Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You wrote me oh so many letters
And all of them seemed true
Promises look good on paper
Especially from you, from you.

The weight of all those willing words
I carried all alone
You wouldn't put your pen to bed
When we hadn't found our own, our own.”

Johnny Flynn, “The Wrote and the Writ”

The first letter arrives after the Trials.

Harry has just moved back to Grimmauld Place, after spending two months at the Burrow. Hermione’s in Australia, trying to restore her parents’ memories and the Weasleys are struggling to cope. George is a wreck; Molly and Arthur can barely function and Harry feels that they could do without someone like him intruding on their grief. Of course, Ron and his mother insisted on him staying, but he’s just broken up with Ginny and he feels like they all need some space. Besides, Ron has started helping George with the shop, and Harry doesn’t want to stay at home with Molly and his ex.

So he moves back into Sirius’s old and dusty house (he doesn’t feel like he can call it home, not yet at least), leaving his trunk at the entrance and slouching on the sofa in the drawing room on the first floor, Kreacher fussing over him.

He hears the faint noise of an owl’s beak on the window and sighs, unable to get up, the effort of moving house too much for him at the moment to do anything else. He contemplates ignoring it, but the tapping becomes insistent. He hasn’t got around to setting up wards against random people’s owls yet and he already misses the Weasleys’ protective spells, keeping admirers and intruders at bay.

The owl taps so hard that the glass threatens to break.

“All right, I get it,” Harry mutters, “I’m coming, you nutter.”

It’s a beautiful brown owl, its eyes yellow and attentive as Harry lets it come inside and unfastens the message from its leg.

“I don’t have any treats, I’m afraid. I don’t own an owl anymore,” he explains and the bird makes a disappointed sound and then waits. “You can go, you know.”

The little animal cocks its head and just rests on the windowsill, waiting for him to read the letter.

“Have you been instructed to wait for a reply?” he asks and obviously receives no answer, so he sighs and sits back down. The room feels stuffy in the early summer London heat, but there’s a gentle breeze coming in, now that the window’s open.

Harry feels drained of all energy, in spite of the fact that it’s mid-morning. The last thing he wants to do is read letters and write polite replies, but he supposes he can’t just spend the whole day on the sofa, can he?

He unfolds the parchment and his eyes open wide when he realises who it’s from.

Potter,

Mother and I would like to thank you for all you have done for us, especially for testifying in our favour during the Trials.

Thank you for returning my wand and for saving me from the Fiendfyre. Please let me know if there is anything that I can do for you to repay your kindness.

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Harry’s mouth hangs open as he reads the letter again. He wonders if Narcissa forced Malfoy to write it or if she stood behind him and made suggestions on how not to be a snarky git.

He reads it again and decides that it simply doesn’t feel like something Malfoy would write.

But then Harry thinks back at Malfoy’s pale face and long dirty hair as he stood in front of the Wizengamot, his cheeks hollow, dark shades under his grey eyes after two months spent in Azkaban. He wonders if he was beaten up or hexed by the guards, now that the Dementors are gone.

The Trials were long and hard, and Harry sometimes wished he didn’t have to attend, but Hermione forced him to and he was sort of grateful in the end. It was good to see justice being made. To send some of those awful people who hurt and killed his friends to Azkaban.

He testified in Malfoy’s and his mother’s favour, telling the Wizengamot of how they had lied to save his life in two separate occasions. Both mother and son got away with house arrests (six months for Malfoy, three for his mother). Lucius was not that lucky, but Harry believes he deserves to rot in a dirty cell for the rest of his life for what he has done.

He summons parchment and quill and writes down a reply.

Malfoy,

All’s fine, I don’t need anything.

Thanks for asking,

Harry

He secures the letter to the owl’s leg and then watches it fly away. He sighs and lies on the sofa again, closing his eyes. He considers taking a nap when Kreacher appears with a loud crack that makes him jump. The Elf asks him what he should prepare for lunch, his eyes eager and excited.

“Er…could you make me a cheese toastie, please?” he asks and his question is met with a disappointed frown and a deep sigh, so he adds “but you can make whatever you want for dinner. I’m not fussy.”

“Kreacher will prepare a beef bourguignon, then.”

“Whatever that is, okay.”

He spends the rest of the morning reading a Quidditch magazine and trying not to unpack. He eats his toastie and then finally finds the courage to climb the stairs and check on the state of the bedrooms. He doesn’t want to use Sirius’s, the memory still too raw to be able to sleep in there. He doesn’t feel like using his old bedroom either, so he settles for one he’s never used before, on the third floor. It has an en suite bathroom and it faces the back garden (or what’s left of it, since it looks more like a jungle at the moment).

He’s nearly finished unpacking and is absentmindedly looking outside when the owl from the morning appears again and nearly crashes into the closed window.

“You’re bonkers, you know?” he says, letting it in, “and don’t look at me like that; I still don’t have any treats for you.”

He retrieves the letter, wondering what on earth Malfoy wants again.

Potter,

I owe you a life debt. Be reasonable for once in your life and tell me what you bloody want from me, so that we can settle it.

I refuse to spend the rest of my days waiting for you to come up of new ways to torment me.

Don’t be a wanker.

D.L.M.

Harry finds himself smiling, probably for the first time in days, or even weeks.

“That’s more like him,” he tells the owl, who just hoots and decides to ignore him. “I’ll get some treats for next time. Don’t be mad at me.”

That seems to earn the bird’s favour and he even allows Harry to pet its soft head.

“You’re a softie deep down,” unlike your owner, he feels like adding.

He’s half tempted to tell Malfoy to fuck off, but he’s feeling bored and hasn’t had any distraction that wasn’t a funeral or a trial in the past eight weeks, so he sits down at the desk and fishes out some dusty parchment and old ink from one of the drawers.

Malfoy,

I feel bored. Tell me something interesting.

Harry

He lets the owl fly away and summons Kreacher to ask him to get some owl treats and then he finishes tidying up his bedroom, making it feel less like a guestroom and more like it belongs to him. It’s a slow and painful job and he gives up halfway through, wishing for a distraction, missing Ron.

He has dinner and takes a shower, then lies in bed, unable to sleep.

The tapping on the window in the middle of the night wakes him up from one of his nightmares. He’s sweaty and nauseous, so he feels grateful for a chance to open the window and think about something other than his horrendous dreams.

“Already back?” he asks, welcoming the tired owl inside, “you must be knackered.”

Potter,

What the fuck?! I bet you feel bored, now that you’ve saved the world and there are no more megalomaniacs trying to kill you and your friends, but I can’t repay for a life debt with some distraction.

Salazar, you’re such a tosser!

Fine, I will indulge in your absurd whims.

In 1767 Camelia Malfoy fell in love with Catullus Longbottom and asked her parents to arrange a marriage between them. They told her she should instead consider marrying his older brother Magnus, since he was going to inherit the family fortunes, but she was besotted with Catullus and refused. The plans went ahead and the couple was happy and looking forward to the big day.

Imagine her surprise when, on the wedding day, she realised her betrothed was missing and Magnus was standing next to her before the altar.

She had no choice and went ahead with the wedding rituals, but when night came and she was expected to perform her marital duties, she hid her husband’s wand, stood in front of him and turned into a panther. What no one knew was that she was an Animagus.

Magnus met a very unfortunate end (imagine being mauled by a panther whilst you’re naked and ready for a shag, Potter) and Camelia was free to find Catullus, who had been imprisoned in the dungeons, and elope with him. According to rumours, they spent the rest of their days in a small village in Provence.

Next time you need a distraction, read the Prophet.

D.L.M.

In spite of the gory scene in his head, Harry finds himself amused by the story. So he gets his quill and writes a reply.

Malfoy,

I can’t believe one of your ancestors ran away with one of Neville’s!

I’d rather read another one of your stories than open the Prophet (have you checked it lately? It’s full of photos of me and Ginny breaking up).

Tell me more,

Harry

He checks that the owl is fine and sends it back.

Strangely enough, he manages to fall asleep again, thinking about panthers and a young lady with Malfoy’s fine features and white-blond hair, marrying a lad who looks like Neville.

He spends the following day trying to settle down and failing to, missing the homely feeling of the Burrow, in spite of the depressing atmosphere of the past couple of months. He considers writing to Ron or Hermione, but decides against it. They both have bigger issues to deal with and their families need them.

Once again in his life, he feels left out, useless. Voldemort is dead and no one needs him anymore. He’s finally free, but at the same time he feels like he’s lost his purpose in life. He feels trapped in his head, among bad memories and regrets. All those people he could have saved, but failed to.

He has received an official invitation to join the Aurors, in spite of not having completed his NEWTs, but he doesn’t know whether he should accept it or not. Being an Auror has always been his dream, but that feels like a lifetime ago, like a dream that belonged to another Harry and not his own.

He doesn’t know what to do with his life anymore.

He spends the day walking around the dark house, trying to care enough to clean the dirty rooms and repair the damaged furniture. He goes for a walk to the park nearby and feeds the ducks some stale bread.

When night comes, he lies in bed, unable to sleep, until he hears a small noise coming from the window. He goes to check and Malfoy’s owl is glaring at him from the other side of the glass.

“I wasn’t expecting you back,” he says as an apology. He summons Kreacher and asks him to fetch the owl treats he’s bought and to see if he can find a cage to let the poor bird rest during the night.

When the owl is peacefully sleeping in an old cage that Kreacher found in the loft, Harry finally settles down in bed, the letter clutched in his hands. He stares at it and wonders why on earth he’s feeling so excited about it.

It’s just Malfoy, at the end of the day. But it’s nice to get some attention that is not his friends’ concerned messages enquiring whether he’s sleeping and eating enough or ridiculous letters from his fans around the country, who want to express their gratitude or offer to shag him or, worse, marry him.

He turns on the little lamp on the bedside table and takes his jeans off. He can’t be bothered to put his pyjamas on, so he just lies there in his t-shirt and boxers. It’s warm enough anyway.

He opens the letter and an involuntary smile tugs at the corner of his lips when he realises what Malfoy has written.

Potter,

If you had studied History of Magic, instead of falling asleep in most of Professor Binns’ lessons, you would know by now that all pureblood families are related. Even the Potters have links with the Malfoys, if you search back in time. The archives at Malfoy Manor are full of references of our families making business together. Your great-grandfather was apparently on friendly terms with mine.

I have seen the latest photos in the papers and I deeply regret to inform you that your hair looked even messier than before. Seriously, have you ever heard of brushing charms? I’m sure you have enough money to afford a Muggle comb. Did you never learn how to use one? I could send you detailed instructions, should you require them.

I strongly hope you’ve bought some food for my poor owl, Argo; he was starving when he came back yesterday evening. I had to give him the day off, because he attempted to bite my finger off when I tried to send him back to you earlier.

I’m bored too.

D.L.M.

Harry reads it again and again, the short line at the very end making him feel something he can’t explain. Knowing that Malfoy is bored too, that he felt the need to share it. It makes his stomach feel lighter, somehow. He eventually falls asleep, the letter abandoned on his bedside table, and when he wakes up in the morning, he writes a reply while he’s munching on his toast.

Malfoy,

I’m sorry about Argo. He spent the night here and he’s well rested and has a full stomach. I lost my owl in the war and I haven’t got a new one.

I don’t know anything about my family, since my father was the last Potter. What kind of information do you have in your archives about them? Also, how much of a posh twat are you, since you have “archives” at home? Mind you, you live in a bloody mansion.

Your hair looked like shit at the trials too, but at least it wasn’t slicked back, so you looked less like a knob.

Harry

He feels a new kind of satisfaction as he fastens the letter to Argo’s leg and lets him fly off into the misty morning air. He can’t explain what he feels, doesn’t really care to put a name to it. It’s halfway through the afternoon when he realises that he’s actually waiting for Malfoy’s reply and he falters, finding himself looking outside of the window, searching the sky for the brown owl.

He calls himself an idiot and resumes his activity of cleaning the kitchen and organising the pantry. He’s decided he’s going to make dinner, which has unfortunately upset Kreacher, so he’s offered to clean the cooking area as a peace offering. The House-elf is getting older and he’s clearly struggling to look after the house as well as he would like to, but Harry doesn’t mind helping. He’s got nothing to do, after all. All he needs is someone to tell him what to do with his time.

He’s ready for bed again when Argo arrives and Harry literally jumps up to greet him.

Potter,

Only a troglodyte like you could compare your colossally stupid hairstyle with mine. I’m sure you’d be happy to know that now I am at home, I can finally wash it properly and that I’ve indeed stopped slicking it back. But not because you seem to prefer it that way.

Merlin, you’re such a dickhead.

I’ve perused some of my great-grandfather’s letters and I’ve found out a few things that might interest you. I have included a picture of our ancestors, drinking what appears to be ale (how dreadfully common) in front of Malfoy Manor and a letter Henry Potter sent Perseus Malfoy in 1908.

I will look again tomorrow, after I’ve finished cleaning the West Wing with Mother. Sometimes I fear the Manor will never be the same as it used to be.

I’m sorry about your owl; it was a beautiful bird.

D.L.M.

Harry looks at the sepia photograph, his mouth opening as he finds an unexpected resemblance between his own face and Henry’s. They have the same hair and nose, he notices, and the same crooked smile. Malfoy’s great-grandfather has short pale hair and a silly moustache, but he also shares some traits with his descendant. Harry notices how good-looking he is. They’re both grinning, young and careless. He feels like he’s never really been like that.

How odd, he thinks, to stare at two men who look like them and yet appear to be good friends, Henry’s arms wrapped around Malfoy’s shoulders as Perseus smiles at him, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

He can’t stop looking at it, finds himself re-reading Malfoy’s letter again and again.

In the morning he sends a reply, asking for more information, for more photos and anecdotes. And Malfoy delivers.

They spend days exchanging letters. Malfoy tells him how Henry and Perseus met at Hogwarts, just like them, and became friends straight away, in spite of being in different houses. Malfoy tells him that they played Quidditch together, opened a shop in Diagon Alley where they sold brooms, went for walks in the Malfoy estate and were basically inseparable.

Apparently, they were both engaged at some point, but something happened and the weddings were called off.

Harry looks at the photos he receives, puts them all away in the drawer of his desk. He stores Malfoy’s letters in a nice wooden box that he finds in one of the bedrooms, a pattern of snakes and apples carved on the side. He reads them over and over again, trying to get the days to go by.

He cleans the house, repairs what’s been damaged, tackles the rooms one a time, under Kreacher’s watchful supervision. He writes to Ron and to Hermione, sometimes to Neville and Luna. He visits the Burrow some weekends, but he doesn’t really want to be in the same room with Ginny and it hurts too much to see George and his parents falling apart.

So he keeps on exchanging letters with Malfoy, of all people. They insult each other, but there’s no bite to it, not anymore. They simply do it out of habit, to keep a resemblance of normality where there isn’t none. They’re both too tired and worn out. The world is not the same. Their lives have been turned upside down, for Merlin’s sake, and Harry wonders, what’s the point? What’s the fucking point in hating each other, when so many people have died? When he’s lost so much that he feels numb with it?

Besides, Malfoy is keeping him distracted, entertained. Harry is so engrossed in the stories he’s uncovering about their ancestors, that he always wants to know more. And a part of him, one that he tries to silence more often than not, wants to know more about Malfoy too. Looks for little clues, for small sentences scattered here and there in his letters.

Draco’s bored. He’s trying to clean and repair the Manor, just like Harry is with Grimmauld Place. He’s avoiding going out, in fear of being attacked. He’s terrified that someone might try to kill his mother. He’s letting his hair grow, making Harry wonder what he looks like now.

Harry lies on the wooden floor, after scrubbing it clean, and thinks of all the funerals. Of baby Teddy, growing up without his mother and father, just like him. Of Hermione’s parents, who still can’t remember her properly. Of Ron’s exhausted face the last time they met at the pub. Of the picture he saw in the Prophet a few days ago, Malfoy and his mother cowering into a corner in Diagon Alley as other wizards and witches spat at them and tried to hex them. Draco looks manly and handsome, protecting his mother from the crowd, as they enter Gringotts.

He can’t find a purpose in anything. He feels completely empty and too full at the same time, thoughts swimming in his head. His stomach hurts so much that he struggles to eat, but he doesn’t feel like going to St Mungo’s, because he knows that the reporters and fans will be all over him.

So he just lies on the floor, waiting for Argo to come back from Wiltshire.

Potter,

I think some of the letters might be missing, because Henry seems to refer to something he has written in previous missives, but I cannot seem to be able to find them anywhere. I asked Mother, but she doesn’t seem to know either. She said Father might have an idea, but I am unable to communicate with him at the moment.

There’s something I don’t understand. Why did they call off the weddings and why both of them, precisely on the same day?

The decision seemed abrupt and uncalled for.

And why at the same time?

It would be helpful if you could find Perseus’s letters. Do you have any idea where the Potter’s archives could be?

Mother sends her regards and a box of chocolates.

Don’t eat them all in one go or you might get spots all over your stupid face. Salazar knows that’s the last thing you need with your disastrous hair.

By the way, I saw a photo of you in the Prophet yesterday. You look like you need a decent meal and a good night’s sleep.

D.L.M.

Harry shakes his head and smiles, then he gets parchment and quill and writes his reply, Argo hooting merrily at his side.

Malfoy,

I have no idea where the Potter’s archives could be, but I have a feeling they are probably lost. I will ask Mr Weasley if he knows anything about it and I will have a look in Sirius’s old room. You never know, I might be lucky and find something my dad left there.

Please, thank your mum for the Honeydukes chocolates; they are my favourite. I know you don’t have full access to your vaults, so please don’t feel like you need to buy me stuff. I’m struggling to eat anyway; my stomach hurts all the time.

It’s my birthday next week and I don’t even want to celebrate. The Weasleys want to organise a party, but I feel like there’s nothing to celebrate.

What’s the fucking point of it all?

Don’t go and tell the Prophet about it, please.

Harry

He doesn’t even know why he’s written something so personal. He just fastens the parchment to Argo’s leg and opens the window, before he changes his mind. He feels stupid afterwards, opening up to someone he barely knows. Especially when he’s saying nothing meaningful to his own friends about how he feels.

But actually, he thinks, that’s not the truth. He actually knows Draco Malfoy. He’s not a stranger. They’ve both spent their entire time at Hogwarts spying on each other, learning to read each other’s expressions and body language. Harry can still remember the feeling of searching for Malfoy’s name on the Marauder’s Map and the excitement of finding it.

It kind of feels the same to receive his letters nowadays. Harry loves the thrill, his fingers moving fast as they unfold the parchment.

Potter,

You should definitely see a Healer, wizard or even Muggle, if you want to avoid Mungo’s. You might have an ulcer and you need potions for it. What does it feel like?

I’m staying well away from reporters, and my old habits of spilling your secrets to them are long gone. Besides, I doubt anyone would believe a former Death Eater is corresponding with the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

I’ll have a look in the Library and see if I can find more information about Perseus and Henry. I vaguely remember reading some old letters when I was younger, but I have no recollection of where I’ve put them.

As for your birthday, you should probably celebrate the fact that you’re still alive.

D.L.M.

Harry feels a thrill when he reads it, his fingers trembling slightly as he holds the parchment. He could have anyone’s attention, really. There are so many people out there who would pay for a glimpse of his life. And yet, he feels stupidly giddy because Malfoy has been decent for once, almost friendly.

He wonders if there’s something wrong with him, searching for friendship where there’s always been hatred and animosity. A part of him wants to be careful, doesn’t trust Malfoy, thinks he’s up to something again. But he’s too tired to analyse every word and study his old enemy’s moves. He wants to let go, for once.

Ron and Hermione have their own family to look after. He has nothing.

So he keeps on writing to Malfoy and tells him about how much his stomach hurts. About how empty and lonely he feels. Malfoy’s just words on parchment, no longer a threat. Harry can’t see his sneer or hear his condescending posh tones. He’s stripped bare and all there’s left are his thoughts as elegant scribbles on letters.

And Malfoy is surprisingly funny and witty, interesting and distracting in a way that never ceases to surprise Harry.

Harry’s noticed that the parchment has a peculiar smell, like some kind of expensive cologne and spices. He has no idea if that’s the way Malfoy smells. The last time they were close enough was when they were riding a broom, escaping from the fire, Malfoy’s hands holding him so tight and desperately that Harry was left with bruises. And all Harry could smell back then was his own fear and the sulphur, the room burning.  

Potter,

I’ve sent a potion that might help you feel better and get your appetite back. I’ve brewed it myself and yes, I know you’re thinking I’m trying to poison you, but you’re a paranoid bastard. Just fucking take it and stop moping, you wanker.

I found some of the letters in the Library, but they’re in bad conditions and almost illegible. I’m looking for restoring spells that might repair them.

