Title: Of Eros and of Dust
Author: Lilith (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lilithilien)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: Knowing what you want doesn't come easily. Sometimes it can take nineteen years.
Rated: R
Length: 22K words
Disclaimer: All rights to these characters belong to J.K. Rowling and her publishers and agents. I make no claim to ownership and expect no monetary gain, and I'm writing this story purely for enjoyment. I have borrowed one scene (and its dialogue) from Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows. The title is from W.H. Auden's "September 1, 1939."
Notes: I needed to write an Epilogue story to see if I could make some sense out of it. I should probably warn for infidelity, although that's practically a given with Epilogue fic. As is the angst. Character death (not of main characters). As always, I am immensely indebted to![[insanejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/ij-userinfo.gif)
sarcastic_jo for encouragement, correction, prodding, and beta. Huge thanks also are due to sweetsorcery for the French translations. All remaining mistakes are mine. Note: I should mention my preference for "Asteria" rather than "Astoria." Asteria, the Titan who escaped Zeus by turning herself into an island, fits the same naming scheme as Daphne, the Greek nymph who escaped from Apollo by turning herself into a laurel tree. In choosing these names, it might reveal some problems that the Greengrasses must have had with daughters, but I think they would have been consistent. So that's why I've done it this way.
Of Eros and of Dust
Harry's dreams change after Voldemort dies.
Sometimes smooth, white-grey walls frame his nights, the precise dimensions of a rectangle hewn from cloudy marble. Straight right angles and airtight seams, and stone icy cold leeching the warmth from his fingertips.
Sometimes they're wooden planks joined to mimic a man's form. Wide at the shoulders and tapering away to nothingness, they're shaped from lumber so green that Harry's nails split the pulpy grain.
Sometimes there's no marble, no wood, nothing between him and shovelfuls of flying earth. Soft at first, landing like loosely packed snowballs, crumbling to powder on impact. Warm, though, and weighty, he imagines himself burrowing under a pile of homemade quilts. Then a spray of soil blankets his face; when he goes to wipe it away he can't lift his hand. Harry shouts for his nameless executioner to stop, he screams that he's still alive, but his mouth fills with marl. Its taste is foul, its texture gritty and too terribly thick to swallow. Now he can't feel individual shovels of dirt; now he just feels the quilts piling on, heavier and heavier...
It's been almost a year since the battle at Hogwarts. Time enough for the wizarding world to pick itself up—to dust itself off, as it were. Everyone else seems to be fine. Hogwarts is rebuilt, the Ministry reassembled, the Death Eaters imprisoned. Life goes on.
Which makes Harry wonder why hardly a night passes that he doesn't dream of being buried alive. Why he wakes up and stares at his hands, expecting to see jagged fingernails or dirt caked like henna into his skin.
At first he tells himself it's because of the funerals. There were just so many, and Harry attended every one. Of course he would dream about them. It's merely his subconscious trying to reconcile why he's still alive when so many have perished. That's what Hermione would say, he suspects, if he talked to her about it. If her guarded looks and Muggle brochures on shell shock weren't enough proof that he's losing it. That's what Ron would say, albeit in less psychoanalytical terms, if he wasn't still so broken over losing Fred that Harry hesitates to bring up any mention of death.
He wonders what Ginny would say, if they were to really talk someday. Instead they just reach for each other's bodies whenever they're alone, finding comfort in each other's living bodies. Sometimes his eyes blur as his hand cups her breast; instead of her rosy freckled skin he sees grubby fingers surrounded by crumbling red clay.
~~~~~
In the end, it's Malfoy he tells.
Lucius was one of the first Death Eaters sentenced to execution, but for well over a year Lady Malfoy fought steadily for commutation of the verdict. She fails, of course. The Wizengamot hears her pleas (and, Harry suspects, takes her generous bribes), but publicity holds more value than Galleons these days. In the end, justice must be done.
"You're going to his funeral? Why?"
Harry knows Ginny can't understand that Lucius Malfoy is as present in his memories as Remus or even Sirius, or that his dreams won't stop until every one of the funerals is over. In the end, he mutters something about obligation and Apparates to Wiltshire in his best dress robes before she can object.
He remembers the gnarled black gates from his last visit, and the wards that made his skin crawl as the Snatchers dragged him through. Now the gates stand open and the wards are gone, and the place looks nothing like his memories. Harry walks past untrimmed hedges to the once-fine manor house, shocked to see it looks as droopy and neglected as the grave black crape over the door.
A sombre house-elf meets him on the front steps and points out the path to the mausoleum, where a small crowd is gathered outside the ornate Gothic tomb. Mostly women, Harry notes, and mostly Death Eaters' wives that he recognises from various courtrooms. In the centre is a casket of sparkling white marble, the one that appears so often in his dreams. Harry's shoulders brace against the memory of the hard stone slab, his fingers tingle from the remembered chill. The surviving Malfoys stand beside the coffin as if carved from the very same stone, their chiselled faces all planes and sharp angles betraying no emotion. Instinctively Harry joins the receiving line to pay his respects. If Narcissa is surprised to see him, she doesn't show it, just offers a curt nod from under her heavy lace veil. The new Lord Malfoy is less disciplined; for an instant his alabaster mask cracks. It's restored almost instantly, but the break reveals his surprise. Not suspicion, Harry notes with interest, and not anger, which he expects.
Harry moves a respectful distance away, not wanting the presence of an Auror to detract from the grave occasion. He earns a few guarded looks from the guests, but none challenge his right to be here. The service, thankfully, is short; Harry only feels the brief need to clench his fists while the Necromage speaks of Lucius' contributions to wizard-kind. A moment of silence follows these few words, and then Draco points his wand at the casket. It lifts effortlessly, as if made of paper rather than dense stone, and floats into the depths of the vault. As darkness swallows the gleaming marble, Harry wonders if he would have the same presence of mind to send his own father to this final resting place. He imagines his magic would be too erratic to lift a shroud, much less a weighty sarcophagus.
The man Harry feared second only to Voldemort is gone. He should feel something, he knows. Victory, perhaps, or at least the justice that the Ministry constantly proclaims to the masses. But the heavy mausoleum doors shut with a muffled thud, unsatisfactorily, and all Harry can think about is how the stale air would smell inside the vault.
He does not intend to share this thought with anyone, least of all Malfoy. But one minute Draco is standing beside his mother, twin sculptures standing sentry to the dead, and the next he is at Harry's side. For the first time since he was eleven, Harry really studies his childhood enemy. He's not wrong in comparing Malfoy to a statue. His face is a mosaic of pointed angles and smooth planes, nose narrow and plumb, jaw sharp enough that Harry imagines he'd draw blood just by touching it. His fingers itch to test this theory, stilled by the heat in Malfoy's eyes. They're carved from the same marble, but finely buffed a shade darker than the rest; they seem to radiate rather than reflect heat. The contrast is, Harry thinks, rather remarkable. The overall effect lacks a classic beauty, more like the work of a loving sculptor who isn't quite sure when to lay down his chisel, but to Harry's surprise, it isn't nearly as displeasing as he'd always believed.
"I've dreamed about this," he hears himself say, because if he can't tell his secrets to a stone angel, who can he tell?
When Malfoy steps closer, warmth rolls off his body, a scorching pitch that startles Harry. This is no stone angel, he remembers, but a living, breathing wizard, his rival and the grieving son of his enemy. He sees too late how insensitive he was, wonders if he has time to apologise before he's cursed, then holds his tongue when he realises he doesn't really care if he is. He blinks slowly, willing Malfoy to get on with his punishment, when those finely etched lips purse with their own secret.
"So have I."
Harry looks down as Malfoy laces their fingers together. The strangest thing about this is that it doesn't feel strange. His hand fits Malfoy's like it fits around a Snitch, perfectly natural, perfectly right. Harry glances down and lets his eyes blur, expecting to see his hand grubby against unblemished alabaster skin, to recognise the same darkness that swallowed the brightness of Lucius' casket. To his surprise, he can't tell which hand belongs to whom.
~~~~~
Harry expects his dreams to fade as time goes on. After all, there aren't many funerals anymore. Now there are weddings. Ron and Hermione tie the knot first, then Neville and Luna, then George and Angelina.
"We should get married," Ginny says to him one day.
And Harry thinks, "Why not?"
He's always known they would, after all. Ginny had set her mind on it when she'd first seen him at King's Cross. The War ended three years ago. That should have been time enough to recover from his memories, time enough for the world to change. Time enough to start acting like an adult.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," chortles Draco when Harry tells him. "You've acted like an adult your entire life. I wouldn't be surprised if your horrid Muggle relations made you refill your own milk bottle when you were a sprog."
It should be harder to argue with Draco when they're stretched out on his wide sofa, with his pristine hair dishevelled and fine sculpted lips still swollen from sex. But it seems that's what they end up doing half the time. Their arguments aren't anything like what Harry has with Ginny. They clash over things they care about, or things she thinks he should care about; they're fuelled by anger and eased with compromise. Malfoy, on the other hand, disagrees just for the sake of disagreement, is disgusted with concession, demands nothing less than total surrender. Harry can hardly fault him for it; when they're together he does the same. To his surprise, he's discovered he enjoys this kind of debate. There's nothing like realising his true thoughts when he's defending the other side. And there are few things he finds more thrilling than their seamless blur between debate and debauchery.
"Then you spent your teenage years fighting evil—and stalking me, I might add," Draco continues, tweaking Harry's nipple hard enough to make him gasp. "Hardly what I would call an idyllic childhood. And after you vanquished the biggest bad of them all, you took on the Ministry and the Aurors. You're twenty-one years old, Potter. You've not been slacking as far as adult accomplishments go."
"There's more to being an adult than just fighting the bad guys," Harry insists. "I've always wanted a family with lots of kids. I think maybe it's time I start taking responsibility for someone else."
Harry expected his lover to be upset when he broke the news of his engagement. He didn't expect him to laugh uproariously. "Merlin, Harry," Draco gasps once he can draw his breath, "would you just listen to yourself? All you ever do is take responsibility for others. You must be the least selfish person I know."
"You know too many Slytherins." Draco laughs again, not disputing the point. Harry traces his fingers along Draco's jaw. He remembers he once thought it would cut him. Years later, he knows it as a line of such perfection that he can't keep his hands away. "Besides, I am selfish. I want to keep you."
"And what's your wife going to say about that? Most pureblood families turn a blind eye to affairs, but I can't imagine the Weaselette being so open-minded."
"Don't call her that," Harry corrects him for the hundredth time. "And I'm not sure I should tell her. She knows we're friends, but she wouldn't understand how I need you both."
"Oh, Harry." The sigh would sound like frustration from anyone else, but with Draco tugging a hank of his hair, Harry recognises it for what it is: amusement and as much affection as his lover will ever admit.
Harry can't understand it himself, this need he has for Draco. At first he put it down to pure physical attraction, just something he needed to get out of his system once and for all. After all, he'd given his heart to Ginny long before they made love. He didn't think there was anything left to give Draco.
But from their very first time together, a few days after Lucius' funeral, Harry learns that what he thinks he can give doesn't matter one bit. Draco takes what he wants, what he thinks he's entitled to. It's completely different than what Harry has with Ginny. When they make love it feels passive; Ginny is loving, but content with what he offers. Draco is greedy, always demanding more, never satisfied. There's no position he doesn't want to try, no kink not worth exploring, and very little that he can't get Harry to do with a simple dare. Draco's bedroom becomes the new site of their rivalry; unlike Quidditch, it's a contest they both win.
And maybe it's this enmity, older than his feelings for Ginny or even for his friends, that transforms this ... this whatever it is with Malfoy. Maybe it's knowing that Draco doesn't care that frees Harry to need him so much. He can forget the crush of a shallow grave when Draco has him spread-eagled against the wall, his tongue laving Harry's body so long and so deep inside that Harry's cock explodes without a single touch. He can resist the cold marble threatening to leech his life with Draco's sleeping body curled against him, his heat radiating through them, their fingers laced tightly just like that first time. And with Draco, Harry can admit his nightmares and argue about their causes without fearing his lover will start watching him with frightened eyes. Just bringing them into the daylight seems to dim their power in the night.
He's thought more than once about throwing over Ginny for him. Sometimes the only thing that's stopped him is Draco's adamant refusal to admit their relationship. It's the one thing that Malfoy refuses to discuss. "It would ruin you," is all he'll say, and when Harry insists that he doesn't care about ruin, Draco crushes him in his arms and rocks him like a child, saying "I do, Harry, I do," over and over again, until Harry gives in.
"I need you both," he says again.
"I know."
~~~~~
Harry marries Ginny the following spring. Draco refuses to attend the wedding ("bad form," he insists), but he does pick the spot for their honeymoon: two weeks at a private villa in Bali. "So you'll remember me every time your wife puts lotion on your back," he cackles evilly on the eve of the ceremony, working slippery almond oil into Harry's shoulders, smoothing it down the ridge of his spine, massaging his thighs and opening his bottom until Harry begs to be fucked for hours.
Jimbaran Beach is paradise on earth. Harry and Ginny wake to the sweet scent of frangipani trees blooming outside their door, they spend their days walking hand-in-hand down white sandy beaches under towering coconut palms. At night, glorious sunsets steal their breaths away, and more than once they make love under the stars. It's the most romantic place Harry can imagine.
He wonders how Draco knew about it, and instantly feels jealousy stab.
He's vowed not to let himself think of Draco while he's here, not even when Ginny pours lotion on his back—especially not then, when the simplest touch would be enough to harden him. It feels too much like betrayal to make love to his wife when his thoughts are on Draco, and he doesn't care to think closely about which one he would betray.
Harry's dreams return on their fifth night. This time it's a slight variation—he's buried in the sand, with tidal waters seeping through and drowning him—but the panicked feeling is identical. He brushes his teeth for ten minutes when he wakes, but can't get the salty taste off his tongue.
Ginny is worried, of course, and the next day asks at least twenty times if he feels all right. He dreads nightfall, knowing he'll dream again, so when she goes to bed he takes an extra sheet out to the cushioned deckchair. It feels as if he's only just drifted off when his body is squeezed into its narrow box, the tap-tapping of coffin nails sending his heart pounding. When he wakes he finds splinters in the tips of his fingers; his nails are broken where they gouged the deckchair's wooden frame. Too upset to fall back asleep, he listens to frogs croak until daybreak, when he can slip back into bed.
After a few more nights he can no longer hide what's happening and sends a falconet to Jakarta for Dreamless Sleep. He must have eyed it too eagerly when the package arrived, for Ginny cautions him at length about the dangers of addiction. He can't tell her that he only needs it for a few more days, that then he'll have Malfoy again; a potion is a very poor substitute for his lover.
Their international portkey delivers them back to London after midnight. Ginny isn't pleased when Harry wants to go out, but he insists that the time change will make it impossible for him to sleep. He takes time to reassure her with a kiss, despite every cell in his body screaming that he needs Draco now.
He's waiting up; Harry knew he would be. Harry ignores the champagne chilling in the ice bucket and pushes his lover against the wall. Recklessly they rip apart each other's robes, both desperate to get to bare skin underneath. Harry has the urge to tear him apart with his teeth, to bite so deeply that he can taste Malfoy on the inside, to feel his warm blood bubble over his tongue, to do whatever it takes to keep hearing those ecstatic groans that rumble from deep inside Draco's chest. He fucks him there against the wall, fast and fierce, with too little preparation and too much slimy lube to compensate. It's messy, hurried sex, possessive and needy, and it's exactly what Harry needs. What Draco needs too, he suspects, judging by the way "harryharryharryharry" pours from his mouth like an endless mantra of the Balinese priests.
Afterwards they collapse together on the floor, too exhausted even to Apparate upstairs to the bedroom. Draco transfigures a cushion into a mattress and, with his final reserve of energy, hauls Harry into his arms.
"Missed me, Potter?"
"Mmmm."
Harry has a new dream that night. Again he's buried on the beach, sand invading and irritating every crease in his skin. In the distance he hears waves and knows that soon they will crash down and drown him. But then the sand underneath him loosens and shifts, transforms into Draco's body, golden and glistening in the sunlight. When the wave washes over them, Draco undulates to give him room. Their bodies rock together, making love in the shallow surf, and Harry can breathe again. He knows that he'll survive.
~~~~~
He's three hours late when he topples through Draco's fireplace, but for once he has a good excuse.
"Ginny's pregnant!" he bursts out even before the green flames die. "I'm going to be a father!"
"Well, bully for you, Potter."
Harry cocks a wary eyebrow; one of Malfoy's moods, then. It's not the first time. There's a bottle of Laphroaig in arm's reach of the sofa, half empty; Harry hopes it wasn't opened tonight. He takes down a Waterford tumbler; he'd best drink his share to keep Draco from downing it all. "Sorry I'm late," he offers, but it's hard to keep his excitement in check. "There was such a commotion at the Burrow, it was hard to get away."
Draco glares as Harry drops into the high-backed chair opposite him. "I imagine they all must be thrilled. It's not every day the world gets another Weasley. Oh, wait, it is."
The snide remark socks Harry in the gut. He'd hoped that Draco might be, if not excited, then at least gracious. "Fuck you, Malfoy," he growls.
"Not now, Potter. I'm really not in the mood."
That infuriating, airy voice, full of scorn. All of a sudden Harry has the strongest urge to hurl his glass against the wall, wants to see the shards fly wildly, wants Malfoy to bleed from them, just to make sure there's a human being in there. To make sure he's not the one who's made a mistake here. "Damn it, why have you got to be such an ass? Would it kill you to be happy for me?"
Draco lifts his glass, studying its reflections as if they're the most intriguing things he's ever seen. "Truly, I'm overjoyed. I've been terrified that the Potter name might fade into obscurity. Now I can die happy."
Harry's scowl is sharper than cut crystal. "Jealousy's not a good look for you, Malfoy."
"Fuck you, Potter."
There's a warning here for Harry to back off. Instead he slings back Draco's own line. "Sorry, not in the mood." Feeling rightfully petty, he gulps the expensive whisky just to annoy Draco. It works; Draco fires silent hexes from under his heavy-lidded eyes. "Why am I even here? What was so important that you couldn't owl me?"
Draco shrugs, biting his bottom lip. Miffed as he is, Harry stares as it swells into a bruised pout. He knows it tastes of malt and fury, and if it were any other night he might be tempted to play out this game to its conclusion and claim that delectable combination as his reward. But not tonight, not when his family is rejoicing about his son—his son!—and he wants to be with them.
"I'll see myself out then, shall I?" Harry doesn't wait to see Draco shrug again. Quaking with anger, he finishes his drink with another gulp and slams the glass on the side table. "Owl me when you're ready to act like an adult."
It's a full week before an eagle owl taps at his office window. Relief floods through Harry as he retrieves the parchment, but it vanishes the instant he begins reading. The words are like some powerful Narcotising spell; they make his eyes blur and his balance shift. He claws the nearby filing cabinet, holding himself up, not sure whether it's his knees or the ground quaking so violently. The letter bursts into flames, a victim of the uncontrollable magic building in his gut, the same force that sends his wedding picture crashing to the ground. Not even concerned about splinching himself, he Apparates directly to the Manor.
He finds Draco in his office, with his wand levitating grimoires from a nearly empty shelf into a large travelling trunk. Harry clenches his fists as wild magic lashes out again. It interrupts Draco's spell and the books tumble to the floor. "What the fuck are you doing?"
His face hard as stone, Draco gives his wand a measured flick; the books sort themselves and slide neatly into the truck. It's only then that he acknowledges his visitor, but Harry notes that he doesn't sheathe his wand. "I believe my letter made that clear. Mother and I are moving to France. We intended to leave next month, but in light of ... present circumstances, we've accelerated our departure."
"You can't go!"
"I'm afraid I can, and I intend to." As Harry quivers with rage, Draco directs the tip of his wand to his heart. "Get a hold of yourself, Potter. I'll not think twice about binding you, Ministry regulations be damned. I've got enough on my plate without cleaning up after you."
It's not an idle threat, Harry knows, and he forces several calming breaths. When the ripples of raw energy fade he lets his human emotion take over. "You're just doing this because of James, aren't you?"
"James?" Draco looks genuinely baffled. "Who the fuck is James?"
"My son."
Draco's mouth opens as if to contest the point, but hangs there. "For once this isn't about you, Potter," he finally says, in a much quieter voice than Harry expects.
Harry thinks of their last encounter and his urge to make Malfoy bleed. He wonders how he could have been so foolish. Everything about his lover is human, blindingly so if one knows where to look, and Harry does: at the almost invisible creases at the corners of his eyes, the minute tightening of his jaw, the heightened definition of the tendons in his neck. It's irrepressibly human, this struggle to maintain control, and Harry's heart breaks to think he could lose this.
"Just tell me why, Draco."
Malfoy breathes deeply before speaking, exposing only a small vulnerability but one that Harry's sure he would expose to no one else. "Because of you, Harry. You always talk about acting like an adult and you've had the chance to do that. You're an Auror, you're starting your family, you've got everything you dreamed of when we were kids. And I'm glad for you, but you're right, I'm jealous."
Harry wants to interrupt, wants to tell his lover that this baby doesn't change anything, that he still needs him just as much, but Draco holds up his hand. Despite not holding his wand anymore, his gesture is as effective as a Silencing Charm. Harry's shoulders slump in surrender.
"I had dreams too, you know. And no matter what you might think, they weren't all that different from yours. I thought by now I'd be developing potions for the Department of Mysteries, maybe even being groomed as a Junior Minister. Don't laugh, Potter! The Malfoys have been part of the Ministry for centuries."
"I wasn't laughing," Harry assures him. "I can still see you doing that, you know, if you wanted to."
Draco's face contorts in genuine pain. "What planet are you living on? It's been five years since the War, and all that's changed is that people switched their prejudices from Muggle-borns to purebloods. Mother's a social pariah and I'm a second-rate clerk at a knock-off potions shop. You think she'll have any luck arranging a suitable marriage for me? We can't even afford to keep up the Manor."
Harry gnaws the inside of his cheek at the mention of Draco's marriage. "But ... things are changing. I'm sure they'll unfreeze your accounts soon, I know it's taking awhile but..."
"The Ministry won't back off, Harry. It can't, not with public opinion like it is. Everyone thinks we got off easy, just staying out of Azkaban."
It's hard to dispute what Harry knows is true. The Ministry might preach lofty goals of equality, but in practice it echoes the will of the people who even now clamour for blood whenever a suspected Death Eater is apprehended. Evidence is hardly required; affiliation is enough to destroy reputations and lives. Most of Draco's housemates have already gone abroad for that very reason. If they bear any guilt Harry doesn't know, but more than once he's heard false allegations against the Malfoys. Were he not an Auror, one with the Minister's ear, he knows that they would not have survived this long.
Draco stares at the silk carpet, pretending to study the vines and songbirds woven there, but his body is taut as a piano wire. He looks like he's ready to snap at the slightest provocation, like he's watching for it carefully from the corner of his eye. Harry wonders what it would take. Would storming out of the Manor be enough? Or would begging him not to go be the thing that unravels him?
Harry realises he can't do either. Defeated, he sinks into Draco's comfortable couch; for long moments, the only sound in the room is the creak of worn leather when he moves.
"But ... France?" he eventually asks, as if it's up for debate. He despises the words that he's about to say, knows how selfish they are, but he can't hold them back. "What will you do there?"
Draco exhales the breath he must have been holding. "For months now I've been exchanging letters with Professeur Guérin in Limoges. Perhaps you remember his name, he taught potions at Beauxbatons..." He avoids Harry's eye, as if embarrassed to admit that this plan has been in the works for so long. It is a surprise, one that makes it a little hard to breathe, but Harry lets him continue without interruption. "Perhaps not. In any case, he's retired now and is willing to take me on as an apprentice. It's for six years and the salary's abysmal. Still, the Greengrasses have offered to let Mother stay at their villa in Bourdeaux." Draco looks up at Harry, his jaw firmly set and his voice defiant. "It's a good offer, one that I should not pass up even if the Ministry wasn't making life impossible."
There's nothing Harry can say to that. It all lines up too perfectly, straight as coffin nails and just as permanent. Harry wishes he could rage against it, tear back the planks to reveal spongy wood rotting underneath, but there's no flaw here. This is Draco finally getting a chance at the life he wants—at the life Harry wants him to have. Harry can't rip it apart just because he's not part of it.
"It is a good offer," he concedes, making sure his voice sounds stronger than he feels. "It ... really, it sounds perfect for you. You'll make a great Potions master. I think– I know that Snape would be proud."
Draco's eyes lift with the corners of his mouth, and Harry's surprised by how relieved he looks. He wonders if his lover really expected him to object; he wonders what he would do if he had. All thoughts he can't allow himself to ponder. Instead he forces a smile, even if he can't feel it reach his eyes. "Just one question, Malfoy. Do you even speak French?"
"Bien sûr," Draco replies, his return smile both grateful and brilliant. "Quel enchanteur cultivé ne parle pas français?"
Harry smirks. "Did you just call yourself a pompous git?"
"No," scoffs Malfoy. "I said that you're an imbecile who's wasting valuable time when you could be riding my cock." He moves closer to Harry, who takes his hand and pulls him the rest of the way, wanting his lover's body covering his, his solid weight wiping every thought from his mind.
From the moment Draco's lips touch his, Harry knows that this will be one for his Pensieve. His clothes are peeled back, piece by piece, like the skin of an exotic, unnameable fruit; Malfoy's mouth savours the meaty pulp as each inch is revealed. There's no part of Harry's body that doesn't possess some delicious fascination. Toes, elbows, backs of knees, all are worthy of worship by tongues and teeth and tips of fingers. His lover moves slowly, deliberately. He holds Harry at a simmering boil for far longer than Harry thinks he can stand, then retreats just before he explodes. It feels exactly like their usual frenzied fucking but slowed to quarter-speed, stretched out so long that time and space become meaningless and Harry's entire universe is Malfoy. He whimpers shamelessly, begs without remorse, cries that he will die if Draco doesn't fuck him. By the time he does, Harry has passed far beyond any notion of his own needs. Draco takes, and Harry wants nothing more than to give, to give more than he ever has before. He offers his body up, willing Draco to do with it as he pleases. When he finally climaxes it's with Draco's voice in his ear, insisting Harry come, demanding to feel his muscles milking him. Harry obeys with nothing more on his mind than Draco's pleasure.
