. Her handshake is firm, business-like. “Are you observing today?”

Harry nods his assent. “My partner comes here,” he says, unthinkingly.

They haven’t publicised their relationship just yet, but Harry doesn’t think anyone in the group will bother outing them. They seem like the types of people to highly value their privacy.

“Like your Auror partner?” she asks, intrigued. “You work in the DMLE, right?”

“I do, yes,” Harry says. “But I meant, my boyfriend.” He nods his head in the direction of Draco who’s speaking to a husky looking man in his late fifties.

“Draco’s your boyfriend?” Ollie says, eyes widening. “The git’s been talking about a man this entire time, and I come to find out it’s literally the Harry Potter.”

“Yeah,” Harry laughs. “It’s me.”

“Figures,” Ollie says, thoughtfully. “You’re too nice, in all of his stories.”

“Too nice?”

“He worships you,” Ollie stage-whispers. “If you didn’t know.”

“If anything,” Harry laughs, his eyes tracking Draco across the room, “I worship him.”

Before Ollie can respond, the room seems to fall silent, and Azalea is walking in, clad in modest charcoal robes, her afro styled back into a puff with a yellow ribbon. She wears a serious, but wise expression on her features. Her mere presence seems to calm the group as she takes a seat in one of the chairs.

Draco ambles over, passing Harry a coffee, and giving him a gentle squeeze on the knee before sitting down next to him.

“Welcome everyone to our first Narcotics Anonymous meeting of April.” Azalea smiles gently as she speaks. She has a quiet command over the large group, who seem to respect her and hang on to her every word. “It’s lovely to see some new faces with us today, and of course, welcome back to our regulars. My name is Azalea if you don’t know me already, and I am here as a facilitator and a listener. I have been sober for over fifteen years.”

Harry finds himself clinging to her every word as she speaks; she seems to be the kind of person that draws a crowd, for no reason in particular but a kind, positive aura.

“As we do every week, we’re going to start with our mission, and a few affirmations,” Azalea says.

Harry listens in as she guides the group through a myriad of phrases repeated back to her. When he doesn’t join in, Ollie pokes him in the side with her elbow.

“Oi, if you’re going to be here, you have to participate,” she remarks, giving him a sly wink.

Draco peers over from the other side. “Don’t let her give you a hard time. She’s a brat.”

Ollie sticks her tongue out at Draco, who puts a finger over his smiling mouth to silence her.

Harry does listen in though, following Azalea’s affirmations and self-reflections as she continues with the group. When it’s time to share, he is surprised to see Ollie offer to go first.

“Hi everyone,” she says, sitting up taller in her seat. “I’m Ollie, and I’ve been sober for two weeks.”

Though Harry, insensitively, feels as though it’s a short period of time, he claps along with the rest of the group who seem ecstatic about her statement.

“It’s been a tough road,” she says, growing more subdued. Azalea encourages her with a nod, and she finds the strength to continue. “I’ve been homeless since I was sixteen. But I’m trying to turn my life around. I know I say this every time, but I think this time, I can do it. I have a good feeling about where things are going. I got a job the other week, waitressing in Diagon Alley. I’m going to save the money this time. I’ll do it.”

The faces around her are bright and encouraging, and Harry feels his heart swell with sadness for Ollie. He has plenty of money to buy her a place or get her by in the meantime.

“We can help her,” Harry whispers to Draco.

Draco only shakes his head. “That’s not how this works.”

“What do you mean?” Harry says back, his voice low. “I have the resources. She doesn’t have to live like this.”

Draco gives him a pitying smile. “Someone very wise once told me that my recovery had to be my own, and not anyone else’s.” He squeezes Harry’s hand in his. “She’s eventually going to pull herself out of this, don’t worry.”

And though Harry can’t help but worry, he trusts Draco to be right.

Thirty minutes later, and after a few more shares from the group, Draco speaks.

“Draco,” Azalea prompts him because it’s unlikely he’ll offer in front of Harry. “Why don’t you share.”

Draco stands, dusting off his trousers, and Harry feels his chest fill with distinct pride.

“Hello everyone, my name is Draco, and I’ve been sober for two months today.”

The group claps with an excited vigour, and Ollie cheers from beside him.

“As many of you who’ve been in group with me before know, I am a former Death Eater.”

Harry doesn’t miss the winces from various faces in the group, no doubt refugees, or those impacted by the war itself. But no one seems angered by this fact. They accept Draco for who he is, and who he was.