It’s your birthday tomorrow. I’ll drink a glass of firewhiskey in your honour. I hope you’re not spending the day on your own. I spent my eighteenth birthday in a cell and it was shitty enough. You should celebrate for the both of us.

Take care,

D.L.M.

Harry stares at the letter and he feels like something’s moving in his chest. It might be the potion taking effect (and his stomach stops hurting for the first time in weeks), but he thinks it’s different. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this. Alive and not simply living.

He wonders what it would feel like to actually meet Malfoy in person, if the weird and fragile truce they’ve created would last. If Malfoy would be a dick or not.

He lies awake for hours, thinking, a frown on his face, remembering all the reasons why he used to hate Draco Malfoy so much. Thinking about that day when he could have served Harry’s head on plate to Voldemort and decided against it. About the feeling of Draco’s arms around his waist, his fingers digging into Harry’s flesh as they escaped the Room of Requirements.

He goes to the Burrow for his birthday, receives his presents with a bashful smile, trying to put on a brave face as everyone pretends to be cheerful. He eats a slice of cake and doesn’t feel like there’s lava coming up from his stomach and thinks about Malfoy.

He goes home and writes to him, but Argo is gone and he doesn’t have an owl. He has considered buying a new one, but the memory of Hedwig is still too raw.

He jumps when he hears the familiar tap tap tap on his bedroom window.

“Hey, little one, I almost thought you weren’t going to come today,” he whispers, giving Argo a treat and letting him in.

He opens the letter, his breath caught in his throat.

Potter,

I think I’m drunk. I may have overdone it with the firewhiskey. Ooops!

Anyway, happy birthday!

I wrote a million versions of this letter and they all ended up in the fire (yes, I know it’s the end of July, but it’s bloody cold in the Manor, so I have a fire running in my room).

I just wanted to be nice to you, but I don’t know how.

I’m not one of your stupid fans. I was trying to be decent for once. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday, without sounding like a pathetic wanker.

Speaking of which, I found your photos in Witch Weekly (the ones of you playing Quidditch shirtless with Weasley) and bloody hell, Potter. They kept me entertained for a few evenings, you know? You probably don’t, because you’re pure and chaste and straight as hell. And I’m drunk and really really gay. Like, really bent.

And I might have had a crush on you for longer than I thought possible.

Also, I think our great-grandfathers used to shag. I’m pretty positive they were lovers. I’m also pretty, full stop. But you couldn’t care less, because you’re straight and you’ll end up marrying a lovely witch and you’ll have a million children and I’ll die alone and miserable, wanking whilst thinking about you.

Fuck, I’m so pissed.

Happy birthdaaaaayyyy!

Draco

Harry’s heart beats madly in his chest, a storm of butterflies in his stomach. He reads the letter, over and over again. He wants to take the Knight Bus and go to Malfoy Manor, find out if what Draco has written is true. He feels his face on fire and the start of a boner in his pants. He can’t stop thinking about Draco, his usually pale cheeks flushed as he takes his cock into his fist and starts stroking it languidly, calling out Harry’s name.

Harry hasn’t done this in a while, hasn’t felt whole enough to seek pleasure. But he lies on the bed, pulls his boxers down and closes his eyes as his fingers curl around his own dick, sliding up and down, dragging the foreskin over the head. He retrieves some lube from the bedside table and whimpers softly at the delicious pressure of his hand around his length. He lets his fingers run up and down his shaft, imagining that Draco is behind him, his chest pressed against Harry’s back like that day in the Room of Requirement. He imagines that it’s Draco stroking his cock, whispering obscenities in his ear. It doesn’t take him long to come, images of Draco, naked and needy, behind his closed eyelids.

He just lies there afterwards, spent and breathing hard, feeling waves of pleasure still rippling through his body.

He needs to see him. He wants to see him.

Draco,

Did you mean what you wrote?

I may not be as straight as you thought I was. One of the reasons Ginny and I broke up was because I figured out I like blokes more than girls.

And what about Henry and Perseus? How do you know they were lovers?

Thanks for the birthday wishes.  

Harry

There are a million questions swimming in his head, a million things he wants to ask and say, but he doesn’t know if he can. He doesn’t know how.

He keeps on imagining Malfoy tugging at his cock while looking at his photos on a magazine. He wants to know if there’s more. If this “crush” he mentioned is just physical attraction or if it’s something else.

He lets Argo leave and carry his letter to the Manor and the day stretches endlessly, the longest by far since he has moved back to Grimmauld Place. But the owl doesn’t return that day, nor the following one and Harry thinks he’s going to go mad. That the wait is going to kill him.

He wonders if it was all a fucking joke or a terrible prank. If Malfoy was trying to gain his trust to sell information about him to the papers. He reads the Prophet and finds nothing.

By the third day, Harry’s about to send Kreacher to a pet shop to buy him a bird, when he suddenly hears the familiar sound of Argo tapping on the window and he runs to open it, snatching the parchment from his leg with so much impatience that the bird screeches indignantly.

Potter Harry Potter,

I apologise for my inappropriate behaviour. Being inebriated is not a good enough excuse for the embarrassing letter I’ve sent you.

I found a missive confirming my suspicions about our great-grandfathers. Henry and Perseus called off their weddings because they were in love with each other. Unfortunately, their respective families suspected there was something going on between them and made them separate. They closed their shop in Diagon Alley and I have a feeling they were forced to marry pureblood witches.

I’m sorry. I’m trying not to be a twat, I swear.

I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.

D.L.M. Draco

Harry’s about to jump on his broom and fucking fly all the way to Wiltshire, when another owl arrives. It’s a letter from McGonagall, officially inviting him to return to Hogwarts to complete his N.E.W.T.s.

Harry paces around the kitchen, wondering what the fuck he should do, making Kreacher stare at him, a confused look on his wrinkly face.

“Master Harry needs to calm down or his stomach will start hurting again.”

He decides to go and see Ron, but he takes his Invisibility Cloak as he apparates to Diagon Alley. The shop is jam-packed and it takes him a while to get Ron’s attention without being seen by other customers. They hide in a room at the back, full of boxes and parcels and Harry takes the cloak off.

“What’s up, mate? You okay?” Ron asks, his freckled face looking pale and worried.

“I’m fine, thanks. Did you get McGonagall’s letter?”

“Yes, I got it this morning,” Ron replies, scratching the back of his head, “but I don’t think I’ll be going back.”

“Oh,” Harry replies.

“George needs me here. He can’t run the shop without me,” Ron explains, “he can barely get out of bed without me these days. And besides, I don’t need N.E.W.T.s to run a shop. I can’t face another year of essays and books, not after what we’ve been through. I don’t even think I can set foot into the Great Hall, to be honest with you.”

It makes sense, but Harry still feels a wave of anxiety washing over him. Because Hogwarts is still his home. And he wants to go back. In spite of everything that’s happened and the horrible memories of his friends dying there, he still wants to return. But he doesn’t know if he can do it without Ron.

“Do you know if Hermione is considering going back?” he asks, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

“She wants to,” Ron answers, a small smile lightening his face every time he speaks about her, “as soon as her parents’ memories are stable enough, she’s going to come back. She reckons she can do it in the next couple of weeks and be back by September.”

That’s good news and Harry feels relief filling his lungs, making him breathe fully again.

“Do you want to go back?” his best friend asks.

“I…” he replies, “I think I do.”

He hugs Ron and they promise to see each other again at the weekend.

Harry goes home and sits down at his desk, an old quill in his hand and blank parchment in front of him. He knows what he wants to ask, but the right words are hard to find.

Draco,

Have you received McGonagall’s invitation to return to Hogwarts?

I’m considering going. I think it would be good if you returned too.

We could start things over. I could shake your hand this time.

Were Henry and Perseus miserable for the rest of their lives?

I don’t want to be.

Harry

He feels torn. He feels like his heart is bleeding from several different wounds, like a million papercuts on his ventricles and valves. He fears it will never be the same.

He thinks about his great-grandfather, forced to marry a woman he didn’t care about, while he was in love with another man. With a man who looked like Draco.

Harry thought he was in love with Ginny, but maybe he wasn’t. Not really.

He wonders if he’s capable of loving someone, since no one has ever loved him before. He knows Ron and Hermione do, but not in that kind of way.

And then he thinks about Draco, about their obsessions with each other and the crush Malfoy said he’s had for him.

Argo returns the day after, looking grumpy and tired.

Potter Harry,

I have received McGonagall’s letter. She contacted the Ministry on my behalf and I have permission to return to Hogwarts and complete my house arrest there, but I don’t know what to do.

I want to repent and make amends for my old mistakes, if that’s even possible.

I want to be good, but I don’t know how.

Draco

This time Harry is about to take his broom and just fly all the way to Malfoy Manor, when the floo suddenly comes to life and Hermione’s tired but cheerful face appears in the flames.

“Harry! I’ve missed you so much! How are you doing?”

He kneels on the floor and talks to her, tells her about his long days and the house feeling empty and dark. He doesn’t tell her about the letters, nor about Malfoy.

“I’m coming back to England next week,” Hermione announces, “my parents can remember a lot more and I can get them settled in time for September.”

“Are you going back to Hogwarts?” Harry asks, his heart in his throat and when Hermione nods, a plan forms in his head.

They talk for a few more minutes and then say goodbye.

Harry lets Argo fly back to Wiltshire without giving him a reply, for the first time in over a month.

He apparates to London Victoria station. He needs time to think and he has always liked taking the train, looking at the countryside zooming by. He boards a train to Southampton Central and then changes there to get to Salisbury. When he arrives, he apparates to Malfoy Manor.

The imposing gates stand in front of him, but they let him through when he pushes on the solid iron. He feels the magic of the wards fizzing against his skin, warning the Malfoys of his arrival.

By the time he walks to the front door, Draco is already there, waiting for him.

He looks taller and his hair is longer, falling around his pale face in soft white-blond locks. His grey eyes are focusing on Harry, open wide, and his hands are trembling, nervously playing with the fabric of his dark green robes.

“Potter,” he says, his voice lacking the usual stiffness, sounding almost soft.

“Draco,” he replies, “I apologise for visiting unannounced, but I felt the need to speak to you face to face.”

He says that and yet he doesn’t actually know how to put into words the thoughts that have been circling round his head for the past few days.

“Listen, I’m sorry about my letters,” Draco starts saying, but Harry shakes his head.

“You shouldn’t apologise,” he says, “I liked them.”

Draco looks surprised and his cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink. Harry wonders how on earth he’s never realised before how beautiful Malfoy looks. His lean body standing straight in front of him, making Harry feel the need to reach for those long limbs and pale face, to stretch his arm and make his fingers come in contact with Draco’s porcelain skin. Harry wonders if he’s cold or warm to the touch. What he would look like, falling apart under his fingers.

“Come back to Hogwarts,” he blurts out, “come back with me.”

Malfoy’s mouth opens and then Narcissa appears at the door behind him, an inquisitive look on her face.

“Mr Potter, what a delightful surprise,” she exclaims, her fingers resting on Draco’s shoulder, “to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“Er…” he says, “I was…I was just asking Draco if he’s planning on returning to Hogwarts.”

She looks at him and then at her son, with furrowed brows, a silent conversation going on between them.

“Draco and I have discussed it, but I’m not sure if it’s a good idea. He wants to go and he needs his N.E.W.T.s, but I don’t know if he’s going to be safe at Hogwarts.”

“I’ll make sure he is,” Harry replies, straight away, making them both stare at him in surprise, “I’ll ensure Draco’s safe. You have my word.”

“Well, in that case,” Narcissa says, “we’ll think about it. Won’t we, darling?”

Draco nods and his eyes never leave Harry’s, trying to communicate something that the Gryffindor fails to understand.

“If that’s everything, then…” Narcissa says and Harry bids his farewell, wishing he could at least touch Draco once, speak to him alone, find out what’s on his mind.

He slowly walks back to the front gate, turning once and seeing Draco still standing there, watching him go. His grey eyes are inscrutable and a part of Harry feels like going back, but then Narcissa drags her son inside and Harry just apparates back to the train station.

He goes back home and writes to McGonagall, saying that he’s going to be there and asking for the list of books he needs to buy.

A day goes by and Harry feels restless again, finding things to do to keep himself busy, searching through Sirius’s old room, in an attempt to find clues about Henry Potter and finding absolutely nothing. He can’t face the thought of Henry and Perseus being unhappy for the rest of their lives.

He eventually gives up, finding absolutely nothing, and goes to the kitchen to get some food, when Argo flies through the open window.

Harry,

I’ll be there.

Draco

Harry smiles and he feels happy for the first time in months.

They’re going back to Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

August feels never-ending.

The days seem to stretch, long and warm, until Harry feels the need to cross them off the calendar in the kitchen, counting the days until his return to Hogwarts. He needs something to look forward to.

He continues writing to Malfoy, receiving replies that leave him confused and desperate for more.

Draco never mentions the letter he sent on Harry’s birthday, the fact that he basically admitted to being attracted to him. But Harry wants to know more.

They end up talking about other things.

Harry,

Mother still seems unsure about my return to Hogwarts and she’s terrified of going to Diagon Alley to buy my books. I would go on my own, but I know that might scare her even more. I’ve asked the Ministry for permission to go (ah, the joys of being under house arrest), but they seem to be taking ages to process it. You’ll find out from the Prophet if I have managed to buy my school supplies, I guess.

I can’t find any more of our great-grandfathers’ letters in the library. I’ve tried writing to Father, to find out if he knows more, but I don’t think he’s receiving my owls.

How’s your stomach?

Draco

Harry doesn’t send Argo back with a reply straight away. He visits the Burrow, instead, and asks Arthur about documents regarding the Potters, without offering a reason why he’s so eager to find them. Ron’s dad suggests going to the Ministry and searching the National Wizarding Archives. In spite of avoiding public spaces like the plague, Harry braves a trip to the Ministry, wearing his Invisibility Cloak for most of the journey.

The witch in charge of the Archives reminds him of Madam Pince, with her stern manners and grumpy face, but as soon as he takes the cloak off, she jumps in surprise and then becomes incredibly nice and polite. She answers all of his questions and escorts him to a deserted section of the Archives that might contain some useful information for him. It’s a small and stuffy room, with long rows of high shelves and a dark blue carpet. Harry runs his fingers over dusty folders containing thousands of letters and documents, wishing he had Hermione there to help him.

He puts his hand in the front pocket of his hoodie and fishes out a folded letter.

Harry,

I’ve sent another potion for your stomach. I hope it helps (no, it’s not a laxative, you paranoid tosser, so take it and shut up).

If you manage to go to the Archives, you ought to check the wedding folders for the years 1915 to 1925 in Wiltshire and London, because that’s the period of time my letters don’t cover. Please let me know if you find anything.

I wish I weren’t stuck here and I could help.

I wish I hadn’t fucked up so much. I’ve ruined absolutely everything, except for those four words that managed to save your life.

‘I can’t be sure.’

I’m still not sure why you’re writing to me, to be honest. You must be bored to death.

Draco

He folds it again and puts it back in his pocket, holding it for a few minutes, feeling the parchment against his fingertips and closing his eyes.

He wants to see Draco again, but he has to wait until September. He’s confused and doesn’t know what he wants anymore, but he tries to focus on the task at hand, on finding out more about their great-grandfathers.

So he starts opening folders and flicking through old papers and tomes. The hours go by and he distractedly sips on Malfoy’s potion before eating the sandwich Kreacher has packed for him. He doesn’t find much, just a reference to the marriage between Henry Potter and Agatha Selwyn in July 1920 and a document with details about Perseus Malfoy’s own wedding with Persephone Parkinson just a couple of months afterwards.

The recordings are sterile accounts of guests and expenses, of menus and spectacular fireworks to celebrate the couples, with no trace of his great-grandfather’s feelings for his wife or for his Slytherin friend. Draco has been clear about his suspicions and he has reported on some of the letters he’s found, telling Harry about his ancestor’s secret love code and a lock of black curls that he’s found in a crumbling envelope. But Harry wants to know more. He wants proof and certainties.

He gives up halfway through the afternoon and returns home, empty-handed and exhausted.

Draco,

I haven’t found much. I’ve transcribed the dates and accounts I copied about the weddings, but I don’t have a clue about what happened afterwards. They both seem to have led normal lives. Separately, I mean.

Are you sure they were together? Could you please send me one of the letters that made you think they were lovers?

Thanks for the potion; it helped.   

I can collect your books and school supplies from Diagon Alley, if you want. I need to go there to get mine anyway. Just send me your list.

Harry

He sends Draco’s owl back and then waits for a reply, sipping tea in front of the window, biting on his bottom lip as he observes the jungle that is his back garden. He spends the rest of the day sweating and swearing as his efforts to banish weeds and thorny briars seem to be entirely fruitless.

An owl arrives in the evening, but it’s from Hermione, announcing her return to England and inviting him over for lunch on Sunday. His stomach seems to close and churn painfully at the thought of a big meal, surrounded by people he barely knows, but he replies he’s going to be there.

Argo returns the following day, with a small parcel attached to his legs.

Harry,

The Ministry has not granted me permission to go to Diagon Alley, therefore I might have to take advantage of your kindness, since most of the shops refuse to deliver to the Manor. I have included enough Galleons for the expenses.

I can’t thank you enough. I will end up being indebted to you for life and you still haven’t told me what I can do to repay you.

I’ve made a copy of one of the letters (I can’t send the original, since it wouldn’t survive the trip).

I feel for Perseus, as he seems to have been a nice chap (unlike me) and he clearly didn’t deserve to be unhappy. From his letters, Henry sounded exactly like you and I wish I could have met him. I hope he found some happiness in his marriage.

Draco

Harry opens the letter his great-grandfather sent and finds it incredibly obscure, full of odd quotes and unintelligible sentences written in a slanted unreadable cursive with whole sections in ancient runes. He gives up halfway through and decides to ask Draco to decipher it for him when they’re back to school together.

Draco,

I can’t understand a thing. You’ll have to explain it to me when we finally see each other.

I wonder if we’re going to be in our houses or if there’s going to be an eighth-year common room.  We might even share a room, who knows?

Do you wear silky pyjamas to bed? I bet you look posh.

Tell me something about yourself that I don’t already know.

I can’t wait to see you.

Harry

He goes to Hermione’s for lunch on Sunday and luckily Ron is there too and he’s so loud and cheerful, that Harry manages to fade into the background, moving the food on the plate with his fork, hiding the meat under a lettuce leaf and hoping not to offend the Grangers with his lack of appetite.

When he gets back, Argo is waiting for him in the kitchen and Harry sits in the garden, a cup of steaming tea in one hand and Draco’s letter in the other, a stupid smile on his face.

Harry,

For your information, I do not sleep in silky pyjamas. I normally wear Egyptian cotton sleepwear in summer, but at the moment I am just opting for boxer-briefs, since it’s so ridiculously warm.

I bet you wear one of your old faded t-shirts and mismatched socks. And I bet you look ridiculously adorable in them too. Soft and warm and unreachable.

I hope we won’t share a dorm, otherwise I’ll get no sleep at all.

I’ve got an old calendar in my room, and I’m crossing out the days with a red quill, because I can’t wait for September. I’m just being sentimental and naïve.

I’m probably just stupid, because life will be harder outside of the protective walls of the Manor. But I still want to see you.

You asked for something about me. I love birds. We used to have peacocks in our gardens, but my aunt decided to serve them for dinner one evening. I cried for hours and refused food for nearly two days. She made sure I was punished for my weakness and I still have the scars.

You could tell me something about you, if you want.

Draco

Harry can’t stop imagining Draco’s pale skin in the moonlight, wearing just underwear and nothing else. He wonders where his scars are and what they look like. He hopes the weather is still going to be warm in Scotland in a couple of weeks, warm enough to be wearing just underwear to bed, but he seriously doubts it.

Draco,

I hope we share a dorm. I don’t sleep much anyway.

I cried when Hedwig was killed and I still can’t face getting a new owl, because it feels too raw, even though it’s been a year since I lost her. I’m sorry Argo has spent the summer travelling between London and Wiltshire (he must hate me).

I do wear old mismatched socks and tatty t-shirts, but I doubt I look “adorable” in them. I’m just a disaster, really.

I can’t help but wonder what your hair looks like in the morning when you wake up. You’re always so composed and pristine and I’d love to see you all dishevelled and messy.

Something about me:

- I love treacle tart.

- I’ve been wondering if I can still talk to snakes, but I haven’t managed to go to a zoo to check.

- My stomach’s been killing me again. Would you mind sending another potion? The ones you brew seem to help a lot. I don’t want to go to St Mungo, but I might see Madam Pomfrey when we get back to Hogwarts.

- Hermione wants me to book an appointment with a Mind-Healer, but I’m terrified they might find out that I’m fucked up beyond hope.

