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Chapter Text

The first Draco hears of his upcoming marriage is from his probation officer.

Which isn't an ideal situation by anyone's standards.

The probation officer in question is an angular, vinegary woman called Jones. Ill-tempered too because she’s technically an Auror and considers this beneath her, calls it her ‘babysitting duty’ which Draco hates. He keeps his gaze firmly downcast while she's talking, focusing on the brightly polished mahogany coffee table. She's put her coffee cup directly on the surface, deliberately avoiding the coaster laid out and Draco can already see a water ring forming, which the house elves will lament over later. It’s not the most offensive treatment he’s had at the hands of the Aurors but it rankles nonetheless. His mother, sitting next to him severely upright on the austere plum chaise has also noticed and her mouth is set in a tight line. He’s a little worried about her, she's been acting secretive the last few days, going out on ‘errands’ and not telling him where. He hopes she isn't ill and keeping it from him. It would be too much when he's only four months away from being released from house arrest.

Four. Months. It feels unbelievable. Draco has been counting the days since his trial almost two years ago but now it feels tangible, the red circled date in his calendar within a quaffle’s throw of being real. He was planning to leave England altogether, perhaps live in France for a while. But if his mother is unwell…

Draco hears the entirely incongruous word ‘Potter’, mixed into Jones' diatribe which snaps his attention back to her, whiplash quick.

‘Potter? Excuse me, Auror Jones, could you repeat that? My mind was elsewhere.’

She glowers at him as his mother shifts uncomfortably in her seat, doubtless a little annoyed by his bad manners.

‘By all means Mr. Malfoy, it isn't as if I've got anything better to do,’ her tone is pure acid.’I was just saying that you’ll be getting a new Auror assigned to you when you’re moved to Potter’s residence. I’m heartbroken of course.’

Draco feels his eyes widen and mouth fall open. He quickly tries to cover his surprise - looking like a slack-jawed idiot is hardly dignified, but Jones has already noticed damn her and turns to his mother, eyebrows raised.

‘You've…not told him?’ There's a ring of cruel glee in there that worries Draco greatly.

Draco turns to his mother, genuinely baffled.

‘Told me-? Mother?’

She turns to him and looks him directly in the eye, her face placid and determined. He knows that look, recognises it from too many childhood incidents. It means something has to be done and he's not going to like it…

It's twenty minutes later and Draco is pacing the room, arms folded. His eyes are staring vacantly as he tries to work out the turmoil in his brain.

‘So if I may summarise,’ he turns to his mother abruptly, trying and failing to keep anger from infusing his words, ‘Potter’s house is an ancient heap that he's inherited from your side somehow.’

Narcissa bows her head in acquiescence, expressionless.

‘And you say,’ Auror Jones is clearly bored and casting her third tempus but looks up at him, ‘that the house has, and I quote, ‘gone mad’ and refuses to let him leave.’

She nods tersely.

‘And the house is filled with dark magic that Potter has never bothered to unravel and it tries to suffocate him every time the Ministry has even made an attempt to break him out and they think a quick solution is marrying me off to him and Potter has agreed to it?’

This to him is the most unbelievable part of the whole thing. Jones answers him,

‘The house magic swot thinks the problem could be to do with Potter not being a blood heir; a quick fix is getting it a new owner, one who’s currently eligible and in the Black bloodline. So yes, the quickest way is by having you marry Potter and then the property becomes half yours. You’ll stay a few days to allow the house time to accept you as an owner and then Potter leaves. And your mother has negotiated with Potter to get you an early release out of the bargain so if I were you I'd count my blessings Blondie.’

He hates that she calls him that, he has to bite his tongue every time. He rounds on his mother again,

‘Negotiating! With Potter! I was worried about you! And all the time you've been having secret meetings to-’

‘To ensure your future Draco,’ his mother's tone is clipped and precise and efficiently curtails his ranting, ‘Mr. Potter is quite eager to be free of his current situation and I've arranged for the whole thing to be conducted privately and in secret. As Auror Jones says, once the matter is dealt with you’ll be released early for services rendered, there’ll be a quick annulment and Mr. Potter has agreed to several public appearances with you and an article in the Prophet on your new friendship which I am sure will be beneficial to your reputation.’

He hears a tang of bitterness in the last words and reflects how disappointing it must be to her for a Malfoy to have to rely on Potter and his ilk to salvage their social standing.

And Potter - Potter!- of all people had agreed to this too. Draco resumes his pacing, ignoring the exasperated noises Jones is making. He's still angry at the secrecy but his mother is right. Their resolution, if effective, might be immediate as soon as the ink was dry on the marriage contract. He might not even have to speak to him. And even if he did have to stay for a few days, they could avoid one another, he's never been to the old Black place but he's almost certain it’s roomy enough for him to make himself inconspicuous. He doesn't give a stuff about ‘good publicity’ but it would make her happy, especially if he’s getting an early release - although if one read the Prophet, house arrest didn't even count as part of his sentence, the headlines had screamed about him being ‘let off scot free’. And at the time he might have agreed with them, his release from Azkaban after only one year to finish his sentence at home had felt miraculous. He was grateful, he truly was to that help that had come from a most unexpected quarter. But being trapped in the Manor has been it's own form of torture, locked up with the memories of the worst time of his life, unable to cast even a Silencio without a wand to spare other members of the household an audio replay of his nightmares.

And he could be free tomorrow…he allows his mind to drift to plans of travel, anonymity, a new start. And a chance to ‘redeem’ himself into the bargain. His mind drifts to Potter, as it is sadly wont to do. The Golden Boy. The Chosen One. Well this must be quite embarrassing for him. And now they're both desperate to escape confinement. Brought down to Draco’s level by fate and an ill-tempered dwelling. Unexpectedly he snorts with laughter, startling both his mother and Jones. Potter, trapped in his own house! Having to accept help from the Malfoy family! And not just help but a marriage! To him! Merlin but it was funny! He couldn't help it, he laughed again, covering his mouth and trying to stifle it but failing horribly to repress the helpless chuckles as he pictured Potter’s indignant face. His mother and Jones are both looking at him like he’s just sprouted an erumpet horn which somehow makes it even funnier and it’s a few minutes before he can compose himself. Jones looks even more sour,

‘Well if you’ve quite finished with the hysterics,’ she says, taking a small vial from her robes and looking at him meaningfully.

Draco stiffens, all traces of mirth leaving his face. His eyes dart to his mother and she takes the hint and leaves. She had insisted upon staying the first few times and Jones had seen it as something of a challenge to see how much humiliation she could wring from them both. He certainly never wanted to hear the question, ‘how often do you masterbate?’ in front of her again. He takes a deep breath and quickly reviews his mind as Jones approaches with the Veritaserum. If she’s going to ask him any questions about Potter…well he should be fine but still. Draco carefully tucks a few things away, silently thankful for his skills with Occlumency. Skills that have mercifully remained undiscovered by the Ministry, though every Veritaserum check has his stomach tightening with worry. If Jones should think to ask the right question, just once, it could be utterly ruinous to him.

‘Open up blondie.’

He shoots her an annoyed look before tipping his head back and opening his mouth. He comforts himself with the knowledge that Potter is probably as miserable as him right now.

…..

Harry is miserable. And frustrated. And is trying his utmost not to snap at Ron or Hermione or Molly who are here to support him, though Harry regrets that he’s allowed Molly to bully him into wearing his dress robes, which are too tight. Any effort spent on Malfoy is frankly absurd in his view. Especially for this farce. And no-one else is wearing dress robes, he’d pointed out petulantly.

‘I’m not having them come in here and have any excuse to look down their noses at you,’ she’d said, patting his cheek and Harry had submitted with groaning fondness when she’d insisted on tying his tie for him.

It's been 3 weeks since Harry woke to find himself trapped within 12 Grimmauld Place, the air thickening to an impenetrable wall whenever he tries to leave or use the floo. Trying apparition a few times has only left him wheezing in the exact same spot. It's baffling. At first they'd thought it was affecting only him - Hermione and Ron had been able to come and go unimpeded and looked altogether too amused at the sight of him struggling against his open doorway like an overly convincing mime artist.

‘Maybe it's a problem with the wards,’ Hermione had posited thoughtfully, once she'd stopped giggling behind her hand, ‘We’re keyed in permanently but you aren't because you own the place. Maybe the house is getting confused? Old houses can be famously temperamental. Or maybe it's the weird thing in the cellar…’

Testing with Dean and Seamus had confirmed that visitors not permanently added to the wards were as blocked from entering as he was from exiting and they'd ribbed Harry gently when they'd stopped for a beer on the doorstep that they'd pushed gently to him over the threshold as though doing some kind of dodgy trade.

‘Not good enough to come in now, are we Harry?’ Seamus had grinned and Harry had laughed sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck and when the door had closed he'd turned back into the gloom of Grimmauld Place he'd been forced to confront how small his world had become. Sure, he had to be careful about who was allowed to come and go but his list of regularly allowed guests he could count on one hand. He hadn't even added all the Weasley's, just Ron and Molly.

Once it had gotten to the ears of the Ministry they’d tried a few times to extract him using more forceful methods but that only led to the house retaliating by shrinking whatever room Harry happened to be in until they stopped. The last time Harry had run from room to room until his torso had been wedged between the walls of the living room and he’d had trouble breathing, despite his increasingly desperate Reductos and Confringos. That had been when Robards and Kingsley had forbidden more attempts. They'd assured him via owl that the priority was getting him out and fast. He'd been so pleased when he'd heard that. A reminder to be careful what you wish for.

Almost a full week of silence and then a breakthrough. They’d written him a full report which he thought boiled down to ‘the wards are on the fritz’. Something, something bloodlines, something, something, Ancient house magic. They had no idea about the thing he’d found in the cellar and without testing, don't touch it, blah blah blah. And then a name, pencilled in cautiously on a hastily scribbled proposal which had set his teeth on edge.

Draco Malfoy.

They’re waiting in the parlour for the Malfoys to arrive, along with a decrepit solicitor that had apparently served Walburga and therefore been added to the wards long before Harry's birth. He’s a small, prim man with a fussy manner and also, incongruously, the most beautiful head of hair Harry has ever seen. It's a stunning chestnut auburn, bouncy full curls cascading down his shoulders and looking utterly at odds with his weathered face. He’s carrying a heavy tome that will record their…platonic union, the man had insisted upon calling it, assuring him that wizards in the past had used these types of arrangements without any romantic intention. Not that there was anything wrong with that of course, he had added stammering and Harry had rolled his eyes and silently cursed the Daily Prophet for their Breaking News! Front page spread, outing him to the entire wizarding world. But he had kept his temper and just said aloud that while there wasn’t anything wrong with marrying a man, there was everything bloody wrong with marrying Draco Malfoy. But if it was what it took for him to be able to leave then he’ll grin and bear it.

He wishes fervently that he'd left Grimmauld Place long ago. Especially after Kreacher had died. Harry had buried him in the garden with the locket and the rest of the house elf heads and then planted rose bushes on top. And then he’d just…not moved out. He’d been busy, so busy with training and all the things that Harry Potter was supposed to do now as Chosen One and Saviour. And Grimmauld Place had become grimmer and more impossible to deal with. Sticking doors, taps that changed their minds whether they were hot or cold, a staircase that tried to snap at his ankles and now…

His mind drifts back to the negotiations with Narcissa on her son's behalf, at this same table. The house had let her in, had been on best behaviour for her, of course. He'd found a silver tea set waiting for him in the kitchen which he had never laid eyes on before, polished to blinding. That was what had given him hope that this could even work. And Narcissa had seen that immediately and pursued her goals, utterly uncompromising when it came to her son's welfare. Harry admired her for that. The Prophet article had almost put an end to the whole business but he'd begrudgingly accepted in the end, even though he still hadn't forgiven them for the aforementioned outing, an exclusive on his seventh and what turned out to be his final date with a man and a Muggle. Nick had worked at a nearby coffee shop and had been sweet and shy and it had taken Harry a full month to pluck up the courage to say yes to his offer of a date. The photos of them together had resulted in a torrent of abuse towards the poor man including being accosted by wizard journalists in the street and receiving Howlers which had half scared him to death and it had taken intervention from the Ministry and several Obliviators to fix the damage. Harry had felt terrible, found a new coffee shop and sworn off dating for at least six months.

That was seven months ago and now his best dating option might be the portrait of Walburga Black. Not that he minded too much anyway. He'd always hated first dates. If there was a way to avoid the whole awkward business and just go straight to the nice comfortable bit where you knew each other then he'd take it. It had been like that with Ginny, until it hadn't.

He hears a whoosh and brings his mind back into the room as Narcissa steps through, regal and haughty. She inclines her head at them and steps aside at the sound of another whoosh and Malfoy appears in the grate, ducking to enter the room.

He’s not changed much, still tall and lean, still blond, the same pointed aristocratic face. He looks a little nervous and sullen, although he’s hiding it well behind a facade of indifference. Harry sees his eyes sweep the room once and briefly flit over the people assembled, although he doesn’t meet anyone’s eye or greet them.

Harry hears a clinking noise and frowns slightly when he sees Malfoy’s wrists are encased in heavy manacles. What the hell? There’s no way those are regulation. He puts it out of his mind, it's not his main concern right now.

Today, he thinks. I'll be free today.
…..

Today, Draco tells himself. I'll be free today.

He's wearing formal robes because his mother had insisted. He shifts nervously in his dress shoes, trying to pretend the loudest noise in the room isn’t the clinking of the heavy shackles on his wrists. Jones had produced them as he’d been preparing to leave, a little parting reminder of her nasty sense of humour. She'd also insisted on running through the rules again: confinement wards to prevent him from leaving, no access to a wand or other magical artefacts, no contact with other Death Eaters or Slytherins and he's to be locked into a bedroom at night, which he considers overegging it, although apparently Potter had waived the option to have him chained to a wall for the entire duration, for which he supposes he’s thankful. He blithely surveys the room. It’s a style he would bitterly refer to as pureblood chic. Expensive, old and oppressively ugly. And dilapidated, he notes, his eyes taking in the peeling wallpaper, the broken lampshade, the sofa pilling and faded. Inner-Draco is pursing his lips and readying a cutting comment. There's little evidence of Potter's residence here, although Draco supposes this room probably doesn't get much use.

He thinks about what he's looking forward to when he's released. He's already written to his Great-Uncle Florian Malfoy in Toulouse, requesting to visit him. An elderly and gentle soul, the Malfoy ruthlessness seemingly having skipped a generation, unless you counted his brutal methods with the slugs that devoured his cauliflowers. Draco has suggested he could assist him with the garden for a few months. And with that a fresh start, hopefully a little anonymity and what Draco is really looking forward to, going on a first date. He bitterly regrets wasting his early teens without a single boyfriend, although being deeply closeted until a series of messy hookups with Blaise in seventh year hadn't helped. And that had been ‘we're probably going to die soon’ sex, not proper dates. Draco feels embarrassed by it but he knows in his heart he secretly has the makings of a true romantic and now he knows that he's not going to be arranged into marrying a Pureblood girl anytime soon he wants the whole experience. He wants to be excited and nervous and spend ages picking an outfit and properly sweep whoever it is off their feet. He wants to ask all the first date questions and be impossibly sparkling and witty and see the glimmer of attraction in his companion’s eyes. And their hands will brush when they both reach for the salt and maybe their knees would touch under the table and there would be an unspoken promise of a first kiss. He has a recurring vision of himself walking in a vineyard, lush and verdant, the vines stretching as far as the eye would see. And his companion, who would be handsome and clever and adoring, would lean over and brush a lock of hair out of his eyes and it would feel intimate and soft, untainted by the harsh reality of Draco’s past. It couldn't last of course, he wouldn't be able to hide his left forearm or its implications forever. But it would be nice to pretend for a little while.

Potter’s here. Draco can feel him in his peripheral vision. He hasn't had a good look at him yet but he sees him nonetheless. Potter has always had a magnetic hold on his attention. He sees him straighten up and walk across the floor to them and notices that he stands more confidently now and the Aurors have clearly got him on some sort of exercise regimen, evidenced by the way he's stretching those old dress robes across the chest. Draco notes that he still has a few inches of height over him, thank god. The face has changed less, although his jawline looks a little more defined. Still the same impossibly green eyes, the same mad mop of hair, same glasses even.

Potter inclines his head at Draco’s mother.

‘Narcissa.’

Draco’s waiting for it, the moment those emerald eyes lock with his own but his view is suddenly blocked by the unwelcome sight of red robes and redder hair.

‘Malfoy,’ It’s spat rather than said.

‘Weasley.’ He counters with a cold look.

Weasley hasn’t changed at all, other than the fact that he’s sporting Auror’s robes which Draco notes with satisfaction look horrible on him, emphasising his lankiness and clashing with his hair. Weasley has drawn his wand and waves it under Draco’s nose which disconcerts him greatly.

‘Good news Malfoy, your custody has officially been transferred to me while you’re here.’

Oh good, Draco thinks with a heavy heart, that’s not a conflict of interest at all.

‘I’d warn you about not trying anything,’ Weasley continues airily, ‘but if you even touch a hair on Harry’s head then mum will murder you.’

He grins and Draco looks past him to where Weasley’s mother is sitting primly on the sofa glaring daggers at him.

‘Just like she did your Aunt Bellatrix.’

Draco has heard about this. He resists the urge to go straight over there and thank her himself. He'd never admit it to his mother but learning of her death was one of the few bright spots in the days following the final battle. Instead he slinks his gaze back to Weasley’s smug face. The urge to say something spiteful and mean wells up in him and with difficulty he swallows it down. Weasley is an Auror just looking for an excuse. And the past two years have taught him some hard lessons about being polite to Aurors.

So Instead he replies with a meek, ‘Understood.’

If anything this might have worked better than a malicious barb because he’s never seen Weasley look more flummoxed. And that’s saying something because Draco has seen him play Quidditch.

Fortunately he's saved from making further conversation by a harassed looking ancient wizard with an improbably gorgeous hairdo, who clears his throat to get their attention.

‘Ready for you gentlemen, if we could proceed?’

He opens the large volume he's carrying and motions for Draco and Potter to stand in front of him. Weasley taps Draco’s wrists with his wand and vanishes the chains, glaring at him the entire time as though Draco will find that intimidating. He steps up to stand beside Potter and tries to cover his nerves with a bored facade. This, he tries to convey, is nothing to him. He might get married to former rivals every day.

The ceremony begins although Draco is unsure the term should apply to seven people in a shabby parlour. Potter hasn't even put out an extra chair so his mother is left standing. Draco notices that no-one offers her a seat. Granger has come in and spared him a passing nod, which he returned uneasily and now she, Weasley and Weasley's mother sit on the sagging sofa and watch them, looking sorry for Potter and occasionally their eyes flicker towards Draco and his mother, expressions ranging from doubtful to outright disgusted. He realises his right hand is absentmindedly rubbing his left forearm and he drops it to his side. He repeats the words he's told to say, eyes fixed firmly on the solicitor's lapel pin as he vaguely hears Potter repeat his version of the same.

Then his mind blanks when the wizard concludes his part and finishes with, ‘...and a kiss shall seal them evermore.’

What?

Fortunately Potter seems just as aghast as he does as they both stare at the wizard who is reddening rapidly.

‘Not a chance,’ he says, just as Potter blurts out, ‘No way.’

Potter glares at him and he glares back. Of course he doesn't want to kiss Potter but it's bloody rude that Potter doesn't want to kiss him. Finally Draco looks into those vibrant green depths and experiences the usual electricity he feels when he sees how Potter looks at him. Angry, challenging, passionate. Draco remembers the lengths he used to go to to feel this kind of thrill. Still though, Draco is aware that everyone in the room is still staring at them and his freedom isn’t getting any closer by trading black looks with Potter.

‘It, um, it is required for the marr-uh, platonic union contract to be binding.’ the man stammers.

‘Oh for Merlin's sake,’ Draco hears himself snarl as he reaches out and grabs the sides of Potter's face and plants a hearty smack squarely on his lips.

‘Happy?’ he snaps irritably at the officiant. Potter looks slightly dazed and Draco curses the blush he can feel start to creep over his porcelain features. He's immediately angry with himself for how much it stirred something within him, that second of contact with warm, cologne-scented skin and clamps down on it harshly. He hears a snort come from the vicinity of the sofa and wonders if he could manage a wandless killing curse right now.

The curls bounce as the man fumbles with the book and finally looks up as their names appear in gold upon the page and proclaims them officially bound under wizard law. He produces the deed for the house and verifies that Draco’s name has also appeared on this, holding it up so they can all see the curling script with both their names.

Harry James Potter, Draco Lucius Malfoy.

The rosy hue on his cheeks mercifully starts to subside once they begin the Key Ceremony. Draco pays close attention to this, it's why he's here after all. He accepts the ornate iron key made for him, recites his vows to the house and finishes by lighting a fire in the hearth with his mother's wand, after a brief questioning glance to make sure Weasley isn't going to arrest him for using one. The incendio sparks and the lamps briefly flare, the key in his hand becoming warm and awash with resonance. There's a chord of understanding from the house that Draco feels to his bones and then all subsides into calm.

Draco hears a collective exhale and Potter immediately disappears out of the room, presumably to try the front door. Draco isn’t sure it will work that quickly but he’s hopeful too. He’s packed a bag for a few days just in case to allow the house, his house now, time to recognise him as an owner and hopefully allow Potter to leave. If his name on the deed alone doesn’t work then he’ll try bonding with it, doing all the things he’d do if he were its true owner. He suspects from the state of the place that Potter hasn't done any of them. He only hopes that Potter isn’t a massive prick about it all. Actually no, if he’s hoping for anything he hopes that Potter’s already skipping down the street and they can sign an annulment with the solicitor already here and he’ll be on his merry way, never to lay eyes on any of them ever again.

‘Ready to see the cellar?’ Weasley asks. Oh right, Draco remembers. He's being coerced into looking at some sort of dark magic coalescing in the cellar which they don't think is immediately dangerous but should be looked at by someone with expertise in dark magic and well, he's here anyway, credentials imprinted on his forearm.

Potter's back and looking furious and dejected and it makes Draco's heart sink.

‘No good.’ he says gruffly, his mouth set in a grim line. A stormy glare falls on Draco and his mother as though it's their fault.

‘It will take a while for the house to recognise the union. Perhaps a day or two.’ she says in a voice smooth as silver.

‘May I borrow your wand for the cellar, mother? I’ll need one.’ He adds to Weasley, ‘It was agreed it would be permitted?’

For some reason this causes a complete change in Potter's demeanour, like he has remembered something and is proud of himself for it.

‘Ah, hold on a tick,’ he says, gesturing through to the dining room, ‘Wait there, I’ll be right back.’

Molly Weasley apparently remembers her manners and asks his mother with some reluctance if she'd like some tea. It's a testament to his mother's good breeding that she only hesitates a fraction of a second before accepting with grace and accompanies her down the hall, leaving Draco alone with Weasley.

In the dining room there are slightly more signs of habitation, mainly in the haphazard stack of books laid out on the dining table. Which is actually gorgeous, he notes distractedly. Japanned and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, probably 18th Century. He doubts Potter appreciates it.

Draco stays standing but Weasley sits awkwardly in a straight-backed chair and ignores him completely. This suits him just fine and he stands near the wall and lets his fingertips gently brush the damasked surface.

Immediately he senses the dark magic, the house is brimming with it. There's also a surprising amount of personality there, the house is undoubtedly willful. It's also suspicious of him which isn’t ideal, he feels it starts to lash out at him, push back against his gentle probing. He pulls his fingers away as Potter enters and lays a wand on the table.

‘It was in my sock drawer.’ he says casually.

Draco stares because the wand on the table is hawthorn and achingly familiar.

‘You kept it?’ he’s astonished. He hadn't known what had happened to it, he'd assumed Potter had lost or broken it during the final battle or handed it into the Ministry.

‘Yeah, I always meant to give it back to you,’ he says, a little sheepishly.

‘You kept it,’ Draco continues, voice heavy with indignation, ‘in your sock drawer?’

Potter has the decency to look abashed. Draco rests his fingers on the table lightly next to the wand

‘Is this alright?’ he asks Weasley who jumps slightly, ‘I’m not breaking any rules?’

He waves dismissively, ‘As long as it's handed into Ministry custody afterwards.’

Potter looks mulish, ‘It is in Ministry custody, technically, I'm a Ministry employee aren't I?.’

Their petty bickering nicely distracts them both for a few moments as Draco works through his trepidation. The wand might not even work for him anymore. Potter had technically won it from him and it had never liked being used for dark magic. He wishes fervently that he was alone for this.

Well, better get on with it, he can't show any fear in front of Potter and Weasley. He picks up the wand and feels a warm rush through his fingertips and suddenly he has to swallow several times and blink back tears. It hasn't given up on him completely then. It's decided he might be worth a second chance. Or more likely it just got bored sitting in Potter's sock drawer.

He'll never forgive himself if he cries in front of this particular audience so he says, ‘Cellar then?’ to Weasley and his voice only shakes a little.

They stroll along the hall to the cellar door, Draco notes that the two of them still have that trademark Gryffindor slouching walk. Potter veers off at the last minute at the top of the stairs to check on Weasley’s mother, muttering something about checking that the knives are behaving themselves.

They head down, Draco's shoes making echoey taps on the stone staircase and yes, Draco can taste the dark magic in the air, a bitter tang that stings the nostrils. It's a typical cellar, all rough-hewn stone and criss crossing pipes overhead. There is a window above head height although the light struggles to make its way through the grime. Occasionally something will drip ominously. Despite the unseasonably warm September weather it's chill and dank down here. They head past old crates and wine racks covered in dust and Weasley points him towards an area cordoned off with thick black ropes.

Draco isn’t looking forward to this part but he determinedly rolls up his left sleeve to see the snake and skull looking back up at him. He taps his wand to them and mutters an incantation, noting that Weasley is looking at him with deep mistrust, hand ready on his wand. But one of the fundamental rules of magic is that like calls to like and dark magic will respond to other dark magic. Meaning the protection spell he’s casting right now is much more effective when channelled through the Mark. No wonder everyone had wanted one, he thinks sarcastically.

He takes a second to brush his thumb against the snakes’ jaw, as is his habit. Draco had assumed after Voldemort's death that it would come to look like his father's had done whenever he'd caught a glimpse of it - shrunken and blurry. But for whatever reason it looks exactly the same. Draco's feelings towards it are…complicated. It would be easy to loathe it, to see Voldemort every time he looked at it. But he'd had long nights in his prison cell staring at it and he'd come to feel almost possessive of it, a twisted mixture of pity and disgust for the boy who'd been so proud to receive it. The Mark couldn't help being what it was. I hate you but you're mine he'd whispered to it in the depths of night.

It's been a while but the snake coils obligingly around the skull and his wand shows none of its former reluctance. Funny that - must have something to do with intentions. He should ask someone versed in wand lore. Though probably not Ollivander, he thinks guiltily.

He ducks through the cordon and surveys the scene. It looks like a small black hole has opened in the floor of the cellar, but wait, no - Draco can see the sheen of liquid. It's a small pool of pure black substance. Weasley talks at him from beyond the rope.

‘We don't know how long it's been down here, can't find any evidence that anyone's done it deliberately. Robards checked the perimeter wards himself. He went absolutely mental about you coming here by the way but...’ he shrugs and gestures to convey Robards begrudging eventual acceptance of Draco's utility. It’s annoying, this constant cynicism they all have about him. He knows that all Aurors are naturally inclined to be suspicious but Merlin, they all act as though he's about to launch into a killing spree the second they take their eyes off him. As if he'd ever killed anyone, even when his own life had been on the line. And hadn't he helped? Hadn't he provided testimony against other Death Eaters? That had hardly been a picnic, you'd think they'd be more grateful.

Draco is casting exploratory charms while listening to Weasley and oh does it feel good to have a wand in his hand again. He syphons a tiny bit of the substance into a conjured jar and notes that it's viscous and oily in texture. It's definitely not from the house itself, it's something extraneous that's infected it. But Potter of all people wouldn't be dabbling in dark magic. He casts again, going through the various categories of dark magic to see what it reacts to and when the sticky ooze turns a deep crimson for a few moments, he's briefly baffled. Oh. Oh. He hadn't been expecting that. He thinks for a moment, then as a final test, slices a small cut into his left thumb and drops it into the jar. It hisses pleasingly and the two join, easily melding together and then subsides back into inky goo.

He thinks for a few moments then lets out a low chuckle. He ducks back under the cordon and faces Weasley.

‘Get Potter.’

He refuses to elaborate until he arrives, fetched by Weasley’s Patronus which takes the form of a small wire-haired terrier. Draco is pleased to see that Potter has shed his dress robes for a truly awful pair of jeans and t-shirt. It means Draco appears even more imposing as he looks down on him.

‘Oh look, it's my darling husband.’

He says it just to see the heat flare in those brilliant green eyes, which flick up from his exposed left arm. He’s going to enjoy this. He’s suddenly aware that he hasn't had the chance to properly annoy someone for over two years. Maybe he should have stretched first.

He cocks his head and lets the smirk sink into his tone,

‘Now Potter be honest, what did you break?’

Potter's eyes widen and he looks so truly confused that for a second Draco worries he might have got it wrong. But then the frown clears and the light dawns.

‘The mirror? In the attic?’

There we go. Inner-Draco lets out a sigh of relief.

‘Fetch it.’

‘But it was over two months ago! I repaired it myself just fine.’

But Draco just repeats his order and Potter slopes away, muttering about ‘saying please’. Draco waits the few minutes it takes basking in an anticipatory glow that can't even be rattled by Weasley's mutinous scowl.

Potter returns, levitating the mirror and Draco examines it, being careful not to look into it - if it is what he thinks it is then he'd rather not. He props the mirror upright and conjures a cloth to cover it, then turns to face Potter and Weasley, smiling like a crup with a bone.

‘The good news is I suspect I know what's caused your current predicament Potter. Someone in the Black family was quite the fan of Dark Artefacts. I believe you're both familiar with the Mirror of Erised?’

Potter and Weasley both look startled as though they hadn’t bragged to the entire school about the events of their first year.

‘This mirror looks like a rather crude replica. Now this,’ Draco indicates the pool beyond the ropes, ‘is showing significant traces of something called Desiderium Profundus. It brings any hidden yearnings to the surface.. When the mirror broke it seeped into the structure and now it's combined with the various blood wards and protective spells and it's affecting the house’s behaviour.’

He takes a pause because this is the best part.

‘Which means,’ he says mockingly, ‘that I have competition for your affections.’

He lets the words sink in, delights in the confused horror they cause. Sweet Salazar he should get a pensieve for this moment. Potter especially looks utterly dumbfounded.

‘So what, Grimmauld Place has a…a hidden yearning for me? Like it's in love with me?’

Gleeful as he is, Draco can’t let the inaccuracy stand.

‘Poor Potter, assuming everything is all about you. It's obvious what the house wants. It's a magical dwelling, it wants an owner that cares for it properly and attends to its duties. Which judging by the state of it, you have not. My guess is it's decided to press the issue, so to speak.’ He remembers that brief brush upstairs, the snarling mistrust, fear, hatred.

‘What duties? Was I supposed to do something?’ Potter's big green eyes are all confusion and frustration, ‘Either way, how does treating me like shit or trapping me in here get it what it wants?’

Draco opens his mouth to point out that treating someone like shit can often be a façade but abruptly shuts it again because he doesn't need Potter drawing any parallels. Instead he rounds on Weasley, who is standing there looking gormless as usual,

‘Don't think you're off the hook for this either, why didn't any of your lot tell him about house duties?’

‘I thought Sirius must've done it or Kreacher would've left him instructions or something,’ Weasley pouts plaintively, then looks at Harry guiltily, ‘sorry mate, I should have checked.’

Potter turns to him, ‘So there's stuff I should be doing and I haven't been doing it and that's why I'm stuck here?’

Draco rolls his eyes and just about restrains himself from clapping.

Weasley wrinkles his nose at this, ‘I’ve never heard of a house behaving like this. Normally if you don't do House Duties the magic just fades.’

‘I've been here two years and it was empty before then for ages, other than the Order, shouldn't it have faded already?’

‘Uh…well I assume Walburga delegated the duties to Kreacher while Sirius was in Azkaban, that's allowed. And I mean, we all assumed you'd been doing them, I've had meetings with Robards where…oh god I'm going to have to tell him aren't I?’ Weasley looks panic stricken.

‘Can I do them now then?’ Potter asks, as if this is a homework deadline he's missed. Draco pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to stave off the scornful laugh that's threatening to come out.

‘My god Potter, it must be lovely to be you, rattling around in that empty head, just bumbling into everything with your naive heroics. No you can't just do them now. It's a slow process, it would take three to six months, maybe even a year. And that's if you went through the formality of a proper Key Ceremony which I'm guessing you didn't. But now I’m here, it will hopefully give up on you.’

Potter looks annoyed, ‘I don’t want it to give up on me, it’s still my house!’

Draco is getting annoyed. Good grief, does Potter want to leave or doesn’t he? He bites his tongue and says, ‘I merely meant that the house will stop being quite so possessive of you in particular. And I've spelled the mirror to absorb the Desiderium and the house will eventually go back to normal.’

Well, normal for a house filled to the rafters with dark magic. He has a sneaking suspicion that he knows why the magic hasn't just ‘faded’ as Weasley says but he's not volunteering that right now.

‘How come you know about the mirror? The real one?’ Potter asks, a faint trace of suspicion in his voice. He looks back at Ron and Draco isn’t happy with the look they share between them. Merlin, what are they going to accuse him of now?

‘Everyone knows about the mirror.’ he replies flatly, folding his arms across his chest.

‘Still though,’ Weasley says, his tone falsely light and dripping with scepticism, ‘it’s quite the coincidence that you come in and know all about this Desiderry stuff. Very fortuitous.’

Draco sighs internally, resisting the urge to point out that fortuitous is an awfully big word for Weasley to manage. Instead he takes a deep breath and speaks slowly,

‘I found the real one once. In the Room of Hidden Things. I was curious as to how it worked so I examined it and looked into the magic that was inside it.’
Both Weasley and Potter have raised their eyebrows into their hairlines at this and Draco feels far too close to the edge of vulnerability for his liking, compounded when Potter, clearly brimming with curiosity, just asks him straight out,

‘What did you see?’ The most personal fucking question and he just asks it like he’s asking if Draco takes sugar in his tea.

‘Your mum sucking my cock.’ Draco spits before he can stop himself.

‘Don’t-’ Weasley starts, nearly tripping over himself to rush to Potter’s defence. Draco is reminded of his Patronus again, an eager little barking dog. Potter puts up a calming hand to dissuade him from further interruption and turns back to Draco, eyes dancing with fiery amusement.

‘It’s alright Ron, I’m sure Malfoy can learn to control his temper now that he’s a married man.’

Draco grits his teeth, catching the little smirk on Potter’s face. He’s getting far too worked up, as always. His face is probably going embarrassingly red and splotchy as well, an added visual illustration of his lack of self-control.

Potter holds out his hand and says sweetly, ‘So if you're done here… Your wand, please.’

Draco knows a power play when he sees one and squares his shoulders, draws himself up to his full height and looks him dead in the eye with aristocratic disdain as he places his wand in the palm of his hand. There’s a long moment of charged tension between them.

Draco breaks it with a slight growl and pushes past Potter to head for the stairs. Mostly because he needs to leave before he says something he regrets but also because he’s absolutely furious with himself for still having a hopeless crush on Harry fucking Potter.

Still. He has a proper chance to leave, to France, to freedom. He just has to keep away from Potter as much as possible and maintain a rigid civility.

And it honestly might have worked, he thinks a few days later…if they hadn't ended up in bed together the next day.

Chapter Text

Harry sleeps neatly, tucked into the covers in a curled up position on one side of the bed. A vestigial stillness from his formative years spent in a cramped space. Malfoy, Harry presumes, has only ever known the luxury of a large bed to sleep in, which explains why he wakes each morning with a big starfish stretch that reaches across the entire mattress..

Which is how Harry wakes up with a long-fingered hand accidentally brushing his face.

Which is how he realises he's sharing a bed with Draco Malfoy. And how Malfoy realises he's sharing a bed with him.

Their cries of shock and horror are perfect mirrors, twins in dismay. Although Harry definitely considers he has the worst end of the deal. At least Malfoy's wearing pyjamas.

‘What-oh my god, are you naked Potter?!’ he yelps.

‘No!’ Harry starts blushing furiously and tugs the covers up to his armpits - he's wearing boxers, although it occurs to him that it's not up to him to defend his choice of sleep attire.

‘What the hell are you doing in here, Malfoy?’

‘What am I doing…?’ Malfoy looks around and confusion reigns on his face, ‘this isn't my room?’

‘No it’s not,’ Harry growls, ‘and how did you unlock your door?’

That had been one of the conditions of his staying here, being locked in nightly by Harry. He’d wondered if Malfoy would raise a fuss, if it would remind him too much of Azkaban but he’d gone in meekly enough, even if he had given Harry a sarcastic little wave which had turned into giving him the finger as the door closed.

‘I didn’t unl-oh…oh shit,’ Malfoy looks stricken, runs a hand over his face, ‘it must have been the house.’

Harry stares at him, unable to process this while his mind is still occupied by the sheer impossibility of the fact that Malfoy is in his bed. Malfoy in his bed wearing blue cotton pyjamas. With sleep-mussed hair and a faint pillow line on his left cheek. It’s too surreal, he almost wonders if he can refuse to accept it.

‘It used to happen sometimes at the Manor,’ Malfoy explains hastily, eyes fixed away from Harry, ‘when my parents would have a dispute and my father would try to sleep in another room, he'd wake up back in their room. The house would just put them back where it thought they should be. My mother hated it, she always claimed the house did it to annoy her.’

‘Wait so…’ Harry blinks, irritated that again Malfoy seems to have more knowledge of Grimmauld Place than he does. Malfoy who’s looking at him when he’s half naked. Malfoy who’s in his bed. He’s vaguely appalled that refusing to accept it hasn’t worked.

‘So Grimmauld place thinks we should both be in here because we’re-?’

‘Yes Potter, if I have to spell it out for you, it’s because we are-’

‘Platonically…unioned.’ Harry cuts in, almost stuttering with embarrassment but still unable to reconcile Malfoy and married in the same sentence. Marriage is a thing he knows from Molly and Arthur or hearing about his own parents and it means things. He'd rolled his eyes at Jervins trying to soften the term but now it comes to it he clings to it like a life raft.

Malfoy gives him a look which Harry interprets as a kind of amused pity.

‘It's just a piece of paper you know. It doesn't mean anything.’

‘Tell that to the house,’ Harry snarls, ‘How do we stop it? Is it going to happen again?’ The most important thing, the Most Important Thing to Harry right now is that this doesn’t happen again.

Malfoy, the bastard, shrugs and says, ‘What are you worried about, that I might have designs on your chastity belt? Don’t flatter yourself. And at least we know the house recognises the…union. Might actually be a good sign.’

‘I’m struggling to see the bright side of this, Malfoy.’

This is met with a scowl and Malfoy flings the covers off himself and scoots off the bed.

‘Well this is your bloody fault Potter, you and my mother sneaking around behind my back and tricking me into coming into this lunatic asylum. If you don’t like my presence then you’re welcome to rot here for all I care.’

He strides angrily out the room, leaving Harry still clutching the bedclothes to his chest.

What a way to wake up, he shudders at the memory of the bush of a strange hand spidering its way over his face.

Malfoy reluctantly stomps back into the room pointedly averting his gaze from Harry's reclined form.

‘Potter you need to put some clothes on and come unlock my door.’

Harry sighs. Well at least this day can’t possibly get any worse.

…..

This day is getting so, so much worse.

Draco doesn't notice at first. He moseys down to the kitchen after dressing, determined to look aristocratic and untouchable in a starched shirt and waistcoat after the indignity of the early morning.

He recalls being struck with a sudden pang of sympathy for Potter, Salazar knows why. It was the way he'd twisted himself into knots trying to avoid the term ‘married’. Draco had realised in the split second of watching him fumble over the word that unlike him, Potter hadn't been brought up with the expectation that his marriage would be arranged, approved and presided over by matchmaking parents, preceded by a stringent negotiation period that he'd have no part in and finally a ceremony to someone he didn't like much. Hell, Draco considered this fiasco a cut above what he'd been expecting, at least Potter was his preferred gender. He'd spent most of his late teens reconciling himself to thoughts of a disappointed wife and the necessities of alcohol and potions to perform his marital duties.