Sweat-soaked and sated, neither moves for ages, long after their chests have gone cold and sticky. Even then Harry is reluctant to pull away. Draco's heart still beats hard against his chest, his lungs still rise and fall unsteadily, and Harry takes immense pleasure just knowing he's had such an effect on his lover's body.
But time refuses to stop for them, and just before they're sealed painfully together, Harry pulls away and finds his wand.
"Shouldn't you be at work?" Draco asks as Harry's cleaning spell shimmers over him.
"Shouldn't you have asked me that hours ago?" He considers a refreshing spell too, but decides against it. He's not eager to erase the heady smell of sex.
Draco smile is pure Slytherin. "I would have, but I was afraid you'd leave."
The words, so close to what Harry wants to say, throttle Harry's tongue. Draco understands, though. Wordlessly he pushes Harry into the couch and stretches out beside him, kisses him deeply, as if they hadn't made love just moments before.
Not able to look at Draco, Harry winds his fingers through cornsilk hair. They've been lovers for four years and still Harry's never got over just how soft it is.
"If I begged you," he asks, "if I begged, would you stay?"
Draco is quiet for a long time, his thumb stroking complicated patterns along the curve of Harry's hip. "Don't ask me to answer that, Harry," he finally says. "There's nothing for us here, you know that. You know this is the right thing."
Harry thinks that perhaps he was wrong about Draco not caring. "What if I spoke to Kingsley again?" he asks, desperate to hang onto this new truth. "Maybe he can push the investigation on your accounts..."
Draco's fingers brush his lips into silence. "No, Harry. You've done more than enough. At least we won't lose the Manor. I'll always owe you for that."
Harry shakes his head, his voice miserable. "I only did what was right."
Draco says nothing, just fumbles blindly until his fingers reach Harry's wand on the floor. Their ease with each other's wands always amused Harry; as Draco ignites a roaring fire, Harry belatedly wonders if it says more about them than he ever wanted to admit.
They both watch as crimson sprites dance with their reflections across the white marble hearth. Despite the warming room, Draco pulls Harry closer, acting as if he's cold, as if he's not the one that Harry insists has an 80000 BTU furnace powering his magical core.
"France isn't that far away," he says, pressing his nose into Harry's cheek.
But they both know it is.
They doze after that, waking with erections that demand consideration, attending to them with more care than usual. Even afterwards they postpone the inevitable, sharing reminiscences that don't stray too far into melancholia, buffering them with comforting touches when they do. At last, though, they can't deny the time. They dress themselves, as matter of fact as they can be, becoming more timid with each other the more clothing they don. Finally, with one last look at this familiar room, Harry tosses Floo powder into the flames. He turns back to Draco, smiles to see the smirk frozen on his face.
"I'll write."
"I won't."
Harry closes his eyes and steps into the marble hearth. Thirteen years will pass before he lays eyes on Draco again.
~~~~~
Harry remembers how Uncle Vernon said a person could get used to anything. Not when it came to his nephew, of course; mentioning magic never failed to make him vibrate with fury. But when Dudley groused about getting up for school or Aunt Petunia bemoaned the fact that the drill factory would keep him late again, Vernon Dursley always said the same thing: "A person can get used to anything."
Harry's not sure when Uncle Vernon's words became more important to him than those of Sirius and Professor Dumbledore. He supposes it should bother him. It probably would, if he had the energy to get worked up about anything these days. But no one rebukes the father of a newborn when his eyes drift shut in staff meetings. His colleagues tiptoe past his desk when they catch him in a catnap, head fallen over folded arms. They stop asking him out after work, assuming that now he's a family man he needs his rest more than a pint.
Harry doesn't mind that much. Evenings formerly wasted in the pub are now spent in a nearby Muggle gym. Free weights and running tone his body, turning his lean teenage frame into a trim, muscled adult and wearing him out enough to sleep in short spurts. He's used to catching fifteen minutes here, an hour there. He's become a master of balancing Dreamless Sleep and Pepperup Potions, and if he feels a little edgy after overdoing the Pepperup, it only seems to make him better at his job. His record proves that, arrest after arrest, award after award. At twenty-four, he's the most decorated Auror in the Ministry; on his twenty-fifth birthday, he's promoted to lead the whole division.
It's worked out just as well at home. James is a fitful baby; the one time he slept for four uninterrupted hours was a red-letter day in the Potter household. It's Harry who gives him his bottle in the middle of the night, who walks him for hours until he falls into a restless sleep. Harry loves this time with James. He's never got over that amazement he felt the first time he held his son, so fragile and perfect. When it's just the two of them awake, and he sees the comfort that baby James takes from him, that wonder grows.
But sometimes, in that darkest hour of the night, Harry wonders what could destroy the rest of someone so young and innocent. James' shoulders are round and soft, unburdened by the weight of the world's ills, and his forehead is smooth and remorseless. His lungs, though, they rend the night with the screams of a sorely troubled soul. Harry doesn't laugh when Ginny says that James' cries sound just like his. He reads a Muggle text on genetics and fears that his nightmares clamped onto a stray allele and passed from him to his son. He looks forward to the day James can talk so he can tell him that he's sorry.
His nightmares don't get any better, but at least they don't get worse, as he had expected after– after James was conceived. He's still told no one else about them. Ginny knows, of course—he's woken her up so many times that she suggested they sleep in different beds—but after the umpteenth time she fussed over him, and he told her under no uncertain terms that he hadn't expected to marry Molly, she's kept her worries to herself.
She watches him, though, and he can tell those worries remain, unspoken. Which is fine with him. It was easy to analyse these nightmares about his death with someone who was once his enemy, but he can't bring himself to broach the subject with his wife.
That's because they're not nightmares about your death, Potter. They're nightmares about your life.
Draco lied, of course. He writes to Harry every few months. Mostly his letters are descriptions of his apprenticeship, sometimes in such detail that Harry wishes he'd paid more attention in Snape's class. He also asks questions about the potions Harry takes and his reactions to them. Draco insists his interest is purely clinical; if he cautions Harry to go easy on the Dreamless Sleep, his warning that simpletons have precious few brain cells to sacrifice removes any hint of mothering.
There's gossip too: Parkinson shagging a Muggle accountant behind Zabini's back, Nott getting arrested for hawking Dark relics, Goyle contracting a particularly ferocious strain of Wizard's Clap from a prostitute in Ibiza. Harry knows more about the Slytherins now that they live across the Channel than he ever did when they were in school.
So the news of Draco's engagement should not have come as such a shock. The Greengrasses appear often in these missives, not surprising since Narcissa stays with the family, but there's been no special mention of the youngest daughter. An arranged wedding, then, a lifemate chosen by lottery. Pureblood propriety and obligation, and Harry blames that for the line that closes Draco's letter:
I would be honoured if you would attend.
Harry stares at the formal script for ages, the curlicues winding like untravelled roads across the parchment. He smoothes his palm along the surface of his desk, but no longer notices the towers of files balanced precariously there. Instead he recalls the deep umber grain of Draco's mahogany desk, how just seconds after delivering the news of his own engagement he's bent over it with his pants bunched around his ankles and Draco demonstrating just what a terrible idea marriage is.
In the end, though, it's Draco who helps him go through with it. On the eve of his wedding, still slippery with sweet-smelling oil, Harry battles the fiercest nightmare he ever had in his lover's presence. Draco hugs him close and reminds him that this is what he wants. With a ginger-haired litter all flinging around Ministry-approved happy spells, Draco insists, Harry can be happy. And, he snarls, he refuses to hand-hold while Harry deals with the guilt of abandoning the Weaselette at the altar.
Draco wanted him to be happy, Harry realises, and it's only now, with their positions reversed, that Harry knows what that must have cost him. For the first time, he understands that Draco is stronger than he is. It's been two years since he's seen his former lover and still he doesn't have it in him to hand Draco over to another.
His owl eagerly ruffles her feathers when Harry takes out a clean sheet of vellum, but she grows increasingly agitated as he discards draft after draft. Eventually she gives up, showing her displeasure by tucking her head under a tawny wing. He continues to write, oblivious to the owl, unaware of anything but feigning a generous spirit when the letters spilling from his quill keep spelling out "you're mine" in a hundred different ways. It's only by mimicking Draco's formal tone that he can pen a few acceptable lines:
Warmest congratulations. I hope your life with Asteria will be every bit as happy as mine with Ginny.
I regret that I will be unable attend the wedding.
Harry
That night, Harry bench-presses more weight than he ever has. He doesn't stop, not even when his trainer watches with a worried eye, not until he's drenched with sweat and his arms feel like soggy noodles and he's so exhausted that his muscles scream. He surprises Ginny, and himself, by wanting to make love, right then, no matter that she's in the middle of cooking dinner. He takes her on the couch, and it's rougher than usual, though not nearly as rough as he wants it to be. She feels too yielding as he ploughs into her, her touches too careful, her lips too quiet. Harry comes with his face buried in one of Molly's knitted cushions, barely able to breathe, and it's not enough, not nearly enough.
A person can get used to anything, he reminds himself, and he wonders if it is true.
~~~~~
"That was a lovely speech, Harry. Perfect for our tenth year memorial."
"Thank you, Minerva."
Harry decides not to tell her that Hermione wrote it. It'd be too much like telling the Headmistress that he's copied his Transfiguration homework—not quite the behaviour the world's come to expect from the Hero of the Battle of Hogwarts.
At eighteen, it was hard enough to live up to those expectations. Now, just a few months shy of twenty-eight, he's finding it impossible. It's hardly his fault, he tells himself. The world hasn't quite turned out like he'd expected either. Evil was easy to recognise when he was young. It wore serpentine features or spoke in syrupy, fawning tones, it bore gruesome Dark Marks as an unmistakeable sign of allegiance. It didn't look like a popular Hogwarts teacher hawking deadly You4ia potions to school kids. Or a respected member of the Wizengamot running a black-market Squib slave trade. Evil couldn't be the supposedly loving parents casting Hermaphroditus spells on their children so they could do Merlin knew what to them.
Or maybe—and this is the thought that haunts Harry whenever he sees the thousands of unsolved cases in the archives—maybe this was what evil had looked like all along. Maybe during the War people just turned a blind eye.
Ron calls him paranoid when he brings this up. Minister Shacklebolt says things like, "You must understand, we were at war." Ginny tells him to leave his work at the office and to pick up his dirty laundry please because she can't raise three kids on her own plus him, too. And Harry loves his kids, he really does, but he has to be vigilant. How else can he keep them safe in the kind of world this is turning out to be?
"You look tired, Harry," Minerva notices. "You must be working too hard."
Still trying to kill yourself, I see, Malfoy writes, more to the point. His single line is clipped to the front page ripped from the Prophet. Harry was aghast when he first saw his photograph. He looked too thin. The fingers clutching his magicked note cards were gnarled and wraithlike; his eyes, barely visible, sank into deep-set pools of drooping shadow. His skin was the most startling, though, more like a locust's desiccated husk than human flesh, like worn canvas stretched over tent poles.
Draco improves the photograph with his own doodles, including large round spectacles that replace Harry's more fashionable frames and a spinning "Potter Stinks" badge on his robe. He crosses out the reporter's commentary about the great hero still haunted by the war and replaces it with a bubble cloud that proclaims, "Look at me! I'm a Potions Junkie with a Saviour Complex! I'm here to save the world!"
Harry should be irritated, but he's not. In fact, he can't keep his laughter from bubbling over. It's the first time that Draco's written, apart from pithy congratulations after Albus' and Lily's births. And it's the first time that it sounds like Malfoy, not some too-formal acquaintance. Harry grabs his quill and dashes off a reply immediately, his first thought, nothing deliberated, just what he would say if Draco was here:
Somebody's got to do it.
The next morning he receives an even briefer answer.
Idiot.
Harry doesn't stop grinning for the rest of the day.
He doesn't write back, though. He tells himself it's because Malfoy likes having the last word. Really, though, he finds it too hard to concentrate on anything that's not in his immediate line of sight. His mind seems always cloudy, no matter how much Pepperup he takes. Draco's another abstraction, another distraction, and he can't afford that when he's got so much to do.
Besides, he knows that Draco is right.
~~~~~
It's nearly a year before another eagle owl arrives from France. Atypically, it flies to the Potters' home instead of Harry's office, laden with a package that thumps so hard against the windowpane that Ginny fears the glass will shatter. The small trunk contains several dozen vials, each wrapped carefully in its own grey wool pouch. Harry plucks the creamy parchment off the top, allowing his wife to inspect the contents as he reads.
Dear Harry,
You will be pleased to hear that I have completed my apprenticeship and now hold the esteemed title of Potions master. It is a great relief to know these years are behind me. Although I can hardly call them a hardship in comparison to my early life, I feel that only now can I make strides towards that elusive 'adulthood' you prize so much.
You hold in your hands the fruit of six years' labour. Besides Scorpius, it is the thing dearest to my heart. No doubt it contains more of me than my son. It's a sleep potion but, unlike that poison you're so fond of, this will allow you to dream without torment. You need your dreams, Potter. If you hadn't had those ... well, I shudder to think where we would all be today.
I enclose a month's supply of potion. Drink a full vial each night before bed. A normal dose is a half-vial, but Merlin knows what damage you've inflicted on yourself over the years. Idiot. I regret not being able to send this to you earlier, but the last thing the Malfoy name needs is a charge of potions trafficking by an unregistered brewer. It might amuse you to know I've become even more concerned with my family's reputation of late. Then again, you might share the same desire to give your children their very best shot.
Respectfully yours,
Draco Malfoy, Lord of Wiltshire
Registered Potions Master, Société Ancien de Maîtres des Philtres du France
Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers (application pending)
A cacophony of emotion engulfs Harry when he finishes. He's not sure whether to burst into laughter at the image of Malfoy joyfully appending all those titles or to break down at the thought of six years devoted to creating a potion just for him, whether to immediately Apparate to France to discuss fatherhood or to work harder just to ensure Draco's adulthood is easier than his has been.
"These are from Malfoy?" Ginny peers at the letter over his shoulder. "Surely you're not thinking of taking them?"
"I am."
Still clutching the letter in one shaky hand, he unstoppers one of the vials. The potion is deep indigo, spotted with flecks of gold. Like stars twinkling in the middle of the night, Harry thinks.
"But Malfoy made them! Why would he send this to you anyway?" She snorts. "Look at all those names. How pretentious can you get?"
He hardly notices her as he sniffs the potion. It smells of rain.
Ginny's suspicions haven't faded by night time. "What if it's poison?"
Harry kisses her forehead. "Then you'll inherit everything, dear."
She rolls her eyes. Harry takes a strange sense of satisfaction in her worry; his heart throbs when he realises it's been a while since she's shown any toward him. Her concerns have been transferred to their children, who she can mother over to her heart's content. But in a way, it's nice to have her watching fearfully while he drinks.
He gets under the covers before opening the vial. The potion looks like it would taste of blueberries, so Harry's surprised when the flavour of sweet buttercream flows over his tongue. It slides down his throat like warm milk; almost immediately he feels the tightness in his chest lift and his shoulders relax. His pillow seem softer than usual when he drops his head, the sheets feel as fresh as if they've just come from the line. Beside him Ginny's body is a big comforting cushion. He throws a heavy arm over her flannel nightgown. He's missed the feel of his knees tucked behind hers, her hand holding his through the night. He tries to ask if she can remember the last time they spooned like that, but words prove too weighty for his sluggish tongue.
"You really trust Malfoy that much, after all this time?"
Her voice sounds a little sad and he would ask her why, but her question has already sent his mind down another track. Now he's picturing Draco reading. He smiles at the thought of his brain churning away, of all those little wrinkles that criss-cross his forehead like sandpiper tracks, how all his attention will focus on one simple passage. And then there's that glorious smile when it all comes together—the one that appears right before the smug grin and the explanation, greatly simplified, for Harry's benefit. Harry has no doubt that Draco has got this potion exactly right.
He falls asleep answering Ginny's question in his dreams.
Malfoy's potion is no miracle cure. For the first week it's harder than usual to get up. This eases as the month wears on, but he still feels sluggish until his first Pepperup. He thinks he's slowed down, too. His mind doesn't race in a hundred directions at once. It's been so long since he felt this way that this new focus feels like an alien living in his body.
And Draco is right: his dreams don't stop. What changes is how Harry reacts to them. There's no blinding panic when dirt clods splash on his face, he doesn't wake up scrambling for blankets when marble slab chills his blood. He sleeps through these episodes until they shift, cloud-like, into something different, his subconscious no longer skipping endlessly in the same groove.
He writes his thanks for the potion and to tell Draco of these effects. The reply is so typical Malfoy that Harry can almost imagine him in the room.
You might be right about catching up on years of lost sleep. Of course, that would assume that your body clock is run by goblins with nothing better to do than tally your personal sleeping habits on ledger sheets. I think it's far more likely that:
And I do not have a 'saving people' thing. That's all you.
Harry replies, withholding his opinion that Draco's a terrible liar, and without either mentioning it they pick up their easy correspondence abandoned years before. They write of their jobs, their children, even the dreams they have at night. But Harry never shares that his most frequent dream, the one he remembers most vividly in the light of day, is of a stone angel carved of the purest white marble with a touch that reminds him of furnaces and fireplaces and warm summer days.
~~~~~
"I'm not going to any more funerals."
Lily claps her hands gleefully at Harry's pronouncement. At four, she has the brightest spirit he's ever seen. Molly insists she's just like the twins at that age, which frightens him more than a little.
Ginny is less enthusiastic about his news. "No more funerals? What's brought this on?"
Harry's surprised she has to ask. She saw him yesterday after Delphinia Finch's memorial, just like she's seen him after every funeral over the years. Some are for people he cares for, like Andromeda Tonks who fell victim to dragon pox, but most are for people he barely knows, people he doesn't know at all. He's expected to dust off his faded hero mantle for each one. The solemn dignity he shows at these ceremonies is a far cry from how he really feels. They're worse than his nightmares ever were; as his nights have grown calmer, his waking life becomes more torrential. He stands in his finest robes but feels like he's drowning. The air tastes stale, like in a crypt, like under a diving bell, far under the sea where the pressure builds and his body threatens to implode. When he gets home he aches, a landlubber's version of the bends. Ginny sees how his hands shake so badly he can't even feed his children.
It's hardly a sudden decision.
"I just can't do it anymore, Gin. It takes too much out of me. It ... sometimes I think I'm drowning from it all."
Ginny gives him encouragement to lift his flagging spirit. That people are comforted by his presence. That it means so much to the families. That she knows he's not a selfish person, that he's just tired. That he should look at this as the easiest part of his job.
That he can get used to anything.
Malfoy's reaction is a mixture of ridicule for ever following Uncle Vernon's advice in the first place and almost giddy congratulations for what he calls "the first miniscule signs that a spine might be forming." He recommends a course of "emotional Skele-Gro": telling someone no every single day. (He makes an exception for children, who he insists should always be told yes. Scorpius must be terribly spoiled, Harry thinks, but still grins at the image of Draco as an overindulgent father.)
He tries it. At first with little things. No, he will not attend the Wizengamot's Beltane Ball. No, he does not want to be auctioned off in Witch's Weekly fundraiser. As he practices saying the word, it becomes easier. Gradually he starts thinking about the things he really wants—and those he doesn't. No, he isn't giving any more interviews to the Prophet, no matter how bad Kingsley says it will look for the Ministry. No, he won't look the other way when Seamus Finnigan imports dragonhide from endangered Imperial dragons. No, he does not want Ron to confide the details of his affair with Lavender Brown.
Somewhere along the line, saying no turns into saying yes, an affirmation in negative form. It feels ... good. There's a freedom he discovers, almost like when he's flying. He feels lighter then, above the world, above the reach of gravity. He gets that same sensation as each refusal clears his mind. Slowly that stranglehold that's gripped him since the battle begins to loosen its hold.
~~~~~
"Look, Uncle Harry! Papa's here!"
From his broomstick perch, Harry spies Ron picking his way through the field. He's not carrying his broom. Pity. As much fun as it is flying with the kids, he's craving a no-holds-barred race into the sky.
But Ron's eyes are fixed on the little girl in her miniature Harpies' uniform, who cries out "Papa! Look what Uncle Harry taught me!" before executing an awkward but passable barrel roll.
"Well done!" applauds Ron. "You are wearing your Bouncing Charm, aren't you?"
"Yes, Papa."
As the kids pick up an impromptu game of chase, Harry drifts over and joins Ron at the edge of the pitch. His friend glares reproachfully. "You taught my nine-year-old a barrel roll?"
"Yeah, sorry about that. But she wanted James to teach her. I thought it best if I took over."
Ron shakes his head. "You never can say no to the kids, can you?"
It's what Harry often accuses Draco of. Somewhere along the line he's picked it up himself. Shrugging, he laughs. "Not really."
James sweeps past them, with Rose tumbling along behind, her cloak a swirling sea-green wake. Just a few months older than Albie, she's twice as aggressive a flyer. Even with all the safety charms on the Burrow's makeshift pitch, she manages to come off her broom covered in bruises. Albie flies above them both, carefully watching.
"He'll make a good Seeker," Ron says, following Harry's gaze.
"If he decides to play. I don't want to push him. Rosie, though..."
"She's a natural, isn't she?" He beams with pride as his daughter makes a hairpin turn, cutting James off and taking the lead.
"She's brilliant," Harry agrees. They watch for a few minutes in silence, appreciating the unseasonably sunny spring day, the quiet of the countryside interrupted only by their children's excited yelps. At last, though, Harry's curiosity gets the better of him. "So? Who is she?"
"Huh? What are you talking about?"
"Molly said you had work, and I had to play along like I knew why you'd go in on a Saturday."
"I was working. I swear to Merlin," he adds when Harry still looks sceptical.
"On Saturday afternoon? What was so important it couldn't wait until Monday?"
"Releasing the sequestered Death Eater funds."
Harry feels the urge to rub his ears. Those were the last words he expected. "You mean those millions of Galleons the Ministry's been sitting on for sixteen years?"
"The very same. The investigation finished last night and I had to go over the numbers so Kingsley can sign off first thing Monday morning. The money should be back to their proper owners by Tuesday at the latest."
"About bloody time!" Harry mutters.
Ron shrugs it off. "They've been doing all right, I reckon. It's not like they're hurting."
Harry knows this isn't entirely true. Some, like the Malfoys and Greengrasses, have prospered; others, like the Parkinsons, haven't been so lucky. But sensing Ron will spare little sympathy for their Slytherin classmates, Harry says, "That's not really the point, is it? The Ministry did this out of spite, not justice."
"I don't know. In some ways, it was probably smart. If the Death Eaters had got their hands on all that money after the war, who knows what they would have done? Probably would've resurfaced in a few years with more of that pureblood bullshit."
"And they won't now? You think they don't have even more reason to be upset these days?"
"Naw, not with you in charge. They wouldn't dare."
Ron's smug confidence, that trust that's rarely wavered in all the time they've been friends, draws the secret to Harry's lips. "Um, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about, Ron. I'm thinking of quitting the Aurors."
He's given the idea a lot of thought lately, but it's the first time he's said the words out loud. He braces for lightning to strike or the earth to split and swallow him whole. To his amazement, the field stays comfortably intact and the sun still shines.
But Ron's mouth hangs agape. Harry quickly volunteers an explanation to spare them both the inevitable stuttered questions. "I've been thinking about it for a while now. It seems the more I figure out what I want, the less I want to be an Auror."
"But ... you always wanted to be an Auror. We both did."
"Yeah, I know. It made sense back when we were rounding up Death Eaters, but it stopped being about that a long time ago." Harry nods towards their children darting like butterflies above the dandelion-spotted field. "I kept telling myself it was for them, that I'd do anything to keep them safe. But then it hit me. Six months from now James will be in school, and I hardly know one thing about him. I'm working more for the idea of being a father than really being one." It feels remarkably easy, this confession that spills effortlessly from his tongue.
Ron is quiet, frowning like Harry's seen him do when he's considering puzzling cases. "I knew you were unhappy," he finally ventures. "I don't think that will surprise anyone. But you seemed to be coming out of that lately. Are you sure this is what you want?"
"I really think I am. I think it's time I try something different." His eyes lift to Albie spinning looping figure eights in the air. "And I want to get to know my kids before it's too late."
Ron follows Harry's gaze to the sky, then slowly a grin cracks across his face. "Well, mate, sounds like you'll be one of those blokes who says he's leaving the Ministry to spend more time with his family. Bet you'll be the first one who's ever meant it!"
This easy acceptance, this is what he knew he could expect from Ron. "Yeah, I know, I always thought they were avoiding some scandal. What if they really were just changing their priorities?"
"Fat chance of that!" scoffs Ron. "But with you, I believe it. And if that's what you want, I say go for it; you've earned it. Kingsley will choke on an Erumpent, though. Have you told him yet?"
"Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first. If you're interested, I'd like to put your name forward as my successor."
He's been wondering what Ron's reaction would be; sure enough, his eyes bulge wide as Bludgers. "Me? Seriously?"
"Yes, you. The job should go to someone who can be trusted to do the right thing, even if he doesn't always agree. Like you did today. You didn't have to go in on your day off, Ron. The only one's who would have complained about the delay are the so-called Death Eater scum."
Ron looks abashed. "But I had to. I may hate them, but it was the right thing to do."
"And you know that. That's why you'd be a great division head." Suddenly realising that he's putting his friend on the spot, offering him a job he himself has rejected, Harry hurries to add, "If you want it, I mean. I don't want to force it on you, but I hope you'll consider it. I'm sure Kingsley would approve."
"I ... I don't know what to say. Well, actually, yes I do: yes! I do want it!"
