Chapter Text
The night of Hermione and Ron’s engagement party, Draco slipped out the back door with a mug of firewhiskey. The party had multiplied, somehow, between Charlie’s champagne and Molly’s chocolate fudge cake. After Neville, Dean, and Luna came in through the Floo, amid cheers and celebration, Andromeda arrived with her grandson, Teddy, who was shy and pink-haired. Although Andromeda and Draco had not formally met before, to his surprise, she pulled him in for a tight hug. From Hermione’s lap, Teddy peered at him with large, suspicious eyes. Draco tried to smile at him, but Andromeda’s embrace had made Draco’s throat burn and his eyes sting. It was a strong hug, filled with unspoken emotion. Andromeda was so unlike Narcissa. And yet.
The firewhiskey steamed in Draco’s hand. Beneath a barren oak tree, a log was dusted thinly with snow. Draco had just crossed the garden towards it when a black figure detached itself from the oak trunk.
“Shit,” Draco said, drunkenly fumbling for his wand. He sent a stunning spell into the air, but it missed by a mile.
“It’s only me,” Harry said, waving a hand. “Come sit.”
“What are you lurking about for?” Draco replied, feeling rather cross and jumpy.
“Just needed a moment to myself.”
Draco joined Harry on the log. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your best mates?”
Harry shrugged. “Probably.”
“Are you hiding from them?”
“No, not exactly. It’s just, well.” Harry looked up at the branches above them. “It’s complicated. I still feel horribly guilty. It comes and goes.”
“Ah.”
“I thought you might understand.”
Standing in the Weasley home, the weight of his own guilt was choking, as oppressive as a lead blanket. Whenever he saw George, half of a whole, or when Teddy’s eyes met his, a boy orphaned by the same men Draco had once fought alongside, Draco would grow quiet, caged in memory.
But then Molly would bustle by, forcing another slice of pie onto Draco’s plate, or Bill would come sauntering over with another curse-breaking story, asking Draco if he recognised one rune or another, or if sheer intent was really enough to nullify a rune? The cage would lift, then, and Draco was there, present once more.
“We’re a sorry lot, aren’t we?” Harry said, stretching his arms above his head.
“Not as sorry as you’ll be when Hermione finds you.”
“Well, she was looking for you earlier, too.”
“About to accost me some more regarding my thesis, no doubt.”
“Trust me, if she offers to revise it, just let her.”
“I already submitted it. Not all of us need Granger to do our homework for us.”
“Oi, she said she didn’t mind.”
“Skiver.”
“Swot.”
Harry reached for Draco’s mug. “Give me a sip. I’m cold.”
“No.”
“Just a sip.” Harry leaned in, his eyes luminous in the moonlight.
“It’s mine, you prat. Get your own.”
“But you’ve plenty to spare.”
“Don’t whinge, it’s unbecoming.”
Draco took a determined, exaggerated drink. The firewhiskey smoked on his tongue.
Harry tilted his head. He shifted forwards on the log. Draco moved the mug out of reach, expecting Harry to grab for it, but it was Harry’s lips that crushed against his instead. Draco’s lips parted slightly in surprise. The liquor spilled over between their mouths, dripping down Draco’s chin, soaking his shirt. Harry’s tongue was gentle at first, then insistent, hungry, sweeping over Draco’s lips, swallowing the last drops of firewhiskey. He tasted faintly of treacle, or maybe cherries.
Harry pulled back and swallowed, looking smug. Draco watched his throat bob.
“As good as I imagined,” Harry said.
“Fuck you.”
Draco yanked Harry back in, his hand fisting around Harry’s collar. In response, Harry’s fingers tangled into his hair, dragging his head back, exposing the delicate skin of his neck. Harry left a stream of kisses there, trailing downwards. The lingering scent of firewhiskey was dark and rich.
“Come home with me,” Harry rumbled against Draco’s throat.
“But the party—”
“Forget the party.”
“Alright—”
Draco had barely spoken, but Harry was already apparating them, twisting them through the night sky, his body firm against Draco’s as they landed in Harry’s bedroom. The sheets were discarded alongside their clothes, flung into corners.
The moon glowed through the slit in the drapes, illuminating the edges of the wardrobe in white. For a split second, it was as if Draco were buried beneath the rubble again, vulnerable in the blackness as the light came through, the stone cleaving apart. Harry wild-eyed and wild-haired, as much a sword as a shield, knelt over Draco in prayer, the sky behind him ablaze. That day, when the healers tore Harry away in their rush to St. Mungo’s, the afterimage of Harry had remained, seared bright into Draco’s retinas.
