Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Harry met Grayson Wenke, it was rather unintentional and an indirect result of the fame he’d spent the last six months trying to hide from. In the wake of the war, Harry had spent a lot of his time hiding...and thinking. Somehow, with Voldemort gone and the threat of death no longer looming over him like a grim specter, the appeal of becoming an Auror had faded away. With Hermione back at Hogwarts and Ron helping George with the shop in Diagon Alley, Harry had been at a bit of a loss for what to do with his life. When the restoration of the school had finished up at the end of the summer, Ginny and Harry had parted ways with an amicability that really spoke to why they were ending things. Surely if they were really in love, ending things wouldn’t be so easy; so peaceful. So Harry was single, and without a career goal, and just sort of...existing.

Now, it was just past the end of October - and dear Merlin, if one more person asked him why he hadn’t attended the festivities for the Ministry’s Potter Day Celebration on Halloween, he was going to scream - and Harry had finally left Grimmauld Place to do something other than shop at the Tesco nearby, or have dinner at the Burrow or with Ron and Hermione in Hogsmeade. He’d thought a Quidditch match would provide a good distraction, and hopefully any press who were present would be focused on the game and the players, and would leave Harry alone for once.

Harry wasn’t that lucky.

He ducked around a corner of the stands, flushed and panting and sweaty, trying to escape the flashbulbs and shouted questions and those hated acid-green Quick Quotes Quills that he had a particular aversion to. He slammed face-first into someone’s chest and rebounded hard enough wind up on his ass on the ground. He blinked up at…oh.

Harry knew, of course, who Grayson Wenke was. Everyone who followed Quidditch knew who he was, because he was the incredibly popular new Chaser for the Tutshill Tornados and was largely credited with the winning streak the team was on. Grayson had gorgeous blue eyes and windswept golden-brown curls and dimples when he smiled, though he wasn’t smiling as he stared down at Harry. No, a frown was creasing his - holy shit, handsome - face as he stood there, looming over Harry in sky blue robes emblazoned with the dark blue double-T that signified his team. Harry wondered why Grayson Wenke was lurking around under the stands after another rousing win instead of smiling for the cameras. After a moment, Harry realized most people would wonder the same thing about him and his constant aversion to the press and let the thought go.

Swallowing hard, Harry stammered out an apology. “I...I’m so sorry, Mr. Wenke. I wasn’t watching where I was going, I...there were reporters and I just...I’m sorry.”

A slow smile curved Grayson’s lips and he held out a hand to Harry. “It’s quite alright, Mr. Potter. I completely understand the desire for privacy. Are you alright? I do hope you didn’t hurt yourself when you fell.”

“Er, no.” Harry blushed as he let himself get pulled upright, shuffling his feet and ducking his head before peeking up at Grayson from under his eyelashes and adding breathlessly. “I, er...I’m a big fan, by the way. You’re an amazing flyer.”

Grayson’s smile widened, revealing straight white teeth that had Harry wondering briefly if he’d ever won Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile award. “Well, I hear you’re quite a sight on a broom yourself, Mr. Potter.”

“Oh. Er, thank you.” Harry felt his face heat up even more and wondered why he had so much trouble talking to attractive people, which no doubt left them with the lasting impression that Harry was a bit dim. “And, please, I hate when people call me Mr. Potter. It’s Harry. Just...Harry.”

“Well, then you simply have to call me Grayson.” Harry blinked in surprise when he realized Grayson was still holding his hand, and was now sliding his thumb in rather tantalizing circles over Harry’s wrist. “I’d just love a chance to see you fly, Harry.”

Harry shivered a little at the way Grayson said his name and was nodding dumbly before he realized what he was even agreeing to. “Yeah, sure.”

“Perfect.” Grayson’s teeth flashed in another smile and he finally released Harry’s hand. “I’ll just owl you with the details of when I’m free to meet, yes?”

“Oh, you can’t!” Harry blurted out. When Grayson frowned, Harry winced and hurried on. “I’ve got all these wards on the house, because of security, and...well. It’s just that you wouldn’t be able to owl me, is all.”

Grayson nodded, his face smoothing back into a pleasant smile, and offered. “Perhaps you could owl me, then, if it would be easier than trying to work around your security. Though how I would respond is a bit of a concern...”

Harry chewed on his lip for a minute, then made an impulsive decision. “My Floo address is Grimmauld Place. I can adjust the security so that you’re on my allowed list, if you tell me your Floo address. It’s easier to work around the Floo’s security than the owl-thing.” And Grayson’s smile was back, dimples making an appearance and sending Harry’s heart racing.

All-in-all, it was a rather simple first meeting. The sort of story that would be cute to tell people, if anyone was ever interested enough to ask. Harry had no way of knowing what would follow, or just how much he’d come to regret ever going to that stupid Quidditch match.

The first time it occurred to Harry that he was dating Grayson Wenke was when it was splashed across a headline in the Daily Prophet and Grayson didn’t seem angry. Instead, he’d smiled indulgently and pressed a kiss to Harry’s cheek, soothing Harry’s upset temper with a quiet comment on how nice the picture of them was. And it was a nice picture, really. The photo had been snapped the night before, when he and Grayson had gone out to dinner in Diagon Alley. Harry was smiling adoringly at the Quidditch player while Grayson placed their orders with the waiter. Harry hated that his life was being used to sell papers, but he was rather pleased that Grayson didn’t seem to mind being in the public eye because of who Harry was.

It was nice, Harry decided, to be dating someone. Because he’d never really done that before. Not properly. His relationship with Cho had been disastrous, and he didn’t think it counted for much of anything. His relationship with Ginny, while longer-lasting, still hadn’t really been dating because they’d been at Hogwarts - and then in the wake of a war - neither of which had been conducive to actual dates. But with Grayson...well. They had been going out to lunch and dinner at least twice a week for a month before the Prophet had gotten wind of it, and Harry hadn’t really thought about it as dating until that moment but it was obvious looking back that it was. He, Harry Potter, was dating Grayson Wenke, nationally renowned Quidditch player and number seven on Witch Weekly’s list of the Top 25 Bachelors. Harry, of course, was number one. That wasn’t the point.

‘The point,’ Harry thought as he watched Grayson fill in a crossword puzzle while Harry fixed them lunch in Grayson’s kitchen. ‘The point is that I’m not alone. Not anymore.’

The first time Harry and Grayson had sex, it was perfect. It took four months of dating - three of which took place under the continuous scrutiny of the Daily Prophet - for them to reach that stage. Harry had never gone all the way with anyone before and he was rather shy about the whole ordeal, but Grayson was patient; he was kind; he was attentive and loving and everything Harry could have wanted. There were candles, and two glasses of wine to help Harry relax. There were soft words, and sweet kisses, and everything was slow and thick and warm. Harry felt worshiped. More than that, he felt loved.

Grayson had a way of looking at Harry that made the younger man feel like he was the only person who existed in that moment; like he was the only person Grayson could see. It was intoxicating, to be the center of someone else’s world. Grayson seemed to like absolutely everything about Harry, too. Not just that Harry was a good flyer or that he could talk about Quidditch with him, but also that he was a good cook. He liked that Harry could get lost in a book, and he liked the way Harry still had trouble with Wizarding things sometimes, explaining readily enough and never making Harry feel stupid over it. He liked that Harry had such close friends, and that the Weasleys were practically family, and everyone seemed to love Grayson in return. Hermione would talk with him about her school work and her career plans, and Ron would talk about Quidditch, and Molly fussed and made Grayson a Weasley jumper at Christmas time, and it was perfect.

Everything about their life was perfect, and it culminated in them finally falling into bed together, and if they missed the Valentines Day mark by a couple of weeks - late, not early - then it didn’t really matter. Nothing mattered except the way Grayson wrapped around Harry afterwards and asked him to stay. And when Harry said of course, Grayson elaborated, saying he wanted Harry to live with him; to move in. Saying he couldn't bear to be apart as much as they were, and that his Quidditch schedule meant they already had to spend a lot of time away from each other but if Harry moved in then it would be better. They’d have more time together. He knew it was quick, but he loved Harry...and he wanted them to be together.

Harry said yes.

The first time Grayson criticized Harry, it took him by surprise.

“I don’t understand what’s so hard about making sure I don’t come home to a mess.” Grayson snapped, hands curled around the edge of the sink. “I mean, it’s not like you work. What were you doing all day that you couldn't have tidied up? You knew I’d be back tonight.”

Harry stared at Grayson, chewing on the inside of his cheek and trying not to let his temper rise. Grayson had been away for a week - practices and an away game - and he didn’t want to fight. “I’m sorry.” He was hoping the apology would de-escalate things and stop the evening from being spoiled. “It’s just the dishes from my lunch, and then what I used to cook dinner. I’ll do them after we’ve eaten.”

“After we’ve eaten.” Grayson turned around quickly, and his face was a twisted mask of fury that had Harry taking a quick step back. “Hell, why not just wait until tomorrow? Or next week? Why not wait until the sink is overflowing before you bother doing them?”

“That’s...you’re being ridiculous.” Harry protested, trying to find his footing; trying to put them back on even ground. “It’s just a few dishes! Why are you so upset?”

Grayson ground his teeth together, then snapped. “Yes, of course. It’s just a few dishes. You know what, Harry, forget I said anything. Nevermind.”

He turned back around and flicked the water on, grabbing the sponge, and Harry wanted to scream or cry or maybe punch a wall, he wasn’t sure, because what the fuck was happening? Grayson’s shoulders were tense and their food was on the table getting cold and all Harry had wanted was a nice, quiet evening with his boyfriend who he hadn’t seen in a week and somehow - somehow, though he wasn’t quite sure how - he’d managed to ruin it with half a sink’s worth of dishes. And it wasn’t worth it; it wasn’t worth the fight, or the ruined evening, or the way his stomach was twisting into knots over the possibility that Grayson might decide Harry wasn’t worth the trouble that came from dating someone as high-profile as The-Boy-Who-Lived.

“Don’t.” Harry pitched his voice low; soothing. He stepped forward and touched Grayson’s arm, very lightly, pulling back fast when Grayson turned to scowl at him. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t want to fight. I’ll do them, okay? You go sit down and start eating before it gets cold. Please? Let me fix this.”

Grayson nodded once, sharply, and moved away from the sink. Harry watched him settle at the table, swallowed hard, and turned to the sink. He washed as quickly as he could while still being thorough but by the time he got to the table his food was mostly cold and Grayson was mostly finished and Harry wasn’t even hungry anymore, so he just scraped the food into the bin and washed those dishes as well, because...well, because. And when they sat down together to listen to the wireless, Harry stared blankly at his book, turning the page every so often but not actually reading any of the words while he listened to the sound of Grayson’s pen filling in another of the crossword puzzles he liked so much.

Harry’s head hurt by the time they went up to bed, and when Grayson got into their bed and turned his back to Harry after laying down it just got worse. Harry swallowed back tears and turned onto his side, away from Grayson, and took a long while to fall asleep. It was the first time in the two months since they’d moved in together that Harry had fallen asleep with Grayson in the bed but not wrapped around him.

Harry had never realized how big the bed was - big enough for them to not have to touch. It wasn’t a pleasant thing to learn.

The first time Grayson apologized to Harry was the morning after their first fight. Not that Harry thought he’d really done much fighting. It had mostly been Grayson snarling and Harry apologizing. He thought it probably still counted, though.

Harry woke up to the smell of coffee and bacon and eggs, and wandered into the kitchen with a head that still hurt - just behind his eyes - and a confused look on his face. Grayson had served him, pressing a kiss to Harry’s messy hair, and said quietly. “I’m sorry things got so out of hand last night. You know how I am about keeping things clean, and I was tired from practicing all week and the game and travel. I wanted to come home and just relax and spend time with you, but that’s very hard for me to do when everything isn’t clean. I didn’t mean to yell at you, though, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Harry whispered, terrified that if he spoke too loudly it would shatter the peaceful morning and send them back into the previous night’s anger. Grateful for the apology - and the olive branch that was Grayson actually cooking - Harry added. “I should have done the dishes right away. I’m sorry, too.”

And Grayson flashed his dimpled smile at Harry, pressing another kiss to Harry’s hair. Then he started fixing his own plate, saying over his shoulder. “What do you want to do today, love?”

“Er...can we go to the park? The ducklings have hatched and they’re so cute. I want to show you.” Harry nodded towards a cabinet, adding. “I’ve got some bread to feed them.”

“Sounds perfect.” Grayson agreed, joining Harry at the table and starting to eat. “We can pack lunch and have a picnic. What do you think?”

Harry nodded and, just like that, everything was back to the way it had been as though the fight had never happened. Harry hoped it stayed that way.