"That's great then. I'll talk to Kingsley on Monday."
Their conversation drifts to other things, from the children's play to Arthur's upcoming birthday to plans for Molly's sixty-fifth birthday party to the new shed that Ron's planning to build since he's moved back to the Burrow. When the afternoon sun begins to dip, Lily's voice booms across the field, amplified by Ginny's wand, calling them in to dinner. They start back to the house, the children recounting the details of their airborne adventures before racing ahead; Harry can't recall the days when he had their boundless energy.
Ron and Harry are still well out of earshot of the house when Harry looks curiously at his friend. "I'm surprised you didn't ask if I'd told Ginny yet."
A ginger eyebrow rises defensively. "Do I look stupid? You've probably written the French Ferret, though, haven't you?" Harry doesn't answer, but he feels the corner of his lip twitch. It's enough confirmation for Ron. "I knew it! You know, Hermione used to think you'd end up leaving Ginny for him."
Harry doesn't say how close he's come; that's one confession he's not ready to make. Instead he asks, "And what'd you think?"
Ron shrugs. "What would I know? The two of you lasted a lot longer than me and Hermione. All I know is that relationships are harder than I ever would've thought, seeing my parents."
Harry can't agree more. The rabid arguments that marked Ron and Hermione's divorce are still etched in his memory, painful as the awkward silences that still descend whenever Neville and Luna are in the same room, despite both now being remarried. Others have made it somehow, those rare success stories of true romance. Bill and Fleur. Seamus and Dean. Parvati and Lee Jordan. He supposes that people include Ginny and him in that group, childhood sweethearts who've held onto the romance.
There's no romance, but he's been satisfied with what he has. A comfortable life, three beautiful children, a relationship of polite respect even if passion is missing.
What more could he ask for?
Leaving the Aurors is surprisingly easy. Ron steps comfortably into Harry's shoes while Harry steps into Ginny's. Just days after he breaks the news of his resignation, she announces that Oliver Wood has offered her a job at Quality Quidditch Supplies. She's been a housewife for eleven years, she says with a shade of resentment, and Harry doesn't remind her of all the times she's said she can't imagine leaving her kids to work like Hermione does. It's a good opportunity for her in any case. Oliver is interested in appealing to the growing female Quidditch market, she tells Harry.
The question you should be asking is if Wood is interested in appealing to your wife, writes Draco unhelpfully.
It's an answer Harry doesn't want to know. He writes back, a long stream of unconnected phrases that tries to explain why he's started to think of himself as asexual, like a worker bee or one of those strange earthworms. Thankfully he destroys that letter before it's sent. He doesn't want Draco to question his thoughts of parthogenesis; he doesn't want to admit how lonely he really is. Still, he grows fond of thinking like a worm might, crawling through the soft soil and decaying logs, unconcerned with nightmares of being buried alive or the heavy thoughts of infidelity.
Seeing James off to school is harder than he expected. Harry's tried to pack a lifetime into six months, but it feels like he only started yesterday. He knows now that James prefers licorice wands to chocolate frogs but still trades cards with Albie. He knows he prefers his sandwiches buttered on just one side and crushes cheese and onion crisps into his egg salad. He knows he hates reading but will spend hours helping Lily with her multiplication tables. Harry tries to rearrange these facts into a picture of who his son will become. If he had more time, if he'd been with him from the beginning, he's sure he could do it. He wants more time.
But as he looks at the empty station where the train just was, he tries to imagine what it would be like if he hadn't had these six months. It's unthinkable.
Albus and Lily race headlong down the platform, weaving through the crowd like Snitches from grabbing hands, waving at the departing Hogwarts Express until it disappears from sight.
"Well, that's one down," teases Ginny, but her voice shakes a little.
She rubs her knuckle under her eye, wiping away a tear Harry pretends he didn't see, then looks embarrassed. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and she leans into the comfort.
"Two to go."
~~~~~
Somewhat ironically, Harry stops needing Draco to send his monthly course of potions at the same time Bonne Nuit is finally approved for sale in Britain. Although it's been popular in the rest of Europe for years, the Ministry makes Malfoy jump through a thousand hoops—half of them invented on the spot by Percy Weasley, Harry suspects. Unlike Harry's other friends, Draco never once asks him to intercede. And Harry doesn't offer. When he sees the familiar indigo vials appear on the shelf at Slug & Jiggers, he swells with pride knowing that Malfoy's managed it on his own.
The announcement that Malfoy will present a paper at the Edinburgh meeting of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers makes Harry even happier for his old friend. Although Draco's letter makes it clear that of course he expected to be chosen, it's not hard to read between the lines and understand that it's a huge honour for his work to be accepted in his homeland.
For his part, Harry's both excited and nervous about seeing Malfoy again. Through their candid letters he now knows Draco better than ever before, but absent the gestures that give words weight such knowledge is dangerous. He fears the man in his mind won't be the one who appears; he fears losing this friend he might never have really known.
Worse, he fears what Malfoy will think of him.
It's been seven years since the Hogwarts' memorial, long enough for his body to recover from sleep deprivation and jagged nerves. It's his face he again sees in the mirror, and for that he's glad. But he has no idea if he's still attractive. Hermione assures him he is, and the young office witches titter when he passes their desks, but Ginny hardly seems to see him anymore. He can't remember the last time they made love. He wonders if she really does have lovers. If she does, does she wear the same faded pink shift she wears for him? Does her jaw stiffen as she stifles a yawn during their kiss? Once, he would have asked her. Now he discovers he doesn't want to know.
He doesn't tell her what happens at the Muggle gym either, of the guarded looks over the treadmill that turn into hand jobs in the sauna. It's all he's had for a long time. He's thirty-five years old. He has the family he's always wanted. It's enough.
It has been.
Harry arrives early at Dubh Prais near Edinburgh Castle. Their dinner reservations are for eight o'clock, but the restaurant is slow and the maître d' is able to seat him at a cosy table beside a cast-iron fireplace. Harry was surprised that Malfoy asked him to choose a Muggle restaurant; he tries to rein back his expectations of what that might signal. Most likely he's just looking forward to a quiet night to ease himself back into Britain.
Harry slowly sips a glass of Ardbeg, willing the smoky malt to still his jangling nerves. He finishes the one and debates ordering another, resisting the temptation to keep casting Tempus Charms. Malfoy is late. He never used to be late; in fact, being kept waiting was one of the things that annoyed him most. Surely that can't have changed.
Two hours later, grumpy from hunger and being stood up, Harry enters Draco's hotel. Thankfully he's booked a room at a wizarding guesthouse where the manager recognises him immediately.
"Mr. Potter, I'm so glad you've come. I've already alerted the local Aurors but I wasn't sure they'd be able to contact you."
He hands Harry a folded sheet of parchment. The script is unfamiliar, but there's no mistaking whose words they are.
Bloody typical, Potter! Your fucking Ministry blocked my Portkey activation! Never mind that they approved it a month ago! What am I supposed to do now? Fly the Channel with two tonnes of potions supplies on my back? And if you dare suggest a Muggle coach I will have to kill you! This is a cock-up of the highest order! Am debating whom to hex first! Someone will pay!
Harry's blood boils by the time he finishes reading. He knows for a fact that International Magical Cooperation approved the Portkey; Ron told him that he'd personally signed off on the request. This is nothing but pure harassment. Harry is angry enough to storm into Percy's home, time of night be damned, and demand he fix this. If that doesn't work, he's prepared to wake his boss, and he'll keep going until he gets to Kingsley himself if necessary. But he doesn't think it will be. Percy's behind this, he can smell it.
In a solemn voice that Harry imagines was supposed to be helpful, the hotel manager says, "I've given a copy of the letter to Robert Craig, our local Auror chief. I'm sure he'll want your input on the response."
"What response? Why would you give him my mail?"
"Well, it's a death threat, isn't it?"
Harry blames the two whiskies for the belly laugh that threatens to erupt. "A death threat? Are you kidding me?" But he looks at it again. Threats of hexes, someone having to pay. Typical Malfoy-speak, dripping with entitlement and exaggeration, but for someone unaccustomed to it ... fucking hell, Malfoy.
"I'm completely serious, Mr. Potter," answers the manager. He looks a bit less certain of himself, Harry thinks, but not about to admit his mistake. "This is from a known Death Eater and contains threats against Ministry personnel. It's my duty to report it."
The laughter freezes in Harry's belly, turning into something sharper, something wild and dangerous. He feels the steely pricks of anger in his fingers. It would take so little to ruin this place. He wouldn't even need to draw his wand, just let his fury lash out.
"You listen to me," he growls, making sure his words are clear and loud enough to be heard throughout the lobby. "Draco Malfoy is not and never has been a Death Eater. He is a respected Potions master and deserves far better than this. I owe my life to him several times over. You should be ashamed!" To Harry's satisfaction, the manager blanches and seems to wither. "And you had no right to share my confidential mail. The Magical Chamber of Commerce will hear all about this!"
Clutching Draco's letter as tightly as the magic threatening to explode, Harry marches out. This is the kind of harassment that drove Malfoy away over a decade ago. It's a bitter reminder that the world still isn't right.
The IMC's Potions Inspection Office is only open for a few hours each day. Unfortunately no one can—or will—tell Harry which hours those are. He finally stations his owl outside the door, with instructions to alert him as soon as someone arrives. On the fourth day, he Apparates directly to the fifth floor to catch Winnifred Hornroot who, although she's just arrived, says she's leaving for lunch. It takes only one glower from Harry to get her rifling through her dusty files.
"Here we are. Lord Draco Malfoy, potions maker, currently residing in," she squints at the words, "Lee Mare-aze in Paris."
"Le Marais," Harry corrects her pronunciation. And wouldn't that tickle Draco.
"Left England in 2003, still maintains property here, registered in his mother's name, in Wiltshire. Married, one child..."
"Yes, yes, that's not important. I want to know why Malfoy's travel was denied."
"Let's see..." She flips through more papers. "Ah, yes, here it is. Trafficking in substances controlled for reasons of danger to and protection of magical creatures under Ministry Decree 1493286-12, or developing a potion or other product for sale in the British market using substances derived from said magical creatures. There you go."
She smiles as if that answers Harry's question. It doesn't help that she reminds him of Dolores Umbridge. He grits his teeth as he smiles back, his canines itching for blood.
"What did Malfoy do?"
"Last week a shipment of Bonnie Nuts," Harry winces on Draco's behalf, "entered London. Unlike the usual potion, the one that our office approved for sale, this one contained runespoor egg yolks. This potion should never have come into England."
Harry remembers a mention of the runespoor problem somewhere in the middle of a three-page rant on British import regulations. The part he recalls most vividly is Malfoy's claim that brewing the separate potion according to British specifications is causing him to lose his hair prematurely. He did it, though, and carefully segmented his stock between Britain and the rest of Europe.
"So wait—that's all that happened? A potions shipment got mixed up? And for that, you denied his travel?"
"Well, that, and the fact that he's a Malfoy, of course. Whole family of Death Eaters, don't you know."
You destroyed an entire Ministry office just for me? writes Draco. I'm impressed.
Shacklebolt is less so. If Harry was still an Auror, he bellows, he'd have his wand. Fortunately Madam Hornroot isn't hurt, only frightened, and the Spellmasons can repair the damage. Harry just has to sit through an angry lecture. He bristles as Kingsley rages against the impulsiveness of youth and holds his tongue as the Minister praises the slowly turning tide of public opinion. He knows that if he wasn't Harry Potter he'd be cooling off in the Ministry's holding cells, or at least facing a stiff fine. His name is still good for something.
He expects Ginny to be upset when she hears. Instead she looks at him like she's just figured something out.
~~~~~
When Harry was young, death was sudden and treacherous. A flash of violent green, an explosion of wreckage, a still clump of feathers, Fred's open, unseeing eyes. Relentless and powerful, death struck like a fist, terrifying in its random, indiscriminate reach.
It has more decorum these days. Death comes now for the old and infirm, for those who expect it, for those who even welcome it. Its gnarled hand extends with an invitation that almost seems polite.
Harry almost forgets that it's still the heartless bastard he's always known.
The eagle owl lands on the windowsill and waits more patiently than usual for Harry to get to the window. She looks exhausted, as if she's been told to fly with haste. Albie glances up from his English book to study the bird. "When I get to Hogwarts can I have an eagle owl? I don't want a horned owl like James. She always looks angry."
"We'll see," murmurs Harry absently, unrolling the letter.
"I'm getting a snowy owl like Papa had," states Lily, not even lifting her head. She's practicing her handwriting; "My name is Lily Luna Potter" covers sheet after sheet of parchment.
Draco's letter says something very different:
Mother passed away last night. The funeral will be held at the Manor on Friday. Merlin help anyone who dares cross me.
"I can have a snowy owl, can't I, Papa?"
Harry, unable to answer, stares at the words, willing them to rearrange into gossip about some German count or struggles with a feisty potion. They stubbornly refuse him, despite the protests in his head: it's too sudden, too unexpected, people aren't supposed to die anymore, not without warning.
Albie cocks his head; usually he's the spitting image of his father, but when his face knits with concern, Ginny's features take over. "Is something wrong, Papa?"
The question drags him back and he forces himself to smile. "Everything's fine, but I'm going to have to visit your Uncle Ron. I'll see if your grandmother can look after you for a bit."
That night, while Ginny tucks the kids into bed, Harry puts on the tea and roots around for the packet of Jaffa Cakes he knows is there. He doesn't hear her come back in and is startled by her words.
"I thought you didn't do funerals any more."
"Funny, that's exactly what Ron said." But there's no humour in his words. Their first thoughts are of trying to catch him out instead of sympathy, and that's not an insight he wants about his best friend or wife.
"Oh, really?" Ginny pulls the biscuits from the breadbox and sits at the table with her tea. "When did you talk to him?"
"I went in to his office," Harry says, joining her. "Wanted to make sure there aren't any cock-ups like last time. Narcissa deserves to be buried with her husband."
"With Lucius?"
There's scorn in her voice, and Harry can't fault her for it. He also can't hear it right now. "You know she saved my life, Gin. We wouldn't have won the war if not for her." He shouldn't have to remind her. It's bad enough that the rest of the world forgets, that they cling to their prejudices like security blankets. Here at home it should be different.
"She only did it for Malfoy."
And of course that's true, but Harry wonders why it sounds like an accusation. Narcissa had a mother's motivations, no different than what Molly had when she killed Bellatrix, no different than what his own mother had when she sacrificed herself. No different than what Ginny would have for any of their children. But Ginny's got that wise look that she's had a lot lately, the one that makes Harry think he must be missing something. "That's why you're doing it too, isn't it?"
"Doing what?" It takes him a minute to follow. "Do you mean helping with the funeral?"
Ron had questioned that, too, why he was doing this. Harry's answer was too complex, tinged with gratitude to Narcissa and guilt over thriving in the wizarding world that had seen her family exiled, anger at what happened to Draco in Edinburgh and a wish to imbue his homecoming with dignity. If there's a sliver of selfishness buried in the latter, he tries not to give it too much weight.
With Ginny, he opts for the easiest answer. "I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. I hated Lucius too, but Narcissa deserves some dignity."
Ginny stares at him for a long moment; Harry fights the urge to squirm under her knowing gaze. Finally she picks up her tea. "She was very young. How did she die?"
"Black family curse. She'd just turned sixty." It's only been a few months since Draco wrote about her extravagant birthday celebrations. At the time, Harry had thought he was being overly ostentatious after the recovery of their fortunes. Now he wonders if Draco had known what would happen all along.
Oh, Merlin! Draco is a Black as well, with that same curse flowing through his veins. At thirty-six, more than half of his life might already be gone, death already winding his remaining years like a thread around its long finger. It's almost more horrific to know when its touch will fall, to know there's no way to stop it. A surge of panic assaults Harry as he imagines Malfoy already dying, already dead, as stiff and cold as the marble slab his body will be laid out upon. It costs almost all of his strength to stay seated when his mind is screaming to fly to Draco's side.
Ginny's hand covers his and Harry looks up. Guilt flashes over his face, he feels it colour his cheeks, but she just looks at him steadily. "It's all right, Harry. I know I'm jealous of Malfoy and I don't have any reason to be."
Harry's throat catches. "The thing is, though..." he swallows hard and looks away, safe from her steady gaze. "The thing is, you might have a reason. I ... I haven't done anything, I haven't seen him for years, but..."
His voice trails off, the sentence left unfinished but bursting with promise. He doesn't know where that dangling word could lead and his urge to follow it down some uncertain path terrifies him. He knows how crazy this is. He's risking everything he has, and for what? For something unknown and unnamed? He doesn't even know what he really wants, much less what Malfoy would wish. Strange, then, that not knowing sends a thrill racing up his spine.
Ginny is quiet, he notices after few seconds. Not the reaction he expected; a hex, perhaps, or a vicious argument, those would be normal. Not silence. He braves a look and is surprised to see she looks regretful rather than angry. "That wasn't quite what I meant," she says. "There's something I have to tell you, about me and Oliver..."
And just like that, Harry's entire world turns upside down.
Friday finds Malfoy Manor draped in grey clouds and unseasonably cold for a July day. Climate charms, no doubt, but Harry can't help feeling that this corner of the world mourns for Narcissa. As he hurries up the straight gravel drive he remembers the last funeral, when he took these same steps past ragged hedges and a dilapidated mansion. Today everything looks different, severe but well kept. Draco has spared no expense in making this funeral worthy of his mother's memory and Harry admires the extraordinarily fine spellwork that's undone nearly two decades of neglect. The Manor looks ready to live in; Harry's heart ignores his insistence that this is for show and means nothing at all.
He's late, the children's sitter didn't arrive on time, and when he arrives the Necromage is just beginning to speak. Hastily, Harry looks around. He dimly registers the mourners, many more than for Lucius, around the white casket that glows star-bright from his distant memories. He notices a small woman wearing a heavy black veil, shoulders heaving as she sobs inconsolably; beside her he sees a tiny boy, pale and matchstick thin. But all of this is eclipsed by the tall, slim figure who seems untouched by what is happening around him. He stands ramrod straight, his face expressionless. He looks unfinished, as if the sculptor will return later to lift the lips, fill out the cheekbones, bring some life to those haunted dead eyes.
These eyes lift and meet Harry's, and hold him there, and suddenly Harry knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that he wants to be the one holding that chisel.
At Lucius' funeral, he lurked on the fringes, hesitant to reopen newly healed wounds with his presence. Now he moves smoothly through the crowd, not with the confidence of an Auror but with the surety of where he belongs. Draco doesn't move when he stands beside him, close enough that they could clasp hands like they did so many years before. He doesn't even look at him, not until the service ends and it is time to send the casket to rest in the vault. But then, as he draws his wand, his eyes flicker briefly to Harry's. The look of distress there, so out of place on Draco's cool façade, shakes Harry from his peace like an icy cold shower. Harry's not sure what it means until he sees the outstretched wand. About to cast the levitation spell, it shakes minutely. The movement would be unnoticeable to any of the guests, but Draco's wand form has always been impeccable.
Except, perhaps, on the day he buries his mother.
It's the closest to asking for help that Draco will ever come. It's more than enough for Harry. He draws his wand and joins their spells. With their magical energies combined he senses the turmoil seething behind Draco's mask. It was one thing to lay Lucius to rest; this is his mother, and Harry knows Draco could not have managed this alone. His magic feels weak and fractured, surging with dogged bursts of strength that quickly collapse, brittle under the weight of the enchantment. Harry sends his own magic, supporting and stabilising the spell, and together they glide the heavy marble with the sombre grace that Narcissa would have desired for her final journey.
Once Narcissa's casket joins her husband's for their eternal sleep, Harry lowers his wand; it is Draco's place to close the doors alone, and Harry understands that he needs to discharge his duty with dignity. But the quiet thunk that should be the final farewell is drowned out by a tremendous wail. Harry grips his wand, fearing a bean sídhe's attack, before realising that it's the woman on Draco's other side. Asteria, Harry realises, and he's shocked to discover he despises her and her flowing tears. It's not jealousy, he tells himself, although admittedly he's glad that Draco makes no move to comfort her. It's that she can so freely express the pain that only Draco has a right to. Draco, who stands solemnly, his tightening jaw the only outward sign of his anguish.
As people pass by offering condolences Harry steps back, not wanting to intrude on the family; Draco glances over his shoulder to make sure he's not gone far. The little boy does too, wide grey eyes peeping from under his blond fringe. When Harry smiles he whips his head back to the front as if he's been caught and stands stock-still, a miniature version of his father right down to the stiff set of his shoulders under starched black robes.
The crowd thins, the mourners winding their way back to the reception in the Manor, when Asteria rounds upon him. She darts out one hand while the other dabs her seeping eyes with her handkerchief. "I can't tell you what an honour it is that you're here, Mr. Potter. I know it would have meant so much to Mother Malfoy."
Apparently recovered from her show of grief, she switches seamlessly into the society hostess that Harry knows her to be. Draco goes through the motions of presenting her and Harry mumbles his pleasure, but each moment with her there is torture. Malfoy verges on collapse, if his spell was any indication. As much as Harry yearns to examine Draco, studying every change the years have wrought, even more he wants to let him break down away from prying eyes. Ginny would make some excuse and lead him away, were he in this situation; he would do the same if she needed him. But Asteria drones on about the important figures who attended the funeral, about how pleased Mother Malfoy would be. Harry, who can't imagine Narcissa ever being pleased at being called Mother Malfoy, looks to Draco to save him. He's relieved when the small boy is drawn forward.
"And may I present my son, Scorpius."
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Potter."
Such proper manners that Harry can't help but smile. The slender hand extended to him reminds him briefly of another hand so long ago, one he didn't take for eight years. This time he shakes it gladly.
"Hello, Scorpius. I've heard a lot about you. I believe you'll be in my son's class next year at Hogwarts."
"Hogwarts?" Asteria interrupts, her pitch rising. Draco's eyes narrow in warning, but she doesn't notice. "No! No, you agreed to Beauxbatons!"
"This is not the time, Asteria." His voice crackles with anger and there is no escaping the danger now. "Why don't you see to our guests? The house-elves are no doubt beside themselves." His eyes flash to Harry's, cold as ice. "Potter, care for a walk?"
Not waiting for an answer, Malfoy starts off. Soon they're out of sight of the well-tended mausoleum, Draco's long legs tramping down the wild grasses as Harry hurries to keep up. Over the knoll he follows, down to where the River Wylye crosses the Malfoy estate. They stumble along the riverbank for what seems like forever, until Draco finally stops beneath a sagging white willow. He rests his shoulder against its trunk as if he cannot bear his own weight anymore.
"We had no trouble returning to England," Draco says curtly. "I suppose I have you to thank for that."
"No, there's nothing to thank me for." Harry shakes his head and moves a step closer under the tangle of branches, letting the shimmering leaves fall like a curtain around them. "Draco," he says, and then not knowing what there is to say, simply offers, "I'm so sorry, Draco."
Draco inhales deeply, releases it slowly. The action seems to soften him; his eyes cloud and his gaze drifts out over the freesia and irises that dot the riverbank with brilliant colour. "She used to bring me here when I was small. We'd sit under this tree and I'd pick flowers for her to transfigure into tiny menageries. She refused to change the colours, though. Tiny yellow unicorns and pink dragons. She'd make griffins, too, she liked them."
A lump rises in Harry's throat, choking him with longing for the mother that he never knew, with sorrow for the one that Draco's lost. Grey eyes flicker across his face, recognising his empathy, and Draco's carefully schooled features relax. "She wanted to come back, you know," he confesses in a cracked whisper. "She missed it terribly. I always told her to wait, just a little longer. She wanted ... I wouldn't let her ..."
The cascade around them shimmers, willow leaves flickering from green to silver and back again, as Draco's shoulders silently convulse. His knees give out, useless as jelly, and he would have fallen save for Harry's arms waiting to catch him. He hangs on Harry, lifeless as the mourning crape draped over the Manor doors, gravity and too much time apart dragging them to the ground. Bark scrapes Harry's back as they fall, the dull pain hardly registering against the onslaught of anguish in his arms. Draco does not weep, not like his wife. His breakdown seems more like torture than release. He shakes like he's suffering the throes of Cruciatus, and Harry wraps his arms tighter.
"...wouldn't let ... come back," Draco gasps, his words broken with airy holes. "...keep her from being hurt..."
"It's not your fault, Draco," Harry murmurs back, and "it'll be all right," stock comforts that sit heavy as stale bread in his mouth. His eyes sting and he wonders where Malfoy's tears have gone, then dismisses the thought to pull him as close as he possibly can. This body isn't the one from his memories; it sinks into him with a weight the too-slim youth lacked, it holds him with a force that he'd never have been able to escape.
"There was nothing anyone could do. The Healers couldn't help, she ... she just faded before our eyes. They tried everything, they couldn't save her." Harry's never heard a voice sound so fragile, not like this. "Hated you, Potter ... hated everybody so much..." Malfoy's hands claw Harry's robe through this confession, as if afraid he'll pull away. "You were all here and my mother ... my mother ... she wanted to come home, she couldn't even..."
"I didn't know ... I would've ... I'm sorry..."
Their words blend and braid, anger and loss and regret impossible to extricate. Malfoy's anger rolls over him like the stream beside them rushes over polished river stones. And like the stream, at last tears begin to flow. Not a dam-bursting flood like Asteria but a helpless trickle, as if his eyes leak and it takes too much effort to plug the holes. Harry rocks Malfoy like he would a child. Back and forth, his soothing movements absorb Draco's trembling just like the collar of his robe soaks up his tears.
Hours seem to pass before the demons let Malfoy rest. Harry doesn't mind.
At last, Draco lifts his head and Harry studies his face carefully for the first time. He catalogues the changes of the years, the wrinkles and the pronounced widow's peak, but his fine features haven't changed in spite of wet cheeks creased from the seams on Harry's robe. More worrying are the dark circles under red eyes and the profound sense of fatigue weighting his shoulders. He looks like every last ounce of his strength is depleted. Gently, Harry wipes away a lingering tear with his thumb.