Ten days left to go (and yes, I’m crossing the days off my calendar too)!

Harry

He feels weird after writing the letter and considers whether to bin it. He’s never opened up like this to anyone, not even Ron and Hermione. But he fastens it to Argo’s little leg and watches the owl fly away.

The following morning, he meets up with Hermione at her house and then they apparate to Diagon Alley. She does her best to disguise his appearance, hoping they will not be followed by a horde of reporters and fans. It goes fairly well, with only a few people eyeing him suspiciously. They meet up with Ron for lunch and it almost feels like the end of an era, with Harry and Hermione off to Hogwarts, bags full of books and school supplies, and Ron on a tight schedule because he needs to return to the shop soon.

“I’m going to miss you,” Harry manages to confess, his cheeks colouring.

“Me too, mate,” Ron says, scratching the back of his head, “but we’re going to meet up in Hogsmeade at the weekend. And we’re going to owl and meet up for Christmas.”

Still, Harry thinks it’s not enough. The papers joke about the fact that they are still the Golden Trio, joined at the hip, inseparable. But Harry needs his friends, especially now that it feels like his life has fallen apart. It’s like a broken puzzle without the instruction box and he has no idea how to put the pieces back together.

He gets home in the early afternoon and feels restless, pacing around empty rooms and casting cleaning spells here and there.

He eventually makes up his mind, grabs the bag with Draco’s school supplies and apparates to London Victoria, then he takes the train to Southampton Central and from there he apparates directly to Malfoy Manor.

He takes a deep breath and opens the front gate. It’s a warm sunny afternoon and the gardens are beautiful. Pink and red dahlias flutter in the wind and he spots colourful bushes of red daisies (he vaguely remembers Aunt Petunia calling them Mexican sunflowers). His eyes roam across the grass and that’s when he spots him.

Malfoy is lying on a blanket on the ground, surrounded by small light blue flowers. He’s barefoot; his sleeves and trousers are rolled up and he’s wearing a white puffy shirt, like an eighteenth-century nobleman from one of those period dramas. He’s reading a book, but Harry hears the sound of his laughter, bright and crystalline, as he moves closer, trying not to make any sound. Argo is pecking at Draco’s belly, gently, making him giggle.

“You’re tickling me,” Draco complains, stifling another laugh and snorting inelegantly. The sound does something to Harry’s insides. He gapes at his former enemy, at his relaxed expression and long pale limbs. He loves the sound of his laughter, so genuine and different from the sneers and scoffs Harry’s become so used to.

He wonders when Malfoy has become so stunning, so breath-taking. Has he always been so beautiful and Harry somehow failed to see because of all the hatred between them?

Draco suddenly drops the book and notices him. His eyes open wide and he sits up, rolling down his left sleeve as Harry’s eyes catch a glimpse of his Dark Mark.

“Hey,” Harry says, handing him the bag he’s been clutching, “delivery for you.”

“Thank you,” Draco replies, almost a whisper, “you didn’t have to come all the way here. But I’m very grateful.”

Harry shrugs, wants to reply I wanted to see you, but he doesn’t know if he can be that honest.

“These flowers look pretty,” he says instead, pointing at them, “what are they called?”

“Love-in-a-mist,” Draco replies, running his fingers delicately on them, “they’re lovely, aren’t they? The leaves almost look like feathers. In the language of flowers, they mean perplexity, but also openness to love. A desire to be kissed.”

Harry’s eyes pause on Malfoy’s soft pink lips and he swallows loudly.

Merlin, he wants to kiss those lips.

He wonders how Draco would react if he leant closer and brushed their lips together. He admitted to wanking whilst looking at Harry’s pictures on Witch Weekly and having a crush on him. Does that mean that Draco wants to be kissed?

“You can sit,” Draco says, “if you want.”

And Harry plops down, no grace left in him, sitting far too close, but wanting to touch, to feel. Not knowing what on earth is going on with him. Why he wants Draco so badly, all of a sudden.

“The letters,” Draco says, avoiding his eyes and playing with blades of grass, “I’ve found one more this morning. I was going to send Argo to tell you.”

“What does it say?” Harry asks, and his voice sounds weird, foreign to his own ears.

“I’m not sure. There are lots of obscure passages and it’s full of Arithmancy formulas. It’s all in code and I haven’t managed to crack it yet. I need more time. I might need to ask Professor Vector for help.”

His eyes finally meet Harry’s and they stare at each other for what feels like endless minutes. There’s a gentle breeze ruffling Draco’s loose locks and Harry feels the burning need to tuck a strand behind his ear, to touch him. He wonders if Draco’s skin is warm, since he’s been lying in the sun.

“I…” he starts saying, leaning closer, “I want…”

“How did you get here?” Draco asks, shading his eyes with his hand.

“I took the train and then apparated from the station.”

“You can take the floo next time,” Draco whispers, “I’ll open the wards for you. I mean…if you want to come again, that is.”

“Yes,” Harry replies, too quick.

He hears a faint noise and Draco turns, staring at the Manor, his white-blond eyebrows furrowed.

“Mother will be coming out soon,” he says, turning to meet Harry’s gaze again, “the wards must have warned her of your arrival.”

“Why can’t she leave us alone?” Harry asks, annoyed by the thought of an intrusion, “we’re just having a chat.”

Draco’s lips curl up in a small smile which doesn’t reach his eyes.

“She’s just worried,” he says.

“Worried?”

“That you’re going to hurt me,” he replies, his eyes moving away, staring into the distance.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” Harry says, affronted. If anything, he’s been saving Malfoy’s arse in the past few months, but then he remembers the bathroom floor covered in Malfoy’s blood and he feels ashamed, “I would never attack you. Not after…this summer.”

Draco’s grey eyes briefly focus on him again and he seems to be deep in thought, sucking on his bottom lip and making it look red and wet. Harry wants to kiss him so badly.

“There are other ways for you to hurt me that don’t involve any violence,” he finally says. And Harry’s confused, wants to ask what he means, but Narcissa suddenly makes her way towards them, her long robes billowing in the summer breeze.

“Mr Potter,” she says, out of breath, “it’s lovely to see you again.”

“Nice to see you too, Mrs Malfoy,” he replies, feeling sheepish, “I just brought Draco’s school supplies.”

“Oh, how very kind of you,” she replies, a stiff smile on her face.

Harry realises how much she looks like her son. He used to think that Draco was a carbon copy of his odious father, but now he notices how, growing up, his pointy features have somehow softened a bit. He has a straight nose like Narcissa’s, but it’s quite delicate and his eyes have a lovely shape that reminds him of those fairies he’s seen in illustrated books at the local library, when he was little.

“Mr Potter?” she says and brings him out of his reverie, “would you like to stay for tea? I’m afraid we don’t have any biscuits.”

Her offer doesn’t seem genuine and Harry notices Draco’s back going stiff at the mention of the lack of biscuits, so he shakes his head.

“No, thanks. I have to go back. But it was nice to see you. Both of you,” he adds, standing up. He casts a glance in Draco’s direction and catches his eyes, a hopeful glint in them. “I will see you soon.”

“Yes,” Draco replies, his voice faint.

Harry bids his farewell and leaves, turning to check if Draco is still looking at him and finding him staring longingly back at him.

When Harry gets home, he feels his skin on fire and he’s even more restless than before. He decides to take a shower and as he gets undressed, he thinks about pale skin, long legs with sparse blond hair, elegant feet. He feels his stomach in knots as he remembers Draco’s hair and soft-looking lips, his voice. He’s not even surprised to be hard and slowly tugs on his cock in the shower, closing his eyes and letting the water wash away his confusing thoughts, leaving the raw want and need to touch. To feel Draco’s skin against his. To kiss him. To see him naked.

He comes with a soft gasp, panting the tiles with warm white spurts as he whimpers through the remnants of his orgasm.

There are a few of days of silence and then Argo comes back on a cloudy morning, three days before they are meant to return to Hogwarts. Harry’s been waiting for him, wondering why Draco has been quiet.

Harry,

Thanks for stopping by the other day and for bringing my books. It was a lovely surprise. It was nice of you to visit me.

Unfortunately, a problem has arisen and I’m trying to sort it out so that I can come to Hogwarts, but the situation does not look good.

I can’t explain, sorry. It’s a delicate matter.

I honestly wish I could tell you more, but there’s so much about me that is too horrible to share. You probably think you know how awful I can be, because I’ve shown you so many times how nasty I am, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

You’re probably better off without me at Hogwarts anyway. You deserve a nice and relaxing year, after what you’ve been through.

Wishing you the best,

Draco

Something falls on the floor when Harry opens the letter. He kneels down to retrieve it and finds his fingers closing around one of the little blue flowers that were surrounding Draco when he was sitting in the grass.

Love-in-a-mist.

Harry wonders what it means, because he can’t remember what Draco said about those flowers.

He wonders what Draco’s letter means and feels the need to see him to ask him for an explanation.

He knows Draco can be arrogant and petty and has been an absolute wanker to him in the past. They’ve been so horrible to each other, both of them. But Harry wants a fresh start. He thinks he deserves it and so does Draco.

He still calls himself stupid for the umpteenth time and tries to get distracted with jobs around the house. He packs and unpacks his trunk, then he does some gardening, but by midmorning he’s a bundle of nerves and his magic is playing up. So he decides to grab some floo powder and just go to Malfoy Manor.

As soon as he sets foot into the parlour, he feels the air crackle with Draco’s magic, even though the Slytherin is not even in the room. He looks around, noticing the lilac wallpaper with tiny flowers and bumblebees flying around. There’s a big sofa covered in expensive light green fabric and a small armchair next to the window with a discarded book on it.

Harry hears a soft noise and turns towards the door.

“Draco?” he calls and the blonde stands in front of him, looking dishevelled and tired, dark circles under his eyes and a worried expression on his face.

“Potter?” he asks, incredulous, “what the fuck are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come. Merlin, fuck, if Mother found out…”

“Is your mother here?” Harry asks, taking a step forward, in spite of Draco’s evident panic, trying to calm him down.

“No, she’s gone to the Ministry to ask them to let us take money out of our vault, so that we can buy my potions. I took the last dosage this morning, so I won’t have any left from tomorrow morning.”

“You need potions?” Harry asks, worried, “are you feeling unwell?”

Draco shakes his head and starts pacing around the room, his robes billowing and his hair covering his face as he mutters something under his breath.

“They will refuse,” he mumbles, “I know they will.”

Draco eventually sits on the sofa, covering his face with his hands and sighing, his shoulders tense and his fingers trembling slightly. Harry moves slowly and sits down next to him, placing a gentle hand on his back.

“I’m sure they’ll say yes,” he says, trying to sound reassuring, “why would they not allow you to use your money to buy medicines?”

Draco shakes his head and finally looks at him, his eyes pale and brows knitted in concern.

“You don’t get it,” he replies, “it’s not a life-saving potion and it costs a fortune. They won’t grant us permission to use our money to buy it.”

Harry doesn’t understand what’s going on and why Draco looks so desperate.

“Maybe Madam Pomfrey could give it to you at Hogwarts,” he says, trying to help. Draco looks at him with a broken smile on his pink lips and he takes his hand.

“Why are you so nice to me?” he whispers, “I’m the last person on earth to deserve your kindness.”

“What?” Harry replies, confused and suddenly feeling a little warm now that Draco’s fingers are interlacing with his.

“Am I one of your charity cases?” Draco says, tilting his head.

“No!” Harry replies, outraged at the suggestion, “why can’t we simply be friends?”

“Friends…” Draco repeats, shaking his head and leaving his hand, “it’s not that simple. And, besides, I’m not sure that’s possible.”

The Slytherin stands up and looks outside, then checks his pocket watch and grimaces.

“You need to go,” Draco says, “Mother will be back any minute and she will ask me a million questions, if she finds you here. And I don’t know if I will be able to answer half of them without giving myself away.”

“Draco…” Harry’s index finger brushes against Draco’s thumb. It’s a soft and simple gesture, but he feels sparks where their skin touches and Draco’s eyes lock with his.

“Go,” he repeats, “hopefully I will see you on the Hogwarts Express.”

Harry nods and stands up, wanting to lean closer, to kiss those pink lips and slide his fingers through Draco’s hair. He takes a step back and grabs a handful of floo powder.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says and then he goes back home.

He counts the days and then the hours. He gets his trunk ready and finally leaves number 12 Grimmauld Place.

Platform 9¾ is packed and too many people are trying to catch a glimpse of him, shake his hand, get an autograph. He feels the panic rising as he tries to make his way through the crowd, his palms sweaty and breath caught in his throat, until he spots Ron and Hermione.

“Merlin, what do these people want?” Hermione huffs, annoyed, and then drags them both on the train.

“Mione, I told you already that you can’t take me back with you as your pet,” Ron jokes and she elbows him, then she hugs him and Harry sees the sadness in his best friend’s eyes, so he turns and pretends to be busy with his trunk. He gives them a chance to kiss and say goodbye and then he shares a long hug with Ron.

“I’ll see you soon,” the redhead says, “first Hogsmeade weekend, which hopefully is going to be pretty soon. Hermione is going to ask McGonagall if the eighth-years can leave the castle every weekend, since you’re all of age. And we both know how persuasive she can be.” 

Harry laughs at Hermione’s raised eyebrow and crossed arms and they both part ways with Ron, with damp eyes and a tight smile. Harry thinks Hermione is going to break down, her face pale and lip wobbling. She’s been through so much in the past year, between the war and her parents, that he wonders how on earth she finds the strength to leave without Ron, especially now that they can finally be together. He doesn’t know himself how he’s going to spend a whole school year without him.

He takes Hermione’s hand and holds it gently and she squeezes back, turning her head to wipe away a few tears.

“We’d better find an empty compartment,” she says, “and then lock ourselves in to avoid more requests for autographs.”

Harry looks around, searching for white-blond hair and long pale limbs. He looks in every compartment, but Draco is nowhere. The train leaves, making him lose his balance as he follows Hermione into the last compartment, where Luna and Neville are waiting for them with a smile. But Harry feels empty and has a lump in his throat.

Where is Draco?

He thinks of a million reasons, not believing that the Ministry has refused to let the Malfoys pay for Draco’s potions, then he checks every compartment for the second time with the excuse of going to the loo. It takes him ages, because every single student seems to want a piece of him and they won’t stop trying to touch him or get his bloody autograph and all he wants to do is just find Draco Malfoy. But the Slytherin is not there.

He sits in silence for the rest of the trip and Hermione casts him a series of inquisitive looks, but probably blames his sour mood on the fact that he’s parted ways with Ron. She doesn’t seem particularly cheerful herself, her face tired and hair bushier than usual.

“Were you expecting to see someone, Harry?” Luna asks with a serene expression on her face and Harry nearly chokes on his pumpkin juice.

“Err…” he mutters, “no, not really.”

She hums and smiles at him, as if she could read through his lie, and then resumes reading the last issue of the Quibbler.

Harry still has a glimmer of hope that somehow Draco will be there when they get to Hogwarts, then he calls himself stupid for wanting this so badly. It’s still Malfoy, after all.

Maybe he pretended to be his friend over the summer just to take the piss.

Maybe his letter where he said he wanted Harry was just a ruse to get him to open up and tomorrow all their correspondence will be published in the Prophet. Harry’s stomach churns painfully and he touches his belly, his fingers clutching the soft fabric of his faded t-shirt.

“Hey, are you alright?” Hermione asks quietly and he nods, too used to just answering yes, that he’s fine, everything is okay, even when he’s falling apart.

They arrive and Hagrid’s massive hug seems to settle Harry’s nerves, but then there’s the ride to the castle and the sorting ceremony and dinner and Draco’s still not there.

He’s not at Hogwarts.

When Harry gets to Gryffindor tower, he feels useless and worn out, ready for bed, even though he will probably not sleep. What he doesn’t expect is to find Argo waiting for him at the window of his bedroom.

Harry,

I’m really sorry, but the Ministry didn’t grant us permission to withdraw money from our vault.

I’m stuck at home and I can’t leave the house without my potions.

I hope you enjoy your last school year and that it’s going to be wonderfully mundane now that you don’t have a Dark Wizard trying to kill you.

Thank you for being so decent to me, even though Merlin knows I don’t deserve your kindness.

Draco

Harry feels like ripping the letter to shreds and to put it against his heart at the same time. He’s angry and tired and confused, but he still grabs some parchment and quill to write a reply.

Draco,

Tell me what’s wrong with you and which potion you need. I can speak to Pomfrey or to McGonagall. I can even send an owl to Kingsley or send you the money to buy it.

Let me do something.

Harry

Argo doesn’t look impressed when Harry fastens the letter to his leg and he hoots at him indignantly.

“I know you’ve travelled a long way and you wanted to rest,” Harry explains, “but this is important.”

He doesn’t sleep much that night and the following day he feels a wreck. The lessons go by in a blur and he barely takes any notes. He knows it’s not a great start, but his mind is elsewhere.

“I spoke to McGonagall,” Hermione announces at dinner, a triumphant smile on her face, “she’s going to allow all the eighth years to go to Hogsmeade every weekend.”

“That’s brilliant!” Neville beams, “that means I can see Hannah every Saturday.”

“It’s such a relief,” Hermione says, “at least we can meet up with Ron. Right, Harry?”

Harry stares at her and nods, his mind elsewhere, thinking that he could go and see Draco. Wiltshire is too far to apparate directly from Hogwarts, but he could do it in a few jumps.

“Are you okay, mate?” Neville asks, looking concerned.

“Yeah, fine,” Harry mutters, calculating how many jumps it will take him to get to the Manor.

Argo arrives the following morning.

Harry,

I doubt the school would be able to afford my potion. I would brew it myself, but it contains phoenix feathers, so it’s too expensive.

Besides, it’s just a suppressant and I can survive without it (and no, before you jump to conclusions, I am not a werewolf).

I’m sorry.

I wanted to show you that I wish to change. That I can change. That I am worthy of the life you saved.

But now I’m stuck here and you’re there.

I can’t even go to the Pureblood Rehabilitation Sessions the Ministry is making us attend every Saturday. At least that was a good distraction over the summer and Mother and I enjoyed leaving the house to attend them. She’ll have to go on her own.

I hope you have a great week,

Draco

P.S. Don’t come here anymore. Please.

A plan forms in Harry’s head as he scribbles his reply.

Draco,

At what time does your mum go to the Ministry on Saturday?

You can still show the world that you want to be better.

Harry

He counts the days and can’t focus on anything. Draco’s reply arrives on Friday morning. He sounds confused, saying that his mother leaves at one on Saturday, but why does Harry want to know? Harry doesn’t reply and sends Argo back with a short letter saying not to lose hope.

On Saturday morning Hermione organises a get together with Ron at the Three Broomsticks. Neville and Hannah are there too and Seamus and Dean join them. But Harry’s distracted, he can’t focus on conversations and keeps on looking at his watch. He tries to eat lunch, but his stomach is still killing him, so he says he’s going to head back to the castle to see Madam Pomfrey.

“Harry, you have barely eaten this week,” Hermione says, looking concerned, “make sure you get Pomfrey to visit you.”

“Sure,” he says, then he hugs Ron and sneaks out. The streets are fairly empty for a Saturday afternoon, since it’s only the eighth-year students who are allowed to leave the castle that weekend. Harry checks that no one has spotted him and he goes to the Hog’s Head. Aberforth looks surprised to see him, but he just frowns at him when Harry asks to use his floo.

“I suppose you’re going to sneak out and visit your girlfriend,” he comments, taking Harry to a back room.

“Not quite,” Harry answers, his cheeks turning red.

Aberforth leaves the room before Harry declares his destination, saving him a lot more questioning.

“Malfoy Manor,” he says, as clearly as he can, and then he finds himself in the same room as last time. The light is brighter here than in Scotland and it’s a sunny day in Wiltshire. It looks like summer hasn’t ended yet here.

“Draco,” he calls and then after a couple of minutes, his old rival appears at the doorway.

Harry opens his mouth and lets out a small gasp.

Draco looks different.

Harry’s taken aback by his breath-taking beauty, by how pale and glowing his skin looks, by his long hair shimmering as if there were diamonds in it. It’s much longer than the previous week, inexplicably, and it now goes past his shoulders. There are no traces of the dark circles under his eyes and Draco’s complexion looks immaculate, like a porcelain doll. His lips are pink and beg to be kissed and Harry finds himself walking towards him, his arms stretched, desperate to touch and kiss and claim.

“Stop!” Draco shouts, pointing his wand at him, “what the fuck are you doing here, Potter? I told you not to come!”

“Draco, please,” Harry begs, taking another step, “I just want to kiss you, please let me. Oh my god, I’m going to die, if I don’t kiss you right now.”

“I swear to Merlin I am going to hex you, if you take another step,” Draco says, panicking and then he seems to change his mind and he swings his wand, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Nox maxima!”

