Archive of Our Own ^beta

By the third time he saw Harry Potter, Draco had become rather used to the idea of losing his mind. There was simply no other explanation for what he was seeing. Harry Potter was dead.  But the man standing across the cafe, arms crossed over his chest, could be no one else. The black hair was as unmistakable as the scar splitting violent patterns across his forehead. He wore the same round glasses he always had though they looked like they’d been dropped a few too many times since Draco last saw them-- battered and a bit dingy.  It was him, but it couldn’t possibly be. 

The thought of being haunted by the Chosen One wasn’t exactly ideal, but he supposed it was better than the insanity alternative. He had seen his father's maddening descent after the war, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he were destined for the same fate. It might even be poetic for Harry to be the harbinger of his decline. He had been good and brave and was killed too young; Draco had been nothing but a terror who managed to slither away with his life.  But as just as the situation might be, it didn’t make Harry any less difficult to look at. 

The first time Draco came across him was in a crowded market street, surrounded by strangers and with no particular goal but to get back to his flat in one piece. Draco only caught a glimpse of him among the dozens of faces and later convinced himself he’d been mistaken. Still, the image of Harry Potter, alive and well--an idea so far from the truth-- had lingered days after the encounter. 

The second time had been harder to ignore as Draco was alone, and the street was empty aside from a few stragglers of a nearby bar. Draco walked, as he usually did, to the little corner store near his flat. It was family-owned and carried his favorite brand of instant noodles for the nights he didn’t have the energy to take better care of himself. He’d only spent a few minutes in the store, but when he emerged back into the cold night air, the Gryffindor stood across the street, cold gaze trained on Draco. Unwilling to reckon with what his appearance might mean, Draco promptly ignored the chills that shot down his spine and refused to acknowledge him. He returned home and found that he’d lost his appetite. 

It was with that same resolve that Draco ignored the problem, and he managed to continue sipping his tea when Harry appeared in the cafe. The ghost, as Draco had started to refer to it, didn’t seem to be there for any particular reason, meandering through the tables and eventually leaning against a wall a few meters from where Draco sat.  Draco wasn’t the only one ignoring him, though. None of the other patrons looked up as he passed, and the waitress didn’t pay him any mind as she cleared the table right next to him. Draco exhaled at the realization that he was the only one seeing the ghost and turned his attention back to his crossword.  He only had a few minutes left for his lunch break, and he didn’t want to spend them considering the repercussions of midday hallucinations. So he didn’t.

At exactly five past the hour, Draco stood and folded his newspaper under his arm, making sure to leave a generous tip for the waitress. She only started working at the cafe a few weeks before, but she always gave Draco an extra biscuit with his tea, and he had become quite fond of her, though he had yet to learn her name. 

He thanked the staff on his way out and adjusted his tie, beginning the short walk back to the office building. He’d had four years to get used to muggle methods of transport, but he still preferred walking by far. Objectively, he knew that cars were safe --he’d seen his coworkers arrive in them enough times, unharmed-- but every time they went above 30 miles-per-hour panic gripped his lungs, and he lost the ability to breathe. Cars were just metal cages, trapping him inside, and he’d seen how quickly driving could go wrong. They folded like tin cans, and he did not trust muggle ingenuity to keep his organs from being displayed across the sidewalk. So he avoided them, and it was fine. He lived within walking distance of his work and didn’t travel often, so mostly he just pretended they didn’t exist. 

It wasn’t until he greeted Agatha, the batty old receptionist who smelled vaguely of toffee, that he realized the ghost had followed him. Draco shook the anxiety out of his shoulders, trying his best not to react as Potter meandered closer. Now within five feet of the apparition, Draco was absolutely positive that it was Harry Potter, and that he was indeed losing his mind. Everything was just as he remembered, the scruffy hair and the disheveled clothing. He looked older and more tired, and Draco wondered if he had made that up too-- imagining how Harry would have aged if given the chance. 

The most notable detail at such close proximity was the ever-present translucency that moved and shifted across his form. Harry was solid, and yet Draco could somehow see right through him. Both were true at the same time and it made him difficult to focus on, for more reasons than the crushing weight of guilt that accompanied every glance. 

Potter’s green eyes glinted as he leaned over Agatha’s desk and scanned her collection of miniature figurines. What odd behavior for a ghost --hallucination-- whatever he was. 

Trying not to linger, Draco wished Agatha a very good day and headed for the elevator. She didn’t seem to flinch as Harry waved goodbye, shoving his hands into his pockets and following Draco closely behind. It was an odd sensation, trying not to swivel around and confront the spector as his footsteps echoed off the tile floor. He didn’t suppose work would be a great place to have a public breakdown though, and so he didn’t react as Harry stepped into the elevator next to him. 

He only needed to go to the third floor, but the silence was agonizing and seemed to last far longer than he was comfortable with. Harry was not helping the situation by staring, pacing in slow circles as if appraising Draco. Eyes forward, Draco clenched his jaw and focused on the small number at the top of the door: Second Floor, third- He didn’t wait for the ghost as he exited the lift, navigating around the maze of cubicles to find his desk. 

“Draco-” A soft voice greeted him as he set down his wallet and keys. “How was lunch?” A bob of brown curls popped up over the dividing wall, and Draco was greeted with the ever friendly grin of Amy Henderson. She was the newest hire to the company and had worked in the cubicle next to his for six months now. She was a bubbly, young graduate and a competent worker, and Draco held her in high regard, though he would likely never tell her that. Her constant attempts to befriend him were admirable but altogether misplaced, and he didn’t feel the need to encourage it. 

“It was fine. How about yourself?” He barely concealed a flinch as he noticed Harry had taken the second chair in his cubicle and was grinning at the interaction. 

“Oh, it was lovely, thank you for asking! Paul and I went to the new Indian restaurant down the street. It has absolutely wonderful food. You really should join us sometime!” Amy grinned at him.

“Of course not, Draco only eats the poshest of croissants. What a silly thing to ask.” It took slightly longer than it should have for Draco to realize he had not been the one to speak. Amy watched him expectantly and he tried and failed to come to grips with the fact Harry was now providing commentary from his chair behind him. Amy obviously hadn’t heard, and he played off the lag with what he hoped was a natural smile. 

“I appreciate the invitation! Maybe I’ll take you up on it next time.” He said, knowing full well that he would not be doing that. 

Amy’s smile dimmed a bit, and she nodded. “Sounds good, Draco. Have fun with the McMullan account today!” With that, she disappeared behind her wall. 

Draco cracked his neck, exhaling softly. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Amy. By all accounts, she seemed fine. Draco just had his habits, and he liked to stick to them. Making new friends and trying new things wasn’t a part of his life that he indulged in anymore. He was perfectly content to eat lunch alone at his regular cafe, regardless of what a dead Harry Potter had to say about the croissants. 

He had worked at Baron Advertising for roughly four years now. It was a decent job, and it paid well enough. It kept his mind occupied during the day and allowed him to go home and leave the stress of it behind. He enjoyed the monotonous paperwork and liked feeling good at something, even if he wasn’t particularly passionate.  

Draco ran his hands through his hair and tried to decide what to do first. It was distracting to have Harry behind him, and he felt oddly like he should try to impress the ghost, and show him something interesting. But that didn’t make much sense and just to spite the egotistic instinct, he pulled up a spreadsheet, and began his most boring task of double-checking the numbers. 

As Draco worked, it became increasingly evident that this version of Harry was just as he’d remembered him from school. After about 10 minutes, the ghost became fidgety and balanced his chair on the two back legs. After an hour, he stood up and exited the cubicle. Draco was momentarily relieved to see him go until he realized Harry was just stalking through the other worker’s spaces, snooping through their things. Eventually, he returned to his chair and began humming a Celestina Warback song and drumming his fingers on the wall. Potter could never sit still in Hogwarts classes either. 

By the time the clock rolled around to five, Draco was fairly certain he was going to go insane if he wasn’t already. Harry had sung his way through the entire singer’s catalog of earworm music and had then begun reading aloud any and everything Draco had left sticky noted to the wall or open on his desk. It was incredibly hard to focus with someone talking right behind you, and Draco clenched his teeth as he wrapped up what he was doing. He had not finished his paperwork but hopefully, tomorrow would be a more productive day. Or at least a less Potter-filled day at the very least. 