“I spent years trying to forget who I used to be. It was like the second I discovered how drugs made me feel, I knew that was the best way I could get past everything that had happened,” Draco says, his gaze focused on the ground. “I wasted much of my time feeling sorry for myself and taking all kinds of things to forget that I existed, that a version of myself like that ever did exist.

“And then, Harry came along,” Draco smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, finally taking his eyes off the ground. “He told me I was ruining my life, and I didn’t want to hear it, but I needed to. He tells me all the time that I need to be responsible for my own recovery, that he can’t do the hard work for me. And that was shitty to hear at first, because who wants to do that?”

The statement elicits laughter and profound agreement from the group, but Azalea’s expression remains impassive but proud. Harry feels tears prick incessantly at his eyes. He forces a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth.

“I think life is just really hard,” Draco says, composed. “But what matters at the end of the day is how well you treat yourself, and how the people around you treat you. Harry will never admit to it, but he’s taught me what loving someone unconditionally means, because he does it so thoughtlessly and so easily, every single day. I worked hard for my sobriety, but I would be remiss not to mention the man who stood by me at the peak of my addiction and through my first, and hopefully last, relapse. So, I just want to say thank you.”

Draco turns to him, then holding a hand out. Harry takes it, and he can’t help that he’s crying now, thick, watery tears streaming quietly down the side of his cheeks and wetting the collar of his dress shirt. He’d promised himself, and Draco that morning, that he wouldn’t do this, but he can’t help it.

“Thank you,” Draco repeats again. “And I love you.”

I love you too, Harry mouths back, beaming.

The group claps and cheers, and Ollie crushes them both into a painful hug despite her small frame.

“Harry, I know I just met you, but I love you both,” she grins, pinching Draco’s cheeks. He bats her hands away with fondness.

“Thank you for sharing your story, Draco,” Azalea says, from the other side of the circle.

Group finishes soon after that, and Draco says bye to Ollie and his other acquaintances.

Draco approaches him after a few minutes.

“Thank you for coming,” Draco says softly. “It means everything to me.”

“I know,” Harry says sincerely. “I’m so proud of you, it’s unbelievable.”

Draco flushes, scuffing his shoe gently against the ground. He doesn’t respond, but he threads an arm through Harry’s own, and around his waist.

“Want to buy me breakfast?” Draco asks cheekily, as they exit the basement. “I’m thinking eggs and bacon, baked beans, and something entirely too greasy to be beneficial to our cardiovascular health.”

Harry makes a noise, “Merlin, yes. But if I’m buying, you’re clipping Claude’s nails when we get home. I will not be subjected to that cat’s claws anymore, I refuse it.”

“Fine,” Draco groans. “I suppose we have a deal.”

Harry smiles as they enter the Ministry lobby. He’s not even thinking about the camera flash when he pulls Draco close and pecks him right on the mouth.

Chapter Text

Four Years Later.

“Ron, you’re going to give me a migraine,” Hermione is saying, pressing her fingers angrily into her forehead. “You are not wearing that.”

Ron only shrugs, smoothing flat the pair of trousers with the palms of his hands. “They don’t look terrible.”

“They do, Weasley,” Draco teases from the doorway, and Harry’s attention snaps up. He has barely registered Draco’s face when Hermione covers his eyes.

“Draco!” Hermione exclaims, rushing in front of Harry with open arms. “You are not supposed to see your betrothed on his wedding day!”

“Hold on, how come I’m the only betrothed?” Harry argues, closing his eyes with a grin from behind Hermione’s surprisingly impressive wingspan. “What about the other way around?”

“I won’t look, I promise. I heard all the commotion,” Draco says, focusing on Ron. “We have to do something about this atrocity. What’s happened?”

“He forgot to take them to the tailor.” Hermione shakes her head, a certain fondness in her tone. “God alone knows why I married this man.”

Harry can’t see, but he can picture Ron making a face in response as the wood creaks and Draco presumably bends down in front of him.

“You know.” Draco removes his wand from his pocket, Harry can feel the magic. “Franklin is fantastic, and if you’d used him, we wouldn’t be here today. Take these off.”

Ron seems to comply.

“I know,” he groans. “Work has been keeping me so busy, though.”

“I can vouch for that,” Harry says from the corner.

