Chapter Text
The next day Potter doesn’t show up and even though it is dull, Draco is glad because Potter sure as hell isn’t the only one who is pissed off. How dare the Prat insinuate that he doesn’t care about his recovery? Of course, he cares. He wants to get out of JTW, he really does, but he just isn’t ready yet. And if Potter cared at all about him, the way he so often likes to claim, then he wouldn’t pressure Draco, then he would accept that healing takes time. He is able to leave this part of their conversation behind pretty quickly.
The part, however, where Potter accused him of acting as if he were the only one who has suffered through a traumatic experience, stings. And it stings probably because no matter how badly he wants to deny it Potter has something resembling a point. It has been a while since he has noticed anything about Potter that gave anything away about how he is dealing with all of this. He remembers how gruff Potter looked at the very beginning, during the first months of his visits. But somewhere along the line Potter has either started looking better or Draco has stopped noticing. He tries to conjure up Potter before his mind’s eye. How has he looked the last time he has seen him? Have the dark circles under his eyes disappeared? Has he looked less drawn and more rested? For the life of him, he cannot say.
Not unlike Draco, Potter doesn’t really like to talk about his trauma. Draco knows is that he has Sunday dinners at the Weasley family home, that he accompanies Longbottom to visit his parents, that he has broken up with his girlfriend because she has a new boyfriend. Theo Nott, no less. But he is quite sure that the little fact that Potter likes cock might have factored into their end. He knows that he has quit the Aurors and is currently unsure what to do with his life. He knows where he lives and that he is into romantic comedies. He knows a number of inane stories, but he doesn’t know a lot about what moves Potter, about how he is coping with the aftermath of the war. Except for the odd dark day, the likes of which have become fewer and fewer in the time he has been visiting Draco, he doesn’t know anything, because Potter thoroughly avoids the topic. And he doesn’t ask. Because he doesn’t speak. Because he retreats to his happy place as soon as he isn’t the centre of attention.
When Potter doesn’t show up the next day, he gets restless. For one thing, he is hungry as fuck. He hasn’t had to rely on hospital food to stay fed for a while now. Without Potter, there are no visits to cafés or take out lunch or sweets with a movie. The hunger makes him irritable. Around dinner time he is so hungry that he eats what’s on offer, scowling the whole time.
On the third day he begins to consider that he might be able to work harder for his recovery after all. Maybe Potter was right, maybe he really is trying to distract himself because he is scared. But the question that comes to his mind now is, is it really worth it now that Potter has left him? So far, Potter – no, let’s face it – Harry has been what he has been imagining as a life after JTW. He has thought that Harry would be there with him. Would he want to be there now? Has he given up on Draco?
It takes till the fifth day until he gets an answer to his question. He is lounging in the library with a book when the door opens and Hermione Granger walks into the room.
“Hi Draco,” she says cheerfully and sits down in an armchair next to him. There goes his relaxed day of reading and painting and probably also wanking. He looks at her uncertainly. What has Harry told her? Is she mad at him, too?
“So, Harry is pretty mad at you,” she says with raised eyebrows, but a warm smile on her face. Apparently, she thinks this is funny. He averts his gaze, because for all the time that he has had to spend without Harry in the last few days, somewhere along the line he has started to feel like shit. Because he misses Harry and because he might be persuaded to admit that Harry might be the tiniest bit right. Even though the way he expresses himself leaves something to be desired.
“Oh Draco, don’t beat yourself up. He will come around,” she quips. “It cannot be that bad, can it?” Well, can it? He doesn’t know. It has been almost a week and the longer Harry stays away, the worse he feels about the whole thing. Well, except at night when the ward is quiet and his unconsciousness provides him with flashes of vivid memories of bodies sliding together, mouths gasping, kissing, biting, hands touching, bringing pleasure, caressing, grabbing, pulling… He blushes violently. It is weird sporting a semi while sitting next to Hermione Granger. When he meets her eyes again her eyebrows have risen even higher. Understanding begins to dawn on her face.
“Oh god! Have you had sex?” she screeches at about the volume of a roaring dragon.
“Shhh,” he makes before he even has a chance to think about it. Granger looks at him, eyes perfectly round.
“Oh my god! Draco, you just spoke!” she exclaims and lunges herself forward and into his arms. She knocks the breath out of him. When she settles back into her own chair and looks at him, he shakes his head. No, he hasn’t spoken. Because if he had, it would have been to Harry. His first words are going to be addressed to Harry.
Granger leans back in her chair and whistles at everything she has had to take in in the last few minutes. “You have had sex with Harry,” she says, “And you spoke!” He shakes his head violently.
“Well, you communicated then, if that’s better with you.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest and looks at him.
“You up for some cake?” she asks, suddenly and out of the blue. He doesn’t need to be asked twice and is out of the chair before she has even finished her question. For one thing, he is glad to have this conversation over with, for another, he is hungry.
Granger talks at him the whole time, but fortunately she doesn’t ask any more about his and Harry’s fight. She sticks to the same inane stories that Harry used to tell him when he first started visiting.