The room is suddenly plunged into complete darkness and Harry can’t see anything. He stands there, listening to his own heart beating madly in his chest and to Draco’s erratic breathing.

“Fuck,” Harry murmurs, “oh shit, Draco, I’m so sorry.”

“What are you doing here?” the Slytherin asks, “I told you not to come.”

“I just wanted to see you,” Harry replies, feeling his own hands trembling, cold sweat gathering on his palms, “you’re…I didn’t know you were…”

“Part Veela,” Draco answers, his voice breaking, “the first man to manifest the traits in my family was Perseus Malfoy, since apparently his mother was a Veela.”

“But you’ve never…” Harry doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. He’s still shocked and wants to sit down, but he has no clue where the sofa is.

“I’ve been on suppressants since I was a toddler,” Draco explains and Harry hears him moving, the rustling of fabric a few feet away from him, “I can’t even remember ever looking any different from my usual self. It’s just terrifying and I have no idea how to control the allure. The other day a wizard came to deliver some food and Mother had to hex him and then obliviate him, because he tried to get his hands on me.”

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” Harry says, taking a deep breath and then another, “so you don’t have any more suppressants and you’re afraid to leave the house, which makes sense. Can your dad teach him how to control the allure?”

“His Veela genes did not manifest,” Draco answers, “it can skip a generation or two in men. Obviously, I wasn’t that lucky...”

Harry tugs at his curls, twisting his fingers in his unruly hair, feeling at loss and wanting to find a solution. He just wants to get Draco out of the Manor and into Hogwarts.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Draco says, sounding desperate.

“Are you ashamed?” Harry asked, wondering if Draco’s old beliefs about blood purity are still making him obtuse.

“No,” he murmurs, “Father was. I’ve lost count of the number of times he told me I was a disgrace. I just…I don’t want people coming here to gawk at me and try to touch me. It was bad enough when the Aurors came to check if we were telling the truth.”

Harry feels a pang of jealousy and his blood boiling at the thought of someone else touching Draco.

“Did anyone hurt you?” he asks, his voice sounding odd to his own ears.

“No,” Draco replies, “but it was rather awkward and both Mother and I had our wands raised the whole time.”

There’s a moment of silence when all Harry can hear is the sound of their breathing. There’s a clock ticking the time in the room. A bird chirps outside.

“Do you still feel like kissing me?” Draco asks after a few minutes.

“Yes, but I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you sent me that drunk owl,” Harry replies, letting his honesty slip out in the darkness. Draco’s breath hitches.

“What?”

“You said that you wanted me,” Harry explains, taking a step forward in the dark, “and then when I saw you, I felt the same. I want you too.”

“You’re still under the allure,” Draco says and Harry can almost hear him shaking his head.

“I’m not,” Harry insists, “I wanted to kiss you so badly when I came to see you and you were sitting in the grass. I almost did, but I chickened out. It’s not the allure. It’s all your letters.”

“My letters?” Draco asks and Harry tries to take another little step forward, but his shins knock into something and he curses under his breath.

“You wrote me so many letters,” Harry explains, “baring your heart out to me. You never said those things to me; you only ever write them down.”

“Verba volant, Potter.”

“What?” Harry asks, confused.

“It’s a Latin proverb,” Draco explains, “Verba volant, scripta manent. It means that spoken words fly away, but written words remain. And I wanted those words to stay with you. Because I meant them. I do want to change and be a better person.”

“I know,” Harry murmurs, “I believe you.”

There’s a moment of silence and then Harry hears Draco moving closer.

“Do you still want to kiss me?” the Slytherin whispers in the dark.

“Yes,” Harry replies, “so badly.”

And then Draco breaks the distance between them and Harry feels his warm body standing right in front of him, Draco’s breath gently caressing his forehead. Tentative fingers touch Harry’s face, Draco’s thumb stroking his cheekbones and then tracing his lips.

“Please,” Harry finds himself whispering. And then Draco’s soft lips are pressed against his, making him close his eyes in the darkness, reaching for Draco’s robes, his fingers holding the Slytherin’s hips and dragging him closer. Draco sighs and opens his mouth a fraction and that’s all Harry needs to deepen the kiss, to slide his tongue inside and taste him, making them both moan and whimper. Draco’s fingers card through his messy curls as he sucks on Harry’s bottom lip, making him groan.

“Do you have any idea for how long I’ve wanted this?” Draco asks, his voice sounding husky with want and Harry simply groans, capturing his lips again, letting his hands roam up Draco’s back, pulling him even closer.

“I want to see you,” Draco says, “I need to see you. But you can’t see me.”

Harry lets out a whimper as he feels Draco’s lips on his neck, sucking on a sensitive spot that makes him lose control and shudder in his arms.

“Blindfold me,” Harry mutters, “do you know the spell?”

“Obscuro,” Draco casts and Harry feels the soft fabric of the blindfold circling his head and covering his eyes, fastening at the back, “Lumos.”

He still can’t see a thing, but he feels Draco’s hands all over him, his lips tracing a pattern down his neck, fingers opening his robes and tugging at his shirt and lifting it up. Harry suddenly feels Draco’s wet and warm mouth covering his left nipple and he gasps as his tongue flicks over the hardening nub whilst his fingers gently pinch his right one.

“Salazar, how do you taste so good?” Draco asks and then he goes back to kissing his mouth, pushing Harry gently until he trips and lands on the sofa with an undignified yelp and Draco on top of him.

They kiss for what feels like hours and Harry just wants to touch and taste and feel, but then Draco moves, both of them panting and hard.

“We don’t have any more time,” Draco explains, “Mother’s coming back soon. I’m sorry, but you need to leave.”

“I’ll come back next week,” Harry replies, “I’ll come back every week, if you want me to.”

Draco waits a few seconds before answering and Harry feels nervous, not being able to see his face and read his expression. But then Harry feels the lightest press of lips against his and he melts into the kiss.

“Yes,” Draco whispers, “yes, please.”

Draco guides him to the floo and their fingers interlace for the briefest of moments.

“Write to me,” Harry says, “please.”

“Yes,” Draco replies, “I will.” 

Chapter Text

“Open your mouth,” Madam Pomfrey orders, looming over him with a stern expression on her face. Harry simply obeys and she performs a few diagnostic spells, then she asks him to lift his shirt and she prods him with cold fingers and mutters something under her breath.

“Is everything okay?” Harry asks timidly, starting to worry.

“You have a stomach ulcer and it’s in a bad state,” she replies with a frown, “since when have you been in pain?”

“Err…last summer? A couple of months at least,” he replies, scratching his neck and she looks like she might curse him.

“A couple of months?!” she asks, “how on earth did you even manage to eat?”

“I’m not eating much at the moment,” he confesses, “it’s quite painful.”

“Unbelievable,” she mutters, leaving for a few minutes and then returning with a handful of vials containing an assortment of potions, “you’re going to stay here for a couple of days until you’re completely healed. No arguments.”

“Okay,” Harry replies, feeling guilty.

“You should have come to see me sooner, even during the summer. You know I would have helped,” she says, a worried expression on her face and Harry’s shoulders finally relax.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You should say sorry to yourself, not to me. I’m honestly surprised you’re not in a worse state, considering you’ve been in pain for so long.”

Harry downs the potion she offers him and grimaces at the bitter taste.

“I took some potions over the summer that made it better for a while,” he admits and she raises an eyebrow at him.

“What potions? Nothing you could have bought over the counter would have helped much.”

“I…” Harry’s afraid she’s going to get even angrier at him, “a friend brewed them for me.”

Madam Pomfrey huffs and shakes her head.

“Honestly, the next time Miss Granger decides to play Medi-Witch, please send her to me.”

“It was not Hermione,” Harry says, raising his hands, “it was another friend. He just wanted to help and he kept on telling me to go to see a specialist, but I was being stubborn.”

Madam Pomfrey’s gaze finally softens and she prepares his bed, handing him a pair of soft pyjamas to change into.

“Well, at least it looks like your friend is good at brewing potions, considering that your ulcer hasn’t perforated.”

“That sounds ominous,” Harry says, swallowing loudly.

“It does and it’s serious,” Pomfrey says, then she looks around her empty Hospital Wing and she sits on the bed, motioning for Harry to do the same. “Mr Potter, I have run a few tests and I can’t seem to find a medical reason which might have caused your ulcer.”

“Okay…” Harry tries to avoid her gaze, focusing on his own fingers playing with the hem of the pyjama top he’s holding.

“I think it has probably been caused by stress and trauma,” she gently says, her fingers resting on his shoulder, making him flinch, “which is understandable, considering what you have been through. I think a Mind-Healer would be able to help.”

Harry tenses up and remembers Hermione’s words, insisting on him attending a session to discuss his problems. He feels his hands becoming clammy and cold, his chest getting tight.

“Of course, it’s entirely up to you,” Madam Pomfrey says, “and the potions I will give you, combined with a rigorous diet, will treat your symptoms and get rid of your ulcer. But your mental health also needs to be taken care of. And only you can do it, my lad.”

She pats him gently, then he nods and she leaves him to rest for the night.

Harry lies in bed for hours, thinking about her words. Thinking about Draco and the fact that he’s a Veela. Harry spent the rest of Saturday in a daze, after their encounter, his brain full of cotton wool and his lips still tasting Draco’s mouth. But by dinnertime his stomach was having none of it and Hermione took him straight to the Hospital Wing and left him in Poppy Pomfrey’s capable hands.

Harry can’t sleep, turning in bed with his eyes shut, trying to remember what Draco looked like in the few precious seconds he got to see him. Merlin, he was so breath-taking, so utterly beautiful. Harry’s never seen anyone looking like that in his whole life. He has seen Veela women before and he’s spent a lot of time with Fleur, but Draco…

Harry keeps his eyes shut and remembers their lips crashing together, their bodies pressed against each other, Draco’s little moans and his hands under Harry’s shirt.

He has to wait another week to see him and he doesn’t think it’s fair. He wants to go right now.

He finally manages to fall asleep and is woken up by Luna’s gentle fingers in his hair.

“How are you, Harry?” she asks, a smile on her serene face.

Harry mumbles something and sits up, rubbing his eyes and accepting the glass of water she offers.

“Sorry for waking you up, but Madam Pomfrey said you need to take this potion right now,” she says pointing at a vial containing an orange liquid that stinks like sewage.

“Eww,” Harry says, swallowing it in one go and gagging.

“People who don’t seek treatment promptly don’t deserve to complain about the taste of their potions!” shouts Madam Pomfrey from across the room.

“Okay!” Harry answers and then he goes to the loo to empty his bladder and rinse his mouth. Luna is still waiting for him when he gets back, a book in her hand and a blue feather in her hair.

“Are you feeling better?” she asks and he nods, because he actually does. “An owl came for you this morning. It didn’t want to leave the letter to Hermione, but it agreed to do it for me, since we’ve met before.”

“You’ve met the owl before?” Harry asks, confused.

“Argo,” Luna says matter-of-factly, “Draco’s owl.”

“How-“ Harry looks around, checking no one is eavesdropping, “how do you know Argo?”

“Draco and I have been corresponding since I was taken prisoner in his house,” Luna says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “although, I have to say he hasn’t been writing much lately. Maybe it’s because he was busy sending you letters.”

“Did he tell you?” Harry asks and she shakes her head, her blonde hair covering her eyes.

“I just guessed,” she says, tucking a loose strand behind her ear and making her parsnip-shaped earring tinkle.

Luna puts her hand inside the pocket of her robes and fishes out a neatly folded letter, handing it to him.

“Hermione was quite suspicious,” she adds, standing up and straightening her robes, “she will probably ask you a million questions, since I refused to tell her anything.”

“Thank you, Luna,” Harry mumbles, speechless.

“Any time,” she smiles and then leaves him to his own thoughts and Draco’s words.

Dear Harry,

I don’t know what to say. You probably shouldn’t have come to see me. I asked you not to, but you’re ridiculously stubborn and a bloody Gryffindor and you don’t give a shit about rules, do you?

And now I’m sitting here, counting the hours, wishing for it to be Saturday again.

Are you going to come back? I would understand if you decided not to. I honestly would.

If you think seeing me again is a bad idea (and how could you not?), then please just let me know in a letter. I can’t face seeing you again only to have my heart broken.

If, on the other hand, you’re mad enough to decide to come back, I will be waiting for you next Saturday at 1pm.

Yours,

Draco

Harry wants to run to the Owlery to send a reply. He can’t stand the thought of Draco waiting for a letter that will break his heart, when all he wants to do is apparate to the Manor and kiss him senseless. But Madam Pomfrey nearly hexes him when he suggests letting him out to send an important owl and he has to spend the rest of the day in bed, bored and worried.

“You need to relax,” Hermione says, when she comes to see him in the afternoon, “otherwise your ulcer will get worse. Have you considered yoga?”

Harry groans and rolls his eyes.

“Harry,” she takes his hand, gently, like he might break into a million pieces in front of her eyes, “you need help and I don’t want to lose you.”

Harry finally looks at her, properly looks, and he can see the worry on her face, the white hair on the side of her forehead and the dark shades under her eyes. They’ve spent so long in that tent together, that sometimes Harry thinks Hermione has become a part of him, that she can read him like an open book. Most of the time she behaves like an older sister, so bossy and inquisitive, but Harry knows that deep down she just cares about him too much. That she’s worried he’s going to slip and get buried under the weight of his pain.

“I’m okay,” he says, holding her hand, “you’re not going to lose me. I’m like a cockroach.”

“Eww,” she says, wrinkling her nose, “honestly, Harry.”

“I’m going to be fine.”

“Promise me you will seek help, if you’re struggling again.”

Harry nods, squeezing her hand.

“So, who’s been writing to you?” she asks, a knowing smile on her face, “and why are you keeping it secret?”

Harry breaks eye contact, afraid of giving himself away, of not being able to lie to her.

“No one,” he replies, “just an admirer.”

She raises an eyebrow and Harry can tell that she doesn’t believe him, but he still doesn’t want to tell her. Not because he doesn’t trust her, but because this secret he’s been harbouring in his heart feels like something fragile, that might shatter too easily if let out in the light of day. He needs to nurture it in the darkness, let it grow until it’s something more solid and consistent. Saturday still feels like a dream, like a product of Harry’s messy brain. And he doesn’t feel like what he’s trying to build with Draco would survive under Hermione’s scrutiny. Not yet, at least.

When she leaves, Harry lies in bed, an abandoned book in his lap, thinking about Draco, stuck at the Manor with his mother and unable to leave. He wonders if there’s anything he can do to help, if he should talk to Kingsley.

By Sunday evening he’s bored to death of being stuck in the Hospital Wing and then on Monday morning Madam Pomfrey finally allows him to leave, giving him a list of food and drinks he’s not supposed to have to help with his recovery.

“And at the first sign of pain, you’re coming back,” she finally says, looking like she means business. Harry simply nods and then runs to his first lesson, wishing he could go to the Owlery instead. He’s written a reply for Draco and it’s in his pocket, feeling heavier than a single sheet of parchment should be.

Draco,

I’m definitely going to be there on Saturday, so please wait for me.

Sorry for not writing sooner, I was stuck in the Hospital Wing and Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let me leave. I went to see her for my stomach and you were right, I had an ulcer.

I wish Saturday could come sooner.

Harry

At lunchtime he finds an owl that looks eager to fly all the way down south and he secures the message to its leg. And then he waits.

He waits for a reply. He waits for the week to end. He waits for a chance to be out of the castle and in Malfoy’s arms.

On Saturday he’s a bundle of nerves and Hermione continues asking what’s going on with him, but he keeps on saying that he’s fine. They meet up with Ron again and then after lunch he excuses himself, saying that he wants to give them a chance to be together. They both blush and he sneaks out of the Three Broomsticks and then into the Hog’s Head. Aberforth looks at him like a grumpy goat.

“Can I use your floo again, please?” Harry asks.

“Is this going to be a weekly occurrence?” Aberforth asks, hands on his hips.

“Hopefully?” Harry answers, feeling his cheeks colour, “I can pay you, if you want. I’m going to get something to eat on my way back.”

The tall man just grumbles and points at the door that leads to his parlour and Harry opens it, his hands cold and clammy as he steps inside and grabs some floo powder. It sticks to his sweaty fingers and before he announces his destination, he takes his glasses off, tucks them in his coat pocket and casts an Obscuro on himself, feeling the silky texture of the blindfold covering his eyes.

“Malfoy Manor!” he declares and then he steps into the darkness, trying not to lose his balance, “Draco?”

“Potter,” a mere whisper, right in front of him, and then warm fingers grabbing his hand and pulling him forward. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I said I would,” Harry replies, wishing he could see Draco, feeling insecure. This would be hard enough if he could read Draco’s expression, but he feels completely at loss.

“I…” Draco says and Harry moves his thumb, gently stroking Draco’s hand, wanting to convey his feelings, even though he’s really not quite sure exactly what he’s feeling at the moment. There’s a hurricane in his heart and he’s so bloody confused.

“I’m happy to be here,” he finally says, breaking the awkward silence.

“I’m so glad you came,” Draco says, sounding breathless, “shall we go to my room?”

Harry nods and then feels Draco’s hand pulling him, guiding him through the maze of his house. And Harry’s never been good at trusting people, but this time he has to trust Draco. He wants to. He clings to the feeling of Draco’s warm fingers interlaced with his, to the solidity of them.

He always assumed Draco would be cold, but the Slytherin’s skin is like a furnace, calming Harry’s nerves and making him feel like maybe he’s not making a mistake. Maybe, for once, he’s doing exactly the right thing.

After what feels like ages, they finally arrive and Harry hears a door close behind him and then Draco guides him to the bed, gently pushing on his shoulders to make him sit. He feels Draco’s arm pressed against his own and their hips and thighs touching.

“How are you feeling?” Draco asks, and then a mere whisper, “can I touch you?”

Harry just wants to say yes, that it’s fine, that he wants to touch and be touched to.

“Please,” is what actually comes out of his mouth, a desperate plea, as his face moves towards Draco’s voice. He feels hot fingers taking his coat off, moving his jumper and his t-shirt out of the way, sneaking under. A warm palm against his belly.

“How is your stomach?” Draco asks, his breath so close to Harry’s neck. Harry tilts his head automatically, baring his clavicle, hoping that Draco would place his lips in the crook of his neck.

“Better, I can finally eat,” he replies as Draco’s hand moves up, making its way over his chest and then brushing against one of Harry’s nipples, making him gasp.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Draco whispers.

“Yeah…”

“Can I kiss you?” Draco asks, his lips so close that Harry can feel his breath tickling his skin. He nods, whispering another please. Draco’s soft lips gently press against his, a delicate touch that leaves Harry shivering, desperate for more. He lets out a little moan, while Draco’s hand moves to his side, mapping his skin. And Harry wants more, he wants everything. He opens his lips and tentatively flicks his tongue out and Draco reacts, granting him access with a sigh, their tongues finally sliding against each other, making Harry whimper.

He blindly moves his hand towards Draco, his fingers colliding with buttons and thick fabric, wishing the Slytherin would wear something easier to remove, so that he could touch him properly. He tugs at Draco’s clothes and struggles to get them off.

Draco chuckles inside his mouth and Harry parts for oxygen.

“Why are you laughing?” Harry asks, his fingertips tracing the shape of Draco’s lips, his thumb sliding over delicate skin.

“You’re so eager, Potter.”

“Why don’t you call me Harry, like in your letters?” he asks and Draco’s hands still, his breath hitching in his throat.

“It’s easier when I write,” he replies after a moment, “but when I have you in front of me…I’m just worried that it will be the same way it’s always been between us.”

“You mean fighting?”

“Yes…that I’ll fuck up and it will be a mess.”

Harry moves his face, hoping not to headbutt Draco by accident, and then their lips collide again, a tiny whimper escaping Draco’s mouth as Harry deepens the kiss, his hands fumbling with Draco’s robes, trying to open the tiny buttons to feel his warm skin under his fingertips.

Draco brushes his hands away and Harry hears the rustling sound of fabric, but he’s too busy tasting Draco, sucking on his bottom lip and making him gasp to worry about how long Draco’s taking to get rid of his robes.

“I…” Draco says, breaking the kiss, “it’s a good thing you can’t see me.”

“Because of the allure?” Harry asks.

“No, because my body looks a mess,” Draco replies, his voice low and insecure, “not even the allure would make me desirable.”

“Draco, I found you attractive before I saw you in your Veela form,” Harry says, feeling Draco’s fingers interlacing with his, their foreheads resting together, “you look stunning to me.”

“I…” Draco seems to search for the right words and Harry wishes he could see him, to find out what’s going on, “You haven’t seen me naked. I have scars. Lots of them.”

Harry swallows and takes a deep breath.

“The ones I put there, you mean?” he says.