Because work has been nothing short of insane. It isn’t really that crime rates have risen because they’ve been steadily declining since the war itself. But, Harry is, for the first time in a long while, beginning to find his job quite fun. He and Ron are out in the field more often than not, assigned to cases that Harry only heard about in the movies. Tracking rogue serial killers across Romania and overthrowing an underground drug ring had been two intensely exciting cases they’ve had the opportunity to work on the weeks before the wedding. He and Ron haven’t complained about the paperwork once, and that seems to put Robards in a permanent good mood.

“Diffindo,” Draco says smoothly, and Harry can hear the rip of trouser legs. “That should be good enough.”

“Good enough?” Hermione yelps. “It’s your wedding, it needs to be perfect.”

“Everything is perfect,” Draco says, and Harry can feel the love, the contentment in his voice. “Hermione, trouser legs are not going to make or break this wedding. I’m confident in that fact.”

Hermione makes an impatient nose. “Alright, shoo now, before you see him.”

The door shuts with a soft click, and Harry opens his eyes.

“He looked amazing,” Harry grins.

“You saw?” she says, frustrated.

“No, I just know.”

The garden of the Burrow is lit with floating candles as the sun begins to set in the sky, turning it an inky blue. Long wooden benches lead up to an archway and intertwined narcissus flowers and lilies pepper the intricate aisle. Lights are low and dim as people chat amongst themselves by the drinks table. The wedding could have been a spectacle, Harry knows. With his money and the Malfoy fortune combined, they could’ve done something huge. But Draco, to Harry’s surprise, had insisted on something quiet, intimate. Molly had practically begged them to do it at the Burrow, and Harry was eager to agree. After all, it had been his first real home. And Ginny and Blaise have done a wonderful job dressing up the place for guests. Aside from this area, there’s a long table decorated with soft white linens and flowers and vegetables from Luna and Neville’s greenhouse.

The whole affair will be beautiful, and humble, and exactly what the two of them need. Nothing frilly and ornate. Just friends, family, and love.

Harry is snagging a cracker with brie from the food table when Ginny waves him over.

“You clean up nice,” Ginny says with a laugh, reaching up to ruffle at his hair. Harry doesn’t even mind because he’s barely bothered to tend to it in the first place. If it weren’t for his tuxedo, people might be hard-pressed to realise this is his wedding. “But Draco has you topped.”

“Only when I’m in the mood,” Harry says with a coy smile, offering her a wink. Ginny wrinkles her nose in response.

“I love you both, but that is too much information for my liking,” she snickers. The look on her face is wiped away immediately as she spots something that makes her face grow cold and surprised. Harry is almost a little afraid to turn around.

Narcissa Malfoy stands at the patio doors as people flit past her, no one really bats an eye at her presence. Harry supposes it makes sense that their guests wouldn’t be surprised that Draco’s mother is attending the wedding, but everyone close to them knows it’s not so simple.

“Mrs Malfoy,” Harry says, untangling his arm from Ginny and walking over to meet her.

She’s dressed in beautiful, simple olive-green robes, her hair braided up into a bun, no strand of blonde out of place. She clasps her hands together in front of her, and Harry feels as though he’s about to be scolded by a professor. But her change in expression is quick as she relaxes into the environment. The thin, tight line of her lips curves upward, into what Harry can only call a willing smile.

“Mr Potter,” she says. “It’s nice to see you.

“You too,” Harry says awkwardly, unsure of what to say next.

Although they had reconnected with Narcissa in the years following Draco’s initial recovery, things were still a little tense for reasons Harry still isn’t entirely sure of. Narcissa steps to the side as Blaise passes by her with a tray of homemade Pumpkin Pasties. His eyes only widen a little at the sight of her in the home.

Though her house arrest had ended a few years before, she still hardly found the time to venture out into the wizarding world. It had been a big step, the first time Draco had asked her to meet for coffee in Diagon Alley. Harry had been present, probably the only reason the Malfoys weren’t harassed that day.

“It’s a beautiful day for a wedding,” Narcissa says, looking at the sky. Harry isn’t sure if she’s being serious, as grey clouds creep over the dark sky. “I do apologise for my tardiness. Kipsy needed some assistance with Lucius.” She whispers his name as though it is a curse word.

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, shivering at the name, and to warm himself more in the early October breeze. He shifts his weight, yellow and burnt orange leaves crunching beneath his feet.