But Potter had probably thought he was going to marry for love. That he'd be happy and smiling and all his friends would be there to watch him wed his sweetheart. The thought had tugged at his foolish, romantic heart a little.

He makes himself tea and even leaves some in the teapot for his platonic not-husband, angel that he is. He wanders into the dim hallway and tries to map the floorplan of the house. Kitchen, dining room, living room, front parlour, stairs to cellar, stairs to first floor. Each room is gently mouldering in its own way, Potter’s haphazard belongings looking desperately out of place in the atmosphere of stately decay. Draco notices Auror’s robes flung over the arm of a sofa, a pile of Quibbler magazines on the coffee table and a Gryffindor scarf on the hatrack in the hall which Draco touches gently to feel the familiar woollen fibres, identical to his silver and green one at the Manor. Hogwarts feels like a lifetime ago now.

He'd been reminded of Hogwarts yesterday too, of goodbyes on the platform of Kings Cross when his mother had taken his head in her hands and kissed his forehead and called him her ‘beautiful boy’, the only difference being that now she had to stand on tiptoes to do it and his father wasn't there hissing at her to ‘stop coddling him’ and ‘people can see’.

‘I know this isn't something you would have chosen,’ she'd said, ‘but I've been so grateful to have these last eight months with you.’

And for a second he'd felt horribly guilty at the thought of her returning to the Manor alone, a prison of its own sort. But she understood he needed to leave. Not just the Manor but quite frankly, life as Draco Malfoy. Firstly because his name was mud in most circles but also because he now had some opinions on muggles that were decidedly un-Malfoyish. He'd remembered last minute that he still had a book belonging to Mr. Greer and had made her promise to return it but from the looks of her face, he doubted she ever would. She had no obligation to the man now, there was no court order in place saying she had to take Muggle Studies three times a week. And that was the thing with his mother, he loved her but he wasn't ever sure if he could fully trust her.

He had the sense that she felt the same way about him, just before she had left she had licked her lips nervously, eyes darting to the Mark on his exposed arm. ‘You won’t…?’ she had started and then stopped, a smooth mask coming over her features and she had given him a final squeezing hug and left. He had understood nonetheless. He knew she had found it disturbing how often his nervous fingers found occupation in stroking the design, gently tracing the outline with a forefinger or rubbing his palm over the fabric of his shirtsleeve. You won’t draw attention to it she had wanted to say but hadn't because Draco’s retort would have doubtless offended. They just didn't talk about some things. The War, Draco's father and his sexuality were all top of the list.

Well. No sense in dwelling on the past. It might speed things up if he tries to bond with the house as a Pureblood and a Black and now is as good a time as any to start. He'd stretched the truth a little with Potter yesterday. Bonding with a house is typically a slow process and he'd normally never approach it this crassly but it is possible, if he's careful. The kitchen is undoubtedly the friendliest room so he heads back there, sits at the table and braces his hands against the wooden surface.

He can do it at the Manor, touch the wall or an old piece of furniture and feel the pulse of magic coursing through it, instantly know what the house elves are making for dinner or what room his mother is in. Know as well, how the house feels. That it thrums with anticipation before Christmas, feels languid and slow in hot summer nights, has a foreboding feeling before a thunderstorm. It's a cumulation of all the inhabitants but greater than the sum of its parts in so many ways. He remembers how proud his father was when he walked in for dinner at five years old and announced that the house wanted new curtains in the study because it was jealous of the ones in the dining room. It had been a sign that he was going to be an excellent heir to the Manor. He can sense Grimmauld Place now, feel the same aggravated pushback he got from the dining room but he was right, it’s mellower in here. Even so, it’s got an incredibly strong presence, arrogant and headstrong but now that he’s looking he senses an almost overwhelming loneliness to it as well. That might be the Desiderium stirring it up. It starts to soften towards him slightly, almost a reluctant curiosity. And even though it would never admit it, it likes the attention. Draco smiles at that.

He hears Potter clatter down the stairs and stops for the moment; regardless of feeling he'll have to find another room less prone to disruption.

He's expecting Potter’s arrival in the kitchen but instead he hears him head for the front door. Testing again if he can leave. Draco listens carefully, hopefully. He hears Potter fumble with the handle and lock, then again, then louder, insistent and desperate. Then footsteps again, faster and heavier, through the front parlour and dining room. More rattling. Alohahomora is shouted several times, which does nothing to dispel Draco's mounting anxiety.

Loud footsteps and then wild-eyed, Potter appears in the doorway.

‘What did you do?!’ he asks urgently.

Draco stares at him in confusion.

‘What did I do?’ he asks, nonplussed.

‘I think we’re locked in.’

‘I mean…yes? That's what we're doing here? I can't leave, you can't leave?’

He's finally cracked, Draco thinks, the strain of everything has broken his brain. Closely tailgated by, they're going to blame me for this.

Harry is shaking his head, agitatedly.

‘No you prat, locked in. As in all the windows and doors are sealed and the floo shuttered. Not even Ron and Hermione will be able to come in.’

Draco gives a short, sarcastic reply about the three of them being joined at the hip but Potter doesn't even seem to hear him. Instead, he hurries off to check the living room windows.Such a Gryffindor need to run around like this, Draco will just need to wait until he’s got it out of his system and then he’ll offer an entirely more sensible suggestion. He doesn’t know what it is yet but he has full confidence that he’ll think of something. He hopes. He feels a tiny bubble of frustration in his stomach - what the hell is wrong with this house?

Potter has completed a thorough check of the downstairs and is pacing the hallway, ranting to himself. Or possibly to Draco, it's hard to tell.

‘-stuck with you in this stupid place with that cow screaming behind the curtains and the stupid mirror-’

‘A...cow? In here?’

Potter's stream of consciousness is briefly paused as he waves a hand at Draco.

‘Walburga Black. Her portrait. It's there, I keep it covered and there’s a silencing charm on the curtains.’

Draco's incredulous and arrests Potter's progress with a hand on his arm.

‘You mean to tell me there's a portrait here who might have actual useful information about the house and you've neglected to mention it until now?’

A dismissive snort from Potter, ‘Oh she's never been useful, doesn't stop screaming at me for long enough.’

‘To you maybe. Did you tell my mother? No of course not, why would you do something that sensible. Let me talk to her.’

And so Draco is led down the hall by Potter who honestly looks like he's been asked to poke a sleeping dragon. Draco however is filled with cautious optimism - portraits tended to be closely tied to their residences and at the very least she should be familiar with some of the layers of magic permeating the place.

Potter stops in front of a pair of heavy dark velvet curtains and turns to look back at Draco, ‘I just want you to remember that you asked for this.’

He throws the curtains back dramatically then stands to one side, his face screwed up and fingers in both ears. Draco for his part, looks at the portrait in bemusement. Potter eventually realises there's a distinct lack of screaming and dares to take a look, then openly gapes as he and Draco both stare at an empty frame.

Walburga Black is gone.

……

Harry is ready to tear his own hair out. He sent his Patronus out to Ron and Hermione two hours ago and is still waiting for one back. He briefly considers whether Ron was in fact right and the Malfoy's are behind all this somehow. It is suspicious that this escalation has happened so soon after his arrival. Or maybe he just wants someone to blame. Maybe being suspicious of Malfoy is just a default position for him, it's impossible for him to be objective towards the posh git considering their history.

He realises he hasn't seen Malfoy in a while and stealthily surveys the stuffy ground floor rooms until he comes to the kitchen, the only room which has opening windows and a peeling door which leads onto the garden. It's open now, ajar and swinging slightly in the breeze and Harry can see Malfoy in the garden beyond. Harry has already confirmed that the garden boundary is just as impenetrable but the airflow feels nice and it's still warm enough to enjoy the elements when it's not raining. It's a long, narrow space and almost completely wild, he hasn't bothered doing anything to it, something he can tell annoys Neville when he’s visited.

‘You could plant herbs Harry or that shady spot would be perfect for Dittany if you trimmed the holly tree back a bit…’

But Harry has resisted, mostly under the guise of disinterestedness but it's also because he secretly likes it wild. Grimmauld Place’s magic has seeped into the earth and the lush tangle of weeds and foliage bursts forth with riotous colour, sometimes completely inappropriate to season or region. Harry finds it delightful. Plus in his pettier moments he thinks about how much Aunt Petunia would hate it and that makes him feel warm inside.

He steps out there now and upon his approach Malfoy raises his arm, in what to Harry’s first glance looks like a duelling position. Harry's reaction is to adopt a defensive posture and sure enough he feels something hard strike his left shoulder, making him gasp. But Malfoy doesn’t have a wand, how could he…? He looks down at a small ball which has dropped between his feet.

‘Nice reflexes Potter,’ Malfoy deadpans. Harry can feel the smirk in his words. He picks up the ball and turns it over in his hands. It's tiny and there's a small pair of wings drawn on it. A practice snitch.

He tosses it back, a bit harder than he should but Malfoy doesn't even blink as he shoots his arm out to catch it. He's discarded the waistcoat and opened his collar, sleeves rolled up and Dark Mark exposed again, same as in the cellar. Harry feels a jolt of anger prick his spine.

Malfoy throws the ball again but this time aims at the garden wall and catches it when it rebounds. He's got a good throwing arm and Harry watches as the ball slams into the wall and whizzes like a bullet back into Malfoy's waiting hand. He's just about to ask Malfoy why the fuck he's playing catch with himself instead of something more useful when he feels another thump, on his chest this time - at least he manages to half-clutch it this time before it drops.

‘Merlin Potter, are you this alert on the job?’

Harry glowers at him, wanting to wipe the smirk off his face.

‘What's the point of this exactly? Strengthening your wanking arm?’

‘Helps me think. I can understand why that would be a foreign concept to you.’ he jeers.

Harry whips the ball at him and Malfoy has to fumble to make the catch, which Harry feels pathetically good about.

Malfoy doesn't hold back with his next throw but Harry is ready this time and gets it easily. He makes the next toss deliberately underpowered and is pleased when Malfoy makes an annoyed grunt as his hand fails to connect.

‘I suppose that's one-all then,’ he drawls, the light of competition flaring quietly in his eyes.

Harry never could resist a challenge from Malfoy and for a while they keep up the rally. Malfoy is athletic with lightning reflexes and has clearly had more practice but Harry is tenacious and more willing to fling himself around and dive for the ball. When Harry finally evens the score again to 2-2 they're both lightly panting and Harry feels a sheen of sweat on his brow. Unfairly Malfoy doesn't even seem to sweat, instead his skin just becomes more luminous, his hair artfully flopping over his forehead.

Malfoy balances the ball on his palm and then starts and looks past him.

‘Weasley?’

Harry turns and feels the ball impact his arm and fall inevitably to the ground.

Malfoy hoots with laughter, ‘You really must be the most gullible Auror out there Potter. Do they even bother sending you out or just use you for target practise?’

Harry summons the ball grumpily.

‘Laugh it up Malfoy, your track record against me with an actual snitch is still abysmal. Is that why you're using this thing?’

‘Not allowed a real one,’ Malfoy says promptly, his smile falling, ‘Condition of my house arrest. No wand, no magical artefacts. No snitches, no brooms. Even the toy one from when I was a child. You Aurors certainly are thorough.’

‘Ah.’ Harry feels awkward, ‘well you'll get them back soon, I suppose.’

‘I doubt it,’ Malfoy says grimly, his mouth set in a thin line, ‘they snapped them.’

Harry inhales sharply, a hissing intake of air between his teeth. Malfoy looks at him strangely but Harry is distracted by the appearance of a gleaming silver otter he recognises as Hermione’s. Finally.

Malfoy slopes back into the kitchen as Harry listens. Hermione’s voice is succinct; ‘Look behind you.’

Harry swivels and sees the top of a bushy head protruding over the garden wall, around eight feet off the ground. He fetches a rickety ladder that lies forgotten next to an ancient shed, a quick Reparo and then climbs up to meet her.

She's wobbling on a garden bench that she's levitating.

‘Sorry Harry, I had to wait for him to leave so I could sneak in.’ she jerks her head towards the house belonging to Harry's unsuspecting Muggle neighbour, ‘I've repaired his gate and put a growing charm on his begonias as a thank you.’

Of course you have, Harry thinks. He feels a swell of affection for her.

‘Won't be able to stay long, I don't want to have to obliviate the poor man if I can help it. But I just wanted to test-’

She points her wand and confidently proclaims some latin, then reaches forward and Harry can see the resistance in the air solidifying, the wards and protective spells shimmering as she tries to push her hand through. Eventually she drops back, disappointed and nearly losing her balance.

‘Damn. Well it was worth a shot. Jervins thinks that it's temporary anyway.’

‘Mr. Shampoo-advert? Ok, but why-?’

‘Erm,’ Hermione looks a little embarrassed, ‘he thinks that the house is trying to give you two a bit of…time alone together.’

‘Time alo-oh.’ Harry can feel himself blushing, ‘Oh Merlin.’

Time alone with a new spouse. It would explain why the house put them in bed together this morning. Explain why it's essentially hung a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door.

‘He was very interested to learn that the house duties haven't been done in a while.’ Interested, Harry interprets as ‘shocked, horrified, and asked several times if Harry was mentally sound’ but he appreciates Hermione’s diplomacy.

‘So…how is it going? With Malfoy.’

Harry shrugs, ‘He’s being ok. Annoying but I can cope.’

A tiny look of relief crosses Hermione's face.

‘That's good. I didn't tell you but we've written to each other a few times over the past year. I-well, I think he’s changed. But I wanted to give you a chance to see for yourself.’

Harry blinks, surprised. So much so, that the first thing he blurts out is,

‘Does Ron know?’

‘Wha-yes of course Ron knows,’ she looks annoyed, a frown wrinkling her nose, ‘it's not as though I need his permission. And anyway, Malfoy's gay.’

‘Oh,’ Harry takes a second to process this. He likes men himself, it definitely shouldn't be a shock that anyone else does. Nevertheless, he feels a bit put out, ‘how do you know that?’

‘Luna. He's been writing to her too. He asked her for advice on coming out to his mother.’

There was a tiny reproach in there that Harry feels rather than hears. He should have made more of an effort to stay in touch with Luna. He sees Hermione still looking ruffled and adds,

‘I didn't mean anything by it, asking about Ron. Just that it's Malfoy and with his family…’

‘No I know, I know.’ she raises a placating hand, ‘he was uncertain at first. But the letters aren't exactly friendly per se, I mean you can see them. I'm going to Germany this week but I’ll send them round.’

‘You're going to Germany?’ Another thing he’s out of the loop on.

‘Sorry, I know the timing is awful. I've been putting it off for a few weeks but Ron will be around, he won’t be able to do this every day but he can check the front door on his way to work.’

Harry feels terrible, he's been so focused on himself and his own predicament and his friends have been running around after him putting off living their own lives for him again.

‘Oh yes and Molly forgot to leave you this yesterday,’ she reaches into her robes and pulls out a parcel, tossing it to him. Harry catches it, glad he's just had the practice with Malfoy. Molly always keeps his kitchen stocked to the gills with ingredients for him under heavy stasis charms, which Harry knows is to encourage him to cook but it’s always a treat when she leaves him proper meals. Makes a change from all the takeaway.

‘Thank you. And I’ll write and thank Molly. I'll let you go before you fall, don't worry about me. Enjoy Germany.’

After he's seen her safely float down to the ground then climbs down and heads back into the kitchen. Malfoy is there and has clearly been rummaging, he's got the ingredients laid out in front of him for sandwiches and is occupied in spreading mayonnaise on a slice of bread.

‘Want one?’ he gestures to a stack he's already made. It's a little presumptuous to Malfoy to just go through his cupboards, Harry thinks, but for him to offer Harry anything is practically heroic behaviour for him, so he'll overlook it.

‘Thanks,’ Harry takes one and looks at it dubiously, ‘wouldn't have thought you'd know how to make anything for yourself. No offence.’

Malfoy shrugs, then licks a tiny bit of mayo off his thumb.

‘I had a Muggle Studies tutor, condition of my house arrest. He insisted I learn how to cook, apparently it's an essential skill. So now I can make three things: sandwiches, hot chocolate and lemon drizzle cake. The house elves weren't happy, they said the kitchen always looked like a Niffler had been through.’

Harry stares at him. It's the longest sentence Malfoy's ever said to him that hasn't had an insult lodged in there somewhere. He watches Malfoy frown in concentration as he slices a sandwich in two perfect halves with a bread knife.

‘House elves?’ Harry says sharply, thinking of Dobby. Malfoy looks at him and flicks his eyebrow up.

‘Free elves Potter, with contracts and pay and holidays, the lot. My mother is very keen to rehabilitate our image and caring for the ‘lesser beings’ is very en vogue at the moment.’

He puts air quotes around ‘lesser beings’ but Harry still doesn't like the term. And Malfoy's sleeves are still rolled up, flaunting the Dark Mark in Harry's face. He purses his lips but decides to leave it for now. He chews his sandwich, which is pretty good actually, though perhaps a little heavy on the mustard. An odd detail resurfaces.

‘Why lemon drizzle cake?’

Malfoy takes his plate and sits at the kitchen table. He looks surprised at the question.

‘It's the house elves' favourite. Mr. Greer asked me what I wanted to make and I thought it might make up for destroying the kitchen somewhat.’

It's so nice that it's startling and Harry wonders if he's being purposely confusing to keep him off-balance.

‘Just the three things then?’

Malfoy swallows his bite and looks annoyed.

‘I had less than a year Potter, good grief.’

Harry laughs, because it's funny and also because the whole situation is so strange. It's bizarre seeing Malfoy in his kitchen, sitting at the honey-coloured wooden table, his legs tucked neatly underneath. Seeing him so unbuttoned and casual, talking about making lemon drizzle cake for house elves. He takes a seat next to him and starts on another sandwich.

‘What did Granger have to say?’

I think he's changed.

‘She said they think it's temporary,’ he gestures to the house, ‘the keeping people out thing.’

Malfoy's mouth quirks up.

‘House wants us to have a honeymoon?’ he says. Harry’s mouth drops open.

‘How did you know?’

Malfoy has picked up his knife and is studying the Black family crest on the handle.

‘It doesn't take a genius to work it out. This is a strange house.’

‘Too right it is.’

‘I wouldn't mind taking a look at some of the research.’

‘Help yourself. It's all in the dining room. Molly Weasley has sent a food parcel so there'll be something in the fridge when you're hungry.’

‘Ah.’ Malfoy shifts uncomfortably in his seat and says with faux lightness, ‘Should I check for poisons?’

Harry feels a flare of anger for Molly who has lost so much and then a stab of guilt at himself. He'd almost let himself forget Fred and Bill, was almost getting comfortable with someone who bore more than a little bit of responsibility for what had happened to them. Was he so easily distracted by stories of lemon drizzle cake and a single conversation where Malfoy hadn't acted like an absolute shit?

‘No. That sort of thing is still your department, Malfoy.’ he says, voice filled with acid.

There's a pause as tension infuses the air. Malfoy lets the knife drop onto the empty plate in front of him, rattling the china and smiles mirthlessly,

‘Heaven forbid I make a single comment without the past getting thrown back in my face.’

‘You want to talk about throwing something in my face? What about this?’ Harry's arm snaps out and he grabs Malfoy's wrist. Malfoy lets out a tiny hiss as Harry twists the Dark Mark into view, the skull and snake livid against his pale skin, ‘Cover it up. I don't want to see it in my house.’

‘Why?’ Malfoy's tone is dangerous and silky, ‘Will you forget it's there if you can't see it?’

‘Never!’

‘Not much point in hiding it then, is there?’ Malfoy snatches his arm back and stands, pink spots on his cheeks and teeth gritted. He's balled his hands into fists and Harry reaches for his wand without thinking.

Malfoy sees the movement and freezes. There's a long moment where he stands there staring at Harry, his face blank and ashen. Harry hears his heart thudding dully in his ears but he relaxes his grip and forces his muscles to un-tense a fraction.

‘Just stay out of my way until we can leave, Malfoy.’ he mutters.

Malfoy exits the kitchen and Harry doesn't see him for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

Draco is trying to listen to the house again.

It’s the next day and he’s sitting cross-legged in what appears to be an abandoned teenagers bedroom on the third floor. It's not as good as the kitchen but it will have to do for now, the Slytherin banners are certainly a welcoming sight. His palms are braced on the floor beside him and he’s feeling the wood-grain and focussing on the energy held within.

Merlin, this house is an absolute maelstrom of feeling. The Manor is a kitten by comparison. It's clearly been bolstered by a steady diet of dark magic. And then of course, it's been compounded by being neglected for so long. He doesn't really blame Potter for that, although it is typical of his thick-headedness that he's lived in the most bloody sentient house Draco has ever seen and has seemingly been oblivious to it.

His mother would have been perfect at this, being a proper Black. The house would have opened itself up to her more willingly. But no, she made it clear she won’t even visit. Even if he asks. She wants him to do this on his own, to play hero for Potter’s benefit. The prick.

Yesterday had gone badly.

Firstly there had been the game in the garden. He hadn’t meant it to happen at all, he’d only gone out there thinking the exercise would calm his nerves. And then he’d meant to irk Potter because annoying him was second nature and had succeeded. But when he’d actually started playing…Merlin. He’d found Potter so damn attractive when he was playing Quidditch and apparently that feeling was true even if they were on the ground. The corded muscles flexing in the forearms when he threw, when he dived for the ball and his t-shirt had ridden up over the flat plane of his stomach with the line of hair running from his belly button into his jeans…good grief. Draco had had to resort to trickery to finish the game early, it was that or dive head first into the water butt. Even in the kitchen afterwards, when he’d stood next to Draco, leaning against the counter and looking at him with those intense green eyes it had taken quite an effort to focus and ignore how close he was. He will allow himself some grace in this area though, it’s not his fault that he’s been deprived of any sort of companionship of that nature for two years. If anything he should get a medal for not humping the statues in the Manor gardens. As it is his discipline had extended to only one wanking session last night picturing Potter panting underneath him in the garden, getting grass stains all over those godawful jeans.

The vicious exchange they’d had, he was partly to blame for that too. He had rolled up his sleeves, figuring Potter would have to get used to seeing the Mark. And he had been insulting and callous. It’s supremely stupid of him. He was clinging to the remnants of his previous personality when dealing with him because it was comfortable and familiar, like slipping on an old jumper. But in doing so he was making it all too easy for Potter to see him as nothing but his childhood foe, the person who had taunted him for years at Hogwarts and Draco worries greatly what Potter would do to get revenge upon that person. And then Potter had grabbed his arm and started to pull his wand out and Draco had suddenly been acutely aware of how very, very fragile the current state of affairs was. Potter was an Auror, the Saviour, the Chosen One. Draco was still technically a criminal, returning to Azkaban was still a distinct possibility for him. He absolutely had to be cleverer about this.

The house had moved him again into Potter’s bed when he’d finally gotten to sleep - in a different room no less, did Potter really think he could outwit the house by moving a door down? Fortunately he’d awoken against a very sturdy pillow barrier that his betrothed must have constructed so he’d just got up and walked back to his own room, which thankfully Potter had left unlocked. He hadn’t even peeked to see if Potter was naked again.

Draco exhales and calms his mind.

Progress is slow but he is making some headway. He's only getting the top level stuff at the moment, predominantly that overwhelming feeling of loneliness, a few memories filtering through of a dark haired teenager flopping around dramatically. It's draining though, he has to work hard at his Occlumency to keep the houses' feelings from infecting his own. He opts for a break and to have a hot drink to calm his nerves and curses his luck because Potter is sitting at the kitchen table, hands clasped around a mug and a tight frown pulling at his eyebrows, immersed in his own thoughts.

He could take a photo and call it something like ‘The Hero Broods’ and collect fifty galleons from Witch Weekly, Draco muses. They'd probably go wild for it, Potter sitting there looking unkempt in battered jeans and a faded t-shirt. That's what bothers Draco the most, the scruffiness of the man. When he finally gets his first date, he's going to go for someone who knows how to dress and do their hair. And doesn't have holes in their socks. But damn if he doesn’t understand the appeal. In his current state of sexual deprivation Potter's slovenliness goes straight to the base of Draco’s spine and into his filthiest fantasies. He gives himself a little shake because right now he's no better than bloody Witch Weekly.

Potter's come back from wherever his mind had taken him and has realised Draco is in the kitchen. Not that this has done anything to alleviate the frown. Draco turns his back to him and does a surreptitious warming charm on the teapot which is one of the only spells he can do wandlessly and non-verbal. It had been a bloody necessity in Azkaban where everything was cold, and Draco had had to miserably endure for three months until he'd finally got it working right. He can feel Potter's eyes glaring daggers into the back of his head and so he focuses on the comforting smell of black tea and on the rough wooden counter under his palm, taking in the faint, ghostly residual memories of meals prepared and crumbs spilled. He sighs a tiny sigh. This room is definitely the friendliest in the house - he should try listening here again when Potter’s not in here.

He has no idea what prompts it but he pauses at the doorway and half turns. He can see Potter in his periphery, stirring his tea with a teaspoon, also adorned with the Black family crest. His family too, he supposes. Pureblooded and so proud of it. And gone. Maybe they’d even been happy in here once.

It’s a nice kitchen, Draco thinks. It doesn’t deserve to be lonely.

‘Potter?’

‘What?’

He almost says something. It’s on the tip of his tongue.

But as quickly as the impulse came, it leaves and he clamps his mouth shut. Shut up, stay out of Potter's way like he asked and get out of here as soon as possible, that was the safest route.

‘Nothing.’

…..

Malfoy’s up to something, Harry just knows it.

He can only smile wryly to himself for how little things have changed, it's like being back in sixth year again. And it's not paranoia, he says firmly to himself. It's his house and he should know what Malfoy's doing in it. And he needs to write something in his daily owls to Robards and Ron that isn't ‘Still can't leave, nothing new to report.’

Plus he was right that time in sixth year and he's sure he's right now. For one thing there's the house itself. Grimmauld Place, usually stroppy and given to all manner of hideous antics, has been curiously inert since Malfoy entered. Harry hadn't realised how much background low-key malevolence he'd been accustomed to until it inexplicably stopped. He's now had several days of consistent water temperature, his possessions remaining where he left them and a surprising lack of ornaments aimed at his head. At any other time he would have been thrilled but it disconcerts him greatly. It probably means the house is plotting against him with Malfoy.

Malfoy too is curiously, worryingly quiet, sneaking around the house and avoiding him. It's been three days since that weird encounter in the kitchen. He knows that he's eating because slices of bread will occasionally disappear and sometimes a mug or glass will appear on the draining board next to the sink (another startling revelation, that Malfoy apparently knows what washing up is). But he never even hears him moving around the house which is putting him on edge. The Malfoy he remembers was boisterous and noisy, leading a pack of Slytherins around the castle as though he owned the place. Except for sixth year of course but that was different; he'd been under duress and under threat of death from Voldemort. He certainly doesn't fear Harry. The one time he does hear him is in the mornings, usually a tired grunt and stumbling steps as he awakes in Harry's bed and makes his way back to his own room, but not even a complaint about Harry switching rooms again - although he's decided to give up on that now, it's clearly not working. The second and third night after Malfoy had arrived he’d moved rooms and stayed awake as a precaution, in case Malfoy got it into his head to try to steal his wand or something but when he'd finally heard a discreet little popping noise and felt the mattress dip slightly he'd seen that Malfoy was so obviously asleep, the muscles in his face slack, mouth slightly open. Harry had watched him for a little while just to be absolutely sure and if it weren't for the deep, even breaths he could have been looking at a ghost, the moonlight adding a silvery, ethereal glow to his hair and skin. It had seemed almost impossible that he was real, that someone could be so fair and so blonde.

He'd stopped watching him then because it had felt a tad creepy and had slipped out of the bed to his own bedroom and slept. Only to wake up next to Malfoy a few hours later. Now he's stopped bothering, Malfoy usually leaves before sunrise anyway. Whatever he's doing it clearly doesn't involve attacking Harry directly. But that's never been Malfoy's style.

Right now Harry's up on the third floor, practising stealth the way the Aurors have taught him, having cast muffliato charms on his shoes. He peeks into the rooms one at a time, then comes to Regulus’ old room and studies the panelled wooden door. What on earth would Malfoy want in here? He puts his ear to it but hears nothing so points his wand at the hinges to silence any squeaks and slowly opens the door.

Malfoy's in here all right, sitting in the centre of the room, palms flat on the floor. A tiny frown graces his brow, eyes closed. Harry steps towards him and even though he isn't making any noise Malfoy must sense something because he opens his eyes…and Harry's not sure how he manages it from a sitting position but he leaps backward across the floor with all the grace of an ungainly salmon, hand clasped across his mouth to stifle a scream.

Harry almost laughs but Malfoy is clearly terrified. So instead he holds his hands up placatingly and apologises in soothing tones like he's talking to a frightened animal. Malfoy rubs the heels of his hands on his eyes and Harry notices that he's trembling. Harry guiltily remembers that he'd lived in a house with a bunch of Death Eaters. He’d probably dislike being snuck up on too after that.

Malfoy finally manages to speak,

‘What…the fuck Potter?’ he breathes heavily, glaring at Harry balefully through red-rimmed eyes.

‘Sorry! Sorry, I just- what are you doing in Regulus’ old room?’

Malfoy takes a second, standing so he's on the same level as Harry and looking around him with renewed interest. He’s composed himself again, his breathing returning to normal.

‘Oh is that whose it is? He was a Slytherin seeker wasn’t he?’

‘I…think so? Back to what you're doing in here.’

Malfoy huffs noisily. ‘Keeping out of your way mainly, like you suggested so politely and doing what I’m supposed to do or rather, what the owner of this house is supposed to do - trying to form a bond with it. It has a consciousness, of a sort, you know,’ he still looks a little shaken but his natural haughtiness is starting to reassert itself at least, ‘I am attempting to listen to it.’

That made sense, Harry thought. He'd always known that the house had a personality. A nasty one. But a consciousness…that you could communicate with? He decides to risk Malfoy's sneering superiority.

‘I didn't know you could do something like that. Could I try?’

‘I’m sure you can do whatever the hell you like,’ Draco snaps irritably, ‘Obviously It will be much harder for you.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re not a Pureblood.’

Harry can charitably say later that Malfoy said it without thinking of how he might take it, that the way his features drop in dismay the second he sees Harry's reaction tells of his regret; but in the moment all Harry knows is that he can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he storms from the room filled with disgust.

‘Potter, wait!’

He's halfway down the corridor when Malfoy catches up to him, grabs his arm,

‘I didn't mean it like that! Wait!’

Harry pushes him away roughly. He hears a grunt of pain and then the floor is coming up to meet him, Malfoy must have tripped him. Harry goes to pull out his wand but Malfoy is already on top of him and as he thrashes his arm to dislodge him, his wand skitters away across the floor. A brief tussle and they’re both reaching for it but Malfoy is slightly quicker, his arm slightly longer and Harry stops struggling as he sees his own wand is pointed at his chest, Malfoy looking grim and determined.

It could have happened any number of ways, Harry thinks. He has a vision of Malfoy stuffing his dead body into the grandfather clock.

Malfoy is breathing heavily, straddling Harry’s thighs.

‘It’s not how it sounded, I swear. I’m-you can’t keep jumping down my throat like this.’

He gets up slowly, still gripping the wand and then turns it in his hand so that the hilt is facing towards Harry, offering it to him. He keeps his movements slow and deliberate and Harry notices and his face has a deathly pallor, that of someone who knows he’s fucked up.

Harry gets up from the floor and snatches the wand back from Draco's listless fingers. Draco's hands go to his sides and his lips pinch together unhappily, he looks like he's steeling himself for retaliation. Harry feels a brief instant of sympathy for his hang-dog look but ignores it in favour of the still overwhelming anger coursing through him.

‘Am I supposed to just forget that you're a bigoted vile shit who tortured my friends?’

Malfoy's eyes flare, ‘If that's all I am then why did you let me come here? You wrote that letter for my trial, or no, sorry - Granger wrote that letter for my trial, you signed it. Did you even read it?’

Harry feels momentarily off-balance because he actually hadn't read the letter. It had been his idea to write it and he mentioned the intention to Hermione a few times and then she'd shown up with a length of parchment with a space for his signature.

‘How do you know I didn't write it?’ he counters.

Malfoy sneers at him, ‘Because you always got Granger to do your homework for you.’

Harry blusters at the truth of that.

‘I was busy. And sorry if my efforts to keep you out of jail weren't good enough for you…’

‘No-I-that's not what I meant,’ Malfoy’s expression turns pained, ‘I just want to do what I came here to do and then leave.’

Harry snorts, ‘And you want the Prophet article and the public appearances, let’s not forget those.’

‘That's for mother. I don't care about that, I just want to leave. I thought if I came here then we'd be square and I could be free but this house is just so alive and it's in pain and now I'm trapped in here and marr- sorry, platonically unioned to a self-righteous prick who could send me back to Azkaban with a flick of his wand.’

They glare at each other. Merlin but this had been such a bad idea. There was too much history between them, too much animosity. And now Harry realises, too much fear. Malfoy was scared. He was putting on a brave face, carrying himself with all the swagger like he had at school when they had been equals. But while Harry had assumed the risk all lay on his side when inviting Malfoy into his house, he hadn't considered how much power he had over Malfoy now. One message to Robards and he'd be back in a cell before nightfall. Probably before teatime. He remembers the manacles Malfoy had been chained in when he first arrived. Did he think that Harry was also going to indulge in some petty revenge? Or worse? He remembers how pale he'd gone when Harry had reached for his wand and his memory flashes up that fateful day in the bathroom…oh god, he hadn’t even thought of how that might have played into Malfoy’s reaction. He suddenly feels distinctly uncomfortable with how he’s been acting.

‘Alright,’he says, letting out his breath in a long exhale, ‘Alright.’

Malfoy looks at him warily. Harry takes another calming breath, feels his pulse return to something like normal. Malfoy hasn’t actually done anything to him and their goal right now seems to be the same. Harry supposes he should make an effort to be the bigger person.

‘You said you didn't mean it how I thought with the Pureblood stuff. So explain.’

Malfoy looks at him warily, ‘You won't fly off the handle at me?’

Harry pushes back a sharp retort and shakes his head.

Malfoy opens his mouth but then leans back heavily against the wall, suddenly looking exhausted. His hands are shaking and Harry recognises the look.

‘When's the last time you ate?’

Malfoy just shakes his head mutely at him. Harry remembers hunger, remembers feeling faint and dizzy from it. Maybe Malfoy's is self-imposed but he still feels an overwhelming desire to fix it, take away those cruel pangs.

‘Come downstairs. I'll make lunch.’

Malfoy looks at him with grey eyes filled with suspicion. Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes and instead extends the olive branch a touch further.

‘Look, while we're here, we might as well try to get on, right? Let's start afresh, ok?’

He holds out his hand. Malfoy's mouth parts slightly and his expression turns shocked, his jaw dropping a fraction before he collects himself. He looks at Harry's hand the same way he'd looked at the hawthorn wand when Harry had put it on the dining table.

A slight hesitation and then Malfoy's hand is in his, surprisingly firm and warm. He looks Harry in the eyes and through the cool facade and natural distrust Harry thinks he sees a tiny spark of hope.

Chapter Text

Admittedly Draco really should have refused Potter's hand. It would have been safer in the long run. But he’s weak. He hasn't eaten anything other than slices of bread and tea for three days, a stupid idea meant to give himself added incentive to get the job finished quicker. And it certainly won't hurt to have a tentative camaraderie with him for the duration of his stay, though he has his doubts over whether he can maintain any sort of equanimity around him. It's just that his feelings towards Potter have always been disastrously, horribly vibrant. They make him act completely irrational. It's just that they're so painful. Complicated, like…his hand skims over the Mark,

I hate you but you're mine.

It's worth a shot. Draco stops for a second to take a deep breath and just…let's go. He stops fighting himself, surrenders to his feelings, lets them flow through him like a river. Admiration, lust, gratitude, anger, jealousy, guilt, shame - Merlin, there's a lot of it and it hurts but he lets it happen and then sits with it. It will take work, just like with the Mark but he immediately feels a calm rippling through him. He puts the moment in its proper place in his mind to refer back to later.

He doesn't speak until they're in the kitchen with two bowls of steaming tomato soup with big chunks of sourdough bread. And it's amazing. Homemade with a strong hint of basil and a tiny kick of chilli. He'd joked about Molly Weasley wanting to poison him but right now he'd happily let her drown him in this stuff. He's just barely restraining himself from licking his spoon after every mouthful. It's a proper soup spoon too, he'd laid the table while Potter was heating it up, firstly as a show of friendship for their new truce but also because he didn’t fully trust that Potter would even know what a soup spoon was, heathen that he is. When he's about halfway done with the bowl and he can tell Potter is fed up with waiting from his pointed staring, Draco begins;

‘So first things first,’ he's thought about how to word this but he's going to have to lay the groundwork and find out what he's working with, ‘what do you think I mean when I talk about bonding with the house?’

‘Uh…I don't know. Redecorating maybe so that the place looks nice but I already tried that, it resists any attempts I've made. And then just spend time in it I suppose.’

Draco feels like crying, ‘Redecorating? You? Here? You just walked in and tried to slap coats of paint on the wall? This is worse than I thought.’

‘Oh come on,’ Potter scoffs and forget crying, Draco might just throw something at him.

‘Potter, how would you feel if you met, I don't know, a new work colleague, and at the end of their first day they dragged you to a barber and insisted you get a haircut. Not that it would be a bad thing,’ he adds sardonically, ‘in fact now that I think about that might count as a public service.’

He's met with a sarcastic huff.

‘My point is you'd think they were completely barmy and presumptuous and downright bloody rude. And your house isn't a work colleague, it's more like a family member. It has to be venerated. Persuaded into doing things by someone it trusts. And this is why it will be much harder for you - because you didn't grow up in an old magical house, am I correct? You were raised by muggles?’

Potter nods, his gaze keeps flicking to Draco’s spoon, it's disconcerting.

‘When I talk about being a Pureblood-’ the green eyes lock onto his, piercing and untrusting, ‘I’m not just talking about blood, you understand. It means a lot of things, how you act, who you know-’

‘Your willingness to follow an insane megalomaniac who stokes your feelings of superiority?’ Potter mutters.

Draco feels his cheeks heat and almost accuses Potter of reneging on their new accord but surprises himself by adding a touch of irony to his tone and saying, ‘He chose his audience well.’

Potter subsides a little, mollified by Draco's admittance and gestures to him to continue. Draco feels buoyed by the success, normally he would have felt compelled to argue the point but this seems to have worked and he doesn't feel the usual surge of helpless rage that Potter causes in him.

‘Part of it is growing up in an old magical house. You learn to accommodate them and vice versa. And houses owned by wizarding families tend to accumulate magic over time. The older the house, the older the family, the stronger the magic. There are stories of houses that become so powerful that the owners basically become invincible inside them.’

Potter shakes his head at that.

‘It always comes down to a power trip with you people doesn't it?’

‘Potter I hate to break your rosy worldview but most ancient magic comes down to the primal stuff. Power, fear, love, all that.’

Potter looks thoughtful and like he’d like to say more about this but Draco has already been interrupted once so he forges ahead.

‘Now the house and its master should have something like a symbiotic relationship. And this house has clearly had centuries of deep interconnectedness with its inhabitants. That's why being a Pureblood matters in this instance, we've literally been trained since birth to listen to our houses. But this poor thing was left to you and you obviously had no idea and the house…well I'm getting a lot of loneliness and anger from it.’

‘Why do you think the magic hasn't faded like Ron said it would?’

‘I take it you never met Orion or Walburga in person? All of the Blacks were pretty notorious, I've heard some stories. Highly accomplished in the dark arts. There’s a book Orion wrote in the Manor which I fear would be too explicit for your delicate Saviour eyes.’

Potter snorts at this and Draco makes a note to show it to him sometime, preferably with a camera so he can record Potter’s reaction to some of the more graphic illustrations.

‘Anyway my guess is that they infused the house with some intense dark magic to strengthen its power.’

Potter looks uneasy and Draco is reminded once again how little a Hogwarts education does for anyone's understanding of dark magic. He's preparing for questions on how to destroy or reverse what was done, questions he will refuse to answer. The house has a right to be what it is. But instead Potter surprises him when his expressions shifts to earnestness and a smidgen of hope.

‘Can I try? The bonding thing? I know you said it would take too long but…?’

‘I don't know. You're not Pu-you didn't grow up in an old magical house, you wouldn't even know where to start.’

‘But couldn't you teach me?’