“Yes…but there’s more,” he says, his voice a mere whisper, “the Dark Lord was often displeased with me. And Father liked to show how much of a disappointment I was.”

Harry squeezes Draco’s hands, so hard that he’s afraid he might be hurting him.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry for hurting you and for what happened during the War.”

“Not your fault,” Draco says, “I kind of deserved it. Besides, they are a reminder of what I don’t want to be anymore. Like the mark on my arm. I need them to remember that I want to change. I just wish I were beautiful…for you.”

“You are, but you didn’t deserve any of that,” Harry replies, leaving Draco’s hand and tentatively moving until his fingers gently brush against Draco’s chest, feeling the irregular pattern of scar tissue, tracing the lines of the gashes he’s left there with the Sectumsempra, exploring the nooks and dips left by other men, who should have protected Draco and punished him instead. He hears a soft sob when his thumb brushes over Draco’s left arm, over the bumps left by cuts.

“I tried to get rid of it,” Draco’s shaky voice explains, “to no avail.”

And then Harry uses his lips to explore and to heal. He kisses Draco’s chest, his tongue tracing the thick lines, skidding over his nipples and making the Slytherin gasp, his fingers sliding into Harry’s curls.

“Merlin, I love your hair,” Draco says and Harry can’t help but laugh.

“You’ve spent years taking the piss and saying that it’s a disaster!”

“Oh, shut up, I was just desperate to touch it,” Draco says and Harry would give anything to see his face right now, because he bets Draco is furiously blushing, “besides, it does look a complete and utter mess. But it’s so soft. A lovely kind of mess.”

“I want to feel you,” Harry says, “I have no idea what time it is. But before I go, can I please feel you close to me?”

“We still have a bit,” Draco says, helping Harry out of his jumper and t-shirt. Harry undoes his trousers and takes off his socks, but he keeps his underwear on, uncertain of what Draco wants. He hears the sounds of robes hitting the floor and his cock stirs in his pants, his senses alight now that he can’t see a thing.

Draco’s hand guides him to lie on the bed and Harry gasps when he suddenly feels warm skin sliding against his body.

“Fuck, that feels amazing,” Harry says, his hands circling Draco’s waist, bringing him closer, until their chests are flush and Harry can feel their hard cocks pressing against each other through the thin fabric of their underwear. He inhales Draco’s scent and he feels light-headed with desire and pure want. “You smell so lovely.”

“Hmm,” Draco mumbles, kissing him languidly, and Harry moans and shudders in his arms. Their kiss quickly becomes hot and messy as they start grinding against each other, the delicious friction making Harry groan as his fingers slide down, towards Draco’s arse, grabbing his buttocks and pulling him impossibly closer.

“I’m going to come,” Harry says, “you feel too good.”

Draco moans and rocks his hips against him, then he puts his hands on Harry’s hips and slides his thumb under the elastic band of his boxers.

“Can I get rid of them?” he asks and Harry nods, desperate for more contact, lifting his hips so that Draco can remove his underwear. He hears a faint rustling sound and his cock starts leaking at the thought of Draco completely naked. Then there’s the sound of a drawer opening, a click and a squirt. Harry swallows. “This might feel cold.”

“Shit,” Harry gasps as Draco’s slick fingers come in contact with his skin, but then his hot body is pressed against Harry’s again and the mind-blowing slide of their cocks in Draco’s fist is sending Harry to another planet.

“Fuck, you feel so good…”

“Draco, I’m not going to last,” Harry confesses, wishing he could prolong the pleasure, stretch it out until it feels too much, until the very moment he needs to leave, but then he feels his orgasm approaching, inevitable and delicious as it ripples through him. He comes with a muffled moan, his lips pressed against Draco’s, covering his long fingers with his come and then feeling Draco follow him, a shuddered gasp leaving his mouth as he trembles in Harry’s arms.

Harry tries to catch his breath, feels the sizzle of Draco’s magic cleaning them, then his mouth on Harry’s neck, leaving lazy kisses on his burning skin.

“Why can we only do this once a week?” Harry says, “I want you every day.”

“Sorry,” Draco says, “blame my ancestors.”

“I’m not blaming anyone. I just wish I could be with you all the time, in the light of day.”

There’s silence, punctuated only by the sound of their breathing, and then Draco moves away, handing Harry his clothes and getting dressed.

“It’s nearly time,” the Slytherin says, “you need to leave soon.”

Harry feels a lump in his throat, searching for the right words to convey his feelings and failing as usual.

“Have I said something wrong?” he asks on their way back to the parlour, Draco’s hand guiding him.

“No,” he replies, “don’t worry.”

But Harry does worry and clings to Draco as they part in front of the floo, his hands cupping Draco’s cheeks, thumbs brushing gently the soft skin of his face.

“Can I come again next Saturday?” he asks, unsure.

“Yes,” Draco’s reply sounds like a desperate plea, “please. I’ll wait for you. I’ll write to you.”

And Harry feels better, his heart lighter knowing that Draco still wants to see him.

They part with a tender kiss and then Harry finds himself at the Hog’s Head again, his mind full of Draco and his skin still alight with his touch. He opens the door and Aberforth raises an eyebrow at him when he sees him.

“I think you need something strong,” he comments when Harry sits at the bar.

“I can’t have alcohol, nor caffeine,” Harry explains, “I have stomach problems.”

“What about a cottage pie?”

It’s three in the afternoons, but Harry accepts, mainly because he feels bad about using Aberforth’s floo and he also wants to use it again next week. He really hopes he’s not about to get questioned on his escapades when the old man stands in front of him watching him eat.

“I’m not going to ask who you’ve been visiting, so don’t get your knickers in a twist.”   

“Okay,” Harry breathes out in relief, “thanks for letting me use your floo.”

He eats as much as he can manage, but his stomach won’t take much after a whole summer of barely eating.

“Same time next week?” Aberforth asks when Harry’s about to leave and he nods with a smile.

Hermione finds him still smiling like an idiot when she gets back from her date with Ron. She sits down next to him on the small sofa next to fire in the Gryffindor common room.

“So, who’s the lucky person?” she asks and Harry raises both brows, trying to look surprised, “oh come off it, Harry. You have a massive love bite on your neck and the goofiest smile on your face.”

Harry chokes on saliva and shakes his head, feeling his cheeks catch fire as he covers his neck with his hand.

“Fine, keep your secrets,” Hermione says, raising her hands in defeat, “I’ll be here when you need me. Just make sure you use adequate protection.”

“Hermione!” he says, outraged.

“Do you want to end up in the Hospital Wing with an STD this time?” and Harry pales at the thought of Madam Pomfrey staring at his privates.

He’s messed around with Ginny a couple of times before they broke up, but she was the one who cast all the spells, since she had more experience. Harry knows about condoms and a few basic protection spells, but he doesn’t know much about gay sex. He has an idea about what goes where, but he has no clue about preparation and what needs to be done. He wonders if Draco does.

The next day he goes to the library, but he struggles to find books on the topic. He considers asking Madam Pince, but quickly decides against it. So he goes to the only person who knows the library like the pocket of her own robes.

“Hermione,” he whispers, “I need a favour.”

“I’m not letting you copy my Potions essay,” she says, not even raising her eyes from her parchment.

“Cheers, but that’s not what I need,” Harry says, biting on his bottom lip, “I need some books.”

“There’s a library full of them,” Hermione comments absent-mindedly.

“Yes, but I need books on sex,” Harry whispers, hoping that his ears are not going to start fuming from the embarrassment. At least that seems to get Hermione’s attention.

“I’ve got a couple I can lend you,” she says with a reassuring smile, “there’s a few interesting spells to prevent unwanted pregnancies.”

“Err…” Harry says, scratching the back of his head, “I don’t think that’s going to be an issue. I kind of need books on…you know…gay sex?”

Hermione looks surprised for a couple of seconds, but then she regains her composure and she nods, then smiles and squeezes his hand.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she says and she leaves him sitting there, looking around and feeling exposed. He’s glad she didn’t overreact and he’s relieved about the fact she’s willing to help him. But deep down he knew Hermione would not bat an eyelid when he came out to her. It’s Ron’s reaction he’s worried about.

She comes back after ten minutes with a very thin book and a frown on her face.   

“What’s the matter?” Harry asked.

“Bloody Wizards,” she mutters, “they’re so old-fashioned and narrow-minded.”

“Hm?”

“There’s literally nothing on gay sex. I could only find this book that mentions anal sex. There’s a whole chapter on how homosexual encounters are immoral and should be punished by law. That’s insane!”

“Wait what?” Harry asks and then Hermione explains how homophobic the Wizarding community is and how pure-bloods have been forcing gay people into arranged marriages for centuries and Harry wonders if that’s how Draco feels. If he was raised with the same beliefs that what he feels is wrong. That what he’s doing with Harry is immoral.

“I need to write a letter,” Harry says, excusing himself, “but thanks for the book.”

“No worries, I’ll check it out for you. I’m sure Madam Pince will have less questions if it’s me borrowing it.”

“Thanks, Hermione. You’re a star.” 

He doesn’t know how to put his feelings into words. He wishes he were as good as his great-grandfather. He seemed to know how to write a bloody letter.

Harry sits down in the common room and takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes and thinks.

Draco has been constantly on his mind for months.

He’s made him laugh, cry, feel, truly feel for the first time in ages.

And Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been in love, not really. But maybe this time he is. It’s scary and new and he has a feeling his heart might get shattered, but he wants it so badly.

He opens his eyes, takes his quill and dips it in the ink pot.

Draco,

How are you? It’s been one day and I miss you already.

I’ve been thinking about sex love us stuff and I don’t know how to ask this, but do you think what we’re doing is wrong? 

Because I don’t. I want you and I know that what I feel is right.

I want this.

Can’t wait to see you,

Harry

He reads the letter again and then one more time and he knows it’s crap. He should probably ask Hermione for help, but he doesn’t really want to involve her. Besides, he’s not ready to tell her about Draco. He wants to keep it a secret for a while longer.   

He goes to the Owlery and watches his letter fly off into the sunset.

“Well?” Hermione asks at dinner, “you look like you’ve been run over by the Hogwarts Express. What’s up with you?”

“I think I’m in love,” Harry replies sheepishly and Hermione’s hand freezer mid-air, the fork a few inches away from her mouth.

“Shit,” she mutters and Harry chokes on his pumpkin juice, because it’s the first time he’s heard her swear out loud. “I mean, I knew it was bound to happen eventually. But I wasn’t prepared for you to realise it on your own. Harry, I’m so proud of you!”

Harry doesn’t know if he should feel offended or flattered, but he accepts the hug that she offers him and tries to eat some dinner.

Monday and Tuesday go by without an answer, but then on Wednesday morning Argo arrives as Harry’s having breakfast, carrying a letter from Draco that Harry is too eager to read to wait for the evening.

“I’ll be back,” he says, getting up with the owl perched on his shoulder.

“Harry, you’re going to be late to our first lesson,” Hermione says with a frown.

“This is important,” he replies, standing up and carrying Argo out of the Dining Hall and into a deserted classroom.

He opens the letter with trembling fingers.

Harry,

One of the first things I’ve learnt when I was a little boy was that blood purity is the most important thing for my family.

Malfoys don’t marry half-bloods.

Malfoys produce heirs.

Malfoys don’t engage in illicit relationships. 

Father knew that I was bent and it was something that disgusted him to the core. Some of the scars on my back are a testimony of that. 

Mother has never laid a finger on me; she’s too soft for that. But she’s always been clear about the fact that I need to marry a pure-blood witch and give her grandchildren. My marriage with Astoria Greengrass was arranged before I even turned fifteen. Can you believe that?

I don’t think it’s going to go ahead now that my family’s name has been tainted and Father is in Azkaban, but that’s the biggest relief for me. Even though Mother is convinced that Lady Greengrass might reconsider if she meets me and my allure works on Astoria.

But I don’t want that.

I know I’m wrong.

There’s so much rot in me.

My past, my mistakes, what I’ve done to you, the Mark on my arm.

But what I feel for you is the only thing that ever feels right. I know that what we have is the only decent thing in the disaster that is my life. I definitely don’t deserve it. I’m not good enough for you. 

But I still want you with all that I am.

Yours,

Draco

Harry feels tears running down his cheeks and he clumsily wipes them away, moving his glasses to dry his eyes on the sleeve of his robes.

Argo gently nudges him and Harry lets out a shaky laugh.

“Give me a minute, little one,” he says, “I’m going to write a reply for Draco.”

It takes him ages and he ends up missing his first lesson, but he writes about how he feels. He tells Draco he’s not wrong and he’s not a disaster. He also tells him about the Dursleys. He writes about the way uncle Vernon made him feel when he found out that he was a wizard. He talks about the way Petunia described homosexuals, as if they were the most disgusting thing on earth. He tells Draco about the time he’s seen Dudley and his friends beat to a pulp a couple of lads who were just holding hands at the park. He tells Draco how wrong he felt, for years, how he buried those feelings in a dark corner and tried to ignore them. He was wrong, he was a wizard and he liked other boys. 

He tells Draco he misses him. That he can’t wait for Saturday. And then he sends Argo off and he goes to his second lesson of the day, his eyes red and puffy and nose still running.

Hermione looks at him for a second and then she hugs him.

“I’ll lend you my notes for the first period,” she says and he just nods.

The week goes by, between a lesson and the next, homework, lunches, dinners, endless hours spent awake in bed, thinking about Draco.

“You could skip lunch with Ron today and just go to see him,” Hermione says on Saturday morning, on their way to Hogsmeade.

“I can’t,” Harry replies, feeling nervous, “I can only go at one. Can’t explain, sorry.”

Hermione tilts her head and just nods.

“Unless you need time alone with Ron,” Harry says, wondering if she was actually trying to get some time with her boyfriend. Hermione’s cheeks darken and she looks away, staring at her shoes.

“No, of course not!” she mutters, “I’m happy for you to be there. Besides…”

“Besides…?” Harry encourages her.

“I…we…” she bites on her bottom lip, “we haven’t been on our own like that…ever.”

“Oh…” Harry says. He’s not sure he wants to discuss his best friends’ sex life, but he feels like he’s been a shitty friend lately, so he wants to be there for Hermione. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s just…” Hermione says, then she clears her voice, “I’m at Hogwarts and he’s at home and we never get to spend time alone together. And we don’t have a chance to…you know…but I’d like to.”

“You could always get a room at the Three Broomsticks,” Harry suggests, “just go upstairs and… spend some time together?”

Hermione’s cheeks turn a violent shade of red and she looks like she’s about to catch fire.

“I guess I hadn’t thought about that…” she says and Harry feels like laughing because it’s the first time since he’s met her that she admits not thinking about something. He gives her a pat on the shoulder and just smiles.

Ron’s waiting for them in front of the pub when they arrive in Hogsmeade and Hermione seems to hesitate for a few seconds when he kisses her.

“You okay?” Ron asks her, his eyes fond, and then she grabs his arms, waves at Harry and marches inside, heading upstairs while Ron just looks confused and a bit worried.

Harry laughs and then takes a walk around, killing time before his meeting with Draco. He goes to the Hog’s Head and gets lunch, this time polishing the plate and making Aberforth grunt in appreciation.

“Can I…?” he asks, pointing at the door and the man just nods.

He puts his glasses in his pocket, casts a quick Obscuro and then he floos to Malfoy Manor.

Draco’s fingers grab his arm when he’s still half-way inside the floo network and then pulls him straight in his arms. Harry stumbles, but the other man catches him and their lips collide in a searing kiss that leaves Harry weak in the knees and out of breath.

“I fucking missed you so much,” Draco murmurs against his lips when they part for air, “Merlin, you taste so good.”

Harry’s fingers slide in silky blond hair and he moans as he kisses Draco again and again, until he feels everything spinning, in spite of the blindfold on his eyes, and they land on a soft surface.

“What?” he asks, confused.

“I’ve apparated us to my bedroom,” Draco explains, tugging at his coat, removing Harry’s clothes hastily and then working on his own. Harry thinks the noise of fabric brushing against Draco’s skin has become the most erotic sound in the whole world and he gets hard in an instant. He wonders if he’s ruined for ever, if that specific swoosh of cotton and silk on skin will always remind him of this moment, of how Draco makes him feel. Alive and burning to the core.

“Want you,” Harry whispers, searching blindly for Draco’s lips and feeling a hot mouth meeting his, a wet tongue licking his lips and sucking on them. And then they’re naked and Draco’s fingers are curling around his cock, his lips tracing a wet pattern down Harry’s chest and then they’re suddenly around the tip of his cock, making Harry gasp.

“Fuck,” he says out of breath, when he feels a warm tongue lapping at the pre-come that has gathered on his head, gently sliding inside the slit. A hot mouth swallows him whole and Harry swears as Draco makes him see the stars. Draco’s fingers move around the root, pumping where his mouth won’t reach and he bobs his head up and down, until Harry is a babbling mess and he feels so close, too soon. “I’m going to come, Draco, you’re going to make me come.”

Draco groans and takes him deeper, his mouth hot and delicious and Harry moans loudly and arches his back as he comes so hard that white sparks appear under his closed eyelids and shudders shake him as his fingers tug on Draco’s hair.

“Fuck…Draco…” he tries to catch his breath, stroking Draco’s head, whimpering when the Slytherin kisses his softening cock lovingly, making Harry feel like jelly. “Come here.”

Draco moves and his mouth is on Harry’s again, tasting like him. But Harry doesn’t care as his fingers roam on Draco’s scarred skin, gently tracing the lines left by his own magic, slowly going down, until they curl around Draco’s cock, stroking him faster and faster. Draco comes with a muffled groan, followed by a little sob and Harry would pay to see him right now, to be able to admire his flushed cheeks and full pink mouth.

They lie next to each other naked, fingers skimming on warm skin, lips meeting gently.

“I love your letters,” Harry says, “they make me feel close to you.”

“I know,” Draco replies, “it’s the same for me. I understand how our great-grandfathers felt, only being able to write to each other and meet once in a while in secret.”

Harry thinks about them, about how hard it must have been to live through it and to be forced into an arranged marriage.

“Please don’t marry Astoria,” he blurts out, “please don’t let your mum arrange a marriage.”

Draco’s fingers still for a few seconds and then they start moving again, tracing lazy patterns on Harry’s hips.

“What would you have me do instead, Potter?” he teases, his nose brushing against Harry’s.

“Run away with me,” Harry says, “I’ll keep you safe and we can spend our days naked in bed.”

Draco chuckles and kisses him, then they talk about Hogwarts and Draco tentatively asks him about the Dursleys. Harry tells him a little bit about them, about the cupboard under the stairs, feeling Draco’s hands stop and press on his arm, his breathing accelerating and his kisses becoming more desperate.

“I…” Draco says when Harry pauses, uncertain if he’s said too much, “Harry, I’m…”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Harry says, “it was shit, but I don’t want to think about it anymore. It’s in the past.”

“Sometimes the past can’t just be buried in a box and locked away,” Draco says, “sometimes it comes back and taints everything. It’s better to talk about it, whether with me or with someone else. For your own good. I know what it’s like, Harry. I have piles of bad memories that keep me up at night.”

Harry holds him tight and buries his face in Draco’s neck, breathing hard, inhaling Draco’s smell to calm his nerves. Draco’s hands draw him close and they just lie there for a while.

“Can I read you something?” Draco asks and Harry nods, “I found some new letters yesterday and there’s one your great-grandfather wrote that has been on my mind since I read it.”

Draco leaves him on the bed, blind and desperate for his warmth, and Harry hears a drawer being opened and the click of a key in a lock. Then Draco’s back, parchment rustling between his fingers.

“Dear Perseus,” he starts, “I’ve been spending days holding the lock of your hair between my fingertips, tucked in my pocket. Trying desperately not to fall apart, not to let out the turmoil that is making my heart crumble, day by day. I miss you too much. I crave for your smiles and your touch and to sink my face into your neck and to just breathe and feel safe again. I miss your words whispered in my ear, the I love you and I miss you.”

Harry feels a lump in his throat as he listens to Draco reading his great-grandfather’s letter, hearing his lover’s voice quiver and crack.

“I wish I could have been stronger. I wish I hadn’t given in to my family’s pressure to marry a witch. I wish I could be with you right now, where I belong. I miss you like air. Henry.”

They lie down in silence for a few minutes and Harry feels the tears soaking his blindfold, Draco’s fingers trembling on his chest, like a butterfly fluttering against his heart.

“I don’t want to ever feel like that,” Draco says, “I don’t want to live a life full of regrets. But I’m so terrified, Harry…”

“You won’t,” Harry promises, bringing him closer, “we won’t.”

But on the way back to the floo, their fingers interlaced and a box containing a handful of old letters in his other hand, Harry feels the dread making his breathing irregular. What if Draco gets stuck in the house for the rest of his days? What if Narcissa arranges his marriage with Astoria?