The first time Grayson accused Harry of cheating on him, Harry spent two minutes just staring at him before finally managing to stutter out. “I...what? I don’t...Grayson, I...”

“Not even going to deny it?” Grayson snarled, and Harry almost wanted to laugh because this whole thing was absurd but somehow he thought laughing might be the worst thing he could do.

“Of course I’m denying it.” Harry retorted, voice a little sharper than normal because...well, because he was offended, dammit. Grayson had been gone for two weeks - away games and practices - and Harry had cleaned the whole flat and made a nice dinner and this was what he got the second Grayson was in the door? They had known each other for seven months and not once, in all that time, had Harry ever given Grayson cause to believe he’d be unfaithful, and this...this was crazy. “Why would you think I’m cheating on you? It’s ridiculous.”

Grayson glared back. “You think I don’t see how everyone looks at you, Harry? And I’m away, leaving you all alone, and I know what you’re like in bed. I know how greedy you are. You honestly expect me to believe you don’t find someone else to satisfy you when I can’t be around?”

Harry’s mouth dropped open and he was surprised to realize tears were burning the backs of his eyes. It felt like someone had just shoved a knife between his ribs and twisted. “Are you...are you serious right now, Grayson? I don’t...I can’t even...”

Harry took a trembling breath, turned away from Grayson because just looking at him - seeing that betrayed look on his face, like Harry was the one hurting him and not the other way around - was infuriating and painful and it was all making him feel a bit sick to his stomach.

“Grayson, I love you, okay? I’m not...I would never cheat on you.” Harry’s hands tightened around the edge of the counter as Grayson stepped up behind him, hands closing around his wrists from behind; caging him in. “The fact that you think I would...that you think I’d be desperate for anyone just because I like what we do...I can’t even tell you how much that hurts.”

There was a pause, then Grayson’s hands tightened - just a bit too much - on Harry’s wrists and his voice was a soft, demanding croon in his ear. “Swear it, Harry. Swear no one else is ever going to touch you. Swear that you’re mine, now and forever.”

Harry’s heart lurched in his chest, but he nodded - swift and jerky and uncoordinated - before saying weakly. “I swear it, okay? There’s only you.”

“Forever.” Grayson insisted, and his nails were starting to bite into Harry’s skin, and Harry was shaking though he wasn’t sure why; Grayson just wanted reassurance. He was a little insecure, that was all. “Say it, Harry.”

“Forever.” Harry echoed.

Grayson released Harry’s wrists and turned him in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s temple. He murmured softly. “Good boy.”

Harry’s stomach twisted again, but he pressed closer to Grayson’s warmth and forced his body to relax, reminding himself that this was what he’d always wanted - someone to love him the way the Dursleys never had; the way he’d been missing his whole life. Grayson loved him; he just wanted to make sure Harry loved him back. It was Harry’s job to make sure Grayson knew he did.

The first time Grayson accused Harry of wanting to leave him, it was halfway through June. The worst part, as far as Harry was concerned, was that Grayson was wrong. For all their problems - for all that Harry sometimes wondered why Grayson seemed to find so many faults with him, and for all that Harry hated their fights - Harry had never once thought of ending things. He loved Grayson, and Grayson loved him, and that was all that mattered. No relationship was perfect, and you just had to work through the issues and the fights. Harry had no intention of turning tail and running from his boyfriend just because things got hard sometimes.

And being accused of it - of even thinking it - sucked. Royally, in fact. Harry was trying to make Grayson happy, and this...this always happened. He did something he thought would please Grayson and it blew up in his face, in the most spectacular and completely unexpected ways. In this case, he was trying his damnedest to deal with Grayson’s most common criticism; his most common complaint. The dig he seemed to slip into their fights nearly every time, no matter what the fight itself was about.

The fact that Harry didn’t have a job.

Not that Harry needed a job, per say. He had plenty of money and he had investments and he never needed to work a day in life. He could support a family - children and grandchildren and, if his investments kept doing as well as they were, great-grandchildren and maybe more - without a problem. But for some reason, Grayson liked to point out that Harry’s days were spent not working, though Harry did have several charities he volunteered with. Apparently that didn’t count. Harry wasn’t sure why.

So when Minerva had Flooed and offered Harry a position at the school - as an assistant flying teacher/Quidditch coach of all things, which meant he didn’t have to be there every day and could commute - Harry had assumed Grayson would be thrilled. He was not expecting Grayson to explode the moment he got out that he’d been offered a position at the school.

“You want to spend ten months living away from me?” Grayson spat, so furious he was shaking. “It’s bad enough we’re apart for my away games!”

Harry immediately hurried to soothe him. “No, no. I wouldn’t have to live at the school. It’s a limited position, Grayson, I swear. I’d only be there for a few weeks at the start of school to help teach the first years to fly and watch over tryouts, and then just a few days a week to help supervise Quidditch practices, and then for the games themselves. That’s all.”

“You want to leave.” Grayson’s voice had gone flat and ice cold, his face smoothing into hard lines of anger. “I see what this is. It’ll start out as just a few days, and then it’ll be a couple of weeks, and then you’ll be gone. If you want to leave, why don’t you just go?”

“I don’t want to leave!” Harry protested, wondering why his voice was so high; so panicked. He reached out, clutching at Grayson’s arm, hating the coldness and the dismissal and how Grayson seemed perfectly willing to let Harry walk out the door; out of his life. “Grayson, I don’t want to leave, I promise. I didn’t...I didn’t say yes, okay? I just said I’d think about it. I thought you’d be happy. You’re always talking about how I don’t work, so I thought you wanted me to get a job, and I...I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”

Grayson’s whole face softened and he sighed, running a soothing hand through Harry’s messy hair and dragging the younger man up against his chest; into his arms. “Harry, I don’t care if you have a job. I just hate how you isolate yourself. It’s not healthy. I want you to be happy, you know, and I worry that you’re alone so much, especially when I’m away for games. But if you don’t want a job, maybe you can just start coming with me to all of my games. Then you won’t be alone, and we won’t be apart so much.”

“Like...a compromise.” Harry breathed, and something tight in his chest relaxed because so much of the time he felt like he was the one always giving; trying to fix things. But this...this was Grayson working with him, trying just as much as Harry was. “I’d love to come with you to your games. You know I love to watch you play. I just didn’t know if you wanted me there, so I...I didn’t want to ask.”

“Of course I want you there, silly.” Grayson stroked his hand through Harry’s hair again, adding. “So you’ll refuse the job, then?”

“First thing tomorrow.” Harry promised, lifting his head enough to beam up at Grayson. “I’ll Floo Minerva right after breakfast.” Impulsively, Harry pushed up onto his toes and pressed a kiss to Grayson’s lips, still grinning. “I’m so excited about going to your games! This is going to be great.”

Grayson just smiled.

The first time Grayson felt the need to punish Harry, Harry cried. A lot.

Because Neville and Harry’s birthdays were so close, they had opted the year before - their first birthday following the war - to celebrate Neville’s a couple of weeks early, in order to allow proper recovery time between one party and the next. Any time Seamus was involved in a celebration, it was a wise idea to let yourself recover before trying the whole thing again. Back-to-back parties hadn’t seemed smart. They had decided to hold to the tradition again, and Harry was excited when he received the exact date of the event, though a little disappointed that it was the same day as one of Grayson’s games. Harry never even considered skipping out on Neville’s party, but he had been hoping to bring Grayson along and clearly that wouldn’t be happening. Instead, Harry pinned the invitation to the fridge and reminded Grayson - twice - the week before, just to make sure he’d remember.

So when Harry stumbled through the Floo at two in the morning after a night of drinking and laughing and hanging out with his friends - and even a brief bit of karaoke that was positively awful because not one of them was any better than not-completely-terrible - he was a bit surprised to find Grayson sitting in a chair in the dark. The room was mostly in shadow and Harry blinked, feeling suddenly very sober; much more so than he had only seconds earlier. In truth, Harry had half-fallen out of the fireplace feeling warm and loose and really rather pleasant. Something about Grayson’s face in the dancing flames from the fire - something about the shadows cutting in-and-out across his sharp cheekbones and glittering blue eyes - made him seem sinister. He was smiling at Harry, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile at all. Harry had never understood the phrase ‘smiled with too many teeth’ because you only had so many teeth and how could the number of teeth in someone’s mouth suddenly be too many? He understood now. He wasn’t sure why, but something about Grayson’s smile was just…wrong.

“I thought you’d be asleep.” Harry said slowly; cautiously. His feet felt frozen to the ground; locked in place. He wanted to flee - to disappear back into the flames - but he didn’t know why. He also wasn’t sure why he couldn't bring himself to move any closer to his boyfriend. “If you weren’t tired, you could have joined us...”

Grayson’s smile somehow became sharper and his eyes narrowed a bit. Harry’s insides twisted into knots and he wondered if he was going to puke. He hadn’t had that much to drink, had he? He hadn’t thought so…

“I thought we’d agreed to you attending all of my games.” Grayson’s tone was mild. Pleasant, almost. If pressed, Harry would have described it as conversational.“And yet...you weren’t at this one.”

“It was Neville’s birthday party.” Harry’s words slipped out in a sluggish manner, almost like they were sticking to his tongue and each one took a little bit of an extra push to get said. “I told you that. The invitation is on the fridge. I told you about the party, Grayson.”

There was a pause, then Grayson repeated himself. “We agreed you’d attend all of my games, Harry. There was no stipulation added for conflicting scheduling concerns.”

Harry blinked, once...twice...thrice...and a fourth time, before finally managing to speak. “I wasn’t going to just skip Neville’s party, Grayson. He’s like family to me.”

“So he’s more important than I am.” Grayson’s tone never wavered; never changed. There was no anger there, or hurt, or anything, really. He was...indifferent. And it hurt, though Harry wasn’t sure why. “Well, as long as we know where I stand with you. Friends first, then your life partner. Thank you for explaining.”

“Wha...no!” Harry protested, feeling uncomfortably wrongfooted all of a sudden. “No, that’s...that’s not what I meant, okay? I just...he’s important, too. In a different way, obviously, but...but he’s still important. And it was his birthday party. I...I don’t know what you want me to say, Grayson.” Harry took a half-step closer, then stopped again, hands twisting restlessly around the hem of his shirt. “I just...I love you. I love you and of course you come first, but Nev and the others are my family and I...they matter, too.”

“If I’m your first priority, then my game - which you agreed to come to - should have been your first priority. Not some birthday party.” Grayson sounded reasonable, and Harry wanted to be angry, but it was hard because Grayson sounded reasonable. “Or are you saying your friends - your family as you call them - wouldn’t understand if you told them that you had promised to be at your partner’s game and simply couldn't make it? Is that what it is, Harry? They wouldn’t have agreed that I should be your priority? Did you make your choice because you didn’t want them to be angry with you for putting me first?”

Grayson’s eyes narrowed a bit more, but he kept speaking in that same placid tone. “Because if your friends aren’t supportive of our relationship, then that’s going to be a continued problem. Surely you realize that. And eventually you’re going to have to choose who comes first; who’s feelings come first.”

Harry suddenly felt like apologizing, even though he was certain he hadn’t done anything wrong by going to Neville’s party. Except...except this didn’t seem to be about him going to the party so much as it was about him not going to Grayson’s game. And he had said he would go to all of them, and...and maybe he was wrong. Not for going to the party, obviously, but for skipping out on something that meant so much to Grayson to go to the party. The very thought made Harry feel sick again and he wanted to just curl up into a ball until his head stopped hurting and he could think clearly. He wasn’t even sure when the throbbing behind his temples had started, but it was suddenly excruciating and made it hard for him to think.

Taking a shaky step closer, Harry whispered. “You. Of course you come first, Grayson. I...I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t realize...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have been at your game.” Harry took two more steps, and the shaking spread to his whole body as Grayson just kept staring at him in that detached way. “Please forgive me.”

Grayson tipped his head to the side, studying Harry consideringly, then asked. “Why did you make the choice you made, Harry? Was it your friends? Did you tell them you were going to my game and they pressured you to go to the party instead? Because of course I’ll forgive you for being weak against them, though we’ll have to address their hold on you if that’s the case. I just want to understand what, exactly, I’m forgiving you for.”

“No!” Harry protested immediately, before realizing what it said about him. He cringed when Grayson’s mouth twitched down - his first expression of actual displeasure since Harry had stepped out of the Floo - and added more quietly. “No, I...I didn’t. Tell them, that is. I just...didn’t even think about not going to the party.” Seeing Grayson’s frown deepen, Harry added quickly. “That was selfish of me, I see that now. I...I should have considered your feelings, and the fact that you’d asked me to be at all of your games, and that I’d agreed to that. And I’m so sorry that I didn’t think about that, because I should have. I absolutely should have, you’re right. But, I...I’ll do better, Grayson, I promise. I’ll be more considerate, and I...I...”