When he retires to his room that night, he is glad that Granger came. Not only because he sees her visit as a sign that Harry hasn’t given up on him, but also because she is better company than he would have thought back when he still was a prejudiced prick. He likes to think that he has changed. Not only because the Dark Lord is dead and there is nothing to be gained from such attitudes. He likes to think that he has seen reason even before the end of the war.
Granger doesn’t return the next day. It is Luna Lovegood who comes into the art room just after his measly lunch. He is hungry and irritable and what he really doesn’t need is to feel like a piece of shit for having been part of the crowd that held Lovegood in his basement. Lovegood, however, doesn’t acknowledge that they have any kind of bad history between the two of them.
“I’ve brought food,” she says cheerily and even though he has sworn to himself to keep his distance from her the mention of actual edible food draws him out of his metaphorical lair. It’s only sandwiches, but compared to St. Mungo’s food they are divine.
He soon notices that Lovegood doesn’t possess any kind of filter. What goes through her mind comes out of her mouth within seconds, is how it seems to him. Without any regard to what Draco is comfortable talking about. Or being talked at about.
“I know, it is hard, Draco. I know, how you must feel. That there is nothing out there for you. That the wizarding world is glad to be rid of you,” she says and gives him a sympathetic look. “I would like to say you’re wrong about that. But I would be lying. There are, of course, those who do want to get rid of you. But as a person who was directly affected by the war, who has seen you during that time and noticed what you went through, I want to tell you that I don’t feel that way.” His eyes sting. Why is she talking about this now?
“I know that you were shit-scared during that time. I know that there was no way for you to do anything differently. The Dark Lord was just as cruel to his followers as he was to his enemies.” He feels the tears brimming over and quickly wipes at his cheeks to hide them from her. But Lovegood just gives him a sympathetic look and doesn’t comment any further.
“You sometimes brought extra blankets and there was always more food when you had to bring it down to us. You didn’t give Harry and the others away. You recognized the madness and even though you couldn’t do anything about it, you tried.” He has to put his head into his hands, so that Lovegood doesn’t see him weeping. Yes, he has done these things, but has he done them because he has recognized the madness, as she has put it? For the life of him, he doesn’t know why he has done any of those things. And also, they are not heroic acts by any means. He hasn’t broken into Gringotts or into the Ministry to save Muggle-borns. He hasn’t beheaded Nagini or fought Death Eaters during the battle of Hogwarts. He has only brought a couple of blankets and the odd extra slice of bread. He has really done nothing of importance.
Lovegood doesn’t start again on the topic, but gives him some time to collect his bearings. And when he finally pulls himself together, she changes the topic of conversation.
“So, what do you normally do at this time of the day?” she asks. “Do you paint?” He nods and she beams at him.
“Can I join you?” He nods again and then proceeds to gather his painting materials adding an extra canvas and easel for her. While she paints a happy abstract painting, full of different shades of yellow and orange, he sets to paint another portrait. They are mostly silent while they work and after about two and a half hours, Lovegood drops her brush and looks over at Draco again.
“I think, it’s time to go,” she says and walks over to him, peering at his canvas.
“Oh, is that me?” she coos. He nods.
“Wow, that is beautiful. You’re flattering me.” She winks at him, but he shakes his head, because he hasn’t flattered her. She has grown up to be quite beautiful, even though her eyes are still a little large for her face. He gestures from her to the painting.
“You want to give it to me?” she asks and he nods again. “Thank you, Draco. It really is beautiful.” He smiles at her thankfully. Even though, he has been crying just a few hours ago, her visit has really helped him. He feels better about himself now. Not good, but better.
In the future, when he is out of here, they will have to talk about this again. He will have to apologize, maybe not for Lovegood’s benefit, because for all intents and purposes it seems that she has already forgiven him. Maybe she has never even felt that there was something to forgive in the first place. And maybe he only wants to talk to her and ask for forgiveness for his own benefit, but whichever way, it is going to happen.
He is glad when she is gone. Not because he doesn’t like her, because he does. And he really feels that her visit has been good for him. But still her casual, brutal honesty his hard to digest and hopes that she won’t come back the next day, because for now it is probably best to enjoy her in homeopathic dosages.
He does, however, wish that Lovegood had come back when it is Weasley who walks into the ward the next day. He tosses the gobsmacked Draco a neatly wrapped package when he sits down in the chair opposite of him. For lack of anything better to do, Draco opens the package and finds two huge slices of chocolate cake inside. He quickly darts out of the room to fetch some plates and forks from the cafeteria, taking his time in the process because he cannot really picture himself and Weasley sitting together in the art room. No amount of dawdling can ultimately prevent him from returning to Weasley though.
When he is back in the chair opposite of him, Weasley starts a monologue that he has probably memorized for the occasion.
“So, Hermione wants me to be the bigger man. And Harry too, off course. I am though, literally. I’m taller than you. That should count for something.” Draco rolls his eyes. Weasley ignores it. “I’m going to do the whole manly thing. Build a house, father a child, plant a tree, all that rot. So, as far as I’m concerned, I am the bigger man. Very secure in my manhood, I am.” He smirks at Draco. “Of course, that’s not what Hermione is talking about. She wants me to be friendly and what not. She wants me to accept that you and Harry are an item. Can’t really say that’s a surprise. He has always been kind of stuck on you. And now that he has finally admitted that he is gay, it makes a whole lot more sense. Ginny tells me you’re quite good looking. I don’t notice such crap, but if she says so, I guess it must be true. Well, better you than me, right? That would have been awkward. Harry fancying me instead of you.” He snorts.