Exasperated and tired, Draco pushed in his chair and decided to leave the mess of papers on his desk for the next morning. “Have a good evening, Amy.” He called as he walked past her desk. He didn’t bother to greet his other colleagues. They’d long since come to a mutual understanding of ignoring each other, but Amy was nice to him and it felt rude to be cold in return. 

“You too, Draco! Get home safe.” She called back. 

“Bye, Amy!” Harry chirped, following eagerly behind Draco. With every reminder that no one else seemed to be able to see or hear the man behind him, Draco was more unsure of how to feel about the whole situation. It was probably something magic-related, as most bad things in his life tended to be. But that meant he would likely have to solve the problem with the help of wizards and that didn’t appeal to him in the least. 

He sighed as he pressed the ground floor button in the elevator and waited for Harry to catch up. It was already too late when Draco realized what he was doing, his hand held in front of the doors, holding them open for the spector as he would for any of his living colleagues. The translucent gaze of Harry Potter was on him, brows furrowed, and with just a brief second of eye contact between them, Draco was doomed. Realization passed over Harry’s face, and Draco pressed the door-close button with a very reasonable amount of panic. Harry was quick though, jumping into the carriage next to him before the doors could shut him out.

“You can see me?” Harry’s voice was more nervous than Draco expected-- a slight tremor in the question. 

Draco shut his eyes and didn’t respond. Harry’s face had broken into a grin when he dared open them again.

“You can totally see me, can’t you.” Harry leaned closer, trying to catch his eyes, excitement barely contained in how he bounced slightly on his heels. With a quick motion, he snapped his fingers next to Draco’s ear and was rewarded with an instinctive flinch. Harry’s grin widened. 

Draco scowled at the dirty trick and didn’t hesitate to speed walk down the hallway as soon as the elevator doors released him. He gave Agatha a polite nod and pushed through the lobby. Harry was on his heels despite being significantly shorter than Draco. 

“Malfoy, wait!” 

The sky was already getting dark and Draco didn’t stop as he began his commute home. He vaguely wondered if showing the ghost where he lived was possibly a bad idea, but he already knew where he worked, so he wasn’t sure what the point of lying now would be. 

“Draco!” Harry shouted, jumping in front of the blonde. Draco didn’t have enough time to react,  and passed straight through him, a cold water sensation spreading through his limbs.

“Eugh, what the fuck, Potter?!” Draco groaned, looking down at his hands. It wasn’t the same as walking through a Hogwarts ghost, but it definitely wasn’t pleasant, and Draco felt distinctly like he needed to shower. 

“You can see me, you prat!” Harry was beaming with the insult, and Draco let his shoulders slump in defeat. 

“Fine! Just don’t do that again.” 

“How the fuck can you see me?” 

Exasperated, Draco replied. “Potter, I don’t know. How does any crazy person see anything?” 

“Malfoy, I’m real.” Harry’s smile faltered slightly, a confused frown taking it’s place. This expression was more familiar to Draco and he realized sadly how few times Harry’s smiles had been directed at him when he was alive. 

“Sure. And I’m the queen of England. What a fun game this is!” Draco’s sarcasm came easier than admitting how hard it was to look at him. How hard it was to remember that he wasn’t actually here-- he wasn’t anywhere. 

Harry blinked, obvious confusion clouding over his face. “No, but really. I am real.”

“That’s exactly what a schizophrenic apparition would say, Potter.” 

“Um. I guess. 'm not, though.” 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his breathing. Fuck. This was a terrible day for this. “Potter. You’re dead. I don’t know what you want me to say here.” He wasn’t proud of how his voice broke or how he clenched his eyes shut, refusing to break down in the middle of the street. 

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment, and when Draco looked at him again, Harry pulled his wand out of his back pocket. His wand. Draco’s wand. “What’re you-” 

“Proof,” Harry stated, motioning for Draco to hold out his hand. Draco obeyed, eyes wide, and Harry dropped the wand into his outstretched palm. The second it was no longer touching Harry, it rippled and seemed to harden into reality, the faint translucent quality disappearing completely. Draco curled his fingers around the familiar wood, and it hummed against his magic. It was exactly as he remembered, and with a flick, a few sparks shot out of the end. Draco blinked, glancing between it and Harry, who was watching him expectantly. 

“This can’t be mine.” He whispered, running his other hand along the shaft. It was solid, smooth, and very much the one Olivander had given him so long ago. 

“It is. Sorry I didn’t return it earlier. Hard to get a new one when no one can see you.” 

“Fuck. You’re real.” Draco breathed.

“Yeah.” 

“But you’re- You’re dead!” 

“Only kinda.” Harry wiggled his fingers, accentuating the not-quite-there quality of his body. “Not dead, just disappeared.” 

Draco was breathing hard now, unsure of where to look. “What the fuck does that even mean?” There was a slight panic in his voice as he decided examining his Hawthorne wand was the only appropriate action to take. The last time he had seen it was in Harry’s hand after the Battle of Hogwarts. Right before Harry had-- “They never found your body…” Draco swallowed, catching Harry’s expression. 

He shrugged. “There was no body to find. One second, I was there, the next… Well, I suppose you caught me off guard. Most people haven't been able to see me since then.” 

“Most people? Who else knows?” 

Harry blanched. “No one. Sorry, I meant to say no one. I've never had to have this conversation before. It's been a while since I've had to answer questions at all, really.”

Unfortunately for Harry, Draco had just about a million questions, but he eventually settled on. “What happened to you?” 

If Draco wasn’t mistaken, Harry was embarrassed. He rubbed the back of his neck as he replied. “Ah. Yeah, that’s a bit harder to answer. I’m not totally sure myself.” He looked around awkwardly. “Mind if I walk with you?” 

Draco nodded, and they walked in silence down the street towards his home. Besides the occasional passing car, they were completely alone, but it seemed neither of them knew what to say.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured eventually. “This is weird for you, isn't it.” 

“Don't apologize.” Draco looked at him, finally letting the disheveled appearance sink in. If this was indeed the real Harry, which was becoming more and more likely by the second, he looked terrible. His eyes were sunken and dark, and his hair hadn’t seen a comb in days.  Harry Potter was alive but it didn’t seem like he was doing well. “Just a lot to take in. I'm struggling a bit to wrap my head around--” he motioned vaguely in Harry's direction, “all this.” 

Harry chuckled and nodded, shoving his hands further into his pockets. 

“I'm glad, though.” Draco looked away, feeling quite sheepish. “Not for your situation, of course. I'm glad you're not dead.” Fuck. He sounded like an idiot. “I know we never quite got along, but I'm glad.” 

Harry nodded, smiling. “Not getting along is one way to describe our relationship, I guess.” 

Sensing it for the joke it was, Draco smirked. “ I know I loathed your very existence, but cheers on not being as dead as I thought you were. Is that what you’re looking for?” They laughed for a moment, and Draco continued. “Tell me more. I don't know what to ask since this entire situation is fairly bizarre.” He tried to keep his tone light, sensing Harry's discomfort with the subject. 

“Yeah. Okay.” He ruffled his hair, letting out a long sigh as if trying to piece together the puzzle in his head. He looked incredibly uncomfortable, and it finally sunk in that this was his first real conversation in six years. 

Draco gave him a small smile. “Do you eat?” 

“Huh?” 

“Food. Do you eat? Or, I suppose, can you? I honestly don't know how this works.” 

“Uh yeah. I do.” 

Draco had even more questions now but decided to save them for a more appropriate time--maybe once Harry didn’t look so ready to bolt. “I suppose if I’m going to interrogate you, I can at least buy you dinner.” 

Harry smiled and nodded, a little tension falling out of his posture. 

They took Amy’s recommendation and picked up several curry varieties from the new Indian shop down the road. Draco raised the bag of food and motioned with his head for Harry to follow. Draco didn’t live very far, and after a short walk, they were climbing the stairs to his second-floor flat. They didn’t say much to each other as they moved, both content to leave the conversation for later. 

Draco’s flat was the perfect size to accommodate his needs and nothing more. The doorway opened into a thin hall, and he moved inside quickly to make room for Harry to follow. The studio apartment was essentially one long hallway with a bathroom and a single door leading to a room just large enough to fit his queen-sized mattress. There was a small living space with a couch and a TV and he’d repurposed a cabinet into a modest kitchenette. He hadn’t bought it for the space. He’d just needed a place to sleep and the large window behind the couch let him feel like he wasn’t shoved into a closet. It was clean and well-maintained, and Draco had nothing to be embarrassed about regardless of the expression on Harry’s face. 