“I don’t want to leave,” he confesses, Draco’s lips on his own, “I can’t wait another week to meet you again.”

“We’ll write,” Draco promises, “and I’ll be waiting for you.”

Harry goes back to Hogwarts with a heavy heart, worried that he’s going to end up like his great-grandfather, living a life without his beloved.

He sits on his usual sofa in the common room and opens the box with the new letters. Draco said they were sent after both Perseus and Henry got married, after they had broken up. Some of them are obscure and hard to decipher, but others are just sad.

He grabs one and reads it.

Dear Perseus,

Sunday is the worst day for flying, especially if you

meet rainclouds and heavy winds on your way up. But you know

me, I love a challenge. I got completely soaked, for

Godric’s sake! And now I’m sitting here, chilled to the bone and feeling

hollow at the thought of you.

At least tomorrow the weather will be good.

Sunset and sunrise will be colourful, I hope. Send my

love to your family,

Henry

Harry reads the letter twice and then frowns.

“This makes no fucking sense,” he mutters, but then Hermione sits down next to him, her hair a riotous mess and her cheeks red, eyes alive. Harry doesn’t even need to ask if her date with Ron went well.

“What are you reading?” she asks, leaning onto his shoulder to take a look.

“Just an old letter, but it makes no sense. I think it’s a secret code or something,” Harry says, remembering Draco’s words.

Hermione takes it from his fingers, then she grabs her wand and uses magic to highlight the words at the beginning of each line.

“Here you go,” she says with a triumphant smile, “I cracked it.”

Harry reads out loud, his heart beating madly in his chest.

“Sunday meet me, Godric’s Hollow at sunset. Love, Henry.”

Harry gasps and clutches the letter in his fingers.

Henry and Perseus continued seeing each other. Not everything was over.

Chapter Text

Harry gasps, arching his back as he feels long fingers sliding down, tracing his spine until the very end. Soft lips trail kisses on his hips, over his own fingers, down his thighs. He’s on all fours, his face pressed into a pillow that smells like Draco. Harry inhales deeply and tries to breathe through his arousal, desperate not to come too soon.

“Spread your cheeks for me, Harry.”

Draco’s voice sounds hoarse, a mere whisper, full of promise and want. And Harry complies, grabbing his arse-cheeks and spreading them open, letting Draco see all of him, while he is completely blind and can see absolutely nothing because of his blindfold.

“Salazar, you’re so beautiful,” Draco murmurs, and then his tongue tentatively licks Harry’s hole, making him jump and groan. “Keep still for me, love. Good boy.”

The praise makes Harry blush, fingers trembling over his own flesh as Draco licks a long stripe from his balls all the way up to his hole. The Slytherin hums against his skin and then he starts slowly licking Harry open, his tongue warm and wet against Harry’s entrance, making him moan and gasp. Harry loses all the control he thought he had, until he’s a whimpering mess. Draco’s tongue slides past the tight ring of muscles and Harry cries out loud when it finally enters him, making him feel so naked and exposed as his lover makes him fall apart with his mouth.

“Look at you,” Draco whispers, gently nipping his thigh. “Your legs are shaking and your cock is leaking so much. I bet you want me to touch it.”

Harry nods, desperate for some release.

“Draco…”

“Hands on the headboard, love.” 

Harry complies, whining and knowing full well what’s going to happen next, that he won’t get to come any time soon. But he wants to please Draco, and deep down he knows it will all be worth it in the end. He still shudders as he grips the cold bars and feels Draco’s Incarcerous binding him there. 

Harry’s blind and now he can’t even use his hands, completely at Draco’s mercy. And yet, he wouldn’t want it any other way. A shiver runs down his spine as he feels Draco’s smile against his skin.

“Give me a colour, darling,” Draco says, trailing kisses down his side and spreading Harry’s legs further.

“Green,” Harry mumbles and then he hears the noise of a drawer opening, the familiar click of the bottle of lube being open. His senses are on alert, his skin feels like it might catch fire. Draco’s finger is cold when it gently nudges against his rim, but Harry’s been licked open and he takes a deep breath when the digit slides inside, wet and slick. Draco has pianist hands, delicate and long, his fingers reaching deep inside Harry, making him moan without control.

“One more?” Draco asks after a while, sounding composed, but slightly out of breath, and Harry knows that Draco is probably as hard as him, craving some release. He nods, desperate, and he’s so close to begging.

Another finger joins the first, stretching Harry open, making him whimper softly into the pillow. He inhales the smell of Draco’s hair potions and that scent that he has come to recognise as simply Draco’s skin. It grounds him as he slowly falls apart under his lover's touch.

“You’re so tight,” Draco whispers, kissing the base of his spine as he slides his fingers in and out, curving them until he’s hitting that spot that makes white sparks dance in front of Harry’s closed eyes. “I’m going to add a third finger, okay?”

Harry wonders if Draco is going to fuck him this time. They’ve been so close to it for the past month, after the first weeks of inexperienced fumbling, both uncertain but eager to explore each other’s bodies. After three months of sneaking around and meeting every Saturday, they know each other’s bodies by heart. Harry feels like putty under Draco’s fingers, melting every time his lips brush against a certain sensitive spot underneath his ear or when Draco whispers something debauched with his delicious mouth. 

He wants Draco inside him. 

“Please,” he begs, “I need you, Draco.”

“What do you want me to do?” Draco asks, his voice quivering as his fingers slow down and Harry hears him shifting on the bed. He feels Draco’s hard cock brushing against his thigh, then settling against his arse, long and hard.

“Want you inside me,” Harry mumbles, then he gathers his courage, “your cock.”

There’s a moment of silence and Harry can hear his own heart beating madly, Draco’s laboured breathing while his fingers shift inside him. The ties are not too tight around Harry’s wrists and he moves his hands, gripping the bars as he waits for Draco’s answer.

“Are you sure you want to do that with me?” a simple question, voice thick and full of hope and something else. Worry. 

“Come here,” Harry says, desperate to kiss Draco, to see him, knowing that the blonde doesn’t feel good enough for him, stupidly. Draco has written it down in countless letters, but never said the words out loud. He doesn’t think he deserves Harry, after what he’s done to him, after fighting on the wrong side. 

Draco casts a quick cleaning spell on his mouth and then he moves. His fingers slide out, making Harry groan, until the blond is beside him, kissing the corner of his mouth. 

“There’s no one else I’d rather do this with,” Harry whispers against his lips. “Only you. And I’m dying to feel you, all of you, inside me.”

“Harry…” a murmur, nearly a whimper, followed by warm lips pressed against his and Draco’s fingers touching his rim again, entering him and making Harry gasp.

“Fuck me, please,” he moans and Draco kisses him one more time and then moves back, his trembling fingers digging into the flesh of Harry’s hips as he takes position behind him. Harry hears the liquid sound of lube against skin, then he sighs and takes a deep breath as he feels Draco’s cock gently pressed against his hole.

“Take a deep breath for me, love,” Draco says, his voice full of want and need, and Harry does as he’s told, groaning when Draco starts pushing in and then slowly slides inside him. Draco’s cock feels so much bigger than his fingers, making his way inside Harry with shallow thrusts, inch by inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside his lover's tight heat.

“Harry…” Draco’s voice is so low that Harry barely hears him over the loud drumming of his blood in his head. He pants and breathes through the discomfort, trying to adjust to the feeling of being breached. Then a warm hand slides down his back, reassuringly, stroking him until he remembers to breathe properly again. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Draco starts moving, slowly, and the pain gradually turns into pleasure. 

Draco starts stroking Harry’s cock, slowly, with slicked fingers, rekindling his erection. Harry moans softly, needy little sounds escaping his mouth as he grips the bars tight, imagining his own fingers turning white. 

“Draco, fuck…” he groans and then his heart skips a beat when Draco shifts and he hits that spot that makes Harry see the stars again. “Shit, there, Draco…please…”

“You feel incredible,” Draco murmurs, picking up a steady pace as he pounds into him. “You're so beautiful, so tight for me, love.”

It feels overwhelming and Harry finds himself already close to his orgasm, but Draco notices his gasps and whines and strops stroking Harry’s cock, settling his long fingers on Harry’s hips instead. Harry keens at the loss, wishing he could touch himself, that he could see what’s going on, and instead he’s caught in the raw feelings of Draco moving inside him, the delicious drag of his cock sliding in and out.

“Draco…” Harry can only manage to repeat his lover’s name, over and over again, all other words lost in the pleasure and the heat of the moment, the feeling of Draco filling him, holding him, whispering against his skin how amazing he feels, how stunning he is. Harry’s never felt special, nor beautiful, but Draco somehow manages to make him believe that he is, for a heartbeat, whilst their bodies are joined together and Harry desperately chases his release.

“Please, Draco, let me come,” he begs.

And Draco’s fingers finally curl around his impossibly hard cock, making him nearly scream as he comes in hot spurts all over the expensive bedsheets.

“Fuck, so tight,” Draco moans as Harry’s walls clench around his cock during his orgasm, and then he tips over the edge too, spilling inside Harry and calling his name, over and over again.

Draco stays inside him for a few more seconds, his forehead resting against Harry’s back. He tries to catch his breath, and then slowly slides out, making Harry whimper. He collapses next to him, releasing Harry’s hands from the headboard and rubbing his wrists. Harry feels soft lips against his sore skin, then warm hands dragging him closer. He rests his head on Draco’s scarred chest, his fingertips tracing the lines he’s carved there with his magic and he sighs.

“Thanks,” Harry whispers and Draco chuckles.

“Shouldn’t I be the one thanking you?” he asks, kissing Harry’s head and brushing his curls aside. “You make me feel special, you know?”

“Maybe it’s because you are special.”

Harry doesn’t want to leave. He wants to lie there, warm and safe in Draco’s embrace, whispering secrets against his skin. 

“It’s getting late,” Draco murmurs, his voice tense and mournful, fingers lingering on Harry’s cheeks.

“One more month and then you will be free,” Harry reminds him. “You won’t have to be under house arrest from January, and then we will figure something out.”

Draco doesn’t say anything and Harry worries, he always does, especially because he can’t see him. So he runs his fingers along Draco’s jaw, feeling the tight press of his lips and the wrinkles on his forehead. Harry tilts his head up to kiss the worry off Draco’s lips, leaving a promise there. He knows Draco doesn’t believe that Harry wants him, not really. He thinks he’s a phase in the Saviour’s life (he confessed his fears in a letter that Harry keeps tucked under his pillow at Hogwarts). Harry’s words don’t seem to convince him of the contrary. So Harry tries with his lips and his hands every single Saturday.

“I’ll write,” Draco promises, like every weekend, when they eventually have to part.

“Me too.”

Aberforth grimaces when Harry appears from his floo.

“I know I said I was not going to ask who you’re meeting, but I don’t like the look on your face,” the man says, offering Harry a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. He’s been insisting on feeding Harry, saying that he’s too thin, in spite of him slowly regaining the weight that he’s lost over the summer. 

Harry’s not hungry, but his stomach is doing backflips at the moment, so he accepts the warm soup. He feels like a different person than the one who left the pub only a couple of hours ago.

Merlin, they’ve finally had sex.

He’s had sex with Draco.

“Your face’s gone all red,” Aberforth says, frowning. “You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?”

“Just give me a minute,” Harry says, covering his face with his hands.

“Okay, who is it?” Hermione asks as soon as he enters the common room. Harry groans and tries to head for his dorm, but she grabs his wrist and drags him to one of the sofas by the fire. The common room is slowly filling up and Harry doesn’t want to have this kind of conversation in front of other people. Hermione seems to read his mind and casts a privacy charm on them.

“I’m not going to tell you,” Harry says stubbornly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Is it someone I know?” Hermione asks, unfazed by his refusal to share information. “It must be, otherwise you wouldn’t be so secretive.”

She gasps and then leans closer, a gentle blush on her cheeks.

“What?” Harry asks.

“Is it a married man?” she asks, lowering her voice despite the spell.

“No!” Harry says, outraged. Hermione’s eyes light up and then she smiles knowingly at him.

“It’s Dean, isn’t it? I knew it.”

“It’s not Dean, nor Seamus and don’t even think about Neville!” Harry says with a deep sigh. “Please stop asking, because I really cannot tell you. It’s supposed to be a secret.”

Draco’s been clear about it. He doesn’t want Harry’s reputation to be tarnished with his mistakes. And if word got out that he’s a Veela, his life would get even more complicated, so they’ve agreed not to tell anyone.

“Alright, keep your secrets,” Hermione says, clearly dying to know more.

“How did it go with Ron?” Harry asks, trying to change the topic, making her blush again.

“It went well,” she says with a shy grin, “I just wish I didn’t have to wait another week before seeing him.”

“I know,” Harry sighs, “I hate it too.”

Time seems to stretch, the week feels never-ending, between lessons and essays, never-ending homework and evenings spent studying. December is around the corner and Harry can’t stop thinking about Christmas, about the fact that he would love to spend it with Draco, but he can’t. He has agreed to spend the holidays at  the Burrow and he doesn’t even know how he will manage to sneak out to meet up with Draco on Saturday afternoon.

Harry feels restless, his stomach in knots and fingers nervously tapping on every surface, driving Hermione bonkers.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” she asks, snapping at him one evening. 

“I can’t,” he groans, wishing to be elsewhere, counting the hours until Saturday.

“Oh fuck!” she swears, covering her mouth with her hand, “oh I’m so fucking stupid. Why did I not think about it sooner? Bloody hell, it’s so ridiculously obvious!”

“Hermione, you’re scaring me and I’ve never heard you swear so much in my life.”

“It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?” she says, after casting a privacy spell around them and Harry gapes at her, horrified. “Shit, Harry! Why did you not tell me? I know we fought on different sides during the War, but we’ve testified for him at his Trial, and he’s apologised to all of us. Were you afraid I wouldn’t approve?”

Harry just shakes his head, speechless, wondering what to say. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. 

“Harry?” Hermione encourages him gently.

He tries to find the words to deny it, to come up with a plausible explanation or an alternative story that she would buy and instead three little words come out of his mouth.

“I love him,” he whispers, feeling like he might start crying any minute, trying to bite back a sob. 

He doesn’t want to tell Hermione. He wants to tell Draco.

“It’s okay,” Hermione says gently, her arm circling his shoulders, bringing him closer. Her bushy hair tickles Harry’s face, but he still leans into her warmth and closes his eyes. “We’ve been through a War and we’ve survived. You can fall in love with whomever you want.”

“I’m not sure the rest of the Wizarding World would be as understanding, you know.”

“Oh, sod them!” Hermione says, making him laugh. “Have you told him?”

“Not yet,” Harry replies, “but I think soon. I doubt he will believe me, though.”

“You can be very convincing,” Hermione winks at him, then she sighs. “I can’t believe you’re seeing Draco Malfoy. Mind you, he has a pretty spectacular arse, in spite of being an annoying git.”

“Hermione!” 

It’s the second Saturday of December when Harry finally gathers the courage to tell Draco. He considered writing it in a letter, but he’s shit at putting words down on parchment and besides, it doesn’t feel right to let an owl carry his feelings for him. Still, he never thought he would say I love you for the first time without even being able to see his lover’s reaction. 

He plans on telling him when he first gets there, to make Draco sit down and hold his hand and finally confess his feelings, but as soon as he’s through the Floo, Draco’s eager fingers grab his robes and the blonde side-apparates him to his bedroom, kissing Harry speechless and climbing into his lap.

“Salazar, I missed you so much,” Draco mumbles against his lips, tugging at his robes and groaning. He vanishes them with a spell and then it’s skin against skin and Harry’s moaning, feeling the words he had carefully prepared fade away in the confused lust and want that is clouding his brain.

“Christ, Draco…”

It’s only when he’s panting, spent, his arse pleasantly sore and with Draco’s head resting on his chest, that Harry remembers he’s supposed to confess his feelings. His fingers play with soft blond hair, wishing he could see his lover’s flushed face. He traces the gentle slopes of Draco’s back and his fine features with delicate fingertips, trying to commit them to memory.

“I owled McGonagall and explained my situation,” Draco says after a bit. “She was very understanding and said I can still take my N.E.W.T.s at the end of the school year.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“Yes,” Draco says, sounding hopeful and happy, and Harry feels the Slytherin’s lips curl into a soft smile underneath his fingertips. “Mother is still concerned about me going to Hogwarts and being around people, but hopefully by the summer I will be able to control the allure.”

“Yes,” Harry murmurs, wanting to keep Draco safe and wishing he could leave the Manor at the same time.

“Could you please ask Granger for a copy of her notes?” Draco asks. “She knows about us anyway, so you can tell her that it was my request.”

“Sure,” Harry replies, “I could give you mine, if you want.”

“No offence, Harry, but Granger’s are probably much more detailed than yours. You spend half of your lessons writing to me.”

Draco chuckles and Harry smiles, because it’s the truth. A good portion of Harry’s lessons is spent daydreaming about Draco.

“I love you.” The words slip out of Harry’s mouth, as if they had a mind of their own, and Harry feels Draco still next to him. Harry’s heart is beating so loudly in his chest that he thinks the sound will be deafening against Draco’s ears. He reaches for Draco’s face with trembling fingers, pressing softly on his lips and his eyes, finding them wet. “Draco?”

“Are you sure?” Draco’s voice cracks and Harry holds him close, his arms circling the Slytherin’s back.

“Of course, I’m sure,” he replies, kissing Draco’s forehead. 

“I…” Draco starts and Harry shakes his head.

“You don’t need to say anything,” he whispers, playing with Draco’s hair, marvelling at how soft and silky it feels, “I’ve told you because I wanted to, not because I was expecting you to say it back.”

“Merlin, you’re such a moron, Potter.”

Draco’s lips are suddenly on his, hungry and urgent, moving so that he’s on top of Harry, straddling his hips and rocking against him. Draco deepens the kiss, making Harry moan, feeling his soft cock react instantly to the sudden attention, in spite of having come not even ten minutes before. And then Draco’s mouth is on his neck, sucking a bruise onto his skin, going down to capture a nipple and suck on it.

“Jesus, Draco!” Harry whimpers, but Draco goes further down, trailing kisses on his chest, fingers pinning Harry down, until his hot mouth is hovering on Harry’s hardening cock. He can feel Draco’s warm breath against his skin, the tip of his tongue teasing him with kitten licks, driving him mad with need. “What are you doing?”

Draco groans and swipes his wet tongue along Harry’s length, suckling on the head and humming as he swallows him whole, making Harry nearly jump at the sudden feeling of Draco’s hot and wet mouth closing around him, sucking him until he’s a blabbering mess.

Harry feels Draco shifting on the bed, hears the squirting noise of lube being poured onto fingers and then the wet noise of skin sliding against skin, but he doesn’t feel Draco’s hands on him. The blonde moans around his cock and Harry groans, trying to sit up, and his fingers slide inside Draco’s soft hair.

“What are you doing, Draco?” he asks, unable to reach and trying to focus, in spite of the building pleasure in his gut. Draco’s tongue swirls around the head of his cock and sucks on it one more time, hollowing his cheeks. “Fuck, you’re going to make me come again.”

“Wait,” Draco says, his voice hoarse, and then he moves, pulling Harry up into a sitting position. He kisses him messily and Harry can still hear the squelching noise of lubed up fingers, and can feel Draco moving against him. “I’m getting ready for you.”

“Ready?” Harry asks, arousal making him confused and then it finally hits him, just as Draco is lifting himself up and guiding Harry’s cock towards him, sinking slowly. “Shit, fuck, Draco…”

It’s the most intense pleasure he’s ever felt and he breathes deeply, to avoid coming on the spot, because Draco is so unbelievably tight and hot and wet. 

“Fuck, Harry…” a mere whimper, as Draco lowers himself with a groan, until Harry is fully inside him, with Draco sitting in his lap.

“You feel amazing,” Harry whispers, kissing him softly, holding Draco by the hips and trying desperately not to move. He wants to wait for Draco to feel ready.

“This is probably a bad idea,” Draco says, starting to rock his hips gently, drawing a moan from Harry, “but I needed you so badly. I wanted to feel close to you, have you inside me.”

“Why is it a bad idea?” Harry asks, confused, as Draco lifts himself up, his arms around Harry’s shoulders trembling, and then he sinks down again. Harry groans and pulls him into a searing kiss.

“My Veela genes,” Draco answers, but then Harry’s questions get lost in the moment, as Draco moves again.

Draco rises upward, his breath hitched in his throat, and then he sinks back slowly with a soft groan. He does it again and again, and Harry tries to stay still, but he feels like he’s going mad with the need to push and claim and come.

“You can move, love,” Draco says after what feels like an eternity.