“So, I’m going to be the bigger man. I’m not going to make a fuss. When you actually decide to talk again, and Hermione says it’s bound to happen soon, I’m not going to ignore you, I’m going to talk to you. I’m going to be civil and what not. Maybe we’ll even end up friends.” This time he outright laughs, as if the notion of them being friends is the most ridiculous thing he has ever heard, which it is as far as Draco is concerned. “But I swear, if you mess with Harry, I’m going to mess with you. And I’m going to enjoy it!” Draco has never thought of Weasley as scary. Ridiculous, yes, but scary, not so much. Anyway, at this moment he is. Scary that is. Weasley glares at him for a few more moments and then says unexpectedly and totally out of the blue, “So, you up for a round of chess?”
Before he even has a chance to consider it, let alone process anything that Weasley has just said, his head moves to nod without his permission. He barely notices Weasley setting up the chess board and by the time he is able to form anything resembling a clear thought they are already half way through the first game. He loses dismally but by the second game he puts up more of a fight and by the third he begins to enjoy having to use his head for something else than stuffing food into.
The next day it is Longbottom who comes by. It is all Draco can do not to roll his eyes. Not because he has anything against Longbottom, but because Potter is such a fucking Gryffindor for still sending his friends to visit Draco when he himself is too pissed off to even consider it. He smiles at his knees at the thought. When he’s got his face under control once more he looks at Longbottom and nods in greeting. Longbottom takes a seat across from him and passes him a Styrofoam container. His mouth starts watering at the first whiff of what turns out to be fucking delicious. He moans at the first bite and sends Longbottom a grateful smile.
Longbottom doesn’t talk much, most of it is meaningless chit chat, but just as every visitor before him he, apparently, feels the strong urge to tell Draco exactly what he thinks about him. Just like Granger when she first visited him, just like Weasley and Lovegood in the previous two days.
“I know what it is like to face up to the high expectations of your family,” he says and gives Draco a sympathetic smile. “I’m not gonna lie, you were the absolute worst.” He winks at Draco and chuckles quietly. The days of the scared boy he once was are obviously over. “Only ever surpassed in assholedom by Snape, but I get it. I do. I would have done anything to please my grandma. I tried to prevent Harry and the others from getting the philosopher’s stone. Well, I didn’t actually, I tried to prevent them from sneaking out and cost Gryffindor more house points. I worked my butt off in Dumbledore’s army and went to the Ministry to fight to save Sirius Black. I fought the Death Eaters you let into the school. I let the Carrows and their cronies beat the living shit out of me for defying them again and again. And in the end, I chopped Voldemort’s fucking snake’s head off.” He counts off every deed on his fingers. “I didn’t do any of these things because I wanted to, but because I needed to. I had no regard for my safety or my life because that’s how much I fucking needed my grandma to see me. I wished for my parents to see me, but that was never going to happen. So, what I’m saying is, I do get it. Why you did what you did.” Draco nods, unable to even begin understanding why everyone is so keen on forgiving him. He can only imagine the kind of conversations Harry must have gone through to get his friends to come here. He cannot imagine, however, what he had to do to get them to be friendly.
The week drags on with different people visiting him every day. They all bring him food and forgiveness and he is glad and thankful for it. But it is also exhausting. He feels like he hasn’t earned any of it. There needs to be more to forgiveness. It cannot simply rain down on you for free. It needs to be achieved. So, in the end, he doesn’t really feel like he has been forgiven, because as it is he cannot forgive himself yet. But it feels good to know that true, earned forgiveness is a possibility for him in the future.
After three weeks’ worth of visits from Potter’s friends Draco cannot take it anymore. He takes a piece of parchment and scribbles down a note.
I’m sorry.
– D
He rolls the parchment up and takes it to Schmendrick who thankfully is quick on the uptake and allows him to use his personal owl. He even instructs him on how to send future letters without having to ask him every time.
“I’m glad you’re starting to communicate, Mr Malfoy,” he says when Draco is about to leave his office, “I just wish you would do so verbally.” Draco just shrugs at him. He doesn’t really have a way to reach Potter at the moment, so a letter is it. Also, he feels that an apology is not the first thing he wants to say out loud.
He doesn’t know how long he will have to wait for a response from Potter. It is maddening. Although they have spent so much time together in the last months he barely knows anything about the other man. What does he do except visit Draco? Does he have a job? Does he meet his friends? What is his day to day life like? There is no way he could predict how long it is going to take Potter to answer and the uncertainty is making him anxiously pace in his room.
Fortunately, after about thirty minutes Schmendrick’s owl returns with a new roll of parchment tied to its leg. He scratches the owl’s head before he unties the parchment with shaky hands.
Are you?
– H
P.S.: I’m glad you’re starting to communicate.
Well, of course, he isn’t sorry. He has wanted Potter for weeks before the questioning. Probably even before he acknowledged the fact to himself. He is, however, very sorry for the way the evening ended. He would have hoped to wake up in Potter’s arms. He would have hoped for Potter to be happy about the turn of events, how something so ugly has brought them together. He would have hoped that Potter knew how much Draco needed him, that he might be glad to know it. He would have hoped that Potter wanted him back.