“Did you just move in?” 

“No. I’ve been here for about four years.” 

“Oh, just-- the walls--” Harry trailed off, walking further into the space. 

“I never quite got around to decorating, I suppose.” The walls were painted the same plain gray the previous owner had left them, and there wasn’t much personality in the tiny apartment. Draco killed any plant he touched, and he didn’t like to dust so he opted for simple and minimalistic. Or at least he pretended like it was all a stylistic choice and not a lack of energy. 

“This is a muggle flat,” Harry stated, peering over spare papers Draco had left out on his desk. It seemed that Harry Potter had become quite a snoop during his isolation. 

Draco nodded, following him to the table and unpacking the containers of rice and curry. “Yes, it is.” 

“And your job is muggle too?” 

Draco could see where this conversation was going: How had a blood supremacist death eater ended up surrounding himself with muggles? It was a similar question his mother asked him every time they spoke, but where Narcissa’s concern was mingled with disgust and disappointment, Harry seemed curious and maybe a tinge of respect in his tone. 

“Yes, it is.” Draco echoed again. Harry looked at him, raising his eyebrows. Draco sighed. “I suppose I needed space from the magical world after the war. So I came here, and I liked it. So I never left.” 

“Do you think you’ll ever go back?” 

“Probably not.” Draco played with the chair in front of him. “Wizards are a bit too full of themselves for me.” 

Harry snorted but didn’t say anything, and Draco was grateful. He didn’t like to think of the war or the wizarding world. Usually, it was just a reminder of everything he’d lost and everything he’d done wrong. Harry already knew everything he’d done, and it seemed that his existence here said enough about who Draco was now that rehashing old grievances was pointless. 

Draco busied himself, dishing two plates full of rice and curry, and handed one to Harry. The plate rippled at his touch, and Harry smiled shyly, thanking him. 

“So, no one else has been able to see you?” Draco finally asked as they settled onto the plush brown sofa. Harry nodded but conveniently took a large bite of food to keep from answering immediately. Draco waited with a knowing smirk. He had been promised answers, and there would be no escape.

“Yeah. Um- At least that I know of.” 

“Lucky me then,” Draco said, only partially teasing. The truth was, he did feel quite lucky. Even knowing Harry was alive was a relief, but having the ability to speak to him like this was incredible. 

Harry took another enormous mouthful of food, and Draco supposed he would have to drag answers out of the unsocialized git. “And you’re absolutely sure you aren’t dead?” 

Harry laughed, swallowing his bite. “Pretty sure. I don’t remember dying, at least. I just…became like this.” He motioned his fork at himself, shrugging. 

“When did it happen?”  Draco was pretty sure he already knew. The headlines had covered the incident dozens of times. Harry Potter had disappeared directly after the Battle of Hogwarts, vanishing from the Great Hall. There had been an extensive manhunt, but with so many deaths that day, it was assumed a lingering Voldemort supporter had gotten to him. His funeral had been held alongside the rest of the dead from the battle. 

“I was just sitting, looking at… the corpse, trying to figure out what to do next, and then when I tried to talk to Hermione, she couldn’t see or hear me. No one could.” 

“I’m sorry. That must’ve been confusing.” 

“It’s okay.” He shrugged, pulling his legs onto the couch and focusing harder on his plate. They ate silently for several minutes, and Draco had a sinking suspicion Harry was underplaying his feelings about the situation. It would be impossible not to. 

“Sorry for ignoring you earlier, by the way. I thought- well. I don't know what I thought.”  Draco chewed his lip. “It is quite odd for a dead wizard to be stalking me. You can't exactly blame me.” 

“Oh God.” Harry dropped his fork, mortified. “You've been able to see me this entire time.”

Draco couldn't stop the laugh as he nodded. “You have a lovely voice, Potter. Though I must ask that you keep it to yourself in my office.”

Harry buried his face in his elbow, a dark red blush creeping up his skin. “God. Sorry. You really should have stopped me.” 

“And ruin your fun? I would never!” Draco almost reached out to pull Harry’s arm away but stopped just in time to avoid the cold water sensation from earlier. “Why were you following me anyway?” 

“I don't know. I ran into you last week, and I guess I was just bored.” He looked up, the blush still permeating his entire expression. “And a bit curious, if I’m honest.” 

“Dare I ask?” 

Harry glared at him, but he was smiling, so Draco didn’t mind. “I don’t know. You were in Muggle London wearing Muggle clothes, and I hadn’t seen you since Hogwarts. You would be pretty curious, too.” 

“ Oh, yes, I’m the one with strange things going on in my life.”  Draco was trying to make him laugh, and it seemed to be working. That smile was addictive. “Find anything interesting?” 

“Eh. I haven’t decided yet.”

Draco smiled at that, and the conversation moved on. Harry asked what exactly he did for work and how he’d gotten the job, and Draco was happy to answer. Harry seemed more at ease when the conversation wasn’t centered on himself. Draco supposed six years of listening didn’t give one much practice with conversation. But the little glint of excitement whenever Draco answered his questions was endearing, and there wasn’t much Harry could ask that Draco wouldn’t answer just to see the flicker of a spark in his green eyes.

They kept talking as they finished their meal,, and Harry stood close by, chattering about his adventures in people-watching while Draco cleaned up in the tiny kitchenette. It was an easy conversation, for the most part. It seemed Harry had less of a problem with talking in general than just talking about himself. Eventually, Draco excused himself to change out of his work clothes and came back into the living room to find Harry casually rifling through a drawer in his coffee table. 

“Looking for something?” 

Harry jumped, embarrassed. “Ah, yeah, sorry. Just a habit, I suppose. I’m a bit nosey.” 

He had become quite an odd man, but Draco didn’t mind. “Would you like some tea?” Harry nodded, and Draco set about preparing it. “So how does this whole thing work? You can touch things and eat, which I’ve never seen a ghost do, and I suppose you still sleep?” Draco pulled two teacups out of his drawer full of dishes. “I guess I’m just a bit lost in the logistics.” 

Harry leaned against the counter, watching absently as Draco fiddled with tea bags. “I still function like a person in most ways. I need to eat and sleep, and I can even cast magic, but that took me a bit to figure out--” He trailed off, debating on whether or not to go on that particular tangent. In the end, it seemed he decided against it. “If I touch something, it disappears with me, and as soon as I drop it, it reappears.” He touched the handle of one of the teacups to demonstrate. “It doesn’t work on living things, though. I’ve tried to pet animals, but it never ends well. Humans don’t seem to notice me when I touch them, but animals tend to freak out. Especially cats.” Harry scratched his chin, and Draco supposed there was another tangential story bouncing around his head. 

“So you’ve just been wandering around for six years?” 

Harry grinned. “Yeah, pretty much. I can go almost anywhere, and I take what I need to survive. As long as I make sure no one’s watching, it’s like I was never there.” At Draco’s befuddled expression, Harry quickly adds: “I only take things from big corporate stores, of course. I’m not a criminal .” Draco laughed, nodding silently. 

“It can be fun!” Harry insisted. “It’s like a game, and I never have to worry about what people think of me.” 

Draco didn’t respond, handing Harry his tea and caralling him back to the sofa. Gently blowing into his own mug, Draco finally asked. “Where do you usually stay?” 

Harry looked embarrassed again. “Well, the thing is.” He breathed. “I basically don’t exist to anyone but you, so I’ve just kind of gone wherever was empty at the time.” 

“You… just couch surf… indefinitely?” 

“Or empty hotel rooms or vacant houses. I usually wander until I find something that’ll work for the night.” At the look on Draco’s face, he hastily added: “I’m not creepy. I don’t stay anywhere that intrudes on someone’s privacy. Usually, if people show up, I just move on. I’ve gotten pretty good at staying out of the way.”  

Draco stared at him, afraid to say anything that might make him stop talking. There was an unfamiliar sadness creeping into his chest. Harry’s existence sounded… lonely.  

“I stayed at Grimmauld Place for a while right after it happened, but eventually, the estate was auctioned off, and I moved on. I stay with Hermione and Ron every now and then--Rose is a sweetheart.” He smiled fondly at memories Draco couldn’t see. “But I don’t stay too long. It’s their life; I don’t belong there. But I visit. I try to, at least.”

“I take it Granger and Weasley know then?” 

“No, they don’t.” He looked sad.