Draco hesitates and considers this while finishing the last few spoonfuls of soup. The old Draco would have dismissed it out of hand - that this was something that could even be taught.

But…well Potter has always had an irritating natural aptitude for magic. It's bloody annoying. He'd never flown before Hogwarts and was playing for the house team within his first week. Produced a full Patronus by the time he was twelve or something ridiculous like that. Apparently he can throw off an Imperius curse like it's nothing. As much as Draco hates to admit it, if anyone can do it, it would be him. He's also aware with some irritation at himself that Potter's wide-eyed keenness is absolutely working to tear down his objections.

‘It might be more difficult for you, maybe not possible at all but if it's something you want then I can try.’

Potter is nodding. It occurs to Draco that his suspicious Auror brain is probably worried that he's going to use the house for some dark purpose. He's likely imagining Draco standing in the hallway cackling madly while Potter fires spells at him that bounce off due to the houses' protection. But Draco doesn't want any of that, he wants to go to France and walk in a golden-lit vineyard with a handsome man who will whisper sweet nothings in his ear and preferably will never have even heard of sodding Harry Potter.

Potter wants to start there and then but Draco asks if they can defer until tomorrow as he's feeling drained from the morning and he'll need all his faculties if this has a shot at working. He must look awful enough that Potter agrees and Draco hoists himself up to his room and crashes onto the bed, asleep within moments.

…..

Harry starts the washing up with a flick of his wand and then flings himself onto the sofa in the living room with a book he’s been trying and failing to read for weeks. He settles in but he’s restless and fidgety. The page keeps blurring in front of him as he reflects on what Malfoy has said and more accurately his pleasant shock that Malfoy was actually being helpful. It reminded him a bit of Hermione, he had a proper lecturer’s energy when he got going. He isn't sure how much this will translate into Malfoy being a good teacher of anything practical but he's willing to try if it means making amends towards Grimmauld Place, which he has apparently been treating badly without even realising. He'd taken his cue from Sirius of course but now the house was his last link to him. He spent more hours than he'd care to admit in his old bedroom, imagining Sirius in his place as a long haired, leather jacket-wearing rebel, so much cooler than Harry could ever be.

If he and Malfoy can manage to get on for just a few days then he just might be able to earn his freedom, maybe even come to an understanding with Grimmauld Place that would mean he could hold on to this part of Sirius. He hates that it has to be this part but still.

So he's pleased that he extended the hand of friendship to Malfoy, strange as it may feel. He's still not used to seeing him here, evident by the fact that just now during lunch he’d found himself staring. At first he’d rolled his eyes when he'd seen that Malfoy had laid out proper soup spoons, which Harry never bothered with. And then when they started eating he'd been unable to stop watching him. Harry wasn't a messy eater, he didn't slurp or talk with his mouth full, he had manners dammit. But with Malfoy it was like watching an art form, a deft turn of the wrist to push the spoon through the soup, then raising it to his lips while maintaining his straight-backed posture, not spilling a single drop. Harry had become mesmerised watching it, obsessed with catching the moment a fleck of soup would stain the pristine white napkin on Malfoy's lap, proving him fallible. But it hadn’t happened and he'd almost felt like applauding afterwards. Which was absurd. He must be cracking up, that was the only conclusion if he'd started entertaining himself with Malfoy's eating habits.

And if that wasn't embarrassing enough, their scuffle on the third floor was acutely demoralising for him, it proved how sloppy he'd gotten after less than six weeks off the job. He shouldn't have gone for the wand, should have rolled Malfoy and pinned him and then summoned it. And to Harry's extreme mortification he'd felt his body…well, it had started to react to the feeling of Malfoy straddling him, it had been a huge relief that he'd stood up when he did. That was obviously just a result of his self-imposed seven month drought, he couldn't be blamed for a natural physical response. If he'd been thinking more clearly he would have taken control of the situation easily. He imagines now exactly how he should have done it, how he would have caught Malfoy's wrist, used his weight and momentum, how it would have felt to have Malfoy under him instead. Scowling up at him with that intense, heated, absolute focus like Harry's the centre of his universe. His cock jerks treacherously, alarming him. Oh god, no. He's not doing this. He takes a breath and collects himself. There's nothing but disdain in those grey eyes, he tells himself sternly. Nothing but taunts and jeers from that hateful mouth with lips that definitely aren’t soft and kissable. His cock swells at the thought, how well their lips would fit together, how their bodies would slide against one another. Godammit. His libido has been almost non-existent for months, why now, why this of all things?

‘Stop it.’ Harry hisses to himself, feeling the sharp twitch of arousal start to grow. He subconsciously widens his legs a fraction. And his mind is now fully committed to aggravating the situation with images of Malfoy in bed looking soft and sleepy, ideas as to how Malfoy would moan, how he would smile wickedly at him. Or perhaps be sweet and pliant, the silver-grey eyes filled with shy eagerness, the mouth trailing cool, delicious kisses over his abdomen, trailing down until Harry feels the ghost of a tongue licking a stripe up his cock. Harry is achingly hard now and so gives into it, it's not as if it means anything. Pulls himself out and settles into a rhythm, feels the pressure build and bites back a tiny groan. And now he's started he can't stop, he tries to distract himself with other people, other fantasies but it always comes back to that blond head bobbing greedily, the long elegant fingers braced around Harrys’ hips, hard enough to bruise. It’s so wrong but he can’t help but speculate whether Malfoy’s neat eating habits would extend to this particular activity - would he be so fastidious as to not spill a drop or would he pull away messily with evidence of Harry's release all over his mouth and chin?

Harry seizes at the thought, toes curling as he bucks into his hand. A quick cleaning charm even as he's shaking with the aftershocks and he sits there shamefaced trying to work out what the hell just happened.

Right, ok. So he was attracted to Malfoy. That much was clear, if slightly unexpected. He’d never thought about Malfoy in that way at all. Admittedly he was a bit of a late bloomer to the idea of dating men at all and now that he came to think about it, that sixth year when he’d been spying on him and following him around the castle…had it all been suspicion? Hadn’t he felt a tiny little thrill every time he’d spotted that sleek blond hair that in hindsight could well have been a warped crush finding its way to the surface?

I mean obviously, nothing is going to happen between him and Malfoy. They've only just stopped going for each other's throats. And he's still Malfoy, so the idea is prosperous. Even if he is gay and they’re technically married and they keep waking up in bed together…Harry gets a grip on himself sternly. This is a heap of confused feelings finding catharsis, nothing more. Hopefully they could be done this bonding thing with the house in a few days and then they’d both be able to leave and he could look back at this as a weird example of what stress and isolation does to a man.

Harry goes back into the kitchen for a glass of water and he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. It’s one of the paintings, a cottage landscape. He’s always quite liked it, it reminds him a little of Godric’s Hollow as it could have been. Roses curling charmingly over the door arch, a cute little bird's nest nuzzled in the thatch. As he examines it, he sees a figure in one of the lattice windows and jumps slightly.

Walburga?

He leans in to look more closely but whoever it was has moved out of sight.

He’d been extremely unsettled when he’d found her missing, she’d never strayed from her frame in the two years he’d been living there. But he’d quickly forgotten about her, her absence being more of a relief than anything else. If that was her, what on earth was she doing hiding out in the cottage painting?

…..

Draco had only slept for two hours but it had been a wonderful sleep, the kind he didn’t have anymore since the war. He’d awoken feeling peaceful and rested, spending a few minutes lazily watching the late afternoon sun coming through the window gently dappled by the waving branches by the yew tree outside.

Feeling more optimistic than he has in months, he heads downstairs to offer to Potter to begin today after all but Potter is a little awkward with him for some reason and defers until tomorrow. Which is fine, Draco can use the time to write to his mother. Potter apparently doesn’t have an owl of his own which perplexes Draco greatly but Weasley sends one over daily because Harry needs to write reports for Robards.

They have dinner together in the kitchen in the evening. Meals together aren't strictly included as part of their new truce but Draco wants to show willing. And it pays off almost immediately when Potter dishes him up a plate with a piece of an enormous lasagne, another of Molly Weasley’s culinary creations. Mercifully Potter doesn't make any comments about this which Draco is thankful for - he's pretty sure any fragile trust they might have will shatter the second the Weasley family is brought up.

Attempting conversation with a taciturn Potter is difficult and Draco fears he’s bottled it completely when he asks him if he can cook anything and Potter’s expression turns stormy and he answers shortly,

‘I don’t like to - the Muggles I lived with made me cook for them so I’ve never enjoyed it.’

The thought of anyone forcing Potter to do anything is unfathomable which Draco says aloud and that finally coaxes a tiny grin from him.

Potter mentions that he’s possibly seen Walburga and Draco turns to look at the cottage painting. He agrees it’s strange but privately thinks that Potter is so unobservant that he’s likely just not noticed until now. She probably goes to the cottage painting for a break sometimes.

Draco looks around the rest of the kitchen. His eyes take in the gleaming copper pans hung on hooks above the range, the huge farmhouse style sink, the door to the pantry. The human-sized door. He realises something he's noticed all along, now within the grasp of articulation.

‘I thought a few days ago that this room seemed friendlier than other rooms in the house but this isn’t a house-elf kitchen, it’s made for humans. But it doesn’t strike me that the Blacks did a lot of their own cooking?’

Potter nods in agreement.

‘Molly Weasley changed a lot of it to suit when she was here with the Order.’

Blast. The Weasley's again. Another name of which his French lover will hopefully be blissfully unaware. Hopefully Potter's idea will pan out and then he'll have even fewer ties to his old life. He sneaks a glance at him out of the corner of his eye, coolly assessing him. It could work, he thinks. It might work. He’s a bit depressed that Potter apparently missed the enormous hint that the House had changed for Molly Weasley when she had cajoled it out of love. Or maybe he just assumed it had changed because it had come up against the formidable, bulldog personality of Molly Weasley.

Potter is no bulldog. From what he’s seen in the past, he’s a soft touch. And he’s not an Occlumens which will mean he’ll likely end up absorbing quite a bit of the house’s emotional baggage. But he’ll surely be fine. He’s surprisingly resilient. Persevering. And a few other adjectives that he’ll keep to himself. Tomorrow will be intriguing to say the least.

Chapter Text

This is without a doubt one of the strangest things Harry has ever done.

Well actually no. Now that he comes to stack it up, he's done way weirder stuff. But this has a level of oddness that just hits differently.

‘Stop fidgeting.’ Draco tells him.

Draco’s hand is dry and cool atop his own, exerting a tiny bit more pressure than Harry thinks is necessary. He's sitting next to him and Draco has ordered him to concentrate hard. Something that has never been easy for Harry. He keeps getting distracted by the sound of the rain against the window, a welcome shower after the unexpectedly warm September weather. And the ticking of the kitchen clock. Draco’s hand pressing gently down. The soft skin on his palm and the slender fingers. And the…

‘Focus Potter, I can feel you drifting. Now you know how magic feels? Like when you brush up against a ward or feel someone cast a charm on you?’

‘Sure, it feels…sparkly.’

Draco rolls his eyes at that but continues,

‘Right. So you're looking for that but coming from the house.’

They've started right after breakfast. Harry still has a mug of tea next to him rapidly cooling. He can hear Draco’s even breathing. Harry feels restless, the urge to shift in his seat is unbearable, he's never been good at this sitting still and emptying your mind malarkey.

Draco’s hand presses on his more insistently,

‘There! Can you feel that?’

He opens his mouth to say no he bloody well cannot. And all at once, he can. There's the sparkly feeling he was expecting and a taste of something, old wood polish and musty linens. And then a rush of feeling, so strong he gasps. It's overwhelming, consuming, it paralyses him and constricts his lungs.

Want. Need. Lonely.

He snatches his hands from the table and buries his head in them, willing the terrible, devastating hunger out. He vaguely makes out a voice and movement beside him.

‘Potter? Potter!’

A touch on his arm and maybe he's still sensitised because he gets a distinct impression of something sharp and tangled and cold, moonlight on brambles, the unexpected sweetness of blackberries.

It's fleeting and the arm is removed and he hears Malfoy move around the kitchen. He's still trying to control his breathing, push out that desolate feeling.

He looks through his fingers - Malfoy has found a bar of chocolate from somewhere and has laid it in front of him. He's holding Harry's mug in one hand and Harry watches as it starts to steam. Impressive. Harry can do some things wandless, although most of the time he doesn’t even know he’s doing them, it just seems to happen subconsciously. Sometimes he’ll just think at work ‘I need that casefile’ and it will fly across the room, to Ron's consternation. It's a helpful distraction to focus on right now.

The breathless, tight feeling is subsiding and he takes a long deep inhale, feeling Malfoy's anxious eyes on him.

‘Thanks,’ he says, his voice sounding more shaky than he was expecting. He breaks off a piece of the chocolate, takes the mug gratefully.

‘What happened?’

‘It was just…a lot.’ He nibbles at the chocolate. It had been so powerful, like the dreams he had of his childhood sometimes. Cold, dark, hungry, lonely dreams.

Malfoy’s hand is resting on the table and Harry swallows, remembering that lingering impression, the feeling of cold light and thorns. Malfoy is frowning at the table and seems to be considering something.

‘Potter, have you ever studied Occlumency?’

The way it's phrased is interesting, gentle in tone but reluctance in every syllable.

A short mirthless bark of a laugh comes from Harry's mouth before he can stop it.

‘Snape didn't tell you? He tried to teach me. Or torture me, I'm still not sure which. It was a shambles. I've done some basic training with the Aurors but I'm still rubbish at it.’

Malfoy looks distinctly ill at ease with the topic, Harry notes.

‘Bellatrix Lestrange taught you right?’

Malfoy stiffens, looks at Harry sharply. His mouth works for a few seconds without sound before he gets out.

‘What makes you think that?’

He's such a bad liar, Harry thinks. Remarkable that he survived as a Death Eater.

‘I overheard you and Snape talking about it once.’

He watches Malfoy's tongue flick out anxiously to wet his lips, sees the long fingers card through pale blond locks.

‘I didn't think anyone knew.’ Malfoy finally says quietly, his eyes fixed on the table and his face now an unnatural pallor.

It takes a moment but the implications seep in like ice water into Harry's veins. He'd avoided all the Death Eater trials, he’d been too busy to even notice them much. He'd been tired, that was it. Hermione had gone to a few and provided testimony, in person as well as the letter for Malfoy. There had been witnesses, Veritaserum, they had gone on for ages and the whole truth had been laid bare. But if Malfoy had hidden this, if he'd managed to lie and connive and sneak his way around the justice system…

‘But,’ he stammers, trying to think it through logically, ‘the Ministry uses Legilimency to detect any Occlumens before trial, they must have known.’

Malfoy shakes his head dismissively, eyes fixed on Harry's face.

‘My technique is not exactly conventional. I had to find a way to hide…well, a lot of things…from both Voldemort and Bellatrix. How do you think an Auror with a passing grade in Legilimency 101 stacks up against both of them?’

Harry must be letting the betrayal and fury show on his face because Malfoy continues hastily.

‘Please understand, it wasn't for me, I didn’t hold anything back from my confession. They…they wouldn't have accepted my testimony against the others if they'd known. You know how the Wizengamot reacts to any evidence from an Occlumens, they just throw it out. I couldn’t let that happen.’

Harry remembers hearing this, that Malfoy had provided crucial evidence against other Death Eaters. It doesn't reduce his anger in the slightest.

‘What so you sold out your pals so you could get time off your sentence, is that it? Is that why you got out of Azkaban after only a year?’

Malfoy has gone properly white now, his normally pale features drained of what little colour they had. He grips Harry's arm again.

‘No! No! Harry, listen to me, I…’

His first name sounds so foreign in Malfoy's voice and Harry is shocked into silence as he continues,

‘They did terrible things. I did terrible things. And I knew some of them would bribe and barter and lie their way out of things if they didn’t have my account of what they’d done. And Bellatrix and Severus were dead and they were the only ones who had even known I’d been studying it and it just seemed like it was…unwise to mention it.’

Harry can’t exactly argue against any Death Eater getting a longer sentence but it’s pretty damn convenient that Malfoy should suddenly be on the side of truth and justice after everything he’d done.

Aloud he says, ‘So you're noble now is that it? Didn't want a single thing in return for your assistance? How did you get out of Azkaban?’

There's a pause and Draco loosens his grip on Harry's arm and sits back.

‘It was McGonagall,’ Malfoy’s voice is soft, his eyes sincere and he smiles slightly when he sees Harry's surprise, ‘she came to see me when I was awaiting trial. She said that ‘if a Hogwarts education has not taught you the difference between right and wrong then I must take responsibility for remedying that.’ She made me write an essay in my holding cell, if you can believe it.’

Harry can, actually. If anyone was going to make you do homework in prison, it was McGonagall. And he’s not going to tell Malfoy this but his impression of her is pretty spot on.

‘The essay was to write out both sides of the argument for why the purity of blood matters in wizards. I thought it would be easy and maybe she'd put in a good word for me if I did it. So I did. And…’

He scrubs his face with his hand, lost in the memory.

‘It didn't make any sense. All of the arguments I'd heard repeated as absolute truths my entire life. Once I started writing them all down, trying to work out the logic of them…at first I tried to deny it, I thought if I just kept looking I'd find tangible proof but there wasn't any. My solicitor was furious with me, he’d come in and try to discuss my defence and I’d ask him to get me statistics on average lifespan or find me career paths of Hogwarts alumni. When I finally admitted it to myself I felt so fucking stupid.’

Harry's heart, always close to the surface and worn on his sleeve, breaks a little. He'd seen the conflict in Draco for himself, the tiny drip of uncertainty working at the rock solid foundation of pureblooded superiority.

‘I was at the top of the Astronomy Tower that night, you know. I saw you lower your wand.’

Malfoy looks up at him, startled.

‘I don't think you ever wanted-’

‘I did.’ Malfoy cuts in, his mouth set in a hard line, ‘Don't try and rewrite the past. I wanted this.’ He taps his left forearm, ‘I wanted very much to be a good Death Eater. I just lacked the stomach for it.’

Harry sits in silence with this for a while because what can he say? He sips his tea slowly.

‘Did you send McGonagall the essay?’

Malfoy nods slowly.

‘She wrote to the Wizengamot several times during the year to appeal for my release. They transmuted the sentence to house arrest with certain conditions, like the compulsory Muggle studies lessons and regular questioning under Veritaserum.’

‘Which doesn't work on you.’

‘It works on me,’ he mumbles, ‘I can’t lie. They just don’t know to ask me the questions you’d ask an Occlumens.’

The grey eyes are wide in silent appeal. Harry sighs deeply. If he tells the Ministry, which he should, it could lead to a whole heap of Death Eater appeals. And McGonagall will probably be annoyed if she'd spent all that time advocating for Draco. Shamefully that's the thing that sways him the most.

‘I won't tell them.’

The way Malfoy takes in a shuddering, watery breath tugs at Harry's pathetic heartstrings yet again. What a fucking morning.

‘But I swear to Merlin if I find a shred of evidence that you've somehow done this to hide your own crimes then I will absolutely let them toss your bony arse in Azkaban and throw away the key, understood?’

Malfoy nods emphatically.

‘Yes. Agreed.’

They both sit back and regard one another uneasily. Malfoy is the first to break the silence, resolutely returning to a more business-like tone.

‘So, anyway…Occlumency. It would help, if you're finding the emotions are affecting you too much. As I said, this house is particularly potent.’

Harry hmphs, annoyed.

‘Well unless you can teach me…’

Entirely contradictory to his expectations Malfoy actually looks like he's giving this idea some thought. Harry’s immediate terror at the notion leaves him speechless - Snape had been bad enough but to have Malfoy rattling around in his memories? Especially given recent events.

‘I had to work out a lot of it on my own, I don't know that I could teach it,’ Malfoy says soberly, ‘but I could show you?’

Harry's mouth drops open, ‘You'd let me into your head?’

Draco huffs and rolls his eyes, ‘I'm a good Occlumens you prat. You won’t see anything I don’t want to show you.’

Nevertheless, Harry considers this quite the display of trust. Opening your mind to someone is always a risk and if there’s one thing he can say about Draco Malfoy it’s that he hates being vulnerable.

Harry nods, ‘Alright.’ He feels a small knot of anxiety from his experience with the house still sitting in his stomach, ‘I'm not sure I have it in me to do any legilimency today - could we start tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow.’

All these delays, they're going to be hanging a Christmas wreath before Harry's free, he thinks sourly.

‘Are you going to tell me to practise emptying my mind of all thought?’ Harry asks gloomily. He's always been rubbish at it, even in his mandated Auror lessons free from Snape's ominous presence. Draco snorts.

‘You? Good grief, no. Might as well try to stop a brook from babbling. We need to strengthen your focus so pick an object and focus on it. A snitch for example. Now I know you can do that. And while you're doing it, take ten slow breaths. If you lose focus, just come back to the last number you remember.’

‘But I thought-’

Draco's voice snaps out a little too loudly, ‘Oh you want to go back to Snape's method? You want to try Bellatrix's method?’

‘No.’ Harry's certain of that.

Draco exhales, mollified. Harry remembers the thorns he'd sensed when Draco had touched him. Always defensive. He remembers the sweetness as well, a burst of it on his tongue that had surprised him. He wonders if he has a distinct magical…flavour? Would that be the term?

Draco has moved on, all business-like, ‘There are other things we can do as well in the meantime. To bond with the house I mean.’

Harry is intrigued. And if this means he has to spend less time soaking up the houses' despair then he's on board.

‘Like what?’

‘Well we can walk the wards, we can do that now actually if you're feeling up to it. And there's the whole business of the hearth - do you have any sea salt and dragon’s blood? The fake stuff is fine if it's good quality. It's a shame we're so far past the solstice but can't be helped. And-’

Malfoy's mouth quirks up at the side, a sly smile as he anticipates Harry's reaction.

‘You should have dinner with me tonight.’

It throws Harry like a stunning spell.

‘Didn’t we eat dinner last night? Or are you asking me on a date?’ Why is his voice coming out squeakier than normal?

‘Why, am I going to get lucky?’ he bats his eyelashes at Harry, which startles a laugh out of him, ‘I mean proper dinner in the dining room, yes like a date but not for you and me.’

‘For the house?’

‘Got to be worth a shot right? A little appreciation, a little love. Can't hurt.’

Harry mulls it over while draining the rest of his tea, which has gone cold again. I mean, why not? They were already fake married, why not a fake date?

Chapter Text

Merlin help him but Draco's actually looking forward to this.

There's no denying, he's absolutely ballsed this up thus far. Forced into showing his cards, to Potter of all people. The Occlumency confession has him worried. Right now he's pretty sure Potter would be hauling him back to Azkaban by the scruff of his neck if Draco weren't his only option to get out of here.

The only hope Draco has is to complete his task here, preferably with speed and without revealing anything else about himself to Potter. And this evening is all about speeding things up. He remembers how much Malfoy Manor would hum with excitement when there was a special occasion. Showing itself off, he smiles wistfully.

Besides, it's good practice for his first real date. It probably wouldn’t hurt if he’s a tiny bit charming too.

He finishes fixing his hair, finally happy with his reflection in the mirror and smooths down the front of his waistcoat.

Ultimately, it's all about making the effort.

Which is why ten minutes later, he's frogmarching Potter back to his own room and shoving him inside, shouting through the door, ‘Don't come out until you've at least put a proper shirt on. With buttons Potter! Proper buttons!’

Charm can bloody wait.

When Potter does come down to the dining room, Draco is quite impressed. It's not up to Draco's level of course but these jeans are mercifully devoid of rips, the shirt looks to be new and a deep red which works with Potter's colouring and sets off his vivid green eyes.

‘Better,’ he opines and then because now he’s started being charming, ‘you look good in red.’

Potter looks shocked, bless him. Draco wonders if he isn't used to compliments on his looks, which surprises him because surely he's always had his admirers.

Instead he opens his arms in a little ‘voila’ motion towards the dining table, which he has taken most of the afternoon to prepare. He's cajoled Potter into casting a polishing spell on the silverware and it's gleaming in the light of the candles which he's lit. He's laid it all out for the courses they're having and cleaned the crystal glassware himself. The house has co-operated, albeit a little begrudgingly but the stunning dining table shows off its lustrous lacquer and the dust and grime seems to have been banished for now.

‘Did you know you have some good vintages in your wine cellar?’ he asks Potter, who's hovering uncertainly and looking perplexedly at the wine decanter. Draco pulls his chair out for him like the perfect gentleman and gestures for him to sit.

‘I barely knew I had a cellar,’ Potter replies as he slides onto his seat, ‘I’m not much of a wine drinker.’

Draco tsks and pours, ‘Wine was the only thing my father ever admitted that muggles did better than wizards, so I'd say it's worth enjoying for that reason alone.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes. He stopped drinking it though; someone told him they use their feet to make it.’

Potter chuckles and picks up the glass.

‘I don't think they do that any more.’

‘Shame’ Draco had found the idea very funny. And wizards drank some pretty vile stuff when it went into a potion, what was a little muggle foot juice to worry about, ‘I’d like to visit a muggle vineyard. After this.’

The old picture arises in his mind, the vines rustling gently in the breeze, the sun casting a golden glow. And then unbidden the image of Potter walking there with him appears, in his rattiest clothes, his hair tinted lighter from the sun. That isn't right at all and he shakes his head slightly to dispel the image but it's stubborn and won't leave his mind.

‘I haven't thought about what I want to do when we can leave. See my friends. Go down the pub. Back to normal basically.’

‘You should plan something.’ Draco smiles wistfully, ‘Trust me, freedom is worth celebrating.’

The first course is the rest of the tomato soup, Draco regrets that he lacks the skill to make something from scratch. But it's served in the good china that he found in one of the sideboards, also bearing the Black family crest. He makes sure to point this out to Potter, who looks at him blankly. Draco wonders if he’s ever even looked in half the cupboards here.

‘Tell me more about Sirius.’ he asks, topping up Potter’s wine glass. This should at least be an aspect of the Black family that Potter is happy to discuss.

Harry takes a sip and looks rueful.

‘I wish I’d known him better. We didn’t have much time.’

‘Peter used to talk about him sometimes.’ Draco volunteers. He hadn’t liked Pettigrew much but he’d felt sorry for him and had listened to him ramble on in his breathless, wheezing voice, mostly stories about Hogwarts. And sometimes he’d say insulting things about the Weasleys, which was amusing.

Potter looks up at him, surprised, ‘Oh right...I forgot you would have known him.’

Draco had buried him in fact. No one else was going to do it. He hadn’t wanted to draw attention with a gravestone so he'd asked his mother to plant a small rose bush on top.

‘Did Sirius tell you the story of when they all snuck into Hogsmeade and raided the Three Broomstick’s cellar?’

Harry laughs, ‘No but that sounds just like them. Go on.’

Draco launches into the story, which had been one of Peter’s favourites. Mainly because it was one of the few where he came across as a little bit heroic, after he’d distracted the Landlord who had come down to see what the noise was by running up his trouser leg.

The story lasts through to the main course, which is the last of Molly Weasley’s food parcel, a lamb casserole. Draco had found some carrots and potatoes to serve it with. It’s as phenomenal as the rest of her cooking, the lamb is meltingly tender and Draco savours every bite as Potter reciprocates his story and recounts to him how he met Sirius for the first time and helped him escape, which makes Draco nearly spit out a mouthful of wine because it’s just utterly, completely insane. A Time Turner! A stolen Hippogriff! Fighting off a pack of Dementors!
If it had been anyone other than Potter telling it he’d say it was a little far-fetched.

‘Severus was so angry,’ he tells Potter, the memory coming back to him, ‘he made all us Slytherins scour the castle for hiding places for days afterwards.’

Harry throws his head back and laughs. Draco marvels at the sound, it’s so…pure. He misses his friends suddenly, a sharp pang in his chest. He wonders what they’re doing now, Blaise and Pansy and Theo and Greg. Have they moved on completely? Do they even think about him any more?

‘What's for dessert?’

Draco returns to the present and quirks his lips into a smile. Potter’s famous sweet tooth.

‘Your favourite. Treacle tart.’

‘How do you know that's my favourite?’

‘I watched you of course. What would a meal in the Great Hall be without keeping an eye on my mortal foe?’

‘That's weird.’

Draco narrows his eyes, ‘What's my favourite Potter?’ He sees a tiny start of surprise, he supposes that the Chosen One had thought that his own observations of Draco had been subtle. As though Draco would ever be unaware of those eyes on him.

‘I don't remember you eating much dessert,’ Potter replies reluctantly, ‘I know you always had tons of sweets delivered to you.’

Interesting. Draco had assumed that Potter's observation of him had been for the same purpose as his own. Cataloguing potential weaknesses. Well actually no, Draco's excuse had been that, his real reason had been a gigantic crush so secret even he didn't know about it himself until fourth year. But Harry…was it possible he'd been a tiny bit…jealous? It seems laughable but Harry clearly remembers his parcels from home vividly, rather than the letters from his father that accompanied them which Draco recalls making his mouth pinch and eyes burn. His mother had always softened the blow with sweets. Rather than saying any of this to Potter, Draco reminisces aloud and ignoring the sourness of the memory for the sweet feels like an indulgence all on its own.

‘The macarons Potter, honestly they would melt in your mouth. And the marzipan and sugared almonds - dragées they call them in France. And the marron glacés at Christmas - you would love them, I’ll-’

He stops himself because he'd almost promised Potter to send him something at Christmas and clearly that would be absurd. He feels a blush starting to creep over his cheeks and covers by finishing the sentence with, ‘- go and get dessert.’

…..

They've moved to the living room and are sitting on the floor on opposite sides of the coffee table, ostensibly to play Exploding Snap but the cards lay untouched. Harry relaxes back onto a cushion and for the first time in almost four weeks of being trapped in Grimmauld Place he feels almost at ease. He's missed having friendly conversations. The past few weeks have felt very serious. When was the last time he’d just had a few drinks and a laugh?

‘We should do this again. For the house.’ He looks around the living room at the decorative moulding, the faded dark green silk wallpaper and the heavy bronze sconces, which have lit themselves and are casting a warm glow. Is it his imagination or does the room look a little less foreboding?

‘What else could we do? What would it like?’

Draco smiles lazily, ‘Well, think of it as you would a normal courtship. And as pitiful as it is,’ he grimaces slightly, ’you're the one with more experience than me in this particular area. What did you used to do to romance your women? Or the muggle fellow the papers were so excited about last year?’

‘Read about that did you? And for Merlin’s sake please don't call them ‘my women’ like that ever again.’

He’s still reluctant to talk about Nick. It’s like a scab he doesn’t want to pick at, for fear of exposing just how raw the wound had been. Their dates hadn’t even been anything special really, just muggle things - coffee, pizza, a movie. Harry had been so nervous, he’d been a little shocked after every date when Nick had suggested they make plans to do something again. They’d kissed on Nick's secondhand sofa and he’d felt like maybe he could forget about the war or his celebrity or all the loss he’d suffered for a while. It all felt slightly inevitable when Robards had gently suggested that seeing him again would be a bad idea, once the Obliviators had finished wiping his memories. Of course it had been taken away from him. Of course he couldn't have anything nice.

Draco has waved away his objection.

‘Fine, any of the young ladies or gentlemen who have been blessed with the Saviour’s favour, what did you do with them when you were courting?’

Harry wracks his brain, attempting to disguise his hesitancy by taking a drink. Let's see, he'd only really gone to Madame Puddifoots with Cho and it had been awful, no point in mentioning that. And Ginny…what had he done?

Wait. Oh god.

Harry puts a hand to his head, brow furrowing as realisation dawns - he never went on any dates with her.

He runs through the year they had been together in his mind and finds the same thing again and again. A catalogue of family events, Sunday lunches at the Burrow, trips to the pub with friends, wait no, they'd gone as a couple to Florence Fortescue's in Diagon Alley…but only after visiting George in the shop. Evenings at home alone sure, sometimes grabbing a bite together but when had he actually planned something special for the two of them? He'd been so busy with starting Auror training and there'd been so much emotion running high after the War with funerals and awful ceremonies and being the centre of the revolting media circus that he'd just sort of forgotten that romance was even a thing and had just flung himself straight into the middle of a relationship. Straight into a family which she had definitely called him out on during their breakup as being what he'd really wanted all along. He’s tempted to bury his head in his hands and weep because he’s such an idiot, but he straightens up because he can’t let Malfoy see that he’s losing it.

‘Oh I never really had time for it,’ he lies smoothly, ‘let’s go back to you, imagine you’ve got to impress someone, what kind of date would you plan?’

Malfoy pauses. His elbow is casually resting on his crooked knee and he's undone the top two buttons of his collar. Harry muses how unfair it is that Malfoy only looks better after drinking, adorably loose and ruffled. His face is flushed slightly from the wine and his red-stained lips purse slightly as he gives the question appropriate thought.

‘Well it depends,’ his tone is idly playful, ‘what are my intentions towards the young man? Is it serious?’

Harry, who has never in his life considered a non-serious relationship, gives the only answer he knows.

‘Very serious. It's probably love.’

‘In that case I'd take him to the Manor-’

‘Oh hot date with your mum there too, great idea.’

‘Shut it you prick. We'd go on a walk that takes you to a hill with a view of the Manor. It’s very picturesque, wildflowers everywhere and on a clear day you can see the wards around the house shimmer in the air like a haze. We'd have a picnic and chill the wine in the stream and I’d conjure a blanket so we could watch the sun set.’

His expression becomes misty, ‘It’s the only thing I miss from Azkaban. My window faced West, I saw some glorious sunsets.’

Harry is stunned that Malfoy has shared something that sincere with him. ‘That sounds like an amazing date, I don't think I could come up with something like that.’

A shrug and a gentle smirk, the flattery clearly pleasing to him, ‘It's not so hard Potter, you just need some practice. Take Granger for instance, where would you take her out?’

Harry's brow furrows slightly, both at the idea of anything romantic involving himself and Hermione, which just feels wrong and because he's genuinely struggling to come up with anything. Malfoy sighs theatrically.

‘I can feel the thinking from here, it's clearly a strain. Just pick something she’d like. For example,’ he puts the wine glass down and is studying Harry like he's a particularly interesting insect, ‘if I was to whisk you away Potter…’

Harry feels a blush starting to creep over his cheeks. Malfoy has finished scrutinising him.

‘Flying,’ he says decisively, ‘You’ve never looked happier than when you're on a broom. A Seeker’s game up in Scotland somewhere beautiful and entirely wild. And then a traditional pub somewhere that serves the kind of stodge that you always loved in Hogwarts so much. Shepherd's pie, sticky toffee pudding, that sort of thing.’

Harry stares at him, firstly because that sounds amazing. And also how the hell did he come up with that so quickly?

Malfoy runs his fingers through his hair and looks pleased at Harry's gormless expression.

‘And then we’d go back to mine. For when you inevitably throw yourself at me.’

Harry nearly spits out his wine and throws the pack of cards at him, ‘Fuck off!’

Malfoy dodges them and smirks at him, ‘So, Granger? What does she like?’ he prompts.

‘Uh…reading? Maybe we could go to a bookshop? And then we could…uh…read? Together?’

‘Wow. Congratulations Potter, your best friend of nine years and you've come to the genius conclusion that she likes reading. You'd better hope we never go after the same man.’

Harry snorts. He highly doubts they'd have the same taste in men. Malfoy is smiling all sly and sultry at him and Harry hears the challenge in his next words.

‘And where would you take me, Potter?’

Oh ok. He has to make this good. He coolly assesses Malfoy, whose cheeks are now definitely a rosy pink. He does not let himself think about the long, graceful limbs and the way the waistcoat accentuates his waist. Or how the elegant fingers curl around the stem of the wineglass. Oh Merlin. Definitely the wine.

‘Oh I know exactly where I’d take you’, he says airily, ‘nothing but the best for you. Somewhere incredibly fancy and French, the type of place where even the waiters wear tuxedos.’

Malfoy smiles but his eyes are wary, as though he senses a trap. Harry continues,

‘And of course I know there's nothing more you love than feeling superior to me so I'd make your wildest dreams come true. I'd use the wrong forks, not that I know the right forks so I might have to learn them first. I'd order red wine and white wine and mix them together in the same glass. I'd call the waiter mon-sewer, I'd INSIST upon ordering everything with ketchup, I'd loudly ask the other tables if I could try some of theirs, I’d wear shorts, possibly with a-’

He has to stop because Malfoy is…giggling. That's the only appropriate word to use. He'd started spluttering when Harry had begun and now he's leaning back against the sofa completely helpless. As he looks up at Harry and sees him grinning back at him, he snorts and looks so happy and vulnerable and un-Malfoyish that Harry is stunned.

Oh, he’s lovely.

He quiets the thought immediately.

‘Oh god, Potter,’ Malfoy finally manages to say, wiping tears from his eyes, ‘that sounds absolutely awful, you clearly know me so well.’

He smiles at Harry and Harry tries to remember if he's ever seen Draco Malfoy smiling, properly smiling without malice or cruelty. He doesn't think so and it's a shame because it's a charming smile - wide and genuine, slight crinkles in the corners of his eyes. It's dazzling in fact. Harry shakes himself. The wine again, undoubtedly. He rises from his spot on the floor, shaking his foot slightly as he feels pins and needles set in.

‘Going to bed,’ he says, the air in the room suddenly feels too hot and oppressive, ‘Goodnight Draco.’

There’s a tiny pause before the reply.

‘Goodnight Harry.’

…..

Draco muzzily opens his eyes to the sight of the back of Harry's head one pillow over. It's pre-dawn, the half light creeping in through the window, Potter never closes the curtains for some reason. He should really leave, he thinks - he always has before immediately when he's awoken in Potter's bed, shuffling down the hall to his own bed, cursing when he stubs his toe on the uneven floorboard. But right now he's warm and comfortable and it doesn't hurt to stay for a few moments longer. Harry won't know. He lets his gaze linger on the nape of his neck, half covered by unruly locks. He’s stopped luxuriantly stretching when he wakes again, he’d lost the habit in Azkaban when his cot had been too small for it and it seems it doesn’t take much to drop it again now. Which is good, that first morning when his hand had unexpectedly brushed warm skin had been terrifying.

He's always suspected that he would hate cuddling - he would mourn the loss of space and independence of movement. He would have to be very firm about it with his French beau, he thinks sleepily. He closes his eyes. Opens them and looks again at the spot where the dark tresses give way to tanned skin. It could be nice though, he muses, to shift forward and kiss the sensitive spot at the back of the neck just there, bury his nose in the shock of hair to smell the shampoo Harry used. To press himself up and feel the gorgeous heat of his body and wrap himself around it, put one hand on a hip and push forward to feel the curved buttocks pressing back against his morning erection. Draco feels a small smile tug at his face as his eyes gently close again and Harry disappears from view.

An image swims before him again of Harry in the vineyard with him, eyes soft and oh so intensely emerald. He’d look so good in the French sun. Or maybe Italy - the Italians would adore his vivacity and Harry would adore their relaxed generosity. Maybe Venice - oh Merlin, imagining Harry Potter in Venice, where the colours are red and gold to please his Gryffindor aesthetic and the evenings are filled with candlesmoke and the sound of soft lapping water. And Harry would wear a soft white bathrobe in their hotel room and Draco would tug on the cord gently and slip his hands underneath to feel the smooth, warm skin and they’d lounge in bed and Draco would press up against him and kiss the nape of his neck. And Harry would hum pleasurably and shift back so that Draco could wrap around him more fully. And kiss his ear and murmur, ‘Morning Harry.’

Harry, ha. When had he started calling him Harry?

Draco's eyes snap open as he feels his heart give a knowing squeeze. He blinks twice, presses his mouth in a tight line and then determinedly gets out of the bed and leaves the room.

…..

Harry has the snitch out in his room and he’s focusing on it intently. And while he hates to give a certain superior blond git any credit, he’d been right and this is much easier than just ‘emptying his mind of all thought’. It’s not moving much, he’s charmed it to stay within his eyeline but immediately his mind zones in on it, an intense hyperfocus of the years he’s spent honing Seeker reflexes.

He’s managed to count up to seven breaths but his mind has a tendency to drift and beyond that he struggles to maintain concentration..

Right now he’s four breaths in and thinking about Draco Malfoy. Harry’s noticing him more, there's no denying it.

Firstly, now that he's admitted to himself that Draco is in fact attractive, he's seeing evidence of it everywhere. He will begrudgingly admit that the cool grey eyes are wondrously deep and fascinating, the ice-blond hair looks invitingly soft. The lithe, elegant limbs are accentuated by the perfect posture and an easy confidence. Harry has seen statues of gods with less poise than Draco.