Well, no. I really wanted it. But I’m sorry I made you, when you clearly didn’t want me back.
– D
P.S.: That’s what Schmendrick said.
The thought that Potter didn’t want him, doesn’t want him now, stings. It is hard to understand everything that has been going on during the last months, though. Why does Harry spend so much time with him, if he doesn’t want him? He doesn’t get what it so special about a little fucking that has Harry’s knickers in such a twist. The only feasible reason is that he meets Harry’s desire to save people. He probably knows that outright telling Draco that he doesn’t want him would stand in the way of getting his fix of saving someone. He knows that Harry is probably using him, but he needs him anyway. His eyes prickle, but he figures honesty is the way to go here. And when he reads Potters answering letter, he figures that the same is true for Potter.
When I clearly didn’t want you? Are you daft? I want you so badly, it’s driving me mad!
But we shouldn’t be doing it when you have no way to tell me when you have changed your mind and no way to tell me how you like it.
– H
P.S.: Schmendrick agrees with me on this, too.
P.P.S.: I’m sorry, too. For going off on you like that.
He presses the parchment against his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the layers of clothes and paper. Can he believe him? He has said that he wants Draco multiple times, but he has a hard time getting that into his head. Because why would he? It seems so implausible that the Saviour of the Wizarding World could want a half-insane Death Eater like himself, that his head jumped straight to the conclusion that Harry didn’t want him when he rejected him. His cock, however, stirs just at the thought of consenting to have sex with Potter again, to tell him to stop when he wants to switch positions or to exactly tell him what kind of filthy things he wants the Saviour to do to him. He is, of course, purposely avoiding the real meaning of Harry’s words. He cannot imagine Harry doing something that he doesn’t want as well and he is sure that it would have been entirely possible to stop Harry at any given time. Didn’t he ask like a hundred million times if Draco really wanted this?
Trust me, I very much liked it. And you would have known if I didn’t.
Will you come back? I promise not to jump you.
– D
P.S.: You’re both prats then.
P.P.S.: You are forgiven.
He needs Harry back. It is as if what is truly threatening his sanity isn’t what he has been through but the very ward itself. The thought that he hasn’t seen the light of day for three weeks is enough to make him feel claustrophobic. And that doesn’t even touch the food issue.
Of course, I will come back. How does tomorrow sound?
– H
P.S.: Flattery will get you everywhere, Draco.
He is beyond relieved. Potter doesn’t need to know that. Even though he suspects that he does know anyway.
I think I will be able to squeeze you into my schedule.
– D
When Harry finally returns the next day, he pulls Draco into a tight hug and kisses his temple quickly. It is such a brief and tender touch, yet it makes his chest go tight. He leans into the embrace, however, short it is.
Harry leaves him for a couple of minutes to speak to Schmendrick and then they’re off. The sunshine on his face, the wind in his hair, Harry’s hand in his left and a kebab in his right are glorious. Harry has picked up pretty quickly that Draco has no desire to spend any more time indoors and so they walk through a nearby park, find a bench overlooking a small pond and eat in companionable silence. That is all they do the first day.
Over the next few weeks they pick up their former routine. They go out to eat every day in a different restaurant or take away places and afterwards they apparate all over the country to different sights. They sit together at Dunnet Head, the most northern point of mainland Britain, looking over the sea just able to catch a glimpse of the Orkneys, when Harry proposes to switch up their routine.
“Have you thought about accompanying me to the Burrow some time?” he asks. He has asked him about it several times already, but up until now Draco has always declined. He shakes his head, because he really doesn’t want to go.
“Come on,” Harry says, “You have met almost all of them. It’s going to be okay.” Draco shoots him a doubtful look.
“Trust me, it is going to be okay.” He shakes his head, because it probably isn’t. It is one thing to have Harry’s friends visit him individually, on their own, at the ward, but it is a whole other thing to see all of them at the same time and on their territory no less. It is literally like walking into the lion’s den. Because they are all Gryffindors. And don’t forget the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs who are bound to be there. So, there are going to be eagles and badgers as well. There’s no kidding around with eagles and probably not with badgers either. Especially if they are honey badgers. And Harry would be the kind of person to only choose the honey badgers out of the whole house of badgers that he could have chosen from. And isn’t the one Weasley married to that French girl, the half Veela? She’s bound to be fierce, French and Veela, that sounds like an explosive combination. So, no, he really doesn’t have any desire to go to the Burrow with Harry.
“Come on. Just give it a try. If you hate it, I’ll never ask again.” Well, he’s going to believe that one when he sees it. But then Harry gives him that look. He looks disappointed, like he really wants for Draco to come with him. Underneath it, however, Draco thinks he can spot something else, compassion and probably also respect. Harry is going to accept whatever he is going to decide. If he doesn’t agree to come today, he is probably going to ask again and there probably will be a certain amount of pressure, but in the end, Harry is going to accept his decision. It feels nice to know that. And suddenly he nods. His fucking traitorous head nods. Just like that. He is going to the Burrow. To have lunch. On Sunday. Wait. What day is it today?