Draco couldn’t quite understand it. The trio was always inseparable at school. He couldn’t imagine a world where Hermione wasn’t the first person Harry took this conundrum to for solving. “There must be a way for you to communicate. Write a note, your patronus? You’ve got magic, for Merlin’s sake.” 

Harry chuckled and hugged his knees a little closer. “I could. I haven’t, though. Every time I think about it, I just can’t imagine what I would say. It’s been so long.” He trailed off, his mind obviously somewhere far away. “I think Hermione knows, though. She’s always been clever. I use my magic to play with Rose, and I try to leave presents for them when I visit. I don’t think she understands how, but I like to think she knows it’s me.” The sad smile felt too private, and Draco turned away. 

“I’m sure they miss you.” 

“I know.” They sat in companionable silence after that, listening to the sounds of the traffic outside, each lost in their own memories of who they missed. Draco thought of his mother and how seldom he visited her in the cold, empty manor. Had she gotten used to the loneliness like Harry had? He didn’t like that thought one bit. 

“Well, it’s late.” Draco finally said after they had both long since finished drinking their tea. They’d talked a lot tonight, and Draco had work in the morning. Whatever else there was to say could certainly be said tomorrow. Draco patted the soft cushion of the sofa and stood. “Luckily for you, no one is currently occupying my couch.”

“Oh, you don’t h—” Harry started to protest, but Draco gave him a dirty look, which was good enough to shut him up. 

“I won’t force you, but it’s been a while since it’s seen a good surf. You’d be doing me a favor.” Draco wandlessly summoned a heavy blanket from his bedroom. “I also have a thousand more questions, but I think I need to sleep, and I can’t have you running off to who-knows-where before I get my answers.” 

“Thanks, Malfoy. This has been… nice.” Harry smiled. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“Don’t get used to it. I’m still an evil bastard at heart.” Draco handed him the heavy quilt, watching in disbelief as it shimmered out of existence at his touch. 

Harry looked down, stroking the now-translucent fabric thoughtfully. “An evil bastard who takes in strays.” He narrowed his eyes with a smirk. “Dastardly.” 

“Only stray ‘Saviors of the Wizarding World.’” He corrected. “It’s called networking, Potter.” Draco winked and disappeared around the corner before Harry could see the blush creeping up his neck. 

*

Draco had forgotten about his house guest when he woke up the next morning. He’d dreamed of Harry Potter, but that was nothing unusual. They had been a bit different, with Harry looking older and weathered, but it was better than the nightmares of Harry’s corpse hidden somewhere, never to be found. 

So it was quite a shock to find a messy head of hair staring back at him as he blearily searched for his tea kettle. 

“Oh, hullo, Harry.” 

“Uh, good morning.”

“So that was all real.” He said with a yawn. “I was certain I’d be institutionalized this time.” 

“You’re not a morning person, I take it.” 

“What do you mean? I am perfectly pleasant.” The window was open, and everything seemed too bright. He squinted at Harry, wishing he was holding a steaming cup of tea for him. 

“You’re not wearing a shirt, Malfoy.” 

“Oh.” Draco looked at himself, dressed in a loose pair of joggers and nothing else. “Would you excuse me?” He walked back into his bedroom.

“Good morning, Harry,” Draco said, fully clothed in a silk shirt and gray trousers and definitely not mortified beyond belief. 

Harry chuckled, taking a sip of tea and pushing a second mug towards Draco, and good god, Gryffindors weren’t all bad after all. “Good morning, Draco.” 

Draco sank into the warm mug of Earl Gray, letting the scent of it open his sinuses. “I’ll be off to work soon. You’re welcome to join me, but I’m afraid it won’t be any more riveting than it was yesterday.” 

Harry glanced around the sparse apartment and shrugged, “I had a good time. It’ll probably be even better now that I know I can ask questions.” 

“The goal is to keep my coworkers from thinking I’m a nutter, Potter. Answering an invisible ghost’s questions in the middle of a workday is hardly that.” 

Harry grinned, “Seems like a fun.” 

Harry didn’t stop talking for the entire walk over. He pointed at shops, asked questions about the buildings, and made vague comments about stranger’s habits. It was becoming increasingly likely that Harry had stalked every person in London, but at this point, Draco was too afraid to ask. 

The day went by without much effort. Draco focused on his work, leaving Harry to wander the cubicles like he had done the day before. He occasionally returned, fiddling with a new toy each time and asking Draco mundane questions that Draco refused to answer. Harry continued to ask anyway, speculating wildly on the answers and happy to carry on the one-sided conversation by himself. 

Amy invited him to lunch, and he politely declined, pointedly ignoring Harry’s chants behind him. He would not be bullied into socialization by a childhood rival turned kleptomaniac. It simply wasn’t done. 

At noon, they walked the block to Draco’s usual cafe. Draco ordered and found a seat on the patio, obscured in neatly trimmed hedges so any passersby wouldn’t immediately call the psych ward while they chatted. 

“She likes you, ya know,” Harry stated as if commentating on an especially interesting episode of The Bachelor. 

Draco shot him an exasperating look. “What are you on about now?” 

“Amy,” he said, leaning onto his fist. 

Draco scoffed. “God, Potter, even if I weren’t gayer than a pride parade, I would never. She’s like 20. Practically a child.” 

Harry seemed a bit lost for words, and it took Draco a moment to realize why. Harry disappeared long before Draco had done the rounds of self-acceptance. It was likely the first time Harry had even considered Draco’s sexuality. Oh well, there were worse ways to come out. 

“Surprise! Honestly, I’m a little shocked you didn’t guess based on everything about me.” He tried to hold in the sneer; he really did, but he was a weak man. 

Harry spluttered. “Oh, no, well that’s fine. I didn’t mean- Congratulations I-” 

“Harry.” 

He coughed, straightening his posture. “Well, what about William from HR? He seems nice. Very into bouldering…” 

“You nosey little prat. How many of my coworkers’ things have you rifled through?” Harry shrugged, and Draco huffed, rightly assuming the answer was all of them . “Also, when did this become about setting me up with someone?”

“I don’t know? When did it become about you being gay?” 

“When you insinuated I should ask out my underage female coworker!” 

“She’s 20!”

“And I’m still gay , Potter.” 

They stared at each other for a long moment before Draco could no longer help himself and let out a short laugh. Harry followed, descending into a very childish fit of giggles.

“Were you always like this?” Harry asked once he composed himself. 

“What? Handsome? Confident in my sexuality? Because definitely not on that last one.” Draco snorted, remembering the multitude of excuses he fed to Pansy for why dating would be absolutely terrible. 

Harry chuckled, swirling his teacup absently. “I don’t know. I just remember you as this spoiled brat who always had to have the last word. Now that we’re actually talking, though, you kinda remind me of Ron.” 

“Just call me a slur, why don’t you?” Draco put a hand to his chest, clutching imaginary pearls. 

Harry laughed again, flashing him a toothy grin. “See? You’re actually pretty funny.” 

“I was always funny.” Draco scowled. “I just didn’t quite know how to show it back then. Never had someone willing to tell me I was taking it too far.” 

“I’m pretty sure I told you that on a daily basis.” 

“Yes, but you were a prat. Who’d listen to you?” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’d never listen to anyone but your father, I reckon.” Draco tensed at that. He tried not to; he really did, but it had been so long since he’d thought about his father. A constant shadow looming on the edge of his mind that he simply refused to acknowledge, yanked into broad daylight, ready to be examined. 

“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” and to his credit, Harry seemed genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t even think before I said that.” 

“No, no, it’s all right.” Draco smiled, but his face was strained. “I was rather my father’s son for better or worse.” He watched his reflection in his tea, wishing desperately that it was vodka at this particular moment. “Shall we have that conversation now, then?” 

“Huh?” Harry said eloquently. 

“ The conversation. Draco Malfoy, the cowardly death eater. Following Lucius into whatever maladaptive regimes he deems fit at the time. That conversation.” Draco took a shaky breath and continued. “We can talk about it if you’d like. I’ve given my apologies to most of the others. I suppose I never said it to you… Never had the chance, or I would have. You’re welcome to spit in my face. That’s been the most understandable reaction, if I’m completely honest.” 

“Who-” 

“Neville Longbottom. Quite a lovely fellow these days--owns a very impressive herbology shop with Luna, I’ve heard. A handsome couple.” 

“He… spit on you?” 