Then there's the laugh. When Draco laughs properly, like last night in the living room he's an absolute disaster. It's the most hilarious fall from grace Harry's ever seen, the normally composed air melting into a snorting mess. He wants to see it again.

It’s also taken him a while to realise it but what Hermione said is true. Away from the influence of his father and the other sources preaching blood purity, Draco has mellowed considerably. And he's trying. He’s accepted his sexuality, made friends with Hermione and Luna and as soon as he had the evidence that his beliefs were wrong, he changed them.

The snitch flits lazily over his chest of drawers. Harry sighs and starts again…one…two…three…

Draco would make a sarcastic comment about his concentration skills if he were here right now. He’s surprisingly funny when he's not trying to fling as much vitriol as possible. He looks a little surprised when Harry laughs at a funny comment he's made, then a little shy and pleased, he’d call it sweet if he didn’t think Draco would try and belt him afterwards. Harry suspects not many people in his life appreciated his sense of humour.

He thinks maybe Draco is attracted to him too.

For example, this morning Harry had gone out into the garden and joined in again with Draco’s game with the practice snitch and he had become noticeably flustered when Harry had thrown himself onto the grass at Draco’s feet, his cheeks reddening and lip caught between his teeth. He suspects that Draco wants to kiss him, his eyes flick briefly to Harry's lips whenever they're in close proximity. Perhaps it's wishful thinking but he doesn't think so. He’s been around enough blushing fans to know when someone’s got a crush on him and now he knows what to look for he's recognising all the signs. He’s thought about what it would be like to kiss him and wonders if it’s that obvious to Draco too.

He briefly wonders if it's nothing more than Stockholm syndrome. But he'd spent the better part of a year with Ron living in a tent and he hasn't ever thought about snogging him.

He abandons the snitch, guiltily promising himself that he’ll return with renewed focus after a break and makes his way down to the kitchen.

He stops on his way to the kettle to look at the cottage landscape again to see if he can spot Walburga.

‘What the hell…’ Harry leans closer, eyes wide.

The cottage looks…fortified, Harry supposes is the word. The shutters are closed, the door barred. There are what appear to be iron spikes sticking out of the thatch giving the roof a bizarre hedgehog-like appearance. The neat little rows of vegetables have been dug up and a small trench has appeared, several rakes propped up lining the edge. There's definitely movement inside the cottage, Harry can see the shifting of a lantern glow through the cracks in the shutters. If it is Walburga then she seems determined to stay put.

‘Potter?’

He starts as he hears a voice from upstairs, a touch of impatience in the tone. He's supposed to meet Draco upstairs. He's promised to show Harry his ‘unconventional’ Occlumency. This will have to wait until later.

Chapter Text

Your mind is like a house, Draco said.

Where most people struggled with traditional Occlumency was to imagine that the mind should be like a fortress. Which is great if your walls are strong and if you can keep them up indefinitely. But there's always a risk that the walls will be breached and then you're sunk. Once they’ve cracked the defences then you’re completely vulnerable. And a fortress is very obviously built to keep people out. It's much harder to keep hiding something when your opponent knows you're hiding something.

So he'd stopped trying to keep people out, Draco said. Instead he'd imagined his mind like a house, built to welcome people. Come in, make yourself at home, nothing to hide here. He’d put his memories and feelings front and centre for everyone to see. Everyone at the time being Bellatrix and Voldemort. Who had both laughed at his weakness, even as he'd turned it into his greatest strength. Because a house of course, has lots of spaces that guests don’t see, lot’s of rugs to sweep things under. Little nooks and crannies to hide things. You could welcome people in and still hide vital things about yourself. Harry didn’t need to do anything this complicated of course, but if traditional Occlumency wasn’t working for him then he could always try Draco’s way. He could always build a house.

He’s standing inside Draco’s mind, which is very weird. Well not really. In reality he and Draco are staring into each other’s eyes on the floor in Regulus’ bedroom, which is weird enough on its own. But he’s doing Legilimency right now which he’s always been rubbish at in Auror training but Draco dismissed his hesitancy with a wave of his hand saying that with his technique Harry doesn’t need to be good at Legilimency. The whole point was that Draco would welcome him in.

So now Harry is standing in Draco’s mind, looking at his ‘house’. Which to him looks more like a fucking castle. A pretty sandstone one, with large symmetrical windows and turrets with snowcone hats. Draco has manifested stunning gardens too, manicured lawns lined with perfectly symmetrical trees - Harry can even see an albino peacock in the distance. The front double doors, arched with beautiful art nouveau carvings are open and Draco is standing there, leaning against the frame and smiling at Harry’s obvious awe. He’s in tan chinos and a linen shirt, the most relaxed outfit Harry has ever seen him in. The sleeves are rolled up and Harry has a moment of shock when he sees the Mark again. Surely Draco doesn’t need to carry that with him here? Draco sees his look and in the next moment his sleeves are down, cuffs buttoned.

‘Why Potter, you didn’t need to dress up for me.’ Draco smirks at him, voice low and teasing.

Harry looks down at himself and realises that he’s wearing a suit. A three-piece with an emerald waistcoat. And a tie. With a matching pocket handkerchief.

‘How…?’

‘You’re in my mind and I make the rules here.’ Harry supposes he should be thankful that Draco hasn’t put him in anything more embarrassing. The smug git.

‘Come in.’ Draco gestures, leading the way. Harry has to laugh because the opulent space is like the Manor inverted, no shadows or gloom anywhere. The hall filled with golden light amplified by many mirrors, a sitting room with cream sofas, the lamps held up by gilded statues. And is that a bust of Draco??

He reaches out to it and his hand is slapped away.

‘Potter! This is my mind, everything in here represents a memory. You are here to get a feel for the place so you can build your own, not to have free range through my innermost thoughts. Kindly do not touch anything.’

There’s a rattling noise, Harry can hear it on the edge of his perception. It distracts him for a moment but Draco touches his arm, which feels so strange - like the ghost of sensation, and he forgets about it.

Draco leads them into a hall filled with doorways. Each door looks unique, different styles crowding together in the long space.

Draco points at doors as they pass,

‘Memories of childhood,’ a black highly polished door that looks like one Harry has seen at the Manor.

‘Memories of Hogwarts’, a miniature version of the doors leading to the Great Hall.

‘Memories of the war’, a charred and blackened portal with a heavy bolt. Draco looks at him consideringly for a second and then opens it and leads Harry inside. It’s a large dining room with a long dark table, cold even with a roaring fire in the grate. Each spot of the table is filled with a place setting with a silver food cover.

‘You see,’ Draco is beautiful, even in the chilly, flickering light, ‘all organised, all compartmentalised. If you did the same then the house’s emotions won’t be able to affect you nearly as badly. And believe me, if you want it to, it can work like traditional Occlumency too. You can lock the doors and make it into a fortress if you want.’

He beckons Harry closer and puts his hand on top of a silver dome, ‘Let me show you how the memories are held within the rooms. This one you’re familiar with,’

He lifts the cover and Harry is immersed in a memory of clambering atop a precarious stack of furniture, a burning flame tickling his back and a sudden wind from a passing broomstick overhead. He gasps and Draco lowers the cover.

Harry hears the rattling noise again, louder and somewhere in the distance. It sounds like someone trying to open a door.

‘What is that?’ he asks, brow furrowing.

‘Nothing,’ Draco replies hastily, ‘Just ignore it.’

It’s not a satisfactory answer but Harry has other things on his mind.

‘Can you show me something else?’ Harry asks, ‘Something I wouldn't have seen before. Not in the war. So I can get a feel for how you see them when you're here.’ It’s a flimsy excuse but he’s practically burning with curiosity.

Draco looks surprised and skeptical but nods all the same. He thinks for a moment and then with a low chuckle sweeps his hand left to right and the movement dislodges them from the frigid dining room and places them directly inside…

Inside a large, bright room, high mullioned windows looking out onto the grounds of Malfoy Manor. The furniture is vaguely reminiscent of Grimmauld Place, all dark sombre woods and heavy silks but the coffee table, chaise and writing bureaus in here all gleam with regular polishing, not a speck of dust to be found. Draco is sitting in an easy chair next to the hearth, which is burning low, despite the fact that Harry can see no leaves on the trees outside and it must be cold.

Draco is far too thin. Harry had seen a photo of him leaving Azkaban but the robes had hidden most of his frame. Now in trousers and a jumper which billow around him, Harry can see just how painfully his skin is stretched over his collarbones, eyes sunken and cheeks hollow. This must be soon after he left Azkaban, Harry realises. Narcissa is also there, pacing a path in front of the fire and wringing her hands. Draco is following her movements with his eyes, his chin on his hands. Narcissa stops pacing suddenly and whirls to the mantlepiece.

‘I should move the candlesticks,’ she mutters, eyes darting speculatively.

Draco restrains himself from rolling his eyes. It's been like this all morning.

The candlesticks are moved and Narcissa resumes pacing.

‘Should I answer the door myself?’ she asks the room, sounding vaguely horrified at the prospect, ‘what if…’

‘It will be fine.’ Draco insists but his mother's anxiety is starting to bleed to him and Harry sees the way he compulsively rubs his hand over his left forearm.

‘I wish I could have persuaded anyone else,’ Narcissa laments, twisting her fingers together, ‘even a squib would be better. Oh what would your father think of the Manor being polluted like this.’

‘If you feel that strongly about it,’ Draco says with biting mildness, ‘you can turn the muggle away and I’ll ask father tomorrow myself.’

Not that either of them will. Hell, as far as Draco's concerned the muggle could steal half their possessions and piss on Draco's ancestors in the crypt if he wanted. It wouldn't be any worse behaviour than of some of the Death Eaters and he's not going back to Azkaban. He tops up his warming charm on himself, just thinking about the place makes him colder and his mother has all but put the fire out (‘Will a muggle have seen a fire indoors before Draco? It might frighten him.’). This had been the final roadblock that the Wizengamot had put in place as a condition of his house arrest, Draco could practically see their wrinkled old smirks as they thought it up. Muggle Studies, three times a week with a private tutor - because of course, what Muggle Studies teacher would ever set foot in Malfoy Manor now?

Well, one would apparently. He's not actually a Muggle Studies teacher but a muggle teacher of history. His mother had scoured all of Britain for him, enduring god knows what kind of responses from people. She'd finally received an owl from the man's wife offering his services - her new husband was keen to immerse himself in the magical world, she had said. Fifty galleons per lesson was extortionate but his mother had accepted and had all but stormed the walls of Azkaban to demand Draco's immediate release. It's why he can't get annoyed with her, even as she paces and frets needlessly. It feels incredible that he's here, that this isn't a dream. That they're both alive and safe and there aren't any Dark Lords lurking in the halls. Though his dreams would suggest otherwise, but that can't last forever, surely?

Narcissa shoots him a pained look, ‘Oh Draco I didn't mean…but you're right of course, it's foolish to be so skittish. Lobelia Parkinson has some of them living on her land you know, in the gatehouse?’

‘Really?’ Draco smiles in gentle amusement. What must Pansy think of that? He'll have to ask her in a year's time.

‘Oh yes, they’re desperately trying to claw their way back into society. Apparently the muggle woman keeps accosting her when she's in her garden, invited Lobelia to something called a bar-bey-cue in August, it sounded perfectly vile.’ She shudders with relish.

A knock at the door and Narcissa freezes until Draco hoists himself up and stands at her side, putting a gentle hand on her arm. ‘Come in,’ she quavers.

An elderly house elf opens the door, ‘Mr. Greer, madam,’ he announces with a low bow and Harry snorts when a tall, broad and overweight man of about fifty enters the room, wearing an obnoxious teal and purple golfing jumper.

‘Hey there folks,’ he smiles at them with a friendly wave and Narcissa has to clutch onto Draco's arm for support. Harry can guess at Narcissa's horror even without being privy to Draco’s thoughts - an American!

He's guessing the man's wife hadn't thought to mention that.

Harry watches as Narcissa gathers her courage and with the same look of steely determination as when she'd lied to Voldemort, speaks slowly, as one might to a frightened child or an animal in danger of bolting.

‘Good morning, I am Narcissa Malfoy. This is my son Draco.’

He advances, hand outstretched and Narcissa instinctively backs away with a sharp little inhale. Draco arrests her progress and looks past the man to the house elf,

‘Bensy, would you take my mother to the morning room and give her tea? Or something stronger?’ he says, tone perfectly even as his eyes scan Narcissa’s paling face with some concern. He leads her with an arm around her shoulder and hands her off to the elf and then resolutely shuts the door on her worried face. He whirls and faces Mr. Greer who has been watching the performance with some trepidation.

‘Please forgive my mother sir, the last few days have been very trying for her.’

Then before the muggle can respond, Draco whips out a question at him, ‘Did they tell you I was in jail?’

Mr. Greer boggles at him but nods.

‘Did they tell you what I did?’

Another nod accompanied by a calculating look at him.

Draco visibly sags with relief. He makes his way back to the chair by the fire and collapses into it, as though the simple exchange has exhausted him.

‘Oh good, I thought maybe…maybe my mother hadn't…I didn't want you to find out about it later.’

Draco gestures to the seat beside him and the man sits, mouth slanted in a sympathetic grin,

‘Hey, don't sweat it kid. We all got history. I had to go pick up my nephew from the slammer in Milwaukee once cos my aunt’s Chevy was in the shop. He stole his neighbour's baseball cards to sell. Poor little dude, he'd done wrong but when I picked him up he was just a kid who wanted a Big Mac you know?’

Draco sinks his head into his hands, his face a picture of profound dismay as the memory dissolves. Harry's shoulders are shaking in silent laughter. Draco - the now Draco - looks sidelong at him, a small smile tugging at his lips.

‘Yes I thought you'd find that funny, you rotter,’ he says attempting to huff, ‘watching the defilement of my ancestral home.’

Harry can't breathe, ‘Your face!’ he manages, gasping, ‘Your mum! Oh Merlin!’

‘He actually wasn't a bad sort, once we worked out the language barrier. Knew a lot about fishing.’

Harry is doubled over and starting to get concerned about bruising a rib.

‘Always a pleasure watching an enemy brought low, hm?’

Harry finally subsides and wipes tears away as he faces Draco and says earnestly, ‘We’re friends now, not enemies. And I like seeing you happy too, I'll prove it. Show me a nice memory.’

Draco looks bemused and though he grumbles a little about bossiness and calls Harry a ‘demanding little snoop’, he gives it due thought and swipes his hand to land them inside…

Inside Draco’s cell in Azkaban, a rough and starkly empty stone room, save for a cot in one corner and a desk and chair underneath the high, barred window. Draco is standing on the desk and looking out the window. Even in the memory Harry can feel the biting cold, the wind picking up and fluttering through the folds of Draco’s robes. There aren’t any Dementors in Azkaban any more of course but still the air feels heavy and wretched with residual misery.

Harry wouldn’t recognise Draco if it weren’t for the hair, even though he's not quite as waif-thin as in the previous memory. This time it's not just the dark circles under his eyes and dry cracked lips - what strikes Harry the most is the look of utter contentment on his face, an expression of pure peace. He wasn’t kidding about the beauty of the sunsets, it's truly spectacular, the sun an effulgent orange orb sinking below the horizon, pink clouds streaking violently away across the pale yolk sky. It's been a good day, Draco muses. He'd had another message from his lawyer. McGonagall’s third letter had impressed favourably on the Wizengamot and he should be hearing about his appeal soon. And his father hadn't tried to start a conversation with him in the yard today, only given him an angry look. He must finally be getting the message that Draco isn't interested in talking to him. And best of all, he had finally worked up the courage to send his letter to Granger. He’d spent weeks sitting on it and now that he’s done it, it feels like a huge relief. He even swears dinner had been slightly more edible than usual. And now there's this visual splendour. It’s so funny, Draco reflects, he used to be so bored, so discontent in the Manor, at Hogwarts, a day without amusement would have him peevish and stroppy. And now all it takes to make him happy is a single letter and a sunset. He'd rate this at least an eight in his ranking of sunsets he's seen. He takes a moment to think of the sun setting over Hogwarts, over the Manor, over all the places he's ever been and has yet to go. He'll see so many beautiful sunsets, Draco vows.

The scene dissipates, the house and gardens dissipate and Harry blinks and finds himself staring into Draco’s eyes on the floor of Regulus’ bedroom.

‘Wow.’ he says. He feels dazed, the transition has been too sudden and he’s still filled with the sense of wonder and optimism that Draco had felt in the cell. Draco stands up and offers Harry his hand.

‘Did you mean what you said about us being friends?’ he asks, when he's pulled Harry to his feet. Harry lets go of his hand with some reluctance, the warmth lingering in his fingertips.

‘Yes.’ Harry says sincerely.

‘Hmm.’ is the noncommittal reply, but Harry is sure he can see a tiny flicker of shy curiosity in Draco's eyes.

In the afternoon, Harry almost makes Draco laugh again after Draco requests that they take a tour of Grimmauld Place’s paintings, firstly to search for Walburga in case she’s hiding in any of them. Secondarily because in the same vein as the dinner two nights ago, showing appreciation for the house’s assets is a form of bonding. And they've already walked the wards and had a long afternoon staring at the hearth in the living room while Draco drew careful runes and glowered at him for being ignorant of their significance. So they walk room to room, looking carefully at each painting. But there are no other occupants in any paintings with Phineas Nigellus permanently moved into his Hogwarts frame - the Blacks apparently having a preference for gloomy landscapes or still life works of rotting fruit. Draco scoffs at Harry’s lack of art knowledge and Harry feigns obliviousness as they go around, eventually adopting the persona of a clueless, tired auctioneer and describing everything like he’s trying to sell it. Draco makes a choking noise in his throat several times but never quite succumbs to the peals of laughter that had afflicted him in the living room.

It's quickly becoming apparent and quite embarrassing just how hard he's willing to work for Draco. He's unsure why exactly. He’d been on several dates after Ginny had ended things and had been quick enough to call time on them for any number of reasons, often to his friends' chagrin. He’d told himself it was because he was still mourning the break up. But maybe it was really because it had all felt too easy. They'd been perfectly nice, eager to have dinner with him, and laughed at all his jokes. Harry had always thought of himself as an easy going bloke and assumed he'd like a partner who was the same. But he'd always left each date with a feeling of dissatisfaction that with the benefit of hindsight he recognises as boredom. Nick, on the other hand, while perfectly nice, had also provided Harry with a challenge, a new experience - dating a man and a muggle. And if a challenge is what he's after, then let's face it, he's always been ready to meet any challenge set by Draco Malfoy.

…..

Harry hears the rattling noise again.

It’s in the muddy transition from dream to waking that he hears it, so he isn’t sure if it’s real at first. He hasn’t had a nightmare in a while so the rattling pierces his consciousness reluctantly, almost apologetically.

He reluctantly pulls himself into wakefulness just as the noise abruptly stops.. He sits up and realises he’s alone in his bed, the house not having played it’s favourite new trick yet tonight. It’s only trick since Draco entered. He should have known it was too good to last.

The noise starts again, a clattering rumble, akin to someone trying a door handle angrily. Harry gropes for his wand and glasses on the bedside table. He summons some jeans and a hoodie from the chair where he keeps most of his clothes and pulls them on.

The hall is dark and Harry stubs his toe on a loose floorboard as he passes Draco’s room. As he’s swearing Draco opens the door and Harry has a glorious view of him framed with moonlight.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he stage whispers, for what reason Harry isn’t sure, ‘Please tell me that’s the pipes or something?’

Harry shakes his head as the rattling cuts off any reply he might have given and Harry feels long fingers grasp his elbow.

‘One minute.’ Draco darts back into his room then briefly pops his head back out when he hears Harry’s exasperated growl.

‘Well I’m not dying in my fucking pyjamas Potter.’

It occurs to Harry that maybe he’s not coming back at all, Draco’s track record isn’t exactly exemplary when it comes to bravery. But then he appears at the door again pulling a thin jumper over a taut stomach and Harry has to concentrate to remember the noise at all.

‘Fuck, hold on.’ Now it’s his turn to dart back into his room, Draco’s impatient swearing at his back. This is fortunately curtailed when he returns in a second and tosses his wand over to him. Draco’s eyebrows raise in surprise before he asks, ‘Sock drawer?’

Harry shrugs, ‘Where else?’

Draco’s incensed look makes Harry snort with laughter but then both their heads twist in the direction of the commotion and Harry leads the way down the stairs.

The hallway is all shadows and moonlight and Harry doesn’t want to risk a Lumos. At first he thinks the sound must have come from outside but then it starts up again, louder as they get closer and it’s definitely coming from the cellar.

‘Shit.’ Harry hears Draco murmur and to his surprise Draco pushes in front of him, rolling up his left sleeve. He murmurs an incantation with his wand to the Mark and Harry sees the snake start to slither.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he hisses at him but Draco barely gives him a backward glance.

‘Extra protection,’ he says softly and grabs the door to the cellar, ‘The mirror looked fine yesterday but there’s still a lot of dark magic about down there. I’d say you should stay up here but-’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Exactly.’

Draco heads down the stairs, wincing as the door creaks heavily. Harry barely resists the urge to pull him back and insist upon going first, something Robards has had to ream him out for many a time and Harry knows that Draco would almost certainly make a snide comment about his ‘insufferable hero complex’.

Draco’s wand lights up and Harry follows suit because it is definitely too dark down here to see, the moonlight rays too weak to do anything other than provide an outline of the window in the gloom. The crates and movement of Draco’s wand provide leaping shadows but everything looks to be silent and still. Harry can only hear the occasional ping of a water drop and Draco’s cautious footsteps.

The mirror comes into view, the gold frame glinting from the light of their wands. It was propped up against the wall but now it’s on the floor, face up - though if it has fallen then it must have done so gently, because the glass is still intact. Harry jumps when a tremor shudders through the mirror and it bounces and vibrates on the floor, noisily jolting on the cold flagstones.

‘What the hell?’ Draco exhales and steps closer to take a better look. Some instinct in Harry urges him to pull Draco away a split second before a long dark shape fountains up from the mirror's surface and thwacks messily on the edge of the mirror.

Draco lurches back hurriedly, stepping on Harry’s foot and clamps a hand over his own mouth. Harry clumsily grabs Draco to stop himself from falling and watches in horror as the black, oozing substance coalesces, and takes form as an arm, scrabbling for purchase.

‘Oh fuck, oh fuck, what?’ Draco mumbles from under his hand and Harry has to agree with the general sentiment as the arm emerging from the mirror flops around, then catches the edge of a flagstone and pulls a black, dripping form forth from the glass.

It’s struggling to stay together, having to fight every second for stability, the black liquid running thickly down the semblance head and collarbones, pooling on the surface mirror and then running back up in thick, oily strands to repeat the process.

Harry steps forward to blast the fucking thing into next week but Draco arrests him with a hand on his arm, ‘Wait! We have no idea what it is, you can’t just rush in and start casting! You might make it worse!’

Harry looks doubtfully at the dark shape of the Thing emerging from the mirror - how could he possibly make it worse?

‘What do you suggest then?’ he growls at Draco from the corner of his mouth, loath to pull his eyes off the wretched half-formed mess that was now emitting a gurgling, moaning noise from an attempt at a mouth.

But Draco already has his wand raised and Harry recognises a warding spell. He casts and for a second it looks as though it’s worked and the flailing, moaning mess retreats back into the dark shadow of the mirror but then it surges up again, bursting the thin net of the ward and Harry hears it give something akin to a roar as a second arm struggles out of the opening.

Draco blanches, ‘Okay, right, oh fuck.’

But Harry squints as he starts to make out emerging features in the inky space where a face should be. The almost-mouth opens and closes, the groans take on a more definite shape;

‘Fil-ee haa bree…’

It can’t be…

‘FIL-THY HAA BREEEEEDS’

‘Walburga?!’

Draco whips his head around to gawk at him, ‘What?! From the portrait?’

‘BLUUHH TRAI…TOR’

‘Good to see she still remembers her favourite words,’ Harry mutters, backing away as the obsidian mass crawls with grotesque deliberation out from the frame

‘This…this isn’t possible,’ Draco chokes out, entirely unhelpfully in Harry’s opinion. He swallows rapidly, then turns to Harry, ‘I rescind my former objection Potter, please try whatever sledgehammer approach you favour.’

I rescind my former objection, Harry thinks, vowing to teach Draco the art of brevity in a crisis as the shambling black mass that is starting to resemble a sickeningly distorted Walburga Black finally stands. He fires a Reducto at…it? Her? And raises his eyebrows when it seemingly flies right through her. He’s seen his Reducto level a two storey building before so this is…worrying.

‘FILTHY HALF BREEDS! BLOOD TRAITORS!’

Both he and Draco exchange looks and start firing spells. Walburga’s progress is laughably slow and she’s unsteady on her feet, which lift off the floor with sticky difficulty. But having her in a static portrait was bad enough and the fact that it’s unnerved Draco, who’s seen more than his share of Dark magic, is enough to make Harry send a volley of spells with a seriousness that would please Robards in any Auror situation. Harry is aware of Draco doing similar next to him, he’s actually impressed with his technique - for someone who hasn’t had a wand for two years he’s certainly no slouch. They should duel again, he thinks in the part of his mind not occupied with casting - once Draco has officially got his wand back and they aren’t being plagued by a zombie version of a bigoted old battleaxe.

They both stop and retreat a little to put some space between themselves and the approaching Walburga, who if anything has only become progressively louder and steadier, the steps now less faltering and the fine detail visible on her face, including glinting obsidian eyes. The spells are still passing right through her and Harry pauses.There’s one thing Harry hasn’t tried yet because he doesn’t want Draco to panic but it might be time to suggest it.

‘How are you with fire these days?’

The way Draco looks at him speaks to his general trepidation at the idea but after a moment he grits his teeth and nods.

‘Do it.’

‘Incendio!’

Harry’s unclear why this works when nothing else did but Walburga lights up like a Roman candle. The horrible shrieking noise she makes almost makes Harry feel pity for a second but then he’s more concerned for himself as the aflame Mirror-Walburga stumbles around wildly flailing its arms. He grabs Draco out of her path and shoves him against the wall, and then watches as she dissolves with every step until only the fire and a puddle of black ooze remains, which starts slowly seeping its way towards the mirror.

Harry launches a quick Aguamenti at the flames which douses them with a loud hiss and then once it's stopped the silence is eerie in the cavernous space. Harry realises he’s still pressed against Draco, who is up against the wall. He can feel the rise and fall of Draco’s chest against his own and his still elevated heartbeat. He’s clutching his waist with his non-wand hand too. He should definitely let go and move away, Harry thinks, while doing no such thing. Instead he turns his head to look at him. Other than a slight pallor to his skin and a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, he looks surprisingly alright for a man who’s just re-enacted a traumatic event.

‘Are you ok?’ Happy whispers to him, eyes flicking over his face and then into his eyes. Draco nods, eyes similarly tracking Harry’s face down to his lips where they rest and Harry realises he’s unconsciously darted out his tongue to wet them. Draco’s mouth is slightly parted and just too damn tempting when he’s this close and it feels like something of a foregone conclusion when Harry leans in and presses their mouths together.

He has to tilt his chin up slightly because of the height difference but this is quickly rendered unnecessary because Draco’s knees buckle as he absolutely melts into the kiss. His lips are soft and warm and oh so accommodating as they part slightly to allow Harry’s tongue to slip into his mouth and Harry swallows the tiny moan that Draco makes as his hand tightens around Draco’s waist. He hears a clatter and realises Draco must have dropped his wand because he feels both hands move up into his hair, pulling him in closer so that Draco can deepen the kiss, his tongue moving more assuredly against Harry’s. God, he’s lovely, Harry thinks. He can smell salt and citrus on Draco’s skin mixed with the ozone of recent spellcasting and it’s heady and delicious and making him want more so he shifts and insinuates his leg between Draco’s thighs. Draco gasps into Harry’s mouth, his kisses turn hungry and desperate, biting down on Harry’s lip. Harry abandons all gentleness and pushes forward, his thigh now firmly wedged up between Draco’s legs, earning another gasp and a strangled groan as Harry feels Draco’s start to harden through frustratingly thick denim. Harry’s not sure what has gotten into him, he’s never kissed anyone like this before. He’s normally happy to let his partner take the lead, he likes sweet, slow kisses that let the simmering tension build. But this…he feels it sweep through him like a raging fire, the need to break through Draco’s self-control. To his delight it works like a dream and Draco grinds their hips together while devouring his mouth.

He can't apparate, Harry thinks frustratedly, or they'd already be upstairs. He's never been so turned on in his life, his cock starting to strain painfully against his jeans. He wants to strip Draco naked and stroke and suck and nibble and kiss every inch of him. But pulling away from him long enough to make a start on any of that seems impossible.

The mirror solves this issue, giving a seemingly determined last jolt against the flagstones and it shudders on the ground as they both jump apart, Harry with his wand ready. Nothing else happens however and after thirty seconds of hearing nothing other than their own heavy breathing, Draco gropes on the floor beside him to pick up his own wand and gestures towards the mirror.

‘I should see if I can work out what happened,’ he says shakily and Harry looks at his kiss-swollen lips and the gorgeous rosy flush that has covered his face. He nods, accepting the truth of Draco’s statement.

‘I’ll go and make tea.’ he says, doubting either of them will be going back to sleep tonight. It will make him feel useful, ‘Shout if you need…anything.’

And then he’s bounding up the stairs, head still spinning.

….

It’s twenty minutes later and Draco has finished in the cellar. To say he’s worried would be a bit of an understatement. Simply put, it should not be possible for a portrait to manifest a physical form. He would need a whole library’s worth of books before he could even begin to take a guess at how it had happened. But he’s set a ton of stasis and barrier charms on it and hopes it will prevent anything else emerging until he can take another look with a clearer head. Because Harry Potter just snogged him senseless and his entire world has tilted on its axis and honestly he might just never recover.

And it was an appalling thing to have happened. Because Draco should be thinking about the cool, earthy smell of his Uncle’s garden in France, he should be dreaming of a nice earnest French boy with good dress sense and total ignorance of his past, not bloody Harry Potter with his awful clothes and intimate knowledge of all of the worst moments of Draco’s history.

But Harry had kissed him and it had taken all of three seconds for his resolve to crumble. Even knowing what he knew in his heart, that Harry could never see him as anything but a cowardly Death Eater. He’s angry with himself for letting it happen and he's angry with Harry for having no self-control. Draco has had celibacy forced upon him for over two years, surely Harry could restrain himself for a few weeks. He’s probably shagged an entire Quidditch team since Draco’s been locked up. Another thought races after that one, oh god, what if he was seeing someone now and Draco, his husband technically he thinks petulantly, what if he was just a side-piece to stave off the boredom?

And even if he wasn't, Draco had got the message loud and clear the other night. The Chosen One didn’t do dates. He said he hadn't the time and likely his partners would just be expected to fall in with his schedule. And Draco really wants a proper date. Just one. He knows he doesn’t deserve it and maybe it is a bit stuffy and traditional but he wants to feel courted. Special. Only for a while. A few hours, that’s all.

Draco sidles into the kitchen, and looks stony-faced at Harry who is sitting at the table nursing a mug of tea. Another one sits on the table next to him.

‘Sorry,’ Harry says apologetically, ‘you might have to do your thing with it.’

Draco’s eyebrows raise, ‘My thing?’

‘Yeah with the wandless heating charm you’re so good at.’

Draco preens a little - it was impressive, wasn’t it? He gets a hold of himself just in time, he’s always been far too susceptible to flattery.

‘And you were good down there - oh god no, I didn’t mean - well you were but - I meant with the non-verbal casting.’

Merlin, he’s disarming. Draco feels his willpower draining away under the steady pressure of Harry’s bumbling compliments.

‘And I’m sorry about the fire. You coped really well though, I hope you don’t mind me saying but I was unsure if you’d be able to handle it - you used to run away when there was any danger.’

Draco’s face shutters, because this, exactly this is why he has to get some bloody self-control. Because Harry will always hold in his mind who Draco was.

He replies coldly, ‘Yes well, during the war I usually had something worse behind me so turning and running wasn’t really an option. So I just learned a different kind of cowardice really,’ his forced brightness is as brittle as a sugar quill, ‘we can’t all be naturally brave like you, oh Saviour.’

Harry frowns and looks like he’s about to speak but Draco gets ahead of him, ‘I’ll have a closer look at the mirror and the cellar tomorrow but it should be safe for tonight. I’m going to try to get a few hours of sleep.’

He gets up, leaving his cold mug of tea on the table. His wand lies next to it and his hand hovers for a second. He supposes Harry will want it back again. Harry sees his hesitancy and gives a tiny shrug,

‘Why don’t you hold onto it?’

His voice is gentle and Draco wants to, god knows he wants to. But he pulls his arm away because giving in to his impulses around Harry can only mean trouble.

‘No, you keep it. I’ll need it tomorrow again but you can supervise its usage, Auror Potter.’

With ice in his veins, Draco ignores the confused hurt on Harry’s face and leaves the kitchen.

Chapter Text

Harry hears a rattling noise coming from the kitchen when he’s walking down the stairs the next morning.

Immediately he’s on high alert, wand out and ready. He bursts into the kitchen, an Incendio already on his lips and thoroughly scares the shit out of a red-robed Ronald Weasley, who’s only crime is jiggling the toaster.

‘Merlin’s beard Harry!’ Ron clutches his chest.

‘Ron?! How did you get in here?’

‘Tried the front door and it let me in.’ Ron shrugs and looks pleased with himself, although his smile drops slightly when he sees Harry’s wand still aimed at him, ‘Hey watch where you’re pointing that thing mate.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ Harry lowers his arm, steps forward and pulls Ron into a relieved hug while scanning the kitchen table nervously - he’d left Draco’s wand on the kitchen table last night but it’s not there now. Did Ron take it?

‘Why are you so on edge? Is it Malfoy?’ Ron’s voice hardens and he straightens up, eyes alert.

‘No, no - I’ll explain once I’ve checked the door.’ Harry is already halfway down the hall because if the house let Ron in then maybe…

He’s learned from past experiences of squashed noses and puts out a palm to test the barrier. It’s there and still as immovable as ever. Harry curses, lands a bruising thump on the invisible wall separating him from the rest of the world and turns to see the cellar door opening.

His wand is back out and he’s surging forward when Draco comes into view, pulling a pair of round goggles up over his head.

‘Fucking hell Potter!’ Draco stumbles back and grabs the door handle for support.

Harry stares because Draco is wearing a black leather apron and elbow-length gloves over the same jumper he was wearing last night, his hair mussed from the goggles and he looks sexy as hell. Harry’s not quite sure why they left yesterday on a sour note and his plan was to keep a respectful distance but this is already a test of his self-control.

Draco is already making his way past him, pulling his gloves off and looking annoyed and now that he’s a bit closer Harry can see the dark circles under his eyes - has he been up all night?

Harry remembers just as Malfoy crosses the threshold of the kitchen that Ron’s in there but he’s too late to stop Draco having his second shock of the morning. He flings himself back into the door jamb, hand slapping over his mouth to stop himself screaming.

‘Weasley!’ he manages to croak weakly, through his fingers.

Ron has a severe expression on his face, slightly tempered by the half-eaten crumpet in his hand.

‘Malfoy. What is…’ he gestures to the apron, ‘this?’

Draco looks sidelong at Harry, ‘It’s for the cellar.’ Harry can see his wand sticking out of his back pocket and breathes a little easier knowing that Ron isn’t going to ream him out for leaving it lying around. He looks up and sees Draco’s startled expression and realises it looks like he’s ogling his arse. He coughs and feels his cheeks start to heat.

‘So the house is letting people in now!’ he turns to Ron, theatrically pleased. Malfoy scoffs ever so slightly and skirts around them to get the hob, grabbing a copper pan as he goes. He transfigures it into a small cauldron and puts several vials from his pocket on the counter as Harry catches Ron up on last night’s events. Ron doesn’t take his eyes off Draco the entire time and his countenance turns stormier with each new detail.

‘Well, it sounds like someone familiar with the Dark Arts might be responsible to me,’ he says loudly, after Harry’s finished. Harry’s stomach drops.

‘No, Ron-’

‘Fucking hell Weasley, did your last remaining brain cells get lost on the way here?’ Draco snarls as he spins to face them, withering glare at the ready.

He’s all spite and bile, lashing out and acting like the Draco Malfoy Ron expects to see. Which is particularly bloody unhelpful right now, Harry thinks as Ron grabs his wand and Harry puts a calming hand on his arm.

‘Your slimy arse is out of here tomorrow Malfoy and you’d better pray they don’t add time onto your sentence after this.’ Ron jeers, lip curling slightly.

Draco’s countenance drops and his eyes flick sharply to Harry, who feels a tug in his chest.

‘What? Why?’

‘It’s been almost two weeks Harry, it’s obviously not worked. That solicitor can bring the Annulment papers now the house is letting people in again and Malfoy is back to his mummy tomorrow.’

Harry knows logically that it would be stupid to kick up a fuss, that Ron is probably right and it hasn’t worked as they had supposed. But they were onto something with the house, Harry knew it. And for the first time in a long time, even before he’d been trapped here, he felt eager to get out of bed, Draco’s presence providing a zest to his days. He’d been enjoying himself. Not all the time obviously. He could have done without the cellar monster.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Malfoy’s voice is measured and flat, ‘instead of an Annulment, perhaps a divorce might be better.’

Ron looks as shocked and baffled as Harry feels. Draco flushes, spots of colour high on his cheekbones and turns his gaze to his shoes. Harry is pretty sure he’s wishing he’d never said anything but he watches as Draco steels his courage and barrels on with strained nonchalance,

‘If we get divorced then there’s a settlement right? Dividing up the china and that sort of thing. If Potter signs over 12 Grimmauld Place to me fully, then the house might not be able to keep him inside.’

‘No,’ Harry says firmly, ‘out of the question. This is my house.’ He looks to Ron expecting him to agree but Ron is still looking at Draco, his face still filled with deep suspicion but there’s also a certain intrigue at his suggestion.

Draco sighs exasperatedly and runs his fingers through his hair,

‘You don’t even like it here,’ he says sulkily. Ron nods at this, then looks horrified at himself for agreeing with Malfoy.

Harry opens his mouth to argue but can’t. But it’s not about liking it. Grimmauld Place is his, just like his grief for Sirius is his - he doesn’t like that either but he’s not just going to throw it away. He tries a different tactic

‘Well I’m not going to just leave you to rot in here,’ he says to Draco, a tiny bit more vehemently than he meant to.

‘For goodness sake Potter,’ Draco says crisply, ‘when I need rescuing I shall reliably inform you.’

‘Look mate,’ Ron draws him away from Draco and lowers his voice confidentially, ‘I know it’s hard for you to move on sometimes. You’ve never replaced Hedwig, you’ve been moping around for months after the business with that Nick bloke. This house isn’t worth risking your safety.’

‘No.’ Harry crosses his arms stubbornly.

‘Just think it over,’ Ron says, ‘I’ll owl the solicitor about it in case you change your mind.’

‘Listen Ron, just give us a few more days? We’re making progress honestly and Draco is helping, he really is.’

Ron’s eyebrows raise at Harry calling him Draco and Harry hopes to Merlin he doesn’t start blushing. He grips Ron’s arm a tiny bit tighter, eyes pleading.

‘If you’re sure…’ Ron looks around to where Draco has tactfully turned to the stove again, ‘I can maybe give you three more days if we string out this divorce thing. Urgh, the whole thing gives me the creeps, talking about your marriage and divorce to Malfoy. And what’s he doing with his wand again?’

‘He needs it for the cellar. And seriously Ron, he’s my best chance at getting out of here. He’s not like he used to be.’

Ron hmphs sceptically and then puts a hand into his robes, ‘You sound like Hermione. These are from her by the way. And another food parcel from mum.’

Harry takes the parcel gratefully. The one from Hermione looks like a bundle of letters.

‘All the letters he’s sent her,’ he shakes his head frustratingly, ‘I was furious at first but it seems like Hermione finds them useful and there’s nothing personal in them, no idea why she even bothers. She said she’d promised to let you see them.’

He turns back to the kitchen, drawing himself up and uses what Harry calls his ‘Official Auror Voice.’

‘Malfoy,’ he says coldly, ‘you have a few more days at Harry’s request. Don’t make me regret this.’

Draco looks slightly wary and his eyes dart to Harry again before he nods. Ron steps away and gives Harry a friendly shoulder pat.