"When was the last time you slept?"
It looks like a struggle to remember, or maybe it's the distraction of Harry's touch. "Besides a nap the day before yesterday? It must have been Sunday, before Mother..."
Harry squeezes Draco's arm when his voice trails off. "I need to get you to bed, you're worn out." He debates where they should go. He doesn't want to face Asteria again, but Ginny's got the kids at his house. Understanding as she might be, bringing Malfoy back would be pushing it...
"My bedroom at the Manor." Draco smiles a little shyly. "I already set the wards to allow you in."
Harry nods. Already as close as they can be, he hugs Draco's shoulder and Apparates them to the Manor.
It feels like stepping back in time, being in this unchanged room. Muffled sounds rise from downstairs but a wave of Harry's wand closes the door and the drapes, and suddenly the world belongs to them again. Draco looks dazed from the journey so Harry guides him to the bed.
"Here, let me..." Harry makes quick work of the delicate pearl buttons around Draco's throat, opening the neck of his robes enough to slide the heavy garb over his head. He wears traditional wizards' undergarments underneath, vest and ankle-length pants spun of the finest silver silk threads. There will be time to dispose of those later, Harry hopes, pushing back the stirrings of interest and reminding himself that now is not the time. Instead he drops to his knee to unlace Draco's boots.
He looks up to see Malfoy looking down at him, wearing a small smile. "Harry," he says, and nothing more, but the sound of his name on Draco's tongue turns Harry's insides warm and spongy.
"Sleep, Malfoy," he quietly commands. Draco is so exhausted that he's pliable; it's easy to slide him under the duvet and his eyes close the instant they touch the pillow. Harry indulges a long look at the sleeping man, pushes a stray lock of hair back into place, braces to leave although he vows it won't be for long. Tomorrow. It's been thirteen years. Just one more day, it shouldn't be this hard.
He starts to move, carefully so as not to shake the bed, but a hand darts out, quick as the Seeker it once was, and circles his wrist. Malfoy, who a moment ago seemed fast asleep, is staring, exhausted but determined. "Stay."
Harry starts to protest that Draco needs his rest, but the hand tightens on his wrist. It only lets go long enough for Harry's robe to come off; afterwards it clutches him again, pulling Harry until he's draped like a blanket over Draco, blocking out all the world.
That night, Harry has a dream he's not had for a long time. Of cold, unforgiving stone so hard that his fist aches from pounding, so dense that it swallows the sound of his screams. Of darkness so black that his Lumos spell is useless, of stale, dead air and the cloying scent of lilies. His fingers scrape the smooth marble, feeling for cracks and joints, desperate to find a chink in the tomb. As he works his way over the corner seams, his dream changes ... or maybe he changes when he feels the right angle from the wrong side. He's on the outside of the casket, and panic spikes as he claws frantically at the stone. He finds the heavy lid and pushes against it with all his might. His shoulders ache and his legs strain and he feels his heart ready to give out. The weight is too much for him, and someone is pulling him back, trying to tear him away, but he won't give up, can't give up, because Malfoy is inside...
"...a nightmare, Harry. Wake up!"
Harry thrashes once more before realising that the arms holding him feel more solid than the tomb. He opens his eyes to see the bed lit by a ring of floating candles that give the man staring at him a ghostly appearance. "Malfoy?"
Draco presses a sharp kiss to his forehead. "It was just a nightmare. A bad one." He pulls back a little, frowning. "I thought you said you didn't have them anymore."
Harry shakes his head, waking up the rest of the way as his nightmare starts slipping away. "I haven't for a long time. This one was different." The tendrils of the fleeting dream sharpen for an instant and he feels the ache in his fist, hears the sound of death tapping its long finger, impatient for another victim. "Don't you dare die on me, Malfoy," he growls. His hand snakes possessively into Draco's hair. Fine as ever, the strands slip through his fingers like smoke no matter how tight his grip. "Don't you die on me, not now."
"What in Nimue's name are you on about, Potter?"
"The curse."
Draco stares, still puzzled, and Harry tries to explain the fear that grips him, that hit him so hard that even Ginny recognised his feelings. "I'm sorry about your mother, really I'm sorry. But there's got to be something the Healers haven't tried. There are curse-breakers who can work on this, I'll get Hermione to research it. We'll figure out something, Malfoy. We have to; I can't let you go, not again."
He discovers his nails are digging painfully into the man's shoulders, pinning him in place; after sliding so ineffectually off the granite they now want to press harder into yielding flesh. But Draco seems not to notice the pain. The puzzlement on his face has transformed into something else, something that looks like surprise with a glimmer of approval.
"Idiot Gryffindor. You've never gotten over your saving people thing, have you?" His gentle tone contradicts the rebuke and his hands wander aimlessly across Harry's chest. "The curse passes through the male line. I'm only a Black on my mother's side. So it seems I don't need saving after all." His hand stills. "So if that's all you came for, then perhaps you should go. I won't be needing your services after all."
Such a typical Malfoy response that Harry has the strangest urge to laugh. It's absurd how much he's missed this arrogant veneer and the insecurities it hides. "That's not why I came and you know it. I want to be with you, Malfoy. I don't know if it'll work, but Merlin help me, I want to try."
Harry doesn't care if it's appropriate, with Draco's wife and child sleeping under the same roof. His hands slip up to cradle Draco's head, pulling him forward until their mouths meet. The kiss is hard, sloppy, not a shred of romance in it. For Harry this is a claiming kiss and the other man leans forward to be claimed, his eyes open and unblinking.
"Who'd have thought you'd get sentimental in your old age, Potter," Malfoy says when Harry pulls away. He props himself up on his elbow, his eyes suddenly sharp. "Not that I disapprove of where this is headed, and I know I'll hex myself for asking if this all goes pear-shaped, but what's changed?"
An explanation was inevitable, Harry knew that, although he'd expected it to come later. Malfoy is already wearing his stoic face, though, the one that dares the world to throw it worst punch, so Harry dives in. "I changed, and you already know that. You're the one who taught me to say no to all those things people expected. I've told you so many times that I couldn't have done that without you, without your potion."
"Saying no isn't the same as saying yes." Draco's face has that grim look he used to get when he thought of the war, but it softens when Harry touches it, and his chin dips just a little so his cheek caresses Harry's knuckles.
"You're right, it's not. But it helped me see what I wanted to say yes to. Remember playing Quidditch back in school? How when you were flying low, all you heard was the noise in the stands?" Draco nods, his lips curled into a slight smile that Harry wants to kiss. Later, he promises himself. "And you'd want to stay there, because that's where everything was happening and you wanted to be part of it, but you knew you'd never catch the Snitch down there. You had to fly high to get clear of that, and then you could see everything."
"So you see everything now, do you?"
Harry's delighted to see the return of the smirk. He can't believe how much he's missed it. "Not everything, no, but definitely more. I saw enough to know that I couldn't be an Auror anymore. And I saw enough to know that I was more upset than was normal when you couldn't make it to Edinburgh. Even Ginny could see that."
"You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Potter. I mean, look at your hair." But Draco is smiling even as he deflects. "So what does your wife think of this newfound clarity of yours?"
"She's surprisingly understanding about it. Of course, she does have Wood to see her through. No, it's okay," Harry rushes to add when Malfoy's eyes go wide with horror. "It really is for the best. She's moving in with him and I'll stay in the house, at least until Albie starts school next year." He tries to smile but it's thin, the wound still new. "It's all been shockingly civil."
Draco stares at him, his eyes flickering back and forth across Harry's face like he's reading a page, scrolling through computations and seeing them fall into place. Then he nods, awkward but sympathetic. "Still, I'm sorry, Harry. You never said anything."
"It just happened. She wasn't pleased that I was breaking my 'no funerals' rule and it all just came out. I wasn't going to bother you, not when you had so much else to deal with."
This time it's Malfoy who offers the kiss. It starts out as one of gratitude, at least it feels that way to Harry, and he suspects that Draco knows what he did to ensure the funeral went off smoothly. It's sweet and comforting and so much slower than the last, his tongue gradually relearning the contours of Harry's lips. Draco is thorough, almost painfully so, and the touch is so erotic, so arousing, that Harry thinks it couldn't possibly come through just this one point of contact. Every cell of his body feels the caress and surrenders, even his lungs breathe out a quiet sigh. His lips part to allow the breath out, to invite Draco in, and it feels like the most intimate act of his life when the tip of Draco's tongue touches his.
Harry relearns more than Draco's body this night, in these still hours while the Manor sleeps. Under Draco's hand, under this burning mouth that lays scorching kisses down the line of his throat, he remembers what it is to feel, to want. To need something, someone, so badly that his entire body aches for them and only now realises how much. Like a starving man who's beyond hunger, Draco reminds Harry with every stroke, with teasing tickles and lavish licks, that he's been ravenous for years. That those occasional moments with Ginny or random trysts with strangers are nothing compared to the feast he now wallows in.
Draco feels it too, Harry's sure. He dispenses with their clothes with a kind of irritated growl; as concentrated as Draco's banishing spell is, Harry still feels the brush of magic too excited to control. Sensation scuttles across his now-bare skin, reverberating between their bodies. As hands touch everywhere Harry feels Draco trying to crawl inside him. He wants him inside, wants so badly to open himself up to his lover, that when it finally happens, when after endless indulgent preparation Draco finally breaches him, it's less like penetration and more like a lost part of himself is found. They might as well be one body, Harry thinks as they move together, in that one tiny part of his mind that's still capable of thought. The rest of him is awash in pure carnal pleasure, electrifying bliss spreading through every nerve, every tendon, the pressure building until it suffocates and destroys him. He can't go back, he can't lose this again, and Harry clings tighter to Draco through their final thrusts, trusting his lover to remake him even as he destroys him.
Finally they fall apart, fatigued beyond belief, murmuring endearments that don't make any sense except that they do. Harry cleans them with a quick spell and this time he's the one who rolls into Draco's shielding arms. He falls asleep certain that his nightmares have been quieted.
"Father, you're here!"
The bed bounces, waking Harry from the soundest sleep. It takes an instant for Harry to remember where he is. When he does, he looks up in horror to see Draco's son crawling into bed with them. He grapples with the sheets, making sure his naked body is covered, while bracing for Malfoy's imminent explosion.
It doesn't come.
"I am here. You didn't think I'd gone anywhere, did you?" Draco's voice is groggy but he's moving to sit up, his full attention fixed on the little blond boy sitting cross-legged beside him.
"I thought you might be sleeping outside to keep Grandmama company. I wasn't worried, though."
"Of course you weren't, my brave boy."
As Draco gently pushes the fringe from Scorpius' forehead, Harry realises with a start that this is a normal morning for the two. Other than the fact that he is here.
"Father," Scorpius asks sotto voce, his French accent coming through even in the whisper, "did you know that Mr. Potter's in bed with you?"
Draco chuckles. "I'm aware of that, yes. He's being quite rude though, isn't he? Potter, say good morning to my son."
"G– good morning, Scorpius." Harry clutches the sheet to his chest like a security blanket, desperately wishing he had his vest. Still, seeing Draco with his son like this, this comfortable moment of familiarity, it impresses him.
Scorpius, though, doesn't seem the least bit discomfited. "Good morning, Mr. Potter," he says brightly.
"Scorpius, could you hand Mr. Potter his glasses? They're behind you on the bed table. Perhaps he can't see you without them. He's blind as a bat, you know."
"Why doesn't he correct his eyes with magic?"
"Merlin only knows," Draco sighs wearily. Harry rolls his eyes at him.
"Thank you," he says as Scorpius hands him his spectacles. "I tried magic, but I was too old by then and my eyes were already set. It didn't work."
Scorpius considers this answer carefully, reminding Harry of Albie when he hears something confusing. Then he switches tracks entirely. "Father and I are flying over the Manor grounds this afternoon. Will you come with us? We're going to find where the hinkypunks are hiding."
"I don't know." Harry looks to Draco for advice. "If it was just going to be the two of you..."
"You should come, Potter." To Harry's surprise, Draco reaches out and casually drapes his arm over his chest. Their hands join, and Harry relaxes his hold on the sheet just a fraction. "Scorpius already knows you're the only person who ever beat me to the Snitch. We'll see how well you can spot hinkypunks from the air. A Galleon says I find more than you."
Harry grins at the challenge. "You're on, Malfoy. Would you have a broom I can borrow?"
"I think I might have an old Nimbus 2001 around here somewhere."
A heated look passes between them, the memory of their old rivalry rekindled, softened by years, perhaps, but still alive. Harry feels an irrepressible urge to pull Malfoy back under the covers, and stops himself only when he remembers Scorpius' presence. The boy's eyes flit back and forth between them. "May I ask you a question, Mr. Potter?"
"Of course you can."
"Are you going to marry Father and come to live with us in Paris?"
Draco makes a choking sound, of laughter or shock Harry's not sure. Unable to look at him, Harry shakes his head. "No, that's not possible. Wizards aren't allowed to marry, and I doubt your father would ever consent to a Muggle ceremony. Besides, I have children of my own, so I can't leave England."
Scorpius nods, accepting that explanation. "But you do love him, don't you."
Harry glances at Draco. The colour's drained completely from his face and his mouth hangs half open. He looks like he wants to reprimand Scorpius if he can only find his stray tongue. Harry tightens his grip on Draco's hand, tugs it until his lover looks up at him. His eyes are full of the same fear they'd held when he was a teenager, trapped in a desperate situation with no way out. It's taken him years, but at last Harry's figured out how to answer that.
"Yeah, I think I just might."
Harry's breath stops as those grey eyes cloud, fear fading as something smouldering takes its place.
"Scorpius," Draco says, and his voice cracks. He pats his son's knee with his free hand, the other cutting the blood flow off as he grips Harry's so tightly. "Why don't you go and make sure your broom is trimmed. Potter and I'll be downstairs in a little while."
"Yes, Father."
Harry hardly notices as Scorpius pads across the room. He can't tear his eyes from Draco's, from the storm brewing there. As the door clicks closed, he moves to kiss Draco and is surprised by a hand on his chest, stopping him.
"Just what do you think you're doing, Potter?"
At the shocked tone, Harry freezes in confusion. "What? What did I do?"
"You just ... you can't just drop in and ... and say things like that." He sighs, utter exasperation in one heavy breath. "I fucking hate you, Potter."
"You mean ... when I said..." His confession to Scorpius? Could that have upset Draco so? Did he not believe it was real? "Draco, I really did mean it. I do think I lo–"
"Shut it, Potter." A frustrated hand swipes through the cascade of silver hair. "Merlin, I know that you do. That's what makes it all the worse."
"I don't understand? What's wrong?"
"You just burst in and take what you want. What do I get out of this?"
Harry's mouth falls open; it takes all his effort to get it to work again. "Well, I thought you might get me. If that's not enough then..."
"Oh for the love of Merlin, don't pout, I don't think I can bear it."
Harry rolls back, away from Draco's touch. He's not forgotten the man's mercurial nature, but this ... this feels like something more. "I don't get it, Malfoy. I thought this was something you wanted. You weren't exactly unwilling last night."
"It's always so easy for you, isn't it?" accuses Draco. "You want to be an Auror, so suddenly you're Head Auror. You want a family, so you get your perfect wife and kids. You get tired of all that, you just walk away. Even your wife gives you her blessing to have an affair." He crosses his arms stubbornly. "I hate you and your charmed fucking life."
"Fuck you, Malfoy. You don't know anything about it." Harry throws off the blankets, hunting for his clothes scattered across the floor. Malfoy's as spiteful and petty as he ever was. Harry can't believe he ever imagined having feelings for this man.
"Oh, but I know everything about it," Draco retorts smugly. "For years I've heard everything about it. Admit it, I know more about you than your wife does."
Harry is glaring before his head even pops through his robe. "I'm sorry I bored you with the details of my life. I promise I won't let it happen again." Damn his boots that he pulled off in such a rush last night. Now they're knotted, slowing his escape. He'll just find his wand and carry them; hopefully Ginny won't see how he's Apparated home, but even if she does it'll be better than this horrible situation.
Malfoy is saying something, quieter now; Harry tries not to listen, he knows it will only make him angrier, but Draco's voice has a heart-rending tone that wasn't there before. "You come in here and say exactly what I've wanted to hear for twenty years. And all of a sudden, all I can think about is throwing over everything I've worked so hard for, just for you."
Harry spies his wand, rolled under the bed, just as Draco's words register. He doesn't reach for it; his world's just tilted on its side and he's not sure he trusts himself with magic right now. He steadies himself with a hand in the thick carpet, bracing himself as his head turns towards Malfoy. "Then ... you wanted me to ... you're not mad at me for saying that?"
Draco looks at him sadly. "Of course not. Merlin, but you're such an idiot. I've been in love with you forever."
Stunned, Harry stares at his chimerical lover. "Then why ... why all of this?"
"Because it can't work. Can't you see that? I've built a new life, I'm a respected Potions master in France, I've got students queuing up to apprentice with me. Here I'm nothing but Death Eater scum." He drops his head back against the headboard; the heavy clunking sound almost drowns out his sigh. "And you know, that wouldn't even bother me if it weren't for Scorpius."
Draco's desire to protect his son is a feeling Harry understands. He moves closer and sits at the foot of the bed. "Is he really going to Beauxbatons?"
"Asteria wants him to. She says he'll have a better chance there, that the Malfoy name won't hurt him." He spits this last part out like rancid pumpkin juice.
"What do you want?"
He shrugs a bony shoulder. "It doesn't really matter what I want, does it?"
"I think it does. I spent my life doing what other people wanted. You're the one who helped me get over that." Harry slides closer and takes Draco's hand. For the first time he notices the rough callus on his index finger. His fine aristocratic hand, altered by years spent stirring potions. Proof that Draco Malfoy will do whatever it takes to change his fate. His thumb tracing the hard skin, Harry asks, "If you could have anything, what would you want?"
Draco stares at Harry's hand as he gives the question his full consideration. Harry waits, watching sandpiper tracks wrinkle his high forehead. "I'd want Scorpius to go to Hogwarts," Draco answers at last. "I'd want him sorted into Slytherin. He's smart, he would do well there. He could help show that it's changed—that it's not just cowards and Dark magic."
"I'm sure he could," agrees Harry. Draco falls silent again, but Harry has to know the rest; too much depends on words unspoken. He faces into the storm, willing those torrential grey eyes to admit the truth. "And ... what about us?"
"I ..." Draco's lips open and then close again, words frozen in his throat. His eyes, though, under Harry's scrutiny his eyes shift to something rich and charcoal warm.
"If you could have anything..." Harry prompts.
"Then I'd want there to be an us. It's what I've always wanted." A flash of passion crosses his face, and then a frustrated frown before the shutters drop down again. "Why are we even talking about this, Harry? It can't work."
Draco's pessimism might dissuade many, but even after all these years Harry is still a Gryffindor. He could never abandon a worthy cause—especially not one with this kind of reward at the end. Smiling confidently, he crawls his way to the headboard and leans against Draco. "Of course it can work. Charmed life, remember?"
Draco, to his credit, looks embarrassed. "I shouldn't have said that."
"It's all right. I won't say I haven't been very lucky." He takes Draco's hand again. Their palms fit together like a perfect clamshell. "I found you."
A flush rises over Draco's cheeks, but with a firm shake of his head he dismisses the compliment. "It's not that easy, Harry."
"I don't think it'll be easy. But what I said last night, that I want to try ... you're worth it, Draco, no matter how hard it gets. It took me too long to figure that out, I know, but I ... I do love you."
Draco shakes his head again and the mask refuses to slip. "It's too much, all at once. I ... I think I need some time to figure things out."
It's been too long already, Harry wants to argue, unfair as he knows that is. He's still used to Gryffindor ways, acting on emotions as soon as they come to light. But then, that's what tore Ron and Hermione apart; that's why Ginny has kept a toothbrush at Wood's flat for months. It's not the careful, calculating approach that Draco favours. So instead of arguing Harry forces himself to say, "Time, yeah, of course. You can have all the time you need." He lets go of Draco's hand and starts to move away. "You'll, um, you'll tell Scorpius I'm sorry I had to go?"
He's stopped by an imperious voice. "Where do you think you're going?"
Uneasily, Harry sits down again. "I thought ... you said..."
"I said I needed time, Potter, and I'll have more than enough of that when I return to Paris. But I'm here for a week and I intend to keep you naked for as much of that as I possibly can. Starting right now."
A week, Harry thinks, as Draco yanks the robe roughly over his head. It won't be enough, it could never be enough, but he's not about to give up a second of it.
~~~~~
Everyone says autumn came early this year. It doesn't feel that way to Harry. Time seems to crawl at a snail's pace, one endless sunny day bleeding into the next, time measured in reverse. Fourteen months since Narcissa's funeral. Three months since he last visited Paris. Six weeks since Draco's last letter, short and bitter, prompted by an argument over Hogwarts and Asteria's refusal to leave France. Even in just a few lines, Harry feels the weight of Draco's resignation.
Harry promised as much time as Draco needed. Over a year later, they're no closer to resolution. He often reminds himself that a year is nothing in the grand scheme of things. It took him eighteen years to make up his mind, after all.
But it's not really working.
James goes through the Floo first, then Albie, and finally little Lily. Sparks scatter as she jumps in with both boots, completely at ease in the flames that swirl around her pink cloak. Once she's gone, Harry picks up the two caged owls and steps inside. "The Leaky Cauldron," he announces.
Ginny is already there when he emerges, dusting stray ashes from Albie's jumper. Harry glances around the nearly empty pub. "Where's Oliver?"
"Waiting outside with the car. He's going to just let us off at the station—parking's a nightmare," she answers breezily, although she gives Harry a look that says more. Silently he thanks Wood for letting this be a Potter family moment.
Ginny looks beautiful, Harry realises, radiant even. She's barely showing; the baby's not due until April, but she already has that glow he remembers. That she shares it with another man caused only a momentary ache, one that faded in the light of their children's excitement. Lily, thrilled, has already moved her dolls from their cot to make room; even the boys look forward to their little sister's arrival.
"Mum!" Albie squirms as Ginny tries to spit-lick his fringe into place.
"I just can't believe my youngest son is starting school today!"
Harry runs a sympathetic hand through his own untidy hair. Substances stronger than spit have had little effect. "Let's go," he suggests. "We don't want to miss the train!"
It's not long before the whole family, complete with owls and school trunks, tumbles out of Oliver's surprisingly roomy Mini and into the station at King's Cross. The Granger-Weasleys, always punctual thanks to Hermione, are already on the platform. Ron helps Harry load the boys' things onto the train, all the while filling him in on his recent driving test, and then dives headfirst into the kids' never-ending argument about the Sorting.
"If you're not in Gryffindor, we'll disinherit you," he says. Ginny and Hermione rush to say he's only joking, but Harry wonders if he is. It seems like only yesterday that he and Ron were sitting on the train, worrying about where the Sorting Hat would place them.
Before he can say anything, though, Ron catches his eye and nods discreetly down the platform. "Look who it is."
In a severe black coat, softened by the diffusion of steam, stands Malfoy with his family. Harry's breath catches; of all the things he expected from this day, this was not among them. He had prepared himself for the bereavement of Albie's departure. He'd not expected his heart to start beating again so soon.
While Asteria fusses with her son's hair much like Ginny was doing earlier, Draco turns his gaze towards him. Time digs in its heels; for just a moment there are only the two of them, the connection sizzling between them as Draco broadcasts his thoughts. "This is it, Potter. I've undone my whole life because for some unfathomable reason I'm in love with a four-eyed disaster whose dress sense is, quite frankly, appalling. So help me, if you muck this up..." Then Draco nods curtly and the connection breaks, and Harry is once again surrounded by his family and friends.
"So that's little Scorpius," he hears Ron mutter. "Make sure you beat him in every test, Rosie. Thank God you inherited your mother's brains."
If Harry could get a word out around his broad grin, he might reprimand Ron for saying this. Fortunately Hermione comes to the rescue. "Ron, for heaven's sake, don't try to turn them against each other before they've even started school!"
Just knowing that Draco is here lifts Harry's spirits. He jokes good-naturedly with his boys until it's time to board the train. Just as Albie is about to leave, he tugs on his hand. "What if I'm in Slytherin?" And so Harry tells him of his namesake and how he will be proud of him wherever he sorts. He almost tells him to look out for the pale little boy with the French accent who will almost certainly be a Slytherin, but at the last minute he holds back. Telling children who they should befriend has never really worked, in his experience.
At last the train pulls slowly from the station. Harry walks beside it, smiling and waving until the train curves around the bend and Albie's face disappears from sight. His hand is still raised high when Ginny joins him.
"He'll be alright," she murmurs.
Absently, Harry touches the lightning scar on his forehead. It's been years since it's bothered him; this is a different world than the one in which he grew up. "I know he will."
"Go to him," she says, giving him a small shove. "He's waiting."
Sure enough, when Harry turns around he sees Draco standing alone. He looks still as a statue, his eyes fixed on the last curls of steam evaporating from the tracks. Harry's reminded of a stone angel from his past, a face chiselled with loving care into sharp angles and smooth planes, a razor-sharp jaw and matte-grey eyes, almost beyond human in its beauty.
"And if he hurts you, I can still do a mean Bat-Bogey."
Harry grins at Ginny, then bends down to kiss Lily on the cheek. "I'll Floo you soon, Lilypad."
Draco's sharp features relax into a serene smile as Harry approaches. "I've dreamed about this," he says, just like Harry had said those many years before. Heat rolls off his body, wrapping Harry in its inviting warmth. Their fingers lace together, Harry's hand fitting around Malfoy's like it fits around a Snitch, feeling perfectly natural, perfectly right.
"So have I."
The End
~~~~~ 
Author: Lilith (
lilithilien)Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: Knowing what you want doesn't come easily. Sometimes it can take nineteen years.