“Yes, but the point is I deserved it. I deserve pretty much whatever you all decide I do. Because I was wrong, and you were right. Nothing to be done about it now.” It seemed like Harry wanted to interrupt, but Draco pressed on, falling into the script that he spent rehearsing for months during house arrest immediately following the trials. “I was a terror of a child, and I’m truly sorry for everything I’ve done and said against you and the wizarding community. I believed in warped ideologies, and I have done what I can to grow and move on to be a better person, but that does not excuse the harm I have caused, so I sincerely apologize, though I expect no forgiveness.” 

Harry’s face was unreadable. His jaw tense and gaze unblinking as Draco waited. “Well, I suppose if we’re doing this…” He turned his chair until they were facing each other completely. “Draco, I’m sorry I attacked you in the bathroom that day in sixth year. It was a really shitty thing for me to do.” 

The bluntness of the apology made him pause before furrowing his brow. “What? Snape told me you didn’t even know what the spell did. How could you possibly think that was your fault?” 

“I was angry, and I wanted to hurt you. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and I really wish I had done something different that day. So if you get to be sorry for dumb shit you did as a child, so do I.” 

Neither of them said anything. A standoff of sorts. Neither able to verbally forgive the other without receiving forgiveness in turn. Which was difficult to accept when you believed yourself wholly guilty. 

“Truce, “ Harry said. It wasn’t a question, and Draco nodded. They both did terrible things to the other and maybe the only thing they could do was acknowledge them and move on, trusting the other not to do it again. It was as close to forgiveness as either were willing to give themselves. 

The easy conversation began to slip as the workday rolled to a close, and Draco couldn’t quite comprehend why. Harry had gone a bit quiet, sitting in his chair, staring at the ground. It was a stark difference to the antsy man from earlier in the day, and as Draco cleared his desk and waved goodbye to Amy, Harry trailed behind quietly as if dreading the exit. 

It took an embarrassingly long time for Draco to realize Harry wasn’t sure if he would be invited back to his flat a second time. He was expecting his only real connection to the world to dismiss him at any moment. The thought made Draco frown. “So, Indian food again, or shall we experiment tonight?” 

Harry gave him a small smile, but there was a shine in his eyes. “Whatever you want, Draco.”  

And so they picked up sandwiches from a little shop and returned to his flat, and Draco talked incessantly about how much he disliked cars, and then they had no choice but to watch a terrible American movie on Draco’s laptop. By the time they finished, it was dark, and Draco once again insisted it was too late for Harry to leave and he might as well stay the night. 

And they didn’t talk much about it after that. Harry followed Draco to work and gave him space to do his tasks before they found a new restaurant to try and spent the evening chatting. It was an easy routine, and Draco was hard-pressed to remember a time he was eating this regularly and socializing so much. It was rather nice, he supposed. 

Seven days into the unspoken arrangement, Harry finally brought it up, asking, “You’ll tell me if I’m imposing, right? I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” 

“Oh, my life is dreadfully dull. You’re welcome as long as you can stand it.” But Draco could tell the question was more than that, and he offered a soft smile before continuing. “I’m actually quite fond of having someone around.” 

Harry smiled back at him, a bit of tension that Draco hadn’t noticed easing out of his shoulders. “You’re not so bad yourself.” 

The next day, Draco transfigured the couch into a proper bed and cleared space for Harry’s things to live. He didn’t bring much with him, but Draco supposed if he was staying in one place for the next little while, maybe he would like some things and shouldn’t he have a few drawers to keep them? 

And then they were living together, and that was alright, Draco thought. Harry eventually got bored of Draco’s job and started going places by himself to kill time, but each evening, he’d return to Draco’s flat, and they would chat about their days. Draco was happy that Harry felt he didn’t need an invitation to return. 

Harry was different now, but much the same boy Draco had known at school. He had too much energy to know what to do with, and he tended to ramble about inconsequential things exactly like he had in Hogwarts. But the years of isolation had made him rather awkward in an endearing way and he really did have a problem with boundaries, but he maintained his kind demeanor and easy schoolboy charm without much effort. Infuriatingly likable was how Draco chose to describe him, and he made quite a good roommate if nothing else. 

Occasionally, Draco would return from work to find Harry sunken into his bed, still and quiet, and Draco wouldn’t pry. He would make Harry some tea, and they would watch the automobile show in silence until, eventually, Harry would sigh and confess he’d gone to see the Weasleys. Draco never quite understood why he went if seeing them only made him miserable, but he supposed Harry missed them. And Draco could understand that perfectly. 

Draco offered to communicate for him on one such occasion and Harry stared at him for a long time, eyes sad and distant, before shaking his head and sinking back into his blanket. Draco never offered again. 

*

Autumn arrived much as Harry had, uninvited but a happy surprise, and Draco was determined to make the most of the nice weather while he had it. They were both far too pale and while he wasn’t sure Harry could get a tan, there was no way that some time outside would make Harry’s situation worse. So walking became a new favorite pastime for the pair. 

The park wasn’t too far from his flat, with a tiny duck pond for the children to play in and paved paths to walk through the trees, the leaves turning soft shades of orange and red. Gryffindor colors, Draco thought more fondly than he ever had before. 

“Draco--” Harry called, crouched in the grass a few feet from the path. Draco stopped and glanced around them. The park was surprisingly empty for a Sunday afternoon. 

“What is it?” 

Harry waved his arm in a pathetic attempt to summon him. Draco’s lip curled in distaste, but he walked over anyway. It seemed what had enraptured Harry’s attention was a tiny, black kitten curled in the grass. 

It was a mangy little thing, underfed and in desperate need of a bath but its wild black fur was oddly charming in a familiar way. As Harry crouched over it, hair blowing wildly into his face,  Draco couldn’t help but grin at the matching set.

“Watch this,” Harry said with a wicked smile before gently patting the kitten on the head. A moment of silence occurred before the little thing meowed softly and arched into the touch. Harry continued to pet it, eyes blown wide. He gently picked up the kitten and sat in the grass, letting it purr in his lap until Draco dropped down beside him. 

“This is not the reaction I was promised.” Cats tended to be a sore subject for Harry, given that anytime he tried to pet one, they would short-circuit and run away. Or so Draco had been told. He had yet to see it for himself, and this was hardly riveting evidence of Harry’s effect on the things. 

“This has never happened before…I’ve never been able to--” Harry breathed, eyes unmoving from the tiny little creature happily mewing under his touch. It was as if he feared it would disappear if he looked away for even a moment. 

Draco attempted to prod him in the shoulder, but his fingers made no contact, sinking straight through and filling him with the same cold feeling as usual. Harry made a questioning sound, and Draco shook the strange feeling off his hand. “Oh, just checking something.” 

Harry finally turned, grinning the widest smile Draco had ever seen on him, his dimples peaking out on his cheeks. Draco sighed, “Very well.” 

The cat came home with them, bundled in Harry’s jacket like the precious cargo it was. It mewed softly as they reached the apartment, and Draco drew it a warm bath in the sink. He made no effort to wrestle it from Harry and sat back, watching as Harry’s nimble fingers rubbed the shampoo through the kitten’s matted fur. 

“What should we call him?” Harry asked, catching the towel Draco tossed over.

“I named my owl Ulysses, so I wouldn’t take suggestions from me,” Draco said. 

Harry quirked his head. “That’s a fine name.” 

“Oh, I forgot you named your owl ‘Hedwig.’ The poor thing is clearly doomed.” 

Harry chuckled and ran the towel over the kitten one last time for good measure. Cleaned and brushed, the likeness only grew between the two: wild black hair and feral manners to boot. 

“What about Quaffle?” Harry said, holding the kitten up the light. It mewed indignantly. 

“Oh God, no.” 

“Ya’know, like quidditch.” 

“Oh, believe me, I understand.” 

“Well, let’s hear your great ideas,” Harry said, laying the kitten on his chest. At that moment, Draco realized the kitten had green eyes, and the choice was made up for him. 

“Harold,” Draco said, leaning forward. “Harry and Harold.” He motioned to each in turn. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry said, but he didn’t pitch any more names after that. 

The evening was quiet. Draco ran to the corner store and brought home a few varieties of cat food and dinner for the two of them. Harry hadn’t moved from his place on the bed when Draco returned. Harold snuggled into his collarbone like the divet had been personally carved out for him. 