‘Right well, I’ll look forward to your daily report to Robards being slightly more interesting today,’ he manages a weak grin.

Harry walks him to the door as they chat about Hermione’s trip and Ron’s impending day shuffling through reports, which he makes a face at and Harry reflects on how far away it all seems. He’d forgotten he even had a job. He resolves to try and pull himself back into his life as much as he can.

‘Want to come for dinner tonight? As you’re apparently allowed in again.’ Harry asks, putting on his most lopsided smile.

‘Ah sorry Harry, I’m have to go to George’s - he wants to try out a new batch of the Bursting Bludgers and mum thinks if I’m there then I’ll make sure he doesn’t end up getting into any trouble. As if I’m going to be able to stop him.’

Harry sees him out, reminding him that the last test of the Bludgers had ended with Ron covered head to toe in green slime and if it happens again to please photograph it for him. He knocks gently on the solid air in the doorway, just in case and then with a rueful smile waves Ron down the street.

When he returns to the kitchen Draco is glaring at the cauldron and using his wand to coax a dark blue substance out of one of the jars and into it, watching carefully as it emits a slight sizzling noise and is surrounded by a blue haze. Harry takes a second to watch him work.

‘Were you up all night?’ he asks, walking up to stand next to him and leaning against the counter. He hopes his proximity will distract Draco a little and sure enough he sees the careful hands falter in their task and the breath hitch ever so slightly.

‘Couldn’t sleep.’ Draco says gruffly.

‘Did you find anything?’ Harry watches as Draco gears up for an explanation

‘Essentially I still have no idea why it happened,’ he says haughtily, ‘but I’ve managed to extract several different types of blood from the wards. There aren’t many portraits in the house and I’m guessing Walburga’s was the most recent. There are several blood magic spells that can create flesh, though I’ve never heard of a whole body out of nothing. But if I can identify whose blood is included in the wards then we can at least have an idea if any other portraits are going to start lurching around in the middle of the night.’

‘Why do you think my Incendio spell worked when the others had no effect?’

‘The only thing I can think is that all our other spells were offensive and possibly Walburga was protected by the house against those, but Incendio is a household spell so she had no way to defend herself against it.’

He taps the cauldron with his wand one more time and then steps back, rubbing his eyes.

‘It needs to simmer for at least another hour.’

‘Take a break,’ Harry suggests, ‘get some sleep.’

Draco shakes his head stubbornly and then yelps when Harry grabs his arm and yanks him towards the living room.

‘Fine but you are going to lie down on the sofa at least, even if I have to Incarcerous you to stay there.’

‘Is this Auror brutality?’ Draco mumbles but lets Harry drag him along which Harry takes as a reflection of how truly knackered he is.

Draco lies down on the sofa, though he tells Harry to fuck off when he tries to cover him with a blanket. Harry chuckles at how crabby he is.

Draco is looking at him now with a question in his eyes and Harry watches as he gathers his courage and the words come out in a rush,

‘Was what Weasley said true? That you’ve been moping around since it didn’t work out with your muggle boyfriend? You’re not…’ Draco chews his lip and struggles to force his next words out, ‘...seeing anyone else right now?’

Is this what was bothering him last night? Harry wonders, slightly amused that Malfoy apparently thinks he's some sort of lothario. Always so pessimistic, these Slytherins.

‘I’m not. Though I wouldn’t call it moping, exactly. I’ve been busy.’

‘You must have really liked him.’

‘I…liked that he didn’t know who I was. I liked that he just liked me. And yes, I liked him.’

‘I get that. My Muggle studies tutor, that you saw? I liked that he didn’t know about the war. Well he knew, his wife told him but he didn’t know, you know? The Mark was just a tattoo to him, the war was just something he’d heard about second hand. I liked it too.’

‘I’m glad. You'll have to tell me more about him sometime. I imagine you didn't learn much.’

‘How dare you, I was an excellent student.’ Malfoy sniffs, ‘It's not my fault the man was unintelligible half the time.’ He pauses and looks soft and vulnerable in that way that’s starting to make Harry feel unbearably fond of him, ‘I liked him though. Even if he did make me learn how to cook and wash dishes.’

Can I kiss you again Harry wants to ask but he settles for, ‘I guess we both found muggles easier to deal with.’

‘Hmm,’ Draco hums then yawns, ‘I need to owl my mother and then check on the potion again. I’m just closing my eyes for a second, you understand, because you’re a bully and an arsehole.’

‘Right.’ Harry says, grabbing his book from the coffee table and re-starting the chapter yet again. Draco is asleep before he’s finished the first paragraph.

As an afterthought he goes back into the kitchen to check on the cottage painting and despite all that’s happened, it’s still a shock. The fortifications have been destroyed, the house looks like several explosions have hit it, sections of the walls blackened in long dark streaks, the front door hanging off its hinges.

Whatever had happened to Walburga, Harry was almost prepared to say that she hadn’t gone willingly.

…..

Harry’s building his house.

Draco had woken up disoriented and peevish and had gone back to work on his potion. He’d identified at least seven different types of blood used in the wards surrounding the house. He’d also given Harry a long lecture on exactly how he should have dismantled said wards. They still haven't spoken about the kiss and it's all he can think about. Harry had said he had to work on his Occlumency to escape but now that he's here he’s enjoying himself.

He's progressed past the concentration stage - Draco had been annoyingly right when he had told him there was a point where he would tip over and be able to sustain it without much effort. Now he's inside his own mind and it feels nice. Calming.

He’s imagining his mind as a flat landscape and wondering what sort of house he’d be. Draco’s is a little too fancy, Grimmauld Place a little too bleak. He recalls the cottage from the painting, pre-whatever the hell happened to it and decides to model it on that and his imagining of Godric’s Cottage - thatched roof, whitewashed walls, cottage garden. He spends some time filling the garden full to bursting with flowers because why not.

He focuses on the interior, how the living room would have beams in the ceiling and a large fireplace. He’d have lead lined windows and bookcases and…and…

Harry stalls. Draco had all sorts of furniture and objects, all representing memories. How did he do that exactly? He tries to think of furniture, literally a single item of furniture like a sofa and imagine it into being but it’s blurry, an indistinct lump with no form in an unappealing brown. Why is this part so hard?

He abandons the task for the moment and considers the short stack of Hermione’s letters. Not exactly affectionate, she’d said. Dull, Ron had said. He’s very curious

The first one in the pile is written on coarse parchment with an official Ministry check stamp on it. This must be the one he’d written from Azkaban. Every single word is deep black, he imagines Draco carefully deliberating what he had written after each and every word, the ink drying on the quill and forcing him to dip aftesh for every new pen stroke;

Dear Granger,

Your open letter to the Prophet on August 14th on the subject of Muggle Integration Law was intriguing. I suggest you read Brashius Tellus’ work on Wizard Secrecy through the Mediaeval period. There are several sections in Chapter 5 that would be helpful to your argument.

Yours faithfully,

Draco L. Malfoy Esq.

Harry turns the letter over, looks for anything else, a second page, a post script…but no, this is it. He’s baffled. He’d expected at the very least a grovelling apology. The next one is written on expensive cream parchment, headed with a Malfoy crest.

Dear Granger,

Apologies for the late reply of this correspondence, it appears my mail in Azkaban has been withheld for a short time while details of my house arrest were being put in place. Also I regret your news that the book is rarer than I might have supposed. There is a copy in the Manor, unfortunately I am unable to take it out of the library as it belongs to the house. Please see attached for relevant sections.

You referred to my signature as ‘pretentious’, in which case,

Yours pretentiously,

Draco L. Malfoy Esq.

The attached is a long scroll of parchment paper where Draco has painstakingly copied out sections of the book he was describing.

The next one:

Dear Granger,

I disagree that the sections are ‘out of context’ and therefore worthless to your argument. Nevertheless, please see attached for missing sections. Your letter to the Chief Wizengamot is acceptable, though if it is still Strangewood holding the post it needs to be half the length and contain double the amount of flattery if you want it to get anywhere. Apologies for the inkstain at the end, my quill broke.

Yours prickishly,

Draco L. Malfoy Esq.

The next one:

Dear Granger,

Thank you for the kind gift of a muggle ‘biro’ pen and paper set. I begrudgingly accept that they are easier to use than a quill and parchment. However I do not accept your argument that I am now obligated to copy out the whole book for you. Please see attached for Chapters 1-3. Also I have looked over your speech and made several adjustments, see attached.

Yours arseholishly,

Draco L. Malfoy Esq.

Harry shuffles through them. All short, all brusque and businesslike, all accompanied by multiple pages of writing copied from what must have been a lengthy tome. There’s no apology, no hint of remorse. If it had been him he would have thrown the first letter away in disgust. But…he sees it now. The tireless, dogged determination. He finally finds one that has the barest hint of humanity:

Dear Granger,

Thank you for the Christmas card. You look well. If you should find time between festivities, you might peruse the attached contract, my mother is keen to ensure the house elves' rights are observed in accordance with your speech to the Wizangamot on October 5th and our solicitor is a little behind the times in these matters. Your advice would be appreciated.

Yours,

Draco L. Malfoy Esq.

He’d written to Luna too, Hermione had said and Merlin what he wouldn’t give to see those letters, no doubt equally polite and cold, battling with Luna’s more exotic beliefs and blunt perceptiveness.

It's a roundabout way of apologising but the bravery is in the action, not the words. Writing to Hermione must have felt like stepping into a gaping chasm, he'd felt Draco's relief at having done it after weeks of deliberation in his memory. He frowns slightly, wondering if he should ask himself this…why Draco hadn't written to him?

Chapter Text

Harry is having a nightmare. Draco wakes in the darkness to muffled incoherent shouting. Harry’s nightmares clearly require more active participation than his, usually featuring him frozen in terrified silence. Draco leans over the pillows and puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry isn’t wearing pyjamas again and Draco nearly flinches away when his hand connects with warm skin.

‘Harry? Harry?’ He keeps his tone soothing and gentle.

Harry sits bolt upright and throws off Draco’s hand. He looks around the room urgently, his breathing fast and ragged. He locks eyes with Draco and even though they are barely visible in the dark, Draco is captivated by the intensity they hold.

‘War?’ Draco asks sympathetically.

Harry shakes his head, scrubbing his hands through his wild hair and over his face. Draco draws his knees up under the covers and rests his elbows on them. He should definitely leave. He has no business here and Harry probably wouldn’t want him to see. But…he’d met his mother one night in a corridor of the Manor and had the shocking realisation that she also had nightmares about the war. He’d tried to talk to her but she’d just insisted vehemently that she was fine and walked away. He wishes she would have let him help. Maybe this time he can help.

‘Want to talk about it?’

Harry shakes his head again. His breathing is still fast but he’s rallying. Draco watches as he grabs his wand and charms himself a glass of water. He takes a few sips and Draco can’t help but look, it’s a tiny bit rude to ogle Harry while he’s having a crisis but his bare shoulders are toned and his chest is nicely defined and Draco watches his throat move as he takes another sip. He remembers the feel of his lips, the muscular leg between his thighs. His thoughts are broken into by Harry’s voice and maybe he’s still lost in daydreams because Harry asks him in a soft whisper;

‘Why did you let me kiss you?’

Fuck. He's been avoiding this conversation very successfully thus far. Well, the wee hours in the morning are probably the best times for awkward questions and confessed secrets. He could avoid admitting anything, bluster his way out of this and say he’d been too startled to push him away but…he does know what it's like to feel so vulnerable after a nightmare. And this is an invitation to share and be vulnerable, which he supposes is a roundabout way of asking for help. Draco sighs, this is going to be awful.

‘I…I’ve had a crush on you since school.’ As soon as he says it, he hates it, this is a huge mistake. Every instinct in his body is telling him to run away from the admission but he’s learned to be brave in other ways and so he lets it stand, cringing internally.

Predictably, this is an effective distraction from Harry’s nightmare and Draco sees him perk up considerably in the dark.

‘Really? You hid it well.’ Draco has to chuckle at that.

‘Why did you kiss me?’ he counters.

Harry is of course a complete Gryffindor and answers right away.

‘I’ve had a crush on you for the past three days. I think you have better impulse control.’

Draco snorts and leans back against the pillow.

‘Want to do it again?’ it’s whispered in the darkness, so softly that Draco could pretend he hadn’t heard.

No, Draco thinks, I can’t. I’ll only get hurt.

‘Yes.’ he says.

He’s in a bed with a nearly naked Harry Potter and Draco is only a man. A weak man.

Harry is moving up the bed towards him, knees either side of Draco’s legs. His hands automatically find Harry’s waist and his brain nearly short-circuits at the warm flesh under his fingertips and the feeling of Harry’s hands brushing against the cotton atop his chest.

Harry’s mouth is demanding, insistent and Draco surrenders to it instantly. It’s just as sweet and heated as the cellar, Harry’s tongue moving against his confidently as his hand moves to cup Draco’s cheek. He breathes in Harry’s scent, spicy, sweet and masculine and feels a gentle tickle on his cheek where a stray lock of Harry’s hair grazes it. He feels giddy, drunk with sensation of touching and being touched and he's wearing too many clothes, he wants those beautiful strong hands against his skin - he breaks the kiss and pushes Harry away to hastily remove his pyjama shirt. Harry’s surprised murmur gives way to a pleased hum of appreciation as Draco draws him closer and shifts down on the bed to lie flat, pulling Harry on top of him.

His hand threads through Harry’s wild hair as their lips meet again and Draco can’t stop the tiny moan from escaping his mouth because Harry’s kisses are intense and heady and if he had any semblance of control over himself then he’s rapidly losing it to the influence of that heavenly mouth. If that wasn’t enough then there’s the press of Harry’s weight on his torso, the heat of him - Harry clearly runs hotter than he does and Draco can’t get enough of it, he wants to sink into it like a warm bath. He moves his hands across the planes of Harry’s shoulder blades, then down his sides, luxuriating in the simplicity of his sweeping touches mapping Harry’s body. Harry clearly has the same idea because Draco feels wand-calloused hands moving down his chest, each touch causing skittering sparks of pleasure. Then his breath hitches because he feels a touch on his waistband, a thumb grazing the hip bone. He arches his back slightly and feels how achingly hard he is - Harry takes this as a definite invitation and grinds down, making Draco gasp at the feel of his hard cock through the fabric of his underwear.

You should stop now, a tiny rational part of his brain supplies.

‘Don’t stop.’ Draco breathes into Harry's collarbone, hips jerking upwards frantically. He feels his kisses getting messier and moves to Harry’s neck to suck on the tender flesh. Harry curses softly under his breath and ruts harder; sparks shoot up Draco’s spine and he feels a damp spot start to form. He whines gently and his hand moves down to squeeze Harry’s arse cheek, pulling him in to increase the glorious friction that’s making him grit his teeth and curl his toes.

‘Fuck, Draco,’ Harry growls, breathing hard and hearing how hoarse his voice is almost tips Draco over the edge. He returns to Harry’s mouth, devouring and possessive. He wants him, he wants him so much. He doesn’t care how much it will hurt later when Harry inevitably remembers who he is and throws him over. He’ll stay in England forever surrounded by people who despise him, he’ll battle a thousand portrait-monsters if it means he gets to hear Harry say his name like that.

He hates it, he hates himself for being so weak. He hates the way he’s keening and writhing under Harry right now, chasing the rush of euphoria he feels with every thrust. Then Harry pushes himself up and Draco’s mind goes blank when his pants are yanked down, Harry’s following straight after and then the velvety hardness of Harry’s length against his own as Harry takes them both in hand.

‘Oh fuck yes, Harry,’ he’s never wanted anything more than this, His hands grip the bedsheets in tight fists, his release so close, desire coiled in a tight ache in his gut. Harry’s moans are loud and uninhibited, his fist furiously pumping, slick with precome.

‘Yes Draco yes, I’m-I’m-’

Draco feels hot sticky streaks on his stomach and the shock of it, that he's seeing Harry shuddering through his climax right now, pulls him down under waves of pleasure that crash over him, as he feels himself spill over Harry’s hand while crying out his name.

His head falls back and hits the pillow and he dimly registers Harry groping on the nightstand and a wash of magic running over his skin - probably a cleaning charm, he thinks drowsily. Then he feels a gentle thump as a body lands next to him on the mattress and he leans over and places a soft kiss on Harry’s jaw, as Harry sighs happily and settles himself to sleep. Draco lies back and feels the air on his bare skin; he’s already cold but he’s too tired to search for his pyjamas now so he grabs the covers and hoists them over himself before sinking down and letting himself drift into the darkness.

…..

Harry feels the morning sunshine on his face and rolls away from it with a grunt. He hears a soft sigh as he senses the warmth of a body next to him and opens his eyes.

It’s a stunning sight. How had he not appreciated it properly until now? The white-blond hair spilled over the pillow, the face relaxed and gentle in sleep, the bare chest and slender limbs half covered by the blankets. It had been amazing, he remembers. Even better than he’d imagined. The way Draco had sounded and felt underneath him, the way he had clutched him and moaned his name. In the darkness it had felt incredible, he can only imagine how it will feel when he can see Draco properly.

A new detail forces its way into Harry’s attention. As well as the dark inky lines of the Mark, which Harry can see staining Draco’s outflung arm, there’s other imprints on Draco’s body. A network of vein-thin silver lines criss crossing Draco’s torso. With a sharp sting of guilt he realises what they are - the damage from Harry’s Sectumsempra curse in Sixth year. They hadn’t been noticeable in the darkness and Harry hadn’t thought…he hadn’t realised…

He looks back at Draco’s face and startles when he realises that he’s awake and has seen him staring. And on his face is a terrible look of resigned defeat. Harry starts to speak but Draco clutches his left arm to his chest, cuts him off with a sharp cry of ‘Don’t!’ and grabs his pyjamas with his right hand. He’s hiding the Mark from him, Harry realises and remembers Draco’s words from their first morning together;

‘Will you forget it's there if you can't see it?’

Does Draco think the look on Harry's face was because of the Mark? Does he think that Harry has woken up and been overwhelmed with regret when he’s realised he’s in bed with a Death Eater?

Draco flings the covers off him now, legs clad but still shirtless in his haste. Harry realises that he’s just sitting there saying nothing like an idiot.

‘Wait please-’

‘No,’ Draco turns and Harry sees that the tears have gone, replaced with a blank facade, eyes cold and indifferent, ‘I’m only sorry I let things get this far.’ It’s incredible that he can look this dignified with his hair sticking out at odd angles and half dressed. Harry watches him wrap his fury around himself like a cloak and leave the room. Hears his bedroom door slam like the crack of doom.

He’s reminded of only a few days ago when he’d stormed out of a bedroom, with Draco chasing after him. It’s a shame that Harry can’t just run after him and tackle him to the ground like Draco had done…

Harry wracks his brain for a while then shrugs, thinks ‘what the hell’ and he struggles into a pair of jeans and sprints down the corridor on bare feet and bursts into Draco’s room. It's utterly fucking mad but why not?

‘Potter, what the-’ Draco’s exclamation is cut off with an ‘oof’ as the air is expelled from his lungs when Harry tackles him to the ground.

Harry pins his arms above his head and only then does he think that perhaps he should have considered what to say, especially as Draco is looking up at him with a mixture of disbelief and pure rage. His eyes are red and Harry swallows at the renewed sight of the scars scattered across his chest, silver on ivory. He takes a deep breath and just says it,

‘Do you hate me? For the scars?’

‘What? You came in here and assaulted me to ask me that?’ Draco struggles underneath him and Harry tightens his grip on Draco’s arms, lets his weight press down on him a fraction more.

Draco glares at him, ‘Why would I hate you for that when there are much more recent examples of your absurd dickishness. Get off me.’

‘I don’t care about the Mark,’ Harry says and Draco stills and has the same look on his face that Harry saw in bed, a grim hopelessness that makes Harry’s heart twist.

‘Yes you do.’ he says finally. Harry goes to shake his head but hesitates because damn it, he does care. His eyes are drawn to it every time it’s visible, he told Draco to keep it hidden the first morning he was here. But since then his feelings towards Draco have changed so entirely and the Mark no longer feels like a representation of what Draco believes, but a mistake that can be left in the past.

‘I was so excited the day I got it you know,’ Draco continues, snarling defiantly, ‘like a child on Christmas morning. I thought “Finally. Finally I'll make my father proud of me.” Do you know what I would have done for that? Anything. Literally anything.’

A frightened pair of grey eyes, a quavering voice saying ‘I can’t be sure.’ in the face of Lucius’ desperate demands flickers in his vision for a moment.

‘You didn't,’ Harry retorts, ‘you couldn't. And if Voldemort came back tomorrow? Would you still make the same choice now?’ He asks, looking into Draco’s angry, pained eyes. He wishes he hadn’t been so quick to rush in here when they were both half-dressed. He feels a twitch in his cock, his body reacting to the closeness as it did the other day. Draco is so gorgeous underneath him, taut and lean and livid.

‘Never mind what I would do now. We both know what I did. I won't apologise.’ Draco is resigned again, eyes sad and heavy with the past, ‘I won't make excuses. I have none.’

‘You regret it.’ Harry says, ‘You wouldn't do it again. That's all that's important.’

Draco blinks up at him, ‘You can't just…you don't get to decide that.’

Harry watches Draco's pink mouth twist petulantly and tilts his hips forward slightly, watching as Draco’s eyes lose focus for a split second. This is definitely not the time but both of them are already half hard, chests rising and falling against one another.

‘I can.’ Harry says decisively, his voice slightly husky, ‘I just did.’

Draco shakes his head even as his pelvis rises and Harry’s breath hitches, ‘Maybe right now you can but when we’re not trapped together like this? When you go to work, when you’re with your friends, surrounded by people who hate me?’

‘Give me a chance to show you,’ Harry’s grip loosens and he strokes up Draco’s arm, feeling the dusting of blond hair, thumb brushing the Mark, ‘Give this, us, a chance. Just a chance.’

Draco’s eyes bore into his and he knows they must be lust-filled and hazy but he tries to convey the depth of his feeling in them.

There's no reply but Draco's looking at him again in that way he does, like Harry is the epicentre of his world. Like he's been waiting to look at Harry his whole life. His lips part slightly in invitation and Harry takes it, gently brushing their lips together and feeling the exact moment Draco surrenders to him. It's intoxicating to feel it happen, their bodies sliding in sync, mouths slotting together perfectly. There's a moment of pure euphoria when Draco braces his foot against the floor and rolls them, taking control. He surveys Harry underneath him for a second, the mercury eyes defiant and aroused and then lowers onto him and pushes his tongue into his mouth.

Harry feels a thrill of victory before his mind is wiped of anything that isn’t the feeling of Draco’s frame moving against him. He surges upwards, meeting Draco’s kiss fervently, licking into his mouth. He’s wrapped his arms tightly around Draco’s torso, feeling the glorious slide of skin against skin and he’s already rutting mindlessly, his erection straining against denim and pushing up into the heat and hardness of Draco’s groin. Harry groans loudly, the tongue-fucking already bringing him perilously close to the edge. He pauses to catch Draco’s bottom lip between his teeth and hears a gasp for his effort, Draco’s hand tugging his hair with pleasing intensity.

He suddenly realises that the floor is hard and splinter-prone under his back and Draco’s soft bed is right there, tantalizingly close. He pushes on Draco’s chest gently with one hand and looks up at his face, pupils dark with lust and a charming flush covering his cheeks.

‘Bed?’ he asks, putting a hand between them and palming Draco’s erection through the thin cotton. Draco shakes his head, a hungry look in his eyes;

‘You barge in here, you push me on this filthy floor, you can stay on the floor.’

Harry’s about to protest on the state of the floors but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters when Draco roughly rips Harry’s button and flies open and yanks down his jeans over his hips, letting his cock spring free. Harry feels himself unravelling as Draco kisses down his stomach, dipping his tongue into Harry’s navel.

‘Fuck, Draco.’ Harry keens as he feels the first touch of Draco’s tongue against the tip of his prick, already beaded with precome.

Draco’s hand curls around the base and gently pumps as he licks slowly with the broad flat of his tongue and gazes at Harry through his eyelashes. Harry hears a desperate whine coming from his throat and he tips his head back and tries to stop the hot spikes of ecstasy in his groin from peaking too soon. Draco’s arm wraps around his thighs and holds onto his hip and even that might be too much sensation, the feeling of Draco's strong, supple hands pressing him down.

Draco sinks his mouth down and Harry cries out inarticulately and hoarse. His hand makes its way to the back of Draco's head, even though he worries it might be too pushy but he rests it there lightly and gently strokes the fine blond locks. Draco looks up at him again and pulls off, still maintaining a smooth rhythm with his hand,

‘Do you like it Harry? Are you going to come for me?’

God, his voice. Husky and low, a possessive purr rumbling low in his throat.

‘Yes, fuck, I'm so close Draco. You don't have to-’

But Draco is already taking Harry into his mouth again and the hollowed cheeks and hot tongue dancing over his tip is too much like his fantasy and his orgasm rips through him with a startled moan and he's spilling into Draco's throat.

He lies there bonelessly until he feels a shaking movement and looks down to see Draco has pulled his own cock out and is working himself with a furious pace. Harry groans and with a burst of energy, stands and hauls Draco to his feet. Draco yelps a little and looks annoyed until Harry drags him forward and says, ‘You deserve a bed. And I want to see you properly naked.’

Draco huffs but steps out of his pyjamas and lets Harry guide him to the mattress and onto his back. Harry grins suddenly and Draco looks questioningly at him

‘It's the first time we've ever gotten into a bed together, not just woken up in one,’ he says, ‘I like it.’

Draco scoffs but Harry can see a shy smile lurking. He wraps a hand around Draco’s rock hard cock and strokes it, earning a pleased moan as Draco starts fucking into Harry's fist and pulling him in for a punishing kiss. Harry gives as good as he gets, feeling Draco come undone with hot little grunts. He moves to his neck and sucks at the sensitive pulse point and then down to Draco's nipple and rolls the hard bud between his teeth. Draco's breath explodes out of him at the same time Harry feels his hips stutter and hot liquid coats his hand. He trails kisses back up to Draco's mouth and takes it lazily, sweetly, coaxing him gently down from the climax

His hand is sticky and his wand is in the other room, he realises with a wash of irritation and then suddenly his hand is clean and dry and judging by the twitch Draco gives, the same is true of his softening prick. He cringes internally - if someone asked if he was skilled at wandless magic he'd say no because skill implies practice and intent. Instead sometimes what Harry wants just…happens. He doesn't lose control exactly, it's usually benign and small things like this. And he doesn't particularly want to get into it with Draco right now. But Draco pulls away and he can see the shock and the questions whirring in his head.

‘Five more minutes,’ Harry begs, pulling him back and recapturing his mouth, ‘five more minutes like this and then I'll answer all your questions.’

Draco raises an eyebrow but sinks back down and tsks at him, ‘Only five? You're a terrible
negotiator.’

‘Mmm. What would you have tried for?’

‘At least fifteen.’

‘You’ve convinced me. I bow to your superior intellect.’

‘About time.’

The kisses are languid, the touches leisurely. Harry can already feel his cock filling weakly, desire tingling in his abdomen.

In the end, it takes them just over half an hour.

Chapter Text

‘We're missing something,’ Draco declares, glaring around the cellar.

It's been two days of uneasy bliss for Draco. The sex is phenomenal, fantastic. They've barely stepped outside the bedroom. If he could leave it at that and just enjoy the fact that he's getting regular orgasms then he'd be wonderful. But his pathetic little heart refuses to listen to him. It's such stupid, tiny things - the smile Harry gives him when he walks into the kitchen, the way he squeezes his arm when he walks past him. Insignificant things. This morning Harry had asked him what mug he liked best for his tea and he'd become quite giddy from it.

He has to get a bloody grip. It's all temporary. He's here to do a job. That's why right now they're in the cellar after a head-spinning lunchtime tryst in Draco's room. Bloody Weasley had turned up to spend his lunch hour with Harry and Draco had made himself scarce on the pretext of research, only to hear a hasty knocking at his door twenty minutes later to find Harry half-dressed, his clothes strewn in the passage behind him, and fully hard. ‘I sent him to the shops for something, can't remember what,’ he’d panted against Draco's mouth.

‘Missing what?’ Harry asks, casually poking at a small leak in one of the pipes.

‘I still can’t understand why the mirror did that to Walburga. You met her, did you get the sense that she desperately wanted a body?’

Harry shakes his head, ‘No - she tried to hide, remember? I saw her in the cottage painting. And whatever happened there I can tell you for a fact that she didn’t leave of her own volition.’

‘I’ll have to try communicating with the house again. I know you wanted to do it but we need answers.’

Harry frowns at him.

‘Give me another day or two, then I can at least help if you need it. You already said the house can lash out at you, what if you need backup?’

Draco scoffs, ‘Backup? Just throwing around Auror words now are we? Going to bring your handcuffs too?’

‘Bet you'd love that wouldn't you?’ Harry leers at him, Draco knows it’s just to see him blush but the distraction works and he can’t quite remember what they were talking about before Harry changes the subject.

‘I need some help with the house thing.’

Draco looks up from the shimmering pool of black ichor that refuses to budge, lip twitching, ‘I mean, yes. That's why we're both here.’

‘Oh you're funny. I mean the Occlumency mind-house thing.’

Other than a few tiny scorch marks there’s no evidence of Walburga’s sojourn. Draco is removing his multiple layers of warding and barrier charms. He’s forgone the gloves and apron today but his protection spell is coiled around him via the Mark and Harry is on standby just in case. He'd insisted and Draco had caved instantly because he's got all the resilience of a sugar quill in a hurricane when it comes to Harry.

‘Well what about it? Don't worry if it's a struggle, it took me weeks to build mine.’

‘Oh no, it's built already-’

Of course it is, Draco thinks, it probably took him all of ten seconds. He's still annoyed about the wandless magic. He'd worked for three months on that wandless heating charm and as Harry explained it, he could apparently make things happen just by bloody wishing for them. The stupid, talented, prat.

‘-but I can't do the bit where you turn your memories into all the knick-knacks like in yours.’

‘That makes sense,’ Draco says idly, attention mostly on the mirror, ‘you’re not very good with things.’

‘Oi, I can do some things. You know I can,’ accompanied by a cheeky grin which Draco studiously ignores.

‘No, things. Like, objects that you own. Like your clothes,’ he pauses to give Harry's outfit a pointed look, ‘like this house.’

Draco finishes his cursory examination of the mirror and gestures for Harry to levitate it and prop it back up against the wall, which he does. A tiny frown is gracing his brow and Draco thinks he may have struck a nerve.

‘Just because I don't gush over fancy dinner plates like you do.’

‘Something wrong with appreciating craftsmanship?’ Draco snarks. He has to concentrate here, does Harry think messing around with dark magic is fun for him?

‘Some things are more important. Like people.’

Draco snorts and steps over the cordon, too annoyed to pretend he has any patience for this flagrant moral superiority, ‘Oh is that it? Because I care about how you treat this house I must not give a shit about people?’

‘Look I admit that the house-’

‘Not just the house! You kept my wand in your sock drawer. You broke a mirror, don’t even muggles have superstitions about that? When I think about how Dumbledore-’

He stops, fuck, fuck fuck. He's been so careful not to mention him until now.

Harry’s jaw has tensed, his lips pressed in a thin line, ‘Well, go on…’

Draco swallows, ‘For someone who claimed to love muggleborns so much, he did a godawful job of actually teaching any of them the first thing about magic.’

Harry looks at him, appalled, ‘Your lot wouldn't have even let them in the front gates so don't pretend to give a shit about what they were or weren't taught.’

‘I can give a shit when I have to live with the fucking consequences!’

Harry's shoulders are tensed, his breathing more rapid. He opens his mouth and-

‘Coo-ee, Harryyy!!’

Draco freezes at the sound of Molly Weasley's voice. Good grief, does the entire Weasley clan just have free range of Harry's house?

Harry takes a deep breath then brushes passes him to climb the stairs. He doesn't even look at Draco.

‘Just coming!’ he calls up, falsely cheerful. Draco stays mute but after a few seconds of deliberation follows him up. In his head he's already packing for the Manor. He berates himself for caring. He knew this would happen, it had to happen. He’s fucked it up and now Harry hates him and he should harden his heart and remove himself with dignity because it was bound to happen and he knows needing or expecting anything from anyone is weak and foolish. Really if you think about it, he’s better off on his own anyway.

Molly Weasley has gone to her old haunt in the kitchen and is already bustling, making tea and unpacking jam tarts when Draco enters, leaning against the wall with forced casualness. Didn’t she send a food package literally yesterday?

She pulls Harry into a squeezing hug and her eyes lock with Draco’s over his shoulder, unsurprisingly cold. Draco hastily yanks down his left sleeve, although it’s not as if she even needs another reason to hate him.

She keeps up a steady stream of consciousness as she goes back to her task, ‘...and Charlie hasn’t even seen Bill’s new extension charms on the cottage so I’ve told him in no uncertain terms at Sunday Lunch that he has to take a day to visit, no excuses. I wish you could have made it Harry dear, you know Ginny was asking after you…’

Draco sees Harry’s smile falter briefly, evidently Mrs. Weasley still believes their break up to be something of a negotiation to manage. Is that why she’s here?

‘Oh! And I saw Teddy the other day, he’s growing so big now! I brought a picture for you, he misses his Godfather so much. Maybe you could arrange a visit with Andromeda, Ron mentioned something about a divorce business and you being able to leave in a few days?’

Ah. There we go. Weasley hadn’t been able to convince Harry to take up Draco’s offer so he sends in the cavalry. And despite the lack of subtlety, Draco is suitably impressed with her manoeuvring. He’s suddenly nostalgic for the Slytherin common room. To fully complete the guilt trip, she thrusts a photo under Harry’s nose of a smiling infant. Draco waits to hear Harry's relieved acceptance, for him to gladly agree to leave and never look back. Instead he's gobsmacked when Harry holds the photo out for Draco.

‘Would you like to see him? Teddy Lupin, he’s your cousin - your mum’s sister Andromeda is his grandmother.’

Draco takes the photo tentatively, seeing Molly Weasley’s incensed look out of the corner of his eye. He looks down at the child, who is laughing at something outside of the camera's view and Draco watches as his hair turns from turquoise to jet black to lime green. He hands the photo back to Harry and thanks him, not sure what else to say.

Mrs. Weasley is back on track, ‘Yes well of course he’s even taller now, that photo was taken over a week ago, they change so much at that age. And he’s been dying to play with his Uncle Harry, should I tell Andromeda to expect you in a few days dear?’

‘No, I’m staying here for a bit longer, I’m afraid. Tell him I’ll see him soon though!’ Draco feels privileged getting a front row seat to Harry’s master class in resolute obliviousness.

Mrs. Weasley’s face drops and her eyes shift to Draco. He wonders if she wants him to leave but if so, tough. He’s enjoying the show.

‘But Harry, even if you sign over the house, it’s just a bit of paper. It doesn’t mean you love Sirius any less. And if you’re worried about not getting it back again then I’m sure there’s a way…’

Draco just about stifles a laugh at this, he turns it into a cough which has Harry shooting him a dangerous look.

‘No, it's not that. But I'm not signing over the house. And I won't leave Draco stuck here alone either.’

The look that this prompts is absolutely priceless, Mrs. Weasley's blatant unconcern, nay preference, for Draco to be stuck somewhere written plain on her face. But it's hardly noticed because Draco’s heart is threatening to escape his chest at Harry casually defending him, just like that. Even after they’d argued in the cellar. He should definitely say something at this point asking the lines of how he doesn't need Harry to babysit him but he stays quiet and secretly basks in a warm glow of affection.

Mrs. Weasley has rallied and gives a final valiant effort, ‘But Harry, Draco’s sentence doesn't end for another four months anyway, what difference does it make where he spends it?’

Draco is starting to think the Weasley's see him as some kind of dangerous pet the way they all discuss him like he can't hear them and so it's almost alarming when Mrs. Weasley fixes him with a piercing stare and speaks to him directly,

‘I’m sure you can see the practicality of your staying here Mr. Malfoy, Ronald says it was your idea. Could you please try and convince him?’

Draco nearly chokes on nothing but blessedly his voice manages to sound calm and sincere when he replies, ‘I don’t think anyone can change Harry's mind when he's determined.’

As he expects, this does not endear him to her and she looks between the two of them with pursed lips and a calculating stare, presumably looking for another angle of attack.

Harry waylays her by asking for news of other family members that Draco isn't familiar with and Mrs. Weasley answers absentmindedly for a few minutes before departing with another hug and a promise to deliver Harry's love to Teddy. She doesn't say goodbye to Draco but he also doesn't get another glare which he views as progress. He lurks in the kitchen while Harry says his goodbyes and then as soon as the front door closes he ambushes him in the hallway and blocks his path.

‘I'm…I'm not good at apologising.’ he starts with, seeing Harry's dark look.

Harry purses his lips and surveys Draco's face, ‘No.’ he agrees.

He steps forward into Harry's space slowly, giving him time to back away. He doesn't, which Draco sees as a good sign.

‘Do I…do I just say it or…do you need a speech or something about how I've learned the error of my ways?’

Harry huffs a quiet laugh, ‘I’d take a speech.’

Ah so he wants Draco to suffer humiliation for him. He's in for a treat, Draco has lots of experience of humiliating himself in front of Harry, if anything he has it down to an art form.

‘Right,’ he says, hooking a finger through Harry's belt loop, ‘well obviously I’m an idiot and I shouldn’t have brought up…you know.’

He pulls slightly and Harry allows himself to be drawn closer, which thrills him.

‘It was out of order. And who am I to question the behaviour of the Chosen One, Slayer of Voldemort and Vanquisher of Darkness. There should be statues of yo-actually are there statues already? You’ll need to tell me if there are, I’m a bit out of the loop.’

Harry is pinching his lips together to stop from smiling now and Draco knows he's forgiven. Still, no harm in making sure. He cups Harry's cock and sees his eyes flutter, then crowds him against the wall, his breath hot as he mumbles into Harry’s ear.

‘I humbly beg your forgiveness, I prostrate myself on my knees before you…’

He sinks down. This is how Blaise had liked him best, unserious and on his knees. Sometimes when his charms had failed to woo whatever girl he was pursuing he'd come to Draco for a mindless shag and Draco would pretend to begrudgingly accept, secretly pleased to have something to take his mind off the perpetual dread.

He nuzzles Harry's cock through the fabric and undoes his belt with eager hands. There's no preamble, he just swallows him down and hears Harry's gratifyingly loud moaning as he gets to work. He makes it last, pulling off every time Harry seems close to the edge.

He's entirely confused when Harry pulls him up by his elbow and laughingly drags him to the sofa in the living room. It’s supposed to be an apology and as far as he’s aware it’s not a situation that requires reciprocity. But Harry just kisses him like it's the only thing in the world he wants to do. And Draco adores kissing him, the feeling of his perfect mouth, his tongue, Merlin his tongue. He can't stop himself. And he's so hard, fuck. They kiss for several minutes before he rolls his hips and grinds into him insistently, ready to beg if need be.

‘I take it that you don't really think I should leave?’ Harry asks coyly, taking Draco’s earlobe between his teeth.

‘Fuck no,’ Draco growls into his neck, a thrill running through him when he feels Harry shiver against him, ‘stay here with me forever.’

Harry unzips him and stuffs his hand inside Draco’s trousers, rough and perfect. Draco just about stifles a cry.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Harry tells him, those beautiful green eyes locked on Draco’s face, ‘you can be loud, I like it.’

‘Yes, god, tell me what you like,’ Draco’s runs his hand into Harry’s hair, he can’t get enough of it; the untamed tresses are so perfect for his fingers to tighten around and tug and then Harry makes another sound, a low reverberation in his throat.

‘That,’ he purrs, ‘I like that.’ Draco looks at him again and his pupils are wide and dark, breathing rapid and shallow. He’s so incandescently gorgeous right now, Draco drinks in the sight of him. He feels his muscles tighten and a damp patch on the inside of his trousers. Harry bites his bottom lip and pulls him in closer and Draco slides his hand up Harry's arm to feel the flexing bicep, to dig his nails into Harry's toned shoulder.

Harry works him with long strokes and it's already a miracle that he hasn't come already when he feels Harry’s weight move off his, his erection pulled free and then the tip of his tongue gently lapping against the shaft.

‘Oh fuck, Harry.’

Fuck me, Draco desperately wants to say, fuck me now. But he doesn't. This is just fooling around for Harry and he'll be content with that. Fucking him is probably the line in the sand and he's not going to make Harry say it.