Lucius hadn’t been invited to the wedding, probably still too ill from Azkaban to even attend if he was, and Narcissa hadn’t bothered to ask if he should come. A rekindled relationship between him and Draco is, and would likely always be, out of the cards.

“I can take you to Draco,” Harry offers, in lieu of acknowledging the comment.

Narcissa nods in agreement as Harry leads her inside. They approach the doorway to Ginny’s room and pause outside.

“Let me speak to him first,” Harry says quietly.

He raps gently on the door, and Pansy pokes her head out from behind.

“You can’t be here!” she hisses in a tone strikingly similar to Hermione’s from earlier. “Draco can’t see you yet.”

But Harry expects his expression is serious. She frowns, peeking around Harry. She spots Narcissa in an instant.

“Oh,” she whispers, to Harry. “It’s good that she’s here.”

“I know,” Harry says. “A small part of me didn’t expect her to come.”

Pansy shakes her head, white knuckles gripping the door handle. “It’s her only son’s wedding, of course she would come. Theo,” she calls back in. He appears at the door in an instant. “Let’s leave them for a second.”

He doesn’t question it as they exit, Pansy walking over slowly to speak with Narcissa, who wraps them both into familiar, albeit slightly uncomfortable, hugs.

Harry pushes inside, closing the door with a soft thud behind him.

“Well, you’ve fucked us now,” Draco says, not turning away from the mirror where he’s readjusting his jacket. “This is such bad luck.”

“Merlin, you look—” The words disappear from Harry’s mouth as Draco turns around.

Draco is clad in a navy-blue tuxedo that clings to every sharp edge of his body like it is made for him. He usually has his hair gelled into place, especially on workdays, but he’s let it loose a little, and it falls longer around his eyes just like Harry likes it. He’s radiant and beautiful, and Harry wants this image of him burned into the backs of his eyelids.

“I could look at you forever,” Harry says. He can’t resist taking Draco into his arms, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. The lips will have to, at least, be saved for the ceremony.

“Look at you, though,” Draco says, in awe, taking a step back to twirl Harry in a circle. “We’re getting married.”

“That we are,” Harry says, reminded of what waits for the two of them outside the door. “Come sit down.”

Harry sits on the edge of Ginny’s bed, patting the space next to him so that Draco joins.

“You better not be leaving me,” Draco jokes, but there’s a moment of concern, worry laced into his tone.

“No!” Harry says, “You idiot, of course I’m not.”

“Then what?”

“Your mum is here,” Harry begins, wincing as Draco narrows his eyes.

“She’s late,” Draco states, plainly.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, opting not to inform him as to why.

Draco’s jaw tightens. He inhales, turning his gaze down to the floor. “It still feels so strange to have her back in my life.”

“I would be more surprised if it didn’t,” Harry says quietly. “But this is a good thing.”

“I know.”

“She’s just outside,” Harry says.

Draco looks up to the door with a foreign expression on his face. “Will you give me a moment alone with her?”

Harry squeezes his hand. “Of course.”

It’s only a few moments later that he’s leaving the room to give Draco and Narcissa privacy to speak. He worries for a fraction of a moment, that Narcissa will convince Draco to leave, to go back to his old life. Despite all of the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, it’s sometimes still hard for Harry to remember that people have changed since the war, including the people he least expected to.

“A wedding day heart-to-heart,” Theo remarks, as Harry emerges from the bedroom.

“It’ll be fine,” Pansy says, though Harry never trusts her enough because she’s always been an ultimate defender of Narcissa. “She’s not the warmest woman, but she has a good heart.”

“That’s all that matters in the end,” Harry says.

After a half hour, Draco and Narcissa emerge from inside. They still seem to be a little awkward around each other, and Harry will have to ask him about their conversation after the ceremony, but this is the reality of life. It’s rare that things can be fixed so quickly, so perfectly. But Narcissa is delighted by the presence of her flower on the ceremony’s archway, and Draco beams back at her. There is always a time to at least try and make things right.

“Are we ready to start?” Molly asks, encouraging, pulling Draco in with an arm. She gives him a warm smile.

Narcissa stands tall beside him. She looks proud to be his mother, and Harry can understand exactly why.

“I believe so,” Draco replies, grinning.

Music, a warm and cosy mix of acoustic sounds in the air, swells in the background as Fleur plays her lyre, and Percy strums gently at his guitar.

Draco walks down the aisle first, held tightly on either side by Pansy and Theo who both look like they could burst into tears. At the end of the aisle, they both give him hugs that last seconds too long, before assuming their positions up at the front.