“Ah, no, what’s happening to me?” Draco gasped as tiny kitten claws climbed up his arm. They were about halfway through the show they were watching -- a period drama Harry insisted had a Macgonagall lookalike. Draco gently removed Harold from his arm, wining at the claw marks left in his sweater, and lay him in his lap, patting the ruffled fur affectionately. “There. You’re not so bad when you’re not being a terror.” 

“Excuse you. Harold is a gentleman and a scholar.” Harry said, offended. 

“Oh, of course. My mistake.” Draco booped the kitten's nose, trying to hide his smile at the tiny ball of fur. 

“You and you’re strays,” Harry muttered under his breath, turning back to the television. 

And it was at this point, Draco realized he was happy. He wasn’t sure if that was something he was allowed, so he tried not to think about it. 

*

It happened on a Tuesday. Harry wasn’t often late coming home, but the clock was nearing midnight, and Draco had yet to hear anything from him. He was probably fine, and yet Draco waited. Harold clutched to his chest as the clock ticked farther and farther away from safety. Harry should have been home by now. 

The front door clicked open and shut with a dull thud. Draco sat up, ready to chastise Harry for making him worry, but the words got stuck in his throat as Harry rounded the corner. He looked…bad. 

His eyes were hollow, his posture hunched and small, like he was trying to disappear into himself. The translucency he normally carried was somehow more prevalent than he’d ever seen, the sheen rippling over his form, threatening to take him away. 

Draco could barely see him at all.

“Harry--” He breathed, instantly on his feet. 

Harry looked at him, his green eyes sad and dull. “Hi.” His voice was soft and hoarse, and it terrified Draco. He didn’t know what to do. There was so little he could do. 

“Sit down. What happened?” Draco prompted, ushering him uselessly towards the bed. Harry complied, his form drifting in and out of sight as he moved. Draco wrapped his quilt around him, laying a squirming Harold onto his lap. 

“I went to see Teddy.” 

“Yeah?” Draco prompted, settling next to him. He wanted to reach out, but it was useless, and he kept his hands firmly planted in his lap. 

“He turned 7 today.” 

“That’s nice,” Draco said when it became clear Harry had no intention of continuing on his own. “Did something happen?

Harry’s lips quirked in the barest of smiles, a pathetic thing. “No. Nothing happened.” 

Draco worried his lip. “Tell me what’s wrong, Harry.” 

“Me.” He choked out a wet laugh. “I’m fucking wrong.” Harold mewed softly from Harry’s lap, and Draco waited. “They’re the only family I have, and I just --don’t fit there. I never have.” 

“Harry, that’s hardly fair--” Draco tried to say, but Harry continued. 

“I don’t know how to be near them, Draco. Even when no one can see me, it’s like there’s something wrong with me being there. Like they all know I’m trying to fit somewhere, I don’t.” 

Harry’s chest heaved, his eyes wide as he spoke. There were no tears threatening to fall but there was something equally precarious about his expression. Like if Draco said the wrong thing, he would collapse into himself and there would be nothing he could do to piece him back together. 

So he stayed silent. Letting Harry search for the right words on his own. He waited for a long time, and when Harry finally spoke, his voice was even and measured.

“I went back to Privat Drive, back when all this was new. I just wanted to see it, ya’know? That house has haunted me for years, and I thought maybe if I could understand it, I could understand what went wrong with me.”

Harry stared at the wall over Draco’s shoulder, continuing, “I thought I’d have a big revelation when I got there, like everything would just click into place… but it was just a house… And they were just.. People. Petunia is a nervous wreck, and Vernon is hardly ever home. I don’t know what I was expecting, but they just seemed so inconsequential. I didn’t deserve how they treated me but.. They’re just people.

“I saw the cupboard.” Harry swallowed. “It was so small, Draco. I couldn’t believe how tiny it was, and they put me in there. Did they know something I didn’t? Was that where I belonged after all?” 

“They were bigoted and cruel, Harry. None of it was your fault.” 

Harry ignored him. “I used to worry that my aunt and uncle were right about me. That I was a freak.  And then at Hogwarts, everyone told me I was special and that I was the chosen one, and I just couldn’t-- I don’t know.” He took a shaky breath, pausing, “Constantly, I would just be waiting for people to realize that something was wrong with me.” Harry gave him a sad smile. “You always seemed to know.” 

“I'm sorry.” Draco blinked, refusing to make this about himself, but he couldn’t sit on the apology any longer. 

“Don’t be. I think I just… I don’t know what I keep looking for, Draco. If I’m not the chosen one anymore, then I’m just the piece of me that’s wrong--” He hugged his knees tighter to his chest. “After Voldemort, I… What’s the point of me now?

“Not even Dumbledore ever really cared about me . Did you know he knew? He knew that I was a Horcrux and I would have to die eventually. And then he talked me into coming back because there was still work to do, and I did. Not because I belonged here or wanted to, but because they needed me to. And now they don’t.” 

 The apartment was still, a quiet drip echoing out of the tap.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been a real person.” He stopped, apparently having found the point he was trying to make. He stared desperately at the floor, eyes flickering over the wood grain as if all the answers could be found there if he just looked hard enough. 

Draco searched for something to say, some words that would make everything better. He needed Harry to be okay, but his words sounded so broken, a hurt that had been festering for years, if not decades. How was Draco supposed to trust himself with this fragile boy next to him? He wasn’t good at this. “I still need you.” He said quietly, barely above a whisper. 

Harry choked out a laugh but leaned closer, his shoulders shuddering with repressed tears. Draco’s hands flexed. He wanted to hold him together, let him cry into his shoulder until he could get up again. But no amount of wishing would make that possible, and it hurt. 

*

Five months into their strange arrangement, Draco realized he was in love with Harry. It wasn’t an unwelcome idea, giving a long-awaited explanation for the butterflies running rampant in his stomach, but he should have realized it earlier if anything. Every morning, Draco would catch himself watching Harry stare out the window, the morning sun dancing off his translucent tan skin. Each evening, he would linger by his door before bed, listening as Harry played with Harold, drinking in the soft laughter like it was made especially for him. And then, one day, Harry called his name to get his attention, and Draco knew. He just knew. 

It wasn’t exactly world-shattering news. He wished it was, but alas, his ability to act on his feelings was just as hampered as it had been before he knew what they were. Harry was for all intents and purposes a ghost. Whether or not Draco was in love with him wouldn’t change the fact that they could never touch.  

And then Harry looked at him, holding their gaze for just a moment longer than was friendly, and Draco knew things couldn’t stay this way. Harry--the savior of the wizarding world-- was trapped. Maybe Harry could return those feelings, but his only option was to stay, and Draco could never live with himself if he left that continue. If Harry ever wanted to leave, he’d cease to exist, lost to the lonely darkness that ate him alive some days. 

It wasn’t right. 

And perhaps it was because Draco loved him that he went to the only person he could think of for help: Hermione Granger. 

“Malfoy?” She asked, as incredulously as he felt. 

“Hello,” Draco waved for lack of anything better to do with his hands. 

“Um, hi?” Her hair was as bushy as he remembered it, pulled back into a tight ponytail, and a wand shoved behind her ear. She reminded him of Luna Lovegood, though he knew better than to say that out loud. 

“Can I help you?” She finally asked, her eyebrows arching in a skeptical expression. The last time they spoke was Draco’s apology to her, which had gone just about as well as one could expect from their hostile childhood together. 

“Ah, yes. Actually.” Draco clasped his hands in front of him. He’d considered how to phrase it for the entire taxi ride here--somewhat of a distraction to ignore the fact he was traveling in a muggle death trap. “I have some rather exciting news. It might be better to sit down.” 

Her brow arched even further, the hazel of her eyes catching the sunlight. She was rather pretty, wasn’t she? Draco had never noticed until just now. He’d have to apologize all over again. She stepped to the side and let him in. 

Once they were settled in the living room, with mismatched cups of tea set before them, Draco couldn’t stall any longer. He pulled out his wand. Hawthorne with Unicorn hair and set it on the coffee table between them. “This is my wand.” 

She stared blankly at it. “Okay?” 

“It was also my wand at Hogwarts, if you recall. Harry took it from me at the manor.” 

Her eyes widened imperceptibly. “Where did you find it?” 

“Now, this might be a bit of a stretch, but bear with me.” Draco set his teacup down. “Harry gave it to me.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not funny, Malfoy.” 

“No, it isn’t. But I’m not trying to be.” His leg bounced anxiously. “I’m actually here to talk to you about him because, well, he’s alive but stuck in a tricky bit of magic, and I don’t know how to help him.” 