Harry was so warm. Could anyone be so warm? He was all muscle, the planes of his body rocking against Draco, slick and heavy against him. Draco’s fingers dug into Harry’s shoulders, leaving certain marks, and then Harry was murmuring in his ear, his lips imprinting stars across his soul, carving apart Draco Malfoy.
***
They had woken up in variations of this moment a dozen times before—Draco always up first, daring only to linger a few moments over the way Harry’s eyelids twitched with each breath. Then, he would slip away to put on a kettle. Stand and stare out the kitchen window, trying not to think about Harry Potter, who was untouchable, no matter how closely he slept next to Draco.
But in this new dawn, Draco did not have to flee. In this variation, his finger could skim over Harry’s nose, his lips, his cheeks.
Harry’s lashes fluttered. Green eyes were on him, alert in an instant. They darkened, becoming half-lidded as they landed on Draco. Harry’s hand came to settle around Draco’s hips, sliding over his bare thigh.
“Morning.”
“Mm.”
“I have an appointment,” Draco said unhappily.
Harry flopped back, his attention gone, turned to the ceiling. “With Dawlish?”
“And Pansy.”
“I’m coming with you.”
They fell into their morning rhythm as easily as if it had been this way all their life.
Perhaps it had, Draco mused, stirring his tea.
Grimmauld Place looked no different, the winter sun washing the walls in eggshell yellow. There was toast on the table, a slab of butter beside it. There were the drooping houseplants, and the unwashed dishes in the sink.
Harry trotted down the stairs, his hair wet and unruly. His robes were unbuttoned.
“Your socks,” Draco pointed out.
They were mismatched: one striped, one navy.
Harry glanced down. “No one will know.”
“Except me.”
Harry’s lips quirked. “Except you.”
***
“Her memory is spotty,” the Head Healer told them. “Nott cast multiple latent curses on her, some that only activated upon the death of its caster.”
“So that’s what Pansy meant. It being a bad idea to be in the same room as her.”
“She’s recovering. It’s safe now. The rest of the curses were broken before they could erase her memory completely.”
Draco said nothing while this exchange took place. The door to the hospital room swung open, and Harry beckoned Draco towards it.
“Alone,” Draco said grimly.
Harry hesitated, a familiar worry threading through his features.
“I have to talk to her alone. I won’t be long. Promise.”
Harry stepped back. “Let Draco through.”
The Auror on duty held the door open for Draco, and the wards locked in place as he passed through the threshold.
Pansy wasn’t in the bed but by the window, perched on a chair, her hospital gown brushing the ground.
“I see they’ve given you windows.”
“Well, they did snap my wand in exchange.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Pansy’s shoulders stiffened. “You wouldn’t have understood.”
Draco pressed a hand to his temple, which had begun to throb. “What, that you’ve joined a neo-Death Eater group and begun to murder innocents? Hardly shocking, given your wartime proclivities. We could’ve fixed this. It didn’t have to end this way, not this time.”
Pansy whipped around, heat in her eyes. “That’s exactly what I mean. You would never have understood. How could you? Sheltered by Blaise, hiding out in the States, snug as an infant.”
“I worked three jobs, Pansy, you can’t be serious. I faced the same reparations as you. And Blaise wanted to help, Blaise asked every time he saw you, but you always turned him down, every single time—”
“Why do you think he wanted to help? He wanted me ,” Pansy snarled. “He didn’t want to help anyone who didn’t benefit him .”
“Blaise never asked me for a thing!”
“He asked me to marry him twice!”
Draco sneered. “And that was so much of a nightmare that you had to join a terrorist organisation?”
“No. Please. Working for Theo was a means to an end.”
“I loved you like a sister.”
Pansy sank into the chair. There was, at last, a flash of shame. “Blaise could afford to throw money at all his problems. I fucking hated him for it. He was never affected by the war, not the way the rest of us were.”
Draco gritted his teeth. He wanted to hit her. Shake her. Hold her. It hurt to look at her even now. The streak of red in her blunt hair had grown out and was scarlet as a wound against her neck. She was thin. Ugly scars rippled across her collarbone.
“You think the Ministry had any real reason to convict me? I was a minor, just like you. I know you know the Wizengamot only wanted an excuse to milk us dry. That tainted, pureblood wealth? Oh, how they coveted it. Why do you think they kept trying to seize your stupid manor?”
“Pansy, you cooperated with Tiberius Nott .”
“And you rolled over and took it, like you always do.”
“Tiberius Nott. Do you know how many times he used the Cruciatus on me?”
“Look, we couldn’t have survived without his resources. We needed the old guard’s support. Theo and I were building an empire together. We didn’t need more enemies.”
“Theo was using you. It was his empire, not yours.”