Harry floundered for a moment, then finished in a whisper that was barely audible. “And I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry. Please forgive me, because I really wasn’t trying to hurt you, I swear. I just...I’m not good at this, okay? I don’t...I don’t know how to be someone’s boyfriend. But I’m trying, I really am, and I’m going to do better.”

“I want to forgive you.” Grayson said quietly, and Harry’s heart felt like someone had wrapped a fist around it and squeezed because ’want to’ and ’can’ or even ’will’ were very different things. Grayson beckoned for Harry to move closer and he did, immediately, desperate to prove he was going to keep his promise to do better. “Do you think you’ve earned forgiveness, Harry?”

Harry opened his mouth, then bit his lip and gave Grayson a helpless look. “I don’t...know? I...I’m sorry. I really, really am. But I don’t...how do you earn forgiveness? What...I don’t understand.”

The fingers of Grayson’s right hand twitched slightly before he smiled at Harry. It still seemed off, somehow, but this was closer to Grayson’s real smile than his earlier one had been. It was...softer; almost sympathetic. “Oh, Harry. I need to know that you’ve learned your lesson about keeping your promises to me. I need to believe that you understand how much it hurts me when you lie. How can I be sure you’ve learned your lesson if it hasn’t been properly enforced?”

“En-enforced.” Harry stammered, his heart beating jackrabbit-quick against his ribs. He swallowed hard, but nodded. “Okay. I...whatever it takes. I am sorry, and I...I’ll prove it however you like. I know I was wrong and I want you to forgive me.”

Grayson’s eyes lit up even as his smile seemed to soften further around the edges. “Good. That’s so good. I want you to go to our room and bring me something of yours.”

“Er...okay?” Harry didn’t understand where this was going, but he’d just promised to do anything to prove he was sincere in his apology, after all. “What do you want?”

“That’s up to you, of course.” Grayson nodded his head towards the bedroom door. “Something that matters to you, Harry, not some useless trinket. I want you to bring me something that matters. Do you understand? If it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t prove anything.”

Harry nodded again, then hurried into the bedroom to go over his meager possessions in the hopes of finding something that would prove how much he loved Grayson and how sorry he was. He didn’t have much in the way of things that mattered, but he was determined to try. There was, of course, the Invisibility Cloak...but Harry was wary of having any of the hallows floating about in the world and felt it best to keep the thing where he could keep an eye on it. Just in case. After all, he didn’t know what Grayson even wanted with the item in question, and the hallow was...not dangerous, exactly, but different. So Harry discarded that idea and considered the few other things he owned. There was the photo album Hagrid had given him, with photos of his parents and Sirius and Remus and the Order all tucked away inside. There was a handful of gifts he’d received from Ron and Hermione over the years that were particularly special to him. There was the Snitch, special for several reasons, not the least of which was who had willed it to him. The Marauder’s Map, which had outlasted its practical value now that he’d graduated but which had been created by his father and Sirius and Remus (and Peter, but he didn’t count).

After a few minutes of debate, Harry’s hands settled on an item. Not one of those previously considered, but something else entirely; something he felt went to show just how hard he was trying to put Grayson first - above his friends, even the ones he viewed as family. Soft, emerald-green yarn caressed his hands as he carried the chosen object back to the living room; to Grayson. He held it out, teeth sunk hard into his lower lip and his hands trembling faintly. Grayson took it with a frown, holding up the handmade jumper and eyeing it with clear disapproval. The sweater was small; much too small to be worn by Harry ever again. It ought to have been tossed out, or donated, or simply packed away years ago, but Harry had found himself unable to stop carting it around with the rest of his clothes when he changed residences.

“A...jumper.” Grayson didn’t sound impressed in the slightest. His frown deepened. “A very small jumper.”

“It...it was mine.” Harry managed in a shaky voice. “It’s the first one Molly ever made me. I...I’d never had someone give me a real Christmas gift before and she...she made me that. Sent it to the school. It...it was the first time I’d ever...ever felt like I was loved. I...Ron and his brothers...they all had them, and I...she sent me one, and it was like...I put it on and it was like she’d sent me this warm hug I could snuggle into whenever I wanted. It...it’s more than a jumper.” Harry finished, voice cracking just a bit around the edges of the words. “She didn’t just send me a jumper. She was giving me a family.”

Grayson’s frown melted into a smile that Harry almost thought was pitying. “Well, this will do, then.”

Harry stepped back, shoulders slumped in relief for a moment. Then Grayson’s wand was in his hand and he was pointing it at the sweater and Harry’s eyes went wide. “What are you doing?”

Grayson glanced at Harry, and his smile was still that weird pity-filled one, but his eyes were indifferent. In a very matter-of-fact tone, Grayson answered. “Punishing you. Diffindo.”

Harry made a pained sound, body lurching forward almost against his will as the yarn was cut into ribbons, unraveling and dropping from Grayson’s fingers to pool on the floor. “You...you...” Harry’s mind was already on repairing spells, fingers curling around the handle of his wand.

Before he could speak, Grayson did. “Depulso.” He flicked his wand at the same time, towards the fireplace. The pile of yarn flew instantly across the small distance and into the flames.

Harry keened - the sound was high and broken and felt like it had been ripped from his throat. He didn’t realize he’d lunged for the fireplace until he felt strong arms around his waist, locking him back against a firm body. He went wild, screaming and clawing at Grayson’s restraining grip, desperate to save the jumper from the flames. It was futile; Grayson was far stronger than Harry and he wasn’t letting go. When there was nothing left but ashes, Grayson finally released Harry, who sank to the floor on his knees, sobbing.

He felt Grayson kneel beside him and cringed away, pain ripping at his insides and making him feel vulnerable and weak. “Harry...” Grayson’s voice was soft and chiding, like a parent speaking to a child who was having a temper tantrum. “I didn’t want to have to do this, you know. I don’t want to have to punish you, but you left me with no choice. Now you understand, don’t you, how much it hurt when you broke your promise to me? Now you understand how hurt I was when you chose to put someone else above me. And you certainly aren’t going to want to cause me that sort of pain again. So I can forgive you, because I know you understand now.”

Harry said nothing, simply curled tighter into himself and continued to sob; he was inconsolable. After a minute, there was a sigh. Grayson’s fingers brushed over his hair and Harry wailed, rolling away from his touch. “Fine. Be that way.” Grayson’s voice was sharp now, and part of Harry hated that he was making Grayson angry and hurt all over again, but the rest of him was too anguished to care. “When you’ve calmed down, you’ll understand. I’ll leave you to it.”

Harry refused to lift his head from where he’d buried it in his arms, but he felt Grayson stand. He heard his footsteps moving towards the bedroom. Before he’d gone far, the footsteps paused and Harry heard Grayson speak again. “I love you Harry, and I don’t want to have to ever put you through this again. Keep your promises.”

Harry just kept crying.

The first time Grayson erased Harry’s upset with a gift - a purchased apology of sorts, no matter what he called it upon delivery - it worked far too well.

Harry had refused to speak to Grayson since the jumper incident. Two days of complete silence, and the worst part was that Harry wasn’t angry. He was just hurt. It was only a jumper, and he kept trying to remember that. He told himself over and over again that it was just an old jumper, and he had plenty more of them that Molly had made over the years, but somehow it didn’t hurt any less. The tears wouldn’t stop coming and Harry curled into himself, shrinking away from Grayson’s attempts at contact. Grayson had tried to reason with him. He had reminded Harry repeatedly that he’d only been trying to put things right between them and that Harry himself had chosen the item to give over to Grayson as part of his punishment; as part of his lesson.

If Harry had been angry, those words might have made it worse. But Harry wasn’t angry. He knew he should probably explain that to Grayson. Explain that he wasn’t mad, and he certainly wasn’t mad at Grayson. Harry wasn’t ignoring Grayson because he was mad. He was ignoring Grayson because he felt guilty. He had agreed to do whatever it took to show Grayson he was sorry for breaking his promise and hurting him. He was the one who had been wrong, and then when push came to shove and he was meant to be showing his remorse, he instead had a complete breakdown and screamed and clawed at Grayson. And Grayson, ever-loving and ever-caring and ever-protective, had endured the pain of Harry’s nails raking repeatedly down his arms to keep Harry from burning himself in his hysteria.

Grayson’s arms still bore the marks left by Harry’s nails, and he hadn’t once brought it up. He had only tried to comfort Harry as best he could, stressing over and over again how sorry he was it had come to such a thing. He had expressed his remorse over Harry’s pain, wishing they could have both been spared this awful experience, but insisting it would make their relationship so much stronger if only Harry would accept the lesson and move on. It made Harry feel worse, how Grayson never yelled at Harry for hurting him, because Grayson seemed to understand that Harry hadn’t meant to do it. He had been upset and angry and not thinking clearly and he’d lashed out without care. But still, Grayson was injured and Harry was to blame and if anyone had a right to be angry it was Grayson, because Harry had promised to be a better boyfriend and this…

Well, Harry wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, but it certainly wasn’t better.

Two days after the jumper-incident - three days after Neville’s party, since Harry counted the jumper-incident as the following day as it had happened in the early hours of the morning after - Grayson went out without saying a word to Harry. Harry, who had barely managed to stop crying an hour earlier and had been fighting his own wild emotions ever since, promptly burst into tears again. He was going to lose Grayson, all over a stupid birthday party and an old sweater he’d long since outgrown. It was ridiculous.

Harry spent the next hour pulling himself together, then dragged himself into a shower and roughly tried to scrub the scent of misery off his own skin. When he dressed himself in clean clothes and made his way slowly back into the living room, he eyed the couch he’d been on for two days with disgust. He was not going to sit down and give in to the sadness. When Grayson came home, he was going to find Harry trying, because Harry was not going to let his own attachment issues ruin his relationship. It was going to be okay, as long as Harry could not cry the second he looked at Grayson’s face and thought about the way he’d attacked him after promising that he was sorry and would make it up to him however Grayson chose.

When the front door opened while Harry was finishing up lunch, his heart leapt up into his throat and Harry gripped the counter tightly, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears he could feel immediately stinging the backs of his eyes. ‘I will not cry.’ Harry chanted it silently to himself, over and over, focusing on breathing evenly as he listened to Grayson’s footsteps draw closer to the kitchen. ‘I will not cry. I will not cry.’

“Harry.” Grayson’s voice was soft and pleading and Harry hated himself for being such an awful boyfriend, but the tears were making his throat tight and he couldn't answer for fear they’d spill over. He couldn't turn around for the same reason. “Harry, I...I wanted to give you an early birthday present. If you could just...it’s in the living room. If you’d like it. Please.”

Harry listened to Grayson’s footsteps retreat again, then heard the bedroom door close. After another few minutes to compose himself - and some cold water splashed on his face - Harry cautiously found his way back into the living room. A medium-sized box was sitting in the middle of the rug. It had a big ribbon wrapped around it and Harry nervously chewed on the inside of his cheek as he approached it. With a wary glance at the bedroom door, Harry untied the ribbon and jumped back in surprise when the lid moved.

“What the hell?” Harry muttered, edging closer - one hand on his wand - and used his foot to catch the edge of the lid and flip it off.

Seconds later, everything in Harry went soft and warm and shivery and he practically melted down to the carpet, kneeling beside the box and shuffling as close as he could. “Oh...oh my god...” Harry made a soft cooing sound and reached into the box, scooping up the ball of black fur that was running in circles inside. “Oh, you’re beautiful, aren’t you?”

The puppy let out a soft bark of agreement - or that’s how Harry chose to take it, anyway - and proceeded to wag its long whip of a tail so fiercely the whole puppy was practically vibrating. It had floppy ears and intelligent brown eyes and when Harry lifted it up to get a better look at its size it became quite clear it was a boy puppy. Harry’s cheeks flushed a little, but he pushed embarrassment away to continue checking over the animal. Its fur was a little long and shaggy, but silky-soft and as black as ink. It made Harry want to nuzzle into it, so he did, laughing in delight when the puppy licked his face vigorously in reply. The little thing was barely bigger than a bludger, but its paws were huge for its tiny body and Harry knew it would grow into a monster of a dog. He couldn't wait.

Harry was still cooing and nuzzling into the wriggling puppy’s fur when he heard Grayson’s voice. “Do you like him, then, Harry?”

Harry nodded, still not-quite trusting himself to turn around and meet Grayson’s eyes. There was a sigh, then a very soft query. “What are you going to name him?”

“I...” Harry cleared his throat, then lifted his head at last and whispered. “Padfoot. I’m going to name him Padfoot. I can really keep him?”