Harry, of course, is oblivious to everything that is running through Draco’s head and pulls him into a short and enthusiastic hug. “You’re going to love it. Molly’s the best cook there is,” he says, smiling happily. For a couple of seconds, they are silent, until Harry says, “So, tomorrow it’s your mother and the day after that the Burrow.”
Okay, so he has one fucking day to prepare himself. That’s not very much. And naturally time flies by and before he even knows it, it is Sunday morning and he is standing in front of his measly wardrobe stressing out about what to wear to the fucking Burrow – and honestly, who names a house that? He is still standing in front of the walk-in wardrobe when Harry enters.
“Reliving happy memories?” he quips and they both chuckle quietly, taken back to Harry’s unfortunate outing. But Draco soon sobers before the task at hand. It doesn’t matter that almost all of Harry’s family have seen him in his normal JTW clothes, he still wants to make a good impression. Then again, does it really matter when he has already made the very worst impression he could have made long before he and Harry ever became friendly?
“Wear this,” Harry says, pulling out an anthracite jumper that Draco has been starring at for roughly half an hour. A jumper that has up until now been just a jumper, nothing special, until now that Harry hands it to him and says, “I like you in this one.”
So, he pulls it on. Who would have ever thought that the day would come when he would take fashion advice from Harry? Especially, when Granger had told him that actually Harry was the one lacking in that department. But when he looks at himself in the mirror, he is more than okay with Harry choosing his clothes.
They make their way out of St. Mungo’s and walk towards the nearest Apparition Point from where they apparate to Ottery St. Catchpole. From the hill on which they reappear, they have a beautiful view of the village on one side and the Burrow on the other. Even from afar the building looks so blatantly magical, that Draco wonders how the Muggles have never got suspicious.
When Harry starts walking towards the house, Draco’s arm snatches forward and his hand clamps down on Harry’s wrist, stopping the other man effectively. He suddenly realizes that he cannot walk down there. Harry needs to take him home. This has been a mistake, a promise he made to please Harry, not something he wants to do, not even something he should do. This is not going to go over well. Because, of course, all of Harry’s friends have behaved themselves when they visited him at the ward. How could they not have? Schmendrick would have thrown them out in a heartbeat if they had tried anything. But they are going to rip Draco to shreds once he crosses the threshold of that thing they call a house.
Harry turns towards him, taking his other hand as well. “You’re scared.” It’s not a question, but Draco nods anyway. Of course, he is scared. He knows what an abysmal person he has been, what he has done, what kind of hatred he had spouted every time he opened his mouth. He knows what kind of pain he has caused the Weasleys and he knows what kind of pain his lot has caused them. One of them has been possessed by the Dark Lord thanks to his father, one of them has lost an ear thanks to his favourite teacher, one of them has been mauled by a werewolf thanks to him – hell, one of them has fucking died! They are going to tar and feather him. If he’s lucky.
Harry shakes him gently, gripping both of his arms just above the elbow, urging him to focus his gaze on him. He hasn’t even noticed that his breathing has got out of control. It is only when Harry says, “Slow breaths, Draco. Slow breaths.” And he stands before him and breathes in deeply, showing Draco exactly what he wants to see from him. It is not as easy as Harry makes it seem to get his breathing under control when he feels like his windpipe is closing off, but eventually he manages.
Well, now he will be able to cross ‘have a panic attack in front of Harry’ off his to do list and he is just so glad. But Harry wouldn’t be Harry, if he didn’t react with kindness. He pulls Draco into a hug and rubs soothing circles on his back. After a minute or so, he pulls back and holds Draco at arm’s length.
“We do not have to do this. I can take you back to St. Mungo’s now,” he says and Draco knows that he would follow through without blinking an eye. He wouldn’t even complain. But he can also see that Harry is disappointed. Not at him, but he has wished for Draco to go with him and the thought of going alone is disappointing. So, before he even knows it, he shakes his head.
“You sure?” Harry asks softly, reaching out and tucking one stray strand of hair behind his ear. “You really don’t have to, if it makes you this uncomfortable.” But Draco cannot stomach a discussion right now, however one-sided it might be, for he will lose his nerve if Harry asked another ten times if he was sure and told him that there would be absolutely no hard feelings if he just took him back now. Because he really would rather be in his room, instead of on this hill, on the way to his own slaughter. For a second, he thinks, that this is how Harry must have felt, when he went to face Voldemort and then he rolls his eyes at himself for being melodramatic. But this thought also decides it for him. If Harry can walk towards his own death, Draco can walk towards the fucking Burrow for him. So, he frees himself from Harry’s grip and tags him along down the hill.
His courage leaves him when there about half way there - naturally. And by the time they make it to the front door, he clutches Harry’s hand in what must be a painful grip. His hands are sweaty and his heart is racing, his stomach is fluttering nastily and he doesn’t know if he wants to vomit or cry. Harry doesn’t knock, but turns to Draco instead. Thankfully, he doesn’t offer to take him back again, because Draco would have taken him up on it in no time.
