Archive of Our Own ^beta

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s. Every evening after work, Draco counts them. He notes the piece of gum that sticks to step seventeen and the chipped paint on steps three and twelve. Seeking an anchor, he runs his clammy palm over the cool metal railing. His footsteps echo in the narrow tower of concrete, and as he nears his destination, the sound slows like a thready pulse.

A mixture of Valerian root and chamomile perfumes the air of the Janus Thickey Ward as Draco emerges from the stairwell after a draining shift on the potions poisoning unit. He wrinkles his nose at the herbal stench unique to the more cerebral potions used on this ward. The low-acuity side of the unit is largely unchanged from roughly twenty-four hours prior: Leon stares dully at a muggle chess board in the corner, Este and Beth sit cross-legged on the rug, gesturing wildly at their stories of grandeur, an aid vanishes untouched supper trays back to the kitchens.

“Hello, Healer Malfoy.” A petite witch with honey-blond hair and piercing green eyes skips towards Draco. Though she has energy in her steps and a quaint smile on her face, the cheer doesn’t reach her voice. Prior to her downgrade to Janus Thickey, Isla occupied a room on Draco’s unit, oscillating wildly between an agitated delirium and near-comatose unconsciousness. 

“Good evening, Isla. And please, call me Draco. I’m only a visitor while I’m on this unit.” Draco fidgets with the warm vial in his pocket.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Healer Malfoy. I don’t know why I’m so forgetful these days.” 

Isla is forgetful because she unintentionally consumed an ill-advised concoction of chemicals, both muggle and wizarding. Draco could only do so much.

“It’s quite okay, Isla,” Draco says, forgiving her use of his proper title again. “Have you seen Healer Clemmons?”

“Is she the one with the pretty cheekbones?” Isla asks, eyes glazing and neck curving elegantly as her mind is lured gently away from her body.

“Isla, stay with me,” Draco cautions, placing steadying hands on her shoulders. Her head ticks upright as she refocuses on the present. “Good girl. As for Healer Clemmons’ cheekbones, I’m afraid I’m not the one to ask. No matter, I’ll find her. Thank you, Isla.”

Draco makes his way towards the Healers’ workstation that straddles the two sides of the ward. Healers that work Janus Thickey regularly call it the fishbowl, and for good reason. The rounded alcove, enclosed entirely in glass, sits between the lower and higher acuity rooms, providing easy visibility to the ambulatory patients on one side and the glowing vital signs and lab values on the other. Draco spots Odette, leaning back in a chair and eating a sandwich, while her eyes remain fixed on a high acuity room across the hall.

The warm prickle of a silencing charm teases Draco’s sensitive skin as he enters the fishbowl.

“Evening, Odette.”

“Oh, shit, Draco. Is it five-thirty, already?” Odette leans forward in her chair to peer at a clock around the corner, and her braids cascade over her shoulders with the motion. “Merlin, didn’t realize. How was your day?” she asks before taking another bite of her sandwich and crossing her legs.

Draco shrugs. “Long. Started with an Amortentia overdose and ended with a very bizarre situation with a Draught of Living Death. My head hurts just thinking about it. You?” He plops into a chair across from her and steals a handful of Every-Flavor Beans from the plastic bowl on the table.

“Not much better. Merle isn’t looking so good,” she explains, her gaze shifting again to the corner room with crimson displays flashing outside the door. “Never seen an Imperius withdrawal this bad.”

“Odette?”

“Yeah, Draco?” She places her feet on the floor and snatches a bean from Draco’s hand.

“How did he do today?” They both know he’s not asking about Merle.

They’ve established a routine these last few months. Odette never offers information until Draco asks, and Draco only asks when he’s ready. Some days, they chat for a while about their patients, or books, or the most recent batch of clueless residents. Other days, Draco can’t stand the small talk.

Today is one of those days.

The corners of Odette’s lips fall, and she huffs a breath before she answers. “He looks fine, feels good. Vitals are stable.”

Draco leans back in his chair and laces his hands together in his lap, granting silent permission for Odette to continue.

“His dailies are all unchanged, and his magic is rock solid. You should’ve seen his Expelliarmus this morning. Nearly knocked Persephone off her feet. I let the residents cut his hair this afternoon. I’m sorry… I know you like to do it, Draco, but it doesn’t look that bad. Or at least, for him, it doesn’t look that bad.”

“Never mind about the hair. Get to the point, Odette.”

“We still started with a blank slate this morning, like the gods wiped everything clean while he slept.” Odette squirms under Draco’s stare.

In the dusty corner of Draco’s cell at Azkaban, he’d found a phrase, etched into the crumbling stone and barely visible through the erosion from the elements. When he couldn’t sleep, he’d trace his finger over the shallow scratches in the wall. After all of these years, he can still see the words if he closes his eyes: If the gods are so mighty, why should we suffer? The only mighty gods are cruel, and we are the fools.

“You and I both know this has nothing to do with a higher power, Odette.”

Draco catches his reflection in the glass behind her and watches himself pop a bright red bean into his mouth. His lips pucker at the spicy cinnamon flavor, but quickly fall into a frown. Even from this distance, his crow’s feet mock him in the glass. He swears the unsightly lines etched themselves into his skin over just the last couple of weeks.

Odette stands to plant her feet in front of Draco, leaning over to place her hands firmly on his shoulders. “We’re going to figure this out. We’ll get him back. It’s just going to take some more time.”

Draco pats the hand on his left shoulder, dismissing the casual touch, and watches Odette sink back into her chair.

“Are you finished with the Pensieve?”

She nods. “All yours. Bring anything good today?”

Draco rolls the vial between his fingers again, the warmth of its contents reassuring against his skin. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” His poor attempt at a joke falls flat, and Odette’s posture deflates like a crumpled soufflé. 

She grimaces. “He should be done with dinner by now. Good luck, Draco.”

Draco exits the fishbowl on the opposite side from whence he came to enter the higher acuity ward. A pulsing heart rate and shifting lab values glow outside the door of room 332. If health was reflected purely in numbers and measurements, they would be leaving St. Mungo’s tonight. Unfortunately for Draco, it’s not, and he’ll be going home alone.

For a brief moment, Draco allows himself to stare at the door and gather his composure. His Mind Healer’s droning voice echoes in his ears, instructing him to count his breaths, to lengthen his inhales to match his exhales. By the time Draco reaches ten, he’s closed his eyes, but an undercurrent of trepidation still thrums beneath his skin.

On that first night, if someone had told him that he’d still be doing this after three months, he wouldn’t have believed them. As the days went on, his hope dwindled like fragile petals in a late evening storm. Then, after weeks with no progress, he instead told himself this would get easier, that he would get used to it.

It didn’t. He didn’t.

After one last deep breath, Draco rasps his knuckles against the heavy wooden door. He hears a faint, “Yeah?” and starts in on his nightly routine.

“Good evening, Harry. My name is Healer Malfoy. May I come in?”

Very little changes in Harry’s room from day-to-day. Today’s issue of The Prophet sits on the bedside table in the same spot as yesterday, and an unfinished dinner tray lays on the floor next to the door, sandwich untouched but treacle tart completely gone. Harry’s glasses case sits cracked open on his pillow, containing a wrinkled lens cloth and his medical identification bracelet, which he, for whatever reason, can’t stand to wear. Draco’s eyes finally settle on Harry, who sits cross-legged on his bed, hunched over a chess board in deep contemplation. 

Harry glances up at Draco’s entry and says, “Oh, yes, come in. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting any more visitors today.” He reaches behind him and fumbles for the bracelet, slipping the oversized ring onto his wrist.

Odette was right; his hair doesn’t look terrible. It’s shorter than Harry usually likes, but it doesn’t hide his face so much this way. The one-size-fits-all hospital gown drapes like curtains over Harry’s small frame, and the back of the gown gapes to expose the freckled, golden skin of his shoulder blades, the pointy bumps of his spine.

Harry probably doesn’t need to be on the intensive side of the ward, but the potential public backlash over moving the Boy Who Lived to the lower acuity section, after no improvement, keeps him here. So, his days are filled with shifting lab results and ugly hospital gowns, thanks to an overly cautious St. Mungo’s and publicity-driven DMLE.

“Thank you, Harry. As I said, my name is Healer Malfoy, but please call me Draco. Is it all right if I ask you a few questions?” Draco stands in the doorway, shoving his hands in the pockets of his robes and finding comfort in the vial between his fingers.

“Yes, sir. No problem.”

Draco cringes at the formality, not a lick of familiarity coating Harry’s words.

“Please, I must insist that you call me Draco,” Draco says in a rush to correct the title, clenching his jaw and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Er, sorry… Draco,” Harry mutters, glancing down at his chess board.

“No need to apologize.” Draco takes a seat in the empty chair at the foot of the bed and berates himself for his oversensitivity. “So, Harry, how are you today?”

“All right, I guess,” he answers, pushing the chess board to the side and leaning back on his hands. The muggle pieces roll lifelessly about the board, the safer option for a psychiatric patient compared to queens and knights with tiny, but very real, swords.

“Good to hear,” Draco says, eager to move on. “Well, Harry, I’m going to start with a few simple questions, if that’s okay? Can you tell me your name, please?” Draco crosses his leg, bouncing his foot to an inaudible beat.

Harry rolls his eyes, already irritated at the line of questions. There’s a cruel irony in the fact that he’s been asked them hundreds more times than he even realizes. Draco can’t help his grin when he spots the tell-tale crease between Harry’s eyebrows.

“My name is Harry James Potter. My birthday is the thirty-first of July, 1980,” he sighs, already anticipating the next question.

“Very good, Harry. Thank you. Do you know what the next question is?”

“I’m at St. Mungo’s.”

“Excellent. And what year is it?”

Harry pauses for a moment, rubbing the sheets between his fingers as he leans further into his hands and stretches his lanky legs out across the mattress. “Er… 2012?”

Draco grimaces. “Close, Harry. Very close.” There is no easy way to correct these answers, Draco’s discovered. “It’s 2017. Good try though.”

Harry scowls, the crease on his forehead darkening as it deepens. Draco resists the urge to reach out, to smooth it over with the pad of his thumb. Instead, he laces his fingers together, squeezing until his knuckles turn white.

“Do you lot ever come up with more interesting questions?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Draco admits, clicking his tongue behind his teeth. “But what about this one: what can you tell me about why you’re in St. Mungo’s?” He stutters an exhale as he waits for Harry’s response.

Harry is silent for a moment and pulls his knees to his chest. His oversized pants pool around his ankles, and his cuticles are peeling from his nervous habits. He chews on a bit of dry skin on his lip until Draco sees a spot of blood. It’s fascinating, the tiniest of mannerisms that still remain, the traces of Harry that live in the liminal space where nature meets nurture.

“Apparently, I was working. Something called an Auror? Healer Clemmons said I was on a job when I got hit with some kind of... curse? It made me lose my memory. Or some of my memories, anyway. No one seems to know what kind of curse it was, or if they do, they aren’t telling me,” he scoffs. “I guess my memory kind of… fades every night?” He looks to Draco with his head tilted in question.

They’d argued that morning, before Harry forgot who he was. It was a little too honest, maybe a bit cruel. They’d aimed their words at tender spots, hidden gaps in their armor that they’ve only revealed to each other. But if the day hadn’t ended with Harry bleeding in St. Mungo’s, Draco probably wouldn’t even remember sneering about Harry’s inability to stop and think before he makes a decision. He wouldn’t remember Harry refusing to indulge Draco’s self-deprecation. He wouldn’t remember wishing he could take it all back the second Harry left with a muttered, “I’m going to be late.” But he does remember, and Harry doesn’t. Draco feels the regret in his bones.

Ron’s Patronus had sprinted through Draco’s ward later that night. Ignorant of where their true problems would lie, Draco could only focus on Harry’s robes, soaked in blood, and the uneven rims of his pupils. It wasn’t until several days later, after Harry’s neurological symptoms resolved and the blood-replenishing potions took full effect, that the Healers began to search for another explanation for Harry’s poor mentation. 

Eventually, the Unspeakables arrived. It hadn’t taken long for them to find evidence of the curse lingering between the synapses of Harry’s brain, strangling Harry’s hippocampus like vines around a dying tree. But the curse’s roots were untraceable.

Mildly reminiscent of a bizarre form of Alzheimer’s dementia, but even that doesn’t quite grasp its effects, the Mind Healer had said back in November. The autumn leaves had fully turned and laid, crisp and crumpled, on the frosted ground. Predictable, in some ways. Wildly unpredictable in others.

Draco clears his throat, watching as Harry wraps a stray thread around his finger, the skin blooming an angry purple at the lost circulation. “That’s correct, Harry. Your memory seems to improve throughout the day, but, overnight, all the progress seems to disappear, as if it never happened. It’s quite inconsistent from day-to-day. This must be frightening for you.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s only scary until I forget again. Then I guess I don’t remember enough for it to matter.”

Draco frowns at his nonchalance and releases a frustrated sigh. “Fair enough. So, knowing this, you won’t be too surprised to hear that I’ve been visiting you every day since you’ve been hospitalized.” Draco places his feet on the floor and shifts in his seat, tapping his heel against the leg of the chair.

“It’s either be surprised by everything or be surprised by nothing. I’ve chosen the latter.” He rests his chin on his knees and finally snaps the stray thread on his pants.

“I wouldn’t bet on that just yet, Harry. Every day, I’ve brought memories with me. We’ve reviewed them in hopes that it may trigger a release of the curse that has a hold on your mind,” Draco explains.

“Why do you have my memories?” Harry asks, sitting up straighter.

“They’re not actually yours. Those closest to you have been extremely helpful in providing their memories of you and important moments in your life. Everyone is working so hard to help make this better for you.”

For us.

“So, why you? Why doesn’t Healer Clemmons do this with the rest of my—" he waves his hand in a vague gesture “—whatever the hell it is we do every day?”