“Maybe. But I was the only one he invited to Mariam’s funeral. I loved him.” Pansy shrugged, but Draco could see the slight quiver of her lip, her eyes flickering, hiding the grief and uncertainty within. “So what? I used Blaise. Potter used you. That’s just how it goes.”
Draco dug his nails into his palm.
“You don’t like hearing that, do you? I did warn you to stay away.”
“Harry never used me.”
“Didn’t he? The boy hero, all healed up. Redeemed in the eye of the public. Didn't he take down Theo’s Apparatus?”
“No. I took down the Apparatus,” Draco replied coldly.
To Draco’s sick satisfaction, Pansy couldn’t hide her shock. He knew what she thought of him: weak-willed, cowardly, a survivor above all else. It was, after all, the traits he retained most predominantly from his father. But the Black family blood ran through him, too. Andromeda, first to break centuries of pureblood prejudice. Sirius and Regulus Black, brothers who died for the chance at a better world. His mother, who lied in the face of Voldemort, because she loved her son.
“I don’t fault you for loving him. But at least see Theo for who he was—a man who wanted revenge and a reason for it.”
“That’s not true. He cared. He was going to build a new society, a new world, hidden from muggles. All the land we could want, he wanted to make Atlantis—”
“The real Atlantis sank. Everyone on that island died.”
“Theo wouldn’t have let that happen.”
“Wouldn’t he? Mariam was his world, and he lost her. I saw his machine. I disarmed it myself. He lied to himself, even, because the nullification rune was love. Love and hate, two sides of the same coin, uncontrolled, unpredictable. All-consuming. Love strengthens as much as it ravages. His intent was to destroy us all, even if he didn’t know it then. ”
Pansy’s chest heaved. She held a fist to her mouth. “He wouldn’t have.”
Draco took a step backwards. Why was he still looking for Pansy, when she had long left him behind? The Pansy Parkinson he knew was dead.
“Don’t tell Blaise,” she pleaded.
“Tell him what? The truth? I know it was you intercepting my letters. I received an owl from him yesterday.”
“Please, I don’t want Blaise to know. My trial’s next week. I can’t bear for him to be there.”
“He adored you.”
Draco turned away from Pansy and did not look back, not even when she shouted his name. “Draco!”
When Draco emerged, Harry jolted to his feet, his face creased with concern.
“You took longer than expected—” Harry fell silent when he saw Draco was trembling.
He stepped forwards and folded Draco into his arms. For a moment, Draco rested his head upon Harry. He took a slow breath.
He didn’t want to mourn what he had lost any more, not when the world ahead was so full of light. He had mourned for half his life, and this time, he was ready to live it.
“It's alright,” Draco said. “There’s nothing I can do about it anymore.”
And somehow, saying it out loud felt a little like relief.
***
Six Months Later | July 2007
It was stifling out, with only the barest of a breeze for company. The cooling charms sticking to Harry’s formal robes didn't do much to lessen the discomfort.
“I’d never want a summer wedding,” Harry mumbled to Draco, who looked perfectly at ease in his silk robes, unlike Harry, who felt like a sodden, sweaty mess.
“Think of the florals.” Draco pointed to the wild overhang of peonies and sweet peas that draped over the arch. The soft, pink petals managed to clash minimally with Ron’s red hair.
“I’ve hayfever.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How would you know?”
“We had Potions together for years, you think I wouldn't have noticed the sneezing—”
Next to them, Ginny slanted Harry an irritated look. “You two are driving me up the wall. All day, not a moment of silence—”
Luna, in a gown knit through with daisies, patted Ginny’s hand.
“I think my dress did make Harry sneeze earlier,” Luna said cheerily.
Before Harry could add this to his point, the crowd quieted. The officiant, a stout wizard wearing black robes, had begun to speak again.
On the altar, with the fields behind the Burrow rolling green and hazy behind her, Hermione looked radiant. Her hair had been tamed into a chignon. The white lace of her dress trailed over her arms. Ron was grinning from ear-to-ear, unable to look away from his bride. Today was one of those good days—Ron’s cane nowhere in sight. With each passing day, his strength improved. Some days, Ron didn't need his cane at all.
“It is my great honor to introduce, for the first time, the Granger-Weasleys!”
The rows behind Harry erupted in applause, with whoops and minor celebratory explosions coming from Harry's right, where George and Charlie sat. Bill seemed to want to join in, but a sidelong glare from Fleur sat him right back down.
“Honestly, Granger could do better. I had a front row seat to Ron dropping a meatball down his shirt last night,” Draco said.