“Of course you can.” Grayson’s voice was just as soft and he moved closer until he was standing over Harry and the puppy, looking wounded. “I bought him for you, after all. Why would you think you couldn't keep him?”

“I thought you were mad at me.” Harry admitted, voice small, fingers of one hand carding through Padfoot’s silky fur while the other arm cradled the puppy close to his chest. “I thought...maybe you were...were going to dump me and I...”

Grayson sighed again and his hand shifted forward, carding through Harry’s hair in a motion soothing and rather similar to what Harry was doing to Padfoot’s fur. “I’m not angry with you, Harry. I told you I’d forgiven you. I believe you are the one who’s been angry with me, though I admit I’m unsure what you’ve been punishing me for, exactly, and I miss sleeping beside you. My sofa is hardly comfortable and I’m certain your back must be killing you, but you have stubbornly refused to come to bed and I wasn’t going to force you...”

Harry shook his head, but carefully, afraid if he moved too much Grayson would withdraw his hand. “No! No, I wasn’t mad at you. I was...I was mad at myself. I said I was sorry, and that I’d be a better boyfriend, and that I’d do anything to prove I meant it, and then I hurt you...”

“You...” Grayson watched Harry’s eyes go to the faint scratches on his arms, then smiled slightly. “Harry, love, that was nothing. You were upset, and hurting. I understand that, and I’m sorry it happened as it did, but I don’t blame you for lashing out. It happens to the best of us at times. I forgive you, of course.”

Harry managed a weak smile of his own, then rested his cheek against the puppy, who barked in return and licked his face again. Harry laughed, looking down at the dog for a moment before looking back up at Grayson with a much wider smile on his face. “I love you. Thank you for Padfoot. He’s perfect.”

Grayson’s smile widened as well and he leaned down to press a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead. “I love you, too. I’m glad you like him. We’ll have to go shopping for supplies right away, though, as the only thing I got with him was a cage to keep him in when we’re out, until he’s trained.”

Harry nodded, climbing awkwardly to his feet as he refused to set Padfoot down. “I’ll go get my shoes, if you’ll put him in the cage?” Harry asked. Grayson held out his hands for the puppy, still smiling, and Harry ran off to do just that, feeling incredibly happy for the first time in days. ‘Grayson is the best…’

The first time Grayson started isolating Harry from his loved ones, Harry had no idea what was happening. But then, Grayson was smart...and no one wants to see evil in the one they love.

“It’s my birthday party.” Harry said, and the words came out flat for a moment due to shock. “I don’t...Grayson, it’s my birthday party. What do you mean you don’t want to go?”

Grayson sighed and gave Harry a hurt, betrayed look; a look that clearly said he thought Harry was being unreasonable. “I didn’t say I don’t want to go to your party, Harry. Don’t twist my words.”

“Yes, you did.” Harry couldn't help pointing this out, because he was still reeling over it. “Grayson, you just said you don’t want to go!”

“I said, Harry, that I have no wish to attend a glorified pub crawl.” Grayson’s words were spoken slowly, with careful enunciation, as though Harry were a particularly dim child who needed this spelled out for him. Harry would have been offended if he hadn’t been having so much trouble actually understanding. “I have no objection to the actual party at the Burrow, as I said. But I will not be attending the portion of the evening wherein your friends consume copious amounts of alcohol and proceed to make public spectacles of themselves.”

Harry’s mouth moved silently for a few minutes before he found his voice. “But...but, Grayson, that’s half of the party. You’re just...not going to come? You don’t have to drink to come with us. Hermione doesn’t.”

Grayson let out another sigh, looking weary as he let his head fall back against the sofa cushions. “Harry, I am not a teenager out to experience life or whatever it is your friends are caught up in the throes of. I am a grown man, with a career. A very public career, might I add, which does not lend itself to me sitting around with a bunch of intoxicated people who are barely out of school.”

“They’re my friends.” Harry snapped, bristling at the insinuation that they were little more than children; that he was little more than a child. “I want to spend my birthday with my friends.”

There was a brief pause, the only sound being the soft whining coming from Padfoot, who was on the floor near Harry’s feet, pawing anxiously at Harry’s legs, no doubt responding to the rising tension in the room. “My apologies, Harry. I assumed you wanted to spend your birthday with me.”

Harry immediately felt like a jerk, tone going apologetic in an instant. “Grayson...”

The older man pushed to his feet and gave Harry a stiff smile. “Excuse me. I’ll go and dress for the family portion of your party, assuming you still wish me to attend. I would hate to interrupt your time with your friends.”

“Don’t do that.” Harry said, voice edging into a whine. “Grayson, that’s not what I meant and you know it. Of course I want to spend my birthday with you, but I want to see my friends and family, too. I don’t think that’s unreasonable or unfair.”

“I was not suggesting you choose between us.” Grayson pointed out, voice soft but shoulders and face set in stiff lines that gave away his continued anger, or hurt, or...Harry wasn’t really sure what, actually. “I, rather fairly in my opinion, suggested that your birthday should be split in half between us. We can go to the Burrow for an early dinner and cake and presents, seeing your family and a selection of your friends, and then we can return home to spend the evening together. I planned on a movie, a personal giving of my gifts to you, and a late-evening meal at a nice restaurant. I thought I was being more than reasonable. I’m sorry you disagree.”

And now Harry really was whinging, and he wished he could stop because it made him feel as immature and unreasonable as Grayson no doubt thought he was, but he didn’t know how to make Grayson understand and it made it hard to stay in control. “Can’t you and I celebrate separately tomorrow instead? We can have the whole day together, then.”

“And it will not be your birthday.” Grayson pointed out, tone still soft and reasonable. His shoulders drooped and he sighed, shaking his head. “Forget I said anything, Harry. I hope you enjoy the second part of your evening. You’ll forgive me if I don’t wait up for you, I’m sure.”

“But...” Harry resisted the urge to scream, trying to maintain some level of decorum, but couldn't help bringing his hands up to fist them anxiously in his hair. “It’s tradition for the Weasleys. We do a family and close friends thing first, and then we do everyone out for drinks.”

Grayson grabbed Harry’s wrists, tugging lightly until he released his hair and let his boyfriend thread their fingers together between them. Locking eyes, Grayson asked softly. “And at what point do we break away and make our own traditions, Harry? Ones for us; ones for our family? Is it so wrong of me to ask for that? Is it wrong that I want to celebrate with you in a way that’s ours and not theirs? If it is, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be unfair, or unreasonable, or demanding. I thought we were making a life together. If I’ve overstepped...”

Harry stared up at Grayson’s handsome, earnest face in silence for several heartbeats, then he bit his lip and nodded slowly. “No, you...you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I didn’t...I wasn’t thinking.” Harry smiled shakily up at Grayson, his heart racing, and added. “I’ll Floo Ron and he can let everyone know we’ll only be doing the Burrow portion of the evening. I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”

Grayson leaned down and pressed a kiss to Harry’s mouth, saying sweetly. “There’s nothing to forgive, love. I’m just pleased we’re on the same page.”

The first time Harry said yes when he wanted to say no, he told himself it was okay; that he was just being a good boyfriend. Sometimes, excuses are all we have left to keep ourselves sane. Sometimes, we’re too afraid to admit the truth, as though we are the ones at fault for having faith in someone we love. Sometimes the truth hurts too much to accept.

It was mid-August and the heat was wildly oppressive. Harry had been feeling ill all day, running a fever and laying in a dark room with a horrible headache for most of the afternoon. He’d spent the morning throwing up, but thankfully that had stopped around the time his skull had decided it was splitting open. By the time evening fell, Harry was finally able to keep down a pain potion and was beyond grateful for the cooling sensation on all of the aching parts inside his head. He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep so he would - hopefully - feel better enough to be able to attend Grayson’s game the next afternoon. He didn’t want to miss the game, but he also didn’t want to throw up on someone else while in the VIP box at the United Kingdom Annual Quidditch Final. That just...seemed like a bad idea.

When Grayson slid into bed next to Harry and asked how he was feeling, Harry drummed up a small smile for his boyfriend. “Better, actually. A good night’s sleep and I think I’ll be up to watching the match tomorrow.”

“Don’t push yourself.” Grayson murmured, pulling Harry into his arms and nuzzling into the other man’s neck. “If you’re not feeling well, you should rest.”

“I know, but I really do feel better.” Harry assured him, pressing back into Grayson and soaking up the comfort of his embrace. “Besides, I’d feel horrible if I missed your first Final.”

Grayson nuzzled the side of Harry’s neck again, pressing a kiss to the spot where it met his shoulder. “Well, since you’re feeling better...” Harry shivered as teeth dragged lightly over the nape of his neck. “I was thinking you could wish me good luck.”

Harry gasped softly as Grayson pushed forward with his hips, grinding against his ass and leaving no doubt as to how, precisely, he intended for Harry to wish him luck. Harry bit his lip, hesitating, even as he tipped his head to the side and granted Grayson’s mouth better access to his throat. He was tired, and not quite up to par, and really not in the mood, but…

But Grayson was playing in the Final. And he wanted Harry to give him just a little extra love and support before his big game. And wasn’t that what one was supposed to do for their partner?

Harry took a small, trembling breath and nodded. “I...okay. I’m not...I mean, I’m still tired, and...but, okay...”

“Don’t worry, pet.” Grayson’s breath was hot on Harry’s ear, his teeth biting down on the curve of it just a little too hard as he promised. “I’ll do all the work. Just relax for me, there’s a good boy...”

So Harry closed his eyes, and willed his body to go soft and compliant, submitting to Grayson’s will. This wasn’t about him; this was about what Grayson needed tonight, before his game. Harry was just being a supportive, loving partner. This was what relationships were all about.

Excuses will only take you so far.

The first time Harry was afraid, it was already too late.

Grayson’s team lost. Harry hadn’t expected that. Neither had Grayson. When they got home after all of the post-game festivities - or rather, after the ones they couldn't duck out of without Grayson coming off as a sore loser or unsportsmanlike - Harry expected to have to soothe his boyfriend. Grayson didn’t like to lose; didn’t like to be second to anyone. Harry had learned that the first time Grayson lost a match. But Harry had handled that, and the other two matches he’d lost during the season, and was fully prepared to handle this one as well. He would let Grayson rant and vent while he cooked, they would eat together, Harry would clean up while Grayson had a drink, and then they would watch a movie together. Afterwards, Harry would help Grayson work off the remains of his temper tantrum in a very enjoyable way.

Yes, Harry was rather confident in his ability to deal with Grayson’s bruised ego.

Unfortunately, things didn’t go quite the way Harry had anticipated.

Harry stepped out of the Floo and headed straight for the kitchen. When the flames whooshed behind him, he called out. “I’m starting dinner, Grayson. Come sit and vent while I cook, okay?”

When only silence greeted his words, Harry paused in the act of pulling what he needed out of the fridge and cabinets and pantry, and glanced at the doorway leading into the living room. “Grayson?”

Cautiously, Harry set the cream on the counter and moved to the doorway, blinking in surprise when he saw Grayson standing in front of the fireplace, unmoving, his face set in hard lines. Harry moved closer and reached out to touch Grayson’s arm as he spoke, voice low and soothing. “Hey, I’m going to make chicken alfredo for dinner. Come talk to me while I cook.”

Grayson jerked back before Harry could make contact with him, making Harry gasp and jump back. “I...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push.”

Harry took a quick step back when Grayson glared at him. He was breathing heavily, face flushed and mouth set in a snarl. Harry had never seen him so angry. “Why would you think I’d want alfredo, Harry?”

“I...what?” Harry took another quick step back, every instinct in his body shrieking like alarm bells, his muscles coiling tight as though in anticipation of something; Harry wasn’t sure what. “I just...you like chicken alfredo, and I thought I...I thought it might make you feel better.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot.” Grayson snapped, taking a step in Harry’s direction. Harry backed up quickly, maintaining the distance between them. “I don’t want food, and I don’t want to listen to you banging pots around while you make a mess of my kitchen!”

“Okay.” Harry nodded rapidly, moving towards the kitchen as quickly as he could without taking his eyes off of Grayson’s furious face. “Okay, I’m sorry, I won’t...I won’t cook. I’m sorry. I just...I’ll go put everything away.”

Finally tearing his gaze away from Grayson’s chillingly cold blue eyes, Harry ran into the kitchen and began putting back the handful of things he’d taken out. He heard footsteps behind him and stiffened, freezing in the act of putting a pot back in a cabinet. “Did...did you need something?” Harry asked carefully, not looking at Grayson for fear of seeing that furious expression still on his face.

“Yeah, I want a fucking drink.” Grayson’s words bit into Harry like barbs and Harry winced as he heard a cabinet door being slammed open behind him. “Do I need your permission to be in my own kitchen now, Harry?”