“It is going to be okay. There are only people here who you have met before, except for Molly and Arthur. I have spoken to every person in attendance and they are all fine with you coming along today. So, focus on the food and it’s going to be okay,” he says and breathes in deeply in an attempt to urge Draco to imitate him again. Draco does and it really makes him feel better. “And now, please loosen your grip on my hand. I think my pinky is already starting to die off.” They both break out in quiet laughter and Draco has nearly forgotten where they are and what he is about to do, when suddenly the door is ripped open and everything comes crashing down on him again, making him flinch violently.
“What are you two doing out here? Come in, come in. Food’s already on the table,” Mrs Weasley’s voice booms from the open door. They are ushered into a cluttered kitchen. In the middle of the room stands a large dining table, laden with food which smells, just as Harry has promised, delicious. They are greeted by calls of “Finally!” and “Can we eat now? I’m starving.” and Harry only says, “Well, it’s nice to see you too.” He pulls out one of the mismatched chairs for Draco to sit down in and then sits next to him.
As soon as they are seated, everyone starts loading up their plates with food, not paying any attention to the new addition to their Sunday lunches. Silence falls over the table, only interrupted by the odd “Can you pass this?” or “Can you pass that?”, and Draco uses his chance while everybody is occupied to let his gaze wander and take in with whom exactly he is dining today. There is Granger and her Weasley and fuck, the sheer number of Weasleys makes it necessary to call them by their first names, doesn’t it? So, there is Hermione and Ronald, sitting opposite of him and Harry. Then there is the oldest Weasley, Bill, the one who has been attacked by Greyback, his scars still looking grisly. Next to him is his wife, who if possible looks even more beautiful than she did back in his fourth year. Next to her sits George, the remaining twin. Seeing him makes him nearly gasp with surprise. He would have thought that he couldn’t be arsed to show up when he had lost of his brother which must have been… well, worse than Draco could ever imagine probably. He feels the distinct urge to kick Harry for lying, because George hasn’t been to see him at JTW. Ginevra and Theodore are there as well, but he isn’t really sure what to make off that. Should he be glad that there is another Slytherin there or should he be on the lookout because he is sitting next to Harry and she is not? Then there are Mr and Mrs Weasley, of course, and he immediately notices that Mrs Weasley has obviously lost a lot of weight after the war probably while mourning all of their losses. He also notices that she isn’t digging in with the same vigour that all the others are showing, but pushing her food around her plate glancing at her family from time to time. He isn’t fast enough in averting his gaze, because suddenly she catches his eyes.
“Oh Draco, I’m so sorry,” she calls out, when she sees that he is the only one whose plate is still empty. “Here, give me your plate.” And when Draco doesn’t move to comply, Harry takes his plate and hands it to her.
“Thank you, Harry dear,” she says and begins shovelling food onto it. Draco’s eyes go wide at the small mountain that is growing on his plate and when it is set before him again he isn’t sure whether it is possible for one human being to ingest that much food. But he doesn’t want to be impolite, so he nods his thanks and digs in.
He realises that Harry has not been wrong when he said that Mr Weasley is a great cook and soon the mountain becomes smaller and smaller. Unfortunately, just as soon he is stuffed and struggling to clear his plate in an effort to not be impolite. Most of the others have already pushed their plates away from themselves, clearly indicating that they have finished eating. Draco wishes he could just do the same, but he doesn’t want Mrs Weasley thinking that he would turn up his nose at her cooking, which must be very much in line with her view of his character, so he soldiers on. Everybody is looking at him by now and he feels beyond uncomfortable, because not only does his stomach feel like it might explode at any moment, but also is he the sole centre of attention.
He is glad when Theo suddenly says, “So, Quidditch anyone?” and shoots his former house mate a grateful glance. Most of the occupants of the table get up enthusiastically. Only Harry stays behind by his side.
“You coming, Harry?” Ronald asks from the door.
“Nah, I’m fine here,” he answers, but Draco can tell that he wants to go, so he shoves him lightly in order to tell him that it is okay if he wants to play.
“You sure?” he asks, throwing Draco an uncertain look. Draco merely nods because he doesn’t want to keep Harry from participating in what seems to be a Sunday tradition. Harry smiles at him radiantly and bounds off the chair towards the door calling out, “Prepare to get your asses whipped, you sorry losers!”
Draco smiles to himself at Harry’s enthusiasm. But then he realises that he is now alone in the room with Mrs Weasley. He looks at her and blushes when he realises that she has taken the chair opposite of him and is watching him struggle to get her food down.
“You’re full, aren’t you?” she asks softly and he shoots her a pathetic helpless glance before he nods hesitantly. “Well, you’ve packed it away like a prize eater so, there’s no need to be embarrassed. You can stop eating now.” He freezes, fork half-way to his mouth, looking at her uncertainly. Is she having him on? Or can he really and safely stop eating now? Maybe she is just searching for a reason to hate him. She probably already does and now wants to torture him. They stare at each other for a couple of moments while Draco further contemplates if he can really lower the fork now or if he would be committing a terrible faux-pas should he do so.
“Put that fork down,” Mrs Weasley instructs him gently when he shows no signs of movement. He does as he is told and when finally, the liberating clatter of a fork hitting a plate sounds through the room he shoots her a grateful glance. She reciprocates with a warm smile.