Rated: R
Length: 22K words
Disclaimer: All rights to these characters belong to J.K. Rowling and her publishers and agents. I make no claim to ownership and expect no monetary gain, and I'm writing this story purely for enjoyment. I have borrowed one scene (and its dialogue) from Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows. The title is from W.H. Auden's "September 1, 1939."
Notes: I needed to write an Epilogue story to see if I could make some sense out of it. I should probably warn for infidelity, although that's practically a given with Epilogue fic. As is the angst. Character death (not of main characters). As always, I am immensely indebted to
sarcastic_jo for encouragement, correction, prodding, and beta. Huge thanks also are due to sweetsorcery for the French translations. All remaining mistakes are mine. Note: I should mention my preference for "Asteria" rather than "Astoria." Asteria, the Titan who escaped Zeus by turning herself into an island, fits the same naming scheme as Daphne, the Greek nymph who escaped from Apollo by turning herself into a laurel tree. In choosing these names, it might reveal some problems that the Greengrasses must have had with daughters, but I think they would have been consistent. So that's why I've done it this way.Harry's dreams change after Voldemort dies.
Sometimes smooth, white-grey walls frame his nights, the precise dimensions of a rectangle hewn from cloudy marble. Straight right angles and airtight seams, and stone icy cold leeching the warmth from his fingertips.
Sometimes they're wooden planks joined to mimic a man's form. Wide at the shoulders and tapering away to nothingness, they're shaped from lumber so green that Harry's nails split the pulpy grain.
Sometimes there's no marble, no wood, nothing between him and shovelfuls of flying earth. Soft at first, landing like loosely packed snowballs, crumbling to powder on impact. Warm, though, and weighty, he imagines himself burrowing under a pile of homemade quilts. Then a spray of soil blankets his face; when he goes to wipe it away he can't lift his hand. Harry shouts for his nameless executioner to stop, he screams that he's still alive, but his mouth fills with marl. Its taste is foul, its texture gritty and too terribly thick to swallow. Now he can't feel individual shovels of dirt; now he just feels the quilts piling on, heavier and heavier...
It's been almost a year since the battle at Hogwarts. Time enough for the wizarding world to pick itself up—to dust itself off, as it were. Everyone else seems to be fine. Hogwarts is rebuilt, the Ministry reassembled, the Death Eaters imprisoned. Life goes on.
Which makes Harry wonder why hardly a night passes that he doesn't dream of being buried alive. Why he wakes up and stares at his hands, expecting to see jagged fingernails or dirt caked like henna into his skin.
At first he tells himself it's because of the funerals. There were just so many, and Harry attended every one. Of course he would dream about them. It's merely his subconscious trying to reconcile why he's still alive when so many have perished. That's what Hermione would say, he suspects, if he talked to her about it. If her guarded looks and Muggle brochures on shell shock weren't enough proof that he's losing it. That's what Ron would say, albeit in less psychoanalytical terms, if he wasn't still so broken over losing Fred that Harry hesitates to bring up any mention of death.
He wonders what Ginny would say, if they were to really talk someday. Instead they just reach for each other's bodies whenever they're alone, finding comfort in each other's living bodies. Sometimes his eyes blur as his hand cups her breast; instead of her rosy freckled skin he sees grubby fingers surrounded by crumbling red clay.
In the end, it's Malfoy he tells.
Lucius was one of the first Death Eaters sentenced to execution, but for well over a year Lady Malfoy fought steadily for commutation of the verdict. She fails, of course. The Wizengamot hears her pleas (and, Harry suspects, takes her generous bribes), but publicity holds more value than Galleons these days. In the end, justice must be done.
"You're going to his funeral? Why?"
Harry knows Ginny can't understand that Lucius Malfoy is as present in his memories as Remus or even Sirius, or that his dreams won't stop until every one of the funerals is over. In the end, he mutters something about obligation and Apparates to Wiltshire in his best dress robes before she can object.
He remembers the gnarled black gates from his last visit, and the wards that made his skin crawl as the Snatchers dragged him through. Now the gates stand open and the wards are gone, and the place looks nothing like his memories. Harry walks past untrimmed hedges to the once-fine manor house, shocked to see it looks as droopy and neglected as the grave black crape over the door.
A sombre house-elf meets him on the front steps and points out the path to the mausoleum, where a small crowd is gathered outside the ornate Gothic tomb. Mostly women, Harry notes, and mostly Death Eaters' wives that he recognises from various courtrooms. In the centre is a casket of sparkling white marble, the one that appears so often in his dreams. Harry's shoulders brace against the memory of the hard stone slab, his fingers tingle from the remembered chill. The surviving Malfoys stand beside the coffin as if carved from the very same stone, their chiselled faces all planes and sharp angles betraying no emotion. Instinctively Harry joins the receiving line to pay his respects. If Narcissa is surprised to see him, she doesn't show it, just offers a curt nod from under her heavy lace veil. The new Lord Malfoy is less disciplined; for an instant his alabaster mask cracks. It's restored almost instantly, but the break reveals his surprise. Not suspicion, Harry notes with interest, and not anger, which he expects.
Harry moves a respectful distance away, not wanting the presence of an Auror to detract from the grave occasion. He earns a few guarded looks from the guests, but none challenge his right to be here. The service, thankfully, is short; Harry only feels the brief need to clench his fists while the Necromage speaks of Lucius' contributions to wizard-kind. A moment of silence follows these few words, and then Draco points his wand at the casket. It lifts effortlessly, as if made of paper rather than dense stone, and floats into the depths of the vault. As darkness swallows the gleaming marble, Harry wonders if he would have the same presence of mind to send his own father to this final resting place. He imagines his magic would be too erratic to lift a shroud, much less a weighty sarcophagus.
The man Harry feared second only to Voldemort is gone. He should feel something, he knows. Victory, perhaps, or at least the justice that the Ministry constantly proclaims to the masses. But the heavy mausoleum doors shut with a muffled thud, unsatisfactorily, and all Harry can think about is how the stale air would smell inside the vault.
He does not intend to share this thought with anyone, least of all Malfoy. But one minute Draco is standing beside his mother, twin sculptures standing sentry to the dead, and the next he is at Harry's side. For the first time since he was eleven, Harry really studies his childhood enemy. He's not wrong in comparing Malfoy to a statue. His face is a mosaic of pointed angles and smooth planes, nose narrow and plumb, jaw sharp enough that Harry imagines he'd draw blood just by touching it. His fingers itch to test this theory, stilled by the heat in Malfoy's eyes. They're carved from the same marble, but finely buffed a shade darker than the rest; they seem to radiate rather than reflect heat. The contrast is, Harry thinks, rather remarkable. The overall effect lacks a classic beauty, more like the work of a loving sculptor who isn't quite sure when to lay down his chisel, but to Harry's surprise, it isn't nearly as displeasing as he'd always believed.
"I've dreamed about this," he hears himself say, because if he can't tell his secrets to a stone angel, who can he tell?
When Malfoy steps closer, warmth rolls off his body, a scorching pitch that startles Harry. This is no stone angel, he remembers, but a living, breathing wizard, his rival and the grieving son of his enemy. He sees too late how insensitive he was, wonders if he has time to apologise before he's cursed, then holds his tongue when he realises he doesn't really care if he is. He blinks slowly, willing Malfoy to get on with his punishment, when those finely etched lips purse with their own secret.
"So have I."
Harry looks down as Malfoy laces their fingers together. The strangest thing about this is that it doesn't feel strange. His hand fits Malfoy's like it fits around a Snitch, perfectly natural, perfectly right. Harry glances down and lets his eyes blur, expecting to see his hand grubby against unblemished alabaster skin, to recognise the same darkness that swallowed the brightness of Lucius' casket. To his surprise, he can't tell which hand belongs to whom.
Harry expects his dreams to fade as time goes on. After all, there aren't many funerals anymore. Now there are weddings. Ron and Hermione tie the knot first, then Neville and Luna, then George and Angelina.
"We should get married," Ginny says to him one day.
And Harry thinks, "Why not?"
He's always known they would, after all. Ginny had set her mind on it when she'd first seen him at King's Cross. The War ended three years ago. That should have been time enough to recover from his memories, time enough for the world to change. Time enough to start acting like an adult.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," chortles Draco when Harry tells him. "You've acted like an adult your entire life. I wouldn't be surprised if your horrid Muggle relations made you refill your own milk bottle when you were a sprog."
It should be harder to argue with Draco when they're stretched out on his wide sofa, with his pristine hair dishevelled and fine sculpted lips still swollen from sex. But it seems that's what they end up doing half the time. Their arguments aren't anything like what Harry has with Ginny. They clash over things they care about, or things she thinks he should care about; they're fuelled by anger and eased with compromise. Malfoy, on the other hand, disagrees just for the sake of disagreement, is disgusted with concession, demands nothing less than total surrender. Harry can hardly fault him for it; when they're together he does the same. To his surprise, he's discovered he enjoys this kind of debate. There's nothing like realising his true thoughts when he's defending the other side. And there are few things he finds more thrilling than their seamless blur between debate and debauchery.
"Then you spent your teenage years fighting evil—and stalking me, I might add," Draco continues, tweaking Harry's nipple hard enough to make him gasp. "Hardly what I would call an idyllic childhood. And after you vanquished the biggest bad of them all, you took on the Ministry and the Aurors. You're twenty-one years old, Potter. You've not been slacking as far as adult accomplishments go."
"There's more to being an adult than just fighting the bad guys," Harry insists. "I've always wanted a family with lots of kids. I think maybe it's time I start taking responsibility for someone else."
Harry expected his lover to be upset when he broke the news of his engagement. He didn't expect him to laugh uproariously. "Merlin, Harry," Draco gasps once he can draw his breath, "would you just listen to yourself? All you ever do is take responsibility for others. You must be the least selfish person I know."
"You know too many Slytherins." Draco laughs again, not disputing the point. Harry traces his fingers along Draco's jaw. He remembers he once thought it would cut him. Years later, he knows it as a line of such perfection that he can't keep his hands away. "Besides, I am selfish. I want to keep you."
"And what's your wife going to say about that? Most pureblood families turn a blind eye to affairs, but I can't imagine the Weaselette being so open-minded."
"Don't call her that," Harry corrects him for the hundredth time. "And I'm not sure I should tell her. She knows we're friends, but she wouldn't understand how I need you both."
"Oh, Harry." The sigh would sound like frustration from anyone else, but with Draco tugging a hank of his hair, Harry recognises it for what it is: amusement and as much affection as his lover will ever admit.
Harry can't understand it himself, this need he has for Draco. At first he put it down to pure physical attraction, just something he needed to get out of his system once and for all. After all, he'd given his heart to Ginny long before they made love. He didn't think there was anything left to give Draco.
But from their very first time together, a few days after Lucius' funeral, Harry learns that what he thinks he can give doesn't matter one bit. Draco takes what he wants, what he thinks he's entitled to. It's completely different than what Harry has with Ginny. When they make love it feels passive; Ginny is loving, but content with what he offers. Draco is greedy, always demanding more, never satisfied. There's no position he doesn't want to try, no kink not worth exploring, and very little that he can't get Harry to do with a simple dare. Draco's bedroom becomes the new site of their rivalry; unlike Quidditch, it's a contest they both win.
And maybe it's this enmity, older than his feelings for Ginny or even for his friends, that transforms this ... this whatever it is with Malfoy. Maybe it's knowing that Draco doesn't care that frees Harry to need him so much. He can forget the crush of a shallow grave when Draco has him spread-eagled against the wall, his tongue laving Harry's body so long and so deep inside that Harry's cock explodes without a single touch. He can resist the cold marble threatening to leech his life with Draco's sleeping body curled against him, his heat radiating through them, their fingers laced tightly just like that first time. And with Draco, Harry can admit his nightmares and argue about their causes without fearing his lover will start watching him with frightened eyes. Just bringing them into the daylight seems to dim their power in the night.
He's thought more than once about throwing over Ginny for him. Sometimes the only thing that's stopped him is Draco's adamant refusal to admit their relationship. It's the one thing that Malfoy refuses to discuss. "It would ruin you," is all he'll say, and when Harry insists that he doesn't care about ruin, Draco crushes him in his arms and rocks him like a child, saying "I do, Harry, I do," over and over again, until Harry gives in.
"I need you both," he says again.
"I know."
Harry marries Ginny the following spring. Draco refuses to attend the wedding ("bad form," he insists), but he does pick the spot for their honeymoon: two weeks at a private villa in Bali. "So you'll remember me every time your wife puts lotion on your back," he cackles evilly on the eve of the ceremony, working slippery almond oil into Harry's shoulders, smoothing it down the ridge of his spine, massaging his thighs and opening his bottom until Harry begs to be fucked for hours.
Jimbaran Beach is paradise on earth. Harry and Ginny wake to the sweet scent of frangipani trees blooming outside their door, they spend their days walking hand-in-hand down white sandy beaches under towering coconut palms. At night, glorious sunsets steal their breaths away, and more than once they make love under the stars. It's the most romantic place Harry can imagine.
He wonders how Draco knew about it, and instantly feels jealousy stab.
He's vowed not to let himself think of Draco while he's here, not even when Ginny pours lotion on his back—especially not then, when the simplest touch would be enough to harden him. It feels too much like betrayal to make love to his wife when his thoughts are on Draco, and he doesn't care to think closely about which one he would betray.
Harry's dreams return on their fifth night. This time it's a slight variation—he's buried in the sand, with tidal waters seeping through and drowning him—but the panicked feeling is identical. He brushes his teeth for ten minutes when he wakes, but can't get the salty taste off his tongue.
Ginny is worried, of course, and the next day asks at least twenty times if he feels all right. He dreads nightfall, knowing he'll dream again, so when she goes to bed he takes an extra sheet out to the cushioned deckchair. It feels as if he's only just drifted off when his body is squeezed into its narrow box, the tap-tapping of coffin nails sending his heart pounding. When he wakes he finds splinters in the tips of his fingers; his nails are broken where they gouged the deckchair's wooden frame. Too upset to fall back asleep, he listens to frogs croak until daybreak, when he can slip back into bed.
After a few more nights he can no longer hide what's happening and sends a falconet to Jakarta for Dreamless Sleep. He must have eyed it too eagerly when the package arrived, for Ginny cautions him at length about the dangers of addiction. He can't tell her that he only needs it for a few more days, that then he'll have Malfoy again; a potion is a very poor substitute for his lover.
Their international portkey delivers them back to London after midnight. Ginny isn't pleased when Harry wants to go out, but he insists that the time change will make it impossible for him to sleep. He takes time to reassure her with a kiss, despite every cell in his body screaming that he needs Draco now.
He's waiting up; Harry knew he would be. Harry ignores the champagne chilling in the ice bucket and pushes his lover against the wall. Recklessly they rip apart each other's robes, both desperate to get to bare skin underneath. Harry has the urge to tear him apart with his teeth, to bite so deeply that he can taste Malfoy on the inside, to feel his warm blood bubble over his tongue, to do whatever it takes to keep hearing those ecstatic groans that rumble from deep inside Draco's chest. He fucks him there against the wall, fast and fierce, with too little preparation and too much slimy lube to compensate. It's messy, hurried sex, possessive and needy, and it's exactly what Harry needs. What Draco needs too, he suspects, judging by the way "harryharryharryharry" pours from his mouth like an endless mantra of the Balinese priests.
Afterwards they collapse together on the floor, too exhausted even to Apparate upstairs to the bedroom. Draco transfigures a cushion into a mattress and, with his final reserve of energy, hauls Harry into his arms.
"Missed me, Potter?"
"Mmmm."
Harry has a new dream that night. Again he's buried on the beach, sand invading and irritating every crease in his skin. In the distance he hears waves and knows that soon they will crash down and drown him. But then the sand underneath him loosens and shifts, transforms into Draco's body, golden and glistening in the sunlight. When the wave washes over them, Draco undulates to give him room. Their bodies rock together, making love in the shallow surf, and Harry can breathe again. He knows that he'll survive.
He's three hours late when he topples through Draco's fireplace, but for once he has a good excuse.
"Ginny's pregnant!" he bursts out even before the green flames die. "I'm going to be a father!"
"Well, bully for you, Potter."
Harry cocks a wary eyebrow; one of Malfoy's moods, then. It's not the first time. There's a bottle of Laphroaig in arm's reach of the sofa, half empty; Harry hopes it wasn't opened tonight. He takes down a Waterford tumbler; he'd best drink his share to keep Draco from downing it all. "Sorry I'm late," he offers, but it's hard to keep his excitement in check. "There was such a commotion at the Burrow, it was hard to get away."
Draco glares as Harry drops into the high-backed chair opposite him. "I imagine they all must be thrilled. It's not every day the world gets another Weasley. Oh, wait, it is."
The snide remark socks Harry in the gut. He'd hoped that Draco might be, if not excited, then at least gracious. "Fuck you, Malfoy," he growls.
"Not now, Potter. I'm really not in the mood."
That infuriating, airy voice, full of scorn. All of a sudden Harry has the strongest urge to hurl his glass against the wall, wants to see the shards fly wildly, wants Malfoy to bleed from them, just to make sure there's a human being in there. To make sure he's not the one who's made a mistake here. "Damn it, why have you got to be such an ass? Would it kill you to be happy for me?"
Draco lifts his glass, studying its reflections as if they're the most intriguing things he's ever seen. "Truly, I'm overjoyed. I've been terrified that the Potter name might fade into obscurity. Now I can die happy."
Harry's scowl is sharper than cut crystal. "Jealousy's not a good look for you, Malfoy."
"Fuck you, Potter."
There's a warning here for Harry to back off. Instead he slings back Draco's own line. "Sorry, not in the mood." Feeling rightfully petty, he gulps the expensive whisky just to annoy Draco. It works; Draco fires silent hexes from under his heavy-lidded eyes. "Why am I even here? What was so important that you couldn't owl me?"
Draco shrugs, biting his bottom lip. Miffed as he is, Harry stares as it swells into a bruised pout. He knows it tastes of malt and fury, and if it were any other night he might be tempted to play out this game to its conclusion and claim that delectable combination as his reward. But not tonight, not when his family is rejoicing about his son—his son!—and he wants to be with them.
"I'll see myself out then, shall I?" Harry doesn't wait to see Draco shrug again. Quaking with anger, he finishes his drink with another gulp and slams the glass on the side table. "Owl me when you're ready to act like an adult."
It's a full week before an eagle owl taps at his office window. Relief floods through Harry as he retrieves the parchment, but it vanishes the instant he begins reading. The words are like some powerful Narcotising spell; they make his eyes blur and his balance shift. He claws the nearby filing cabinet, holding himself up, not sure whether it's his knees or the ground quaking so violently. The letter bursts into flames, a victim of the uncontrollable magic building in his gut, the same force that sends his wedding picture crashing to the ground. Not even concerned about splinching himself, he Apparates directly to the Manor.
He finds Draco in his office, with his wand levitating grimoires from a nearly empty shelf into a large travelling trunk. Harry clenches his fists as wild magic lashes out again. It interrupts Draco's spell and the books tumble to the floor. "What the fuck are you doing?"
His face hard as stone, Draco gives his wand a measured flick; the books sort themselves and slide neatly into the truck. It's only then that he acknowledges his visitor, but Harry notes that he doesn't sheathe his wand. "I believe my letter made that clear. Mother and I are moving to France. We intended to leave next month, but in light of ... present circumstances, we've accelerated our departure."
"You can't go!"
"I'm afraid I can, and I intend to." As Harry quivers with rage, Draco directs the tip of his wand to his heart. "Get a hold of yourself, Potter. I'll not think twice about binding you, Ministry regulations be damned. I've got enough on my plate without cleaning up after you."
It's not an idle threat, Harry knows, and he forces several calming breaths. When the ripples of raw energy fade he lets his human emotion take over. "You're just doing this because of James, aren't you?"
"James?" Draco looks genuinely baffled. "Who the fuck is James?"
"My son."
Draco's mouth opens as if to contest the point, but hangs there. "For once this isn't about you, Potter," he finally says, in a much quieter voice than Harry expects.
Harry thinks of their last encounter and his urge to make Malfoy bleed. He wonders how he could have been so foolish. Everything about his lover is human, blindingly so if one knows where to look, and Harry does: at the almost invisible creases at the corners of his eyes, the minute tightening of his jaw, the heightened definition of the tendons in his neck. It's irrepressibly human, this struggle to maintain control, and Harry's heart breaks to think he could lose this.
"Just tell me why, Draco."
Malfoy breathes deeply before speaking, exposing only a small vulnerability but one that Harry's sure he would expose to no one else. "Because of you, Harry. You always talk about acting like an adult and you've had the chance to do that. You're an Auror, you're starting your family, you've got everything you dreamed of when we were kids. And I'm glad for you, but you're right, I'm jealous."
Harry wants to interrupt, wants to tell his lover that this baby doesn't change anything, that he still needs him just as much, but Draco holds up his hand. Despite not holding his wand anymore, his gesture is as effective as a Silencing Charm. Harry's shoulders slump in surrender.
"I had dreams too, you know. And no matter what you might think, they weren't all that different from yours. I thought by now I'd be developing potions for the Department of Mysteries, maybe even being groomed as a Junior Minister. Don't laugh, Potter! The Malfoys have been part of the Ministry for centuries."
"I wasn't laughing," Harry assures him. "I can still see you doing that, you know, if you wanted to."
Draco's face contorts in genuine pain. "What planet are you living on? It's been five years since the War, and all that's changed is that people switched their prejudices from Muggle-borns to purebloods. Mother's a social pariah and I'm a second-rate clerk at a knock-off potions shop. You think she'll have any luck arranging a suitable marriage for me? We can't even afford to keep up the Manor."
Harry gnaws the inside of his cheek at the mention of Draco's marriage. "But ... things are changing. I'm sure they'll unfreeze your accounts soon, I know it's taking awhile but..."
"The Ministry won't back off, Harry. It can't, not with public opinion like it is. Everyone thinks we got off easy, just staying out of Azkaban."
It's hard to dispute what Harry knows is true. The Ministry might preach lofty goals of equality, but in practice it echoes the will of the people who even now clamour for blood whenever a suspected Death Eater is apprehended. Evidence is hardly required; affiliation is enough to destroy reputations and lives. Most of Draco's housemates have already gone abroad for that very reason. If they bear any guilt Harry doesn't know, but more than once he's heard false allegations against the Malfoys. Were he not an Auror, one with the Minister's ear, he knows that they would not have survived this long.
Draco stares at the silk carpet, pretending to study the vines and songbirds woven there, but his body is taut as a piano wire. He looks like he's ready to snap at the slightest provocation, like he's watching for it carefully from the corner of his eye. Harry wonders what it would take. Would storming out of the Manor be enough? Or would begging him not to go be the thing that unravels him?
Harry realises he can't do either. Defeated, he sinks into Draco's comfortable couch; for long moments, the only sound in the room is the creak of worn leather when he moves.
"But ... France?" he eventually asks, as if it's up for debate. He despises the words that he's about to say, knows how selfish they are, but he can't hold them back. "What will you do there?"
Draco exhales the breath he must have been holding. "For months now I've been exchanging letters with Professeur Guérin in Limoges. Perhaps you remember his name, he taught potions at Beauxbatons..." He avoids Harry's eye, as if embarrassed to admit that this plan has been in the works for so long. It is a surprise, one that makes it a little hard to breathe, but Harry lets him continue without interruption. "Perhaps not. In any case, he's retired now and is willing to take me on as an apprentice. It's for six years and the salary's abysmal. Still, the Greengrasses have offered to let Mother stay at their villa in Bourdeaux." Draco looks up at Harry, his jaw firmly set and his voice defiant. "It's a good offer, one that I should not pass up even if the Ministry wasn't making life impossible."
There's nothing Harry can say to that. It all lines up too perfectly, straight as coffin nails and just as permanent. Harry wishes he could rage against it, tear back the planks to reveal spongy wood rotting underneath, but there's no flaw here. This is Draco finally getting a chance at the life he wants—at the life Harry wants him to have. Harry can't rip it apart just because he's not part of it.
"It is a good offer," he concedes, making sure his voice sounds stronger than he feels. "It ... really, it sounds perfect for you. You'll make a great Potions master. I think– I know that Snape would be proud."
Draco's eyes lift with the corners of his mouth, and Harry's surprised by how relieved he looks. He wonders if his lover really expected him to object; he wonders what he would do if he had. All thoughts he can't allow himself to ponder. Instead he forces a smile, even if he can't feel it reach his eyes. "Just one question, Malfoy. Do you even speak French?"
"Bien sûr," Draco replies, his return smile both grateful and brilliant. "Quel enchanteur cultivé ne parle pas français?"
Harry smirks. "Did you just call yourself a pompous git?"
"No," scoffs Malfoy. "I said that you're an imbecile who's wasting valuable time when you could be riding my cock." He moves closer to Harry, who takes his hand and pulls him the rest of the way, wanting his lover's body covering his, his solid weight wiping every thought from his mind.
From the moment Draco's lips touch his, Harry knows that this will be one for his Pensieve. His clothes are peeled back, piece by piece, like the skin of an exotic, unnameable fruit; Malfoy's mouth savours the meaty pulp as each inch is revealed. There's no part of Harry's body that doesn't possess some delicious fascination. Toes, elbows, backs of knees, all are worthy of worship by tongues and teeth and tips of fingers. His lover moves slowly, deliberately. He holds Harry at a simmering boil for far longer than Harry thinks he can stand, then retreats just before he explodes. It feels exactly like their usual frenzied fucking but slowed to quarter-speed, stretched out so long that time and space become meaningless and Harry's entire universe is Malfoy. He whimpers shamelessly, begs without remorse, cries that he will die if Draco doesn't fuck him. By the time he does, Harry has passed far beyond any notion of his own needs. Draco takes, and Harry wants nothing more than to give, to give more than he ever has before. He offers his body up, willing Draco to do with it as he pleases. When he finally climaxes it's with Draco's voice in his ear, insisting Harry come, demanding to feel his muscles milking him. Harry obeys with nothing more on his mind than Draco's pleasure.