“Of course not.” Harry was trembling all over and he quickly shoved the pot into the cabinet and closed the door, turning to Grayson with a smile he prayed didn’t look as fake as it felt. “I just wanted to help. What kind of drink do you want? I’ll make it for you. You just...just sit down and relax.”

Grayson was staring at Harry with an unreadable expression on his face and Harry swallowed hard before taking a tentative step closer and holding out his hand for the rocks glass Grayson was holding. “Here. Let me, okay? Just tell me what you want.”

“What I want, Harry.” Grayson smiled and it was all teeth, sharp-edged and dangerous and somehow threatening in a way Harry hadn’t realized a smile could be. “Is for you to finish cleaning up the mess you made of my fucking kitchen before I have to teach you another lesson. Am I making myself clear?”

Harry nodded jerkily and spun around, grabbing the box of pasta and practically running over to the pantry to put it away. He heard Grayson moving around behind him and took a moment - half-hidden behind the pantry door as he was - to try to calm his breathing. Grayson was angry, obviously; he had just lost a very important game and it was perfectly understandable that he was upset. Harry just needed to give him a little space until he calmed down, that was all. Everything was going to be fine. Taking another deep breath and willing his hands not to shake, Harry stepped back from the pantry and closed the door gently.

Keeping his eyes on the tiled floor, Harry crossed the kitchen again to grab the cream - the last thing he needed to put away before he could leave Grayson’s presence and let his boyfriend calm down. He had just lifted it off the counter when Grayson’s deep voice sounded right next to his ear, startling him. Harry hadn’t realized Grayson was so close to him. In all honesty, he hadn’t realized Grayson was anywhere near him at all. He was so surprised he didn’t even register whatever it was Grayson had said to him. He just let out a sound that was almost - but not quite - a scream and spun around, the carton of cream slipping from his fingers and hitting the floor with a wet sounding splat.

Harry had one hand pressed to his heart, breath coming in sharp gasping pants, as he stared up at Grayson with wide eyes. “Oh my god, you scared me! I didn’t know you were behind me. What...what did you say? I didn’t...I missed it, I’m sorry.”

Grayson wasn’t looking at Harry. Instead, his eyes were narrowed on the floor at Harry’s feet, where cream was pooling on the tiles as it leaked from the smushed cardboard carton. “Harry...” Grayson’s voice was a low, dangerous whisper. “Are you deliberately attempting to anger me?”

“Wh-what?” Harry stammered, dropping his gaze to see the mess. He winced, then said. “I...I’ll clean it up. I didn’t mean to...I just...you startled me. I’m sorry. Let me just..."

Harry didn’t stop to think. He flicked his wrist, releasing his wand from the wrist-holster he’d taken to wearing in the wake of the war, and vanished the ruined carton before casting a quick Scourgify at the floor. He looked up, a tentative smile on his face, and froze. Grayson was giving him that shark-like smile again, leaning back against the counter a few feet away, having moved while Harry was casting. The now-empty rocks glass was dangling casually from his fingertips, just a hint of amber color clinging to the glass and making Harry wonder what Grayson had chosen to drink. He swallowed hard, fingers tightening reflexively around the handle of his wand, and wondered what he’d done to make that smile reappear.

“Are you really that stupid?” Grayson’s tone was almost conversational, but there was an edge to it that made Harry’s breath hitch in his chest. “Or is it that you like when I’m angry? Do you want to be punished, Harry? Tired of all of the hero-worship and needing someone to put you in your place? Because that can certainly be arranged. Without you making me want to beat you senseless, actually. Just ask nicely.”

Harry looked down at the floor, then at the wand in his hand. “Oh...oh no...” Harry cringed back against the cabinets behind him. Grayson hated when Harry used magic to clean things; he insisted spells never did the job properly and considered it the height of laziness. Harry knew that, but he’d forgotten. “Grayson, I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. I’ll do it right.”

Grayson looked down at the glass in his hand, then back up at Harry. The smile never left his face even as he drew his arm back and threw. This time, Harry did scream, barely ducking in time as the cup smashed against the cabinets just above Harry’s head and rained glass down on him. When Harry raised his head, he was shaking all over and sobbing, eyes taking in the slivers of glass surrounding him. He heard Grayson move and snapped his head up, eyes wide and fearful and locked on Grayson’s still-smiling face. He heard glass crunching under Grayson’s shoes as he came to a stop beside Harry’s kneeling form.

“Now that you’re paying attention...” Grayson’s words were soft and silky; almost seductive in their tone. It made Harry feel ill. “You are going to clean this kitchen from top to bottom and you are going to do it the correct way, Harry. Give me your wand.”

“What?”

Grayson’s eyes narrowed and he held out one hand, obviously impatient. “Since I clearly can’t trust you not to use magic to do it, you are going to give. Me. Your. Wand. What part of that was unclear?”

Not knowing what else to do, Harry placed his wand across Grayson’s palm. “Much better, Harry. See? You’re capable of following instructions when you try.” Grayson’s other hand moved forward, fingers carding through Harry’s dark hair as he continued. “Now, be a good boy and clean the kitchen. When you’ve done it to my satisfaction, you can have your wand back. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, wanting to move away from Grayson’s touch but terrified to do anything that might set the older man off again. “Good. I’ll be in bed, reading. Come get me when you’re finished.”

Harry listened to Grayson’s footsteps as he left the kitchen, then strained his ears for the sound of the bedroom door opening and closing. He heard Grayson unlocking Padfoot’s cage in the bedroom; heard the dog bark out a happy greeting; heard Grayson’s laughter as he greeted the puppy in turn. It was all very surreal; unnerving; disorienting. It was a long time before Harry was able to stand up and start cleaning, muscle memory from years of housework doing most of the work for him as his mind struggled to process the events of the evening.

This was not supposed to be Harry’s life. But no matter how hard he tried, Harry couldn't figure out where exactly he’d gone wrong.

There are a lot of things you don’t know, even if you think that you do. For instance, there are words you know the meanings of - words you’ve used, even - that you’ve never thought to apply to certain situations. Sometimes you learn these alternate uses because someone tells you about them. Sometimes you read about them. Sometimes, you figure it out on your own.

Harry learned a new use for the word cycle after the United Kingdom Annual Quidditch Final loss. He learned how to apply the term pattern to behavior. He figured out how to judge a ‘good day’ from a ‘bad day’ in the span of a few heartbeats, and those phrases took on whole new meanings, with dimensions he’d never realized were possible. Good days were more frequent, but then, they always had been. Harry might not have realized there were good days versus bad days before then, but that didn’t mean there weren’t. The good days were, as always, pleasant and enjoyable. At times, the good days were so good they made Harry question the truth of the bad days. At times, Grayson would smile and laugh and touch Harry like he was infinitely precious, and Harry wondered how he had ever been afraid of someone so perfect.

On the bad days, it was easy to remember the fear...and hard to remember why he stayed.

The first time Harry realized Grayson posed a threat to someone other than himself - the first time Harry realized others might be made to pay for his mistakes - was a little more than a month after the first time Harry felt afraid of Grayson at all.

Harry had spent a week handing over his wand every day before Grayson went to practice in Tutshill, to make sure he didn’t clean anything the wrong way while Grayson was gone, but other than that their life had returned to normal. Grayson was loving, and attentive, and charming. The first day Grayson didn’t ask for Harry’s wand, he held it out in a force of habit. But Grayson had smiled and kissed his head and said he trusted Harry to do things the right way...and Harry had nodded before setting his wand on the coffee table and promptly forgetting about it. By the end of August, it was rare for Harry to even take it off his bedside table. It was like the item which had once been so much a part of him had been cut away; as though the bond had been severed and it was nothing more than an occasionally useful bit of wood and feather.

As September wound itself down, the tension in their flat seemed to grow. Harry wasn’t sure why, exactly, because he was doing everything he was supposed to. Still, every evening when Grayson came home there was something there - almost like a scent, or like a metallic taste in the air that clung to his tongue - that made Harry increasingly anxious. Just a few days before the end of the month, that something reached a breaking point and the fragile peace shattered, resulting in a victim Harry gladly would have traded places with if he could have.

Harry had realized, shortly before Grayson was due home, that they were out of the muggle soda that Grayson (who was a halfblood like Harry) was particularly fond of. Knowing Grayson would want some with dinner, Harry had grabbed his wallet and his key, thrown on his shoes, and run out to the Tesco that was only five minutes away from their flat. Harry was back in fifteen minutes, and as he slid his key into the lock he was silently hoping he’d beaten his boyfriend home.

He hadn’t.

The second the door was open, Harry could hear Padfoot howling. Harry set the soda on the floor and rushed into the bedroom, freezing at the sight of Grayson, wand drawn, looming over the puppy. On the floor near Grayson’s feet was a single dragonhide boot, complete with newly made chew marks. Padfoot was laying on his belly, alternating whimpers and howls. His back right leg was sitting at a strange angle, making bile creep up Harry’s throat.

“Wh-what happened?” Harry stammered, shaking all over the instant Grayson turned cold blue eyes on him.

“Where were you?” Grayson’s tone was pleasant, and it did nothing to reassure Harry. If anything, it made him more afraid.

Harry swallowed hard, the fingers of his right hand twitching as his eyes went to the bedside table where his wand was still sitting. “I...” Harry dragged his eyes back to Grayson. “The store. We were out of something, and I...I was only gone fifteen minutes.”

“Hmmm.” Grayson smiled and Harry flinched backwards, but his boyfriend turned and moved to pick up Harry’s wand, tucking it casually into his pocket. His own wand was still drawn, and he twirled it a bit idly as he shot Harry a questioning glance. “And tell me, Harry, did you forget anything when you went to the store?”

Harry’s eyes went from Grayson to Padfoot - who had settled down into pained whines and whimpers - and he whispered. “I didn’t put Padfoot in his crate...”

Grayson’s smile sharpened and he nodded slowly. “Yes, I noticed that right away. Tell me, Harry, do you make a habit of being so careless? I can’t help wondering if I was foolish for thinking you could be trusted to watch over something as bothersome as a puppy.”

“What did you do to him?” Harry asked, tears making his throat tight so the words came out strangled and hoarse and weak around the edges. “Grayson, what did you do?”

“I taught him a lesson.” Grayson’s words were clipped and unapologetic and Harry wanted to throw up. “I have no doubt in my mind he will think twice before chewing on another shoe.”

Harry stared at Padfoot’s back leg and said. “You broke his leg.” Grayson simply raised an eyebrow and Harry’s voice climbed in horrified anger. “Grayson, he’s a puppy! Just a...a defenseless puppy. If you...if you were angry, you should have...” Harry’s breath caught in his chest but he pushed on, forcing the words out past the fear because this was not okay. Padfoot hadn’t screwed up; Harry had. “It wasn’t his fault, and you should have punished me, not him.”

Harry had to fight the urge to recoil when Grayson’s fingers were suddenly curling around his jaw, nails biting into tender flesh as he forced Harry’s head up. When their eyes locked, Grayson purred. “I am punishing you, Harry. Are you ever going to leave Padfoot unattended and uncrated again and risk a repeat of this lesson, or are you going to be extra careful from now on?”

“Careful.” Harry gasped out, the words as much a promise as an agreement. “I’ll be careful.”

“See?” Grayson’s grin widened. “Lesson learned.”

He released Harry’s chin with a slight push and Harry staggered back a step. He watched Grayson head for the door, then called out frantically. “But...his leg!”

Grayson paused, one hand on the doorframe, and glanced back at Padfoot before saying. “I’m going to go eat dinner now, Harry. You’re excused from joining me as it’s clear you’re upset. After I’ve eaten and showered, and the kitchen is cleaned up, I will take Padfoot to the vet. You may come, provided you’re willing to behave in a suitably appropriate manner. Do you understand?”

Harry just nodded.

Harry couldn't remember the first time Grayson had criticized his spending habits. Not that Harry was frivolous or anything; he wasn’t. But after so many years of never having clothes that fit, and wearing his trainers until they fell apart, and not getting enough to eat or ever being sure when his next meal was coming...well. Was it any wonder he had a small tendency to indulge himself? If he saw something he liked or thought he would enjoy, he bought it on the spot. If he saw something he thought his friends would like, he picked it up for Christmas or their birthday or, sometimes, just because. And Teddy...well, so what if Harry spoiled his godson? Harry knew what it was like to grow up without your parents and he was going to make sure that Teddy never doubted how much he was loved, even if that meant Teddy wound up a bit spoiled.

Grayson, however, disapproved of the lackadaisical way Harry handled his finances and investments and...and eventually Harry got sick of listening to it and just sort of tuned him out whenever the subject came up, humming occasionally as though in agreement with whatever Grayson was saying.