She said nothing, but he hadn’t expected her to. It was a lot to take in, after all. 

“He’s essentially a ghost, but not really. Just perpetually invisible. For some reason, I could see him, but no one else can.” 

She picked up the wand, turning it over in her hands. “Is he here with you?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“He has been… unwilling to ask for help with his predicament. I’m afraid I’m overstepping by coming here at all.” 

She huffed a sad laugh. “That sounds about right.” 

“Alright, so--” And Draco explained, walking Hermione through everything that had happened since he’d first seen Harry. He described how things vanished when he touched them and how he could still use a wand. She teared up at the mention of him visiting Rose, but he continued anyway. There was a lot to get through, and he only had so much time. 

He was only getting to his ability to hold Harold when she started scribbling notes down on a pad of paper, a renewed glint in her eye. She asked questions here or there, not bothering to explain their relevance to anything else, but Draco had come here for a reason. Hermione was clever and knew more about Harry than anyone else. If anyone could solve this, she could. 

It wasn’t until the sun was beginning to set that their conversation slowed, and Draco prepared to leave. He had no intention of repeating himself to Weasley and their toddler. “If you find anything, you can email me. Please, no owls.” He handed her a business card. 

She looked at it blankly, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “You work in Marketing?” 

“Yes.” 

“With muggles?” 

“That is the general idea, yes.” 

She smiled at him, slipping the card into her back pocket. “I see.” 

He paused, hand on the doorknob. “He had a very similar reaction. It’s almost like you lot have no faith in me.” 

She chuckled. “I’ll see what I can find.” She paused, and Draco waited. “And thank you for telling me. It’s been a long time since--” her words petered out, and he shrugged. She didn’t need to explain anything to him. He barely knew Harry in school, and his disappearance haunted him. He couldn’t imagine what it had done to those closest to the boy savior. 

*

Harry was already home when Draco apparated into the flat, his mop of black hair clearly visible under the pile of blankets on the couch. Draco kicked off his shoes and waited, eyebrow quirked. 

A high-pitched meow came from underneath the mound. “That’s what I’m saying!” Harry replied. 

Draco snorted. 

“Oh, he’s home, shhhh,” Harry said, still covered in blankets—another meow. 

“Harry, would you please ask Harold what he would like for dinner?” 

Harry ripped the blankets away, revealing the tiny kitten napping on his chest. He grinned, his hair freshly tousled and his green eyes glittering in a way that made Draco’s heart falter. “Fish.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “That cat has you in its tiny little clutches, doesn’t it.” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Oh, don’t sound so pleased.” Draco huffed, collapsing onto his sofa-turned-bed at Harry’s feet. “I’m exhausted. How was your day?” 

“Not too bad. Harold and I went to explore the park.” He ran a gentle, translucent hand over the kitten’s ears. “How was your work thing?” 

Draco only hesitated with the lie for an instant. “Just a lot of meetings. Very boring.” He sighed, running his hands over his hair and staring at the pair longingly. Oh, to be a kitten curled up on Harry Potter’s chest. He snickered at the thought and leaned up on his elbows. “I suppose I’ll go hunt down some fish then.” 

*

Hermione was nothing if not efficient in her research. Two days had hardly passed when he received her first email with scanned pages of wizarding textbooks outlining invisibility curses and incidents of wild magic causing similar ailments. Draco replied, declining yet another lunch with Amy in favor of pouring over the pages of texts to find something even remotely useful. 

Eventually, he and Hermione settled on a theory, and Draco brought home the countercurse, casting it while Harry was preoccupied, only to be disappointed when the everpresent sheen of magic writhed harmlessly under his spell. 

And so it continued that way. Draco would go to work and theorize with Hermione on possible solutions. They would prove to be unsuccessful, and the two would start over, ever determined to solve the puzzle that was Harry Potter. All the while, Draco went home and lost a little piece of himself in those green eyes. 

He didn’t know what he would do when Harry left. He didn’t know how he would patch the hole he would inevitably leave behind him, but it was the right thing to do, and Draco needed Harry to be okay, even if that meant letting him go. 

And maybe that was why Draco never mentioned the attempts to him. He never talked about Hermione or suggested they look for solutions. He told himself he didn’t want to get Harry’s hopes up, that maybe there really was no solution, and it would be cruel to let Harry believe they could solve it. But Draco knew he was just afraid to see the relief on Harry’s face at the idea of leaving. He didn’t know if he could handle Harry thinking of their time together as a prison. 

In the end, it was his own fault Harry found out. 

*

The apartment was too small. Draco had never minded it before, but at this particular moment, it seemed reasonable to focus on. It took him exactly ten steps to reach the end of the living room, which was not at all conducive to his pacing, and he would obviously have to move. He continued to pace anyway. 

Harry hadn’t come back to the flat last night. If it weren’t snowing, he would be out looking for him. He knew that was stupid. Harry apparated just fine, and Draco hadn’t the faintest idea of where he could be. How was he supposed to search for someone that was basically dead? 

 Draco took a shuddering breath, glancing at his untouched bed. He scooped Harold--who was maturing into a very lovely but obnoxious little cat-- into his arms and took another ten-step lap. Harry always came home. They’d been living together for six months now, and Harry always came home. Regardless of where he ended up during the day or the little fights they had, by sunset, he would be sitting on his bed. He wouldn’t just disappear like that. 

Harold mewed, making a valiant attempt to clamber over Draco’s shoulder. The claws dug into his skin, and he flinched, letting the pain jolt him out of his panic spiral. 

“Do you know where Harry is?” Draco asked seriously. Harold mewed. “I didn’t think so. Maybe we should have gotten a snake.” 

He sighed and slumped onto Harry’s mattress. It would have been his own fault if Harry had left. He should have asked him before going to Hermione for help. He knew he was overstepping, and he’d gone anyway, and then he’d brought his fucking work laptop home. Harry was the nosiest bastard alive, and he’d assumed his emails were private. Idiot. He’d prodded at something that didn’t concern him, and now Harry wasn’t coming home. 

This was his home now, wasn’t it? Draco had hoped it would be. Maybe that was too much to assume. He’d never actually asked how Harry felt about staying, and now it occurred to him that Draco had assumed the basis for most of their relationship—friendship. He quickly corrected himself. Those thoughts wouldn’t be helpful right now. 

Harold kneaded the blanket next to him, and Draco caressed the soft fur, trying his best not to think of anything at all. The apartment made it difficult. No matter where he rested his eyes, bits and pieces of Harry assaulted his field of vision. His once gray walls now had pieces of art Harry insisted they bring home--though he had followed no particular theme in choosing them, leaving the apartment a bit of a hodgepodge of teenage whims. They adopted a plant, carefully selected by Harry after researching what plants were safe for cats, should Harold ever find himself a bit snackish with the thing. Two teacups sat unwashed by the sink from their nightly rituals. Even a spare set of shoes next to the doorway, an ugly red pair of Converse that Draco wouldn’t be caught dead wearing, was a brutal reminder of the other man who lived here. Draco’s cold, lifeless apartment was gone, completely overwritten into something new and refreshing-- a place Draco rather liked. This was their apartment. 

What would it become if Harry left for good? 

Draco melted into a boneless heap of despair, not bothering to move to his bed before curling into a ball. He took a deep breath against Harry’s red comforter. Harry himself didn’t smell of anything, but somehow, the things he touched had a lingering scent. Harry’s bed smelled of him: sweat and the outdoors and a sort of woodsy fragrance. He’d noticed it months ago as an odd little nuance of whatever magic Harry was under, but now it only seemed cruel. 

He stayed like that, only moving to make space for Harold amongst the covers. Harry would come home, and when he did, Draco would apologize. Harry had to come home.  

And he did, apparating into the center of the living room and nearly ending Draco’s life out of fright. 

“Look,” he spat, whirling on Draco. “You don’t get to decide how my life goes, okay? You don’t know what’s best for me.” 

Draco opened his mouth in his best impression of a goldfish. 

“If you want me out of your hair, I’ll leave, but you don’t get to turn me into some fucking project, okay?”  

“Where have you been?”  Draco asked, his voice trembling. 

Harry glared, crossing his arms. “I just needed some space. It’s not easy to find out your roommate’s been trying to fix you. “

“I wasn’t--”

“It’s really shitty that you went to Hermione instead of just talking to me.” Harry’s voice quieted, the initial bite getting lost somewhere along the way. “You could have just told me to leave.” 