“I think I have overdone it with you today. I’m sorry,” she says. It is weird with these Gryffindors. How is she the one apologising right now? It’s not as if she has tried to kill him by stuffing him full of food or is it?
“Harry has told me all about your problems with the St. Mungo’s food.” Another warm smile. “I still remember when Arthur was there, after that horrible snake bit him. The food in that place really is dreadful.” He manages a shaky smile as a means of agreement, remembering yet another way in which he has caused them pain, because he has supported that. He remembers his father being jubilant that Christmas break and he remembers being too much of a coward to disagree with him.
“I feel like we need to talk – or rather like I have to say a couple of things,” she says and Draco averts his gaze, looking at his hands instead of at her. He knows that he needs to hear everything that the people he and his lot have wronged have to say. It is exhausting and he wishes that he could escape it somehow because it makes him relive his worst moments over and over, but then again, these talks aren’t about him. Or at least not entirely. These talks are about the feelings of other people and about what they have to say to find it in themselves to move on. It is confusing how he desperately wishes to escape these awkward moments, how he doesn’t want to hear what they have to say, how he needs to hear it anyway and how he is granted forgiveness afterwards, like he has done anything to deserve it.
“I don’t know how I feel about you sitting at the very same table that so many people, friends and family, have sat at who are now dead.” Suddenly the thought materializes in his head, that this is probably going to be the first of his many one-sided conversations that is not going to result in forgiveness and it makes him feel relieved. It makes him feel taken seriously. “I don’t blame you for their deaths. I know that you haven’t killed anyone. It’s just…” she breaks off unable to find the words. Draco looks up from his hands and locks eyes with her. He nods his head at her to let her know that he understands. He hasn’t killed anyone, but he hasn’t done anything to prevent it either.
“You are all still so young and already you’ve been through so much. It’s frankly ridiculous that this entire war has depended so much on the participation of children. I have always tried to shield my children from it and in the end, they have all ended up involved. It wasn’t fair to any of you. You all had to take on responsibilities that no child should ever have to bear.” She daps her eyes with a white handkerchief that she produces out of her pocket.
“They are all so eager to forget and they are ready to forgive, because they want to leave the war behind. They want to move on. For me it is going to take longer though.” Again, Draco nods, willing her to understand that he doesn’t need her forgiveness now, that he doesn’t deserve it and that it is okay if she hates him forever.
“To be forgiven is one thing, but to forgive is sometimes even more important because it frees the person who is forgiving. I’m not specifically speaking about you right now, but in general. When you forgive a person, you leave a part of the misery behind yourself. And all my children are so ready, so desperate to leave the misery behind. I can’t do that now. Misery is such a big part of me, if I let it go there would be nothing left of me.” She daps at her eyes again and Draco’s eyes are brimming with tears as well. He is blinking furiously to keep them from spilling. Because isn’t that just the thing? What would be left of Draco if he left the misery behind? If he started talking and left St. Mungo’s?
“But I trust Harry. So, maybe one day all this will lie behind us at least to a certain degree.” She smiles at him weakly and when he tries to smile back, the tears finally spill over and he desperately tries to brush them away as soon as they fall.
This is how he ends up crying in the Burrow kitchen together with Molly Weasley. It’s positively surreal. And suddenly he is laughing and Mrs Weasley takes one look at him and starts laughing with him. Like two nut jobs they laugh and cry at the same time. When they finally sober, Mrs Weasley says, “Don’t you want to go outside for some Quidditch?”
But Draco shakes his head and starts collecting plates instead. They clear the table and clean up the kitchen together in companionable silence and despite not having been forgiven it is the best that Draco has felt in a while. It is okay not to be forgiven, he hasn’t forgiven himself yet, so why should anyone else? With Harry’s friends it felt exactly like Mrs Weasley has just said. They have been eager to forgive him, because they needed to leave the war behind. They aren’t really interested in him or his feelings, in how he is coping with all of this. And, of course, they don’t need to be, it’s okay if it makes them feel better. But with Mrs Weasley he feels taken seriously, like it matters what he did, what has been done to him, that he still hurts. Not forgiving him validates his pain. It makes him feel less of a nut job and more like someone legitimately suffering after going through something horrible.
They are almost finished when Harry bursts into the kitchen again.
“Everything alright in here?” he asks, looking surprised at the sight of Draco and Mrs Weasley working next to each other.
“Oh yes, dear. Draco was just helping me clean up a little,” Mrs Weasley answers. Ronald stumbles into the kitchen behind Harry and once he takes in the sight before him he says, “Oh blimey, Malfoy you insufferable suck-up! Now I’m never going to hear the end of how nice it was when somebody helped her with the clean-up and why don’t you ever help out Ron?” He ends in a high pitch, imitating his mother’s nagging.
Draco’s head snaps around at the harsh words, but when he lays eyes on Weasley he sees a teasing smirk on his face, so he sticks out his tongue at him and follows that with a smug grin. Weasley flips him a two-fingered salute before walking over to his mother and placing a kiss on her temple. Draco asks himself why he has even bothered to come into the house in the first place, because he walks straight outside again.
Harry and Draco share a smile and then he walks over and pulls Draco into a casual side-hug right where Mrs Weasley can see them as if it was the most natural thing to do. He blushes deeply at the thought of having been found out, even when all the Weasleys probably know all about what has been going on between them. Especially, after Hermione found out that they have had sex.