Instead he watches as his cock disappears into Harry's mouth, face slack with awe and all manner of curses spilling from his lips. It's only when he sees him reach a hand down to stroke himself that he remembers that he hasn’t come either and he pulls him up flush to him so he can wrap his hand around his length and kiss him filthily.

‘I’m coming, fuck’ Harry’s voice is ragged and shocked and Draco feels a shudder run through him, his cock pulsing against the restraining fabric and Draco's hand. His chin has fallen forward into his chest and Draco pulls into his hair again to drag his head back so he can see the pleasure coursing through him. He’s so damn close and Harry’s so fucking exquisite and he takes his hand off Harry's softening cock and onto his own. The wanton bliss in Harry's eyes pushes him over the edge with a few strokes and he feels his hips stutter as his climax takes him, hot stickiness gushing onto his stomach. He lies back, utterly spent and breathing heavily against his neck. Harry’s hand comes up and strokes his hair, running his fingers idly through the silky locks. Draco sighs contentedly, murmuring little nonsense words of endearment into Harry's collarbone.

Harry finally wriggles against him restlessly.

‘Can you do a cleaning charm?’ he pleads.

‘Why don't you just wish for it,’ Draco snarks lazily, but he reaches to the coffee table for his wand. He's careful with the charm, it's tricky to take into account skin and multiple types of fabric. When he's done he untangles himself from Harry and sits up. Harry stays reclined and puts one arm behind his head, the picture of relaxation.

‘Are you a virgin?’ he asks pleasantly.

Draco splutters, ‘Merlin you really do just come out with these things don't you? No, I'm not.’

‘Who?’

‘Blaise Zabini’, Draco replies, a touch shyly, ‘a few times in seventh year.’ He studies Harry carefully for his reaction but other than raising his eyebrows and making a ‘hm’ noise he doesn't seem to have an opinion.

‘Was it good?’

Draco's lips twitch slightly, ‘We were both very concerned with making sure the other knew that there wasn't anything as embarrassing as feelings involved. But yes, it was good. What about you?’

‘With Gin. And once with Nick. He was-’

‘Don't tell me,’ Draco says suddenly, the thought of Harry even kissing anyone else is like a knife to the heart.

Harry smirks at him, ‘You wouldn't have anything as embarrassing as feelings for me, would you?’

Draco surveys him coolly, ‘Hardly. I just don't like sharing my toys.’

Harry chuckles and then a morose look crosses over his face, ‘Well if it makes you feel any better he doesn't remember it. They obliviated him after…all the fuss.’

Draco furrows his brow, ‘And you just…let them? That doesn't sound like you.’

Harry shrugs, ‘We hadn't been going out for very long. I felt guilty for dragging him into something he had no idea about. But yeah, it wasn't very brave of me I guess.’

Draco shrugs, as far as he's concerned one less suitor to compete with is a good thing. But he doesn't like seeing Harry be hard on himself.

‘Shall I tell the Ministry? Will they take your Order of Merlin away?’ As he hopes the mockery takes Harry out of his woebegone thoughts and he grins bashfully,

‘I hope not,’ he says, ‘it’s the only thing propping up the wonky table in the hall.’

Draco stares at him for a second and then explodes into laughter. It's so embarrassing and he can't stop because Harry's such a ludicrous, insane man. He can tell his face is going red and splotchy, completely paralysed with cackles and it's so mortifying but it's all worth it because when he looks over at Harry he's beaming at him as though he's won a prize.

…..

Harry has decided maybe he can face the prospect of cooking dinner for once and decides to roast a chicken. Kreacher used to make it with some sort of thyme sauce that he really liked, or was it tarragon? He should have asked him, Harry thinks. Then he smiles because there was no way in hell Kreacher would have told him, would in fact be delighted at the prospect of Harry now, frustrated at his absence. He wonders if Draco's house elves are missing the lemon drizzle cake.

He hears a hiss, a slow intake of air between teeth and then barked swearing which has him careening into the hall in time to see Draco staggering under the weight of Walburga's frame, which he's miraculously prised away from the wall.

‘Give me a hand, will you?’ he grunts

Harry takes the other side of the heavy gilted frame and then nearly drops it when he sees what's behind the canvas.

A network of sticky threads, stretching out interminably as he and Draco pull it further away from the wall. They're darkish purple, the colour of a bruise and as Harry looks he sees a pulsing energy running through them.

It's alive, Harry thinks, the brazen horror of it making it surreal and almost comical. Like finding a dementor doing the dishes.

‘What…what is it?’

‘You remember me telling you that some Pureblooded families believed that if the bond was strong enough between you and the house that you could become invincible within it's walls?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well this is what happens when you try to make it a reality.’

‘How-?’

‘Sweet Salazar Harry, can we put this fucking thing down? And don't levitate it, any magic will just create more snags.’

They guide it carefully to the ground, rest it gently underneath the wall where it was hung. The undulating membranes shiver slightly as they stretch but settle down quickly enough.

Draco leans back against the wall and then slides down it fully into a sitting position, his colour has dropped and he's breathing hard. Harry hovers anxiously,

‘Are you alright?’

‘Took a lot out of me to get it off the wall and then the damn thing nearly fell on me. I had to untangle all the knots. Dark magic, incredibly finicky to do it right. Permanent Sticking Charm my arse.’ He smiles weakly at Harry.

‘What can I do?’

He’s sure he’s not going to like the answer but anything has got to be better than having this thing in his house for much longer. Draco, to his surprise, starts chuckling.

‘Good grief, you’re lucky I’m here Potter.’ he begins.

‘Why exactly?’

‘Because I,’ Draco gestures to himself, a self-satisfied smile on his wan face, ‘am a bastard. And I know how bastards think. How many people in your precious Order did you say had looked at removing this portrait?’

He stretches his legs out and crosses them with a happy little sigh. Harry wants to find his arrogance irritating but it happens that Draco’s vain delight and wanton self-assurance only serves to make him think about licking up the long column of his throat and digging his nails into his thigh. Unfortunately the grotesque mess behind Walburga’s portrait is more than effective as a mood killer.

‘You know how portraits contain a tiny fragment of the subject's consciousness? Well Walburga used that to link herself to the house. It's quite the feat, I'd say it should be studied if we weren't living with the result.’

‘Can it hurt us?’

‘Well,’ Draco raises his eyebrow, a reckless glint in his eye, ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

And in a move that makes Harry's stomach turn, Draco grabs one of the tenuous membranes and plucks it from the back of the canvas. It reminds Harry of Devil's Snare, the way it's writhing and wrapping itself around Draco's arm. But it's almost as if it can't find purchase, as though his hand were covered in invisible oil and the creeping tendril just slides off.

‘It can't hurt the owner of the house. I think.’ Draco says, adding with a nervous cough, ‘But we, and by we I mean you, should sever the threads. Now that I've done the hard part for you.’

‘Gee thanks,’ Harry quips, looking trepidatiously at the pulsing threads. Draco's demonstration has done little to temper his queasiness. He grasps his wand.

‘All at once,’ Draco advises him, standing and moving well back from the frame, ‘don’t give them time to re-form.’

All well and good for him to say, Harry thinks crossly. He's not sure his Diffindo can…oh. His eyes dart up and meet Draco's, grey and knowing and coolly observing him.

‘Yes, we're running through quite a few of my greatest hits.’ he says laconically, his voice only betraying the slightest hint of strain, ‘First the fire and now this. It will turn out the front door will only open if I'm in ferret-form next.’

‘Draco I-’

Draco raises a hand and shakes his head minutely and gestures toward the painting, ‘Get on with it then,’ he drawls

Harry grips his wand. Draco had told him last night, their fingers entwined under the covers, that he hated doing dark magic. But he’d never been in a position to refuse and it turned out that he was good at the type of finicky dark spells that most of the others had struggled with, even with the difficulty with his wand. But it fills him with dread every time he manipulates it, the bile rising in his throat until he feels panicked and queasy. Harry believes it, his brief few brushes of it have left him feeling dirty and wretched afterwards. Draco won’t let him apologise in words for his past use of this particular curse but he can use it now for him, rather than against him. He focuses and directs his energy towards the sickening vines.

‘Sectumsempra!’

It's as horrible as he imagined, the wiry membranes flailing desperately at the air, choking and grasping and eerily silent. He steps closer towards Draco protectively as the death-throes of the things become more violent and strain out into the air for connection and sustenance and life. He sinks back against the wall next to Draco and finds his hand, watches the thing die.

He feels oddly about it for the rest of the day, normalcy only returning later when they're having dinner and Draco looks up at him, fork paused in midair.

‘You cooked this?’ he asks, sounding vaguely accusatory.

‘Yes,’ Harry says, chewing. It was alright, wasn't it? He was a bit worried he'd overdone it with the thyme, ‘You knew I could cook, we talked abou-’

‘Yes but,’ Draco cuts him off, ‘I thought you meant you could cook like I can cook, I didn't know…’ he stares at Harry like he's discovered a branch of magic hitherfore unknown.

‘How did you do it?’ he demands, equal parts annoyed and amazed.

Harry tells him a rough version of the recipe that he remembers Kreacher making then finishes with, ‘But if you want to look at a recipe then I've got a book here somewhere that Hermione…’

Draco chokes a little on his water, ‘There are books?’

‘Yes - what? Of course there are books. How did you think…? How did you make the lemon drizzle cake without a book?’

‘Mr. Greer brought instructions that he'd written down,’ he says frowning, ‘I assumed it was an old family recipe. Makes sense now that you say it but, well, house elves never use books.’

The conversation devolves into various meanderings about how house elves learn to cook and by the time they've moved onto Molly's apple pie, Draco is aspiring to evolve his repertoire.

‘Next time can I watch you?’ he asks shyly and Harry is entranced by him, by how eager he is to learn things, how open and fragile he lets himself be with Harry now. It's a precious thing, Draco’s trust, and all the more for feeling that he might have earned it.

Is this what being friends with Draco looks like?

Is this what being married to Draco looks like?

But that’s a silly thing to think and so he sits back and just lets himself enjoy it.

…..

The next morning after breakfast Draco peers outside where it's overcast and threatening rain and announces that he wants a game with his practice snitch in the garden. Harry looks unsure, as if he's worried that the awful jeans will somehow get ruined. Draco persuades him with a raised eyebrow and a ‘Scared Potter?’

Harry suggests they use a real snitch, he has one that he can charm to not fly too high. Draco isn't sure, technically it goes against the terms of his house arrest but capitulates when Harry points out that right now it's easier to count the rules he's not breaking.

Outside is colder, for the first time it feels like Autumn is approaching. Draco finds he looks at the garden with something approaching fondness now. He had dismissed it as another space that Harry had neglected but now he notices the way he smiles when he sees how the nasturtiums have claimed more of the old flowerbed or spots a clump of cyclamens under the holly tree, though Draco isn't sure they're supposed to be rainbow coloured. Harry likes things a little unpredictable, a little wild. Which makes his attraction to Draco a complete mystery. Draco is the epitome of civilised.

Harry has released the snitch and Draco watches it flit away, gleaming against the grey sky. It stays low, as Harry had promised, but quickly gets lost amongst the wild tangle of shrubbery and overgrown branches. Harry grins at him and takes off at a light jog and Draco's competitive instinct takes over and he aims a trip jinx his way and sprints for the far end of the garden, followed by Harry's outraged cries.

There's a whole other section of the garden down here, Draco hadn't realised. It's secluded and quiet, muffled by the overgrowth and several trees. Draco's foot crunches on something and he looks down with regret but realises it's a pear, several of them scattering in the clover underneath the tree, the first among the branches to anticipate the promise of Autumn.

He ducks and hides behind a large statue tucked away in the corner of the garden, the stone almost entirely submerged within an ivy shawl. Harry appears in the clearing, alert and wand ready for a chance to pay Draco back. He has all the subtlety of an Erumpet and the footfall to match, Draco thinks to himself. He hears a telltale hum, a slight crackle of magic and looks at the wall itself. He can see the tell-tale shimmer of a ward responding to his presence; this must be the one Weasley has set up around the property to keep him imprisoned.

He hears a ‘ha!’ and feels the sharp pain of a stinging hex between his shoulder blades. He turns and sees Harry darting out from behind the pear tree, a triumphant grin on his face. It's swiftly removed however when he bounces back with a comically loud ‘thwack’ off an invisible wall, one he clearly did not expect to be there, and falls flat on his back with a surprised grunt.

Draco snorts with laughter at the dazed expression on his face and jogs up to him as he sits up and feels his nose tenderly.

‘Ouch.’

‘Oh it's not even bleeding you big baby,’ Draco waves dismissively at him, trying to sense the ward’s presence in the air. It must be delicately spun, he can't even feel it, ‘and it's your fault for forgetting it was there.’

‘It wasn't there,’ Harry says plaintively, ‘You walked the boundary with me, I could go right up to the wall.’

He mutters peevishly about not being the one with a history of pitching a fit over minor injuries which Draco pointedly ignores. Interesting. The house can't move the wards, why can Draco roam freely within this five foot strip of garden and Harry now can't?

‘Does it feel any different? To how it did before?’

He's carding his hand through the grass as he speaks, searching for the familiar presence. It's far weaker out here, muted as it stretches from the house. The garden is almost its own entity, both a part and apart.

‘Different…maybe?’ Harry says, reaching out to the ward-wall himself, looking like he's auditioning for a mime act, ‘it feels…smoother?’

Draco nods. He's found what he's been looking for, memories he's coaxed from dormancy. It’s surprising and sweet.

‘Here, put your hand on the ground and feel this,’ Harry looks at him warily, ‘it won't overwhelm you, I promise. It's much quieter out here.’

Harry puts his hand on the grass next to Draco's, pinky fingers touching. Draco pushes the ghost of memories towards him and knows Harry can see what he's seen - a dim and distant figure from the past who Draco takes to be Orion Black, walking the boundary to maintain the wards and huffing in exasperation when he has to skirt around a ramshackle structure propped against the garden wall. It has a mast and a gangplank and Draco can read a sign in flowing cursive ‘The Entrepid belongeth to Captain Sirius & First Mate Regulus, Pirate Wizards ONLY’. The gangplank ends mere inches from Harry's fingers.

Harry gasps, his face alight with a painful joy as a ghostly echo of two boys appears, both dark and dressed formally, both brandishing sticks which are intermittently playing the part of wands and swords. The image fades as the memories of years pass, the wood splitting and sagging with age. Eventually it disappears and another figure, Walburga this time, walks the boundary alone, a grim and stoic set to her features.

Draco should move his hand away but he's enjoying the tingly feeling of Harry's magic. It's powerful and infused with sweetness, it feels like being swept through by a small sherbet-flavoured tornado. There's something else as well, a spicy burning sensation, like really good whisky hitting the back of the throat. He wants to ask Harry if he can feel his own magic like this but stops when he sees the taut emotion stamped on Harry's features.

‘I could have seen this the whole time I've been here. I should have been seeing him like this.’

Remorse. It's something Draco is painfully familiar with. He shifts his pinky so it's sitting atop Harry's.

‘You're seeing it now. And the memories aren't going anywhere.’ he says quietly.

Harry nods, blinking rapidly. Draco looks at the wall again to give him a minute.

‘So these are Orion's wards.’ he murmurs, ‘Walburga’s wards must have burned away when we destroyed that thing in the cellar.’

‘Why didn't you write to me?’ Harry asks abruptly. Draco can't even begin to follow the train of thought that's led to it ‘you wrote to Hermione and Luna and…’

‘Longbottom,’ Draco sighs, ‘and Thomas but he never replied.’

‘Why not me?’

Draco almost says something to the effect that had Harry heard from him even a few weeks ago his missive would likely have ended up in the bottom of a rubbish bin but he restrains himself.

‘I thought…’ he stops and weighs the words, the emotions behind them safely contained but still heavy and cloying, ‘You didn't come to my trial. I read the letter that Granger wrote on my behalf and you'd signed it which was very…nice…of you.’

He can feel the word hanging in the air, astonishing how sarcastic it sounds regardless of his meaning.

‘How do you know I didn't write it?’ Harry asks again to which Draco can only give him a scornful look, conveying the singular impossibility of Harry even hoping to match Granger’s eloquence and clarity in writing. Hadn't he been forced to study her essays over and over every time she'd bloody beaten him in exams?

‘You didn't owe me anything,’ he says sharply, worried that Harry will misconstrue his statement for complaint, ‘But the letter…’

He remembered that feeling in the courtroom, the slight disbelief when they'd produced it. He hadn't realised until then that he'd just assumed that Harry would be there in person. That they'd continue to orbit one another indefinitely.

‘I took it to mean that you were done with me. My father had a nice phrase for it in his business correspondence, “I consider the matter concluded”. Writing to you after that felt too desperate.’

Harry is chewing his bottom lip and looks upset.

‘I’m sor-’ Harry begins but Draco's head shake and fierce look is so vehement that he stops. ‘I was just busy. Shit, no. I wasn't busy. I was sad. And tired and I-’

‘Don’t!’ Draco nearly shouts at him, ‘I meant it, you don't owe me anything, I don't expect anything.’ He stops because it's all getting a little too close to home and his pride won't allow him to say the next part, that if he allowed himself to expect or want anything from Harry then he worries he'd go mad from the sheer enormity of it, the fathoms of his desire unending. Much safer to lock it up and watch it through the bars of the cage he'd built and admire it for its ferocity and pity it for its folly.

Harry looks towards the wall at where the pirate ship had been, ‘I was just sad,’ he repeats quietly, ‘and tired.’

Draco shivers a little, cold with the stillness and the slight damp of the ground.

They abandon the snitch, Harry says they'll come back for it another time and walk towards the house. Draco feels Harry's hand brush the back of his a few times as they walk so he stops just before they go into the house and kisses him slowly, gently. Neither an apology nor forgiveness but a third thing, indefinable and terrifying.

Chapter Text

They're in Draco's mind again. Now that Harry has some experience in building his own he can truly appreciate this place for the marvel that it is. His seems fuzzy and vague in comparison, missing the little intricacies that Draco has bestowed upon his house-come-castle. He stops and appreciates the fine detail in the filigree, the pattern on the carpet.

Draco waits for him, lounging on an upholstered sofa. His eyes skim Harry appreciatively and Harry looks down to see that this time Draco has dressed him for the perpetual hazy summertime in cream linen. Harry twirls for him and opens his arms so Draco can admire the fit of the jacket. He spots that his cufflinks appear to be engraved with tiny silver snakes and for some reason it causes desire to pool heavily into his gut. It's a tad possessive to dress him and then adorn him with the Slytherin branding but it’s also tiny enough to be unnoticed, a subtlety for only Harry to share. You want me, Harry thinks, dizzy with desire.

He sits on the sofa opposite and mirrors Draco’s posture. It's strange to face Draco like this when he knows he's doing the same thing in the real world, he can see it if he concentrates - Draco's room, the two of them facing each other cross legged on the floor. It's strange - like stepping between two mirrors and setting endless reflections of yourself.

Draco has a chess set in front of him and he's holding the king, a faceless black marble figure in his hand.

‘In my experience turning memories into objects makes it easier to place them,’ he begins, ‘and easier to make them stay put in the rooms. It takes concentration, it helps if you have a good physical grasp of the object you want to represent the memory. And a respect for them too.’

He adds this part archly and Harry matches his gaze evenly and even gives him a wink to see the momentary fluster it causes.

‘For you I'd suggest picking an object you like and really study it - the look, the feel, the imperfections. Once you know it you can hold it in your mind.’ he's practically caressing the chess piece as he talks but stops, cheeks pinking delightfully when he sees how Harry is focusing on his slender fingers grasping the marble idol, ‘Once you have the object in your mind,’ Draco continues after swallowing hard, ‘you put the memory in it, like a pensieve.’

To illustrate he takes out his wand, a wispy memory-counterpart to the real thing and places it to his temple and Harry watches as the silver strands empty into the chess piece.

Draco hesitates before holding out the chess piece to Harry, ‘Early memories are easier, they tend to be less…complicated.’

Harry reaches out and takes the chess piece. He's immediately inside Malfoy Manor again and from the bookcases lining the wall it's obviously a library. Four year old Draco is sitting in a wingback chair, legs tucked under him and is clumsily moving a chess piece across the board towards - Lucius Malfoy.

Harry stops and feels his jaw clench, he had forgotten how the sight of Lucius still fills him with revulsion. This Lucius however is noticeably younger, with shorter hair than Harry has ever seen and with a wide open smile on his face as he gazes down at his son.

‘Not my bishop, no!’ he says in mock horror as Draco’s pawn strikes it down, ‘you’re getting too good for me Draco, how about I give you a Galleon now and we tell your mother I beat you? No?’

Draco shakes his head determinedly and Lucius leans forward and ruffles his hair, laughing.

Harry sets the chess piece down decisively. He feels a little sick.

Draco regards him with trepidation but forges on, ‘Like I said, less complicated. Now other-’

Harry jumps and twists around as he hears a rattling, so similar to the noise the mirror had made. This time, he's determined not to be fobbed off.

‘What's that noise?’ Harry demands.

Draco grimaces and it's several minutes as he tries to deflect (‘you’re easier to distract than a kitten, focus!’), ignore (‘I've no idea what you mean, is that the time?’) and straight out argue (‘I’m not showing you and that's final’) until finally they are standing in front of a what appears to be the door to a heavily bolted vault in Draco’s mind-cellar. Although now he comes to look, several of the padlocks are hanging open and the door is straining on its hinges and shaking mightily. There's a sign on the door that says simply ‘HP’.

‘These are thoughts and…mainly fantasies I've had about you.’ Draco admits sulkily, regret dripping from every syllable, ‘I had to bury them deep because…well you can imagine, but now you're actually in here they are trying their best to resurface.’

‘Show me one,’ Harry says eagerly.

Draco pales, ‘Absolutely not. They're…extremely private.’

‘Show me one or I'm not leaving.’ Harry pouts and folds his arms, aiming for the same level of haughtiness that Draco sometimes exhibits.

‘Pfft, nice try. I can throw you out of here quicker than you can blink.’ Draco replies easily.

‘And I can nag you just as easily outside your head as in,’ Harry points out, stubbornness shining from him like a beacon.

Draco glares at him for a few moments before the door gives another loud quake and he capitulates, ‘Alright! Fine!’

He curses and the locks and bolts fly open and he flings Harry through the door…

They're in a sumptuous marble bathroom with a sunken swimming pool tub. Harry recognises it. The mermaid isn't sitting on her rock in the painting but other than that it looks exactly as he remembers.

‘This is the Prefects’ bathroom.’ Draco tells him, ‘this is uh…fifth year? Sixth year?’

‘Oh I know,’ Harry replies smugly, ‘I was here in my fourth year.’

‘Urgh, of course you were.’ Draco mutters, rolling his eyes

A younger Draco is in the bubble-filled tub, arms spread wide along the edge, eyes closed. It's obviously a fantasy, it has a mistiness to it, a cloudiness to the edges.

Harry sees himself enter the bathroom in a blue flannel bathrobe and both he and fantasy-Draco, express outrage at the others presence and unexpected intrusion. An argument ensues, Harry wants to use the bath but Draco isn't leaving and they're both snarling at each other and then fantasy-Harry in a fit of pique removes his bathrobe and gets in anyway.

‘You thought I looked like that under my clothes?’ Harry whispers, staring at the chiselled abs. Draco is standing with his head in his hands, utterly mortified.

Things progress as Harry expects from here, the water isn't the only thing that's getting heated. Soon he's watching fantasy-Harry lift Draco onto the side of the pool and swallow his cock as though his life depends on it.

‘Well,’ Harry’s all amused delight as he tugs Draco’s hands from his burning red face, ‘you certainly had an active imagination.’

He feels a heady thrill that Draco has let him see this.

‘Show me another.’ he whispers in Draco’s ear.

Draco's looks at him and his eyes go a little hazy and the scene changes into another room in Hogwarts, in muted tones and with underwater views of the lake. It's decorated for Christmas, boughs of holly strung up along the fireplace and a large Christmas tree in the corner with silver and black decorations.

It's empty until fantasy-Draco storms in, wet and muddy in his Quidditch robes. Real-Draco whispers in Harry's ear, ‘This is the Slytherin common room.’

‘Oh I know,’ Harry can't quite keep the triumphant note out of his voice, ‘I've been in here too.’

Draco stiffens and snaps his fingers; Fantasy-Draco freezes too. Harry gapes, he's had his memories prodded before both for a pensieve and in training and once they start it feels like a freight train in motion. The amount of self-control Draco must have to just pause a memory like this without the image dissolving is remarkable.

‘Why,’ Draco begins sharply, ‘were you in the Slytherin common room?’

‘Wouldn't you like to know?’ Harry counters. Draco's reaction has him curious, he's not just surprised, he's suspicious. What could have made him so worried?

Draco observes him carefully, eyes glittering. After a moment he backs away, draws himself up to his full height and affects an air of nonchalance.

‘Well, fair’s fair I suppose,’ he says, studying his perfect nails, ‘I've been in the Gryffindor common room.’

Harry's mouth falls open.

‘What? You liar, you have not!’

Draco's triumphant smirk and the sultry look he gives Harry goes straight to his cock and he has to catch his breath as Draco makes the little flicking motion with his fingers and the scene shifts into what Harry can indeed recognise as the Gryffindor common room. Red and gold and as sumptuous as he remembers, all comfy sofas and a huge roaring fire. It's empty though, apart from…Draco, around fourteen, testing out a sofa and looking around, excited and a tad disbelieving.

‘What…’ Harry is speechless. There's no-one else here so if Draco wasn't invited-

‘How…?’

Draco's eyes are aflame, his lips parted as he watches Harry take it in.

‘Wouldn't you like to know,’ he says lightly, mockingly and presses two fingers to Harry's chest and pushes. Harry is shoved out of Draco's mind so violently that he falls back into the hardwood floor in real life from his sitting position and barely has a moment to recover before Draco is on him, taut body pressing him down, mouth slotted to his.

‘Tell me.’ Draco demands between kisses, ‘tell me why you were in there.’

Harry remembers his Auror training this time and grabs and shifts and rolls, which has Draco gasping and bucking up into him. Harry reaches down, fingers skimming the silky black fabric of the waistcoat that Harry wants to hate. It's so stupid and formal and he doesn't care about clothes but everytime he sees Draco wearing one it awakes a powerful urge in him to remove it as quickly as possible. He untucks his shirt roughly, hears a squawk of outrage and speaks into Draco’s ear in a low whisper, promising to treat Draco's clothes with a bit more reverence if he tells Harry first how he was in the Gryffindor common room. All the while palming Draco's erection through his trousers.

Draco tries to say no but forgets how to speak halfway through the word so all that comes out is a strangled ‘nngh’ and then a quiet ‘Oh hell’, which means Harry's victory is assured. Harry laughs and pulls him up, not quite sure how they keep ending up on the floor when there are beds in every room on this floor. He makes a great show of unbuttoning Draco's waistcoat and shirt with care while pressing delicate, teasing kisses to his jaw and neck while Draco leans into him and talks.

It's a game, Draco tells him, that the Slytherins play. You're told about it on your first night at Hogwarts. The object is to get into a forbidden part of the castle. Just one. You can try as many as you like but you only get credit for one. And you have to use cunning and guile to get in. And if you get caught, you never ever reveal the game. It's punishable by exclusion from Slytherin, which is pretty bleak, unless you fancy sleeping in the corridors for the rest of your school years. And you had to have proof. A photo or a pensieve memory is considered the standard. Slytherins with very little panache go for the Hufflepuff common room, the easiest option. Those with slightly more tenacity go for Ravenclaw or the teacher's lounge on the second floor or Filch’s office. The true gems, practically considered unobtainable, are the Headmaster’s office and the Gryffindor common room. One is well known to be protected by a gargoyle and usually occupied by the Headmaster or mistress and the other is always packed by bloody Gryffindors and everyone knows no Gryffindor would tolerate a Slytherin in their midst, making the risk-reward ratio that much higher. And the Gryffindor portrait was rumoured to be a bloody tartar and most certainly not open to bribery or coercion. Only three people in Draco's entire time at Hogwarts had made it to these revered spaces and Draco had been one of them and the youngest Slytherin to have ever done it.

‘When?’ Harry asks, ‘How?’

‘The Triwizard tournament,’ Draco says, and his voice is breathy, eyes dark, ‘Second task. I planned for weeks beforehand. Mastered a disillusionment charm to follow a random second year to find out where it was, moved a portrait so it would have a view of the lake, bribed the occupant and then casually hinted to the Fat Lady that she could watch the task if she swapped for an hour. It was so worth it.’

Harry wants to ask him so much more but instead he pushes Draco gently down and presses a kiss to his thigh, right where the longest of his Sectumsempra scars ends and settles for a single question, ‘You missed the second task?’

His nose fills with the scent of Draco's soap as he kisses along the line of his hip, a faint citrus scent that he breathes in greedily as he hovers above Draco's erection. A long lick up the shaft and a few swirls of his tongue and Draco is already squirming under him and looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and pure lust. He repeats the question and watches him through his eyelashes struggling to make a coherent response as Harry takes him in his mouth.

‘I had to…god…I underestimated my reaction to you, fuck yes, in the first task.’

Harry comes away with a popping noise that makes Draco’s eyelids flutter, ‘Oh?’ he asks innocently, giving a few pumps with his hand and licking the glans with the flat of his tongue.

‘You flying rings, ah, around that dragon? It was both the sexiest and hnnggh the scariest thing I’d ever seen. Fuck!’

The last exclamation is caused by Harry sinking down until Draco’s cock hits the back of his throat. He has to give his throat time to relax but it’s so sweet hearing Draco moan as he swallows experimentally and it’s hot as hell when he feels the elegant fingers threading through his hair. It also seems now that he’s got Draco talking he doesn’t want to stop and he’s babbling adorably.

‘I'll have you know you caused a full on sexuality crisis -fuck oh, oh yes, just like that, fuck. When you play Quidditch, you’re so…I never thought…’

It’s making him so damn hard watching Draco fall apart like this, hearing the refined accent tripping over words, gabbling curses and praise as the hand in his hair tightens its grip. Harry's hips thrust into the mattress helplessly as he falls into a rhythm, taking note of Draco's responses, of what makes him gasp and groan the most.

He looks up at Draco who has lapsed into moans with the occasional curse word thrown in and sees the look on his face, a beautiful hunger in his lust-blown eyes, bottom lip firmly clamped between perfect teeth. He feels a sudden bloom of pre-come on the tip under his tongue and savours it, a heady surge of arousal washing over him. He feels dizzy, drunk with sensation and want. He'll go mad with Draco under him, especially now that he’s seen how long Draco’s wanted him. Lots of people want Harry now - now that being seen on his arm comes with bragging rights - but Draco had fought desperately against wanting him, hadn't been able to stop, even when his life depended on it. It's making Harry feel drunk with power, it fills him with a primal need so strong he’s barely aware that he's pulled away from Draco and is stripping his clothes off with brutal efficiency.

His magic is quicker on the uptick than he is because one hand is now coated in thick, silky liquid and when he speaks to Draco his voice is gravelly and thick with desire.

‘I want you.’ he says tentatively, he's only done this once after all, ‘I want to be inside you.’

Draco’s face has gone slack, eyes lust-blown. His hair has fallen over his forehead and he sweeps it back with that graceful hand that Harry wants back in his hair, roaming over his chest, gripping his arse when he slides into-

‘Yes.’ Draco replies. Even so, a tiny frown appears on his brow like it always does when he's started thinking and Harry can’t have it. He lunges forward and takes his cock in his mouth again, hears the cry Draco makes and feels how his hips buck up into him. His slick fingers slip under Draco's balls and he rubs tiny circles around the furled muscles, hears the ‘Oh god' fall from Draco's lips as he pushes in with one slippery finger. It's tight and Draco has apparently stopped breathing so Harry soothes him with his mouth, a slow rhythm that soon has Draco moving his hips again as Harry works his finger in and out. He adds a second and Draco purrs approval this time so Harry curls his fingers wickedly, seeking out that cluster of nerves and it thrills him when he drags his fingers against it and Draco's back arches off the bed, crying out his name.

‘I want to see you,’ Harry says roughly, ‘pass me that pillow?’

Draco immediately catches on and arranges the pillow under his hips. He puts Draco's legs up around his shoulders, inhaling deeply as he turns his head to kiss Draco's knee. Will he ever be able to smell citrus again without getting hard? He doubts it.

‘Why are you smiling like that?’ Draco asks haughtily, even as he grinds down on Harry's fingers.

‘I like the way you smell,’ Harry answers, ‘and look and sound.’

Draco scoffs at him but Harry sees the bite-swollen lips twitch. He dips his fingers and strokes over his prostate again, gratified when Draco’s head tips back and he shudders under Harry's touch. Harry adds a third finger, aware of the heat building in his own groin. He hasn't touched himself at all yet, an absurd show of restraint and he's rock hard and leaking against Draco's thigh. Draco is keening under him and Harry has to grit his teeth and mentally recite the Auror Handbook table of contents.

He’s prevented from continuing past ‘Chapter 8. Improper Wand Use’ by a hand clamping down on his wrist. Draco is looking at him wild-eyed, his face flushed and desperate.

‘Harry,’ he almost snarls, ‘get inside me. Now.’

A low throaty chuckle comes out of Harry's mouth and he slowly removes his fingers and finally, finally runs his hand over his aching cock. He conjures more lube and slicks himself up, shifting forward on his knees to press the tip against the stretched entrance.

‘Mmm,’ Draco hums appreciatively and his fingers skate over Harry's thighs, reaching to cup his arse.

Harry gives Draco's leg a final kiss for good measure, rubbing his cheek affectionately against it to feel the dusting of soft blond hairs and repositions both of them around his waist. He pushes in slowly, decadently sinking into the tight heat. Draco's eyes are closed, one hand gripping the bed sheets tightly but he murmurs a quick ‘don't stop’ when Harry asks if he's ok. Eventually Harry is fully in, flush and enveloped and he gives Draco a second to adjust. It must be years, decades since they last kissed and Harry reclaims his mouth with fervour, licking and sucking Draco's tongue. Draco responds with filthy enthusiasm and it's gorgeous and perfect and then Harry feels a hand snaking through his hair and tugging and suddenly all the low simmering heat in his belly roars into flame and he couldn't stop his hips moving even if he wanted. He thrusts and swallows Draco's groan, or maybe it's his groan, he can't tell anymore when he's so close to the edge and chasing that blinding explosion of pleasure as his hips move in a snapping tempo into Draco's body.

He can feel Draco's prick against his stomach and reaches between them to take the hard length in his hand and starts stroking eagerly, wanting to see Draco fall apart. Draco cries out his name again, looking ravaged and lovely, his skin luminous against the dark blue sheets.

‘Yes darling, you can be loud for me.’

If Draco is surprised at the pet name, he doesn't show it, instead laughing and pulling him in closer and rolling his hips, ‘If you want me louder, you’ll need to fuck me harder.’

It's fast and brutal after that, Harry doesn't hold back and Draco responds with a beautiful intensity. He loses the ability to speak briefly when Harry adjusts the angle and starts firmly grinding into his prostate with every stroke and resorts to breathless cries, tipping his head back to expose the long line of his throat and his eyes open wide and he gasps into his orgasm, cock throbbing and spilling over Harry's hand as Harry strokes him through it. The muscles around Harry’s cock pulse and he moans into it, skating so wonderfully close to the edge. He's waited so long and it’s so fucking good, Draco collapsing bonelessly underneath him as he ruts into him murmuring ‘Darling yes,’ and ‘So good.’

He’s not sure why ‘darling’ comes to his mind so readily, it’s not the sort of thing he’d use for a boyfriend. More suitable for a…husband. The realisation hits him at exactly the same time as his orgasm, the searing pleasure coursing through him and he feels himself empty into Draco’s arse, the fading ache in his groin countered by the growing one in his heart. His hips jerk helplessly and he pulls out and crashes down next to Draco, once again consumed by the need to kiss him, touch him, caress him through the post-orgasmic bliss.

…..

Draco stands on wobbly legs to get his clothes after Harry blesses them both with a quick cleaning charm and they both half dress before Harry apparently develops a grudge against being vertical and pulls Draco back into bed. He kisses Draco sweetly and to Draco’s dismay he’s discovered that he does like cuddling after all, when it’s Harry. He's in so much trouble. He had already lost his head completely but he’d still managed to keep a tiny part of himself reserved. He'd guarded his heart and held onto the knowledge that it was just sex, nothing more. But now as Harry holds him and smiles gently into their kisses and strokes his arm, this is where the real danger lies. The place where Draco can almost convince himself that it’s real. He gets hold of himself and adopts a jocular tone.

‘Now tell me all about the Slytherin common room, lest I write to McGonagall and tell her you defected.’

Harry laughs and tells him. Draco's incredulous, indignant and then amused beyond measure when Harry gets to the bit about Millie’s cat.

‘Poor Granger, brewed the whole thing and then had to sit out because of Mr. Whiskers,’ he cackles.

Then Harry’s expression turns serious and he tells him more, about Riddle's diary and the confrontation with Draco's father and Dobby. By the end of it Draco has gone pale and feels a churning in his gut. He'd always wondered why Dobby had come to see him that night, pulled him out of his dorm to say goodbye, jubilant and garbling about how good and kind Harry had been. He'd been so confused and his parents had refused to explain it to him - his father especially used to go purple with rage if he'd even obliquely referenced Dobby. He sits up and holds his knees.

‘I didn't know. He really wanted him back didn't he? My father I mean, he really did want Voldemort back.’

‘Yes,’ Harry says simply.

He remembers the last time he saw his father, in the prison yard of Azkaban. He'd looked haggard, older, hair lank and eyes sunken. He thinks of the memory he'd shown Harry earlier in the day of them playing chess in the library and his breath catches in his throat a little.

‘I wish you hadn't told me that.’ he says in a small voice.

Harry frowns at him, ‘Was I supposed to lie to you?’

‘No, it's just that it's hard sometimes hearing how someone you loved is a terrible person.’

‘But that's what he is.’ Harry insists and there's an edge to his voice, a hardness that grates on Draco's ears.

‘I know that.’ he snaps, ‘but he's my father. And I loved him. I nearly killed myself so many times trying not to disappoint him.’

‘It wouldn't bother me to disappoint someone like that.’ Harry says dismissively and decisively. So obviously contemptuous. Because he's always found Draco contemptuous, he just manages to ignore it well enough when he wants his cock up his arse. And Draco hates him for it. He hates how perfect he is, how little he cares. All Draco has ever done is care and care and fail regardless.

‘Is it hard being so fucking perfect, Potter?’ he snarls, ‘Always doing the right thing, always so full of saintly goodness and love, never disappointing anyone? It must be so hard for you slumming it with a filthy Death Eater.’

Harry stares at him for a moment then his face crumples into anger.

‘Fuck you,’ Harry spits at him, ‘I never thought about you like that. I thought you were a nasty little shit and maybe I was right.’

‘Get out!’

He’s trembling, he notices. A sure sign that he’s overwrought, the stress of all his overthinking and heartache taking its toll. And Harry is a weathervane, quick to match Draco’s anger with his own. Exactly the same as when they were at each other’s throats every day. Harry grabs his clothes and storms out with dramatic flair, the air around him fairly sizzles with barely repressed magical fury.

Draco rubs his hands over his face. This is intolerable. He won’t survive such emotional see-sawing. He needs to get out of here, right fucking now. And if that means bonding with the house then he'll do what it takes. It's dangerous but fuck it, right now anything seems better than staying here, where he’ll always pay the greater price for every argument. They were never going to get past talking about Dumbledore, Lucius, Voldemort. He thought he could cope by never speaking of them but that obviously wasn’t ever going to work. And the longer he spends here the more his heart accrues interest and the payments are already getting too high. Time to go.

He throws his clothes on haphazardly before sitting and pressing his hands to the floor and pours his entire self into it. It's not safe, normally he'd take weeks, months to get to this point but he's past caring. He throws open the doors to his mind, lets every barrier down, less a friendly hello than a tackle to the ground, demanding to be heard.

And Grimmauld Place hears him. Sees him. He feels a stirring of interest immediately. And one of the rules of magic is that like calls to like - Grimmauld Place feels his desperation, his rage, his loneliness. It responds to him with its own intensity, its own yearning hunger to be known. This is me, this is who I am.

It’s too much. He realises his mistake almost immediately and tries to shut his mind off but it's too late. The force of it knocks him flat on his back and takes the air from his lungs. It’s inside his mind and god, it's so old and angry and desperately lonely. He can't survive this, the pain is astonishing, crucio-levels of anguish coursing through him. He curls into a ball and clasps his head in his hands.