Draco slides his chair closer to the bed and places his hands on the footboard. “Because, Harry, in addition to bringing the memories from your friends and family, I also provide some of my own.”

Draco pinpoints the moment Harry understands his meaning in the way his eyebrows shift, in the puzzled twist of his lip.

“Do I know you?”

Harry leans forward, wafting the hint of hospital-issued soap and shampoo with him. Draco wants to thread his fingers through his hair, to rub his thumb along his cracked lip.

“Yes, Harry. May I?” Draco offers his hand, and Harry, always trusting, accepts it without hesitation. He lines up their palms to show off the matching bands that each of them wears on their ring fingers. Harry’s is looser than usual, but it’s undeniable that the shiny silver rings are a matching set.

“Harry… Our seventh wedding anniversary is next month.”

Harry gazes at Draco, eyes wide in disbelief, before grasping at Draco’s hand. He holds their palms together, comparing the rings. Through it all, Draco relishes in the curious tilt to Harry’s lips, the determined set of his brow, and the warmth of his skin against Draco’s palm.

“No shit?” Harry asks, still clinging to Draco’s hand.

Draco laughs, not even trying to hide his relief. “No shit, my love.”

“Wow,” Harry says, releasing Draco’s hand to lean back on his palms once again.

“Would you like to elaborate?” Draco asks, resuming the nervous bounce of his foot.

Harry pauses a moment, pursing his lips in thought. “I have good taste?” He grins, wicked and playful.

“Damn right, you do,” Draco huffs. “Anything else you’d like to share with the class?”

Harry leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s never been able to sit still, but the nervous habits have gotten worse with the memory loss. Some days, it’s like keeping track of a snitch.

“How long? How long have we been doing this?”

Draco sags under the weight of Harry’s question. “Nearly three months, Harry. I’ve visited you five days a week, every week, with one exception. Your best friends visit on the other two days. They’re called Ron and Hermione.”

Harry runs a hand through his disheveled hair and casts his gaze to the corner of the room, processing. Pulling his attention back to Draco, he asks, “Are you okay?”

Every night, Draco answers the same questions, albeit they vary slightly from day to day. Every night, Draco prepares himself for what to expect, for how to answer, for how to approach each subject without scaring Harry or making him uncomfortable. And every night, Draco is thrown off his feet by the courage and the pure, unadulterated trust that Harry gives so freely. After learning that his memories have been stolen from him for months with little progress towards recovery, Harry’s first act, without fail, is to ask how Draco is holding up.

An uneasy amalgamation of emotions stirs in Draco’s chest: gratitude for Harry, whom he clearly doesn’t deserve, and an immense helplessness regarding the irretrievable time they’ve had stolen from under their feet.

“Harry…” He swallows, and his words stick in his throat. “Every morning I reach for you, but the bed is empty. I made you a cup of coffee for nearly two weeks, but you weren’t there to drink it. I record your favorite muggle shows on this muggle television with this muggle remote, but you don’t come home to watch them. Part of me is missing, Harry.” Draco rubs his hands over his face and closes his eyes against the stinging pressure. “It’s been the worst three months of my life. And you don’t realize it, but that’s really saying something.”

Harry peels Draco’s hands from his face, cradling them in his own, and they sit for a while, steeping in Draco’s confession.

“Draco, we’re going to get through this,” Harry whispers, although he has no additional information to offer. Just hope and trust. Draco glances down at their hands and catches the shiny glint of Harry’s scar: I must not tell lies.

“I know we will.”

“Hey, Draco?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Are we happy?”

“Would you like to see?”

The Pensieve is housed in a cramped and dim room that is supposed to be relaxing. Draco finds it anything but. Perhaps the subtle music and sounds of a babbling river are calming to some, but it makes Draco grind his teeth. As soon as he steps into the tiny room, he waves a careless hand and releases a muttered Finite Incantatum, relaxing in the resulting quiet.

Draco pulls the vial of silver strands from his pocket and rolls it between his hands, watching the memories twist and tangle around each other. He looks at Harry, who peers into the bowl of the Pensieve with a brave curiosity.

“Do you remember what a Pensieve is?”

Harry glances over his shoulder and nods before turning back to the shimmering bowl.

“I’ve brought three memories. We can get started whenever you’re ready.”

“Whose are they?”

“All mine, I’m afraid. I was feeling selfish this morning.” Draco grimaces in apology, but Harry grins, amused, forgiving.

Most days, Draco puts on his mint green robes and pretends to choose memories with an objective state of mind. He has a variety at his disposal; everyone and anyone wants to provide the glimpses they have of the Boy Who Lived. But for the third time this week, Draco woke in a cold sweat with his hair plastered to his forehead. A trail of shivers migrated along the surface of his skin, leaving a smattering of gooseflesh behind. An icy chill anchored in his bones as the nightmare faded, blurring the images of the decrepit stone walls at Azkaban and the moldy capes of dementors, fluttering in the bitter wind. When he reached for Harry, the bed was empty. He wept, alone, in the low light of the early morning.

He’d been naïve to think his nightmares were gone for good. Apparently, Harry had been the light warding off the shadows all these years.

Draco picked his favorite memories today, not just because he could. Because he needed to. And when he shuffled through that overstuffed cabinet of vials, he didn’t reach for the gestures of grandeur or the momentous occasions. Most days, really, he reaches for quiet moments, happenings of no consequence made precious, simply for the fact that he shared in the mundanity with Harry. 

“Are you coming in with me?” Harry asks, fingers clenching the rim of the Pensieve.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Draco uses his wand to remove a single strand from the vial and drops it into the rippling pool. “Are you ready, dear heart?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Potter.”

As a youthful and tipsy Harry approaches Draco’s younger self, the details of the surrounding dive bar fade into a fuzzy smear of color. Vague, static-filled music hums in the background, but Harry, in his ripped blue jeans and muddy trainers, is crystal-clear. Draco, defensive and still too proud, half-heartedly fakes a sneer as Harry plops onto the barstool next to him. Harry’s laughter lines are missing, his hair isn’t yet speckled with gray, and his eyes are still painted with the darkness of those first years after the war.

“Malfoy.” Harry flashes a toothy grin at Draco and melts across the sticky bar top. “There are two of you,” he says and hiccups through a careless laugh.

Draco shoves his hands in the pockets of his Healers’ robes as he watches his younger self assess Harry with a wide-eyed expression of stunned horror. He takes a moment to observe the older Harry standing beside him, who stares at their former selves with a similar visage of disbelief.

“That’s us?”

Draco chuckles. “I was scared out of my mind when you walked over that night. I thought I played it off so well, but I wasn’t as successful as I thought. Clearly.”

“Why were you scared?”

Draco sighs. “We weren’t on the best of terms back then. I was in denial about a lot of things, your apparently inescapable gravity being one of them.” Draco flourishes his hand towards Harry as though he’s stating the obvious. “We had a lot to learn. About the world. About each other. And, honestly, look at you!” Draco smiles and nudges Harry with his elbow. “Who wouldn’t be nervous with you looking at them like that?”

Harry laughs. “Me? What about you? You’ve got the whole sexy, dark, and broody thing going for you.”

“Hush, you. Pay attention,” Draco hisses, but it holds no venom. He nods towards their younger selves, arguing about Merlin-knows-what, and his heart flutters as he realizes that, even then, he only had eyes for Harry.

In his well-inebriated state, Harry slips forward on his bar stool and catches himself on Draco’s knee. Ron and Hermione’s images sharpen in a nearby booth as the younger Draco catches them out of the corner of his eye. They whisper to each other, eyes darting from Draco, to his knee, to Harry’s face, and back to Harry’s thumb, rubbing circles into Draco’s thigh.

Draco can’t help but giggle as he watches his own eyebrows disappear behind his overgrown fringe, shocked that Harry is touching him at all, let alone there, and in front of his friends, no less. 

“Oh, I was a wreck,” he says, tutting at his former self’s lack of finesse.

“I look absolutely pissed,” Harry says, running a hand through his freshly-cut hair and watching as their former selves bicker over the music. 

“Oh, you were. But watch: your liquor-loose lips did us both a favor.”

Fueled by confidence or foolishness, younger Draco leans closer to Harry, giving in to that inescapable gravity, as Harry babbles about some muggle band playing over the speakers. Older Draco watches carefully, amazed at the sheer bravery he mustered to place his hand over Harry’s and weave their fingers together on his thigh.

“Potter, you realize I don’t know a thing about muggle music, right?” he whispers into Harry’s ear, though his voice carries through the narrow focus of the memory.

“But I can teach you,” Harry slurs and moves to rest his foot on the rung of Draco’s stool, right between Draco’s legs. Luckily for Draco, Harry is too drunk to notice the vibrant flush that creeps up his neck. “Draco, come to mine, and I’ll let you listen to all the muggle music you want. It’ll be fun.” He rests his chin in his spare hand and smiles goofily while Draco stares back, unable to suppress the grin that spreads across his face.

The memory smears in a wash of color before Draco and Harry emerge from the Pensieve. Harry swipes his hair from his forehead before looking at Draco with a confused furrow to his brow.

“What favor did I do for us?” he asks.

Draco places his hands on Harry’s shoulders and smiles. “That was the first time you called me Draco after the war.”

“That’s strange. What war?” Harry asks.

“Never mind the war. But yes, love, we were odd birds back then. If you hadn’t called me by my name after you staggered over with that ridiculous hair and those gorgeous eyes… I just don’t know where we’d be. I’ll never forget that night.”

“What happened after that?”

“We danced, quite terribly. You ordered another firewhiskey, but I drank it for you. You tried to argue with the owner’s portrait on the wall, and we both got kicked out.”

“Oh,” Harry says, glancing at his feet sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry. We went back to my flat, and you drank a sobering potion, much needed by the way. What we did after was better than anything we could’ve done at the bar,” Draco drawls and wiggles his eyebrows in a way that he’s sure makes him look ridiculous. But Harry laughs, and Draco would do almost anything to hear that sound.

“Show me another,” Harry says concretely. He leans over the Pensieve, ready to dive in.

“Harry,” Draco says, taking Harry’s hands in his. “This one isn’t as pretty. But it means so much to me. To us. I couldn’t bear not to bring this one today.”

“Why? What’s so special about it?” Harry asks.

“You’ll see,” Draco mutters as he removes another strand from the vial, allowing it to float through the air and fall into the Pensieve. “Shall we?”

Harry nods and squeezes Draco’s hand before plunging his face into the shimmering pool.

The yellow light in Grimmauld’s kitchen casts long shadows over Draco’s late-twenties features as he leans against the peeling wallpaper, chest heaving and hands clenched into fists. His uneven breaths sound like a stampede in the quiet of the otherwise empty house. A half-empty tumbler of firewhiskey sits on the cluttered kitchen table.

“What’s wrong with you?” Older Harry asks, grimacing as the younger Draco begins to pick at a torn piece of wallpaper behind him. The shreds of faded florals pile at his feet.

Draco sighs. “At this particular point, it’d be easier to tell you what wasn’t wrong.”

Draco observes his younger self, eyes drawn to bleeding fingernails, his prominent collarbones at the gap in his shirt, the dark smudge of purple under his eyes. Earlier that day, he’d been told his mother died, alone, in her cold and crumbling cell in Azkaban. That afternoon, his third residency application was rejected, and becoming a Healer was beginning to feel like an insurmountable task for someone with a Dark Mark. He and Harry had been on a break for a few months at this point, and Draco can still remember the relief he felt when Grimmauld’s wards permitted his entry. A single solace in a turbulent sea.

Clad only in his hospital gown, Harry meanders across the kitchen, and Draco can’t decide if he looks horribly out of place or strangely suited to the grungy and eclectic feel of Grimmauld. Maybe both. 

The sleeve of Harry’s gown falls to expose his shoulder as he leans in to look at the younger version of Draco more closely, much like one watches a violent collision of quidditch players. Cringing at the sight, yet unable to look away.

“You look… broken,” he says, gaze assessing Draco’s dark circles, his chapped lips, his dull hair.

“I was.”

The kitchen flares in a bright green light as the floo roars to life. Past-Harry spills from the hearth in blood-stained Auror robes. He frowns when he lays his eyes on Draco, but his gaze isn’t malicious.

“Draco? What are you doing here?” he asks, steps heavy as he strides across the kitchen. For a moment, the two Harrys overlap, poignantly outlining the ten years’ time between them. Older Harry, with his salt and pepper hair, backs away with eyebrows raised to watch from a safer distance.

“You never changed your wards.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Mother is dead,” Draco sighs from his spot against the wall, eyes fixed on the cluttered kitchen table.

Younger Harry runs a hand through his hair; it was longer then, just grazing his shoulders. His eyes soften as he looks helplessly around the room before settling on Draco.

“Fuck. Draco, I’m so sorry.”

Draco hiccups, and his face contorts in realization at just whose home he’s in. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he says, a panic coating his voice. He pushes off the wall to leave but stumbles with his first step.

“Woah, it’s okay that you’re here,” Harry says, reaching out to catch him and pressing him back against the wall.

“But we—”

“It’s okay that you’re here. You can always come here,” Harry affirms and watches as Draco slides down the wall, sinking to the grimy kitchen floor and burying his face in his hands.

Harry sits on the floor next to him and gently pulls Draco onto his lap. Draco doesn’t fight it, but buries his head in Harry’s neck and wraps his trembling arms over Harry’s shoulders. The memory blurs as Harry rubs circles into Draco’s back, and Draco crumbles like shattered glass under solid footsteps.

“Is that it?” Harry asks, stepping back towards Draco. “What happens next?”

“Just watch. We’re not done yet,” Draco whispers, unable to peel his eyes from the scene as it comes back into focus. His chest aches as he watches himself fall apart in Harry’s arms.

Younger Draco lifts his head, eyes puffy and red-rimmed. The defeated look he gives Harry makes Draco feel vicariously vulnerable, delicate, unfolding.

“I shouldn’t have to come here, because I never should have left.”

“You can come back,” Harry says, quiet, like hushing an injured animal.