“Do you want to go?” Harry asks and Draco nods, because his stomach is still painfully stuffed and he could really lie down and take a nap or hurl, whichever comes first.
“Oh, just wait a sec,” says Mrs Weasley, “I’m going to pack you some of the leftovers.” And she starts wrapping up enough food for a little army.
“Well, I’m not sure if he will need to eat again this week,” Harry quips and laughs, when he sees Draco’s pained face.
“Just put it under a stasis charm,” Mrs Weasley counters.
They quickly make their goodbyes and then they are off towards St. Mungo’s. As soon as they are out of sight, Draco leans heavily onto Harry for his stomach is really killing him.
“What’s wrong,” Harry asks, immediately concerned, and Draco just takes his hand and puts it on his stomach, throwing a suffering look at Harry who opts for a mock-stricken look.
“Have I got you pregnant?” he says feigning shock. But then resolves into laughter when he receives what Draco hopes to be a painful elbow to the ribs.
“Oh, poor baby,” he mocks, “Did you eat too much?” Draco is in too much pain to pay the mockery any mind and just sighs languishingly.
“That bad, huh?” Harry asks and the concern has returned to his voice and this time it is real. Draco nods, leaning on Harry even more.
“Are you going to be sick?” Well, is he? Probably not, but in the end, who knows? He shakes his head. Harry tightens his hold on Draco. “Are you ready to apparate back?” Another nod and he his swept away. He doesn’t, however, handle the familiar sensation of apparition too well today. As soon as his feet touch solid ground again he stumbles a couple of steps out of Harry’s reach and braces himself with one hand against the dirty wall of the dingy alley that accommodates the St. Mungo’s Apparition Point. A fierce wave of nausea rolls through him, making saliva pool in his mouth. He heaves a couple of times, but thankfully the food stays where it is.
Harry walks over to him and rubs soothing circles into the small of his back. He tries to breathe the nausea away and after a while the urgent need to vomit recedes and he straightens again.
“Are you feeling better?” He shrugs because he doesn’t really know. His stomach is so full that he has difficulty breathing. Part of him finds the idea of sicking up almost bearable, for it would probably make him feel better pretty quickly. Then again vomiting is terribly plebeian and he doesn’t really care for it. So, keeping it in is the goal here.
When he takes a step forward, the world around him tilts slightly, making him sway and Harry is by his side immediately. Before he even knows what is happening, he is swooped up and carried towards St. Mungo’s. He hates and loves it when Harry does that. For one thing it is incredibly hot that Harry is able to carry him so effortlessly, but on the other hand it is also kind of annoying being the damsel in distress.
When they arrive at Draco’s room, Harry lets him down on his bed. Harry the fucking show-off is barely out of breath from carrying him all this way.
“Okay, I think I should go now,” Harry says, once he has helped Draco under the covers. But Draco isn’t prepared to let him go and shoots out his hand to grab his wrist. He pulls him towards the bed and gives him a pitiable look in order to convince him to stay a bit longer. Of course, Harry, ever the saviour, doesn’t leave but climbs into bed next to Draco, throwing one arm over him and pulling him close, while his other hand gently strokes Draco’s aching stomach. Draco groans miserably.
“You wanted to make a good impression, didn’t you?” Harry inquires, smile audible in his voice, and Draco hides his face in the crook of his neck in shame. He is sure though that Harry is able to feel the heat of his blush.
“Draco Malfoy eating until he gets sick to impress a Weasley. Who would have ever thought?” Harry says playfully. If possible, Draco’s blush deepens, because that is exactly how it’s happened. He sneaks a hand over Harry’s stomach, up towards his chest and twists one of his nipples painfully.
“Ouch! That was uncalled for,” Harry yelps and when they make eye contact again, they both resolve into laughter. But laughing hurts, so Draco snuggles back against him.
“Thank you for coming today. It really meant a lot to me.” He kisses the top of Draco’s head. Draco feels so comfortable in his arms, the thought of having to let Harry go in just a few hours depresses him. He wants this. He wants Harry to be there, he wants to come home to him, hear his stories, banter, bicker and everything else as well. He knows what he has to do to get that. He has to start working for his recovery and with Harry by his side it feels like a manageable task.
“I–“ he croaks and immediately Harry tenses next to him. Then he leans back in order to get some space between them and looks into Draco’s face. Draco clears his throat a couple of times, until he is sure that his voice will obey his command. “I love you,” he finally manages.
“No, you don’t,” comes Harry’s prompt answer.
“Fuck you, Potter. When I say I do, I do,” he snaps, pulling further back from the embrace. He scowls at him, because who does he think he is, telling Draco what he does and doesn’t feel. But all he can see in Harry’s face is pure wonder, not unlike that of a child, and his eyes are brimming with unshed tears. He reaches out and threads his fingers into Harry’s hair.
“I do, Harry. I love you,” he repeats softly. And that is when the floodgates open and the tears begin to fall.
“You spoke, Draco,” Harry sobs. “And you love me.” Having almost forgotten his aching stomach, Draco pulls Harry close again and holds him while he sobs into his chest, which is a change that he could get quite used to.