Sweat-soaked and sated, neither moves for ages, long after their chests have gone cold and sticky. Even then Harry is reluctant to pull away. Draco's heart still beats hard against his chest, his lungs still rise and fall unsteadily, and Harry takes immense pleasure just knowing he's had such an effect on his lover's body.
But time refuses to stop for them, and just before they're sealed painfully together, Harry pulls away and finds his wand.
"Shouldn't you be at work?" Draco asks as Harry's cleaning spell shimmers over him.
"Shouldn't you have asked me that hours ago?" He considers a refreshing spell too, but decides against it. He's not eager to erase the heady smell of sex.
Draco smile is pure Slytherin. "I would have, but I was afraid you'd leave."
The words, so close to what Harry wants to say, throttle Harry's tongue. Draco understands, though. Wordlessly he pushes Harry into the couch and stretches out beside him, kisses him deeply, as if they hadn't made love just moments before.
Not able to look at Draco, Harry winds his fingers through cornsilk hair. They've been lovers for four years and still Harry's never got over just how soft it is.
"If I begged you," he asks, "if I begged, would you stay?"
Draco is quiet for a long time, his thumb stroking complicated patterns along the curve of Harry's hip. "Don't ask me to answer that, Harry," he finally says. "There's nothing for us here, you know that. You know this is the right thing."
Harry thinks that perhaps he was wrong about Draco not caring. "What if I spoke to Kingsley again?" he asks, desperate to hang onto this new truth. "Maybe he can push the investigation on your accounts..."
Draco's fingers brush his lips into silence. "No, Harry. You've done more than enough. At least we won't lose the Manor. I'll always owe you for that."
Harry shakes his head, his voice miserable. "I only did what was right."
Draco says nothing, just fumbles blindly until his fingers reach Harry's wand on the floor. Their ease with each other's wands always amused Harry; as Draco ignites a roaring fire, Harry belatedly wonders if it says more about them than he ever wanted to admit.
They both watch as crimson sprites dance with their reflections across the white marble hearth. Despite the warming room, Draco pulls Harry closer, acting as if he's cold, as if he's not the one that Harry insists has an 80000 BTU furnace powering his magical core.
"France isn't that far away," he says, pressing his nose into Harry's cheek.
But they both know it is.
They doze after that, waking with erections that demand consideration, attending to them with more care than usual. Even afterwards they postpone the inevitable, sharing reminiscences that don't stray too far into melancholia, buffering them with comforting touches when they do. At last, though, they can't deny the time. They dress themselves, as matter of fact as they can be, becoming more timid with each other the more clothing they don. Finally, with one last look at this familiar room, Harry tosses Floo powder into the flames. He turns back to Draco, smiles to see the smirk frozen on his face.
"I'll write."
"I won't."
Harry closes his eyes and steps into the marble hearth. Thirteen years will pass before he lays eyes on Draco again.
Harry remembers how Uncle Vernon said a person could get used to anything. Not when it came to his nephew, of course; mentioning magic never failed to make him vibrate with fury. But when Dudley groused about getting up for school or Aunt Petunia bemoaned the fact that the drill factory would keep him late again, Vernon Dursley always said the same thing: "A person can get used to anything."
Harry's not sure when Uncle Vernon's words became more important to him than those of Sirius and Professor Dumbledore. He supposes it should bother him. It probably would, if he had the energy to get worked up about anything these days. But no one rebukes the father of a newborn when his eyes drift shut in staff meetings. His colleagues tiptoe past his desk when they catch him in a catnap, head fallen over folded arms. They stop asking him out after work, assuming that now he's a family man he needs his rest more than a pint.
Harry doesn't mind that much. Evenings formerly wasted in the pub are now spent in a nearby Muggle gym. Free weights and running tone his body, turning his lean teenage frame into a trim, muscled adult and wearing him out enough to sleep in short spurts. He's used to catching fifteen minutes here, an hour there. He's become a master of balancing Dreamless Sleep and Pepperup Potions, and if he feels a little edgy after overdoing the Pepperup, it only seems to make him better at his job. His record proves that, arrest after arrest, award after award. At twenty-four, he's the most decorated Auror in the Ministry; on his twenty-fifth birthday, he's promoted to lead the whole division.
It's worked out just as well at home. James is a fitful baby; the one time he slept for four uninterrupted hours was a red-letter day in the Potter household. It's Harry who gives him his bottle in the middle of the night, who walks him for hours until he falls into a restless sleep. Harry loves this time with James. He's never got over that amazement he felt the first time he held his son, so fragile and perfect. When it's just the two of them awake, and he sees the comfort that baby James takes from him, that wonder grows.
But sometimes, in that darkest hour of the night, Harry wonders what could destroy the rest of someone so young and innocent. James' shoulders are round and soft, unburdened by the weight of the world's ills, and his forehead is smooth and remorseless. His lungs, though, they rend the night with the screams of a sorely troubled soul. Harry doesn't laugh when Ginny says that James' cries sound just like his. He reads a Muggle text on genetics and fears that his nightmares clamped onto a stray allele and passed from him to his son. He looks forward to the day James can talk so he can tell him that he's sorry.
His nightmares don't get any better, but at least they don't get worse, as he had expected after– after James was conceived. He's still told no one else about them. Ginny knows, of course—he's woken her up so many times that she suggested they sleep in different beds—but after the umpteenth time she fussed over him, and he told her under no uncertain terms that he hadn't expected to marry Molly, she's kept her worries to herself.
She watches him, though, and he can tell those worries remain, unspoken. Which is fine with him. It was easy to analyse these nightmares about his death with someone who was once his enemy, but he can't bring himself to broach the subject with his wife.
That's because they're not nightmares about your death, Potter. They're nightmares about your life.
Draco lied, of course. He writes to Harry every few months. Mostly his letters are descriptions of his apprenticeship, sometimes in such detail that Harry wishes he'd paid more attention in Snape's class. He also asks questions about the potions Harry takes and his reactions to them. Draco insists his interest is purely clinical; if he cautions Harry to go easy on the Dreamless Sleep, his warning that simpletons have precious few brain cells to sacrifice removes any hint of mothering.
There's gossip too: Parkinson shagging a Muggle accountant behind Zabini's back, Nott getting arrested for hawking Dark relics, Goyle contracting a particularly ferocious strain of Wizard's Clap from a prostitute in Ibiza. Harry knows more about the Slytherins now that they live across the Channel than he ever did when they were in school.
So the news of Draco's engagement should not have come as such a shock. The Greengrasses appear often in these missives, not surprising since Narcissa stays with the family, but there's been no special mention of the youngest daughter. An arranged wedding, then, a lifemate chosen by lottery. Pureblood propriety and obligation, and Harry blames that for the line that closes Draco's letter:
I would be honoured if you would attend.
Harry stares at the formal script for ages, the curlicues winding like untravelled roads across the parchment. He smoothes his palm along the surface of his desk, but no longer notices the towers of files balanced precariously there. Instead he recalls the deep umber grain of Draco's mahogany desk, how just seconds after delivering the news of his own engagement he's bent over it with his pants bunched around his ankles and Draco demonstrating just what a terrible idea marriage is.
In the end, though, it's Draco who helps him go through with it. On the eve of his wedding, still slippery with sweet-smelling oil, Harry battles the fiercest nightmare he ever had in his lover's presence. Draco hugs him close and reminds him that this is what he wants. With a ginger-haired litter all flinging around Ministry-approved happy spells, Draco insists, Harry can be happy. And, he snarls, he refuses to hand-hold while Harry deals with the guilt of abandoning the Weaselette at the altar.
Draco wanted him to be happy, Harry realises, and it's only now, with their positions reversed, that Harry knows what that must have cost him. For the first time, he understands that Draco is stronger than he is. It's been two years since he's seen his former lover and still he doesn't have it in him to hand Draco over to another.
His owl eagerly ruffles her feathers when Harry takes out a clean sheet of vellum, but she grows increasingly agitated as he discards draft after draft. Eventually she gives up, showing her displeasure by tucking her head under a tawny wing. He continues to write, oblivious to the owl, unaware of anything but feigning a generous spirit when the letters spilling from his quill keep spelling out "you're mine" in a hundred different ways. It's only by mimicking Draco's formal tone that he can pen a few acceptable lines:
Warmest congratulations. I hope your life with Asteria will be every bit as happy as mine with Ginny.
I regret that I will be unable attend the wedding.
Harry
That night, Harry bench-presses more weight than he ever has. He doesn't stop, not even when his trainer watches with a worried eye, not until he's drenched with sweat and his arms feel like soggy noodles and he's so exhausted that his muscles scream. He surprises Ginny, and himself, by wanting to make love, right then, no matter that she's in the middle of cooking dinner. He takes her on the couch, and it's rougher than usual, though not nearly as rough as he wants it to be. She feels too yielding as he ploughs into her, her touches too careful, her lips too quiet. Harry comes with his face buried in one of Molly's knitted cushions, barely able to breathe, and it's not enough, not nearly enough.
A person can get used to anything, he reminds himself, and he wonders if it is true.
"That was a lovely speech, Harry. Perfect for our tenth year memorial."
"Thank you, Minerva."
Harry decides not to tell her that Hermione wrote it. It'd be too much like telling the Headmistress that he's copied his Transfiguration homework—not quite the behaviour the world's come to expect from the Hero of the Battle of Hogwarts.
At eighteen, it was hard enough to live up to those expectations. Now, just a few months shy of twenty-eight, he's finding it impossible. It's hardly his fault, he tells himself. The world hasn't quite turned out like he'd expected either. Evil was easy to recognise when he was young. It wore serpentine features or spoke in syrupy, fawning tones, it bore gruesome Dark Marks as an unmistakeable sign of allegiance. It didn't look like a popular Hogwarts teacher hawking deadly You4ia potions to school kids. Or a respected member of the Wizengamot running a black-market Squib slave trade. Evil couldn't be the supposedly loving parents casting Hermaphroditus spells on their children so they could do Merlin knew what to them.
Or maybe—and this is the thought that haunts Harry whenever he sees the thousands of unsolved cases in the archives—maybe this was what evil had looked like all along. Maybe during the War people just turned a blind eye.
Ron calls him paranoid when he brings this up. Minister Shacklebolt says things like, "You must understand, we were at war." Ginny tells him to leave his work at the office and to pick up his dirty laundry please because she can't raise three kids on her own plus him, too. And Harry loves his kids, he really does, but he has to be vigilant. How else can he keep them safe in the kind of world this is turning out to be?
"You look tired, Harry," Minerva notices. "You must be working too hard."
Still trying to kill yourself, I see, Malfoy writes, more to the point. His single line is clipped to the front page ripped from the Prophet. Harry was aghast when he first saw his photograph. He looked too thin. The fingers clutching his magicked note cards were gnarled and wraithlike; his eyes, barely visible, sank into deep-set pools of drooping shadow. His skin was the most startling, though, more like a locust's desiccated husk than human flesh, like worn canvas stretched over tent poles.
Draco improves the photograph with his own doodles, including large round spectacles that replace Harry's more fashionable frames and a spinning "Potter Stinks" badge on his robe. He crosses out the reporter's commentary about the great hero still haunted by the war and replaces it with a bubble cloud that proclaims, "Look at me! I'm a Potions Junkie with a Saviour Complex! I'm here to save the world!"
Harry should be irritated, but he's not. In fact, he can't keep his laughter from bubbling over. It's the first time that Draco's written, apart from pithy congratulations after Albus' and Lily's births. And it's the first time that it sounds like Malfoy, not some too-formal acquaintance. Harry grabs his quill and dashes off a reply immediately, his first thought, nothing deliberated, just what he would say if Draco was here:
Somebody's got to do it.
The next morning he receives an even briefer answer.
Idiot.
Harry doesn't stop grinning for the rest of the day.
He doesn't write back, though. He tells himself it's because Malfoy likes having the last word. Really, though, he finds it too hard to concentrate on anything that's not in his immediate line of sight. His mind seems always cloudy, no matter how much Pepperup he takes. Draco's another abstraction, another distraction, and he can't afford that when he's got so much to do.
Besides, he knows that Draco is right.
It's nearly a year before another eagle owl arrives from France. Atypically, it flies to the Potters' home instead of Harry's office, laden with a package that thumps so hard against the windowpane that Ginny fears the glass will shatter. The small trunk contains several dozen vials, each wrapped carefully in its own grey wool pouch. Harry plucks the creamy parchment off the top, allowing his wife to inspect the contents as he reads.
Dear Harry,
You will be pleased to hear that I have completed my apprenticeship and now hold the esteemed title of Potions master. It is a great relief to know these years are behind me. Although I can hardly call them a hardship in comparison to my early life, I feel that only now can I make strides towards that elusive 'adulthood' you prize so much.
You hold in your hands the fruit of six years' labour. Besides Scorpius, it is the thing dearest to my heart. No doubt it contains more of me than my son. It's a sleep potion but, unlike that poison you're so fond of, this will allow you to dream without torment. You need your dreams, Potter. If you hadn't had those ... well, I shudder to think where we would all be today.
I enclose a month's supply of potion. Drink a full vial each night before bed. A normal dose is a half-vial, but Merlin knows what damage you've inflicted on yourself over the years. Idiot. I regret not being able to send this to you earlier, but the last thing the Malfoy name needs is a charge of potions trafficking by an unregistered brewer. It might amuse you to know I've become even more concerned with my family's reputation of late. Then again, you might share the same desire to give your children their very best shot.
Respectfully yours,
Draco Malfoy, Lord of Wiltshire
Registered Potions Master, Société Ancien de Maîtres des Philtres du France
Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers (application pending)
A cacophony of emotion engulfs Harry when he finishes. He's not sure whether to burst into laughter at the image of Malfoy joyfully appending all those titles or to break down at the thought of six years devoted to creating a potion just for him, whether to immediately Apparate to France to discuss fatherhood or to work harder just to ensure Draco's adulthood is easier than his has been.
"These are from Malfoy?" Ginny peers at the letter over his shoulder. "Surely you're not thinking of taking them?"
"I am."
Still clutching the letter in one shaky hand, he unstoppers one of the vials. The potion is deep indigo, spotted with flecks of gold. Like stars twinkling in the middle of the night, Harry thinks.
"But Malfoy made them! Why would he send this to you anyway?" She snorts. "Look at all those names. How pretentious can you get?"
He hardly notices her as he sniffs the potion. It smells of rain.
Ginny's suspicions haven't faded by night time. "What if it's poison?"
Harry kisses her forehead. "Then you'll inherit everything, dear."
She rolls her eyes. Harry takes a strange sense of satisfaction in her worry; his heart throbs when he realises it's been a while since she's shown any toward him. Her concerns have been transferred to their children, who she can mother over to her heart's content. But in a way, it's nice to have her watching fearfully while he drinks.
He gets under the covers before opening the vial. The potion looks like it would taste of blueberries, so Harry's surprised when the flavour of sweet buttercream flows over his tongue. It slides down his throat like warm milk; almost immediately he feels the tightness in his chest lift and his shoulders relax. His pillow seem softer than usual when he drops his head, the sheets feel as fresh as if they've just come from the line. Beside him Ginny's body is a big comforting cushion. He throws a heavy arm over her flannel nightgown. He's missed the feel of his knees tucked behind hers, her hand holding his through the night. He tries to ask if she can remember the last time they spooned like that, but words prove too weighty for his sluggish tongue.
"You really trust Malfoy that much, after all this time?"
Her voice sounds a little sad and he would ask her why, but her question has already sent his mind down another track. Now he's picturing Draco reading. He smiles at the thought of his brain churning away, of all those little wrinkles that criss-cross his forehead like sandpiper tracks, how all his attention will focus on one simple passage. And then there's that glorious smile when it all comes together—the one that appears right before the smug grin and the explanation, greatly simplified, for Harry's benefit. Harry has no doubt that Draco has got this potion exactly right.
He falls asleep answering Ginny's question in his dreams.
Malfoy's potion is no miracle cure. For the first week it's harder than usual to get up. This eases as the month wears on, but he still feels sluggish until his first Pepperup. He thinks he's slowed down, too. His mind doesn't race in a hundred directions at once. It's been so long since he felt this way that this new focus feels like an alien living in his body.
And Draco is right: his dreams don't stop. What changes is how Harry reacts to them. There's no blinding panic when dirt clods splash on his face, he doesn't wake up scrambling for blankets when marble slab chills his blood. He sleeps through these episodes until they shift, cloud-like, into something different, his subconscious no longer skipping endlessly in the same groove.
He writes his thanks for the potion and to tell Draco of these effects. The reply is so typical Malfoy that Harry can almost imagine him in the room.
You might be right about catching up on years of lost sleep. Of course, that would assume that your body clock is run by goblins with nothing better to do than tally your personal sleeping habits on ledger sheets. I think it's far more likely that:
- It's the addictive properties of asphodel and sopophorous beans evacuating your system, which you'd know if you'd ever paid attention to Snape. You've been sucking that sludge down nightly for a decade. You're lucky you can still string two sentences together. (But then you always did struggle with that, didn't you?)
- You're taking a double-dose. (See #1.) Next month you'll drop to half a dose, perhaps less. But keep in mind that...
- This is still a potion! Less harmful than Dreamless Sleep, but still not recommended for protracted use. You need to work on the cause, Potter, not just the symptom.
- You're welcome. And no, I did not brew this just for you. I've patented it under the name 'Bonne Nuit.' If all goes as planned, it will bankroll my retirement, my son's retirement, and my grandson's retirement.
- 'Bonne Nuit' means 'good night.' I forget that you're irredeemably monolingual.
And I do not have a 'saving people' thing. That's all you.
Harry replies, withholding his opinion that Draco's a terrible liar, and without either mentioning it they pick up their easy correspondence abandoned years before. They write of their jobs, their children, even the dreams they have at night. But Harry never shares that his most frequent dream, the one he remembers most vividly in the light of day, is of a stone angel carved of the purest white marble with a touch that reminds him of furnaces and fireplaces and warm summer days.
"I'm not going to any more funerals."
Lily claps her hands gleefully at Harry's pronouncement. At four, she has the brightest spirit he's ever seen. Molly insists she's just like the twins at that age, which frightens him more than a little.
Ginny is less enthusiastic about his news. "No more funerals? What's brought this on?"
Harry's surprised she has to ask. She saw him yesterday after Delphinia Finch's memorial, just like she's seen him after every funeral over the years. Some are for people he cares for, like Andromeda Tonks who fell victim to dragon pox, but most are for people he barely knows, people he doesn't know at all. He's expected to dust off his faded hero mantle for each one. The solemn dignity he shows at these ceremonies is a far cry from how he really feels. They're worse than his nightmares ever were; as his nights have grown calmer, his waking life becomes more torrential. He stands in his finest robes but feels like he's drowning. The air tastes stale, like in a crypt, like under a diving bell, far under the sea where the pressure builds and his body threatens to implode. When he gets home he aches, a landlubber's version of the bends. Ginny sees how his hands shake so badly he can't even feed his children.
It's hardly a sudden decision.
"I just can't do it anymore, Gin. It takes too much out of me. It ... sometimes I think I'm drowning from it all."
Ginny gives him encouragement to lift his flagging spirit. That people are comforted by his presence. That it means so much to the families. That she knows he's not a selfish person, that he's just tired. That he should look at this as the easiest part of his job.
That he can get used to anything.
Malfoy's reaction is a mixture of ridicule for ever following Uncle Vernon's advice in the first place and almost giddy congratulations for what he calls "the first miniscule signs that a spine might be forming." He recommends a course of "emotional Skele-Gro": telling someone no every single day. (He makes an exception for children, who he insists should always be told yes. Scorpius must be terribly spoiled, Harry thinks, but still grins at the image of Draco as an overindulgent father.)
He tries it. At first with little things. No, he will not attend the Wizengamot's Beltane Ball. No, he does not want to be auctioned off in Witch's Weekly fundraiser. As he practices saying the word, it becomes easier. Gradually he starts thinking about the things he really wants—and those he doesn't. No, he isn't giving any more interviews to the Prophet, no matter how bad Kingsley says it will look for the Ministry. No, he won't look the other way when Seamus Finnigan imports dragonhide from endangered Imperial dragons. No, he does not want Ron to confide the details of his affair with Lavender Brown.
Somewhere along the line, saying no turns into saying yes, an affirmation in negative form. It feels ... good. There's a freedom he discovers, almost like when he's flying. He feels lighter then, above the world, above the reach of gravity. He gets that same sensation as each refusal clears his mind. Slowly that stranglehold that's gripped him since the battle begins to loosen its hold.
"Look, Uncle Harry! Papa's here!"
From his broomstick perch, Harry spies Ron picking his way through the field. He's not carrying his broom. Pity. As much fun as it is flying with the kids, he's craving a no-holds-barred race into the sky.
But Ron's eyes are fixed on the little girl in her miniature Harpies' uniform, who cries out "Papa! Look what Uncle Harry taught me!" before executing an awkward but passable barrel roll.
"Well done!" applauds Ron. "You are wearing your Bouncing Charm, aren't you?"
"Yes, Papa."
As the kids pick up an impromptu game of chase, Harry drifts over and joins Ron at the edge of the pitch. His friend glares reproachfully. "You taught my nine-year-old a barrel roll?"
"Yeah, sorry about that. But she wanted James to teach her. I thought it best if I took over."
Ron shakes his head. "You never can say no to the kids, can you?"
It's what Harry often accuses Draco of. Somewhere along the line he's picked it up himself. Shrugging, he laughs. "Not really."
James sweeps past them, with Rose tumbling along behind, her cloak a swirling sea-green wake. Just a few months older than Albie, she's twice as aggressive a flyer. Even with all the safety charms on the Burrow's makeshift pitch, she manages to come off her broom covered in bruises. Albie flies above them both, carefully watching.
"He'll make a good Seeker," Ron says, following Harry's gaze.
"If he decides to play. I don't want to push him. Rosie, though..."
"She's a natural, isn't she?" He beams with pride as his daughter makes a hairpin turn, cutting James off and taking the lead.
"She's brilliant," Harry agrees. They watch for a few minutes in silence, appreciating the unseasonably sunny spring day, the quiet of the countryside interrupted only by their children's excited yelps. At last, though, Harry's curiosity gets the better of him. "So? Who is she?"
"Huh? What are you talking about?"
"Molly said you had work, and I had to play along like I knew why you'd go in on a Saturday."
"I was working. I swear to Merlin," he adds when Harry still looks sceptical.
"On Saturday afternoon? What was so important it couldn't wait until Monday?"
"Releasing the sequestered Death Eater funds."
Harry feels the urge to rub his ears. Those were the last words he expected. "You mean those millions of Galleons the Ministry's been sitting on for sixteen years?"
"The very same. The investigation finished last night and I had to go over the numbers so Kingsley can sign off first thing Monday morning. The money should be back to their proper owners by Tuesday at the latest."
"About bloody time!" Harry mutters.
Ron shrugs it off. "They've been doing all right, I reckon. It's not like they're hurting."
Harry knows this isn't entirely true. Some, like the Malfoys and Greengrasses, have prospered; others, like the Parkinsons, haven't been so lucky. But sensing Ron will spare little sympathy for their Slytherin classmates, Harry says, "That's not really the point, is it? The Ministry did this out of spite, not justice."
"I don't know. In some ways, it was probably smart. If the Death Eaters had got their hands on all that money after the war, who knows what they would have done? Probably would've resurfaced in a few years with more of that pureblood bullshit."
"And they won't now? You think they don't have even more reason to be upset these days?"
"Naw, not with you in charge. They wouldn't dare."
Ron's smug confidence, that trust that's rarely wavered in all the time they've been friends, draws the secret to Harry's lips. "Um, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about, Ron. I'm thinking of quitting the Aurors."
He's given the idea a lot of thought lately, but it's the first time he's said the words out loud. He braces for lightning to strike or the earth to split and swallow him whole. To his amazement, the field stays comfortably intact and the sun still shines.
But Ron's mouth hangs agape. Harry quickly volunteers an explanation to spare them both the inevitable stuttered questions. "I've been thinking about it for a while now. It seems the more I figure out what I want, the less I want to be an Auror."
"But ... you always wanted to be an Auror. We both did."
"Yeah, I know. It made sense back when we were rounding up Death Eaters, but it stopped being about that a long time ago." Harry nods towards their children darting like butterflies above the dandelion-spotted field. "I kept telling myself it was for them, that I'd do anything to keep them safe. But then it hit me. Six months from now James will be in school, and I hardly know one thing about him. I'm working more for the idea of being a father than really being one." It feels remarkably easy, this confession that spills effortlessly from his tongue.
Ron is quiet, frowning like Harry's seen him do when he's considering puzzling cases. "I knew you were unhappy," he finally ventures. "I don't think that will surprise anyone. But you seemed to be coming out of that lately. Are you sure this is what you want?"
"I really think I am. I think it's time I try something different." His eyes lift to Albie spinning looping figure eights in the air. "And I want to get to know my kids before it's too late."
Ron follows Harry's gaze to the sky, then slowly a grin cracks across his face. "Well, mate, sounds like you'll be one of those blokes who says he's leaving the Ministry to spend more time with his family. Bet you'll be the first one who's ever meant it!"
This easy acceptance, this is what he knew he could expect from Ron. "Yeah, I know, I always thought they were avoiding some scandal. What if they really were just changing their priorities?"
"Fat chance of that!" scoffs Ron. "But with you, I believe it. And if that's what you want, I say go for it; you've earned it. Kingsley will choke on an Erumpent, though. Have you told him yet?"
"Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first. If you're interested, I'd like to put your name forward as my successor."
He's been wondering what Ron's reaction would be; sure enough, his eyes bulge wide as Bludgers. "Me? Seriously?"
"Yes, you. The job should go to someone who can be trusted to do the right thing, even if he doesn't always agree. Like you did today. You didn't have to go in on your day off, Ron. The only one's who would have complained about the delay are the so-called Death Eater scum."
Ron looks abashed. "But I had to. I may hate them, but it was the right thing to do."