He can't scream. Because father will find him and force him to apologise to Regulus, even though he hadn't done anything wrong. Or no, he doesn't need to apologise. He’s just tired of living in this dour house with his boring sister and if he has to go to one more party and sit with one more dull suitor then he’ll scream. But he can't scream because he'll wake the children. And if he does that then the Mistress will make him iron his hands. Or wait no, now his Master is Harry Potter and he won't let him, he hates him. Draco hates him.

Draco gasps a lungful of air, fighting it, keeping his head above water just long enough to take in a shaky breath and doing what he can to protect himself. He hurries through his house, doors and windows slamming against the hurricane that is Grimmauld Place. It might not be much but it could prevent him from losing his sense of self entirely. After that there's not much else to do but wait out the raging inferno, curled up on the floor, the memories falling around him like shattered glass. And in the middle of everything, a feeling. A longing. A locket, gold and gleaming.

Draco whimpers. He hugs his knees tighter.

Forgive me Harry.

…..

‘-enervate. What the hell have you done to yourself Malfoy?’

Draco tries to open his eyes but they seem to be glued together. The bed he's in is awful, why would anyone make a bed this hard? He groans, feels how dry his mouth is, has he been drinking? He finally opens his eyes and sees the horrible sight of Ronald Weasley staring down at him. He's on the floor, cheek flattened against the wooden boards. To his shame he realises he's still in a state of undress, trousers on, thank Merlin, but barefoot, shirt unbuttoned and chest on show. He tries to stand up but he feels weak as a kitten and has to settle for sitting up slowly. The house has drained him, depleted his magic. It shouldn’t be able to do that, he thinks hopelessly. But when has anything about this house ever been normal?

Harry is lurking by the bedroom door looking uneasy and worried. It floods back. They’d - he looks towards the messy bed. And then - back towards Harry, guiltily. And then he’d - he holds his hand to his head and yes, that really happened. His mind-house is in tatters, flayed open and invaded. And a new presence, a vague background noise for the moment. Grimmauld Place. His house. And, oh god, all the memories of former bonded inhabitants, all the arguments and mind games and heartbreak and sex. And that had just been Sirius, he thinks wryly. No wonder his head hurts. It feels swollen, engorged and heavy. He's worried if he stands up, he'll topple over with the weight of it.

Weasley is looking at him like Draco's something he's just scraped off the floor. Which to be fair, he practically has. He stomps around Draco too loudly, wearing his big clomping Auror boots and the red robes. Weasley reaches down and hauls him up by the back of his shirt. Draco winces as he feels the seams strain but it's nothing to the searing pain that tears through his skull. He takes a long exhale and it starts to abate somewhat, the dancing spots in his vision fading.

‘You’re a mess.’ Weasley snaps at him and Draco is definitely not imagining the ring of enjoyment in his tone at getting to give Draco a dressing down like he's a naughty teenager who's got into the firewhisky. Normally Draco would treat him to his finest withering glare but he's preoccupied by doing up the buttons on his shirt with shaking fingers. He's just thankful that it's not a doublet or one of those dresses with hundreds of tiny fastenings that he'd seen in memories last night.

Weasley keeps talking as he bends down and Draco realises with dismay that he's picked up Draco's wand from the floor, ‘I'm keeping this, no arguments. Pack your things Malfoy, you're out of here today. The solicitor got back to us, something about how you can't give away bequeathments in a divorce, blah blah blah. Anyway, you're done.’

Draco laughs at that. He has to, or cry. ‘I have some bad news for you Weasley. I can't.’

Weasley's face does the thing it does where he looks like a gormless idiot, only for a second but it cheers Draco immensely. It's good to know that some things don't change.

‘What do you mean you can't?’ he demands, ‘Are you refusing a direct order from your Probation Officer?’

‘Order me all you like,’ Draco retorts, ‘I can't. Come on and I'll show you. Have you taken down the wards yet?’

‘Not yet but it doesn't take a moment.’

‘Then let's go to the front door, shall we?’ Draco says haughtily, or at least as haughtily as he can manage at the moment, which isn't very. He can't look Harry in the eye.

They trudge down to the front door, despite Weasley's mutterings about the floo being perfectly adequate. Draco stops and waves an imperious hand in Weasley's direction, ‘Go on then.’ He wishes more than anything that he could control the slight tremble in his hands.

Weasley glares at him but raises his wand, ‘Finite wardarium.’

Draco has thought about hearing those words for almost a year. He’d imagined feeling relieved, excited, optimistic. It's a beautiful day as well, exactly the type of day he'd choose to be released back into the world. The warm spell has apparently returned and the sun makes the autumn leaves glow golden on the trees lining the street. He forces himself not to think about it and in the interest of avoiding any glimmer of doubt in Weasley’s mind he grimly opens the door and attempts to stride out, crashing face-first into an invisible barrier.

‘Ow,’ he says bleakly, rubbing his nose. Harry was right, it did hurt.

He turns to look at them both, standing in the hall behind him. He leans back, knocks against what looks like thin air with his knuckles, ‘See?’

Weasley looks befuddled but Harry looks furious, ‘What did you do?’ he demands.

Draco finally looks at him wretchedly and how is it possible after spending every day together that he still feels the same excitement when those green eyes lock onto his, ‘Bonded with the house,’ he replies miserably, ‘like I was supposed to.’

Harry looks like he's torn between yelling at him for doing something so bloody reckless or yelling at him for doing it without Harry.

‘You try.’ Draco says, managing to keep the reluctance out of his voice. He knows what the result will be.

Harry steps forward and holds his palm flat, moving it slowly towards the outside world, so tantalizingly close. It stops when he reaches the midway point and he applies gentle pressure before turning back to Weasley and shaking his head.

‘Nope.’

Weasley huffs an exasperated sigh and rubs his eyes with his fingers.

‘So now both of you are trapped here…great. I'll just tell Robards that shall I?’

Draco looks sidelong at Harry. Weasley starts forward suddenly and pushes Draco forward, apparently requiring more proof. ‘Worth a shot.’ he says casually as Draco bounces off the not-door and crashes into the wall. He groans and feels unbelievably sorry for himself.

Weasley huffs and takes a deep breath, acting for all the world as though their predicament is a plot to annoy him. He asks Harry again if he wants someone to stay the night but Harry scoffs and demurs.

‘Come on then Malfoy, got my job to do,’ Weasley is holding a familiar vial and Draco's heart skips a beat, his mouth going dry. When he was testifying he had to take the stuff almost daily, in front of aurors and lawyers, it sometimes felt like he was a sideshow attraction. But he’s never had to take it and then answer questions from someone whose dislike of him is so personal. And his Occlumency is in bad shape so there's a high chance that whatever Weasley asks, he'll get the truth.

‘Right,’ he croaks out. He nods towards the dining room, ‘In there?’

‘Coffee Ron?’ Harry asks, heading towards the kitchen.

‘Go on then, slightly better than the swill in the canteen anyway,’ Weasley grins at him and Harry gives him a cheerful laugh as he disappears into the kitchen. He doesn’t offer Draco anything.

Weasley steps into the dining room and gestures for him to sit. He does so, ignoring the slight feeling of panic rising up in him. He's done this before, must be a hundred times now. Weasley will ask the usual questions on whether he has any immediate plans to murder Muggleborns in their beds or host the next Death Eater reunion. He has nothing to hide. Weasley definitely won't use this as an opportunity to humiliate an old school rival who taunted him for years about his family’s poverty and made up an incredibly catchy song about how terrible he was at Quidditch. Right?

Harry has come in with two coffee mugs and sits on Draco's other side. His presence would be reassuring if they hadn't had a screaming match yesterday. And Weasley's coffee is in his favourite mug, he notices mournfully.

Weasley has trouble getting the cork out of the vial and by the time it's ready Draco's shoulders have crept up around his ears and may never come down again. His hand has wandered unconsciously to his left forearm and he catches it and forces himself to place them on his knees as he tips his head back and feels three drops fall onto his tongue. He swallows and feels the potion spread through his mouth, tasteless but filmy.

Weasley has the form out that he's supposed to fill in to make a record of the session and his blue eyes are scanning it quickly.

‘Name?’ he asks, patting his robe for a quill.

‘Draco Lucius Malfoy.’ he hears himself say tonelessly.

Weasley grunts and writes it down. Good grief. At least Jones used to fill in all the boring bits before she arrived.

‘Date of birth?’

‘June 14th, 1980.’

Weasley is now supposed to ask him three questions of his choice to confirm the Veritaserum is working. Jones used to go for something embarrassing without fail, now it's Weasley's turn.

‘Who punches harder, me or Hermione?’

‘Granger.’ He'd have answered that one truthfully even without a potion. Harry chuckles in surprise and Weasley's cheeks turn pink. He scowls at Draco, then his lips twist into a smirk,

‘Are you in love with Harry?’

‘Yes.’ The reply is immediate, unequivocal. His eyes widen in horror as his brain catches up. He hears a dull thudding in his hears and realises it's his heart, his dumb fucking heart that's the cause of all this mess in the first place.

Weasley looks nonplussed for a moment and then he snaps his head up to look at Harry. Draco keeps his eyes fixed on Weasley, unable to face Harry. He’s sure if he looked it would kill him. He imagines a whole fleet of expressions crossing over Harry's face - disgust, terror, amusement and the worst of all, pity. He'll expire on the spot, surely no wizard was ever built to withstand such shame? He clamps his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see even though it probably makes him a coward again.

So. this in love then. It’s awful.

‘Blimey’, Weasley gulps, ‘I thought mum was off her rocker when she came home last week,’ he launches into a shrill impression, ‘“Why didn't you tell me the Malfoy boy was in love with Harry, Ronald?” I bet George five galleons it was bollocks.’

Molly Weasley had seen it? In the brief five minutes in the kitchen? And now the entire Weasley clan would know, would forever have a grand laugh at how pathetic he was. Perfect. His fists clench in his lap, he opens his eyes but keeps them firmly locked on the table.

‘You know that nothing’s going to happen right? I mean you're not barmy enough to think…you know he won't ever love you back right?’ Weasley asks him, eyes agog.

‘Yes.’ Draco replies mournfully. Hasn't he been telling himself so the entire time they've been here? Harry could never love him. It was the truth.

Harry jumps up from his seat, breathing heavily and obviously agitated.

‘Ron, that's-that's not ok. You can't ask him-why would you…?’ Eyes flashing and furious and as beautiful as Draco has ever seen him. Oh how he wishes for a time-turner to alter every single facet of his existence for this man. If this is love then it's more horrible and powerful than he ever thought possible and he wants no part of it.

Unbidden a memory from last night surfaces, in this very room. Elladora Black, plain and far too forthright, cornering a dashing Eupheneous Bones after dinner and asking if he'd marry her. He'd turned her down unkindly and she'd run from the room, tears streaming down her face. And another, of Orion during the first days of courting Walburga, so nervous he'd dumped an entire bowl of soup in his lap. And finally, fifteen year old Sirius patting a sobbing Regulus on the back awkwardly, saying gruffly ‘What does it matter if the person you like knows you like them?’

Despite himself, the memories make him feel a little better. It helps that Harry at least hasn't laughed out loud at him. Although from the fury ringing in his tone, Draco is more worried he's going to start throwing hexes.

Weasley is clearly confused by Harry's anger, ‘Mate, it's five galleons, I couldn't let that slide. And everyone uses the test questions to ask embarrassing stuff, Jones says she's asked him-’

‘I don't care! It’s not-’

‘Harry,’ Draco stalls him, ‘It’s f-’ his throat closes on the word and he chokes on it because it's not fine. He tries again, ‘I’ll live. You've had your three, get on with it.’ he says to Weasley, fixing him with a look of mild contempt.

There's a heavy beat of silence before Weasley picks up the form again, ‘Have you had any contact with other Death Eaters?’

‘No.’

The questions continue down a familiar route and by the time they're finished, Draco has composed himself admirably, considering the circumstances. He gives himself due credit for it, it's one thing to be dignified when you have everything going for you, it's quite another when you're barefoot and dishevelled and have just been forced into confessing your love to someone who just happens to be so bloody perfect that he'll probably be nice about it, Merlin help him. He does feel more sanguine about the whole thing though. Having the entire tumultuous history of the Black family running through your head does wonders for your sense of perspective it seems.

Weasley finally finishes scratching the last of Draco's answers on the form and the atmosphere is as tense as before, Weasley shifting uncomfortably in his seat and Harry with arms crossed glaring at him. Draco heaves a sigh.

‘Anything else you need me for?’ Weasley shakes his head, ‘Then I'm going for a shower.’

And finally, because he has to have the last word or what's the point of being a Malfoy, ‘My compliments to your mother Weasley on her…astuteness.’

He leaves them both staring after him.

…..

As soon as he hears Draco's footsteps going up the stairs, Harry rounds on Ron again. He's reeling, the past twenty-four hours have been almost too much to handle. After the fight they'd had he'd spent the better part of the night pacing in his room, resisting the urge to throw something at the wall. And then Ron had arrived and they'd gone into Draco's room and he'd been in a heap on the floor and Harry had been so scared and angry with him - what the hell had he done to himself? Then the business with the door and he hadn't had time to think, he'd just…and then seeing Draco’s face drop when Ron had asked him - and that was his fault, he'd made Draco open that vault, although he hadn't known that his feelings had run that deep and a tiny part of him had soared hearing him say it, the part that had called Draco darling and had adored the tiny snake cufflinks. But the situation was all wrong and it was so painful and then Draco had said that he'd known Harry couldn't ever love him back. It had driven all the air from his lungs and he'd stared at him, rumpled and tearful and oh so lovely. And then a rush of anger, protective and fierce on Draco's behalf towards the Weasley's, the Aurors, anyone who would see Draco at his most vulnerable and think it was an opportunity rather than a responsibility.

‘You were completely out of line.’ he says woodenly, trying to keep his emotions in check.

Ron looks at him sheepishly, ‘Sorry mate, I didn't think about you being stuck with him now for the foreseeable. And I honestly didn't think he'd say yes! You could've knocked me down with a feather when mum came in and casually asked me about it. I'd have sooner believed the Bloody Baron had the hots for you. And I'd never have let him come here if I'd thought…I mean he's Malfoy!’

No he's not! Harry wants to shout. He's not the Malfoy that we both hated! But he is. And Ron doesn't have the benefit of the past few weeks, he can't see how much Draco had changed. Probably he’ll refuse to believe it. And suddenly it's not about Draco any more, it's about Ron and Harry and exactly how far a friendship can stretch before it breaks. Could Ron ever forgive him for loving someone he hated? And Draco had bloody known, had tried to tell him that morning when Harry had tackled him to the floor,

Maybe you can accept it right now but when you go to work, when you’re with your friends, surrounded by people who hate me?

He’d called Harry out on it immediately and Harry had just waved it away, preoccupied by the strength of his attraction and his careless assumption that his friends would only ever be happy for him. And then the argument last night, where he'd dismissed Draco's hurt at his conflicted feelings over his father and Draco had said that he wouldn't know because he'd never disappointed anyone in his life. He’d flown off the handle thinking of the Dursleys but he’d never even cared much for their opinion of him, hardening his heart against them from his earliest memories. But now, when he’s faced with the prospect of losing the Weasley's love for him, suddenly it's so much harder than he'd thought. It turned out that Draco had been right, the smug git.

‘Yeah…,’ he says distantly, staring at his shoes, ‘you know he's really not how he used to be, he's…and Hermione's been writing to him too so…do you ever think you could look past all the…past?’

He's so bad at this it's laughable. Give him a dark wizard to face any day.

Ron's face scrunches up, ‘I mean, I don't think so? I put up with Hermione writing to him because well…’ he gestures to convey the utter hopelessness of stopping Hermione Granger from doing anything, ‘but I don't think we could ever be friends or anything. I know the two of you sent in that letter for his trial and it's great if you can forgive him but for me it's, well it's just family, you know? But I won't pull any more stuff like today if it bothers you.’

He's a good friend, Harry thinks. And it's honestly probably the best he can hope for, considering. He's not even sure where things with Draco are at the moment after everything, maybe it's best to let Ron sit with the idea of his best friend not hating Draco for a day or two before further wrecking his world by introducing the idea of a serious romantic attachment. And until now he hasn't fully realised how much he wants to do that. He's thrown himself into the deep end with Draco, thrust himself into the middle of a relationship again - they're even married for god's sake. But he won't make the same mistake again, he'll do it properly. He’ll bloody woo the man, just see if he won't.

He sees Ron to the door, promising to write to Robards immediately to avoid Ron having a horribly awkward conversation. He asks about work, people and gossip and Ron responds diffidently. It's disturbing to Harry how quickly people have apparently become used to the situation. At the start it had been panic and urgency and ‘we'll get you out Harry, don't you worry!’. Now after a few weeks it all just seems to have become the status quo. Ron has a collection going for Trebbins who's in St Mungo’s, Hills is back on patrol after being suspended for accidentally body-binding a muggle, Harry's still stuck in his house. It's troubling. He waves Ron off as he departs into the outside world, so very close and yet so separate.

He returns to the kitchen, promptly bins off writing to Robards and starts working on a plan to win Draco back. After ten minutes he reckons he's thought of a pretty good one and starts working on it, after twenty he has everything in place and after thirty he's started worrying about whether he should go up in search of him when Draco appears in the kitchen. He looks gorgeous and expensive. Perfectly arranged hair, a soft blue jumper, costly cologne. Harry exhales in relief.

‘I was starting to worry you'd drowned yourself in the tub,’ he says and nearly kicks himself for being such a bloody prat, honestly.

But Draco only smiles at him, soft as the fluffy azure of his jumper, ‘Well I do have a flair for the dramatic. Bit pedestrian to use water though, I'd have insisted upon a couple of bottles of Dom Perignon at least.’

‘That's a wine right?’

Draco rolls his eyes at him, ‘You’re wasted as an Auror, clearly sommelier was your true calling. That or mime artist.’

Harry raises his eyebrows as Draco does an impression of Harry, palm flattened against an invisible surface.

‘You knew?’

‘Of course I knew. Why are you still here? You can leave, you could be down the pub with Weasley or seeing your godson or chasing criminals or whatever other godawful things you do for fun.’

‘You didn't say anything.’

‘Harry.’

‘Ok, ok, I just - firstly I want to bond with the house myself, that memory of Sirius the other day…I want to see more like that. And you promised to let me do it. Secondly…’ he runs a hand through his hair, ‘I knew if I left then it would be hard to convince anyone to care. It might start as them saying ‘Well you've got two months left of house arrest anyway’ but then it would turn into ‘Sorry we've got other priorities’ and ‘There's just nothing we can do’. And I hate the thought of you being trapped in here. Everyone’s already way too comfortable with me being in this predicament, it would be even worse for you.’

Draco rolls his eyes, more forcefully this time, ‘I don't recall mentioning that I needed saving.’

‘You love it really.’

Draco colours and looks down. Harry could kick himself, he'd said it teasingly but of all the oafish, stupid…

‘I’m not asking anything from you, you know,’ Draco says defensively, ‘you heard me say it, I don't have any…expectations. I never did.’

Harry nods, then takes Draco by the hand and leads him into the garden to the far end, ignoring his questions and protests until they're under the pear tree, dappled sunlight casting a pattern on the picnic blanket Harry has laid out. He turns to Draco and takes his other hand too, eyes earnest and hopeful.

‘Sorry that I couldn't get the view of the manor or the wildflowers but I got wine from the cellar and I found some cheese that I think is supposed to have mould on it and there's a quiche and pears from the tree-’

Draco's looks startled, ‘You…you remembered my date?’

Harry does. Is it serious? Draco had asked that night. Oh yes, Harry had replied, it's probably love.

‘I know we're a bit limited when we're in here but once we're out we could go flying like you said or to a fancy place and I promise I wouldn't embarrass you, well not intentionally. The point is…’ Harry takes a deep breath ‘I'd really like to start taking this seriously. You said you don't have any expectations but well, maybe I do? Because I like you, you know, a lot. I’m not quite where you are yet but…well you're brilliant and you make me mmph’

He's prevented from continuing by the press of Draco's lips against his.

‘Ok but-’ Draco breaks away, ‘I need to tell you about the house because I know what it wants but it doesn't make any sense and-’

‘Can we fix it today? Are we in danger?’ Harry asks, running his hands over the soft fabric atop Draco's stomach.

‘No,’ Draco admits, eyes firmly on Harry's mouth.

‘Later,’ Harry says.

They end up fucking again right there on the blanket which Harry doesn't quite mean to happen because it's supposed to be romantic, but there's a moment where Draco scrapes his teeth against Harry's throat and he makes a ‘gggnnnhh’ noise and the next thing he knows he's three fingers deep into Draco's arse watching those gorgeous grey eyes roll back into his head and then Draco experimentally rolls his fingers around Harry's nipple and pinches and it's like time skips again and he's pounding into Draco from behind, watching Draco’s hands clench the grass and when he cries out, ‘Fuck Harry yes, there, right there.’ Harry feels like he's flying. He feels wrung out when they collapse next to each other and yet he can't stop touching Draco, even as Draco swats his hands away to dress. He’s a little worried that Draco will think he's unadventurous when it comes to sex so he garbles a little about what they can do next - Harry could bottom, Draco can ride him, he'd even try - and here he hesitates - ‘whips and things’ if that's what Draco likes, at which Draco splutters and dissolves into laughter. Harry haughtily asserts that Draco has spent an overly high proportion of his time in dungeons which has to mean something. Draco can't talk for almost five minutes, other than occasionally repeating ‘whips and things’ to himself and exploding into a fresh peal of giggles. Then he takes Harry's face in both hands and thanks him, equal parts amused and sincere for being willing to try ‘whips and things’ for him.

They drink wine and eat quiche. Draco examines the cheese and asks Harry how it is that he has stilton lying around and Harry confesses it's from a hamper the Ministry sent him last Christmas and it's been under a stasis charm in his fridge since then. Draco rolls his eyes and calls him a philistine while he cuts delicate slices of pear and cheese and places both together and feeds them to him, which he wrinkles his nose at but still demands more from those elegant hands. They drink more wine and Draco lies with his head in Harry's lap and looks up at the canopy of the tree, speckled with fruit.

‘Sirius used to climb this tree you know,’ he tells Harry, ‘he was always the brave one.’

‘Can you see everything now? All of their childhood?’

Draco shakes his head, ‘The way I did it was very foolish. I shouldn't have done it. I opened myself up to the house too much and it responded in kind. My head was flooded with all those who'd been bonded before but there's no way to retain or control the memories. Ideally you'd want to do it slower, experience it as an outsider like we did the other day.’

‘But if it worked…? Because I could…’

‘No.’ Draco shakes his head, ‘both because it's dangerous but also because it didn't work. It…forgive the crude analogy but it's like a one night stand. We've seen each other naked but it hasn't established any trust. The memories won’t last and they’re all confused. At least I know what it wants now but it's impossible so…’

‘What does it want?’ Harry's amazed at how unbothered he is about it. Obviously he wants to figure it out, he wants to leave, to see friends and family but then again…he feels stupid and selfish but now they're making proper progress he feels like he wants the time all over again. He could have relaxed, had lazy breakfasts, read his book properly and done, well, all sorts of things with Draco.

Draco sighs and shifts his head a little on Harry's lap, which isn't at all distracting.

‘It wants to be a person.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Like I said, impossible. But it wants it all the same. it's all the magic is been imbued with by the Blacks. They strengthened its power by making it more sentient, more aware. it just wants to finish what they started.’

‘Has it kept me…well and you now…here because it thinks we can make it human?’

‘Not human, a person. Don't confuse the two, there are lots of things that are human-shaped that aren't people. You need a soul to be a person. Sorry where was I?’

‘Why it won't let us, uh you, leave?’

‘That's trickier. I can't see a concrete reason for it but it's not exactly in a rational frame of mind right now. The Desiderium does that - I mean you've stood in front of the real Mirror, it doesn't exactly leave you feeling in a healthy emotional state. I don’t really understand why it’s still the case, it should have all been absorbed by the mirror by now.’

‘Mmmm,’ Harry replies, occupied with stroking through Draco's fine blond locks. He wants to ask Draco about what he sees in the Mirror again but doesn't want to push his luck. He wants to ask him so many questions, he realises. He's had a taste, Draco's shown him a few memories but he wants so much more - he wants to know more about his experience of Hogwarts, of his childhood, of the war. He wants to ask silly questions about whether he's ever been to a funfair or what his favourite colour is and find out what he'd think of Harry's favourite sandwich - ham and cheese and onion crisps.

He belatedly realises this is what you're supposed to do on first dates; the getting-to-know you part had always felt like some sort of gauntlet to run - he feels stupid now but he'd never considered that he could want to ask questions to the other party beyond the usual how are you, what do you do, are you an obsessed stalker who has somehow slipped through the background checks?

He settles for something vaguely related to their conversation, ‘Did you climb any trees when you were a child?’

Draco's eyes are misty as he continues to allow Harry’s fingers raking through his soft hair, ‘I did. There’s a very fine yew tree on the grounds, it was perfect for climbing. But then I disturbed a bowtruckle nest once and nearly broke my neck and my father forbade me from climbing. You?’

‘Sometimes, usually to get away from my cousin and his gang of bullies.’

‘What? How could anyone bully you?’

Harry laughs incredulously, ‘Why is that so surprising to you? You bullied me!’

Draco sits up slowly and turns to face him, eyes searching and faintly incredulous, ‘You really don't know, do you? Just how powerful you are. I could never bully you Harry, though Merlin knows I was a little shit who bullied everyone else. It used to drive me insane how you wouldn't fight back properly, like I wasn't worth your time. Although I secretly suspected if you ever did then I'd be torn to shreds which…’ he gestures to his chest, smiling sardonically..

‘I’m not so powerful,’ is his only admittedly pathetic rejoinder even if it’s true. And it is true, even if he can do some cool stuff, like throwing off Imperius or the wandless magic.

But Draco is shaking his head and looking perplexed, ‘You know it always confused me, why Dumbledore never had you in any kind of special training. I mean, of course we had the whole shambolic run of Defence teachers but if I'd been in charge I'd have had you running drills morning, noon and night. By the time you faced Voldemort you would have been unstoppa-oh.’

He looks crestfallen suddenly, Harry doesn't blame him. He'd felt the same when he'd thought about it after a few too many firewhiskies one night. Someone had said something in the pub about Harry training Teddy like in the DA and Harry had been hit with the realisation that not preparing him had been a deliberate choice. The kind of drunken epiphany you hope you won't remember the next day.

‘Yeah, so in order to defeat Voldemort, they sort of needed me to die at the right time,’ he says, rubbing the back of his neck and wishing it didn't all sound so horribly dramatic, ‘you don't need any special training for that.’ he barks a short, mirthless laugh.

Draco looks at him and Harry sees shock yes, but also the beginning of a cold fury that roots him to the spot.

‘And now?’ Draco asks softly and all the more dangerous for it, ‘The Aurors at least, are they training you to your full potential?’

‘Well…’ Harry considers it, ‘Sort of? I mean there's a lot more paperwork and desk stuff than I thought and they seem terrified to actually send me out on anything unless they know it will look good in the press and everyone keeps telling me I need to ‘knuckle under’ but I assumed that was because I'm new and inexperienced and…’

‘Merlin they're all afraid of you aren't they?’ Draco scoffs, anger only having grown with Harry's every word, ‘Terrified lest that talent for slaying Dark Lords gets turned on them. Every one of them.’

Harry regards him appraisingly.

‘You never were. You always came at me with both barrels.’

‘That, Harry Potter,’ Draco says with great gravitas, ‘is because you deserved my very best and you always will.’

Harry kisses him then because how can he not? This man who loved him even when he hated him. More so than most of the people who were supposed to be protecting him.

Draco presses his back onto the blanket and Harry inhales him, cologne and that underlying citrus scent.

Draco presses himself up to look at Harry for a moment, shy smile and warm eyes. Which blink in shock as Harry's hand whips out past his ear and comes back holding…the snitch. The one they abandoned yesterday.

‘Are you fucking serious?’ Draco whispers, almost to himself, and the heat in his voice has Harry grinning unapologetically up at him as his fingers grasp his golden prize.

….

The second that they re-enter the house, Draco knows that something is wrong. It's a feeling so strong it's like he's been dunked in vinegar as he walks through the door, stinging and sharp. He tries to warn Harry but no sound comes from his mouth and he watches in mounting horror as every knife shakes in the block before launching themselves at Harry's head.

Thank Salazar, thank Merlin, thank every witch or wizard who ever existed for Harry's absurd wandless magic that seems to react before he does, throwing up a Protego as his eyes widen in shock.

Draco’s tongue finally unsticks itself, ‘Harry!’ and he slaps his palm to the wall, screaming into the misty abyss that is the part of the house he can sense with his mind, Not him! NOT HIM!

To his surprise, he feels vigorous agreement surging through his fingertips, a firm and ready insistence,

Not him. Grimmauld Place says. You.

Chapter Text

Perhaps he can blame it on the sudden changing weather, Draco thinks, as he hears the rain lashing at the window. A sudden drop in temperature. He doesn't want to risk a chill.

That must be the reason why he's woken up practically plastered to Harry's back.

It's exactly as wonderful as he'd imagined, having Harry in his arms, his hair softly tickling Draco's nose. He tries not to breathe in too deeply lest he wake him but he can smell the artificial strawberry of Harry's shampoo and the heat of him and the way their bodies fit perfectly together.

Grimmauld Place had continued its outright attack on Harry throughout the evening. It had been alarming, the way the house had turned on him. Some things appeared to be petty like the lamps refusing to light or the stairs arranging themselves at different heights to trip him. To his astonishment Harry had laughed at these calling them ‘par for the course’ when Draco had tried to convince him to leave. Others were more worrying and Harry had now narrowly avoided bombardment from the knives, several heavy books and a table lamp. Draco had started staying close to him for safety as the house seemed unable to wreak any kind of vengeance on Harry when he was close. It hadn't all been bad, Draco smiled to himself; he'd insisted they take a shower together after the bathroom tap had sprayed Harry with a horrible sticky mucus and after cleaning it off Harry had dropped to his knees and blown him enthusiastically. Draco had pressed his back against the cold tile and watched him in awe, the water droplets glistening on his bare skin and those green eyes looking up at him.

He’s rock hard just thinking about it. He doesn't want to wake Harry, he’d extend this perfect moment indefinitely if he could but there's a fire catching in his belly, the heat of his arousal perfectly nestled in the curve of Harry's arse. He shouldn't wake him but maybe if he just shifted forward a little…

He's torn out of limbo by Harry stirring, making a pleased little throaty hum when he realises he's wrapped in Draco's long limbs. Draco presses whisper soft kisses to his nape and gently nuzzles into his neck, a tender overture entirely at odds with the raging desire in his gut. A desire that's only stroked all the more when Harry presses back against him slightly, clearly enjoying the attention. A very slight gasp as he feels Draco's hard length against him but it's all that's needed to break through Draco's self-control and his kisses become harder, turning into bites as he reaches Harry's shoulder.

Harry arches his back and gives a little moan and Draco resists the urge to laugh. Because for all Harry's talk of trying ‘whips and things’ for Draco’s sake, it's actually Harry who responds enthusiastically to a little bit of pain. Nothing too extreme but biting, pinching, tugging his hair seems to drive him wild. Draco hadn't the heart to point this out to him yesterday when Harry had been so earnest and sweet but he can't resist making the point by tightening his grip on Harry's hip, letting his nails dig in ever so slightly.

‘Draco…’ Harry's voice is thick as honey and Draco feels him shift back again, pressing against him and moving his hand to grasp his own cock.

Draco has never been happier to have forgone sleep attire, too tired last night to do anything than undress and roll into Harry's bed. It seems eminently sensible right now when all he has to do is pull down his own boxers and tug at Harry's waistband to get him to do the same.

He returns to Harry's back, pressing his hard length in between the crease of Harry's arse. He doesn't have a plan other than to continue doing what feels good but Harry stills when he feels it and turns his head.

‘Will you fuck me?’ he asks, a little breathlessly and Draco swears his heart stops for a second.

‘Are you sure?’ he asks, firstly because he's worried that Harry's misread his intentions and then also because there no way he deserves this honour, he's not worthy of-

‘Yes, yes I'm sure.’ Harry says and Draco swears he's trying to kill him, the way he whispers it so softly as he grinds back into Draco’s groin.

Draco reaches for his wand and remembers with a frustrated cluck of his tongue that bloody Weasley took it yesterday. He turns back to Harry.

‘We need lube. And there are some spells for-’

Wordlessly, Harry grabs his own wand and holds it out to Draco while rummaging in his bedside table. Draco's mouth drops open as he hesitantly takes it. He casts Accio for the bottle that Harry is struggling to find and the wand responds well to him which he tries not to read into at all. He casts the spells he needs and Harry squirms slightly as he feels them trickle through him. Draco hands his wand back, thanking him and Harry grins at him and restores it to the bedside table. His hand goes to his cock again and he strokes himself slowly, those green eyes never leaving Draco's face. Merlin help him but it's torture to watch and his cock jumps and leaks pre-come as Harry takes his bottom lip into his mouth and releases it, wet and glistening.

He's getting distracted and it takes a shaky inhale and some fumbling with the bottle of lube before he's able to focus on the task at hand. He orders Harry back on his side and he smirks as he obeys, presumably at seeing exactly how helplessly aroused he's made Draco. He lies back, feeling the silky lube on his fingers and now it's his turn to smirk because now his wandless heating charm has another use. Nevertheless Draco feels Harry tense a little as he teases him with a finger around his rim and he distracts him a little with light nips to his earlobe. He pushes in past the tight ring of muscle and stills when he hears Harry gasp.

‘Is this ok?’ he whispers and feels Harry nod in reply. Even so he works him open slowly, gently. When he's added a second finger and then a third he feels Harry press back, his breathing becoming shallow as he rocks back and forth on Draco's fingers.

‘S’good.’ he murmurs, barely coherent.

‘Yeah?’ Draco’s voice is husky. He curls his fingers, searching for the place, the tight little bundle of nerves that…

‘Ah!’

He's perfect, so perfect. That little noise, the way he tips his head back to let Draco mouth at his neck.

‘Yes, Draco yes.’ he moans and Draco could hear his name in those breathy tones on a loop for the rest of his life and never get tired of it. He strokes his prostate, wondering how long Harry will let him - he's not known for his patience. He kisses his nape again.

‘Do you know how much I've wanted you?’ he asks Harry, huskily, ‘I used to lie here staring at this spot, right here,’ he nuzzles it, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin as he talks, ‘I thought about how I'd kiss it like this.’

‘Draco, yes. Tell me. Tell me how much you wanted me.’

Draco's fingers work as he talks, taking Harry closer to the edge. ‘I thought about all the places I'd want to take you. France or Italy or Spain. How many places I'd wake up next to you and kiss you and fuck you.’

‘Fuck me.’ Harry repeats, grinding back on Draco's fingers, ‘god, yes. Fuck me now.’

Draco smirks. God it's tempting to refuse, to keep Harry on the edge like this until he's reduced to begging for Draco's cock. But he's perilously hard himself, Harry's wanton cries melting his self-control like a flaming torch to an ice sculpture.

He pulls his fingers out and slicks himself up, having to squeeze the base firmly when Harry looks around at him, the green in his eyes almost lost in an eclipse of dilated black pupil.

When he pushes inside it feels so good he has to take a moment to breathe against Harry's shoulders and order him to ‘just wait a moment, damn you’ when Harry immediately starts pushing back against him. He goes still and quiescent and Draco can feel him smirking, the smug bastard.

He reaches to pinch his nipple in retaliation, which makes Harry chuckle and then keen and when his hands moves lower to stroke his cock Harry arches back onto him again, the heat and tightness too hard to resist.

Draco starts fucking him, undulating his hips in a slow rolling movement in tandem with his fist around Harry's prick. Harry’s breathing hard and his fists are clutching the bedsheets so tightly his knuckles are turning white but it's not enough to take him over the edge or Draco either, the pace too measured and slow.

At first it's to try and make himself last, he'd be terribly embarrassed if he didn't at least demonstrate some form of stamina but then it turns into enjoying seeing Harry get wound up all over again, the beautiful reddening of his cheeks and the way his eyes screw up as he tries to control his desperation. Finally he snaps and it's beautiful, the way he ruts back and begs Draco to fuck him, harder, harder, harder.

Draco complies, snapping his hips and tightening his fist and it's only a few thrusts before Harry gives a strangled cry and falls apart, every muscle taut and hovering on the knife edge before he spills onto Draco's hand. The spasming of his arse around Draco's cock is too much, he's helpless against the sensation and he collapses onto Potter's back panting as his own orgasm hits.

Harry grabs his hand and kisses the knuckle and they lie bonelessly like that for a while. Draco could fall back asleep if it weren't for the unpleasant stickiness and then once he pulls out and feels the sweeping freshness of Harry's cleaning charm he's too tempted by thoughts of coffee and toast. If the kitchen will let them, he thinks dubiously.

He tells Harry they'll need to shower together again and to be careful when he puts his feet down - the carefully placed row of spikes outside the bathroom door yesterday coming back to him.

‘And then, Harry Potter,’ he declares, ‘let's see if we can't sort this out.’

…..

Draco's a good legilimens. Harry had thought he would be and now it's confirmed for certain when he opens his eyes and sees Draco standing in his mindscape.

Even discounting Snape, every time he’d practised legilimency in Auror training Harry had found it distinctly uncomfortable. Having someone else in his mind felt wrong each time, tortuous and invasive. His fellow trainees had actually begged to switch partners every time someone pulled the short straw and landed with him, knowing full well the session was probably going to end in him throwing up a shield charm in panic. He’d wondered at Draco allowing him into his mind so freely, with such ease. And now, he gets it. While others had felt prying, like they were nosing around in Harry’s brain, Draco just…exists there. A static presence, almost fading into a background hum. And the stillness feels intentional, his capacity for restraint means he's not going to pry, not going to get distracted and start looking at anything Harry doesn't want him to see. Harry feels fully in control.

And as such, he’s able to breathe and allow the shape of his ‘house’ to become visible, to welcome Draco inside.

Draco nods approval at Harry’s garden, awash with colour and gloriously disordered. A huge wisteria nearly covers the front of the house, only making way for the rose buses which clamber up the wall above the huge hollyhocks, gladioli and foxgloves. Harry knows that not everything is supposed to be blooming all at once but he doesn’t care. He likes it and it makes him feel joyful.

‘You never like doing anything conventionally, do you?’ Draco says, looking at a patch of daffodils happily situated next to a cactus.

‘It’s mainly because my aunt used to make me garden her way when I was younger. Mow the lawn, pull up weeds. Everything had to look tidy and boring.’

‘I think it’s because you’re a nightmare who enjoys defying the most basic rules.’

‘Maybe. But I do have a dress code.’

Draco looks down at himself and splutters, realising Harry’s put him in an almost perfect replica of his ratty t-shirt and jeans. Harry’s quite pleased with how it turned out, he lacks Draco’s creativity and skill to create an outfit from scratch but it’s a pretty good facsimile. He sees Draco start and look in wonder at his left arm, touch the snake gently and then look up at him.

‘You kept it?’

Harry shrugs, ‘It’s a part of you.’ Then he grins before Draco can get too emotional and says, ‘Look at your other arm.’

Draco does so and starts cursing at him when he sees just above his bicep a thumping heart tattoo with I LOVE HP in curling script.

‘You absolute tosser.’

Harry laughs and gestures towards the cottage, ‘Do you want to come in?’

‘No,’ Draco says, quirking an eyebrow, ‘That’s not the point of my being here. I want to see if you can keep me out. Have you managed to sort your memories into rooms yet? I don’t imagine you’ve had time to create any objects.’

Harry shakes his head, ‘Nothing that advanced,’ he watches Draco to see his tiny smile of satisfaction, he still loves besting Harry at anything, ‘but I’ve done my best with the rooms, come and see.’

Draco nods, his eyes brightening, belying his eagerness. Harry can’t blame him, he remembers how fascinated he’d been to see inside Draco’s mind too.

They stand in the living room and Draco laughs a little at how empty it is, still devoid of anything other than the fireplace and two easy chairs. Harry leads Draco down the hall, pointing out the doors to the rooms he’s created:

‘That’s Hogwarts stuff,’ he says, pointing to the Fat Lady’s painting. He thought he’d remembered her pretty well. She smiles at him and scowls at Draco.