“You’d want that?” A mixture of tears and hope makes his voice crack.

“I never even threw your toothbrush away, Draco. I’m all yours, if you’ll have me.”

Draco watches Harry by his side while their younger selves kiss, slow and hesitant, before dissolving into familiar patterns. A pale hand latched in dark curls, open-mouthed kisses smudged over exposed necklines, and desperate groans escaping wanting lips. The older Harry observes with eyes wide and lips parted, ignorant of the pair of matching rings in his own sock drawer down the hall. 

“You asked me to marry you later that night,” Draco says. “We were drunk on awful gin that you brewed in your scummy bathtub, and you nearly fell over when you went to get the rings from your dresser. You’d had them for months. You said you knew you were going to use them one day, that you wouldn’t give up hope.”

Harry stands, still transfixed on the tangled mess of limbs and the growing pile of clothing on the floor. He reaches absently for Draco’s hand, interlacing their fingers before mumbling, “I had to ask you twice… You said ‘no’ the first time.” He turns, wide-eyed, to look at Draco. “Why did you say ‘no’ the first time?”

Blood thrashes in Draco’s ears, and his pulse gallops at the base of his neck, at his wrist. “What did you say?”

Harry’s eyes are hurt, more concerned about the memory than the implications of his question.

“I asked why you said ‘no’ the first time.”

Draco closes the gap between them, no longer cognizant of what their younger selves are doing on the kitchen floor. They’ve gotten here before, although it’s not every night that Harry remembers moments that aren’t given to him. Despite his best efforts to quell his hope, Draco’s heart accelerates in his chest.

He lays his palms on either side of Harry’s face, gentle, trembling, before stuttering, “I thought you deserved better than this. We were emotional, tipsy, and I didn’t want to wake up to you thinking it was a horrible mistake.”

Harry brings his hands to grip Draco’s forearms. “What changed your mind?”

Draco sighs. “I let myself see the way you looked at me… like I was the only person in the world. Like if I said ‘no’ again, your reason for existence would crumble. You still look at me like that, and it never fails to knock me off my feet.”

“Draco?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“I don’t want to lose this again.” Tremors possess his bottom lip, coloring each word with a stutter, and a sheen paints his eyes. Harry pauses a moment as his brow furrows, and the next words that leave his lips emerge in a panic. “Is this what happens every day? I start to remember and then—”

“Harry, look at me, please, love.” Draco’s pulse bounds in his fingertips as he caresses Harry’s cheek. “We’re going to figure this out.”

“They took everything from me, Draco,” he growls, wiping angry tears from his cheeks. “Fuck, what if I never get my memories back?”

“I’ll get them back, every single one of them, Harry,” Draco says, pressing their foreheads together and holding his gaze. “I’ll get you back.”

“Promise me. Promise me, Draco,” Harry pleads as a tear rolls down his cheek.

“I promise, Harry. I’ll give it back… I’ll give it all back.”

The memory fades in a wash of color like oil paint melting down a canvas, and they are temporarily pulled apart to emerge from the Pensieve. Harry is quick to close the gap, but pauses to hover his lips over Draco’s.

“I remember sneaking off with you onto a balcony at some party. You were so fucking posh in your embroidered robes, and you tasted like… like strawberries?” he whispers, breath ghosting over Draco’s lips.

Draco nods, and his mouth goes dry. “It was a Ministry gala. They were serving berry tarts for dessert, and you said you wanted to—”

“See if I could taste it on your lips. We almost got caught.” A mischievous glint sparkles in Harry’s eye, chasing away the tears.

“Worth it,” Draco huffs.

“And I remember us staying at a cabin, laying in a hammock. We slept there all night, didn’t we?”

“It took you forever to convince me to go camping, but I’m so glad we did, Harry. It was so good; you were so good,” Draco’s words trample over each other to leap from his tongue.

“Draco, can I kiss you?”

“Please, Harry,” Draco breathes and meets Harry’s lips in a demanding kiss, hot and needy. It’s consuming, the feel of Harry under Draco’s hands, the taste of his mouth, the smell of his skin. Draco’s fingers thread through Harry’s unkempt hair, finding the ends of his trimmed curls too quickly. Strong hands wind around Draco’s waist as Harry fits his fingers in the spaces between Draco’s ribs. Muscle memory directs their movements, in mirror image to the memory they just abandoned. A manic urgency underlies each gasp, every groan as the clock ticks behind them.

“What if I don’t sleep?” Harry breathes into Draco’s mouth before moving to his neck, delicate bruises blooming across pale skin under his teeth. “Will I keep my memories if I don’t sleep?”

“You have to sleep, Harry,” Draco murmurs into his ear. He doesn’t elaborate.

Harry pauses his ministrations at the curve of Draco’s neck and groans, frustrated. The noise rattles through Draco’s chest. “How are you living like this?”

Draco traces his fingers along the back of Harry’s neck before moving southward, etching circles with his nails into Harry’s lower back, where he knows a strange patch of freckles lives and dimples rest above his bum. “I’m surviving, Harry. But I won’t be living again until you’re home.”

“What are we going to do?” Harry asks, looking up to Draco with misty eyes and downturned lips.

“Wait. And hope. That’s all we can do.”

He doesn’t mention the failed Legilimency trials or the experimental muggle pharmaceuticals. It’s selfish, he thinks, but, some days, he can’t bring himself to talk about anything but Harry as he relates to himself.

Grief washes over Draco in waves as they seek solace in each other’s arms. Grief for time lost, for time that continues to be stolen. Draco lets his tears flow freely, unable and unwilling to restrain them. Harry smears kisses over his cheeks, and the salt clings to his lips when he brings them back to Draco’s. It feels like the relief of ice water on a sunbaked afternoon mixed with the desperation of a calamitous love, hurtling from a cliffside towards the treacherous waters below.

“I’ve got one more, Harry. It’s my favorite… out of all of them. If you’re up for it,” Draco whispers against the sensitive skin behind Harry’s ear. 

Harry nods, smudging the tears over Draco’s cheek.

Over the years, Draco was careful to tend to this memory, to maintain its fidelity. He smiles weakly as the familiar sun-soaked beach comes into view, littered with shells and pebbles. Their cottage sits in the distance, tucked into a cove of trees whose leaves ruffle in the light summer breeze. Harry is sprawled, barefoot and bare-chested, over the hot sand while Draco sits cross-legged next to him on a towel, hunched over a book.

Harry got his first gray hair that year. I wonder if it’s because I died, he’d pondered over a cup of coffee the morning he found it in the mirror. He was hardly even thirty, but the silver hair stood out like a sore thumb in his otherwise dark mane. Or maybe I gave it to you… all the trouble I’ve caused, Draco had chuckled, but tucked Harry’s notion away for later.

Hospital gown fluttering in the wind, Harry ambles towards their former selves as they lounge beneath the mid-day sun. Draco moves to stand behind him and wrap his arms around Harry’s waist. He peels the gown from Harry’s right shoulder, pressing his lips over the odd birthmark dotting the crook of his neck. Like paint splatters, he’d told Harry over a decade ago. Or sea spray, he thinks now, almost tasting the salt on Harry’s skin.

Satisfied, Draco hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder and breathes him in, feels the heartbeat under his palm.

“Your mum’s cottage?” Harry asks.

“In La Trinité-sur-Mer.” Draco nods against Harry’s shoulder. “You remember?”

“Sort of,” Harry mumbles, laying his hand over Draco’s and sinking his weight into Draco’s chest. “It’s beautiful.”

“Hmm, eternity in an hour…” Draco hums. “That cottage is your favorite place in the world, and nine times out of ten, I could find you on that square of beach. We went every summer, and then some, when we needed to get away. We spent hours here, doing nothing but staring at the sea, watching the clouds float by. I’m surprised moss didn’t grow over your feet. It’s the most I’ve ever seen you sit still, the entire time I’ve known you.” 

He presses a kiss to Harry’s jaw.

“I didn’t want to go home,” Harry says, wistful.

“You needed a break; we both did. It was a tough year…” Draco trails off, mind gently tugged towards Harry in St. Mungo’s, injured from a particularly nasty raid. Isolated in Harry’s hospital room, they spent more time together than they had in months. Consequences of their career choices reared their ugly heads while Harry worked long days and Draco started his specialty training on nights. Harry stepped down as Lead Field Auror that April, and Draco abandoned his pursuit of emergency medicine for more regular hours. They were both exhausted and discouraged, but ultimately decided time with people they loved was more important than any badge or title.

“Can we go back? When all this is over?” Harry asks, the sound reverberating against Draco’s chest.

“Anything you want, dear heart,” Draco whispers into his ear and hopes it’s true as he directs Harry’s attention to the memory.

Harry mindlessly waves his bare foot back and forth, the pads of his feet darkened from dirt. Arms crossed behind his head, he lounges in the sun with his eyes closed. Draco fights with the breeze as it ruffles the pages of his book before giving up to squint at Harry, shielding his eyes with his palm.

“Hey, you. Are you sleeping on me?” Draco teases. He reaches for Harry’s foot, trailing his fingers up the sensitive arch.

“Stop that,” Harry mumbles, shifting his weight but not opening his eyes. “I’m awake.”

“Mm, now you are,” Draco hums and dog-ears a page. He crawls to lean over Harry, blocking the sun from his face. When he notices the shade, Harry peels his eyelids open and grins, lazy and crooked, up at Draco.

“Well, hello, beautiful. Nice of you to join the world,” Draco murmurs and presses a chaste kiss to Harry’s lips. “Is this how you want to spend your last day on holiday?”

Drowsy, Harry shakes his head in slow motion and slides his hand behind Draco’s neck to pull him into a deeper kiss. He threads his fingers through Draco’s hair and melts under his touch.

“I want to spend the rest of my life like this,” Harry mumbles against Draco’s lips.

“If only,” Draco whispers back. 

Pulling his attention away from the memory, Draco wraps his arms tighter around Harry’s chest. With his nose buried in Harry’s dark curls, he says, “You asked earlier if we were happy.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, shoulders sagging with his exhale.

“Do you still need me to answer that question?” Draco asks, pressing a kiss to the curve of Harry’s neck.

“Don’t need you to, but I still want you to.”

“So needy...” Draco chuckles and watches as the vibrant blues of the sea begin to fade into the golden sand of the beach. The memory evaporates, and then they’re standing in the dim room, the glow from the Pensieve highlighting the curves of Harry’s face. “We’re so happy, Harry,” Draco says, stifling a hitch in his breath. “So happy, and we’re going to be happy again. I promise.” 

Harry didn’t sleep the first night they used the Pensieve. He fought his heavy eyelids and rejected the call for slumber with a familiar stubborn ferocity. Draco sat at his bedside, helpless, as Harry refused to sleep. By morning, Harry was manic, tugged between reality and the curse that twisted and vined around his memories. His magic was mercurial, wild, bursting windows and luring Healers into a sense of delirium with a wordless Confundus charm. It took two Healers, with Draco’s help, to sedate him that morning.

After a week of restricted visitation, the Healers finally had a plan they believed was safe for Harry but still allowed Draco to continue their sessions with the Pensieve. 

As Draco leads Harry back to his room, he’s sure to walk along the edge of the fishbowl so he can pocket the vial of Dreamless Sleep that Odette leaves on the countertop for him each night. 

Draco watches Harry climb into bed before settling in next to him, wrapping his arms over Harry’s shoulders and pulling him close. He knows precisely how long they lay with their limbs tangled, content to rest their heads on the same flat, crinkled pillow. Though he savors each rise and fall of Harry’s chest against his own, the leering sense of time is a constant and demanding presence. As he wills the minutes to slow, begs them to stretch, time shakes its head and lurches forward. It refuses to release Draco’s sense of security as the curse lures Harry’s mind away from him.

“Draco?” Harry murmurs, mouth pressed against the pulse point at Draco’s neck.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Tell me more about us,” he says, his voice surrendering to a crack.

“Sure, darling. Anything you want.”

So Draco tells Harry about fixing up Grimmauld Place all those years ago. About the doxies that had reclaimed their home in the drawing room, and how Harry nearly set the house on fire while he chased the last one down the stairs. He laughs when he tells Harry about their first time out at a muggle club, both wide-eyed and mystified as they discovered a new world devoid of prying eyes. Harry snorts when he remembers Theo Nott finding them in the bathroom, with Draco looking properly debauched against the corner stall and Harry still on his knees. 

They talk about how Draco fixes Harry’s coffee every morning, and how Harry fixes Draco’s tea every evening. How Harry knows when Draco says two sugars, he actually means three. Their conversations wander to late-night seeker’s games at the Weasley’s and how Ginny always kicks both their arses. With an arched brow, Harry recalls that time Draco tried to make a soufflé for his birthday. Draco had laughed through his tears as they sat knee-to-knee on the kitchen floor, and Harry ate every bite of the soupy, fallen pastry. 

Time wears thin, wavering against each exhaled breath. Harry laughs about retiring and taking up bathtub-distilling as a new career, and then the laughter stops. There’s an odd twitch to his eye before he focuses his gaze back on Draco.

“What were we just talking about?”

Draco feels his fragile cage of rib bones collapse on his burning lungs. His fingertips turn numb, and his lip quivers as he fights to maintain his composure.

Draco reaches trembling fingers to cup Harry’s cheek, smoothing his thumb over Harry’s cheekbone before pulling him into a kiss. He clings to Harry like he needs him to breathe, like Harry, alone, sparks the electricity in each one of Draco’s heartbeats. 

Which, of course, it feels like he does. Some days, he’s even sure of it.

“It’s all right, Harry. It wasn’t important,” Draco sighs, releasing a shuddered breath. 

The burn starts behind Draco’s eyes before the tears roll down his cheeks. His lower lip wavers as he leans forward to press a kiss to Harry’s forehead, to each eyelid, to Harry’s own wavering lips.

“Draco, you’re crying,” Harry says, reaching to wipe the tears from Draco’s cheeks. “Please, don’t cry. You don’t have to cry.”