"And you know that. That's why you'd be a great division head." Suddenly realising that he's putting his friend on the spot, offering him a job he himself has rejected, Harry hurries to add, "If you want it, I mean. I don't want to force it on you, but I hope you'll consider it. I'm sure Kingsley would approve."
"I ... I don't know what to say. Well, actually, yes I do: yes! I do want it!"
"That's great then. I'll talk to Kingsley on Monday."
Their conversation drifts to other things, from the children's play to Arthur's upcoming birthday to plans for Molly's sixty-fifth birthday party to the new shed that Ron's planning to build since he's moved back to the Burrow. When the afternoon sun begins to dip, Lily's voice booms across the field, amplified by Ginny's wand, calling them in to dinner. They start back to the house, the children recounting the details of their airborne adventures before racing ahead; Harry can't recall the days when he had their boundless energy.
Ron and Harry are still well out of earshot of the house when Harry looks curiously at his friend. "I'm surprised you didn't ask if I'd told Ginny yet."
A ginger eyebrow rises defensively. "Do I look stupid? You've probably written the French Ferret, though, haven't you?" Harry doesn't answer, but he feels the corner of his lip twitch. It's enough confirmation for Ron. "I knew it! You know, Hermione used to think you'd end up leaving Ginny for him."
Harry doesn't say how close he's come; that's one confession he's not ready to make. Instead he asks, "And what'd you think?"
Ron shrugs. "What would I know? The two of you lasted a lot longer than me and Hermione. All I know is that relationships are harder than I ever would've thought, seeing my parents."
Harry can't agree more. The rabid arguments that marked Ron and Hermione's divorce are still etched in his memory, painful as the awkward silences that still descend whenever Neville and Luna are in the same room, despite both now being remarried. Others have made it somehow, those rare success stories of true romance. Bill and Fleur. Seamus and Dean. Parvati and Lee Jordan. He supposes that people include Ginny and him in that group, childhood sweethearts who've held onto the romance.
There's no romance, but he's been satisfied with what he has. A comfortable life, three beautiful children, a relationship of polite respect even if passion is missing.
What more could he ask for?
Leaving the Aurors is surprisingly easy. Ron steps comfortably into Harry's shoes while Harry steps into Ginny's. Just days after he breaks the news of his resignation, she announces that Oliver Wood has offered her a job at Quality Quidditch Supplies. She's been a housewife for eleven years, she says with a shade of resentment, and Harry doesn't remind her of all the times she's said she can't imagine leaving her kids to work like Hermione does. It's a good opportunity for her in any case. Oliver is interested in appealing to the growing female Quidditch market, she tells Harry.
The question you should be asking is if Wood is interested in appealing to your wife, writes Draco unhelpfully.
It's an answer Harry doesn't want to know. He writes back, a long stream of unconnected phrases that tries to explain why he's started to think of himself as asexual, like a worker bee or one of those strange earthworms. Thankfully he destroys that letter before it's sent. He doesn't want Draco to question his thoughts of parthogenesis; he doesn't want to admit how lonely he really is. Still, he grows fond of thinking like a worm might, crawling through the soft soil and decaying logs, unconcerned with nightmares of being buried alive or the heavy thoughts of infidelity.
Seeing James off to school is harder than he expected. Harry's tried to pack a lifetime into six months, but it feels like he only started yesterday. He knows now that James prefers licorice wands to chocolate frogs but still trades cards with Albie. He knows he prefers his sandwiches buttered on just one side and crushes cheese and onion crisps into his egg salad. He knows he hates reading but will spend hours helping Lily with her multiplication tables. Harry tries to rearrange these facts into a picture of who his son will become. If he had more time, if he'd been with him from the beginning, he's sure he could do it. He wants more time.
But as he looks at the empty station where the train just was, he tries to imagine what it would be like if he hadn't had these six months. It's unthinkable.
Albus and Lily race headlong down the platform, weaving through the crowd like Snitches from grabbing hands, waving at the departing Hogwarts Express until it disappears from sight.
"Well, that's one down," teases Ginny, but her voice shakes a little.
She rubs her knuckle under her eye, wiping away a tear Harry pretends he didn't see, then looks embarrassed. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and she leans into the comfort.
"Two to go."
Somewhat ironically, Harry stops needing Draco to send his monthly course of potions at the same time Bonne Nuit is finally approved for sale in Britain. Although it's been popular in the rest of Europe for years, the Ministry makes Malfoy jump through a thousand hoops—half of them invented on the spot by Percy Weasley, Harry suspects. Unlike Harry's other friends, Draco never once asks him to intercede. And Harry doesn't offer. When he sees the familiar indigo vials appear on the shelf at Slug & Jiggers, he swells with pride knowing that Malfoy's managed it on his own.
The announcement that Malfoy will present a paper at the Edinburgh meeting of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers makes Harry even happier for his old friend. Although Draco's letter makes it clear that of course he expected to be chosen, it's not hard to read between the lines and understand that it's a huge honour for his work to be accepted in his homeland.
For his part, Harry's both excited and nervous about seeing Malfoy again. Through their candid letters he now knows Draco better than ever before, but absent the gestures that give words weight such knowledge is dangerous. He fears the man in his mind won't be the one who appears; he fears losing this friend he might never have really known.
Worse, he fears what Malfoy will think of him.
It's been seven years since the Hogwarts' memorial, long enough for his body to recover from sleep deprivation and jagged nerves. It's his face he again sees in the mirror, and for that he's glad. But he has no idea if he's still attractive. Hermione assures him he is, and the young office witches titter when he passes their desks, but Ginny hardly seems to see him anymore. He can't remember the last time they made love. He wonders if she really does have lovers. If she does, does she wear the same faded pink shift she wears for him? Does her jaw stiffen as she stifles a yawn during their kiss? Once, he would have asked her. Now he discovers he doesn't want to know.
He doesn't tell her what happens at the Muggle gym either, of the guarded looks over the treadmill that turn into hand jobs in the sauna. It's all he's had for a long time. He's thirty-five years old. He has the family he's always wanted. It's enough.
It has been.
Harry arrives early at Dubh Prais near Edinburgh Castle. Their dinner reservations are for eight o'clock, but the restaurant is slow and the maître d' is able to seat him at a cosy table beside a cast-iron fireplace. Harry was surprised that Malfoy asked him to choose a Muggle restaurant; he tries to rein back his expectations of what that might signal. Most likely he's just looking forward to a quiet night to ease himself back into Britain.
Harry slowly sips a glass of Ardbeg, willing the smoky malt to still his jangling nerves. He finishes the one and debates ordering another, resisting the temptation to keep casting Tempus Charms. Malfoy is late. He never used to be late; in fact, being kept waiting was one of the things that annoyed him most. Surely that can't have changed.
Two hours later, grumpy from hunger and being stood up, Harry enters Draco's hotel. Thankfully he's booked a room at a wizarding guesthouse where the manager recognises him immediately.
"Mr. Potter, I'm so glad you've come. I've already alerted the local Aurors but I wasn't sure they'd be able to contact you."
He hands Harry a folded sheet of parchment. The script is unfamiliar, but there's no mistaking whose words they are.
Bloody typical, Potter! Your fucking Ministry blocked my Portkey activation! Never mind that they approved it a month ago! What am I supposed to do now? Fly the Channel with two tonnes of potions supplies on my back? And if you dare suggest a Muggle coach I will have to kill you! This is a cock-up of the highest order! Am debating whom to hex first! Someone will pay!
Harry's blood boils by the time he finishes reading. He knows for a fact that International Magical Cooperation approved the Portkey; Ron told him that he'd personally signed off on the request. This is nothing but pure harassment. Harry is angry enough to storm into Percy's home, time of night be damned, and demand he fix this. If that doesn't work, he's prepared to wake his boss, and he'll keep going until he gets to Kingsley himself if necessary. But he doesn't think it will be. Percy's behind this, he can smell it.
In a solemn voice that Harry imagines was supposed to be helpful, the hotel manager says, "I've given a copy of the letter to Robert Craig, our local Auror chief. I'm sure he'll want your input on the response."
"What response? Why would you give him my mail?"
"Well, it's a death threat, isn't it?"
Harry blames the two whiskies for the belly laugh that threatens to erupt. "A death threat? Are you kidding me?" But he looks at it again. Threats of hexes, someone having to pay. Typical Malfoy-speak, dripping with entitlement and exaggeration, but for someone unaccustomed to it ... fucking hell, Malfoy.
"I'm completely serious, Mr. Potter," answers the manager. He looks a bit less certain of himself, Harry thinks, but not about to admit his mistake. "This is from a known Death Eater and contains threats against Ministry personnel. It's my duty to report it."
The laughter freezes in Harry's belly, turning into something sharper, something wild and dangerous. He feels the steely pricks of anger in his fingers. It would take so little to ruin this place. He wouldn't even need to draw his wand, just let his fury lash out.
"You listen to me," he growls, making sure his words are clear and loud enough to be heard throughout the lobby. "Draco Malfoy is not and never has been a Death Eater. He is a respected Potions master and deserves far better than this. I owe my life to him several times over. You should be ashamed!" To Harry's satisfaction, the manager blanches and seems to wither. "And you had no right to share my confidential mail. The Magical Chamber of Commerce will hear all about this!"
Clutching Draco's letter as tightly as the magic threatening to explode, Harry marches out. This is the kind of harassment that drove Malfoy away over a decade ago. It's a bitter reminder that the world still isn't right.
The IMC's Potions Inspection Office is only open for a few hours each day. Unfortunately no one can—or will—tell Harry which hours those are. He finally stations his owl outside the door, with instructions to alert him as soon as someone arrives. On the fourth day, he Apparates directly to the fifth floor to catch Winnifred Hornroot who, although she's just arrived, says she's leaving for lunch. It takes only one glower from Harry to get her rifling through her dusty files.
"Here we are. Lord Draco Malfoy, potions maker, currently residing in," she squints at the words, "Lee Mare-aze in Paris."
"Le Marais," Harry corrects her pronunciation. And wouldn't that tickle Draco.
"Left England in 2003, still maintains property here, registered in his mother's name, in Wiltshire. Married, one child..."
"Yes, yes, that's not important. I want to know why Malfoy's travel was denied."
"Let's see..." She flips through more papers. "Ah, yes, here it is. Trafficking in substances controlled for reasons of danger to and protection of magical creatures under Ministry Decree 1493286-12, or developing a potion or other product for sale in the British market using substances derived from said magical creatures. There you go."
She smiles as if that answers Harry's question. It doesn't help that she reminds him of Dolores Umbridge. He grits his teeth as he smiles back, his canines itching for blood.
"What did Malfoy do?"
"Last week a shipment of Bonnie Nuts," Harry winces on Draco's behalf, "entered London. Unlike the usual potion, the one that our office approved for sale, this one contained runespoor egg yolks. This potion should never have come into England."
Harry remembers a mention of the runespoor problem somewhere in the middle of a three-page rant on British import regulations. The part he recalls most vividly is Malfoy's claim that brewing the separate potion according to British specifications is causing him to lose his hair prematurely. He did it, though, and carefully segmented his stock between Britain and the rest of Europe.
"So wait—that's all that happened? A potions shipment got mixed up? And for that, you denied his travel?"
"Well, that, and the fact that he's a Malfoy, of course. Whole family of Death Eaters, don't you know."
You destroyed an entire Ministry office just for me? writes Draco. I'm impressed.
Shacklebolt is less so. If Harry was still an Auror, he bellows, he'd have his wand. Fortunately Madam Hornroot isn't hurt, only frightened, and the Spellmasons can repair the damage. Harry just has to sit through an angry lecture. He bristles as Kingsley rages against the impulsiveness of youth and holds his tongue as the Minister praises the slowly turning tide of public opinion. He knows that if he wasn't Harry Potter he'd be cooling off in the Ministry's holding cells, or at least facing a stiff fine. His name is still good for something.
He expects Ginny to be upset when she hears. Instead she looks at him like she's just figured something out.
When Harry was young, death was sudden and treacherous. A flash of violent green, an explosion of wreckage, a still clump of feathers, Fred's open, unseeing eyes. Relentless and powerful, death struck like a fist, terrifying in its random, indiscriminate reach.
It has more decorum these days. Death comes now for the old and infirm, for those who expect it, for those who even welcome it. Its gnarled hand extends with an invitation that almost seems polite.
Harry almost forgets that it's still the heartless bastard he's always known.
The eagle owl lands on the windowsill and waits more patiently than usual for Harry to get to the window. She looks exhausted, as if she's been told to fly with haste. Albie glances up from his English book to study the bird. "When I get to Hogwarts can I have an eagle owl? I don't want a horned owl like James. She always looks angry."
"We'll see," murmurs Harry absently, unrolling the letter.
"I'm getting a snowy owl like Papa had," states Lily, not even lifting her head. She's practicing her handwriting; "My name is Lily Luna Potter" covers sheet after sheet of parchment.
Draco's letter says something very different:
Mother passed away last night. The funeral will be held at the Manor on Friday. Merlin help anyone who dares cross me.
"I can have a snowy owl, can't I, Papa?"
Harry, unable to answer, stares at the words, willing them to rearrange into gossip about some German count or struggles with a feisty potion. They stubbornly refuse him, despite the protests in his head: it's too sudden, too unexpected, people aren't supposed to die anymore, not without warning.
Albie cocks his head; usually he's the spitting image of his father, but when his face knits with concern, Ginny's features take over. "Is something wrong, Papa?"
The question drags him back and he forces himself to smile. "Everything's fine, but I'm going to have to visit your Uncle Ron. I'll see if your grandmother can look after you for a bit."
That night, while Ginny tucks the kids into bed, Harry puts on the tea and roots around for the packet of Jaffa Cakes he knows is there. He doesn't hear her come back in and is startled by her words.
"I thought you didn't do funerals any more."
"Funny, that's exactly what Ron said." But there's no humour in his words. Their first thoughts are of trying to catch him out instead of sympathy, and that's not an insight he wants about his best friend or wife.
"Oh, really?" Ginny pulls the biscuits from the breadbox and sits at the table with her tea. "When did you talk to him?"
"I went in to his office," Harry says, joining her. "Wanted to make sure there aren't any cock-ups like last time. Narcissa deserves to be buried with her husband."
"With Lucius?"
There's scorn in her voice, and Harry can't fault her for it. He also can't hear it right now. "You know she saved my life, Gin. We wouldn't have won the war if not for her." He shouldn't have to remind her. It's bad enough that the rest of the world forgets, that they cling to their prejudices like security blankets. Here at home it should be different.
"She only did it for Malfoy."
And of course that's true, but Harry wonders why it sounds like an accusation. Narcissa had a mother's motivations, no different than what Molly had when she killed Bellatrix, no different than what his own mother had when she sacrificed herself. No different than what Ginny would have for any of their children. But Ginny's got that wise look that she's had a lot lately, the one that makes Harry think he must be missing something. "That's why you're doing it too, isn't it?"
"Doing what?" It takes him a minute to follow. "Do you mean helping with the funeral?"
Ron had questioned that, too, why he was doing this. Harry's answer was too complex, tinged with gratitude to Narcissa and guilt over thriving in the wizarding world that had seen her family exiled, anger at what happened to Draco in Edinburgh and a wish to imbue his homecoming with dignity. If there's a sliver of selfishness buried in the latter, he tries not to give it too much weight.
With Ginny, he opts for the easiest answer. "I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. I hated Lucius too, but Narcissa deserves some dignity."
Ginny stares at him for a long moment; Harry fights the urge to squirm under her knowing gaze. Finally she picks up her tea. "She was very young. How did she die?"
"Black family curse. She'd just turned sixty." It's only been a few months since Draco wrote about her extravagant birthday celebrations. At the time, Harry had thought he was being overly ostentatious after the recovery of their fortunes. Now he wonders if Draco had known what would happen all along.
Oh, Merlin! Draco is a Black as well, with that same curse flowing through his veins. At thirty-six, more than half of his life might already be gone, death already winding his remaining years like a thread around its long finger. It's almost more horrific to know when its touch will fall, to know there's no way to stop it. A surge of panic assaults Harry as he imagines Malfoy already dying, already dead, as stiff and cold as the marble slab his body will be laid out upon. It costs almost all of his strength to stay seated when his mind is screaming to fly to Draco's side.
Ginny's hand covers his and Harry looks up. Guilt flashes over his face, he feels it colour his cheeks, but she just looks at him steadily. "It's all right, Harry. I know I'm jealous of Malfoy and I don't have any reason to be."
Harry's throat catches. "The thing is, though..." he swallows hard and looks away, safe from her steady gaze. "The thing is, you might have a reason. I ... I haven't done anything, I haven't seen him for years, but..."
His voice trails off, the sentence left unfinished but bursting with promise. He doesn't know where that dangling word could lead and his urge to follow it down some uncertain path terrifies him. He knows how crazy this is. He's risking everything he has, and for what? For something unknown and unnamed? He doesn't even know what he really wants, much less what Malfoy would wish. Strange, then, that not knowing sends a thrill racing up his spine.
Ginny is quiet, he notices after few seconds. Not the reaction he expected; a hex, perhaps, or a vicious argument, those would be normal. Not silence. He braves a look and is surprised to see she looks regretful rather than angry. "That wasn't quite what I meant," she says. "There's something I have to tell you, about me and Oliver..."
And just like that, Harry's entire world turns upside down.
Friday finds Malfoy Manor draped in grey clouds and unseasonably cold for a July day. Climate charms, no doubt, but Harry can't help feeling that this corner of the world mourns for Narcissa. As he hurries up the straight gravel drive he remembers the last funeral, when he took these same steps past ragged hedges and a dilapidated mansion. Today everything looks different, severe but well kept. Draco has spared no expense in making this funeral worthy of his mother's memory and Harry admires the extraordinarily fine spellwork that's undone nearly two decades of neglect. The Manor looks ready to live in; Harry's heart ignores his insistence that this is for show and means nothing at all.
He's late, the children's sitter didn't arrive on time, and when he arrives the Necromage is just beginning to speak. Hastily, Harry looks around. He dimly registers the mourners, many more than for Lucius, around the white casket that glows star-bright from his distant memories. He notices a small woman wearing a heavy black veil, shoulders heaving as she sobs inconsolably; beside her he sees a tiny boy, pale and matchstick thin. But all of this is eclipsed by the tall, slim figure who seems untouched by what is happening around him. He stands ramrod straight, his face expressionless. He looks unfinished, as if the sculptor will return later to lift the lips, fill out the cheekbones, bring some life to those haunted dead eyes.
These eyes lift and meet Harry's, and hold him there, and suddenly Harry knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that he wants to be the one holding that chisel.
At Lucius' funeral, he lurked on the fringes, hesitant to reopen newly healed wounds with his presence. Now he moves smoothly through the crowd, not with the confidence of an Auror but with the surety of where he belongs. Draco doesn't move when he stands beside him, close enough that they could clasp hands like they did so many years before. He doesn't even look at him, not until the service ends and it is time to send the casket to rest in the vault. But then, as he draws his wand, his eyes flicker briefly to Harry's. The look of distress there, so out of place on Draco's cool façade, shakes Harry from his peace like an icy cold shower. Harry's not sure what it means until he sees the outstretched wand. About to cast the levitation spell, it shakes minutely. The movement would be unnoticeable to any of the guests, but Draco's wand form has always been impeccable.
Except, perhaps, on the day he buries his mother.
It's the closest to asking for help that Draco will ever come. It's more than enough for Harry. He draws his wand and joins their spells. With their magical energies combined he senses the turmoil seething behind Draco's mask. It was one thing to lay Lucius to rest; this is his mother, and Harry knows Draco could not have managed this alone. His magic feels weak and fractured, surging with dogged bursts of strength that quickly collapse, brittle under the weight of the enchantment. Harry sends his own magic, supporting and stabilising the spell, and together they glide the heavy marble with the sombre grace that Narcissa would have desired for her final journey.
Once Narcissa's casket joins her husband's for their eternal sleep, Harry lowers his wand; it is Draco's place to close the doors alone, and Harry understands that he needs to discharge his duty with dignity. But the quiet thunk that should be the final farewell is drowned out by a tremendous wail. Harry grips his wand, fearing a bean sídhe's attack, before realising that it's the woman on Draco's other side. Asteria, Harry realises, and he's shocked to discover he despises her and her flowing tears. It's not jealousy, he tells himself, although admittedly he's glad that Draco makes no move to comfort her. It's that she can so freely express the pain that only Draco has a right to. Draco, who stands solemnly, his tightening jaw the only outward sign of his anguish.
As people pass by offering condolences Harry steps back, not wanting to intrude on the family; Draco glances over his shoulder to make sure he's not gone far. The little boy does too, wide grey eyes peeping from under his blond fringe. When Harry smiles he whips his head back to the front as if he's been caught and stands stock-still, a miniature version of his father right down to the stiff set of his shoulders under starched black robes.
The crowd thins, the mourners winding their way back to the reception in the Manor, when Asteria rounds upon him. She darts out one hand while the other dabs her seeping eyes with her handkerchief. "I can't tell you what an honour it is that you're here, Mr. Potter. I know it would have meant so much to Mother Malfoy."
Apparently recovered from her show of grief, she switches seamlessly into the society hostess that Harry knows her to be. Draco goes through the motions of presenting her and Harry mumbles his pleasure, but each moment with her there is torture. Malfoy verges on collapse, if his spell was any indication. As much as Harry yearns to examine Draco, studying every change the years have wrought, even more he wants to let him break down away from prying eyes. Ginny would make some excuse and lead him away, were he in this situation; he would do the same if she needed him. But Asteria drones on about the important figures who attended the funeral, about how pleased Mother Malfoy would be. Harry, who can't imagine Narcissa ever being pleased at being called Mother Malfoy, looks to Draco to save him. He's relieved when the small boy is drawn forward.
"And may I present my son, Scorpius."
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Potter."
Such proper manners that Harry can't help but smile. The slender hand extended to him reminds him briefly of another hand so long ago, one he didn't take for eight years. This time he shakes it gladly.
"Hello, Scorpius. I've heard a lot about you. I believe you'll be in my son's class next year at Hogwarts."
"Hogwarts?" Asteria interrupts, her pitch rising. Draco's eyes narrow in warning, but she doesn't notice. "No! No, you agreed to Beauxbatons!"
"This is not the time, Asteria." His voice crackles with anger and there is no escaping the danger now. "Why don't you see to our guests? The house-elves are no doubt beside themselves." His eyes flash to Harry's, cold as ice. "Potter, care for a walk?"
Not waiting for an answer, Malfoy starts off. Soon they're out of sight of the well-tended mausoleum, Draco's long legs tramping down the wild grasses as Harry hurries to keep up. Over the knoll he follows, down to where the River Wylye crosses the Malfoy estate. They stumble along the riverbank for what seems like forever, until Draco finally stops beneath a sagging white willow. He rests his shoulder against its trunk as if he cannot bear his own weight anymore.
"We had no trouble returning to England," Draco says curtly. "I suppose I have you to thank for that."
"No, there's nothing to thank me for." Harry shakes his head and moves a step closer under the tangle of branches, letting the shimmering leaves fall like a curtain around them. "Draco," he says, and then not knowing what there is to say, simply offers, "I'm so sorry, Draco."
Draco inhales deeply, releases it slowly. The action seems to soften him; his eyes cloud and his gaze drifts out over the freesia and irises that dot the riverbank with brilliant colour. "She used to bring me here when I was small. We'd sit under this tree and I'd pick flowers for her to transfigure into tiny menageries. She refused to change the colours, though. Tiny yellow unicorns and pink dragons. She'd make griffins, too, she liked them."
A lump rises in Harry's throat, choking him with longing for the mother that he never knew, with sorrow for the one that Draco's lost. Grey eyes flicker across his face, recognising his empathy, and Draco's carefully schooled features relax. "She wanted to come back, you know," he confesses in a cracked whisper. "She missed it terribly. I always told her to wait, just a little longer. She wanted ... I wouldn't let her ..."
The cascade around them shimmers, willow leaves flickering from green to silver and back again, as Draco's shoulders silently convulse. His knees give out, useless as jelly, and he would have fallen save for Harry's arms waiting to catch him. He hangs on Harry, lifeless as the mourning crape draped over the Manor doors, gravity and too much time apart dragging them to the ground. Bark scrapes Harry's back as they fall, the dull pain hardly registering against the onslaught of anguish in his arms. Draco does not weep, not like his wife. His breakdown seems more like torture than release. He shakes like he's suffering the throes of Cruciatus, and Harry wraps his arms tighter.
"...wouldn't let ... come back," Draco gasps, his words broken with airy holes. "...keep her from being hurt..."
"It's not your fault, Draco," Harry murmurs back, and "it'll be all right," stock comforts that sit heavy as stale bread in his mouth. His eyes sting and he wonders where Malfoy's tears have gone, then dismisses the thought to pull him as close as he possibly can. This body isn't the one from his memories; it sinks into him with a weight the too-slim youth lacked, it holds him with a force that he'd never have been able to escape.
"There was nothing anyone could do. The Healers couldn't help, she ... she just faded before our eyes. They tried everything, they couldn't save her." Harry's never heard a voice sound so fragile, not like this. "Hated you, Potter ... hated everybody so much..." Malfoy's hands claw Harry's robe through this confession, as if afraid he'll pull away. "You were all here and my mother ... my mother ... she wanted to come home, she couldn't even..."
"I didn't know ... I would've ... I'm sorry..."
Their words blend and braid, anger and loss and regret impossible to extricate. Malfoy's anger rolls over him like the stream beside them rushes over polished river stones. And like the stream, at last tears begin to flow. Not a dam-bursting flood like Asteria but a helpless trickle, as if his eyes leak and it takes too much effort to plug the holes. Harry rocks Malfoy like he would a child. Back and forth, his soothing movements absorb Draco's trembling just like the collar of his robe soaks up his tears.
Hours seem to pass before the demons let Malfoy rest. Harry doesn't mind.