The day Grayson handed Harry a roll of parchment - just at the start of October - and asked him to sign it so that he could take over the care and management of Harry’s finances, Harry hadn’t thought much of it. If it would get Grayson to stop harassing him while using words like fiscal responsibility and quarterly returns and accounting liquidity then Harry didn’t really see the harm in it. So he signed at the bottom and didn’t think about it again.

At least, not until the next time he tried to make a large purchase and was informed by Gringotts - when he stormed in, demanding to know why he was unable to make said purchase - that any individual expenditure over fifty galleons had to be pre-approved by Grayson. As, he learned, did any withdrawal over fifty galleons. He also had a weekly limit to spending and withdrawals, unless pre-approved by Grayson. Which was to say, unless Grayson signed paperwork agreeing to give control back to Harry - or unless Harry took him to court over it and forced him to cede control - Harry couldn't touch his own money or make any decisions regarding his investments or property or anything.

Harry might have been incredibly wealthy on paper but, from the moment he signed those papers, he had only as much money as Grayson allowed.

Harry hated the idea of a Potter Day Celebration, and he sincerely wished Kingsley had been able to kill the idea of it before it had ever happened. Sadly, not even the Minister had been able to dissuade the majority and when Harry had glared at Kingsley after being invited to first one, he’d merely gotten an apologetic shrug in return. Harry had declined to attend...and he’d never had any intention of doing otherwise. Going to an event where everyone was going to be staring at posters of his face and telling stories about his life and just generally trying to get a piece of ‘The-Boy-Who-Lived’ aka ‘The Chosen One’ for themselves...well, it wasn’t exactly Harry’s idea of a good time. In truth, there was little Harry could think of that he’d enjoy less.

How Harry found himself standing in the Ministry of Magic’s Atrium staring at a giant ice sculpture of himself was a bit of a mystery to the former-Gryffindor. He knew it had been Grayson’s idea, and that it had seemed to make sense at the time, but for the life of him he couldn't remember why, exactly, he’d agreed. It was horrible. It was probably the most horrible thing Harry had ever experienced, and he had died once. People were pressing close and shaking his hand and praising him and Grayson just kept reminding him to smile while being utterly charming himself and...and Harry wanted to go home. He really, really wanted to go home. Because it had been two hours and surely that was enough of an appearance to appease Grayson. Surely they didn’t have to stay for the whole event.

Determined to leave, Harry began to edge towards the bathroom - where Grayson had disappeared to a few minutes earlier after placing Harry near the ice sculpture of himself, ‘So I can find you easily.’ He would find Grayson, explain that he’d had his fill of this crap, and they would go home.

Harry was so focused on his goal that he didn’t notice the photographer that was following him until he’d stepped into the men’s room. Grayson was at a sink washing his hands and he raised an eyebrow at Harry in the mirror when he walked in. “Everything okay, love?”

“I want to...”

That was all Harry got out before the door opened again and the photographer was standing there, camera raised and already snapping pictures. Harry saw red. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He shouted, reaching out and ripping the camera out of the man’s hands. “I am in the bloody loo! What kind of sick pervert follows someone into a loo with a camera?”

The photographer was rapidly insisting he hadn’t meant to push the shutter button - which Harry could tell was a load of bollocks and wasn’t buying for a second - and Harry had had enough. “People like you are the reason I don’t go to events, or give interviews. You’re the reason I bloody well hate the press!”

Furious, Harry turned and walked over to a stall, yanking the door open and dropping the camera in the toilet, all while ignoring the photographer’s shouts and protests. Harry flushed the toilet for good measure, watching with satisfaction as water rushed over and around the camera, before turning to glare at the photographer. “Do not ever try to take a picture of me again.”

Harry slammed his way out of the stall - camera still in the toilet - and stopped short when he saw the look on Grayson’s face. Grayson. He’d forgotten his boyfriend was in the loo as well. Taking a calming breath, Harry said simply. “I want to go home.”

Grayson’s lips curved into a charming smile in the blink of an eye and Harry glanced behind him to see that the photographer was looking at them. “I am so sorry for Harry’s temper.” Grayson’s voice was dripping apology and charm. “And I’m terribly sorry about the damage done to your camera. Harry will pay for that, I promise.”

Harry swallowed hard. He had no doubt from the photographer’s pleased smile that he had heard precisely what Grayson intended for him to hear - that he would be reimbursed for the cost of either replacing or repairing the dripping camera he was clutching to his chest. Harry, however, heard the threat in Grayson’s words. Words which promised retribution for Harry’s loss of decorum in public. Words which promised that Harry was going to regret his momentary lapse. In truth, he already did.

Harry couldn't hear anything beyond the blood rushing past his ears. He couldn't feel anything but Grayson’s cool fingers threaded between his warm, sweaty ones; their palms pressed together as Grayson led him out of the bathroom and through the pressing crush in the Atrium, towards an active Floo. Harry knew that Grayson’s face was arranged in the charming smile he always presented to the press and general public, but all he could picture was the smile he’d see the moment they were alone - the one with sharp edges and too many teeth, which came complete with glittering blue eyes and some strange quality that made Harry shiver in fear.

As he was nudged into emerald green flames, Harry debated calling out an address other than the one for their flat...though he wasn’t sure what he’d say instead. So he didn’t. And when he stepped into the flat, he turned to stare at the fireplace and wondered almost numbly what Grayson would do if he extinguished the flames and grabbed his wand from the bedroom and warded the place against him. Would Grayson break through the wards, or would he simply wait until Harry eventually had to leave? Would he call the Aurors? How would either of them explain it to anyone? It was a foolish train of thought, and Harry never had any intention of doing anything that would anger Grayson more than he already was, but the thoughts were there, regardless.

The flames turned green and Grayson stepped out. Harry didn’t move; didn’t even flinch. His arms hung limply at his sides and his head was lowered, eyes locked on the floor just in front of his own feet. Harry didn’t want to look up. He didn’t want to see the smile that promised fear and retribution; that promised punishment. He wondered absently what he’d lose this time. After the sweater from Molly it had been a photograph of his parents holding him as a baby...one of only two that he’d had. Now there was just the one. Would that be what Grayson chose? Or perhaps it would be something from Ron or Hermione this time...or one of the pictures of Sirius. Harry’s mind went briefly to his Firebolt, but he didn’t think Grayson would ever destroy a broom…not even one that belonged to Harry. So, that was something at least.

For all of his resignation to whatever was about to happen, Harry couldn't contain the gasp that slipped out when Grayson’s hand fisted in his messy hair and pulled, forcing Harry’s face up. “Do you have any idea the damage you may have caused?”

“I’m sorry.” Harry’s mouth said the words without input from his brain. In all honesty, he wasn’t sorry...but he knew what Grayson wanted to hear; what he expected to hear. Harry knew what he was supposed to say. “I just lost my temper. It...it was just a camera, though.”

“It was our reputation.” Grayson hissed, and Harry couldn't help cringing back from him - as much as he could with fingers still tangled in his hair - because he was not giving Harry that creepy smile. No, Grayson’s face was twisted with rage into a snarl that made Harry wonder how anyone could think Grayson was handsome. “We are the most talked about couple in the Wizarding World, Harry. We have certain expectations placed on us. When people open the Daily Prophet after an event like this, they expect to see us smiling, arms around each other, hopelessly in love and enjoying our post-war happily ever after. Instead, they will see me leading you away after you acted like a complete lunatic. All of those stories about your mental instability will come rushing back and we will have to spend the next few months trying to crush those rumors.”

Harry whimpered in pain as Grayson’s hand tightened in his hair, yanking hard enough to have Harry’s neck arching as he pressed up onto his toes to try to relieve the pressure. “I’m sorry!” He cried out, tears stinging the backs of his eyes and spilling over when he blinked. “Grayson, I’m sorry, okay? I...I was tired and I...I didn’t even want to go, which I told you, and I...I hate reporters and photographers, and...and I...he followed me to the bathroom, and I just...I snapped, okay? I’m sorry. It won’t ha-happen again.”

There was a pause, then Grayson’s fingers relaxed and he let go of Harry’s hair. Harry took a half-step back, chest heaving as he struggled not to outright sob, and glanced up at Grayson.

“You’re sorry?” Grayson’s tone was a low, furious hiss and Harry’s legs suddenly stopped working. His brain was screaming, ‘RUN!’ but his body wouldn’t obey. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you’re sorry for what you did, Harry?”

“I am.” Harry whispered, even though he knew it was unlikely to do any good. All he could do now was wait until Grayson announced his punishment. Once that was meted out, Grayson would calm down and they could sort this whole mess out. Until then, Harry could only wait, and keep apologizing.

It happened too fast, and Harry didn’t even realize until it was already done. His head snapped to the side and throbbing heat exploded across his cheek. His mouth felt puffy and when he slicked his tongue across his lips the coppery tang of blood filled his mouth. Stunned, Harry looked back at Grayson, who still had his hand raised.

“You aren’t sorry yet, but you will be.” Grayson promised and Harry took a quick step back, torn between gratitude and surprise that his legs were working again. “Oh yes, try to run away, Harry. Let’s see how far you can get before I catch you.”

“You...” Harry’s voice was a hoarse rasp laced with disbelief. “You hit me.”

Grayson froze, blinking at Harry as though he was just as surprised. His whole face changed, anger melting away into horror and apology. “Harry...Harry, I...”

“You hit me.” Harry repeated, his hand coming up to touch his cheek, wincing as pain shot through his face when his fingers made contact. “Wh-why?”

“I’m sorry.” Grayson’s blue eyes were suddenly damp, silvery trails on his cheeks, and he was reaching for Harry like he was afraid of being rebuked; of being pushed away. “Harry, I’m so, so sorry. Please...please, I would never… I love you, I wouldn’t...”

Harry wasn’t sure why, but he let Grayson pull him close; let those strong arms wrap around him and press him into that firm chest, as though they could protect him. Harry fought down a hysterical laugh at the thought...as though Grayson could protect him from Grayson. He stood, stiff and shaking, in Grayson’s embrace while the older man’s hands stroked over his back and hair and arms. Apologies and excuses and promises spilled from Grayson’s lips, brushing heatedly across Harry’s ears, and he wondered dimly what he was supposed to do now.

Bits and pieces of Grayson’s words filtered through the haze clouding Harry’s mind, bouncing around and echoing back. ‘Never again...’ and ‘didn’t mean it’ and ‘lost my temper’...and all of it was tangled up with apologies and sounded damp with tears and regrets. And almost against his will, Harry thought back to when Grayson had punished him the first time and he had lost it, clawing at Grayson’s arms like a wild animal...and how Grayson had been so understanding of his lapse in control. How Grayson had insisted there was nothing to forgive when Harry had finally apologized…

Harry opened his mouth before he even realized he was going to speak. “It’s okay.”

Grayson went still against him, hands freezing in place - one on the nape of Harry’s neck, and the other fisted in the fabric of Harry’s robes at the small of his back - at Harry’s whispered words. “What was that?”

Grayson’s words were still tear-tinged and tight, and they strengthened Harry’s own voice when he replied. “I said it’s okay.” He pushed back enough to look up at Grayson’s face and added. “I forgive you.”

Grayson’s expression twisted into one of relief and he pressed a rapid series of kisses over Harry’s face - scattering them across cheekbones, and the bridge of Harry’s nose, and along his jaw, and over his forehead. He murmured between them, words pressed wetly into Harry’s skin. “Thank you, love. I’m sorry, I really am. Thank you for forgiving me, Harry. Never again, I promise. I promise, Harry. I love you.”

Harry sighed softly and slowly relaxed against Grayson. Finally, long minutes later, he managed to speak again. “I’m tired, Grayson. Can we just...go to bed? Please?”

“Of course.” Grayson scooped Harry up into his arms, making the younger man gasp in surprise even as he started towards their bedroom. “I’m so sorry, love. Let’s get some sleep and tomorrow we’ll just...put this whole mess behind us.”

Harry nodded into Grayson’s shoulder, throat tight. “Okay.” He said, voice small all of a sudden, though he wasn’t sure why. After a moment, he added. “I love you.”

“I know you do.” Grayson replied, and Harry wondered if he was imagining the hint of smugness lacing the words, and then it was gone and his boyfriend’s voice was soft and sweet and he decided he must have. “I love you, too, Harry. Never forget that.”

“Never.” Harry promised, and wondered why he felt afraid instead of reassured.

Harry curled his fingers tightly around the edge of the sink, resisting the urge to hit the mirror with a reducto because it wouldn’t accomplish anything. After taking several deep, steadying breaths, Harry uncurled his fingers and picked up his wand, pointing it at his cheek and pretending his hand wasn’t shaking. He’d had four days for the swelling to go down and the bruising to fade, but it hadn’t been enough and Harry had never been very good at healing spells. He murmured the spell again - fourth time’s the charm - and watched the color fade a little more, though it still wasn’t gone entirely.