Harry keeps his rocking gentle at first, thrusting shallowly into his incredible heat, but then Draco lifts his hips and slams down into him with a loud moan. Harry starts matching his pace, and a soft gasp escapes Draco’s lips every time Harry brushes against his prostate.

Harry holds his hips and slams his cock into Draco’s tight heat, feeling like he’s going to come any minute, and then Draco moans loudly and Harry feels his warm come hitting his belly and the blonde is suddenly so tight, clenching around him. Harry hears a swoosh and a foreign sound behind Draco, but he’s suddenly tipping over the edge and he’s coming, coming, coming.

He buries his face in the crook of Draco’s neck, moving his hand over his lover’s neck, feeling his pulse beating against his fingertips. Draco whimpers and Harry slides his hands over his back and then he freezes.

“Draco?” he asks, his hands coming in contact with something.

Something sticky and wet.

Feathers.

Wings.

There are wings on Draco’s back and he whines as Harry touches them with quivering fingers.

“Harry…”

“Draco, what the fuck is going on?” Harry asks, moving so that his cock slides out and then dragging Draco closer to him.

“I told you it was a terrible idea,” Draco whispers against his collarbone, kissing him gently and letting Harry stroke his back with featherlight touches.

“Are you bleeding?” Harry asks, worried about the sticky liquid on his fingers and on Draco’s skin. He feels him nodding and sighing.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Draco comments.

“Draco, there are fucking wings on your back and you’re bleeding! I can’t see them, but they feel bloody huge. How come you’re not surprised?!”

“Because I knew it was going to happen,” Draco explains calmly, cupping Harry’s cheeks and kissing his lips softly. “Because I’m part Veela and my body has recognised you as my mate. And since I let you fuck me, well…we’ve kind of mated.”

Harry’s eyes open wide under his blindfold and he feels his heart beating madly in his chest.

“I’m your mate?” he asks, slowly caressing Draco’s hair with one hand and his back with the other. He lets his fingers slide over soft feathers, feeling the expanse of them and not managing to reach the end. He wonders how big they are, what colour.

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t mean that you’re bound to me or anything,” Draco says. “And my wings will probably disappear by tomorrow morning.”

Harry’s at a loss for words, wants to ask a million questions, but then he hears a voice coming from outside the door, down the corridor.

“Draco?”

“Shit, my mother’s back!” Draco hisses, moving away from Harry, looking for his clothes and helping him put them on. Harry’s still dirty, his cock slick with come and lube and his fingers probably covered in Draco’s blood.

“I’m undisposed, Mother!” Draco shouts, “I must have come down with a bug.”

“Darling, I’m so sorry! I will fetch you some Pepper Up,” Narcissa replies, disapparating with a crack and giving Harry some time to find his bearings.

“You need to leave,” Draco whispers, fastening Harry’s cloak around his neck and handing him his wand. “There’s a pub in town that has a Floo connection. If you appar-“

“Darling, I’m back,” Narcissa says from outside the door and Harry makes the jump. He apparates outside the gates of Malfoy Manor and gets rid of his blindfold, fishing his glasses from the pocket of his robes. He’s panting and he casts a cleaning charm on himself while he decides what to do. He can’t really go to the pub to use the Floo; people would notice him and report it to the papers and then he would get in so much trouble for leaving Hogsmeade.

He doesn’t think he can apparate directly to Scotland and he’s tired, so he goes to the only place he can think of.

“Harry! What happened?” Molly says when he knocks on her door and he tries to smile and look like this is normal, when his heart is still beating like a mad tambourine in his chest.

“I thought I’d come by and say hello,” he replies, stepping in.

“Ginny is not here,” Molly says, giving him a hug and looking into his eyes with a concerned expression on her face.

“I wasn’t looking for Ginny. I just wanted to stop by and…you know…”

“Sure, but I thought you were with Ron in Hogsmeade this afternoon.”

“He’s with Hermione,” Harry replies and the frown on Molly’s face makes him fear that he’s just managed to get his best friends in a lot of trouble. 

A slice of cake and two cups of tea later, Harry is finally ready to leave the Burrow. Molly seems to have relaxed and she gives him some food to take to Hogwarts, saying she’s looking forward to seeing him at Christmas.

When Harry finally floos to the Hog’s Head, he finds Aberforth waiting for him, his wrinkled hands torturing a kitchen towel.

“You’re late!” the man says, scowling at him, “I was worried sick.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry replies, “I’ve had some…err…unforeseen difficulties this time.”

Aberforth grumbles something unintelligible and then offers him a giant scotch egg.

“Eat up, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

On his way back to the castle, Harry thinks about Draco’s words. About the fact that they’ve mated and Draco has sprouted wings. He doesn’t know much about Veelas and he realises that he should have probably read more on the topic, since his boyfriend is one. 

Wait, is Draco his boyfriend?

“You’re late,” Hermione says as a greeting, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“What do you know about Veela mating rituals?” Harry asks, sitting down next to her. Hermione seems to study him for a few seconds and then she sighs.

“Veelas mate for life. It is unclear how they determine who their rightful mate is, but according to several studies, it’s a mixture of chemistry, physical attraction and magical compatibility. Most Veelas say that there’s also an element of choice involved. They have to love someone deeply and to want them to be their mate for life, in order for the mating ritual to actually work. So feelings are definitely involved.”

“They’re like ducks then?” Harry asks, feeling stupid for comparing Draco to a duck. “Or swans.”

“Not exactly,” Hermione replies, “because it’s one-sided. A Veela would choose a mate and only want to be with that person for the rest of their life, but the other person doesn’t have to do the same. That’s why they have the allure; it’s supposed to help them keep their mate attracted to them, should they lose interest.”

Harry thinks about it, about the fact that Draco doesn’t even want Harry to see him. And he feels at loss at the thought that Draco chose him, of all people, as a mate for life. He said it was probably a bad idea, but he still went ahead and did it.

Harry can’t focus on anything that evening and Hermione keeps on casting inquisitive glances towards him. He plays with his dinner and then can’t read his books on trolls rebellions, so he takes a shower and goes to bed instead. 

Harry lies awake for what feels like ages, wondering how Draco is feeling, all alone at the Manor, mated for life to someone who is not even there, with wings on his back.

Harry gets dressed in the dark, then grabs his Invisibility Cloak from his trunk and sneaks out of bed. He takes his broom and slowly walks out of the dorm. It’s eleven o’clock and the Common Room is empty, so he leaves in silence and as soon as he’s outside of the castle, he climbs on his broom and flies to Hogsmeade.

Once he’s there, he concentrates on the jumps he needs to do to get to Wiltshire. He apparates to Leeds station, where he’s been once with Ron after the War. Then to Cambridge, in front of Hermione’s house. He thinks about Grimmauld Place and he gets to London, where he has a small break and drinks a cup of tea with Kreacher. He makes the last two jumps to Southampton station and then to the gates in front of Malfoy Manor.

Harry opens the gates and takes a deep breath, knowing that Draco is close by.

He just needs to find a way inside.

Chapter Text

“The letters that you left behind

No longer shall I read

Your blood's between the pages

And I can't stand to see you bleed.”

Johnny Flynn, “The wrote and the writ”

It’s past midnight and Harry hopes against hope that Draco will be on his own. He sends his Patronus, telling the Slytherin that he’s there, but he doesn’t know where his bedroom is. He gets no answer, but he remembers Draco saying that he couldn’t cast a Patronus, so he puts his cloak on and walks towards the Manor. He circles the house, looking for a sign, until he notices something. A pale hand waving a white handkerchief on the first floor.

Harry gets on his broom and flies to the open window, climbing inside. The room is dark.

“Obscuro,” Draco casts and Harry feels the familiar sensation of the silky blindfold covering his eyes, making his glasses fall off and hit the floor with a soft thud. He hears a sound and then Draco presses them into his hand. “What are you doing here; has something happened?”

“I missed you,” Harry replies, feeling Draco’s body pressing against his, fingers sliding into his curls with a relieved sigh. “I was worried about you.”    

“I’m fine. You’re breaking a million rules, you moron,” Draco whispers against his neck, but Harry can feel the shape of a smile pressed on his skin. “McGonagall will have your head if she finds out that you’ve left the castle to come here.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Harry replies, bringing him closer, “I couldn’t face the thought of you being alone with those wings, not after we…”

Draco takes his hand and guides him to the bed. He makes Harry sit down and then he slowly undresses him, starting from his shoes, peeling off his Gryffindor socks and then moving up to his trousers. It’s not the first time Draco has taken his clothes off, but he usually does it in a haste, with eager fingers. He’s slow and deliberate now, taking his time as he unravels Harry, like a precious present. Harry lets him do it, feeling his cheeks heating up under the attention and care, until warm lips press against his.

“I love you,” Harry whispers, stupid with a feeling so huge that it spills from his heart. Draco climbs into his lap, his fingers cupping Harry’s cheeks.

“I miss your green eyes,” Draco murmurs. “I wish I could take this blindfold off.”

“Why did you say that mating with me was a bad idea?” Harry asks, the question burning in his head since the afternoon. There’s a pause and then Draco starts playing with his curls, his fingers delicate and gentle.

“It won’t change anything for you,” Draco eventually replies, his voice low and hesitant, “but I didn’t want you to feel bound to me, like you owe me something. It was my decision and I’m happy with it, but you shouldn’t be a Gryffindor about it.”

“But I want to,” Harry replies, his hands circling Draco’s waist, “I want to be your mate. I’ve never been anybody’s anything. I want to belong to you.”

“You’re such a fool,” Draco whispers, but Harry can hear the affection in his voice, can feel the way Draco’s fingers tremble against his temple and then the press of his soft lips on his forehead.

Harry helps Draco undress, slowly, feeling the expanse of his wings, the long feathers at the extremities and the soft little ones in the spot where they connect to his back. Draco shudders as Harry’s fingers come in contact with warm skin, tracing lazy patterns on it. 

“What colour are your wings?” he asks and Draco describes them as ivory, with a light blue tinge towards the end. Harry has never wanted to see anything so badly before, but he makes do with running his fingers along them instead. Draco patiently lets him explore his slender body, letting Harry take the time they’ve never truly had before. He notices how sparse Draco’s hair is on his legs, how long his eyelashes feel under his digits. He traces scars, a raised mole on Draco’s back, a spot on his chin and the delicate shape of his ears.

“You’re so beautiful,” Harry whispers.

“You can’t even see me,” Draco argues, but Harry shakes his head, unable to explain.

“I don’t need my eyes to see how beautiful you are.” 

Harry has no idea what time it is when they eventually stumble into bed, tangled up in each other’s arms, skin to skin.

“I can’t believe I get to spend the night with you,” he murmurs and Draco kisses him softly.

“I’m kicking you out in the morning,” he replies, his fingers digging into Harry’s hips as he pressed even closer against his chest, “I don’t want you to end up in even more trouble than you’re already in.”

Harry hardly ever manages to get through a night without being woken up by a horrible nightmare, but when it happens this time, Draco is there. When he wakes up panting and shaking, Draco whispers that everything is okay, that he’s not alone. And Harry falls back asleep, lulled by Draco’s soft breathing, feeling safe in his arms. 

He wakes up to the sound of birds chirping outside and Draco stretching next to him.

“It’s nearly six,” Draco says, yawning loudly, “if you’re lucky you might even be able to have a lie-in when you get back to your dorms. It’s Sunday, after all.”

“You say that because you don’t know Hermione,” Harry replies, putting his clothes on and wishing he could stay for longer. “She has already planned a full day of revision and homework in the library.”

“At least this time, we only have to wait six days before we meet again,” Draco replies, kissing his lips softly. 

“I’ll be at the Burrow next Saturday, since it’s the beginning of the Christmas holidays,” Harry says, before parting. “Is it okay if I tell Ron about us?”

There’s a moment of silence and then Draco reaches for his hand and squeezes it.

“It’s fine. I hope he doesn’t give you too much grief about it and he doesn’t manage to change your mind.”

“That would be impossible,” Harry replies, leaning forward to capture Draco’s lips into another parting kiss. “I hope your wings disappear soon.”

“Me too, I managed to convince Mother to leave me alone with the excuse of a bug, but I doubt she will buy it for long.”

Harry eventually forces himself to leave and he’s back at Hogwarts by seven. Hermione catches him on the way back inside the Common Room and she stares at him, eyes open wide in realisation.

“I went out flying, early,” Harry mutters, trying not to waver under her piercing glance. “Weather was nice.”

It’s pouring down and the wind is blowing so hard that the windows rattle. Hermione raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Nice weather for ducks,” she says, “right?”

“Err…”

He’s saved by Neville, who grabs his arm and drags him to breakfast.

The students are meant to leave for the Christmas holidays on Friday  morning and yet the last week of term feels slower than usual. Harry tries to get through the days, between class tests and Hermione relentlessly trying to pry more information out of him about his weekend escapade.

“I know you went to the Manor,” Hermione says on Wednesday evening, “and I’ve pretty much figured out the reason why. I just don’t understand why you won’t tell me yourself.”

“Hermione, give it a rest. It’s private.”

“What colour are Draco’s wings?” she deadpans and Harry swears, casting a silencing spell on themselves, in spite of the fact they are in the library and there’s absolutely no one around.

“What the actual fuck, Hermione?!” he hisses. “Are you a private investigator or something? Did you use Legilimens?”

“Please,” Hermione scoffs, “it’s written all over your face. Besides, it makes sense. The reason Draco couldn’t come to school was because he’s had some kind of Veela awakening. Besides, you’ve been asking me so many questions about Veela mating out of the blue, when you’ve shown absolutely zero interests in them before. Therefore, Draco must be a Veela.”

Harry sighs and shakes his head in defeat. He then proceeds to tell her everything from the very beginning. From Draco’s letters over the summer, to the discovery of the relationship between their great-grandfathers and then Draco’s suppressants running out. He tells her about the blindfold and about the mating, making her blush despite the lack of details he provides.

Hermione listens attentively and when he’s done, she bites on her bottom lip and tilts her head.

“So you are his mate, then?” she asks and Harry nods. “You know that means he’s in love with you, right? He chose you. For life.”

Harry’s cheeks feel like they’re catching fire and he bites on his lips as he thinks about Draco’s feelings. Merlin, he wants to be with him so badly right now.

“May I see your great-grandfather’s letters?” Hermione asks and when they get back to the Gryffindor common room, Harry gives her all the letters he has. She spends hours studying them, taking confusing notes using ancient runes and words in languages Harry doesn’t even recognise.

“Cracked it,” she exclaims triumphantly after dinner, her hair pulled up in a messy bun and a smile on her lips. “I found the address of the house where they were meeting. It’s in Godric’s Hollow.”

Harry stares at her and wishes that Draco could be here for this moment. He holds the piece of parchment Hermione hands him and stares at it for ages, feeling a little bit closer to the mystery they have spent months trying to unveil.

16 Nigella Close, Godric’s Hollow

He writes to Draco the following morning, asking if they can go together in the new year. He suggests covering Draco with his invisibility cloak and sneaking out during the two hours they have to themselves on Saturday afternoon. He wants to see it, to check if the house is still there, if there’s any trace of Perseus and Henry’s love.

Draco’s reply doesn’t arrive on time. Harry packs his trunk and stares at the owls delivering letters on Friday morning at breakfast, but there’s nothing for him. He tells himself Argo probably didn’t make his way on time, that he might find him at the Burrow instead. But when he arrives at Ron’s, after hugging the whole Weasley clan, he finds out there’s nothing for him.

“Were you expecting a letter from someone?” Ron teases after dinner, as they’re lying in the dark in his bedroom, like they’ve done so many times over the summer. Harry waits a few minutes before replying, trying to find the right words.

“Yes, I…” he takes a deep breath. “I’ve been seeing someone.”

“That’s brilliant, mate!” Ron says, turning towards him and smiling. The curtains are open and there’s a full moon, so Harry can clearly see his best friend’s freckled skin and the happy smile on his face.

“It’s a bloke,” Harry adds, waiting for a reaction, but Ron’s smile doesn’t fade.

“I kind of suspected that you fancied men, to be honest with you,” Ron says. “Hermione and I have been speculating for years. But I’m happy for you and you know my family’s okay with it, what with Charlie being gay. Mum’s very supportive.”

“It’s Malfoy,” Harry says, his voice sounding strained.

Silence. 

Ron’s face freezes and his eyes open wide.

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry feels the need to add, to break the silence.

“Thanks for specifying, I would have never guessed,” Ron grimaces, “at least it’s not Lucius!”

“Ron!”

Ron covers his face with his hand and groans.

“Of all the blokes, why the ferret? Merlin’s saggy balls, Harry! Please tell me you haven’t had sex with him.”

Harry’s face heats up and Ron groans again, shaking his head.

“Don’t say anything and please don’t give me details, otherwise you’ll have to obliviate me,” Ron says and Harry starts laughing, feeling the tension leave his body. 

“I’m meeting him tomorrow,” he says, wishing he could tell Ron more, but deciding that he’s going to give him time and do it little by little.

“Well,” Ron sighs after a bit, “at least he’s got a nice arse, I suppose.”

“Will you all stop talking about my boyfriend’s behind?!”

The following day, Harry takes his glasses off and casts an Obscuro on himself, before stepping into the Floo.

“Is this some kind of kinky game of yours?” Ron asks from behind him. “No, wait, don’t answer. I really don’t want to know. See you later!”

“Malfoy Manor!” Harry says and then he feels his head spinning as he lands in Draco’s parlour. 

He waits, but he doesn’t feel familiar hands dragging him closer to steal a kiss.

“Draco?”

“Finite incantatem.”

His blindfold disappears and Harry finds himself staring at Narcissa Malfoy, sitting on an armchair and glaring as if she’s trying to incinerate him.

“Mrs Malfoy,” Harry mumbles uncertainly, his voice sounding panicky to his own ears.

“Mr Potter,” Narcissa says, her tone glacial, “would you be so kind as to explain the reason for your visit?”

“I…err…” Harry tries to swallow, but his mouth has suddenly gone dry. “I’m here to see Draco. I have some notes for him. For his N.E.W.T.s”

He compliments himself for the excuse, but Narcissa’s glare seems to grow even more feral.

“So this has nothing to do with the fact that my son has suddenly sprouted wings, right?” she asks and Harry gapes at her.

Fuck.

“I can explain,” Harry mumbles, thinking of what Hermione would recommend doing. Probably just tell the truth and face Narcissa’s wrath.

“Draco is supposed to marry Astoria Greengrass; that’s his only chance at having a normal life.” Narcissa looks furious and Harry takes a step back as she stands up and points a finger at him. “What do you think you’re doing with my son? He’s given up his future for you, do you realise that? How am I supposed to convince the Greengrasses to accept our proposal, if he can’t even consummate the marriage? He’s got wings, for Merlin’s sake!”

“I love him,” Harry blurts out and Narcissa gapes at him, her grey eyes open wide. “I’m in love with Draco. I only want him to be happy.”

Harry hears a faint rustling sound, like feathers being ruffled, and then he notices the tip of Draco’s wings sticking out from the doorway, behind Narcissa’s back. A pale hand holding onto the doorframe, fingers quivering as they grip so tight that the tip is discoloured.

“I love Draco,” Harry repeats, looking at the fine nails and porcelain skin, focusing on the way his heart is beating for Draco. “I only want what’s best for him and he doesn’t want to marry Astoria.”

“You just have an infatuation caused by the allure,” Narcissa accuses, but Harry shakes his head.

“No, I’ve barely seen him in his Veela form, just for a handful of seconds. I have been wearing a blindfold every time I visit him.”

“How long has this thing between you been going on for?” Narcissa asks, looking confused. Harry wonders how Draco has managed to keep it all secret, because he’s frankly terrified of his mother.

“Since last summer,” Harry replies, focusing on Draco’s fingers and the tip of his wings. The feathers are ivory and there’s a gentle blue tinge to them towards the end. He wishes he could see both of them, could see Draco fly.

“We exchanged letters and I…I liked him, a lot, and I started to visit whilst you were away at your Saturday meetings.”

Narcissa makes an outraged sound and starts pacing around the room, not noticing that her son is standing there, just a couple of feet away.

“This cannot continue,” she mutters, “what would the public think? They’ll say that he seduced you with his allure just because you’re the Saviour. His reputation will be shattered. Do you realise that Draco has got no future prospects?”

“I’ll do what it takes to keep him safe,” Harry promises, “even if it means keeping it quiet and hiding our relationship. Whatever’s best for Draco.”

He means it, even though he’s never even considered it, too busy with just loving Draco to worry about the technicalities of their future. But all he wants is to make Draco happy and to be allowed to love him.

“Mr Potter, you’re only eighteen,” Narcissa says, finally looking at him with what resembles a bit of fondness, “you will soon grow tired. The press will be relentless once word gets out and your family and friends will convince you that this is a bad idea.”