At last, Draco lifts his head and Harry studies his face carefully for the first time. He catalogues the changes of the years, the wrinkles and the pronounced widow's peak, but his fine features haven't changed in spite of wet cheeks creased from the seams on Harry's robe. More worrying are the dark circles under red eyes and the profound sense of fatigue weighting his shoulders. He looks like every last ounce of his strength is depleted. Gently, Harry wipes away a lingering tear with his thumb.
"When was the last time you slept?"
It looks like a struggle to remember, or maybe it's the distraction of Harry's touch. "Besides a nap the day before yesterday? It must have been Sunday, before Mother..."
Harry squeezes Draco's arm when his voice trails off. "I need to get you to bed, you're worn out." He debates where they should go. He doesn't want to face Asteria again, but Ginny's got the kids at his house. Understanding as she might be, bringing Malfoy back would be pushing it...
"My bedroom at the Manor." Draco smiles a little shyly. "I already set the wards to allow you in."
Harry nods. Already as close as they can be, he hugs Draco's shoulder and Apparates them to the Manor.
It feels like stepping back in time, being in this unchanged room. Muffled sounds rise from downstairs but a wave of Harry's wand closes the door and the drapes, and suddenly the world belongs to them again. Draco looks dazed from the journey so Harry guides him to the bed.
"Here, let me..." Harry makes quick work of the delicate pearl buttons around Draco's throat, opening the neck of his robes enough to slide the heavy garb over his head. He wears traditional wizards' undergarments underneath, vest and ankle-length pants spun of the finest silver silk threads. There will be time to dispose of those later, Harry hopes, pushing back the stirrings of interest and reminding himself that now is not the time. Instead he drops to his knee to unlace Draco's boots.
He looks up to see Malfoy looking down at him, wearing a small smile. "Harry," he says, and nothing more, but the sound of his name on Draco's tongue turns Harry's insides warm and spongy.
"Sleep, Malfoy," he quietly commands. Draco is so exhausted that he's pliable; it's easy to slide him under the duvet and his eyes close the instant they touch the pillow. Harry indulges a long look at the sleeping man, pushes a stray lock of hair back into place, braces to leave although he vows it won't be for long. Tomorrow. It's been thirteen years. Just one more day, it shouldn't be this hard.
He starts to move, carefully so as not to shake the bed, but a hand darts out, quick as the Seeker it once was, and circles his wrist. Malfoy, who a moment ago seemed fast asleep, is staring, exhausted but determined. "Stay."
Harry starts to protest that Draco needs his rest, but the hand tightens on his wrist. It only lets go long enough for Harry's robe to come off; afterwards it clutches him again, pulling Harry until he's draped like a blanket over Draco, blocking out all the world.
That night, Harry has a dream he's not had for a long time. Of cold, unforgiving stone so hard that his fist aches from pounding, so dense that it swallows the sound of his screams. Of darkness so black that his Lumos spell is useless, of stale, dead air and the cloying scent of lilies. His fingers scrape the smooth marble, feeling for cracks and joints, desperate to find a chink in the tomb. As he works his way over the corner seams, his dream changes ... or maybe he changes when he feels the right angle from the wrong side. He's on the outside of the casket, and panic spikes as he claws frantically at the stone. He finds the heavy lid and pushes against it with all his might. His shoulders ache and his legs strain and he feels his heart ready to give out. The weight is too much for him, and someone is pulling him back, trying to tear him away, but he won't give up, can't give up, because Malfoy is inside...
"...a nightmare, Harry. Wake up!"
Harry thrashes once more before realising that the arms holding him feel more solid than the tomb. He opens his eyes to see the bed lit by a ring of floating candles that give the man staring at him a ghostly appearance. "Malfoy?"
Draco presses a sharp kiss to his forehead. "It was just a nightmare. A bad one." He pulls back a little, frowning. "I thought you said you didn't have them anymore."
Harry shakes his head, waking up the rest of the way as his nightmare starts slipping away. "I haven't for a long time. This one was different." The tendrils of the fleeting dream sharpen for an instant and he feels the ache in his fist, hears the sound of death tapping its long finger, impatient for another victim. "Don't you dare die on me, Malfoy," he growls. His hand snakes possessively into Draco's hair. Fine as ever, the strands slip through his fingers like smoke no matter how tight his grip. "Don't you die on me, not now."
"What in Nimue's name are you on about, Potter?"
"The curse."
Draco stares, still puzzled, and Harry tries to explain the fear that grips him, that hit him so hard that even Ginny recognised his feelings. "I'm sorry about your mother, really I'm sorry. But there's got to be something the Healers haven't tried. There are curse-breakers who can work on this, I'll get Hermione to research it. We'll figure out something, Malfoy. We have to; I can't let you go, not again."
He discovers his nails are digging painfully into the man's shoulders, pinning him in place; after sliding so ineffectually off the granite they now want to press harder into yielding flesh. But Draco seems not to notice the pain. The puzzlement on his face has transformed into something else, something that looks like surprise with a glimmer of approval.
"Idiot Gryffindor. You've never gotten over your saving people thing, have you?" His gentle tone contradicts the rebuke and his hands wander aimlessly across Harry's chest. "The curse passes through the male line. I'm only a Black on my mother's side. So it seems I don't need saving after all." His hand stills. "So if that's all you came for, then perhaps you should go. I won't be needing your services after all."
Such a typical Malfoy response that Harry has the strangest urge to laugh. It's absurd how much he's missed this arrogant veneer and the insecurities it hides. "That's not why I came and you know it. I want to be with you, Malfoy. I don't know if it'll work, but Merlin help me, I want to try."
Harry doesn't care if it's appropriate, with Draco's wife and child sleeping under the same roof. His hands slip up to cradle Draco's head, pulling him forward until their mouths meet. The kiss is hard, sloppy, not a shred of romance in it. For Harry this is a claiming kiss and the other man leans forward to be claimed, his eyes open and unblinking.
"Who'd have thought you'd get sentimental in your old age, Potter," Malfoy says when Harry pulls away. He props himself up on his elbow, his eyes suddenly sharp. "Not that I disapprove of where this is headed, and I know I'll hex myself for asking if this all goes pear-shaped, but what's changed?"
An explanation was inevitable, Harry knew that, although he'd expected it to come later. Malfoy is already wearing his stoic face, though, the one that dares the world to throw it worst punch, so Harry dives in. "I changed, and you already know that. You're the one who taught me to say no to all those things people expected. I've told you so many times that I couldn't have done that without you, without your potion."
"Saying no isn't the same as saying yes." Draco's face has that grim look he used to get when he thought of the war, but it softens when Harry touches it, and his chin dips just a little so his cheek caresses Harry's knuckles.
"You're right, it's not. But it helped me see what I wanted to say yes to. Remember playing Quidditch back in school? How when you were flying low, all you heard was the noise in the stands?" Draco nods, his lips curled into a slight smile that Harry wants to kiss. Later, he promises himself. "And you'd want to stay there, because that's where everything was happening and you wanted to be part of it, but you knew you'd never catch the Snitch down there. You had to fly high to get clear of that, and then you could see everything."
"So you see everything now, do you?"
Harry's delighted to see the return of the smirk. He can't believe how much he's missed it. "Not everything, no, but definitely more. I saw enough to know that I couldn't be an Auror anymore. And I saw enough to know that I was more upset than was normal when you couldn't make it to Edinburgh. Even Ginny could see that."
"You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Potter. I mean, look at your hair." But Draco is smiling even as he deflects. "So what does your wife think of this newfound clarity of yours?"
"She's surprisingly understanding about it. Of course, she does have Wood to see her through. No, it's okay," Harry rushes to add when Malfoy's eyes go wide with horror. "It really is for the best. She's moving in with him and I'll stay in the house, at least until Albie starts school next year." He tries to smile but it's thin, the wound still new. "It's all been shockingly civil."
Draco stares at him, his eyes flickering back and forth across Harry's face like he's reading a page, scrolling through computations and seeing them fall into place. Then he nods, awkward but sympathetic. "Still, I'm sorry, Harry. You never said anything."
"It just happened. She wasn't pleased that I was breaking my 'no funerals' rule and it all just came out. I wasn't going to bother you, not when you had so much else to deal with."
This time it's Malfoy who offers the kiss. It starts out as one of gratitude, at least it feels that way to Harry, and he suspects that Draco knows what he did to ensure the funeral went off smoothly. It's sweet and comforting and so much slower than the last, his tongue gradually relearning the contours of Harry's lips. Draco is thorough, almost painfully so, and the touch is so erotic, so arousing, that Harry thinks it couldn't possibly come through just this one point of contact. Every cell of his body feels the caress and surrenders, even his lungs breathe out a quiet sigh. His lips part to allow the breath out, to invite Draco in, and it feels like the most intimate act of his life when the tip of Draco's tongue touches his.
Harry relearns more than Draco's body this night, in these still hours while the Manor sleeps. Under Draco's hand, under this burning mouth that lays scorching kisses down the line of his throat, he remembers what it is to feel, to want. To need something, someone, so badly that his entire body aches for them and only now realises how much. Like a starving man who's beyond hunger, Draco reminds Harry with every stroke, with teasing tickles and lavish licks, that he's been ravenous for years. That those occasional moments with Ginny or random trysts with strangers are nothing compared to the feast he now wallows in.
Draco feels it too, Harry's sure. He dispenses with their clothes with a kind of irritated growl; as concentrated as Draco's banishing spell is, Harry still feels the brush of magic too excited to control. Sensation scuttles across his now-bare skin, reverberating between their bodies. As hands touch everywhere Harry feels Draco trying to crawl inside him. He wants him inside, wants so badly to open himself up to his lover, that when it finally happens, when after endless indulgent preparation Draco finally breaches him, it's less like penetration and more like a lost part of himself is found. They might as well be one body, Harry thinks as they move together, in that one tiny part of his mind that's still capable of thought. The rest of him is awash in pure carnal pleasure, electrifying bliss spreading through every nerve, every tendon, the pressure building until it suffocates and destroys him. He can't go back, he can't lose this again, and Harry clings tighter to Draco through their final thrusts, trusting his lover to remake him even as he destroys him.
Finally they fall apart, fatigued beyond belief, murmuring endearments that don't make any sense except that they do. Harry cleans them with a quick spell and this time he's the one who rolls into Draco's shielding arms. He falls asleep certain that his nightmares have been quieted.
"Father, you're here!"
The bed bounces, waking Harry from the soundest sleep. It takes an instant for Harry to remember where he is. When he does, he looks up in horror to see Draco's son crawling into bed with them. He grapples with the sheets, making sure his naked body is covered, while bracing for Malfoy's imminent explosion.
It doesn't come.
"I am here. You didn't think I'd gone anywhere, did you?" Draco's voice is groggy but he's moving to sit up, his full attention fixed on the little blond boy sitting cross-legged beside him.
"I thought you might be sleeping outside to keep Grandmama company. I wasn't worried, though."
"Of course you weren't, my brave boy."
As Draco gently pushes the fringe from Scorpius' forehead, Harry realises with a start that this is a normal morning for the two. Other than the fact that he is here.
"Father," Scorpius asks sotto voce, his French accent coming through even in the whisper, "did you know that Mr. Potter's in bed with you?"
Draco chuckles. "I'm aware of that, yes. He's being quite rude though, isn't he? Potter, say good morning to my son."
"G– good morning, Scorpius." Harry clutches the sheet to his chest like a security blanket, desperately wishing he had his vest. Still, seeing Draco with his son like this, this comfortable moment of familiarity, it impresses him.
Scorpius, though, doesn't seem the least bit discomfited. "Good morning, Mr. Potter," he says brightly.
"Scorpius, could you hand Mr. Potter his glasses? They're behind you on the bed table. Perhaps he can't see you without them. He's blind as a bat, you know."
"Why doesn't he correct his eyes with magic?"
"Merlin only knows," Draco sighs wearily. Harry rolls his eyes at him.
"Thank you," he says as Scorpius hands him his spectacles. "I tried magic, but I was too old by then and my eyes were already set. It didn't work."
Scorpius considers this answer carefully, reminding Harry of Albie when he hears something confusing. Then he switches tracks entirely. "Father and I are flying over the Manor grounds this afternoon. Will you come with us? We're going to find where the hinkypunks are hiding."
"I don't know." Harry looks to Draco for advice. "If it was just going to be the two of you..."
"You should come, Potter." To Harry's surprise, Draco reaches out and casually drapes his arm over his chest. Their hands join, and Harry relaxes his hold on the sheet just a fraction. "Scorpius already knows you're the only person who ever beat me to the Snitch. We'll see how well you can spot hinkypunks from the air. A Galleon says I find more than you."
Harry grins at the challenge. "You're on, Malfoy. Would you have a broom I can borrow?"
"I think I might have an old Nimbus 2001 around here somewhere."
A heated look passes between them, the memory of their old rivalry rekindled, softened by years, perhaps, but still alive. Harry feels an irrepressible urge to pull Malfoy back under the covers, and stops himself only when he remembers Scorpius' presence. The boy's eyes flit back and forth between them. "May I ask you a question, Mr. Potter?"
"Of course you can."
"Are you going to marry Father and come to live with us in Paris?"
Draco makes a choking sound, of laughter or shock Harry's not sure. Unable to look at him, Harry shakes his head. "No, that's not possible. Wizards aren't allowed to marry, and I doubt your father would ever consent to a Muggle ceremony. Besides, I have children of my own, so I can't leave England."
Scorpius nods, accepting that explanation. "But you do love him, don't you."
Harry glances at Draco. The colour's drained completely from his face and his mouth hangs half open. He looks like he wants to reprimand Scorpius if he can only find his stray tongue. Harry tightens his grip on Draco's hand, tugs it until his lover looks up at him. His eyes are full of the same fear they'd held when he was a teenager, trapped in a desperate situation with no way out. It's taken him years, but at last Harry's figured out how to answer that.
"Yeah, I think I just might."
Harry's breath stops as those grey eyes cloud, fear fading as something smouldering takes its place.
"Scorpius," Draco says, and his voice cracks. He pats his son's knee with his free hand, the other cutting the blood flow off as he grips Harry's so tightly. "Why don't you go and make sure your broom is trimmed. Potter and I'll be downstairs in a little while."
"Yes, Father."
Harry hardly notices as Scorpius pads across the room. He can't tear his eyes from Draco's, from the storm brewing there. As the door clicks closed, he moves to kiss Draco and is surprised by a hand on his chest, stopping him.
"Just what do you think you're doing, Potter?"
At the shocked tone, Harry freezes in confusion. "What? What did I do?"
"You just ... you can't just drop in and ... and say things like that." He sighs, utter exasperation in one heavy breath. "I fucking hate you, Potter."
"You mean ... when I said..." His confession to Scorpius? Could that have upset Draco so? Did he not believe it was real? "Draco, I really did mean it. I do think I lo–"
"Shut it, Potter." A frustrated hand swipes through the cascade of silver hair. "Merlin, I know that you do. That's what makes it all the worse."
"I don't understand? What's wrong?"
"You just burst in and take what you want. What do I get out of this?"
Harry's mouth falls open; it takes all his effort to get it to work again. "Well, I thought you might get me. If that's not enough then..."
"Oh for the love of Merlin, don't pout, I don't think I can bear it."
Harry rolls back, away from Draco's touch. He's not forgotten the man's mercurial nature, but this ... this feels like something more. "I don't get it, Malfoy. I thought this was something you wanted. You weren't exactly unwilling last night."
"It's always so easy for you, isn't it?" accuses Draco. "You want to be an Auror, so suddenly you're Head Auror. You want a family, so you get your perfect wife and kids. You get tired of all that, you just walk away. Even your wife gives you her blessing to have an affair." He crosses his arms stubbornly. "I hate you and your charmed fucking life."
"Fuck you, Malfoy. You don't know anything about it." Harry throws off the blankets, hunting for his clothes scattered across the floor. Malfoy's as spiteful and petty as he ever was. Harry can't believe he ever imagined having feelings for this man.
"Oh, but I know everything about it," Draco retorts smugly. "For years I've heard everything about it. Admit it, I know more about you than your wife does."
Harry is glaring before his head even pops through his robe. "I'm sorry I bored you with the details of my life. I promise I won't let it happen again." Damn his boots that he pulled off in such a rush last night. Now they're knotted, slowing his escape. He'll just find his wand and carry them; hopefully Ginny won't see how he's Apparated home, but even if she does it'll be better than this horrible situation.
Malfoy is saying something, quieter now; Harry tries not to listen, he knows it will only make him angrier, but Draco's voice has a heart-rending tone that wasn't there before. "You come in here and say exactly what I've wanted to hear for twenty years. And all of a sudden, all I can think about is throwing over everything I've worked so hard for, just for you."
Harry spies his wand, rolled under the bed, just as Draco's words register. He doesn't reach for it; his world's just tilted on its side and he's not sure he trusts himself with magic right now. He steadies himself with a hand in the thick carpet, bracing himself as his head turns towards Malfoy. "Then ... you wanted me to ... you're not mad at me for saying that?"
Draco looks at him sadly. "Of course not. Merlin, but you're such an idiot. I've been in love with you forever."
Stunned, Harry stares at his chimerical lover. "Then why ... why all of this?"
"Because it can't work. Can't you see that? I've built a new life, I'm a respected Potions master in France, I've got students queuing up to apprentice with me. Here I'm nothing but Death Eater scum." He drops his head back against the headboard; the heavy clunking sound almost drowns out his sigh. "And you know, that wouldn't even bother me if it weren't for Scorpius."
Draco's desire to protect his son is a feeling Harry understands. He moves closer and sits at the foot of the bed. "Is he really going to Beauxbatons?"
"Asteria wants him to. She says he'll have a better chance there, that the Malfoy name won't hurt him." He spits this last part out like rancid pumpkin juice.
"What do you want?"
He shrugs a bony shoulder. "It doesn't really matter what I want, does it?"
"I think it does. I spent my life doing what other people wanted. You're the one who helped me get over that." Harry slides closer and takes Draco's hand. For the first time he notices the rough callus on his index finger. His fine aristocratic hand, altered by years spent stirring potions. Proof that Draco Malfoy will do whatever it takes to change his fate. His thumb tracing the hard skin, Harry asks, "If you could have anything, what would you want?"
Draco stares at Harry's hand as he gives the question his full consideration. Harry waits, watching sandpiper tracks wrinkle his high forehead. "I'd want Scorpius to go to Hogwarts," Draco answers at last. "I'd want him sorted into Slytherin. He's smart, he would do well there. He could help show that it's changed—that it's not just cowards and Dark magic."
"I'm sure he could," agrees Harry. Draco falls silent again, but Harry has to know the rest; too much depends on words unspoken. He faces into the storm, willing those torrential grey eyes to admit the truth. "And ... what about us?"
"I ..." Draco's lips open and then close again, words frozen in his throat. His eyes, though, under Harry's scrutiny his eyes shift to something rich and charcoal warm.
"If you could have anything..." Harry prompts.
"Then I'd want there to be an us. It's what I've always wanted." A flash of passion crosses his face, and then a frustrated frown before the shutters drop down again. "Why are we even talking about this, Harry? It can't work."
Draco's pessimism might dissuade many, but even after all these years Harry is still a Gryffindor. He could never abandon a worthy cause—especially not one with this kind of reward at the end. Smiling confidently, he crawls his way to the headboard and leans against Draco. "Of course it can work. Charmed life, remember?"
Draco, to his credit, looks embarrassed. "I shouldn't have said that."
"It's all right. I won't say I haven't been very lucky." He takes Draco's hand again. Their palms fit together like a perfect clamshell. "I found you."
A flush rises over Draco's cheeks, but with a firm shake of his head he dismisses the compliment. "It's not that easy, Harry."
"I don't think it'll be easy. But what I said last night, that I want to try ... you're worth it, Draco, no matter how hard it gets. It took me too long to figure that out, I know, but I ... I do love you."
Draco shakes his head again and the mask refuses to slip. "It's too much, all at once. I ... I think I need some time to figure things out."
It's been too long already, Harry wants to argue, unfair as he knows that is. He's still used to Gryffindor ways, acting on emotions as soon as they come to light. But then, that's what tore Ron and Hermione apart; that's why Ginny has kept a toothbrush at Wood's flat for months. It's not the careful, calculating approach that Draco favours. So instead of arguing Harry forces himself to say, "Time, yeah, of course. You can have all the time you need." He lets go of Draco's hand and starts to move away. "You'll, um, you'll tell Scorpius I'm sorry I had to go?"
He's stopped by an imperious voice. "Where do you think you're going?"
Uneasily, Harry sits down again. "I thought ... you said..."
"I said I needed time, Potter, and I'll have more than enough of that when I return to Paris. But I'm here for a week and I intend to keep you naked for as much of that as I possibly can. Starting right now."
A week, Harry thinks, as Draco yanks the robe roughly over his head. It won't be enough, it could never be enough, but he's not about to give up a second of it.
Everyone says autumn came early this year. It doesn't feel that way to Harry. Time seems to crawl at a snail's pace, one endless sunny day bleeding into the next, time measured in reverse. Fourteen months since Narcissa's funeral. Three months since he last visited Paris. Six weeks since Draco's last letter, short and bitter, prompted by an argument over Hogwarts and Asteria's refusal to leave France. Even in just a few lines, Harry feels the weight of Draco's resignation.
Harry promised as much time as Draco needed. Over a year later, they're no closer to resolution. He often reminds himself that a year is nothing in the grand scheme of things. It took him eighteen years to make up his mind, after all.
But it's not really working.
James goes through the Floo first, then Albie, and finally little Lily. Sparks scatter as she jumps in with both boots, completely at ease in the flames that swirl around her pink cloak. Once she's gone, Harry picks up the two caged owls and steps inside. "The Leaky Cauldron," he announces.
Ginny is already there when he emerges, dusting stray ashes from Albie's jumper. Harry glances around the nearly empty pub. "Where's Oliver?"
"Waiting outside with the car. He's going to just let us off at the station—parking's a nightmare," she answers breezily, although she gives Harry a look that says more. Silently he thanks Wood for letting this be a Potter family moment.
Ginny looks beautiful, Harry realises, radiant even. She's barely showing; the baby's not due until April, but she already has that glow he remembers. That she shares it with another man caused only a momentary ache, one that faded in the light of their children's excitement. Lily, thrilled, has already moved her dolls from their cot to make room; even the boys look forward to their little sister's arrival.
"Mum!" Albie squirms as Ginny tries to spit-lick his fringe into place.
"I just can't believe my youngest son is starting school today!"
Harry runs a sympathetic hand through his own untidy hair. Substances stronger than spit have had little effect. "Let's go," he suggests. "We don't want to miss the train!"
It's not long before the whole family, complete with owls and school trunks, tumbles out of Oliver's surprisingly roomy Mini and into the station at King's Cross. The Granger-Weasleys, always punctual thanks to Hermione, are already on the platform. Ron helps Harry load the boys' things onto the train, all the while filling him in on his recent driving test, and then dives headfirst into the kids' never-ending argument about the Sorting.
"If you're not in Gryffindor, we'll disinherit you," he says. Ginny and Hermione rush to say he's only joking, but Harry wonders if he is. It seems like only yesterday that he and Ron were sitting on the train, worrying about where the Sorting Hat would place them.
Before he can say anything, though, Ron catches his eye and nods discreetly down the platform. "Look who it is."
In a severe black coat, softened by the diffusion of steam, stands Malfoy with his family. Harry's breath catches; of all the things he expected from this day, this was not among them. He had prepared himself for the bereavement of Albie's departure. He'd not expected his heart to start beating again so soon.
While Asteria fusses with her son's hair much like Ginny was doing earlier, Draco turns his gaze towards him. Time digs in its heels; for just a moment there are only the two of them, the connection sizzling between them as Draco broadcasts his thoughts. "This is it, Potter. I've undone my whole life because for some unfathomable reason I'm in love with a four-eyed disaster whose dress sense is, quite frankly, appalling. So help me, if you muck this up..." Then Draco nods curtly and the connection breaks, and Harry is once again surrounded by his family and friends.
"So that's little Scorpius," he hears Ron mutter. "Make sure you beat him in every test, Rosie. Thank God you inherited your mother's brains."
If Harry could get a word out around his broad grin, he might reprimand Ron for saying this. Fortunately Hermione comes to the rescue. "Ron, for heaven's sake, don't try to turn them against each other before they've even started school!"
Just knowing that Draco is here lifts Harry's spirits. He jokes good-naturedly with his boys until it's time to board the train. Just as Albie is about to leave, he tugs on his hand. "What if I'm in Slytherin?" And so Harry tells him of his namesake and how he will be proud of him wherever he sorts. He almost tells him to look out for the pale little boy with the French accent who will almost certainly be a Slytherin, but at the last minute he holds back. Telling children who they should befriend has never really worked, in his experience.
At last the train pulls slowly from the station. Harry walks beside it, smiling and waving until the train curves around the bend and Albie's face disappears from sight. His hand is still raised high when Ginny joins him.
"He'll be alright," she murmurs.
Absently, Harry touches the lightning scar on his forehead. It's been years since it's bothered him; this is a different world than the one in which he grew up. "I know he will."
"Go to him," she says, giving him a small shove. "He's waiting."
Sure enough, when Harry turns around he sees Draco standing alone. He looks still as a statue, his eyes fixed on the last curls of steam evaporating from the tracks. Harry's reminded of a stone angel from his past, a face chiselled with loving care into sharp angles and smooth planes, a razor-sharp jaw and matte-grey eyes, almost beyond human in its beauty.
"And if he hurts you, I can still do a mean Bat-Bogey."
Harry grins at Ginny, then bends down to kiss Lily on the cheek. "I'll Floo you soon, Lilypad."
Draco's sharp features relax into a serene smile as Harry approaches. "I've dreamed about this," he says, just like Harry had said those many years before. Heat rolls off his body, wrapping Harry in its inviting warmth. Their fingers lace together, Harry's hand fitting around Malfoy's like it fits around a Snitch, feeling perfectly natural, perfectly right.
"So have I."
~~~~~