Harry goes next, a nervousness in his throat that he can’t entirely place. There’s Draco, the love of his life, at the other end, looking back at him with so much love and care written into his expression that Harry thinks he might burst with feeling. He winks at Draco down the aisle, and Seamus cheers at the fact. Molly shushes him almost immediately.

Harry chose to have both Ron and Hermione walk him down the aisle, and both of them cry as they do. Ron will never admit it in the future, Harry knows this for sure, but he’s dabbing at his eyes with his shirtsleeves almost as much as Molly is.

“It’s about time we did this for you,” Hermione says, with warm and full eyes as they reach the end of the benches. “We love you so much, Harry.”

Ron agrees, sniffling, his arm tightly hooked into Harry’s as though he’s reluctant to let go. “Best mates for life, yeah?”

“For life,” Harry repeats, feeling his voice go scratchy and raw, too. He pulls them both in close, and Hermione peppers his face with kisses.

As he meets Draco under the archway, the flowers somehow seem to bloom brighter. Luna stands just behind them, wrapped in cornflower blue robes, a flower crown braided down into her flowing blonde hair.

Azalea sits in the front row flashing both Harry and Draco a genuine smile. While she’s still a closed, reserved kind of woman, she cares for Draco in the way that Narcissa hadn’t much when he was a child. She’s the reason why Draco’s managed to be sober for so many years. The wedding wouldn’t be complete without her there.

“Shit,” Draco curses quietly, as Luna draws up her wand and lights the candles around the arch.

“What,” Harry says, panicked.

“I don’t think I asked someone to cover the store.”

“Draco,” Harry rolls his eyes. “We’re about to get married, and you’re worried about your bookstore! It’ll still be there tomorrow, you know.”

“Yeah, but Mrs Madgen wanted that copy of Jane Eyre, and I promised her I’d—”

“Shh,” Harry says gently, taking his cold hands in his. “Be present.”

Draco swallows, some of the anxiety disappearing from his features as Luna begins the ceremony.

It passes rather quickly, in a swirl of hushed words, soft exclamations from the crowd, and shared glances. Luna officiates perfectly, her dreamy and whimsical affect making the whole affair seem that much more magical. Harry can’t take his eyes away from Draco’s.

There are no purpled bags under his eyes anymore, no pointy cheekbones protruding sharply from the skin of his cheeks. His eyes don’t look hollow and set too deep into his face, but rather burst with a soft, quiet kind of intensity that only Draco can claim as his. He’s so beautiful, Harry thinks, no matter what he looked like before, or will in the future. But he’s so healthy and happy, and those are the only things Harry really needs in his life.

They kiss to seal their bond, and it’s like their cores strain through their chests, aching to be pressed together forever, as close as they can be. Harry finds it hard for himself to pull away but doesn’t particularly feel like putting on a show for their audience.

“You’re so wonderful,” Harry whispers, forehead pressed against Draco’s. “I’m never letting you go.”

Then, like a damn scene in a Muggle film, it begins to rain.

Rain peters down slowly from the sky before it flows unbridled, soaking through everyone’s robes, and dresses, and suits. Harry’s hair is drenched within a matter of seconds, his glasses wet with condensation. He doesn’t seem to care though, taking them from the bridge of his nose and letting out an excited yelp.

“Oi, you fuckers would have your wedding on a rainy day,” George calls out, and the guests erupt into laughter.

Harry presses a kiss against Draco’s mouth, running a hand through his wet blonde hair.

“I’ll love you forever,” Harry promises, with a grin on his face that he knows he won’t be able to wipe away. He blinks back tears from his eyes that mix with rainwater running down his cheeks.

“As I, you.” Draco throws his arms around Harry’s neck as they fall into each other. “I’ll never let go.”

A crack of lightning illuminates the dark sky, and Pansy shouts in excitement. It’s definitely George or Charlie that puts on some Weird Sisters as upbeat music begins to stream from the Burrow, backlit by angry clouds.

Draco and Harry share their first dance right there, stumbling away from the archway as everyone joins in, soaked in rain and mud, water in their eyes until they can’t see straight.

“This would happen to us,” Harry shouts above the noise. He looks around to his friends, joy in their faces, soaked wet down to their boots.

Draco kisses him again, hands tight around his cheeks, pushing hair away from his face. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”