Draco furrowed his brow, “But I don’t want you to leave.” 

It was Harry’s turn to look confused. “Then why?” He gestured at the laptop. 

The lump in his throat only seemed to thicken, and he buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to get rid of you. I just-- wanted to give you a choice in all this.” 

“Did you ever consider that maybe I’m happy the way I am?” 

“No, I didn’t. Who would be?” Draco threw his hands up, his voice breaking. 

Harry snarled. 

“You deserve more than this, Harry!” Draco was so desperate for Harry to understand him. He couldn’t be happy like this, isolated and alone, and he was so good. He deserved to be surrounded by people who would tell him how good he was. 

“Why is that something you get to decide?” 

“Why do you think, Harry? I was a Death Eater!” Draco sobbed, “I’m the last person you should be stuck with, and it’s not fair to you. No one knows better than me how much better you deserve. ” 

“Draco--” His voice was soft now as he approached him. Draco was already crying, though, and months of repressed insecurities flooded out of him. Harry was stuck with him and that was the only reason their fragile relationship had ever started. Draco wasn’t worth the effort. He was hardly worth the inconvenience. 

Harry held out a pastel pink handkerchief, a sad little smile curling the edge of his lips. “I like being stuck with you.” 

“Oh, you’re terrible.” Draco sniffed, blinking back a fresh wave of tears. “You took that from Amy, didn’t you.” His laugh came out strangled with a sob as he dabbed at his face with the soft cloth. 

“Draco. C’mon. You’re deflecting.” 

“No, I’m not.” Draco buried his face in his hands again. “I’m living with a criminal. Isn’t that just a bit distressing to you?” 

“Draco.” 

“I don’t know how to do this.” Draco couldn’t look at him. “You aren’t supposed to be kind to me. I don’t deserve it.” 

“Of course, you do, Draco.” 

Harry’s voice was too soft--too tender--and it snapped something deep in Draco’s soul. “You don’t know what I’ve done, Harry. I don’t deserve any of this. I should be rotting in Azkaban… I should be dead with my father.” Thinking of the cozy little life they had built over the last few months made him want to be sick. Images of the dead staring at him, judging him for his happiness because how dare he . But he couldn’t die; he was too much of a coward for that. So Draco hid himself away. Did the best he could to make himself disappear. And he had let himself forget, let himself cling to the first glimpse of happiness he saw. They were right. He would never stop being that spoiled child. 

And now Harry was looking at him, and Draco couldn’t stand the thought of what Harry might see. 

“Draco… You are so kind.” Harry’s voice was soft as he spoke. “You did bad things, but who hasn’t? You’ve done just as many good things, and you deserve to be happy now. Because if you don’t deserve happiness, then I don’t know what the rest of us can expect.” 

“You’ve always been good. Always knew the right thing to do.” Draco whispered. 

“I always had people to tell me what the right things were.” Harry shrugged, “And so did you… even if they ended up being wrong. It’s not your fault.” 

The air was still between them,

“Draco… You deserve the things that make you happy.” 

“You can’t possibly believe that.” And Draco finally looked into those shining green eyes he’d longed for so long ago. The only attention he’d ever craved. The first thing that had made him truly happy since his childhood ended. 

And to his surprise, Harry nodded. “I do.”

“I just… You deserve so much better.” And then Harry’s hand found Draco’s, and the contact was so light and tender that Draco almost didn’t realize it was there. And yet it was—solid and warm, and unmistakably Harry. Draco squeezed, and their eyes met again, widening. “How--” 

“I’ve spent my whole life looking for a place where I belong. I think I’ve found it, so don’t you dare tell me it’s not good enough.” 

Draco’s other hand raised slowly, brushing gentle fingertips over the curve of Harry’s jaw. There was something there, not quite fabric, a shimmering film. His eyes snapped back to Harry’s, who was watching him intently, unaware of the change. “I want to belong next to you, Draco. Let me?” 

“Okay.” With a little more confidence, Draco’s fingers curled upward into Harry’s dark hair where they tangled with something cold and smooth. Draco pulled at the resistance, and something shifted over Harry’s face. Draco pulled harder, eyes intent on Harry until a pool of shimmering midnight, cold and rippling like water, fell to the floor between them. Harry stared, hand still wrapped tightly around Draco’s as the other came up to touch his own face. He was solid, the translucent quality gone. Draco’s hand returned to Harry’s jaw, and they looked at each other in full clarity for the first time since they had run into each other all those months ago. The moment moved slowly, the cold air wrapping them in a cocoon of silence as if the world outside of their room were wiped away. The kiss was short, a chaste pressing of lips together. There was no rush for more, and they rested their foreheads against each other, breathing the other’s air, lazy hands making gentle touches as if to ensure they could. And like magic, each time they reached for the other, they were there. 

“You’re real?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And I can have this?” 

“And so much more, Draco. You deserve everything.” 

“I think this is enough. You’re enough.” and their lips met again. 

May 02, 1999

The crumbling ruins of Hogwarts were a familiar site. It was not the first time the centuries-old castle had been brutalized by war, and it would not be the last. Death wandered through the rubble, grazing a decrepit hand over the shredded paintings and splattered blood. They had done enough for today, collecting the souls that had been laid bare for them to take, but there was still unease in the air, debts that had yet to be settled. 

Death turned to their companion and waited as he paused in front of yet another corpse, a young girl with curly blond hair. Death had long since lost interest in mortal lives, but the man seemed intent to pause and pay his respects at every turn. It was understandable, if not inconvenient, these were his students after all, and Death knew how much humans valued their young. The man had been the oldest soul Death had harvested in recent years, with wisdom far beyond his centuries of life and a taste for the eternal that intrigued them. He was neither old nor young now, trapped in a ever-shifting state of being. 

“Albus.” Death called. They were rarely impatient; one has no reason to be with such a strangled concept of time, but the man had requested their presence for a reason. 

The Great Hall was crowded compared to the rest of the castle, but it was hardly different, the same suffocating silence burrowing into the walls here just as it did everywhere else. The lines of corpses bisected the grand room, laid out in perfect order as if that would somehow make them less dead. Humans have always had interesting ways of mourning. Death walked through the middle, the bodies cutting a convenient path through the huddled groups of mourners to their destination. A particular corpse had been moved to the end of the room, separated from the rest. Death did not understand the difference. The soul in that body had been cut apart so many times that the death had hardly been a tragedy. There was hardly anything left to take when the time came. But they were not here for the corpse of the mangled soul. They were here for the young boy who sat next to it. He was a scrawny thing, barely even a man, and yet this was the second time Death had come to call on him today. 

“You mortals are confusing.” Death announced, speaking to the man behind him without looking away from the boy. “You claim to value your children, yet you’re willing to sacrifice them so easily.” 

The man came to stand behind the boy, a smooth yet wrinkled hand resting on his shoulder affectionately. “We do only what we must. It hardly makes sense and is hardly ever fair.” 

“Did you get what you wanted?” 

“I’m afraid not.” The man frowned down at his hand where it touched the dirty clothe of the boy’s shirt. “I never wanted this for him. But he’s safe now and I suppose that will have to do.” 

“He won’t get any rest. You must already know that.” 

“I do. We’ve asked far too much already, and I fear it is only the beginning for him. If there had been another way…” The man trailed off as the boy bent over, burying his soot-stained face in his hands. Death had seen his soul already, the tatters it had been left in from his life of obligation. It was rare for them to feel pity for a human, but this was also the boy who had reunited Death’s gifts, something that Death had looked forward to for so long. This boy had done a service to them, and Death was hardly one to ignore such an act. 

“Perhaps he deserves to rest.” 

The man looked grimly towards them, “What will you do?” 

Death cut a long strip of his cloak, nostalgic for the days he would interfere in human affairs more often. “I’ll hide him away from the others. Let him rest until he is ready.” 

“A curse?” 

“No. I do not know much about humans, but he will have his refuge until the day he wants to be seen.” With a flourish, Death wrapped the cloak around the boy, watching with a sense of pleasure as the magic sunk into place. It would hold. 

“I hope he will be able to find peace and learn to heal. It will not be easy.” 

“As do I.” The man replied, glancing back over the crowd of students and teachers he had once led. “And I hope he will forgive me.” 

“Come. I have other matters to attend to, and you must return. I have shown far too much leniency.” The man chuckled, and they walked side by side back the way they had come, leaving the boy who lived twice to find his rest at long last.