In violent opposition to Harry’s request, his body wrenches through a sob. And Harry is there, soothing his shaking shoulders, whispering lovely lies into Draco’s ear, planting kisses across every inch of Draco’s exposed skin. 

As Draco’s tears begin to dry, salty and sticky against his cheeks, he knows they’re on borrowed time.

With an uneven breath, Draco manages to say, “Harry, I have something for you, and I need you to trust me. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Harry looks up, eyes heavy and doubting, but he nods.

Draco pulls the vial from his pocket, and holds it between them. “I need you to drink this, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes widen in realization, and he shakes his head in protest. “No, Draco, please. Please don’t do this, I can’t keep doing this. Please, please, don’t make me sleep.”

“Harry, you have to sleep.” He imprints the words into Harry’s cheeks. “We’ve been there, darling. We’ve tried... and it isn’t pretty. I need you to trust me and take this, please. Take it for me.”

“Draco, I can’t do this,” Harry growls. “You can’t make me do this.”

“Harry, listen to me please—”

“Why do you keep making me do this?” The words slice through the air like a blade. “Why are you letting them do this to me?”

“Please, Harry,” Draco starts, careful, placating. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was best for you. Please, Harry. I need you to drink this.” Draco brushes a curl from Harry’s forehead and threads his fingers through his hair. “There will be a day when we don’t have to do this. Soon. I promise. But right now, I need you to take this for me.”

“I’m so fucking scared, Draco. What if I never remember? What if—”

“Shh, Harry. This isn’t forever. I won’t let it be.”

Harry nods and wipes the wet from his own cheeks before swiping another tear from the delicate skin under Draco’s eye. He brings his hands to Draco’s chest, sinking his fingers into wrinkled robes and pulling him into a slow and savoring kiss.

A goodbye.

“I love you, Draco,” he whispers.

“I love you, Harry. I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise.”

“Don’t give up on me,” Harry says, peeling the Dreamless Sleep from Draco’s fingers.

“Never,” Draco whispers and watches Harry swallow the bitter potion. He thinks he can almost taste it, too.

There are four steps that lead to the front door at Grimmauld Place. Every night, the rusty latches protest as Draco enters the foyer, toes off his shoes, and hangs his sweaty robes on the hook. Harry’s request still echoes in his mind as he sags against the closed door, letting the beveled wood needle at his shoulder blades. He releases a defeated sigh before taking off into the kitchen.

Draco snaps his wrist at the empty bulb on the ceiling, and the bright, ghostly light of his Lumos relegates the shadows towards the corners. The light reveals the piece of treacle tart that rests on the countertop, molding and stinking despite the stasis charm. Harry’s trainers sit in a pile by the back door, still muddy from their last seeker’s game back when autumn had taken its first breath.

An irritating buzz sounds from the captured light above Draco’s head as he moves to stare at the rotting tart. He clenches his hands around the counter’s edge and inhales, letting the foul stench of decay fill his lungs. With a disgusted curl of his lip, Draco sends the plate hurtling towards the wall, flinching at the sound the porcelain makes as it shatters. His strides match the rapid pace of his breaths as he crosses the room to assess the damage.

Though his lips fall and his brow furrows as he surveys the mess, a sliver of relief settles into his bones. Chasing that release, Draco casts a truculent Evanesco at the ceramic shards and crumbles of moldy dessert. He proceeds to Scourgify the dirty shoes and whisks them off to the hall closet, along with Harry’s rain jacket on the hook. Draco’s heart beats forcefully behind his ribs as he clenches his hands in quick succession around his wand. Determined, he removes every trace of the ghost he’s lived with for weeks.

One pillow looks ridiculous on this bed, Draco thinks as he stands at the footboard, surveying the results of his impulsive wandwork. His nose wrinkles, his lips quiver, and his eyes sting as he fights the overwhelming crash of guilt that threatens his ability to remain upright. 

“What the fuck am I doing?” he whispers to the empty bed. 

The vacant house sighs in answer, creaking against the force of a strong gust of wind. Draco’s fingers grip for purchase against the closet door as he sinks to the floor, curling his legs to his chest and resting his head on the rug. A demanding pressure settles over his ribs, and a brushfire ignites every time he heaves a breath.

Draco is uncertain how long he lays like this. Long enough to count the lines in the floorboards and the wrinkles in the duvet. His back aches, and his hip twinges when he finally peels himself from the floor. Though his hands tremble, he extends his wand, summoning Harry’s pillow and favorite quilt from the shelves. His steps are heavy as he retraces his path: replacing Harry’s toothbrush in the cup at the sink, laying his placemat at the table, and setting his trainers at the back door. Eyes stinging and tender from swelling, Draco grabs Harry’s rain jacket from the closet and slips it over his shoulders.

Harry’s comforting and familiar scent fills his lungs as Draco walks to Tesco’s in search of another piece of treacle tart.

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s.

“Hello, Harry. I’m Healer Malfoy, but please call me Draco.”

“Are we happy?”

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s.

“They took everything from me.”

“Harry, please, you have to sleep. I need you to take this for me, please.”

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s.

“Do I know you?”

“Today is our seventh wedding anniversary.”

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s.

“Still started with a blank slate this morning.”

“Wait and hope. It’s all we can do, dear heart.”

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s.

“Don’t leave me here, please, Draco. Don’t give up on me.”

“Never.”

On Harry’s hundred-and-twentieth evening at St. Mungo’s, Draco’s routine is largely unchanged from any of the previous hundred-and-nineteen, with one single, glaring exception. Harry again manages to uncover some of his memories of his own volition, as though scraping dirt and moss from an old and crumbling headstone. Though he thought by now his eyes would’ve run dry, Draco still cries when he watches Harry fight the lure of a dreamless slumber until his eyelids are too heavy to lift. But, as Harry’s mind hangs in suspension between wakefulness and sleep, a whisper escapes his lips, hot against Draco’s ear: “I want to go home, Draco.”

A newfound determination ignites in Draco’s belly when he immediately slips out of Harry’s bed and snicks the door shut to room 332. As he plods down the forty-eight stairs to the first floor with more energy than he’s had in months, a question echoes between the walls, drowning out the sound of his footsteps: What the hell are they doing at St. Mungo’s that he can’t do at home?

Though he usually walks to Grimmauld each night, Draco chooses to save time by apparating from St. Mungo’s front lobby. Without pausing to remove his robes, Draco drops to his knees in front of the floo, wincing at the crack his bones emit against the soot-covered brick. The smell of ash and dust fills his lungs as he croaks, “The Weasleys,” with more desperation than he ever thought he could muster. 

“Draco?” Ron meanders into the living room with Rose in his arms. She’s almost too big to carry now, but Ron’s been clinging to her toddler years the same way Rose clung to her dummy: desperately denying the inevitable. His bright blue eyes light up with concern as he shifts Rose to his other hip. “What happened? Did something happen to Harry?”

“Nothing’s happened. Nothing’s happened for months, that’s the whole fucking problem,” Draco spits. “I need to talk to your wife.”

“Come on through. She’s out on the back porch,” he says, bewildered, before prying Rose’s fingers from his beard.

Draco lunges through the hearth, absently dropping a peck on the top of Rose’s head before striding through the quaint and modest Weasley home. Toys litter every spare inch of floor space, and books with broken bindings and crinkled parchment occupy most of the tables and shelves. What used to make Draco wrinkle his nose in distaste now makes him yearn for the normality of it all. For the filled spaces and occupied rooms.

Outside, the summer air is thick with humidity, but the darkening sky lessens its weight. A chorus of crickets chirps from the field behind the house, lulling Draco into a strange sense of nostalgia. It’s disconcerting as it mixes with the panic he carried with him through the floo.

He finds Hermione cross-legged on the creaky wooden bench, chewing on a pen and bobbing her knee. Her normally pristine curls are thrown in a haphazard knot at the top of her head as she flips through last Sunday’s issue of The Prophet. For all of his hurry to get here, Draco finds he’s run out of steam when he plops on the bench beside her.

“Thought we all agreed not to read that trash after their article about my wedding?” 

“I lied,” Hermione shrugs and casts the paper aside. Draco scowls half-heartedly, and Hermione defends herself. “Trust me, if I could avoid it, I would. I think I lose brain cells every time I see Skeeter’s byline.”

“Then don’t,” Draco says, slouching down on the hard seat to get more comfortable. 

“I have to. It’s important to keep up on what my political enemies are publishing about me,” she says with a wink. “How are you?”

“Imagine the fly that takes its last breath and keels over in Rita Skeeter’s office. It lies in agony, never to find eternal peace amidst the incessant ranting about whatever’s caught her attention that minute. Now imagine she steps on the fly, to make sure it’s really miserable.” Draco tries for a smile but knows he’s failing.

“Was he worse today?”

“No. No worse, no better. Only difference is, today, when I shoved another vial of Dreamless Sleep down my husband’s throat before he had the chance to forget my name, he asked me to come home. He wants to come home, Hermione, and all I could do was weep, and nod, and give him more empty fucking promises.”

Draco leans forward to rest his face in his hands and exhales sharply, feeling the weight of frustration across his shoulders. 

“They’re not empty promises. He’s going to get better, and he’s going to come home. How has he done this week with the—”

“The muggle donepezil is garbage,” Draco hisses, watching from between his fingers as an ant crawls across the cracked stone porch. “We even started mixing it with gingko. Nothing. He’s not getting better, and we’re just running in circles. It’s a waste of time.”

Hermione sighs and rests a hand over Draco’s shoulders, patting the sore and tired muscle. After a long stretch of silence, she finally says, “Well, let’s bring him home then.”

A faint smile wins over Draco’s face as he looks at Hermione, still resting his head in his hands. 

“Fuck, you don’t know how much I was hoping you’d say that.”

On Harry’s hundred-and-twenty-first night in St. Mungo’s, medical research papers and textbooks, both muggle and wizarding, litter Draco’s kitchen table. There’s a half-empty coffee cup sitting precariously close to the edge. 

After trudging through the front door, Draco shucks his robes and tosses them over a vacant chair. He flicks his wand at their grungy coffee pot, relaxing ever-so at the familiar sputter of the heating water. It’s not enough to still his tapping foot while he waits for the pot to fill. Mug in hand, he catches himself in the mirror and realizes Harry’s not the only one who’s lost weight over these months.

The old dining chair creaks when Draco sits to lean over a thick stack of parchment. He removes his glasses from his breast pocket, and pulls a crisp, blank sheet from under a pile of books. With a deep breath, he looks at the top of the empty page and starts on his first draft: A Petition for the Medically Advised Release of Harry James Potter.

While Hermione takes her night with Harry, Draco spends the evening hunched over the table in the low light, poring over every journal and book he could get his hands on at the library that morning. As the night goes on, his intuition is affirmed. The greatest minds in memory medicine and healing all call for the same thing: familiarity, routine, a firm sense of grounding in the known. 

Close to midnight, Hermione appears in the floo, eyes teary and swollen. Draco nods towards the coffee, still hot in the corner, and clears a stack of books from a chair. When Hermione sits, she shrugs and runs her slender fingers over the rim of the chipped coffee cup.

“We have to bring him home,” she sighs before taking a sip, wrinkling her nose at the bitter taste.

Draco levitates a bottle of Tullamore from the shelf, uncapping the lid and tipping the whiskey into Hermione’s steaming mug. She nods in thanks before reaching for a book and skimming the table of contents.

“We’re going to bring him home,” she says firmly. “They can’t keep the Boy Who Lived locked away forever.”

“What’s your favorite color?” Harry asks on day one hundred and forty-two, precisely two weeks following St. Mungo’s Ethics Committee’s denial of his release. Ignorant of his mandated captivity, he sits at the head of his hospital bed with his legs draped over Draco’s lap. Janus Thickey’s anti-apparition wards hum in Draco’s ear as he leans against the wall. An encouraging spark glimmers in Harry’s eyes as the curse takes a breath and loosens its grip.

“Whatever you’re wearing, darling,” Draco says with a smirk, grabbing hold of Harry’s non-slip-sock-covered foot and giving it a light squeeze. “I’m quite a fan of hospital-chic these days.”

“My bright orange socks would do wonders for your complexion,” Harry teases. “Want a pair? I keep forgetting I have them, and apparently no one has the guts to tell me ‘no’ when I ask for another pair. The drawer’s full over there.”

“Tempting offer…” Draco drawls, pinching Harry’s little toe through the thick knit. “Unfortunately, we can’t all pull off those tones… In practicality, I am a stereotypical Slytherin and still lean towards green. Although, I’d prefer if my uniforms were a bit less… putrid,” he laughs.

“So predictable,” Harry chuckles.

“Hey, now. That’s one of your favorite things about me.”

“Is it now?” Harry asks, arching a playful brow.

“It is,” Draco confirms, grazing the arch of Harry’s foot. “You also love my good sense of humor, my unmatched wit, and my devastatingly good looks.”

“Mhmm,” Harry hums as he prods Draco’s thigh with his foot. “Funny, I remember loving your chronic state of indecision, your unsatisfiable need for tidiness, and your love of Celine Dion.”

“It can be both.”

“Then it’s both,” Harry admits, leaning forward to capture Draco’s lips with his own. He tastes like the piece of apple pie that Draco brought from Molly that evening. Draco lets his tongue slip between Harry’s lips, chasing that syrupy-sweet taste but relishing more in the groan he draws from Harry’s throat.

Harry feels like Harry today, the real and full Harry. To Draco, he’s a lure on a line that continually gets ripped from his grasp. On days like this, he can’t decide whether he wants to smile or scream.

“So... when will you figure out how to get me out of here?” Harry mumbles against Draco’s lips.

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already figured it out,” Draco murmurs, unwilling to separate fully from the kiss.

“I know if you did, we wouldn’t be here. You’re a terrible liar, always were.” Harry pulls back to look at Draco, sinking his fingers into Draco’s shirt.