Another, this time, more furious glare from Fleur. Harry bit back a grin as Draco attempted to backpedal. “Er, I mean, now that I think about it, yes, they’re quite well-suited for each other actually…”
Luna smiled. “We all need someone to balance us out, don’t we?”
***
At the reception that evening, in his seat of honour beside Ron and Hermione, Harry drank in the moment. The sky was a vibrant, dark blue, dotted with thousands of shimmering lights. Beneath the canopy, Teddy shrieked with joy, racing around the linen-covered tables as George chased after him. The two of them careened dangerously around the towering wedding cake that Molly had spent all night preparing. Two tiny figurines, one with brown hair and one with red, waltzed on the frosting. The carefully-piped roses furled and unfurled their petals along the edges of the cake.
Ron had his arm flung around Harry’s chair, a champagne glass in hand, regaling Harry with the tale of some bureaucratic Auror mishap they’d faced last week. Hermione laid her head on Ron’s shoulder, beaming with contentment as she listened. Their first dance was scheduled to start in fifteen minutes, but the pianist hadn’t arrived yet, and Ron’s leg was aching again, so they’d unanimously decided to let the guests dig into dinner first.
“Say, Harry, you think you’ll come back eventually?”
Harry shrugged. Ron always asked. The answer was always the same.
“He’s not.” Hermione answered for him. “Harry and I talked the night he came back from New York. He’s going to start his own non-profit. Go on, Harry, tell him.”
Ron looked surprised. “Really? What for?”
“To liaise with muggle organizations, mainly,” Harry said, feeling sheepish, fearing Ron would find it a touch idealistic. He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone yet; he hadn’t felt quite ready for it. Hermione understood because she was muggleborn, and Draco understood because he had straddled both worlds in his years abroad, but speaking it out loud to anyone else had seemed terribly daunting.
“Liaising?” Ron asked.
“Bridging the muggle and wizarding worlds, contracting protected magical land, creating jobs that can exist in both worlds, at least in some official capacity within bounds of the Statute. We’re going to start with an education center to help wizarding and wizarding-adjacent folk integrate into the muggle world, if they want.”
“That’ll be perfect for you, won’t it? Without the Ministry hanging over your head?”
Ron’s reaction undid the knot in Harry’s stomach. He smiled. “Yeah. I’m excited. Hermione wants to help.”
“Does that mean you’re coming back to stay in London?”
“What, so you can drag me to pub nights again?”
“The department Quidditch team has lost every match since you left. It’s a bloody nightmare, the lot of them, not a single one with the reflexes—”
But Harry was no longer listening, his eyes drawn instead to the figure striding across the room towards the shining baby grand.
“Oh, that’s the signal, we’d better go.” Ron got to his feet. Hermione reached out to steady him.
“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” she fussed.
“It’s our first dance, Hermione, I would never miss it.”
Teddy’s shrieking was quickly hushed, the room becoming still. White-blond hair gleamed in the warmth of the candlelight, and Harry could not look away for all the world. Those beautiful fingers, deceptively gentle, capable of such sound! The notes were bittersweet, lilting and wistful as they began, bass notes lasting long after the melody. A waltz, rich with harmony.
Hermione’s dress flared as she spun. Ron swept her in with stolid ease, with a kind of gravitas that Harry had not anticipated. They had come a long way from their schoolboy days.
The waltz sped up, and suddenly the piece was light-hearted, light-footed. The yearning was gone, replaced with a wry sort of mischief, carefree and delighted. Hermione and Ron twirled on until the echo of the final note held, applause joining in, and the conversation and laughter resumed, the party starting anew. The music continued, the piano enchanted to play on its own. Hermione and Ron disappeared into the crowd.
Harry found himself in front of Draco. The keys leaped merrily behind him.
“You look well,” Draco said. A smirk threatened at the corners of his lips.
Harry knew his hair had grown out of control in the humidity. The sweat had dried, and his hands were a little sticky. Draco at the piano always made him shy, a little self-conscious at his own lack of grace.
“You played beautifully,” Harry said.
Draco dipped his head. “Thank you for having me.”
“I’m glad it was you.”
And Harry was. The last ringing note of the keys seemed to have marked more than just the end of a song.
“Dance with me,” Draco said, holding out his hand.
“Demanding." But he took Draco’s hand anyway.
The night wound on, until the candles became stubs, until Hermione nearly fell asleep in her wedding cake.
A year ago, Harry's world had come to an abrupt end. A year ago, Draco Malfoy had been nothing but a distant footnote, a ghost of a man, lost to time.
Yet here they were still, having survived it all, dancing all the same.
Draco pulled Harry in for a last song ("Last one, I swear!"), and his laughter filled Harry like a bloom of sun.
***