‘The war,’ he says shortly, passing by a tent flap sticking out of the wall. Draco eyes it curiously and steps around a guy rope.

‘The Dursley’s. My Aunt and Uncle.’ he says grimly. He’d hated creating the room, as soon as it had appeared he’d loathed it. The Cupboard Under the Stairs. Even looking at the damn slanted door with the faux brass doorknob has him tense, the familiar pit of burning injustice and shame tugging at his stomach. He doesn't want it here, in his house, taking up room in his brain. But he looks at Draco and the Mark on his arm, an unpleasant memory branded onto his skin, remembers him saying ‘I hate it but it's mine.’ and the burden feels a little more bearable.

‘Can I see?’ Draco asks gently. Harry wants to say no but Draco showed him all sorts of things when he didn’t have to and it’s his turn to be vulnerable now. He sighs and opens the door. He picks his memory from when he was twelve, the bars on the window and the despair and fear that he wouldn’t be able to return to Hogwarts. It’s not a terrible one and at least he skips the whole business of the cupboard but Draco still emerges pale and shaking with impotent rage.

‘Look here,’ he says to Harry, his eyes brimming with tears, ‘I’m in love with you so I’m not the most impartial witness on the planet but that wasn’t alright in the slightest, you do know that don’t you?’

Harry chokes out a laugh, ‘I know. Believe me I know.’

Draco exhales and composes himself. It’s stupid but it almost makes Harry blush to see him so worked up on his behalf.

They come to the last door, familiarly panelled and slightly battered, the door to Sirius’ room.

‘This is Grimmauld Place,’ he says and turns the handle.

It's disorganised, nothing like the orderly collection of objects that Draco has organised and filed. Instead the memories swirl through a thick grey fog reminiscent of a pensieve, snatches of them appearing for a second through the thick cloud. Snatches of Sirius, Ron, Hermione, Molly, Kreacher and Draco all appear, brief and insubstantial and mixed together, voices colliding and . Harry turns to Draco, expecting him to make a snide comment about his deplorable lack of order but Draco has gone rigid, his eyes wide in recognition.

‘Harry, what is that?’

He's pointing, his finger tracing an arc through the air - Harry follows it and sees Kreacher floating past, his wizened face frowning.

‘That's Kreacher, he was the House Elf here-’

‘No, no THAT. The locket…’

Harry checks and yes, in this particular memory the locket hangs from Kreacher’s neck, lustrous against the grey, weathered skin.

‘It's a locket that belonged to Regulus, well sort of…Kreacher treasured it, he loved him.’

Draco looks at him, eyes uncertain, ‘I ask because the locket kept coming up in the memories the house showed me. It felt important. It was just a keepsake though, that's it?’

‘Well…’ Harry shifts nervously on his feet, ‘no actually, it's a replica of a locket that I destroyed. It was a horcrux - it contained a piece of Voldemort's soul, long story and please don't tell anyone but he split his soul and put the pieces into objects of significance to him, one of them was that locket.’

Draco looks as though he might faint, ‘A soul?’ he says hoarsely, ‘A soul bonded with an object? In this house?’

‘Yes it was…’

Harry stops. He feels like ice water is trickling down his spine. Draco's words from yesterday come back to him,

It wants to be a person. You need a soul to be a person.

How long had that locket been in the house? Decades, Harry thinks bleakly. An ancient, sentient being, watching through the years, seeing an object with the kind of power the locket held. A quiet longing made visceral and desperate by Harry's little accident with the Desiderium.

His mind runs on…how much had they spoken about horcruxes while in Grimmauld Place? How much did the house know about how to make one?

‘Shit,’ Harry swears, ‘is that why it's been attacking me? It's trying to kill me to create a horcrux with itself? Because that's mad, that's…that's not how it works-’

But Draco lets out a cry and claps his hands over his ears, ‘Don't tell me! I don't know how much of my mind it can still see. And no,’ he looks a little more hopeful, ‘as far as I can tell it’s not trying to kill you. You're still it's Master and it can't. It just wants you to leave.’

‘Why though?’ Harry nearly shouts at him, ‘It doesn't make any sense!’

His frustration bubbles over and he feels his stomach pitch as he throws Draco and then himself out of his mind. They both sprawl disorientated on the floor for a moment and then sit up. Draco cocks his head to one side and gazes into the middle distance as though he's listening to something that Harry can't hear.

‘Shit,’ he says, distress oozing out of every pore, ‘it knows we know. And…fuck.’

The nearest wall covering is a Slytherin banner, faded and frayed with age. Draco looks at it for a moment and then rips it off the wall.

Harry is greeted with an oily round patch, like a gaping wound. He looks to his left, to a dirty poster with dates of the Hogwart’s Quidditch matches for 1978. A dark smattering of Desiderium looks back at him.

‘It hid it from us,’ he says, ‘in all the nooks and crannies you can hide things in a house.’

He starts as Draco slumps back against the wall, face tight and wan. Harry jumps up in alarm.

‘It's trying to drain my magic,’ Draco says quietly, eyes pinched together tightly in concentration, ‘I don't know how it can…I’m holding it back but-’ he pauses and grimaces, ‘Harry, get out of here. Go find Weasley or someone and tell them what's happening.’

‘Forget it, I'm not going to leave you like this!’ Harry snaps. Draco might not last until he returns. Draco’s eyes snap open and he fixes Harry with a furious glare.

‘This is no time for your heroic nonsense, piss off and for once do-’ he falters and stops, eyes melting from anger to dismay, a terrible resignation that Harry hasn't seen since that morning when Draco had misunderstood Harry's reaction to his scars and had fled the room.

‘It’s waiting for us,’ he whispers, ‘in the cellar.’

Shit. Harry instantly switches into strategy mode. He has no idea what Draco means but he'll treat this like he would if he was facing a threat as an Auror. Draco is his biggest concern, he doesn't have a wand and the link with the house could make him vulnerable. He knows fire worked against the Walburga-creature last time, he knows that the wards were weakened when Walburga was destroyed. He knows from what Draco has told him that the house cannot hurt its Master, although that seems to be in question as he watches Draco nearly buckling under the strain of its persistent bleeding of his magic.

‘What do you think we should do?’ he asks Draco gently. Vulnerable or not, Draco's ability to communicate with the house is the best asset he has right now.

Draco blinks at him with obvious surprise at having been asked. Nevertheless his answer has a confidence that Harry is familiar with, that unmistakably Malfoy air of surety enveloped in a slight sneer, ‘We'll have to go and face it. No sense in hiding up here.’

Bravery does not come naturally to Draco, Harry notes the slight tremor in his hands. As far as he’s concerned it makes it all the more impressive.

Harry insists they stop in the kitchen. He’s pleased to see that Draco has left several potion ingredients on the counter as well as some empty bottles. Draco can’t cast anything but…let’s see…if he takes this. And this. And combines it with this…

‘What the hell are you doing you madman?’ Draco has been leaning against the wall, sweat luminous on his brow but lunges forward and attempts to grab the bottle from his hand. Harry holds it out of his grasp.

‘You need a weapon of some kind,’ he says grimly, hoping against hope that he remembers the quantities correctly, ‘and I didn’t go to school with Seamus and Dean for six years without learning a thing or two.’

Draco gapes at him as Harry presses the round vessel into his hand, then almost drops it in his nervousness.

‘Powdered horn of grindylow with mandrake toenails and resinous pyrite. Merlin, I’m a slight stumble away from taking down the whole block.’

‘Then don’t stumble.’

Draco stares at his back as he squares his shoulders and moves with a lot more confidence than he feels towards the cellar door. Confidence, that’s the thing. If Draco thinks he’s confident then so will the house.

…

It’s wearing Draco’s face.

It’s a nightmare, he thinks as he falls into step behind Harry, the sound of their feet echoing in the cavern of the cellar.

The black mass has risen again from the obsidian pane of the mirror, formless and struggling to stay upright as it had with Walburga. The only defined part is what Draco would loosely call the head, where the oozing globules have parted and Draco’s face stares out at them. Well, sort of his face. It’s too angular, the eyebrows aren’t quite right and the eyes are just shadowy holes. He feels another tug at his magic and realises it is drawing on him for form, for substance. He pushes back again, feeling the weakness creep over him like a blanket over his taught nerves. It would feel so good to sit down, just for a moment…

‘Hello Masters.’ Mirror-Malfoy says, oddly cheerful, and the voice is wrong too, tinny and echoey and sharp as a blade.

Harry has adopted a defensive stance in front of Draco, who feels himself swaying slightly on his feet and pulls himself up. He can’t let this thing beat him in front of Harry.

‘Uh…hello?’ Harry says back blithely and for a moment Draco is tempted to kick him in the shin. Idiot. Even Mirror-Malfoy laughs at it, or at least makes an odd gurgling sound that Draco surmises is a laugh.

‘Oh you’ve no idea how good it feels to finally talk to you, Master Harry Potter. Many is the time I’ve longed to be able to communicate directly with you, share your hopes and fears like a properly bonded house and Master…’

The face switches abruptly from amused and sanguine to pure white-hot rage. Draco feels a tug that reaches right to the bottom of his magical core and gasps aloud at it.

‘...that or wring your scrawny little half-blood neck.’

Harry looks back at him in concern but Draco waves him away. The house is him and he is the house. He knows what it feels like to desperately want those eyes, those shimmering emerald green eyes to just look at him.

‘I had thought to trap you here until we could be joined, until I could make you understand.’

There’s a definite streak of madness to the words and Draco doesn’t think the Desiderium is to blame for all of it. A house soaked in Pureblood bile, left to rot for centuries, neglected and unwanted. And then desperately and pathetically craving any attention, even from a half-blood. And hating itself every second for wanting it. Draco bites his lip.

‘And then You came.’ The house-Malfoy turns to Draco and he flinches under its steely, ebony glare.

‘A Pureblood with the essence of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black flowing in your veins! And so ready to open yourself to me, eventually. It’s such a shame I can only have a piece of one of your souls.’

Draco shivers. The idea of a, what had Harry called it, a horcrux, is monstrous, vile. Splitting your soul and leaving it lying around carelessly like a trinket, the thought makes him want to retch.

The House-Malfoy continues on dreamily, ‘At first I’d hoped that you’d solve the problem for me, you didn’t seem to like one another much and I of all houses know how much these little marital disagreements can flare…’

Draco feels his eyelids flicker slightly as a memory of Violetta Black picking up an ornate letter opener with murder in her eyes dances across his vision. He’s so tired, a bone-deep weariness creeping through him. If Harry wasn’t here he would have dropped to the floor by now.

‘I thought that forcing you together would do it but I misunderstood the nature of your animosity. That’s why I need a soul you see, then I’ll finally understand. I’ll be whole.’ It smiles beatifically, ‘Once you showed me your true self Master Draco, I focused my energy on keeping you here instead. I still don’t want to hurt you Master Harry. I can’t hurt either of you.’

‘Then what the hell do you call this,’ Harry gestures angrily to Draco, who realises that Harry has been propping him up for the last minute or so. Red spots are starting to appear on the edge of his peripheral vision.

‘Oh that’s a Special Agreement I made with Master Orion and Mistress Walburga. Good isn’t it? They could draw power from me against any intruders and I can take as much power as I need if I feel under threat. And being, ahem, invaded by half-blood scum certainly counts as that under the terms of the contract. I can only do it with a fully bonded member of the household though, they were clever enough to make sure I could never draw from the children. Not without Express Permission.’

Draco feels like he’s inside a long tunnel, the words growing distant and fuzzy. He feels Harry’s strong grip on his arm and hears him shout, ‘Then I give you permission dammit, just leave him alone!’

Draco’s eyes slam open as he gulps air back into his lungs and snarls, ‘No!’

Too late he lunges forward and swipes desperately at the tendrils that have sprouted from between the flagstones, the same ugly grasping vines that he found on the back of Walburga’s portrait. They are already creeping up Harry’s legs, literally rooting him to the spot as he struggles to free himself. Draco feels the hold on him, that slow drain on his magic fade abruptly as the House focuses on a new source. And Harry is so very powerful, his magic so very intoxicating.

The Mirror-Malfoy laughs in delight and Draco sees the power flow into him, his form becoming more solid by the second. Harry sinks to his knees, his face pale.

‘That’s…oh my.’ Mirror Malfoy stares at his congealing arms as the drooling black ichor becomes firm and sculpted into the shape of hands, ‘Aren’t you potent?’

Draco’s on his own. He has no wand and no hope of taking on something with the power of Harry Potter at its disposal. He blinks as he remembers the bottle Harry gave him, the terrifying weight of it pressing against his thigh. If he can just reach for it…

‘No, no.’ The House-Malfoy waves a finger at him, as though to a naughty school child, ‘I’m still in your head, Master Almost-a-Black. Don’t even think about it or I’ll take the lot from him.’

Draco swallows. But a tiny swell of hope surges up in him. He’s done this before, had a malevolent presence in his head, chasing thoughts and feelings around as he distracts, dodges and evades. His house is only partially re-built but he’s a damn good Occlumens and if he can’t beat Grimmauld Place on power alone then he’ll have to do it the old-fashioned Slytherin way, with cunning.

‘You know you’re right.’ he says, genteely stepping around Harry as he tries vainly to break his arm free from the snares of the threads holding him down, ‘It is a shame that you can only take a piece of one of us. Seems like together we’re the whole package. Are you sure about that though? I don’t know how much research you’ve done into it, I’d only ever heard of it today. But I don’t know, wouldn’t having part of two souls be altogether better than one?’

As predicted, the Mirror-Malfoy pauses to consider this. Draco’s hand drifts closer to his pocket, his mind completely focused on the bright, shining jewel that is a horcrux of two souls, one all Pureblood, one all power.

‘Regulus didn’t say if…’ the Mirror-Malfoy wavers, then narrows its inky pupils at him, ‘It would require a third person to be sacrificed. I only have you two. I’m sorry Master Malfoy but I don’t have the time to waste.’

Draco feels a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. He keeps his gaze level and focused on the Mirror-Malfoy, his hand halfway into his pocket.

‘What about the Weasley who comes here?’ he asks nonchalantly.

‘No,’ Harry gasps out, still valiantly struggling. Bloody Gryffindor.

‘The Red-haired Blood Traitor?’ the Mirror-Malfoy asks.

Draco tsks at him, ‘You know, if you want to share a soul with this one, you’ll have to stop all that talk,’ he admonishes the thing severely, gesturing at Harry, who against all odds has freed one arm. But even he is weakening, Draco can see it in his shallow breathing, the struggle to keep himself upright. He has to work quickly. Keep it confused, keep it on the back foot. His fingers grasp the smooth round surface of the bottle.

Mirror-Malfoy sneers at him, ‘As though I would ever bow to the opinions of a half-breed.’

‘Hmm, well that's the other problem of course,’ Draco says, keeping his tone breezy, in the manner of a broom-repairman who's about to tell you exactly how much something costs, ‘what happens when you bind a soul to a sentient object? I don't imagine the locket had much of an opinion on anything before it was melded to a soul. You don't want to be at war with yourself.’ he sighs heavily, pushing forward some of his more anguished moments, ‘Trust me on that.’

The Mirror-Malfoy winces. He's got the bottle in his hand. He should throw it now, he thinks.

But…

It's confused, he thinks. And frightened and in pain. And all muddled up from the Desiderium. Should he, fuck try to help it? As soon as he thinks it, he immediately hates the idea. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore the thought. But it won't leave his mind. Shit. This is going to be awful.

‘Look, do you really want this?’ he asks, a tad desperately, ‘I know you think you do, but well, I’ve done this you know, the whole trying to be something I’m not. And wanting something because it looks good from the outside, I've been there too. Being in love with Harry Potter and hating myself for it, I could write an entire book on that one. My point is I know you think you're in too deep and you have to go ahead but you don't. You can stop now and no-one has to get hurt.’

It's quite possibly the least suave thing he's ever said, he may have to obliviate himself and Harry too if by some miracle they survive this. Mirror-Malfoy is looking at him like he's insane. But Draco can see it, the tiny flame of doubt in its eyes. The edge of sanity creeping in under the Desiderium haze of painful want.

‘If you just let us take the mirror away…’

Mirror-Malfoy’s eyes snap onto his and the flame is replaced by pure, bitter rage.

‘No!’ it screams, ‘You're mine! I won't let you go! Why do you get what you want and I don’t?! I’ve seen your desire in the mirror you know!’’

Draco freezes. The bottle is getting slippery in his grasp from his sweating palms. He can sense Harry still struggling valiantly in his peripheral vision but the vines are doing their job well, he can barely move.

‘Oh?’ he says and damn if his voice isn't an half an octave higher than it should be, ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

Mirror-Malfoy laughs, a peal of insane cackling that reminds him unpleasantly of Bellatrix as he steps out of the mirror, the liquid swirling to form his calves and feet as he levitates it up and around to face them both.

Draco looks, even though he knows what he'll see. The surface of the mirror shimmers and he sees himself wrapped in another man's arms, a man who may or may not bear a striking resemblance to Harry. The look on Draco's face is one of utter contentment as he blissfully stares into the other man's eyes.

‘Lecturing me on not wanting things when all you ever wanted was to be loved by him!’ the Mirror-Malfoy hisses at him.

Draco clears his throat, ‘Ah, no sorry. You've got the wrong end of the stick there I'm afraid.’

The Mirror-Malfoy stops, looking nonplussed.

‘All I wanted…’ Draco swallows, ‘I wanted to be worthy of being loved. Not because I was someone's son or because I'd been useful or even because I'm rich and handsome. I wanted to be loved because I'm a person who is worthy of that kind of regard. And if you can't understand that then I don't think a soul is for you, I'm afraid.’

Mirror-Malfoy steps towards him, the fury so potent he's gritting his teeth and shaking. Then he falls back, clutching his chest with a cry and looks to Harry.

‘What are you doing?!’

Harry stands with effort, Draco can see, but he stands nevertheless. And his colour is back. He's looking stronger

‘You said…the connection goes both ways. So I can take…from you too…’ he pants.

‘But that…’ Mirror-Malfoy gasps and splutters, the mirror falls to the floor and shatters, ‘It took Walburga and Orion years to learn how-’

Draco snorts to cover his blatant joyous relief, ‘Believe me, he’s a fast learner. And it never gets any less annoying.’

‘No!’ Mirror-Malfoy screams, raises his fists and focuses all that dangerous intensity towards controlling the flow of energy back toward him. Harry crumbles to his knees, ‘I'll kill you! I'll kill him!’

The house starts shaking, a deep rumbling from the foundations. Tiny pieces of masonry start training around Draco. It’s truly mad now, trying to tear itself apart. He bites his lip, so much for diplomacy. But he knows all too well, sometimes you need to go through fire to have any hope of being reborn.

‘You'll both be mine! One way or another your souls will be mine! Then you'll love me! Then we'll understand one another!’

‘You don’t need to understand me,’ Draco shouts, ‘to know that I have a history of making stupid decisions!’

He throws the bottle. His aim is good, as it should be. They've been practising in the garden after all. It hits Mirror-Malfoy square in the chest and Draco watches as a bloom of white hot flame erupts over him…and explodes.

Draco is knocked off his feet, his ears ringing painfully and he closes his eyes as splatters of black tarry substance cover his clothes and face. It takes him a full minute to be able to hear or see anything again but he struggles to sit up and sees Harry similarly coated, pushing the collapsed vibes off and sloppily standing.

Draco looks around at the patches of fire still burning on the oily substance that surrounds them. The house is still shaking and larger chunks of brick are working their way loose.

‘We've got to get out of here!’ Harry shouts, somewhat unnecessarily in Draco's opinion but he supposes that's what heroes do in these sorts of situations. He helps Harry to his feet and half supports him and they stumble their way up the steps.

‘Back door!’ Draco cries, as he spies the hallway covered in debris from fallen side tables and hat stands. They run through the kitchen and into the back garden.

‘This should be safer,’ Draco mutters, the garden isn't usually so hostile as the house. But even as he says it the ground starts to shake and crack, the last dying tendrils of the house reaching out for them, unwilling to let them go. Draco feels a yank on his collar and nearly trips over his feet as Harry pulls him towards the end of the garden, towards the door in the wall. Harry pulls out his wand and hands it to Draco.

‘You do it,’ he choked out, ‘I'm…’

He doesn't need to finish, Draco can see he's almost exhausted. And they've both made it out here, past the wards so that's a good start.

‘Alohomora!’ the gate clicks open and they hurtle through into what looks like an alley. As soon as they emerge, Draco feels the house ebbing from his mind, the background roaring dying away and he breathes easier for it.

He turns and realises Harry has collapsed to the floor.

‘Harry?’ he kneels beside him, cradling his head in his hands. How much power had the house taken from him? Maybe too much.

‘No, no, no,’ he says, tears starting to blur his vision. Maybe he can understand Grimmauld Place’s desperation after all because he would do anything, pay any price rather than have Harry taken from him.

‘Please no Harry,’ he begs. In the sky above he can see thick, black smoke curling into the sky from the other side of the wall.

‘This is your favourite part,’ he tells the prone figure in his arms, ‘where they bring you all the medals you use to prop up your furniture and slap you on the back and tell you what a big hero you are. You don't want to give up before that.’

Harry stirs feebly and Draco is so intent on him that he fails to even hear the running footsteps behind him.

‘Stupefy!’

He feels a sharp jolt between his shoulder blades and as the world turns sideways he has the final thought that he’d been technically free - no bars, no locks, no wards holding him in place.

I didn’t even get to enjoy it, he thinks grumpily as the darkness closes in.

….

It’s horrible waking up in St Mungo’s.

Harry knows this from past experiences and oh, how it makes him long for the days of waking up in the hospital wing in Hogwarts with the smell of clean linen and Madame Pomfrey on hand to ply him with sweet tea and her authoritative yet soothing tone.

The staff at St Mungo’s always gawp at him and it smells of harsh antiseptic and clamours with beeps and raised voices, usually from reporters who always manage to sneak in, which he feels inexplicably guilty about.

Harry’s next unpleasant sensation, before opening his eyes even, is that he’s clean. Scrubbed raw. He feels like he’s been given a thorough going over with one of those metal scourers Aunt Petunia used to make him use on her pans. The entire surface of his skin hurts. He shifts slightly on the bed and winces as the nerve endings fire up, set to ‘sting like hell’.

‘Harry!’

Still grimacing, he opens his eyes. As expected, a bunch of blurry shapes emerge, darker blobs moving against a white background. He feels his glasses press into his hand and puts them on gratefully to find Molly and Hermione staring back at him.

‘Oh hello,’ he says weakly. It isn’t too serious then. The last time he’d been in for injuries sustained on a raid he’d woken up to find the entire Weasley clan staring at him, including a distant cousin who’s been visiting for the week. It had been unsettling.

‘Harry!’ Hermione says, ‘Oh thank goodness! They said you would be fine once they got all that stuff off you and you didn’t ingest any of it thank goodness. The doctor said you can be home within the next three days, isn’t that good?’

This is all delivered at breakneck speed and Harry takes a second to process it. They got all that stuff off you…that’s right he was covered in that black goo from the explosion in the cellar. He wonders how much of the house survived. And…

‘Where's Draco?’ he asks.

They exchange looks in a way that Harry suspects is supposed to be covert. Finally Molly speaks.

‘He's going back to Azkaban.’

Harry sits bolt upright, ‘What?’

‘He broke his house arrest, he had your wand when they found him and you were out cold and very weak, he'd clearly done something to you. He'll go back today once they wake him and they'll arrange a new trial for attempted murder.’

‘So he's here now? They haven't taken him yet?’ Harry tries to leap out of bed, ignoring the slight dizziness and headache this produces.

There's a knock at the door. Molly goes to answer it while Hermione urges him back into the bed. Harry looks past her to where Molly is having an angry whispered conversation.

‘No he's resting, I told you…well you'll have to come back later!’

‘Who is it?’ Harry asks, gently pushing against Hermione's restraining arm and picking up his laundered clothes from the chair.

Molly reluctantly turns away from the door and the intruder uses the opportunity to sidle more of themselves inside the room. A glorious wave of auburn bobs past Molly's shoulder and Harry realises it's Jervins. The Black family solicitor. Why is he here? Did Narcissa call him?

‘Mr. Potter?’ he quavers, ‘No, no I know dear lady but the Aurors are most insistent,’

This last part is to Molly who is piercing him with the full force of her glare but relents once she sees that Harry has struggled into his jeans and moves to cluck at him angrily and tries to move him back into bed. Hermione has sat back down in one of the plastic chairs next to Harry's bed looking at him with exasperation mingled with fondness.

‘Mr. Potter,’ Jervins begins again, sweeping his luxurious tresses over his shoulder, ‘I apologise for the intrusion but the Aurors are extremely eager to have the Annulment completed before Mr. Malfoy goes to Azkaban. I'm unable to travel there due to my…delicate health.’

He coughs once, unconvincingly. Harry suspects that anyone capable of holding their own against Molly Weasley is perfectly able to make the journey but he won't say anything.

‘However,’ he continues, standing as tall as his wizened frame will allow, ‘there appears to be an issue.’

‘Oh?’ Harry has successfully batted Molly away and is now sitting on the end of the bed putting on his socks. He's still feeling weak, he doubts he would have the strength to properly push back against her were it not for the fact that she is clearly distracted by also listening attentively.

‘Annulments are quite rare now, thankfully.’ Jervins smiles dryly, ‘Not so many young men throwing a girl over the back of a broom as in my day. And there are very specific situations in which they can take place, either because the marriage was not legal in the first place or because the, uh, shall we say, requirements for marriage are not met.’

Requirements…oh. Harry's heart skips a beat. He chances a look around the room. Molly looks irritated, staring with her hands on her hips impatiently. Hermione has taken a small notebook out of her bag and is making notes diligently.

‘The thing is Mr. Potter,’ Jervins licks his lips nervously, ‘the Annulment papers will not accept either your nor Mr. Malfoy’s name on them. The Aurors insist upon there being an error but the papers have been checked by my colleague and the magic in them is quite correct. And the only reason the papers would outright reject nullifying the union between you is if…ahem…’

Harry's eyebrows raise towards the ceiling. Is he actually going to say it? Jervins turns a beetroot red.

‘...is if the conditions for a valid marriage have been met.’ he finishes, deflating notably under Molly Weasley’s pointed gaze.

She clucks at him impatiently, ‘Why do you lawyers have to make things sound so complicated? Why can't you just say it plainly?’

But Harry has heard a slight gasp and turns to see Hermione colouring slightly, her pen poised over the page. Her eyes slide to Harry and she swallows, looking a little shellshocked.

And suddenly it's funny, it's just so damn funny. The looks on their faces, Jervins attempts to soft soap, Molly's cluelessness. Harry can't help it. He lets out a snort followed by a stifled giggle.

Jervins and Molly both look at him, astonished. He doubles over, shaking with laughter.

A faint cry cuts through his revelry.

‘Harry!?’

It's Draco's voice, far away and threaded through with panic. He hears running steps and another shout, closer this time, ‘Harry?!’

He leaps up, past Jervins and hurls himself out the door. He's in a wide hospital corridor, empty except for a few medical staff, pressed against the walls and looking frightened as a figure hurtles through the corridor towards him, closely pursued by two Aurors.

‘Draco!’

Draco stops dead and the scared grey eyes lock onto his, relief flooding his features. He's already in prison robes, his arms held awkwardly by the restraining cuffs on his wrists and Harry feels a prickle of anger at it in the base of his skull. The Aurors have both halted, frozen in place by Harry's unexpected presence.

‘They wouldn't tell me if you were alright.’ Draco calls out to him, his voice cracking slightly.

‘Are you alright?’ Harry asks him. He takes a step towards him, taking the sight of him in. It seems so strange to see him outside the house. The light is different in St. Mungo's, harsher and colder. It washes him out terribly.

‘Well,’ Draco starts shyly and holds up his hands to demonstrate the cuffs, nervously eyeing up the Aurors who are still looking at both of them in confusion, ‘actually I could do with a spot of rescuing if you're not opposed to it.’

Oh Draco, Harry thinks, weak with affection. So bloody wordy when he's in peril. But there’s a strain of anxiousness in Draco's voice, his eyes searching Harry's face for any sign of rejection, for a hint of reluctance. His hair is wet, Harry notices vaguely, his skin a vivid pink where he's presumably received the same harsh cleansing as Harry. He's breathing fast from the exertion of running and Harry sees his red-rimmed eyes dart to behind Harry where he senses the other occupants of his room have spilled into the corridor. He looks cornered, desperate and Harry’s breath is taken away by him.

‘I thought you'd never ask.’ he replies, unable to stop a grin breaking out on his face.

He and Draco move toward one another, inexorable as gravity. One of the Aurors has the good sense to hold back the other and Harry can see now that it's Ron and he's imploring the other Auror, a tall angular woman to wait. Just as well because Harry would hex the pair of them, if it came to it.

He takes Draco's hands in his and maybe his recent experiences with the house have honed his abilities but he feels the power flow easily through his hands and the cuffs drop noisily to the floor.

Draco takes a shaky breath in, ‘Did they tell you we fucked up our annulment?’

He cups Draco's chin, vaguely aware that in doing so he's declaring himself in front of Ron, Hermione and Molly. It's good, he thinks, it's good to tell the most important people in his life together.

‘Would you stay married to me for a bit then?’

It's not a proposal, he's not gone down on one knee - he'll save that for when he does it properly, the second time around. He hopes Draco looks at him like this when he proposes for real, grey eyes shining like silvery moonstones and that absolute intense focus, reserved for Harry and Harry alone.

‘Yes.’ he replies and Harry kisses him, ignoring the gasps and shocked cries from all around them.

He doesn't know if he has a house anymore, Harry muses. One of the many things that will need to be sorted out. But right now, he'll happily exist in this space, this tiny bit of home he's built for himself.

Fin.

Chapter Text

There’s a lot that needs to be sorted out actually.

The first thing is whether or not Harry has been dosed with Amortentia or any other love potion by Draco, which they immediately get several Mediwix in to figure out. Harry doesn’t help at all by constantly grinning at Draco and winking at him while he’s being examined, the idiot. Meanwhile Weasley and Granger and Weasley’s mother stand in the corner having what appears to be a very intense whispered conversation. Jones tries to haul him off to Azkaban at one point but Harry practically growls at her and after even more intense whispers between her and Weasley he’s allowed to stay, albeit still cuffed and in prison garb. In between examinations, Harry relates the full story to the Weasley’s and Granger and apologises for not telling them sooner, scrubbing his hand through his hair until it resembles a untamed hedgerow. It’s only after they’ve had what feels like every Healer in the place, including the Chief Mediwizard, look him over at the insistence of the Aurors and exasperatedly pronounce him free from any enchantment that Draco’s mother arrives. Hers is a refined anger, distilled and icily polite. She’s armed with Jervins and Draco’s defence lawyer and in the space of half an hour Draco is back in his own clothes and they’re trying to wrangle an official apology from the Auror department. It gets to the point where Draco has to step in and defend Weasley for Harry’s sake. This makes everyone in the room turn and stare at him, including his mother. Including Harry.

‘What?’ he says, offended, ‘I can be nice.’

‘Can you dear?’ his mother asks faintly, skepticism clouding her features.

Draco crosses his arms and pouts, ‘For Harry I can.’

At which point his mother starts demanding that he be checked for love potions and enchantments and it’s several hours later before they’re both cleared to leave.

Then there's the second problem - not even Harry's wandless magic and Saviour powers can change the fact that Draco still has several weeks of house arrest left and that Harry no longer has a house. The second is easily solved, the Weasley’s offer to take him in readily enough until he finds somewhere. The first is more complicated - Draco complains that he did what they bloody well asked and his probation should be over but apparently this will need to be taken to higher-ups, despite his lawyers ranting. So Draco is bound for the Manor but he'd rather Harry not visit him there. Bad memories and all that. Harry tells him not to be silly and that he’ll be there in a few days. As they part, he realises that Harry has pressed his wand into his hand. A final, trusting gesture that makes his knees feel like water.

He tries not to be clingy when Harry leaves but it's hard - he can't help but worry that the Weasleys will point out all his flaws once they get him alone and in the face of the enormous heap of evidence Harry will come to his senses.

Still, he arrives home and can't deny that he's pleased to see the Manor thriving so much under his mother's care. If nothing else, Grimmauld Place certainly made him appreciate the amount of work that goes into a home. He compliments his mother's roses, the way she has diligently been cleansing the place of darkness with her daily sage and essence of unicorn tear rituals. He goes down to the kitchens after dinner and tells the elves how much he appreciates their cooking.

But it’s all with the understanding that it’s a bargain he makes with himself. He’ll walk around the gardens and he won’t owl Harry. He’ll go down to the kitchens and he won’t jump out of the window and break the wards to run to Harry. He’ll read his book and he won’t hack the floo system to try and sneak into Harry’s bed - that one’s easiest to resist, the imagined horror of misjudging and landing in the middle of the Weasley’s sitting room too awful to contemplate.

It’s been less than twenty four hours and he’s in the library studying the chessboard, playing against an imaginary opponent. An owl taps against the glass and he stands up so quickly he upends the chessboard in his haste to get to the window. He reaches out to the owl and in his confusion offers it a chess piece as a trade, to which it responds by giving him a sound peck on the head and he sends it off to the kitchen. The chess piece responds by making several rude gestures at him until he stuffs it under a cushion.

He opens the letter with shaking fingers,

Draco,

I’m sorry I didn’t write this morning - it turns out they expect me to go back to work? It shouldn’t be so surprising I suppose but I somehow didn’t expect it. I don’t know how long I’m going to last there, especially after everything that happened during your probation. I’ve been making a fuss about the Veritaserum checks and it looks like you won’t have to do them any more. Robards has had letters from your lawyer and I think they’ve spooked him enough that they’re re-writing the procedures for using them.
I miss you.
I’ve been thinking about travelling for a while - what you said about Italy or France got me thinking - would you want to come with me?
I’ll be there on Saturday at 10am.

Harry.

Today is Thursday so only one more full day. He can do one more day. And Harry might want to go travelling? A smile spreads across his face and he can see it now, the soft evening sun, the vineyard, the way Harry will laugh and try to race him. But right now he has to wait until Saturday. He sits and bounces his knee for a minute and then heads upstairs. During the war he spent hours, days working on his Occlumency and that had been when Voldemort and Nagini had stalked the halls and Bellatrix had lurked around every corner. If he could concentrate during that then he can certainly focus now.

And he does, making a valiant attempt until dinner when he sits with his mother and eats beef bourguignon and does his best to deflect the endless barrage of questions she asks him. At first she is reluctant to accept the idea of Harry as a potential suitor but by the end of dinner she is happily speculating how she’ll tell Lobelia Parkinson and wondering if the whole thing mightn’t have been her idea in the first place.

He escapes and retreats back to the safety of his room and to his mind-house. Once inside however he realises with a small noise of dismay that rather than taking his mind off Harry, all he has been doing is filling his mind with Harry. From the border that he impulsively decided to put in leading up the house, filled with rainbow cyclamens and pear trees, to the distressingly Gryffindor-red persian rug that he’s installed in the hall. His vault is gone, replaced with a shiny new door upstairs with a thumping ‘I love HP’ heart where the knocker should be and inside it’s…well it’s filthy. Not literally, in fact the room smells delightfully of sherbert and whisky and the floor is sparkling. Just as well considering how he and Harry tend to end up rolling around on it. Which is part of the problem - he can’t even step inside without being accosted with memories of what his mother insists on referring to as their liaisons. He’s supposed to be organising his mind, strengthening his Occlumency skills and this room makes it unbelievably hard to not get distracted. But he’s a professional. A dedicated and talented Occlumens. He rubs his temples. He can do this.

Twenty minutes later and he flings himself out of his mind with a frustrated growl and wraps his hands around his achingly hard cock.

At ten thirty the next day he’s glaring moodily at the crossword in the paper when he hears what can only be described as a cacophony in the hall. He jumps up, hoping desperately that it’s something that will distract him for a while. He’d take on a troll at this stage.

But when he emerges next to the sweeping staircase it’s to the breathtaking sight of Harry, red-robed and looking harried, disputing the fact that his mother never receives guests til after lunch.

‘It’s alright Bensy,’ he says stepping out, ‘No need to bother mother. Mr. Potter never did care much for rules.’

He smirks at him and tries to adopt a casual air, as though he hasn’t spent half the night wanking over memories of him.

Harry grins at him widely, his eyes flashing with amusement as Bensy departs grumpily.

‘I missed you last night,’ he says quietly, his eyes dragging over Draco in a way that makes him think maybe he wasn’t alone in his self-indulgence last night.

‘Is that why you’re here now? Couldn’t stay away?’ He asks, stepping up and brushing a tiny bit of floo powder off Harry’s lapel.

Harry’s smile only gets wider, ‘No, I need to show you something. Can we Apparate outside the gate?’

He shakes his head bemusedly, ‘Harry, I’m still-’

‘I got special permission!’ Harry beams, waving a chit from his pocket, ‘I mean, uh, your expertise is required once again Mr. Malfoy, I’d be most grateful if you could assist.’

‘I’m not sure if I want to assist the Auror department further Auror Potter,’ he sniffs, mirroring his pompous tone and arching his eyebrow, ‘in light of recent broken promises. Maybe this time I’ll demand my payment up front.’
Harry’s expression turns rapturous and it’s all Draco can do to stop himself from hauling him upstairs right this second. But instead he leans into a single, steamy kiss before pulling back. Snogging in the hall is well and good but he needs his blood circulating to his brain right now.

‘What did you want to show me?’ he whispers, enjoying Harry’s dazed look.

….

‘It can’t be.’ Draco says flatly.

Harry’s been brimming with cautious excitement ever since he got an early morning owl from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. He had a quick look to see for himself and then he’d successfully argued that he needed the opinion of his husband. Or as he argued it to Robards, a fully bonded owner of the house.

They’re in the hall admiring the rich, lemon-yellow wallpaper and warm glow of the lamps. The DMAC team are emerging from the cellar, taking off their protective robes.

‘All done Mr. Potter,’ one of them calls cheerfully, ‘cleaned up the rest of the goop and it’s putting itself to rights. Shame we couldn’t salvage any of that wine though, looked like you had some good vintages!’

They hustle out and Draco takes a few halting steps into the house.

‘They said once they came in and started cleaning up the Desiderium the house started…well, repairing itself. It was falling apart and it just healed itself and started looking…like this.’

The dining room has turned itself from a dour mauve into a bright cherry red, the japanned table gleaming and gorgeous. Draco puts out a hand and brushes it over the damask and closes his eyes. Harry waits, a little nervously, his hand hovering over his wand.

‘Oh.’ Draco says, almost tearfully. He gently pats the wall and beckons to Harry, ‘Come here, feel it.’

Such is Harry’s trust that he does so without question, putting his hand on the wall next to Draco’s, their pinky fingers brushing. He sinks down into that quiet place in his mind, almost to the point of visiting his mind-house and then-

A scent like clean linen and gravy, vague memories of family dinners, shadows of dark-haired occupants through the ages. And a cloud of feelings, aching remorse and shame but a true resolution to improve a gentle hope for future joy.

‘It’s just a theory mind you,’ Draco says, ‘but I think it put all its hatred and anger into that thing in the cellar. And when we destroyed it…’

Harry stares around the room in amazement. If he wanted to, he could pull out memories of Sirius, laughing and leaning over to swipe Regulus’ custard or sitting there mutinously silent while his father lectured him. Sirius, in all his childhood glory - a side of him Harry never got to see.

He laughs, a tiny breathy thing - that Grimmauld Place could look so homely, that it could open itself up to him like this. He’d never have dreamed in a million years.

Draco smiles warmly at him and he reflects on the unlikelihood of that too - that those grey eyes could ever hold delight and passion and love for anyone, let alone for him. He holds out a hand to Draco, who takes it and in a moment of unexpected gallantry, brings it to his mouth and kisses it. Harry chuckles and pretends to swoon, which gets him a swat to the shoulder and a fond, ‘You berk.’ muttered under Draco’s breath.

‘Do you think we could re-build the pirate ship in the garden?’ Harry asks suddenly, ‘I bet Teddy would like it.’

‘Not sure who this ‘we’ is.’ Draco replies playfully, ‘You didn’t marry me for my skills at manual labour.’

‘That’s ok, you have other skills that make up for it.’

‘Do I now?’ Draco’s pulling him closer, pressing a kiss to his ear that makes him shiver.

‘Yes, I hear you can speak French? You wouldn’t consider being my personal interpreter would you? I hear France is lovely this time of year.’