“Fuck.” Harry muttered, tossing his wand back onto the countertop next to the sink. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why won’t this fucking work?”

Grayson had planned an elaborate, extensive, expensive party for their one year anniversary. And Harry, like the idiot he was, had actually asked when their anniversary even was. But Harry had always been a bit iffy on when they’d started dating, and what counted as their first date, and whether that was their anniversary or if it was the day they went flying together or the day they met, or...whatever. Harry just hadn’t known. But asking had meant admitting he didn’t know, and that was tantamount to admitting he didn’t care and...well.

Harry swallowed hard and reached for the magical blemish concealer he’d ordered by owl post, just in case. He had hoped he wouldn’t need it, but if he couldn't heal the bruising that was stubbornly clinging to the curve of his cheekbone and the outer corner of his eye, then he didn’t have a choice. He couldn't attend the party with a black eye.

Harry ignored his trembling fingers as he dabbed the concealer onto the bruising, sighing in relief when it shimmered for a moment before blending into his natural skin tone. A few minutes later and Harry was satisfied that no one would notice, though he made sure to tuck the concealer into the pocket of his trousers just in case. If it wore off before the end of the night, he needed to be able to reapply, after all. As he looked himself over in the mirror one last time, Harry spared a moment to be grateful that the weather had turned cold enough that his long-sleeved shirt wouldn’t be questioned. He’d had enough trouble covering the bruising on his face without having to worry about the ones in the shape of Grayson’s fingers that decorated his upper arm.

Shaking his head to clear it, Harry barely remembered to pick up his wand before leaving the bathroom. He had a party to get to...and Grayson hated to be late.

Harry was scrubbing the bathroom when someone rang the buzzer for the flat. Frowning, Harry hurried to answer the intercom, calling down a terse. “Can I help you?” It was probably someone pushing the wrong button, and Harry was busy.

“Harry, it’s me.”

Harry hesitated, just for a moment, before sighing and pushing the button to unlock the outer door. “Come on up, Hermione. Just...give me a minute to let you in. I’m not, er...decent.”

Harry winced at the implication he’d just given - like maybe he sat around starkers all of the time when no one was home - but there wasn’t much to be done for it. He ran to the bedroom and pulled on a sweater over his tee-shirt, then swiped his ever-handy concealer over his throat. Hermione had already knocked on the flat’s door and Harry could practically feel her impatience, but he stood in front of the mirror for a moment, twisting this way and that, trying to make sure everything was covered that needed covering. Finally deciding it was, he hurried to let his friend in.

“Sorry.” He panted, smiling as brightly as he could after yanking open the door. “I was just...well. Not important. So, what brings you here?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and nudged past Harry, walking briskly towards the kitchen as though she owned the place. “Honestly, Harry. What were you doing, having a mid-day wank?”

“Wha...no!” Harry protested, following her and blushing fiercely. “I was cleaning, actually, and just didn’t want to open the door all scruffy and whatnot.”

Hermione’s face softened as she dropped her bag onto a chair, then turned around to pull Harry into a hug that smelled like books and dust and something floral he thought was her shampoo. “Oh, I’ve missed you, Harry! I don’t see nearly enough of you, what with my busy work schedule. Which is why I’m here. I wanted to make sure you and Grayson are coming for Christmas.”

“Oh...Christmas.” Harry pulled the corner of his lip into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth. He and Grayson hadn’t talked about Christmas, for all that it was less than two weeks away. “I...I don’t know, Hermione. It’s not that we wouldn’t love to go to the Burrow, it’s just...”

“It’s just what?” Hermione asked, already bustling around the kitchen to make tea. Never mind that she’d only been in the flat a handful of times, she somehow seemed to know where everything was. “Honestly, Harry, this isn’t like you. Ron and I haven’t seen you hardly a bit in months, and neither has anyone else. You cannot keep hiding yourself away like this!”

Harry nervously flitted behind Hermione, cleaning up everything she touched in a nervous excess of movement, and muttered. “I’m not hiding. I just...I’m busy. I spend a lot of time at Grayson’s games, and there’s Padfoot to take care of, and the flat, and...I’m just busy.”

Hermione huffed, peeking through the doorway at where Padfoot was sleeping on a dog bed beside the fireplace, more than twice the size he’d been when Grayson had brought him home. “Really, Harry. You’re so domestic now it’s a bit disgusting.” Her face was all smiles and fondness as she poured their tea and handed Harry his cup, fixed just the way he liked it. “I imagine it won’t be long before you and Grayson make things official, now will it?”

“What?” Harry asked, voice coming out a little strangled.

Hermione laughed, clearly not noticing his distress - or, perhaps, mistaking it for embarrassment. “I think at this rate you two might beat Ron and I down the aisle!” Hermione laughed again before sipping her tea and adding sternly. “Which still won’t excuse you from Christmas, you realize. We all expect you two to be there.”

Harry’s brain was so stuck on the idea of marrying Grayson that he set his cup down a bit too hard, splashing tea over his hand and the table. “Dammit!”

“It’s just a little tea, Harry.” Hermione shot him a puzzled look as he jumped up and hurried over to the sink. He shoved up his sleeves a bit and dampened the dishrag before turning back to see her with her wand pointed at the mess, a spell forming on her lips.

“Don’t!” He half-shouted, making her jump. When she spun around to gape at him, he cringed. “Sorry, I...sorry. I don’t use magic to clean. Doesn’t...doesn’t do the job right. Just...don’t, please.”

“Right.” Hermione was giving him a suspicious look that Harry really didn’t like as he hurried over to wipe up the tea. “Harry...is everything alright? I mean, really alright? Because if it’s not, you know you can talk to me. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know that.” Harry clenched his fingers around the dishrag for a moment, then smiled weakly at Hermione. “Everything’s fine. I’m just...I’m really busy today, Hermione. Cleaning, and errands, and...can we do this another day, please?”

Hermione’s eyes dropped and she sucked in a sharp gasp before reaching out - quick as a whip - and grabbing Harry’s hand, dragging his arm closer to her. “Harry, what is this?”

“What is what?” Harry asked, before looking down to see that his sleeve was pushed just high enough to reveal the edge of the bruising on his forearm. He winced. “Oh, that. That’s...it’s nothing. I hurt myself.”

“How?” Hermione asked, one hand still holding firm to Harry’s and keeping him from drawing away even as the fingers of her other hand pushed at his sleeve, trying to reveal more of the injury. “Harry, this looks bad...”

Harry pulled roughly away, ignoring the wounded look on Hermione’s face as he smoothed his sleeve back down. “I was playing with Padfoot and...it’s not important, okay? I’m fine.” Harry made a big show of looking over at the clock before added tersely. “And I’m busy, Hermione. I’ll talk to Grayson about Christmas and let you know what’s decided. It was nice to see you.”

For a moment, Harry didn’t think she was going to let it go...or going to leave. But, in the end, Hermione pushed to her feet and gathered her bag before letting Harry walk her to the door. She paused, halfway into the hall, and gave Harry a searching, serious look. “Harry...if something was wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? Or Ron, or...or somebody, right?”

Harry’s lips twisted into what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Of course I would, Hermione. Everything is fine. I’m just busy today.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “Right, of course. I’m sorry for having dropped by unannounced.” After a moment, Hermione threw herself forward and hugged Harry tightly, whispering into his ear. “Please remember that it’s okay to ask for help, Harry. We’d never look down on you for it. Not ever.”

Harry sighed and kissed his friend’s thick hair. “Goodbye, Hermione.”

After he’d closed the door, he leaned back against it before slowly sinking to the floor. He sat for a moment, staring at nothing, and wondering how well Hermione’s promise would hold up if she knew the truth. If she had any idea how badly he was failing at being in a relationship, unable to go more than a week or two without angering Grayson in some way. If she knew that while everyone thought they were completely perfect - and, as she herself had said, heading for an engagement and a wedding - Harry sometimes thought about packing up and taking off, running away to Merlin only knew where, but that he couldn't because he didn’t even have any money to run away with. He had nothing, save a trunk full of belongs and a dog he wouldn’t even be able to feed...and Grayson, who he couldn't seem to make happy.

There were some things Harry had no intention of ever telling anyone. His relationship problems were definitely at the top of that list. He didn’t think he could handle the pity in their eyes...or the shame that clawed at his throat at the mere thought of anyone knowing.

If there was one thing Harry had learned during the war, it was that there were some secrets you took to your grave...no matter what.

There are so many things it’s easy to blame yourself for; so many ways you can make things into your own fault, especially when someone whispers in your ear that it’s true. That sinuous voice wraps around your brain and reminds you that you brought the punishment - the pain - on yourself. You’re convinced you just need to do better; to be better. That will stop the pain; stop the lessons; stop your partner from needing to punish you, because they don’t want to. How can they want to? They love you. And if you could just learn to listen; learn to behave; learn to not fuck up…well. But you’re stupid and you do things wrong and it’s always, always, always your own fault.

There are so many ways to convince yourself of this. There are so many things you can line up excuses for. There is so much forgiveness inside you for the ones you love and there are so many ways someone can take advantage of the softness in your heart.

And then, there are things you cannot forgive. There are things that push you past that point, and make you realize that no one who loves you would ever hurt you this way. There are moments where everything comes crashing down and no amount of whispered words, hot against your ear, can convince you that you deserve what’s happening to you.

Harry’s only crime was in thinking he still had any power in his relationship with Grayson. He was swiftly disabused of this notion.

Harry begged Grayson so attend Christmas at the Burrow. He begged, and then he demanded, and then he fell silent with a stinging cheek and tear-tracks on his face. They did not go. Harry did not get to see his friends, the ones he loved like family, despite it being Christmas and there being no one on Grayson’s side to see instead, and it was just the two of them and Padfoot in their empty flat, not even a Christmas tree to make it feel like a holiday. It reminded Harry of too many years spent locked in a cupboard, alone and unwanted, wishing to be anywhere else, just once. It had Harry’s teeth clenching tight in anger, fingers twitching as though longing for the wand he’d long since stopped carrying around with him.

Harry was silent through dinner, and silent through the opening of presents, and if Grayson gave him hurt and disappointed looks - as though Harry were ruining his Christmas with his anger - then Harry felt nothing but vindication. If he was going to be miserable, then Grayson could be, too. Grayson never hesitated to make it clear to Harry when he was upset - when Harry had done something to displease him - and for once Harry was going to do the same. When Harry had finished cleaning up the wrapping paper and packaging, he moved towards the bedroom, in no mood to be around Grayson while his boyfriend listened to the wireless and did a crossword or read a book or whatever it was he was going to do.

“Turning in already?” Grayson’s voice was low and pleasant and Harry couldn't stop the shiver of fear that chased itself up his spine, though he refused to do anything other than shrug; refused to even turn around. Harry stood poised in the doorway to their bedroom, shaking but not backing down, spine straight and shoulders stiff with anger and tension. “Where’s your Christmas cheer, love?”

“With my family.” Harry spat, turning at last to glare at Grayson. He sucked in a sharp breath and resisted the urge to back away when he realized Grayson had moved closer, standing nearly toe-to-toe with Harry.

“My, aren’t you fierce tonight.” Grayson’s eyes were bright, and he looked pleased - like a child being presented with a shiny new toy. “Come on, then, Harry. Let’s go to bed.”

Grayson’s knuckles brushed over Harry’s cheek, and this time he did jerk back, glaring. “You’re not touching me tonight, Grayson. I’m not in the mood.”

Blue eyes flashed and Grayson’s smile widened. “But I am.”

When Grayson reached for him again, Harry reacted without thought, smacking his hand away. “I said no!” Harry was breathing heavily, still shaking all over, and he moved back a few steps to get some space between the two of them. “No, Grayson. Do you remember what that word means? Godric knows I don’t say it much, but you sure as hell do.”

Harry turned around and stalked towards his dresser, pulling his shirt off with jerky, angry movements as he crossed the room. He tossed it onto the floor, uncaring in that moment if it pissed Grayson off, and reached for the handles on the drawer holding his pajamas. Before he could touch it, he was shoved forward, unyielding wood digging into the front of him, right up to the middle of his chest. Heat pressed all along his back, and a hand curled around his throat, pressing just firmly enough to be threatening. Something thin and hard touched Harry’s temple and he stiffened when he realized it was the tip of Grayson’s wand.

Hot breath skated over Harry’s ear and Grayson’s voice was a low, husky purr. “You can say it as much as you want to, pet. Scream it if you like, even. Doesn’t mean I’m going to listen.”