“You’re right. And I sure as hell can’t lie to you now. What kind of person would that make me?” Draco huffs a laugh, but it’s unconvincing, even to his own ears. “I’m working on it. The medical board denied my first appeal, but we get to try again. Next week.”

“We?”

“Hermione. You remember her, from the memory today? Her and Ron’s wedding? Good. I couldn’t do this without her,” Draco says, tucking a lock of hair behind Harry’s ear. He traces his finger down the branch of lightning that bursts over Harry’s forehead and smooths his thumb over the laughter lines at the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“And if they still tell you ‘no?’ What if they want to keep me forever?”

“I’d like to see them try,” Draco laughs. “You aren’t theirs to keep, dear heart.”

Tears still stream like rivers down both of their faces when Harry swallows the vial of Dreamless Sleep an hour later, but a tiny, delicate flame of hope burns in Draco’s chest. He pulls a new lumpy and misshapen blanket from his bag, courtesy of Pansy’s latest attempt at knitting, and drapes it over Harry’s shoulders. As Harry drifts off to sleep, he leans down to place a kiss on his forehead before casting a Nox at the lamp.

“As you can see on page two,” Draco starts, waving his wand to distribute copies of his revised petition to the members of the St. Mungo’s Ethics Committee, “it is a general consensus of muggle medical practitioners that familiar environments are beneficial for patients suffering from memory disorders like dementia and memory loss caused by traumatic brain injuries.”

The committee members skim through Draco’s petition far too quickly before they let the parchment rest in front of them. One member, a lanky and pointy gentleman with a bald spot on the side of his head, doesn’t bother to read past the title page. Draco throws a nervous glance to Hermione who stands to his right, spine stiff and hands linked behind her back. She’s an intimidating presence in her black Wizengamot robes and the sash worn only by senior members. 

She clears her throat before chiming in. “Letting patients with impaired memories languish in unfamiliar environments is not only ineffective, but potentially harm-inducing. Harry would do better at home, where he can find routine and be supported by his family,” Hermione says in a tone implying there is no room for dispute.

“Ms. Granger,” Healer Perkins says from her seat at the center of the table. Though her countenance and tone are kind, the politeness doesn’t reach the Chief Healing Officer’s eyes.

“Senior Interrogator Granger, if you please,” Hermione corrects her with a blank expression. 

Healer Perkins lowers her wire-rimmed glasses to the tip of her nose. Her smile is disconcerting as she stares pointedly at Draco and Hermione, both vulnerable at the front of the room. ''Senior Interrogator Granger, we’ll leave the medical assessments to the medical professionals, thank you. If we have questions concerning the legality and stipulations surrounding Mr. Potter’s release, we will be sure to consult you for your expertise.”

Draco has seen Hermione angry, truly angry, a handful of times over the years, and has rarely been on the receiving end of that anger. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t wish that wrath on anyone. However, today—

“Healer Perkins, with all due respect, I wouldn’t have to speak on medical matters if your medical professionals utilized evidence-based practice,” Hermione seethes. “I cannot sit idly by while mounds of research go ignored and Harry suffers for it. I will be happy to consult on strictly legal matters when I feel the Ethics Committee is in full understanding of the body of evidence presented today.” Hermione raises her chin, but her hands tremble slightly behind her back, betraying her confidence.

Healer Perkins purses her lips and replaces her glasses on the bridge of her nose. "Ms. Granger, the board recognizes the evidence presented today and finds Healer Malfoy has failed to provide any additional evidence from that provided at his last appeal. All citations presented today are in relation to muggle dementia and other memory disorders, none of which afflict Mr. Potter. You’ve provided nothing pertaining to memory disorders in relation to magical curses—”

“Because it doesn’t fucking exist,” Draco spits, stepping forward. “The magical world has treated memory disorders the same way for decades: by leaving patients to rot on Janus Thickey’s low acuity ward with no real action towards improvement. The last research study The Ministry funded for memory curses was nearly fifty years ago, and they cut their trial short—”

“Healer Malfoy, that tone will not be accepted in this hearing. You will show this committee respect, or you will leave,” Healer Perkins warns, voice so cheery that it’s unsettling. 

Draco exhales and feels Hermione lay a hand on his forearm. He refocuses his thoughts before continuing, “Apologies for my outburst, Healer Perkins. You can imagine this matter is quite personal to me.”

“Quite personal to you both,” Healer Perkins corrects, clicking her tongue against her teeth in disapproval. “Which is likely why your judgment is clouded. It is simply unacceptable for Mr. Potter to be relinquished from the care of Healers in the middle of his long-term commitment with no visible signs of improvement. Not only is it potentially dangerous for Mr. Potter, but to others, as well.”

Draco’s fingers turn numb and cold, but his face is hot as his heart pounds behind his ribs. He lets his disbelieving stare smooth over each member of the Ethics Committee, lost for words as they all evade his gaze.

Healer Perkins clears her throat before continuing, words clipped and contrite. “Might I remind all present of Mr. Potter’s outbursts during his first week of treatment. Accidental magic, uncontrolled delusions. It took three Healers to subdue him on his first night with visitation. Should Mr. Potter have one of these outbursts in public, who knows what kind of harm he might cause?”

Draco fumes, clenching his hands in his fists. “You can’t make accusations based on events that occurred months ago. We have a system now; he’s not dangerous. He hasn’t had trouble with accidental magic in months.”

“Mr. Malfoy, your request is denied—”

“You haven’t even read the appeal!”

“Whatever is in your appeal does not change facts, Mr. Malfoy.” Hermione visibly deflates at Draco’s side, and Draco feels his own posture sag with each word that leaves Healer Perkin’s thin, painted lips. “We cannot in good conscience release Mr. Potter to your care at home. It simply isn’t safe. Appeal denied.”

Healer Perkins vanishes Draco’s parchment with a flourish of her wrist as the members of the Ethics Committee rise to exit the board room. Draco meets each of their eyes with a look of pure distaste as they trail into the hallway, leaving Hermione and Draco alone.

“I can’t believe how transparent they are. You’d think they would have the dignity to entertain the appeal,” Hermione hisses. “I knew it would come down to money; it always does.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asks, holding the door open for Hermione to leave the darkened boardroom. She pushes the door closed and lowers her voice to a hushed whisper.

“Harry worked for the Ministry when he got hurt. It’s a major liability if he doesn’t get better, and letting him out without improvement looks like they’re admitting defeat. The possible press coverage alone gets the Minister’s knickers in a twist. The Savior of the wizarding world was injured on his watch.” She raises her eyebrows to emphasize her point. “Not to mention the liability if he were to get hurt when he leaves, or hurt someone else, if they approved your appeal.”

Draco sighs, and his shoulders cave in as he leans his forehead against the cool surface of the door. “They’re never going to let him out, are they?”

Draco closes his eyes, listening as Hermione taps her foot impatiently. “I didn’t say that. I’ve read about muggle practices for these situations, and I think we have a chance to institute an Against Medical Advice policy. It will probably take some time, of course, and there may be legal challenges—”

“Hermione?”

“Yeah, Draco?”

Draco squeezes his eyes tight and feels a familiar stinging wetness threaten his lash line. As he fights the shudder that trails across his shoulders, he says, “I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Sorry, Draco. We’ll keep trying.”

“Sure. Of course,” Draco sighs, tilting his forehead against the door to look at Hermione. “Hermione, I know it’s Ron’s night, but do you think he’ll mind—”

“Not at all, Draco. I’ll tell Ron; he’ll understand. Tell Harry we love him,” Hermione says with an encouraging smile.

“Thank you.”

Draco trudges towards the lift, letting his heavy robes slide from his shoulders and frowning at the sweat stains under the sleeves. The lift lurches to the left before abruptly taking a diagonal path towards the lobby of the Janus Thickey Ward. The secretary at the front desk waves Draco through the wards, knowing why he’s here, despite the fact he’s never entered through the front door.

“How’d it go?” Odette asks around a lolly. She removes her feet from a chair so Draco can sit down.

“How do you think it went, Odette?” Draco says, sagging into his seat and laying his head in his hands. The unsturdy chair rocks between two legs as he shifts his weight back and forth.

“Oh, Draco.”

“I really don’t want to hear it right now, Odette. How did he do today?”

When Draco enters Harry’s room, he almost smiles at the sight of its decorated walls and cluttered surfaces. After their first denial, Hermione suggested that if they can’t bring Harry home, they should bring home to Harry: mementos and photos, familiar clothing, and random trinkets to supplement the otherwise sterile environment. At first, the Healers weren’t happy about it, but Odette fought ferociously to let the little pieces of home remain in Harry’s room. So now, photos in varying stages of aging hang above Harry’s bed, near the door, on the bathroom mirror. A stack of worn flannel shirts sits on the table along with his favorite Canons’ pajama bottoms, and a snitch flits about the room, frustrated by the enclosed space.

Wearing an old band t-shirt and track pants, Harry sits in the armchair, curled up with an issue of The Boggart’s Journey Home. Draco put the comic book series on hold for Harry months ago, and the clerk at Flourish and Blotts has been sure to reserve a copy of each new issue. Despite Harry not remembering the issues from day to day, Draco brought every one of them last week, sick of watching Harry stare at that same damn chess board.

Draco stifles his frustration from the denied appeal as he and Harry proceed through their introductions as usual. Harry still turns Draco’s hand over in his own, examining their wedding bands and tracing the lines in his palm before looking to Draco with a wicked grin. Draco’s eyes still turn misty when Harry asks how he’s holding up, and Harry’s voice still carries the utmost conviction when he says things will get better.

Later, Draco unconsciously glances towards the clock on the wall as they emerge from a memory of a seeker’s game they had at the Burrow about a year ago. He could smell the wildflowers as the snitch flitted about the field, feeling neglected as they chased each other more than they worried about the game. The snitch had buzzed above their heads, glinting with the light of the setting sun, when they’d finally settled on their backs in the tall grasses, talking aimlessly and stealing kisses between breaths. They’d struggled to contain their laughter when Ron couldn’t find them for dinner but didn’t hesitate to hop up when Ginny hollered with a threat of a Bat-Bogey jinx from the back porch.

When they finally return to Harry’s room, Draco still crawls after him in bed and pulls him close, smelling his hair and rubbing his fingers across his back. The clock ticks behind him, and the room is quiet beneath the hum of the wards.

“Draco?” Harry murmurs, voice coated with sleep.

“Yes, dear heart?” Draco asks, stiffening in anticipation of Harry’s next words.

“I want to go home,” Harry whispers into his ear, and his hot breath tickles Draco’s sensitive skin. 

“I know, love. I’m trying, I promise.” Draco pulls him closer, counting each of Harry’s breaths and focusing on the beat of his heart under Draco’s palm. 

“I know you are. I know,” Harry says, shifting to press a kiss to Draco’s temple, trailing wet lips across his jaw until he covers Draco’s lips with his own. The taste of treacle tart lingers on his tongue.

As Draco leans in to deepen the kiss, Harry abruptly huffs a laugh into Draco’s mouth. Draco pulls back, arching a brow in mock derision. Harry only laughs again before asking, “You know what I just remembered?”

“What?” Draco asks. His lips tug upward, relieved to find some humor in the day.

“I remember riding a dragon with… Hermione? Yeah, Hermione and Ron. We robbed a bank and rode a dragon. Isn’t that crazy?” he chuckles. “Its scales weren’t as hard as I expected them to be, or didn’t feel like they were anyway. That was one of the scariest things I think I’ve ever done, but if we hadn’t tried to steal from that vault, that poor dragon would still be there,” he says wistfully and laughs again. “That thing was huge.”

Draco’s heart pounds in his chest as Harry captures his lips in another kiss, his smile still palpable as he trails his fingers down Draco’s back to squeeze his bum. Head spinning, Draco deepens the kiss, more urgent and demanding. Harry groans when Draco slips his thigh between Harry’s legs, entangling their limbs and gently pressing Harry into the creaky mattress. As Draco pours every ounce of energy he has left into making Harry gasp underneath him, a rush of blood crashes in his ears, and he thinks it almost sounds like a roar.

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s.

“I’ve brought you more photographs. And your favorite soap; it smells like Christmas biscuits.”

“I actually remembered our wedding day this afternoon. Best cake I’ve ever had... Hey, I didn’t mean it like that! Stop pinching me! You were beautiful, Draco; you always are.”

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s.

“Bloody hell, have you lost your marbles, Draco? They’ll send you straight back to Azkaban if you get caught, and I’ve got a feeling it’ll be a one-way ticket this time.”

“I know exactly where my marbles are, Ronald. They’re locked on that goddamn ward with the love of my life and your best fucking friend. I’m simply taking back what’s mine. Now, are you going to help me or not?”

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s.

“You looked so hot in that Slytherin quidditch kit. Those pants are so good for your arse. We should play quidditch when you bring me home.”

“Whatever you want, Harry. If only so you can compliment my arse.”

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s.

“You’ll need to disable the anti-apparition wards. I’ve done some research. The spells they use are difficult and likely reinforced with other charms, but they’re nothing unusual. You can definitely handle it.”

“Just tell me where to start.”

There are twenty-four steps in the staff stairwell between the second and fourth floor at St. Mungo’s.

“I’d like to go back to that beach. Start a garden, get a cat, maybe? I don’t want all the bullshit when I get back home. I just want to… exist.”

“We’ll get a dozen cats if it makes you happy. And no more bullshit. I think you’ve had enough for a lifetime.”

“Bring anything good tonight, Draco?” Odette asks, spinning in her swivel chair and knocking her clog-clad foot against the desk with each pass.

Draco clenches his hands in empty pockets. “Oh, you know, the usual. Dragons, mystery, great escapes. A typical Tuesday for Harry.”

Odette snorts and stops her spinning to look at Draco. “Sounds about right. Good luck, Draco; Pensieve’s all yours.”

By the time they reach the Pensieve room, Draco’s fingers tremble with nerves, and he’s sure the way his magic crawls, uneasy under his skin, will set off some kind of alarm. He tries to focus on Harry’s fingers, laced between his own, and the supposedly-soothing sound of a babbling river.