Harry finds he’s grown quite fond of bad ideas, though.

“I won’t,” he says with conviction, “never. Please let me continue seeing Draco.”

“Are you planning on formally courting my son, Mr Potter?” Narcissa asks, studying him. 

“Yes,” Harry replies straight away, “whatever it takes to be with him.”

Narcissa looks at him for what feels like ages, then she sighs and sits down again.

“I shall talk to Draco and make a decision,” she eventually says, “you may leave now.”

Harry’s eyes dart towards the door frame and Draco’s fingers quiver, then his hand closes into a fist and Harry wishes he could unravel it, smooth the tension out of him as he’s become used to doing. He wants to bring those fingers to his lips and kiss them, let them slide into his curls, making him purr like a cat.

“Harry…” it’s barely a whisper, but both Narcissa and Harry turn towards the sound. “I’ll write.”

Harry nods and then he pries himself from the spot where he’s been rooted for the past ten minutes. He bids his farewell and then disappears through the Floo.

“You’re back early,” Ron says when he sees him, “trouble in paradise?”

“His mother found out about us,” Harry mutters grimly. “She’s not happy.”

“Ouch,” Ron winces on his behalf. “Let’s go and play Quidditch. It might help you keep your mind off it.”

But Harry’s mind doesn’t seem to want to think about anything other than Draco. Narcissa’s words circle around his head in a loop, making him feel irresponsible and wrong, wondering if he’s ruined Draco’s life, his future. But then Argo arrives the following day and Harry nearly jumps on the poor owl to pry the letter from his leg.

“Oi, mate,” Ron says, eyebrows raised in surprise as Argo hoots indignantly at Harry, “give that poor bird a rest.”

Harry reads Draco’s letter with trembling fingers.

Harry,

I’m sorry about Saturday. My wings are taking longer than expected to disappear and Mother found out about them. I didn’t answer any of her questions, but she quickly realised that the only chance I had to meet up with someone was on Saturday afternoon, so she ambushed you. I’m sorry, if I had been able to cast a Patronus, I would have warned you. Unfortunately, my owl didn’t reach you on time.

In spite of what Mother said, I don’t regret anything. I don’t want to marry Astoria, nor anyone else.

I just want to be with you, for as long as you’ll have me.

I told Mother about Godric’s Hollow and asked for her permission to go with you in January. She doesn’t seem too keen, in spite of me saying I will be under your Invisibility Cloak, but I am hopeful.

That’s what you do to me. You make me hopeful, when my life was destined to be grim and dark. You’re like a light at the end of a tunnel, Harry Potter.

I hope to see you soon.

Love,

Draco

Harry clutches at the letter with shaking fingers and tears fall down his cheeks.

“Mate,” Ron says, slapping his back, “if the ferret is making you cry, I’m going to go and punch his pointy face.”

“No,” Harry sobs, “I’m just in love with him and I miss him so much.”

“Oh,” Ron says, his cheeks turning a violent shade of red. “Well, I suppose I might have to start being nice to him, then. It’s a pity he’s a git.”

Harry elbows him and then he writes a reply, telling Draco that everything will be fine, that he’ll find a way to convince Narcissa. But before he can talk to Hermione to decide what kind of strategy he should use, he receives another owl, the day after. 

Dear Mr Potter,

I spoke to Draco and I have decided to allow him to visit Godric’s Hollow with you on the first day of January, since it seems to be important for him. 

I’m still considering whether to allow you to formally court my son, but Draco only has positive things to say about you. 

You’ve saved his life once; please treat him with the same kindness you’ve shown in the past.

Narcissa

Christmas goes by in a rush, between presents and celebrations and Harry wishes he could have Draco there with him, but they still exchange owls and he’s counting the days until they can finally meet in the new year.

On the first day of January at ten o’clock sharp, Harry grabs his Invisibility Cloak and heads for the Floo, feeling his skin prickle with anxiety and his heart beating at a steady rhythm in his chest.

“Harry, you’re so stiff it looks like you have something up your arse,” Ron comments and then he blushes. “Wait, sorry, wrong thing to say if you’re going to meet up with your boyfriend.”

“You’re such a moron,” Harry says, but he smiles and feels some of the tension leave his body.

He casts an Obscuro on himself and Ron groans.

“What the hell, mate?” his friend says. “I didn’t need to find out you’re into kinky stuff! Can you not wait until you get there?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Harry replies, grabbing some Floo powder. “Long story. I’ll tell you when I can.”

“I’m not sure I want to know…”

When Harry gets to Malfoy Manor, Narcissa takes the cloak from him and puts it on Draco and then Harry can finally take his blindfold off and stare into empty space, where his boyfriend should be.

“I got the wings under control,” Draco says and Harry wishes he could see him, touch him.

“We’re going to floo to the local pub,” Harry explains. “They know me because sometimes I pop by when I visit my parents’ graves, so they won’t make a fuss about me being in Godric’s Hollow. And then from there we’re going to look for the house.”

“Darling, are you sure about this?” Narcissa asks her invisible son and Draco says that he is, that he wants to go.      

It seems like a simple plan and Harry’s expecting to find a house in ruins or occupied by another wizarding family. However, when he asks around, the piece of parchment with the address clutched in his hands, he realises things are not as he expected. He follows the directions he’s been given by a kind elderly witch and he walks to Nigella Close, followed by the barely audible swish of Draco’s robes behind him. They end up in front of a small cottage. It has a thatched roof and an unkept front garden, but it looks in good conditions, as if it were frozen in time.

“No one lives there,” an ancient-looking wizard tells Harry, after he’s been staring at the house for a good five minutes. The man peeps from the next-door house and smiles at him. “It’s protected by some weird spell and nobody’s ever managed to get in. It appeared in the late fifties, out of the blue, but it has never been inhabited.”

The man goes back inside and Draco’s hand appears from under the cloak, his wand clutched between pale fingers.

“What are you going to do?” Harry whispers, casting a disillusionment spell around them. 

“I’m trying to find a way in,” Draco replies. He stands in front of the front door and starts casting spell after spell, half of which Harry’s never even heard before.

“Where have you learnt this stuff?” Harry asks, impressed.

“I have a lot of time on my hands,” Draco replies and then the tip of his wand glows blue and flashes for a second. A small flat stone appears just above the lock. “Ah, got it. That’s not too bad.”

“What?” Harry asks, stepping closer to him.

“The house requires our blood to get in,” Draco explains, “Henry and Perseus must have added this as an extra protection. We might still be able to get in, since we are their direct descendants. Shall we?”

Draco transfigures his handkerchief into a pocket knife and then proceeds to make a tiny cut on the tip of his index finger, letting a drop of blood fall onto the stone. Harry does the same and for a few seconds nothing seems to happen. Harry assumes it hasn’t worked and he heals their hands with a quick spell. He’s about to suggest trying a Bombarda on the door, when there’s a faint click and the door opens.

Harry can hear Draco’s loud intake of breath and he takes his hand,  smiling at the familiar comforting feeling.

“Wait,” Draco says and then he starts casting more spells. “Wouldn’t want it to be a trap. You never know with Malfoys.”

When Draco’s happy about the safety of the house, they finally step inside and Harry can’t help but gape. There’s a loud pop and the house cracks and groans. The door opens to a cosy living room, with flowery armchairs and a low table cluttered with books and newspapers. There’s a pair of reading glasses on the sofa, as if someone left them there whilst they were getting a cup of tea. Harry can feel the Stasis spell still lingering in the air, broken by their arrival. He realises the house has probably been left untouched for decades.

But in spite of all the books and the everyday objects abandoned here and there, what catches Harry’s attention is the staggering quantity of photos that cover every single available surface. Harry moves closer, to have a look at them and the door closes behind him.

“Harry, look.”

He turns and Draco’s hand is peeking from under the cloak, pointing at a piece of parchment pinned to the door. Harry picks it up and reads it out loud.

If you’re reading this message, it means that I’m dead and this house has appeared. I don’t know how you found it (did you read the letters I sent Perseus when we were younger?), but since you managed to get inside, you are most likely to be related by blood to me or Perseus. 

Before you judge us and the life we’ve led, I beg you to consider the feelings behind our choices. We never wanted to hurt anyone. We never planned to make anyone feel ashamed. We simply loved each other, from the bottom of our hearts.

We could never be together in the open, so we found a place to call our own.

This was our true home, a place neither of us could call as such openly, but that stayed hidden like our love until our deaths.

My beloved Perseus died last month, so I am leaving this place to never return, because the memories scattered around this house are too painful to endure. Please cherish them on our behalf and be kind.

Henry Potter

Harry hears a sob next to him and Draco’s hand squeezes his, then he feels a body pressed against his and he rests his face against Draco’s invisible shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asks and Draco lets out a tiny whine, shaking his head.

“Harry, I don’t want to end up like them.”

“We won’t,” Harry replies, laying a kiss on Draco’s neck. “I promise.”

The house is cold, so Harry casts warming charms. They start looking at the photos, which show endless moments of joy and affection between their great-grandfathers. The cheeky grins of two boys in Hogwarts uniforms, a loving moment with them both lying in a field and staring into each other’s eyes, two grown men sitting side by side in the garden, in matching robes.

“It’s weird; they seem to be either quite young or older than thirty,” Harry observes. “Why is there a gap?”

“Because they stopped seeing each other whilst they were married,” Draco replies after a few minutes. “Henry’s wife died when she gave birth to your grandfather Fleamont. As for Perseus, from what I gathered, he left his wife after Abraxas’s birth. The documents in our archives state that he moved out of the Manor and lived in another Malfoy estate in Sussex.”

Harry feels a pang in his heart at the thought of Perseus and Henry and what they must have endured. They have become a part of Harry, after spending so long reading their letters and wondering what happened to them. His fingers brush against the frames, tracing his great-grandfather’s besotted grin, his lover’s gentle fingers tucking dark unruly curls behind Henry’s ear. 

Draco starts moving around the cottage, opening cupboards and boxes, uncovering old clothes, teacups and plates, more books and a stash of letters.

“Found them!” he exclaims, his hands appearing from the cloak as he carries a big wooden box to the sofa. “I found the letters Perseus sent Henry.”

Harry sits next to him on the sofa and looks at the box. There are so many letters inside that it’s going to take them hours to read them all, so Harry suggests getting some lunch.

“I can go out and grab something to eat,” he says, looking at Draco’s pale fingers opening letter after letter. “The local pub makes decent sandwiches. Would your mother be okay with you staying out for the whole day?”

“She said she’s giving you permission to court me,” Draco announces and Harry gapes. “She was meant to tell you when we come back to the Manor. I think she wanted to keep you on your toes, but we basically have her approval.”

Harry wishes he could kiss him, but he grins and laughs, relieved and happy. And then he feels it, Draco’s lips against his through the thin fabric of the cloak. He closes his eyes and lets Draco kiss him, chastely and tenderly. He wonders how many kisses their great-grandfathers have shared on that same sofa and then smiles.

“I love you,” he whispers, feeling Draco tremble against him. “I’m also starving, so I’ll go get us some food. I’ll be quick.”

On his way to the pub, Harry wonders if it would be too odd to ask Draco to spend the night at the cottage and if Narcissa will object and hex him. He has no idea how courting works in the wizarding world, but it’s clear their relationship is not chaste, so he wonders what’s the point in pretending otherwise. He misses Draco and wants to touch him again.

“I managed to get a selection of their best sandwiches,” he announces, opening the door on his way back and then he freezes and stares. Because Draco is standing there, in front of him, visible and absolutely stunning.

“Draco, the cloak…” Harry murmurs and Draco’s grey eyes finally lock with his and he smiles. It’s the most beautiful smile Harry’s ever seen in his life and it fills his heart with so much happiness. Harry’s frozen to the spot, staring at Draco’s perfect porcelain skin, at his white-blond hair, longer than he remembers. There’s a gentle swoosh and Draco’s wings appear, immense and breath-taking.

“Do you feel like kissing me?” Draco asks, tilting his head.

“I always do,” Harry replies, taking a step towards him, tentatively. “But it’s not like the first time I saw you in your Veela form. I can control the impulse.”

“I think I’ve managed to tune down the allure,” Draco says, standing up and moving closer to him. “I’ve been trying for a while to control it, but I couldn’t be sure if I had managed or not. And then I read one of Perseus’s letters and he described how he did it and it kind of clicked.”

“Merlin, I missed you so much,” Harry whispers, brushing his fingers against his cheek, pressing their foreheads together.

“I also found these,” Draco says showing Harry a small velvet bag clutched in his hands. He opens it and it’s full of phoenix feathers. “Perseus must have kept his stash of feathers here, to brew his suppressants.”

“That means…” Harry starts, his eyes wide and a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yes, I’m going to brew the suppressant potion as soon as I get home. I can finally leave the house. I’m going to come to Hogwarts with you!”

Harry kisses him then, hungrily and deeply, his fingers sliding through silky white-blond hair, a muffled moan escaping his lips. Draco’s hands circle his waist and bring him closer, his warm body firm and solid against Harry’s.

“I love you,” it’s barely a whisper on Harry’s lips, but it still makes Harry’s stomach do a somersault.

“I want you so badly,” Harry confesses, desperate to touch Draco and to finally be able to see all of him.

“There are two bedrooms; pick your favourite,” Draco says with a mischievous grin.

It takes them a while to reach the nearest bed, because Harry simply can’t stop kissing Draco and staring at him, smiling as he uncovers inch after inch of pale skin. Draco’s clothes end up on the floor, leaving a trail from the parlour into the bedroom.

“Why am I the only one who’s nearly naked?” Draco complains, raising an eyebrow. Harry kisses it, grinning like an idiot.

“Because you’ve seen plenty of me, but I have never seen you without your clothes on.”

The only item of clothing left on Draco is an undershirt and Harry looks at him longingly, waiting for Draco to take it off.

“My scars…” the Slytherin whispers, fidgeting with the hem of Harry’s robes. Harry gently takes his left arm and kisses his way up from Draco’s elbow, tracing the lines of the scars over Draco’s mark. Draco flinches, but he lets him do it, his cheeks flushed.

“You look beautiful,” Harry says, his words brimming with affection. “I just want to see you, all of you.”

Draco takes a deep breath and then he takes his undershirt off in one swift move, avoiding Harry’s gaze. Harry leans closer and kisses his cheek softly.

“I love you,” he whispers, “and you’re the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re so breath-taking, Draco.”

Draco’s cheeks turn red and his lips part and then close a couple of times.

“Stop being an embarrassing sap and get naked, Potter,” he grumbles. Harry laughs as he vanishes his clothes with a flick of his wand. And then it’s skin against skin, Harry’s fingers tracing the soft shape of Draco’s body, the sharp curves of his bones. He simply can’t take his eyes off Draco and he proceeds slowly, kissing and sucking bruises on his white neck, making him moan and shudder.

When Harry parts Draco’s legs and trails kisses down his torso, he marvels at how pretty Draco’s cock looks, so pink and just perfect.

“Merlin, even your dick looks beautiful,” he murmurs, licking the tip and observing Draco’s face as he gasps and his grey eyes lock with Harry’s.

“Stop saying embarrassing things,” Draco mutters, his fingers sliding through Harry’s messy curls, stroking his head gently.

Harry licks a long stripe from the bottom of his cock to the tip, suckling gently on the head and making Draco gasp. Then he proceeds to slowly suck Draco’s cock, at a maddening pace that makes his lover squirm and beg for more.

“We have time,” Harry says, casting a lubricating spell on his fingers and gently circling Draco’s entrance.

“I want you inside me,” Draco confesses, his face and chest flushing, “right now.”

Harry’s cock gets even harder than it already was and he takes a deep breath, breaching Draco with his middle finger and making him swear as he moves inside him.

“There you go,” Harry whispers, gently sucking on Draco’s balls before he inserts a second finger. “We’re going to take our time today. I don’t want to miss a single thing, since I finally get to see you.”

Draco curses and moans as Harry adds a third finger and then he’s practically begging by the time Harry kneels between his open legs, his leaking cock pressing against Draco’s entrance.

“Fuck,” Draco groans when Harry sinks into his tight heat with a shuddering gasp, trying not to move too soon, breathing through the overwhelming pleasure. Draco’s eyes lock with his and Harry smiles.

“I’m so happy,” Harry confesses, feeling terrified. He’s so scared of losing everything, of saying those words out loud for the first time in his life. Draco’s hand rests on his cheeks.

“Me too,” Draco says, “and it’s bloody scary.”

Harry chuckles and then he slowly starts moving, entranced by the way Draco’s eyebrows crease in pleasure, by the way his lips part to let out a moan or call Harry’s name.

Harry knows he won’t last, that seeing Draco so lost in pleasure is too much.

“Draco, I’m going to…”

“Come for me, love,” Draco whispers, stroking his own cock, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. And Harry lets go and comes with a whimper, sinking deep inside Draco and coming harder than he ever has.

“Fuck, Harry…” Draco strokes his cock two, three times and then he comes too, white stripes painting his own belly, covering his scars.

“It was easier with the blindfold,” Harry confesses much later, when they’re both lying naked on the bed, Draco’s fingers playing with his curls and Harry still marvelling at how perfect Draco looks.

“Why?” Draco asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s more overwhelming when I can see you,” Harry says with a shrug.

“You’re just a kinky sod, Harry,” Draco smirks, making him laugh. “I bet you loved it when I tied you up.”

“Fuck off,” Harry replies, blushing and making Draco laugh at his embarrassment.

Harry casts a Tempus with his watch and realises it’s already mid-afternoon.

“Would it be weird if I asked you to spend the night here?” Harry asks, sheepishly. “Would you mum hex me?”

Draco smiles and kisses him tenderly on the cheek.

“I’m not a child anymore. I can stay out without asking for permission, you know?”

“Yes, but the formal courting thingy,” Harry mutters, waving his fingers in mid-air. “I have no idea how that works and I don’t want your mum to change her mind about me.”

“It’ll be fine,” Draco says, rolling his eyes, “you just need to wine and dine me, bring flowers when you come by and sacrifice a goat every full moon until we get married.”

Harry’s eyes open wide and he gapes, making Draco burst out laughing.

“Merlin, you’re so gullible it’s almost cute.”

Harry playfully slaps his arm and pouts.

“Shall I send my Patronus to let your mum know that we’re spending the night, then?” he asks and Draco seems to think about it for a few seconds.

“Actually,” the Slytherin says, running a finger on Harry’s chest, “I think I may finally have enough happy memories to try casting my own.”

“I wonder what it will look like,” Harry says.

“Most likely a bird. All the people in my family have a bird Patronus. Father’s a condor and Mother’s a goldfinch. I think Perseus had a phoenix Patronus. I personally hope mine will be something fierce like an eagle.”

Harry waits patiently as Draco raises his wand and casts the Patronus spell and then they both stare at the puff of smoke appearing from his wand and at the animal taking shape in front of them.

Harry’s mouth opens in surprise and Draco groans as a beautiful stag appears.

“How mortifying,” Draco mutters, covering his face with his hands.

“That’s so lovely,” Harry says, smiling so much that his cheeks almost hurt. “You were calling me sappy, but I honestly can’t believe how adorable you are!”

“Shut up, Potter!” Draco moans. “I’m trying not to die of embarrassment here.”

Harry brings him closer and they end up collapsing on the bed, Harry tickling Draco’s side and making him giggle.

“Merlin, you’re ticklish as well!” Harry exclaims. “What other delightful surprises are you hiding?”

“Pass me your invisibility cloak,” Draco says, his cheeks on fire. “I’m going to hide for the rest of eternity.”

Harry thinks he’s never been happier in his whole life and feels tears threatening to fall, so he bites them back and hugs Draco tight.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispers against his skin, hearing the noise of Draco’s wings appearing. He feels them wrapping around his back, bringing him closer, in a feathery cocoon.

“I won’t,” Draco whispers, kissing his messy curls.

“Do you remember the first letter you sent me?” Harry asks after a few minutes, feeling protected in the safety of Draco’s embrace. “You asked me what you could do to repay the life debt that you owe me.”

“Have you come up with a new way to torture me?” Draco asks with a smile.

“I think I found a way for you to repay your debt.”

“Let’s hear it,” Draco says, raising an eyebrow at him. “It’d better not be something like befriending Ron Weasley.”

“Let me love you,” Harry says, green eyes locking with grey. “Stop thinking that you don’t deserve to be happy, because you do. Let me make you happy, day by day.”

“Salazar, you really are sappy,” Draco murmurs, but Harry can see his cheeks flushing pink and his wings closing around them. Draco’s eyes shine in the dim afternoon light, under the shadow cast by his wings. “Alright. As you wish, Harry.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks.

Draco nods and kisses him again.

“Yes. But I refuse to be nice to Weasley.”

Harry laughs and kisses him again. And again.