“Harry, I know I told you that we usually use the Pensieve for your memories, but today is going to be a little different,” Draco says, releasing a breath and placing his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “Do you trust me?”

Harry nods, because of course he does, and Draco removes his wand. He places the wand in Harry’s hand before he continues. “There’s a spell, Harry, that I want you to use. You’ve used it before, but it’s not one they’ve been practicing with you since you were hurt. It’s going to allow me to share my memories with you without the Pensieve. How does that sound?”

“Why aren’t we using the Pensieve?” Harry asks, rolling Draco’s wand between his fingers.

“We’re in a bit of a hurry today.” Draco takes a step back and focuses on lowering his defenses, on peeling apart the walls that tower around his mind. “Are you ready?”

Harry nods, raising Draco’s wand.

“Repeat after me: Legilimens.”

When the word leaves Harry’s lips, his magic immediately cocoons around Draco’s thoughts. The caress of familiar magic is warm, comforting, and almost overwhelming. For a moment, Draco works to regain his focus, resisting the lull of Harry’s gentle presence and directing Harry towards his carefully selected memories. 

He recalls watching with bated breath as Harry led the Hungarian Horntail on its path of destruction around the school, narrowly avoiding disaster as he snatched the golden egg from the arena. His thoughts shift quickly to Harry, face bruised and distorted, on the floor of the Manor. The words echo in his mind as Draco, sallow and waning, stutters that he can’t be sure, though there was never a doubt in his mind who sat in front of him. Harry’s figure ripples, then emerges with a new crispness. It’s late summer when Harry stands at the door of Draco’s grungy, asbestos-filled flat, returning a wand, offering a hand, paying no mind to the Mark on Draco’s arm. 

Images smear as though staring out the window of a speeding train. The world stops, and they’re in Draco’s bed. In a mess of tangled limbs and bare skin, Draco hovers over Harry, dots kisses over his cheekbones. Harry groans, and Draco makes one final push, fully engulfed in Harry’s heat, drowning in the feeling of being wanted. That night, Draco said he loved him, though he knew it sooner. He remembers stammering the words as he sobbed into the crook of Harry’s neck, shuddering with the intensity of his release.

If he’s honest, Draco can hardly remember a time when he didn’t love Harry, in some way. That’s the last thing Draco pulls to the front of his mind before pushing Harry’s consciousness out and resurrecting his carefully tended walls of stone.

“Harry, are you all right?” Draco gasps, breathing heavy.

Harry nods before closing the gap between them and bringing his hands to Draco’s waist. “I’m all right,” he pants. “Draco, I’m all right.”

Draco nods and presses his forehead to Harry’s. “Where did we go for our honeymoon?”

Harry chokes a laugh between his rapid breaths. “I don’t know if I’d call the three days between shifts a honeymoon but… We went to Paris.”

Draco releases a sigh of relief. “We’re leaving today, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes widen, but he nods in agreement. “Where are we going?”

Draco summons a smile and leans in for a quick brush of lips between labored breaths. “Your favorite place in the world.”

They walk back to room 332 hand-in-hand, and Draco urges his steps to slow, despite his racing heart. When they reach the fishbowl, Draco leans forward to push the vial of Dreamless Sleep across the table, leaving it to rest in front of Odette. Her brow arches impressively as she glances back and forth between Draco and the abandoned vial.

“We won’t be needing this today, Odette.” Draco plants his hands on the counter and meets her gaze. He hopes his expression wordlessly conveys his thoughts, his plans, his gratitude. 

“Is that so?” Odette asks, standing to meet Draco’s gaze from the other side of the counter. “What’s the plan, Draco?”

Draco opens his mouth to answer, but no words fall out. He emits a sound of surprise as Harry shuffles forward, hooking his chin over Draco’s shoulder to answer for him. 

“I think Este could use a little extra help getting ready for bed this evening. She looked a bit out of sorts at dinner, and I’m worried about her. It may take a while.”

Odette’s eyebrows disappear behind her tightly wound curls, and her stare abandons the potion to alternate between Draco and Harry. Draco simply huffs a laugh, shrugs, and says, “Odette, thank you. For everything. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through these months without you.”

Without hesitation, Odette leans forward to capture them both in a warm hug, encapsulating them in a bubble of chamomile and lavender. “What am I going to do without my boys here? Talk to Este?” she laughs, and it’s wet and congested. 

She pulls back, wiping her tears on her sleeve before waving her wand over a drawer beneath her. The drawer unlocks with a click, and Odette hunches as she rummages around. After a moment, she rises and rolls Harry’s familiar wand across the counter. Harry is quick to pocket the contraband, and Draco smiles. 

Odette sniffles but mirrors Draco’s grin. “All right, gentlemen. How long does Este need my help for?”

The ever-present monitoring charms coat room 332 in a green glow, and twilight seeps, muted and fragile, through Harry’s tiny window. Though Harry appears calm at Draco’s side, the rapidly blinking heart rate above the bed betrays his demeanor. In the low light, the anti-apparition wards shimmer on the wall like an expanse of delicate but sturdy spider webs. They hum, low and steady, in the otherwise silent room.

Pulse galloping at the base of his neck, Draco clears his throat and removes his wand. “Harry, can you gather your things while I take care of the wards?”

Summoning a sense of calm, Draco closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose, imagining the bright scent of geraniums and the crisp tingle of Hermione’s magic in the garden at Grimmauld. The same humming that emanates from the far wall enveloped them both in the garden, night after night, as Hermione constructed wards around the perimeter. The charms she cast grew increasingly complex, though their monumental presence stood only long enough for Draco to meticulously peel them apart like layers of skin. 

Draco opens his eyes and focuses on funneling the pulse of magic to his fingertips, initially directing his wand toward the door.

“Cave Inimicum.” A wash of magic ripples through the room as the protective enchantment renders them unnoticeable to any passersby. 

Draco inhales and releases, letting the practiced incantations slip repeatedly from his lips. “Deletrius Protego Totalum,” he whispers and imagines unraveling a braid, thread by thread.

“Deletrius Remaneo.” A gentle earthquake trembles under his feet as the protective wards emit a low pulse and ripple under the pressure of his magic. He glances over his shoulder at the door, expecting a Healer to rush through in a panic at any moment, but they never come. As an extra precaution, Draco layers a Silencio over his protective charm before pressing onward. 

“Deletrius Protego Maximum,” Draco says. An urgency coats his voice, and fear burns his throat. His heart thrums in time with the irritated pulse of the wards as another layer shatters, emitting a brief glimmer as it falls, like the flash of a shooting star in the night sky.

“I’m ready,” Harry says, arms full of crumpled photos and Weasley sweaters. He’s donned an old pair of pajama bottoms and one of Draco’s jumpers, like he could’ve been plucked from one of Draco’s memories. Like none of this is real, and they’re going to wake up in bed any moment.

Draco turns away from the wards and carefully shrinks the bits of Harry’s life they’ve collected over the weeks, placing them in the bag on Draco’s hip that already contains the rest.

Draco leans forward to capture Harry’s lips in his, weaving his fingers into his own jumper and lining up the warmth of his body with Harry’s. Harry pulls back, gasping, and tucks a stray hair behind Draco’s ear, trailing his fingers across the sensitive skin of Draco’s neck. 

With a hand cupped at the base of Draco’s skull, Harry pulls him in for one more kiss before letting him turn back to the wards.

Draco’s muscles tremble with the concentrated effort of removing the last layer of the protective wards, laced with a multitude of complex strengthening charms. Harry maintains the robust Silencio over the room as Draco lets the charm slip from his lips. He waits in anticipation for a wave of pressure from a fallen ward that never comes.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, face colored with concern.

Draco leans towards the wall, pressing his ear to the plaster to find the faintest of hums.

“One more,” Draco sighs, rolling his aching shoulders and coaxing a crack from his neck. “I’ll try again.” 

Despite the protective enchantments, Draco glances worriedly toward the door. The flicker of his gaze doesn’t go unnoticed. Silently, Harry removes his wand from his pocket and eases Draco aside, relegating him to maintain the Silencio over the doorway. Draco watches in awe as Harry whispers the proper charms, disabling the last ward as though he’s unwrapping a piece of candy. Distracted, Draco lets his Silencio waver against an ear-shattering pulse, the ward’s last revolt before it vanishes like vapor.

“If I’d known you remembered how to disable those wards, I would’ve volunteered to pack your things,” Draco gasps, resting against the silent wall.

Harry huffs a laugh and says, “I didn’t know it either until, well, until I disabled them… I sort of remember a forest and a camp, but I don’t know why we even set the wards up. It’s all pretty fuzzy, still.”

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go home.”

Draco sags with relief when Harry clings to his shoulders, just as a swallow seeks its familiar nest each spring. The relief is short-lived, however. Over Harry’s shoulder, Draco spies Isla, lingering in the hallway and meeting Draco’s stare, despite the protective charms. She tilts her head with a feline-like grace and flutters her fingers in a wave, apparently unphased by the rumbles emitted from the wards. Draco's heart thrums in his ears as he hesitantly waves back and proceeds to hold an upright forefinger against his mouth. His lips stretch into a grin against his finger when Isla smiles and brings her own finger to her lips. Though he can’t hear her hush, he watches her lips take the familiar shape in understanding of Draco’s silent request.

Unsteady and exhausted, Draco calls on the nauseating pull of apparition. It’s Harry’s grip on his waist that keeps him grounded when Isla and room 332 vanish in a smear of color around them.

When their feet meet the firm and rocky ground near the cliffs of Dover, a salty and violent wind whips through Draco’s hair and ruffles his robes. Ron is just across the way, ambling down the road with his hands in his pockets and kicking a rock with the toe of his shoe.

“Ron?” Harry asks, releasing Draco’s waist to jog towards his friend. 

Ron turns, eyes wide and smile bright as he stretches his arms wide for Harry. “Get over here, you.” 

“When did you grow a beard?” 

Ron stutters a laugh and runs his hand through the beard he’s had for nearly a decade. He pats Harry on the shoulder, evading the question that he clearly doesn’t know how to answer.

Draco watches patiently before a sense of urgency overtakes him.

“Gentlemen, I don’t want to interrupt, but we are in a bit of a hurry.” Draco strides towards the reunited friends and pats Ron on his shoulder. “Ready for the next jump?”

“No worries, mate.” Ron nods with a confident smile. “I’ll take good care of him.”

“You’re leaving?” Harry turns around to ask, expression panicked.

“Only temporary, love. Don’t worry. We’ve gotten this far; we don’t want anyone following us,” Draco reassures him. “Ron, Hermione, and Ginny are going to pass you around like a baton before you make the final leap to La Trinité-sur-Mer with Pansy.”

“Pansy?”

“She won’t bite, I promise. She’s practically married to your ex-girlfriend… I’m not sure that makes things clearer, but you’ll be fine,” Draco chuckles, taking Harry’s hands in his and smearing a kiss across his knuckles. “I’ll see you at the beach, Harry.”

Ron nods in encouragement before taking Harry’s forearm and disappearing with a crack.

Nausea rips through Draco’s body, making him shudder as he makes his third leap from Mayenne to Hémonstoir. He plants his palms on his knees to empty his stomach into the field beneath his feet before straightening to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

Countless stars fill the sky above the isolated countryside, as though it’s been speckled with paint. Under the endless sky, Draco shudders with the realization that he can’t go back, can’t turn around and undo what’s been done. An unwelcome seed of anger takes root for a fleeting moment. Whether Harry improves or, Merlin forbid, the curse tightens its grip, Draco is all Harry has left. 

For better or for worse, they’d said. But does anyone really imagine this? Does anyone imagine not knowing whether their husband will be able to remember their name? Would they keep their vows if they knew their husband’s memory would be as unpredictable as the British weather?

Doused with shame, Draco shakes his head and runs his clammy hand through his disheveled hair. Ripping the thought out by its fragile roots, Draco takes one last deep breath and makes his final leap home.

Ginny and Ron are already waiting on the beach when Draco lands on his knees in the cool, moist sand. His belly contracts as he dry heaves, resting on his elbows and holding his sweaty hair from his face. A gentle hand rubs his shoulders, and he catches familiar, fiery waves out of the corner of his eye.

“You made it in one piece,” Ginny affirms the obvious and plops onto the beach beside Draco.

“Barely,” Draco huffs, moving to sit and lean back on his hands. The breeze cools the layer of sweat on Draco’s skin, sending a shiver up his spine. He kicks off his shoes and sinks his toes into the sand with an exhausted sigh. A loud pop announces Hermione’s arrival as she appears on the front walkway, unsteady but still standing. 

“Did he do okay?” Draco asks Ginny as she draws circles in the sand with the tip of her finger.

“He looked great, Draco. Don’t worry. He’s still got that Auror constitution. Just because he doesn’t remember, doesn’t mean his body won’t. But I’m sure you’ll figure that out soon enough.” Ginny winks before turning her steady gaze toward the dark, briny waves of the bay. 

Draco sinks his hands into the sand, focusing on molding the grains to fit his palms as he waits for the last of them to arrive. He counts the waves as they crash over his feet and listens to Ginny hum pleasantly beside him. Further down the beach, Ron and Hermione lean against the rotting fence and talk in hushed whispers.

What feels like hours, though is likely only minutes, later, Pansy and Harry appear at the far end of the beach, backlit by the Lumos in the vase perched on the fence. They stumble when they land, but Harry straightens immediately. He offers an arm to Pansy, who, unsurprisingly, scoffs. Ron and Hermione abandon their spots along the fence and plod through the sand towards them with smiles and welcoming arms.

Ginny nudges Draco with a bare, freckled foot and smirks. “What are you waiting for? Go get your man.”

Seeing Harry outside of St. Mungo’s feels like gazing at a cruel mirage, desperately longing for it to be true but knowing it’s impossible. Draco walks towards him slowly, his mind not yet ready to believe what his eyes are seeing. Mid-laughter, Harry glances towards Draco, eyes bright and trusting. Harry slips from under Ron’s arm and strides across the beach, meeting Draco with an embrace that lures the air from Draco’s lungs.

Draco’s dreamt of this moment since the day Harry landed in St. Mungo’s, bleeding and unconscious. He dreamt of laughter and celebrations and a lightness in his chest that he hasn’t felt in months. In all of his dreams, he never came close to realizing the sense of relief this moment would bring, and he never imagined how quickly tears would overwhelm him.

Draco buries his nose in Harry’s neck, breathing him in and stuttering an exhale. He already smells like home, as though he discarded the hospital soap and chamomile like an extra layer of skin. A sob escapes Draco’s lips despite his efforts to contain it, and Harry runs his fingers in soothing circles over Draco’s back. Threads of guilt twist and tangle through Draco’s sense of relief, strangling it.

Draco traces the tip of his nose along the taut muscle of Harry’s neck, settling just behind Harry’s ear. 

“I’m sorry, Harry.” He lets the words slip out, just barely a whisper.

Harry doesn’t relinquish his grip at Draco’s waist when he mimics Draco’s tone. “Sorry about what, babe?”

“For the moments I wanted to give up, for not getting you home sooner, for not—”

“Shh, Draco. Stop, please. It’s okay. I’m home now,” Harry whispers into Draco’s ear. “I’m home, and you didn’t give up. I’m home because you didn’t give up.”

It doesn’t take long for everyone to recognize Harry and Draco’s need for privacy. Eventually, Hermione fakes a yawn, despite the spill of excess energy into the tap of her sandaled foot. With a nudge to Ron’s ribs, they both say their goodbyes and head towards the guest room in the cottage. Soon after, Pansy casts Draco a knowing smirk and drags Ginny by the hand in a dramatic and impossible search for shells in the dark. 

As a result, they’re the only two left on the beach when Harry yawns from his spot at Draco’s side. Though his mind is tired, Harry’s fingers still fidget with a broken shell, rolling it between his knuckles. Draco gently removes the shell and interlaces their fingers, pulling Harry’s hand to his chest.

“What do we do now?” Harry asks through another yawn. 

Draco tucks himself into Harry’s side, laying his head over Harry’s chest. The sound of Harry’s heartbeat is steady in his ear.

“Sleep in the same bed, watch old movies on the telly, let the salty air cure our woes and heal our pain,” Draco sighs. 

“I think I want a garden. And a cat,” Harry says as though it’s the first time he’s divulged this revelation.

“And a garden and cat you shall have.”

Every night, Draco dreams of Harry. He dreams of memories, of past lives, of their future. But mostly, he just dreams of his smile. Of a spark of recognition in his eyes. Of the epiphany Draco will eventually witness when Harry looks at him and knows his name without being told.

The morning gulls wake Draco from sleep before his Tempus charm rings, and a warm breeze ruffles the curtains at the open window. Draco looks at Harry, who lays in their bed beside him. Out of habit rather than necessity, he counts the steady rise and fall of Harry’s chest as Harry remains submerged in his dreams. Though Draco imagines reaching out to trace the bumps of Harry’s spine, the curve of his bony hip, he refrains. Harry would only turn over to find a stranger in his bed.

Harry hasn’t taken a Dreamless Sleep since they arrived at the cottage early last month. He hasn’t needed to, as the more familiar environment and Draco’s constant presence have eased Harry’s anxiety. Each night, Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s chest and reminds him that this is where he’ll wake up in the morning, that he’s safe, that he’s home. He whispers that even though Harry won’t remember in the morning, Draco will be there to help him pick up the pieces and start again.

This morning, like every morning, Draco is careful not to disturb Harry as he slips from under the covers and pads across the wooden floor towards the bathroom. Dozens of photographs line the walls and shelves, each with Harry front and center. Some are older, with Harry in Hogwarts robes or in his Gryffindor quidditch kit. Others are more recent: Harry bouncing Rose on his lap, chasing Teddy around the tree out back, or curled on Draco’s lap in front of the fireplace.

Before Harry came home, Draco wanted to ensure that Harry woke knowing two things every morning. The first: that he was safe. The second: that he was so irrefutably and catastrophically loved. So, they took a day, he, Hermione, and every Weasley they could find, to plaster the cottage in photographs and newspaper clippings and letters and notes. Encouragement to guide Harry through those first scary moments of waking up somewhere unfamiliar, instructions to help Harry find himself in the unknown.

Out of habit, Draco checks the crumpled note Ron wrote all those weeks ago. Draco diligently sticks it to Harry’s glasses case every night: Hey, Harry, this is your house. You’re safe here, mate. The bathroom is through the door on the left.

Satisfied, Draco snicks the bathroom door shut behind him and methodically moves through his new morning routine. He brushes his teeth, runs water through his hair, and proceeds to check the notes labeling Harry’s toothbrush and soap. There’s a photo from their wedding taped to the bathroom mirror, and Draco is careful to straighten the fading sticking charm. With an outstretched hand, he summons the pen and sticky note from atop the bathroom cabinet and writes his morning note for Harry.

Harry, today is the 31st of July, 2017. It’s your 37th birthday. My name is Draco, and I’m your husband. This photo was taken the day we got married, over seven years ago. You live with me, and this is our cottage. We used to visit all the time, but now this is our home. Your memory hasn’t been well, lately. But I want you to know that you are so loved, and you have so many people rooting for you to get better. I’m so glad you’re home. I’ll meet you for breakfast in the kitchen when you’re ready. It’s just down the hall and to your right.

He sticks the note just above the photo and smiles. A wrinkle-free Draco waves at the camera while Harry sneaks a hand behind his back to pinch his bum. Harry cackles while Draco poorly feigns a scowl, and the photo starts over on its loop.

Draco sneaks back through the bedroom and softly closes the creaky door behind him. As he ambles down the hall, he checks that none of the photographs have fallen from the walls before heading for the kitchen.

Salty air lazes on a gentle current through the window, and the gulls chatter on the rocks in the distance. Though it’s early morning, the mid-summer sun already hovers above the horizon, casting a golden shimmer over the gentle waves from the bay. Patches, their three-legged tabby cat, lazes in the warm rays on the windowsill and meows when she looks towards Draco. A not-so-subtle request for breakfast. Draco absently scratches behind her ears and leans against the window frame, letting the morning air fill his lungs and seep into his pores.

With a flick of his wrist, Draco starts the coffee pot and plops into a chair at the kitchen table, resting his bare feet on the wicker stool across from him. Another meow from Patches prompts the continuation of his morning routine as he directs his wand at a tin of cat food, cracking open the lid and emptying it into the little bowl on the countertop. Draco snorts at the glare he gets in thanks. He watches with amusement as Patches hops gracelessly onto the counter and settles in for breakfast like she hasn’t eaten in years.

Draco’s thoughts stray to Harry, as they are wont to do, as he plucks an orange from the table and picks at the peel, letting the pith cling beneath his fingernails. Memories blossom of an expanse of freckled skin, deepening laughter lines around plump lips, and purple and crimson bruises blooming beneath Draco’s teeth.

A crack echoes between the stone walls of the garden followed by easy laughter and the click of heels over cobblestone. Ginny and Pansy appear in the doorway, their hair windswept from apparition and cheeks glowing.

“Is the old man awake yet?” Ginny asks before tossing her enormous, patchwork bag on the countertop. She reaches her arm into a pocket, up to her shoulder, and ruffles around before raising her eyebrows, apparently finding her target. “We brought stuff for mimosas!” she giggles, displaying a bottle of champagne.

“Did you know that you need two ingredients for a mimosa? Otherwise, you’re just a drunkard,” Draco says, teasing.

Ginny sticks out her tongue and removes a jug of orange juice from her bag, waving it dramatically at Draco in demonstration. “Happy?”

“I would’ve preferred no pulp, but needs must, I suppose,” Draco shrugs, ducking when Ginny tosses another orange his way.

Pansy’s heels tap on the tile as she strides towards Draco, leaning down to drop a kiss on his cheek and snatch an orange slice from his hand. She takes a bite, careful not to smudge the crisp line of her black lipstick.

“Pansy, please help yourself to a piece of my breakfast,” Draco announces, gesturing generously.

“You’re so kind, darling. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” Pansy sings before nudging Draco’s feet off the stool and taking a seat. “Have you brought your husband up to speed yet?”

“Not yet. Sleeping beauty has yet to rise.” Draco peels the last cream-colored strand from his orange and pops a slice into his mouth. “Thought I’d let him have a lie-in, considering it’s his birthday and all,” Draco says around the juicy wedge.

“You’ve softened in your old age, Draco.” Ginny says as she uncorks the bottle of champagne. “That bum gets to have a lie-in every day as it is. Harry!” she yells between her laughter as she tries to contain the overflow of agitated bubbles to the sink. “Up, up, up!”

“Did your wife just call me soft?” Draco asks Pansy as she steals another slice of orange from his palm.

Pansy simply shrugs. “Life partner, Draco; get with the times. And are you going to pretend she’s wrong? All the pining, and moping, and sighing, lately? If I had a galleon for every time I heard a pet name fall from your mouth, I wouldn’t be wearing fake Louboutins right now.”

Draco mirrors her nonchalance. “I suppose you may have a point.”

Ginny cackles, filling coffee mugs with too much champagne. “I know we have a point, dear heart.”  

“Hush you,” Pansy calls to Ginny before turning back to Draco. “It’s not a bad thing. I think it suits you, Draco.” She taps Draco’s knee with the toe of her heel. “The salty air has done you some good.”

“Among other things,” Draco confirms just as Harry appears in the doorway. His salt-and-pepper hair is ruffled from sleep, falling from the loose bun he’s tied at the top of his head. He’d told Draco a couple months back that he wanted to grow it out. Draco had chuckled, remembering how many times he’s heard Harry say those words over the years, only for the idea to lose its sense of appeal weeks later. Much to Draco’s surprise, this time it actually stuck.

“Er, good morning?” Harry says, lifting his shirt to scratch an itch over his belly. 

Though Harry hasn’t regained all the weight he lost, he’s softer than he was when they first came home. Less pointy, and with a little more to love. Draco glances at his own stomach and frowns, wondering if he’s actually regained the weight that Harry hasn’t.

Pansy and Ginny remain still, allowing Harry to survey the room slowly, lingering over each of them before settling his gaze on Draco. “You’re Draco?”

Draco nods in affirmation. “Yes, dear heart,” Draco answers, and Ginny snorts. He rolls his eyes before continuing, “You saw the photos? And the notes?” Harry nods but his expression lacks surety. “Come now, let’s go collect your marbles. Then we’ll have breakfast.”

Draco stands to offer his hand, and Harry reaches to interlace their fingers immediately. Some mornings are still better than others when it comes to Harry’s memory. Since coming to the cottage, however, there is a noticeable improvement in how quickly he’s able to ease the curse, as though lulling a serpent into a harmless stupor. Though his day-to-day memory is still shoddy at best, there are some days that Draco’s sure he notices a spark of familiarity in Harry’s eyes.

“Legilimens.”

Draco lets Harry explore his mind freely, no longer worrying over what to show and what may be too sensitive to display. He follows Harry’s lead as he traipses through sneers at Hogwarts and pools of diluted blood clouded by the splash of running taps. They move almost chronologically as Harry pauses over Draco on the cold and dirty floor of his cell in Azkaban, the violent waves spraying cold droplets between the cracks in the walls. And then they’re dancing at Ron and Hermione’s wedding, and then their own, and then Pansy and Ginny’s ‘celebration of commitment,’ as they called it. He almost always finds warm summer days on the beach and sticky summer nights in bed. Attention captured, Harry lingers on limbs tangled in bedsheets, soft sounds, and bare skin, letting the memory proceed unhindered.

A sense of emptiness unfolds when Harry releases the last thread of memory and recedes from Draco’s mind. They’re both breathless and sweating when they pull apart, and the smile Harry wears coaxes the last puff of air from Draco’s lungs. 

Draco reaches for Harry’s wrist, wrapping his fingers over the bony joint and resting his thumb over the pulse point. He gently pulls Harry towards him, a fish on a line, before wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist and holding him close.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Draco whispers into Harry’s ear, catching the tender lobe between his teeth and soothing it with his tongue. Harry melts against him, settling his arms over Draco’s shoulders. With a cheeky grin, he walks Draco backwards, pressing him against the wall. 

“And what did you get me for my birthday?” Harry asks, ducking his head and trailing open-mouthed kisses across Draco’s jaw, the line of his neck. 

“Depends,” Draco breathes, sinking his fingers into the muscle of Harry’s arms. “What did you get me for our fourth wedding anniversary?”

Harry lets out a frustrated groan and slips his thigh between Draco’s legs. The pressure is exquisite, but Draco keeps his composure as he waits for an answer.

“A trip to the zoo. I made a donation so they’d name a ferret after you, and I wanted the two Dracos to meet.” Harry smudges a toothy grin over Draco’s skin as he tongues at the ticklish hollow at the base of Draco’s neck. “Best money I’ve ever spent.”

“It was actually kind of cute,” Draco murmurs, burying his nose in Harry’s curls and inhaling his vanilla shampoo. “Next question: What memory do I use for a patronus?”

“Easy,” Harry scoffs and pulls at the collar of Draco’s shirt to expose his prominent collarbones. Draco tilts his head back to rest against the wall and tugs on Harry’s hips to increase the friction. “That first night in Paris, with the chocolate…” He lifts his head to meet Draco’s gaze. “We should do that again.”

Draco laughs, full and easy, before pulling Harry in for a kiss. “Last one, love,” he murmurs against Harry’s lips.

The sound that Harry releases can only be described as a growl, and Draco can’t help but chuckle at the brazen display of impatience. 

“Can’t you go easy on me if it’s my birthday?”

Draco pulls back to run his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip. “No. I don’t know how I’d live with myself if you didn’t completely understand what’s going on… Do you understand?” Harry nods, and Draco continues, “Last question: when did you know you were in love with me?”

Harry arches a brow and leans forward to dot a kiss at the corner of Draco’s lips. 

“Bit of a self-indulgent question, don’t you think?”

Draco shrugs. “Perhaps. But I promise to return the favor,” he drawls in response and reaches for the waistband of Harry’s threadbare pajama pants. He playfully snaps the elastic before seeking the warmth underneath. 

Harry gasps before leaning his forehead on Draco’s shoulder and whispering, “When we went to see that awful band in Dublin, and I got food poisoning at the bar. You spent the whole next day rubbing my back, making me potions, holding the hair out of my face when I puked into the toilet. So romantic…” Harry chuckles. “I knew it then, months before I told you. But I knew it then.”

Draco smiles before capturing Harry’s lips again, allowing his tongue to leisurely explore Harry’s mouth, morning breath and all. 

“You know what?” he asks as he catches his breath.

“You can still smell that grungy bathroom, too?” Harry laughs.

“No, you wanker,” Draco scowls playfully and nips at Harry’s bottom lip. “I was going to say, before you took that disgusting detour, that I knew it then, too,” Draco whispers against Harry’s cheek. “I loved you then, too.” 

“Cheesy,” Harry whispers into Draco’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “You’re getting soft, old man.”

“So I’ve heard, but you love it.” Draco runs his hands over Harry’s chest before falling to his knees, gently pulling the waistband of Harry’s pants down with him.

“Awful lot of noise for a Legilimency session.” Pansy crosses her legs and smirks from her spot at the table. Ginny leans across the kitchen counter, wearing a knowing grin. 

“It was a very productive session… Stimulating, even,” Harry quips before dropping a kiss to the top of Ginny’s head and stealing an orange wedge from Pansy’s plate. “Now, I heard it’s my birthday.”

The morning proceeds as though the last year never happened, with a few exceptions. They drink one too many mimosas before Ginny remembers she left pastries in the bottom of her bag. So they all drink one more and pick at the squished lumps of flaky dough and mashed fruit. Occasionally, Ginny or Pansy will talk about remember when? or that one time, and Harry will look to Draco with downturned lips for reassurance, for validation. With an encouraging smile, Draco will pat Harry on the shoulder or squeeze his thigh under the table. He lets his hand linger as if to say, I’ll tell you about it later, or, It’s all right, you’re still you even if you don’t remember.

Draco isn’t sure how he ever thought this may not be worth the effort, how he ever considered, if even for that one moment, throwing this all away.

Around noon, Hermione and Ron tumble through the floo with Rose in tow. They find Pansy and Gin asleep on the beach under an opaque umbrella charm while Draco and Harry amble along the shoreline, barefoot in the cool tide and in search of shells. Rose squeals as she toddles towards them, reaching sticky hands skyward and begging for Harry to pick her up and spin her around. And he does, even though the look he casts Draco says he’s not quite sure whose child she is.

Draco and Hermione sit on the back porch, watching as Ron and Harry help Rose build a sandcastle later that afternoon. The recognition in Harry’s eyes grows stronger as the sun tracks its path across the sky, but Hermione gazes on with a skeptical twist to her lip. Her long curls dance in the breeze, catching on her lip or her eyelashes. She huffs a breath and casts a charm to secure them in a knot at the top of her head.

“Do you think this is as good as it’ll get?” she asks, tugging her leg upwards to rest her chin on her knee. 

Draco hums, smiling as Rose smashes part of the castle with her plastic shovel. “I don’t know. I hope not, but…”

“Can you live with it?”

Draco nods. “I’ll take every scrap I can get.” He sighs. “Any rumblings in the papers that I should be concerned about?”

“Nothing of substance,” she scoffs. “The Prophet likes to guess; they all do. But none of them have come anywhere close.”

“Guess you would’ve had to break your promise about not reading that trash anyway, hm?”

Hermione laughs. “I guess so. As a public official, I would never endorse tax evasion, of course—” she wiggles her eyebrows to diminish her point “—but it’s a good thing your mum never disclosed this property.”

“Slytherin cunningness comes in handy sometimes, doesn’t it?” Draco preens. “I’m just glad we had somewhere to go. He loves it here.”

Hermione pats Draco’s shoulder before standing from the bench. “I don’t think it would’ve mattered where you went, as long as he had you. Not everyone would’ve stayed, Draco.”

“No. There was one night when I panicked, and I almost didn’t,” Draco admits. 

Hermione’s gaze is soft as she considers Draco’s confession. She twists her lips once before explaining, “I think it would’ve been strange if you didn’t have those moments. I’m actually impressed it only happened once. The point is that you stayed.”

Draco watches the breeze caress Harry’s curls as he lifts Rose onto his shoulders. Behind them, the waters are calm and a pale blue, interrupted by the occasional white foam of a wave caught by the wind. 

“I never could have left. If I loved him even half as much as I do, I still would’ve stayed.”

As the sun sinks towards the horizon, Ron casts an Incendio at the fire pit, igniting the pile of twigs, rotting logs, and brush that Draco gathered over the last week. Ginny does a silly dance when she successfully digs the marshmallows, graham crackers, and Cadbury chocolate from her bottomless bag. They all take turns trying to catch a marshmallow in their mouths, and Ginny scowls when Draco says her chaser’s aim is rusty after so many years in retirement.

After too much chocolate, Rose collapses in Ron’s lap, fully immersed in a sugar coma. Pansy rests her head on Ginny’s shoulder as she prods at the fire with a stick, eliciting a gasp of sparks as it takes another breath. As the sun dips below the darkening sea, Harry takes a seat next to Draco in the sand, brushing his bare foot over Draco’s shin before stretching his legs toward the fire. Draco shifts closer in the sand, lining their legs up, hip to ankle. The fire heats the bottoms of Draco’s feet and fills his lungs with a pleasant burn.

The sun is long gone when Draco stands to dust the sand from his shorts, cognizant of time’s tug on Harry’s mind. Ron carries Rose in his arms, and Ginny supports Pansy with an arm around her waist as they all trudge towards the house, movements slow after the day spent baking in the sun. Hermione lingers behind, waiting as Draco waves everyone off and turns back towards the beach.

“Lunch on Sunday?” she asks, eyes fixed on Harry, sitting across from the smoldering logs in the fire pit.

“Seems to be the new routine, doesn’t it?”

Hermione nods once. “I’ll keep checking the papers, let you know if anyone catches on.”

“I appreciate it. Honestly, I don’t know what we’d do without you. All of you.”

Draco attempts a smile, but is sure it’s more solemn than intended based on the look Hermione gives in response. In an instant, she wraps her arms over Draco’s shoulders, standing on her tiptoes to pat the space between his shoulder blades.

“I’m sorry for hitting you, back in third year. You remember?”

Draco laughs and pulls back, grateful that Hermione understands when to leave a subject be. “How could I forget? You might not believe me, but I brought that memory once or twice for Harry.”

“It didn’t wound your pride too severely, I hope?”

“No. Kept it in check, more like,” Draco chuckles.

“I’ll see you both on Sunday. Goodnight, Draco.”

“See you Sunday, Hermione.”

Time hurtles ever forward as Draco meanders towards the pile of smoldering embers, knees creaking as he takes his seat next to Harry. He brushes his sand-covered hands on his shorts and leans over, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. 

“What’s the verdict on your birthday?” he asks, jaw shifting uncomfortably against Harry’s bony shoulder.

“Almost perfect,” Harry says as he picks at a stray string on Draco’s shorts. The brush of his calloused fingers sends a shiver up Draco’s spine.

“Almost?” Draco asks, sitting up to look at Harry. “And what’s missing?”

The grin that spreads across Harry’s face is wicked and teasing as he stands and offers his hand. “Do we have time for a swim?” he asks as Draco lays his hand in his, accepting the help.

Draco casts a Tempus, despite knowing precisely how much time they have left. He leaves the glowing clock to hover over the sand as he leads Harry towards the shoreline. 

“We have time for a quick dip,” he answers as he reaches for the buttons of Harry’s shirt. “That is, as long as you don’t want to do anything else.”

The buttons slip easily from the gaps in the fabric, and Draco carefully slides the shirt from Harry’s shoulders.

“I thought we could multitask,” Harry says, teasing a finger at Draco’s waistband. He lifts the hem of Draco’s shirt, popping it over his head to reveal the patchwork of scars over Draco’s chest. They glint in the moonlight, the skin still shiny and smooth where it’s been made new. Though the scars used to make him cringe, now, they remind him of a pottery shop he and Harry found on a trip to Osaka. The shelves were lined with broken plates and bowls and vases, their imperfections made beautiful by sealing the cracks with gold.

Harry gazes open-mouthed at Draco’s chest, running a hand over his pale skin and the soft flesh of his belly.

“Who did this to you?” Harry asks, eyes wide with disbelief.

Draco glances back at the Tempus , glowing golden over the sand, and makes the same decision he’s made half a dozen times before. One day, he and Harry may need to have that conversation again, but it’s not today.

“It’s not important, Harry,” Draco says, cupping Harry’s cheek and pulling him in for a kiss as soft as the gentle waves beside them. Draco slips his tongue between Harry’s lips, tasting the lingering marshmallow and chocolate. “It’s not important,” he repeats, as though he can make it true if he just makes Harry swallow the words one more time. A sense of urgency overtakes his movements as deft fingers work at Harry’s pants, and then his own, until they both stand, naked and vulnerable, under the moonlight. 

“Let’s take that swim, yes?” Draco says, planting a kiss over the birthmark on Harry’s neck and returning to Harry’s lips. He takes careful steps backward, leading Harry into the ocean and not once parting to catch his breath.

There are eighteen stepping stones from the paint-stripped front door to the beach. Every afternoon, Draco counts them as he and Harry take their walk along the shoreline.

“I remember the first time you brought me here, right after your mum passed.”

“I wish you’d gotten to see it with her. She loved it almost as much as you do.”

There are two stray kittens that meow under the yellow porch light, scratching expectantly at the back door. Every evening, Harry feeds them a tin of cat food and scratches under their chins while Draco pretends to roll his eyes and ignores the fact that he bought the extra tins to begin with.

“I think Patches needs a friend. She’s lonely; I can tell.”

“You’re going to turn us into crazy cat people, aren’t you?”

There are six square meters of earth enclosed by brick and filled with compost and rich soil in the garden. Every morning and every evening, Draco and Harry direct their wands to cast Aguamentis at the climbing beans, blooming peppers, and towering tomatoes.

“Got my first cucumber from the garden today. I was thinking of making tzatziki sauce and wraps for dinner?”

“Harry, do you remember the handful of cucumbers we picked last week? Sound familiar? Oh, that’s all right, love, come here. We’re just a little under-rehearsed today, that’s all. It’s all right, Harry; I’ll show you. Then we’ll make those wraps.”

There are thirty-two freckles on Harry’s left shoulder blade. Every night, Draco kisses them, one by one, and traces the twenty-four bumps of Harry’s spine with his fingertips.

“What did you get me for my sixteenth birthday?”

“Trick question, you bastard. You were a right git back then. Much more tolerable these days. Now can I touch you?”

The floorboards are icy when Draco sets his bare feet on the ground, careful not to rock the mattress, as he is every morning. There’s an autumn chill in the air, summoning an army of gooseflesh across his forearms as he tiptoes to the window, closing the latch. Harry snores from his spot on the bed, bare torso exposed and unbothered by the cold.

Draco stifles a yawn as he proceeds through the familiar routine of checking notes, straightening photos, and scrawling out his morning introduction to his husband. Though some days it’s still disheartening, he’s found a certain charm in getting to meet Harry all over again every day, in curating what photos and what memories Harry gets to witness first. He adjusts the sticking charm on the photo of them visiting Charlie at the dragon reservation and thinks that he could live with this. That if this is the best they get, it’s worth the battles that the last year has brought them. 

Speaking of memories, Draco thinks. He promised Harry blueberry waffles today, and, while Harry won’t remember, Draco keeps his promises.

Draco flips on the wireless and starts in on the batter, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator while summoning others from the pantry. He flicks his wand at the coffee pot and dumps ingredients in a large bowl while the warm and comforting scent of the coffee fills the room. 

Patches hobbles down the hall with a toy mouse in her mouth, dropping it at Draco’s feet in request for her morning meal. Draco empties a tin into her bowl and watches as she blatantly ignores the offering, choosing to laze on the windowsill instead.

The floor creaks as Harry wakes and shuffles around the bedroom. Draco hears the water run in the bathroom and a few drawers close while he tosses the blueberries into the thick batter. Harry must’ve missed the clothes Draco laid out on the dresser. Draco grins, thinking about the last time Harry tried to fit in a pair of Draco’s trousers, unable to fit them over his rounded bum.

“Hey, Draco?” Harry calls from down the hall.

Draco glances up from the bowl nocked on his hip and answers, “In the kitchen, Harry. To your right.”

Harry appears in the doorway, wearing an old Chudley Cannons jersey and frayed track pants. He’s tied his hair in a tight knot at the top of his head, but stray curls and shorter strands escape from the bun, framing his faze in a frizzy halo. The smile on his face is bright as he leans against the frame, allowing his lingering stare to crawl over Draco’s body.

“What are you looking at?” Draco asks with a smile.

“Just glad you remembered, is all. I was looking forward to those waffles, today,” Harry says with a wink. “Also, it’s hot when you wear my pants.”

Draco glances down at Harry’s old pajama pants. They’re far too short, leaving his ankles bare, but he likes the feeling when he wears Harry’s clothes. He huffs a laugh before realization hits him like a bludger to the face. 

“What’s with all the sticky notes everywhere?” Harry asks as he scratches Patches behind the ear.

The bowl of batter slips from Draco’s grip, splattering the kitchen tile.

An uncontrollable smile stretches over Draco’s face as he searches for words. “What—Harry, what did you just say?”