Harry whimpered in fear as Grayson rolled his hips forward, pressing the hard length of his erection against Harry’s ass, the layers of clothing between them doing nothing to mute the implied threat in the gesture. Harry wanted to fight - wanted to scream and claw and bite, to kick and hit and rip at Grayson until he was forced to let go - but the kiss of wood against his temple held him still, terrified of what Grayson might do if he was pushed. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, hating the wetness creeping down his cheeks; mouth pressed tightly closed against desperate sounds and the taste of salt. Grayson’s hand tightened on his throat and Harry struggled, just for a moment, to breathe; couldn't stop his hands from coming up to clutch at Grayson’s wrist while his body rebelled against its inability to take in air.

“You’re going to listen to me very carefully, Harry.” Grayson’s voice seemed to consume Harry’s mind, pushing everything else out. “And you’re going to do everything I say. Or you’re going to be incredibly sorry. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded frantically, as much as he could with the hand still curled too-tight against his throat. “Good boy.” The condescending praise accompanied Grayson releasing him and taking a step back, and Harry sucked in shuddering breaths so fast he got dizzy, the room spinning sickeningly around him for a moment. “Turn around, Harry.”

On legs that felt too weak to support him, Harry did as he was told. His eyes were locked on Grayson’s wand, leveled so calmly at Harry’s heart; he couldn't look at anything else. “Now, first things first. I want you to remember which of us is in control, Harry. Remember who’s in charge. Because you seem to have forgotten and that’s really not acceptable.”

He reached out, fisting his hand in Harry’s hair and forcing the younger man to meet his eyes. “Which of us makes the decisions, Harry?”

“You.” Harry whispered, cringing when Grayson’s wand traced lightly down the side of his face. “I’m sorry...”

“Oh, I don’t think you mean that.” Grayson’s voice was tinged with amusement and a dark sort of pleasure that made Harry’s stomach twist into knots. His wand dipped lower, digging painfully into the tender spot just under Harry’s jaw, where it met his throat. “”But by the time I’m done with you, you will.”

“Please...” Harry hated the catch in his voice; hated the broken sound of it. But there was nothing for it; nothing to be done. “Please, don’t...”

Grayson’s hand tightened in his hair, and Harry bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. “As sweet as you sound begging, I’ve got another use for your smart mouth.”

Harry resisted the pressure against his head for only a moment, before closing his eyes tight again and letting his knees bend. This was easy; this was mindless; this was nothing. Forcing himself not to think about it - to forget the wand once-again pressed to his temple - Harry ignored the sound of a zipper and rustling fabric. He blocked out everything as best he could, except the hissed commands Grayson gave, pushing everything down until it barely hurt at all. He parted his lips, and relaxed his throat, and moved his tongue in all the ways Grayson had taught him he liked best, and blocked out Grayson’s voice spewing insults and praise in the same breath unless it gave a direct order, and then he just obeyed.

It was so easy to just obey.

When bitter heat flooded his mouth, Harry reacted without thought, forgetting for a moment the threat of the wand and Grayson’s rage. He yanked his head back, away from Grayson’s now-slack fingers tangled in his hair, and scrambled madly for the en-suite bathroom. Grayson made no move to follow him as he turned on the sink and spit frantically, his body heaving as he sobbed around the sour taste coating his tongue and throat. He fumbled blindly for his toothbrush, still gagging as he desperately tried to scrub the taste away. He had never reacted this way before, but his stomach wouldn’t quiet and the tears wouldn’t stop and he was sure his throat was ripping itself to shreds from the force of his gagging, a thought confirmed by the blood he was spitting into the sink. Or maybe it was his mouth that was bleeding, as he tried to use the toothbrush to scrape away the lingering burn of sharp-sweet bile and the unpleasant taste of Grayson’s release.

In the end, it didn’t matter much.

Harry wasn’t sure how long it was before his body grew still again; wasn’t sure how long it took before he could splash cool water on his face and pretend the blotchy and uneven tone to his skin wasn’t that bad. Before he took a wavering breath and made his way back into the bedroom, holding himself stiff and careful as though he might start shaking again if he wasn’t careful. Not that it made a difference. The moment he saw Grayson standing next to their bed, a patient look on his face, clothing in disarray and terrifyingly still aroused, Harry was trembling again.

‘This can’t be happening...’ The little voice in Harry’s head was weak, and afraid, and Harry felt like a puppet on a string as he moved closer to Grayson without wanting to. ‘This has to be a nightmare...it has to be.’

“Strip.” Grayson ordered and Harry’s hands moved numbly to the fly on his jeans, muscle memory taking care of the rest before he’d even spared it a thought. He shoved out of the denim and his cotton boxers, then stood with his head lowered, eyes closed, as though awaiting judgement. Or execution.

Rough hands grabbed at Harry, shoving him face-first onto the bed, and then a solid forearm was pressed tight against the base of his skull, just where it met his neck. Grayson braced his weight against it even as his knees forced Harry’s legs apart, and Harry couldn't help it. He struggled, his body bucking and arching, protesting the too-heavy weight on such a delicate portion of his body, his head throbbing viciously almost right away. The sound of Grayson’s laughter echoed in his ears as the pressure increased against the back of his neck, Grayson’s other hand clenching bruise-tight around his hip, and Harry realized absently that the threat of Grayson’s wand was gone, but he was well-and-truly trapped so it made no difference. Grayson was bigger than Harry, and stronger, and all of Harry’s struggling did nothing more than press bruises into his skin that much faster.

Grayson pushed forward roughly with his hips, and Harry screamed. He screamed and sobbed and begged until he was certain his throat was raw and bleeding; until he wondered how any silencing charm could have held strong against his voice; until there was no sound left at all besides his ragged breathing and the occasional sob, torn painfully past his lips.

When Grayson’s voice crooned in his ear again, Harry had lost all sense of how much time had passed. “Are you sorry yet, love?” Harry keened weakly at the sound of Grayson’s laugh - deep and low and full of glee. “Tell me you’re sorry. Convince me.”

Harry made a small, broken sound, then forced out words in a hoarse rasp. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, Grayson, I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorrysorrysorry...” The word bled into itself, syllables melting together until it was a blur of sound dripping off his tongue like nonsense; until it echoed in his head like nothing else existed; until it lost all meaning.

When Grayson finally collapsed on top of him, dead weight pressing Harry’s face further into the bedding until he could barely breathe, there wasn’t even any space left inside Harry for relief. Everything was numb and aching at the same time. Everything hurt, and felt disconnected and unreal, and Harry wanted nothing more than to crawl into a scalding hot shower and scrub until his skin felt clean again. Until he felt clean again.

After several heartbeats, Grayson rolled over, off of Harry, and stretched lazily beside him. His hand carded through Harry’s hair, and Harry didn’t even flinch. Grayson turned onto his side and leaned in, his mouth right next to Harry’s ear, and purred. “You’re mine, Harry. Don’t ever forget that again.”

Closing his eyes against more tears and the screaming pain in his head that made him fear that the prolonged weight on the base of his skull had left him with a concussion, Harry gave a single, short nod. Grayson hummed his approval and murmured. “I love you, Harry. Happy Christmas.”

Harry said nothing, but his mind was racing. There were many things Harry had shouldered the blame for, and many things he’d forgiven, but this… this was not one of them. As Grayson’s breathing grew deep and even beside him, Harry began to plan. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to leave.

Harry didn’t bother asking Grayson if they were going to attend the New Year’s Eve party Hermione and Ron were throwing. He already knew what the answer would be, and the risks he ran if he brought it up and Grayson got angry. With Christmas still fresh in his mind, Harry sent off a refusal to the invitation, citing a desire to stay in with his boyfriend for a quiet evening alone. Which was stupid, because all Harry ever did was go to Grayson’s games and stay home with him, excepting the occasional - Grayson-Approved - public appearance. But Harry had run out of excuses and couldn't be bothered to come up with any new ones. If his friends argued the point, so what? It wasn’t going to make Harry attend. There was no longer any need for Grayson to keep Harry’s friends at a distance; Harry was more than willing to do so himself. His goal now was not happiness; it was survival. That meant certain sacrifices - like Harry’s previous friendships - had to be made, at least temporarily.

Harry’s daily life dissolved into a repetitious cycle of keeping Grayson happy, dealing with his random fits of temper, and planning. Harry didn’t know how he was going to manage it, not yet anyway, but he was determined that he was going to find a way out.

The first time Harry found himself with money Grayson didn’t have carefully tallied and accounted for was a complete accident.

It was the middle of January and Harry had taken money pressed into his hand by Grayson and run to the store for eggs. When he’d returned, he’d absentmindedly fished the change from his pocket and handed it to Grayson. His boyfriend was so used to Harry’s mindless complacence that he didn’t bother counting it, or even asking for the receipt. Instead, he slid the change into his wallet and went back to what he’d been doing. Harry, for his part, had never intended to keep some of the change for himself. It wasn’t until he was doing laundry later that week that Harry came across the crumpled fiver in the pocket of his jeans, along with a couple of coins. It was a negligible amount; nothing, really.

‘Nothing that will be missed, anyway.’ Harry’s mind had helpfully supplied, and he’d curled greedy fingers around it, already plotting how he could secret away more. It would have to be a little at a time - nothing large enough to draw Grayson’s attention - but this was something he could do; something he could work towards. A little bit, here and there...just enough to buy him some breathing room so he could run. He would figure out how to get the rest of his money back from Grayson once he was safely away. He just needed enough money to give him a chance.

Harry was humming softly as he led Padfoot - who was still growing, and looked more and more like Sirius’ animagi form every day, in a way that both hurt and soothed - up the hall and to the door of Grayson’s flat. Harry had taken to calling it that in his mind - Grayson’s flat as opposed to their flat - shortly after Christmas. Out loud, he wouldn’t have dared. Unlocking the door, Harry undid Padfoot’s leash and released the dog into the flat, still humming to himself. Days where Grayson had practice were easier for Harry; days when he could spend hours out of the flat, even if he couldn't be around his friends, were easier. Taking Padfoot to the park was a good way to do that, and Harry did it as often as he could.

Padfoot bounded into the kitchen, no doubt going straight for his water dish, and Harry locked the door behind himself before wandering towards the bedroom to change. Grayson didn’t like coming home to a sweaty Harry, after all.

Harry had barely stepped through the bedroom door when it slammed closed and he found himself pressed against it, a strong forearm pressed across his throat. “G-grayson!” Harry gasped, eyes wide and fearful, wracking his mind for what he could have done wrong; what could have painted fury across Grayson’s face the way it was. “You’re...home early.” It was all Harry could think of to say.

Grayson snarled and Harry made a choked sound of fear when he felt a wand press against his cheek. “I thought I’d surprise you. I wasn’t even upset when you weren’t here, assuming you’d taken Padfoot for a walk. I decided I’d make us a late lunch for when you got home.”

“Wh...” Harry’s voice broke and he had to start again. “Why are you angry? Wh-what did I do?”

“Oh, you know perfectly well what you did.” Grayson hissed, eyes flashing dangerously. “Tell me, Harry...when I was looking for a strainer, what do you suppose I found?”

“Oh no...” Harry whimpered, eyes closing in defeat. He had no defense; none at all. “G-grayson, I...” Harry stopped, because there was nothing to say.

There was another snarl, then a soft sound as something hit the floor. Harry couldn't help it; he turned his head and looked at the money - a measly hundred or so pounds, gathered over four months - now spread across the bedroom floor like refuse. “Is there something you wanted to tell me, Harry? Hmmm? Some secret you’ve been keeping from me?”

Harry’s mouth trembled and he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the money; from his hope, snatched away and scattered like it was worthless, so close but desperately out of reach. And the words that came out of his mouth weren’t the ones he should have been saying - apologies to speed his punishment up; to mitigate the damage; to appease Grayson’s temper. Instead, what tripped off his tongue was the disbelief circling his brain; the impossibility that he had been found out; that he had been caught. Because Harry had been so careful in his hiding space, choosing it for a reason, and the impossibility of it all was overwhelming.

“You never cook.” The words were an admission in the worst way possible, and Harry wished them back behind his teeth immediately, but it was too late.

A pained cry was torn from Harry’s lips as Grayson hissed a spell and dragged his wand down Harry’s cheek, leaving a stinging cut in its wake. Harry could feel blood dripping down his jaw; could feel the threatening press of Grayson’s wand as it slid down and pressed against his throat.

“If you ever try to leave me, I will kill you.” Grayson’s voice was a husky promise against his ear, breath hot and damp. “You’re mine, Harry. Forever.”

When Grayson stepped back, Harry slid slowly down the wall, curling into a ball with his face pressed into his knees as he sobbed. He cried out in pain again when Grayson’s booted foot connected with his side, sending him scrabbling away from the door. Grayson opened it and Padfoot rushed into the room, barking and whining, immediately nosing at Harry in concern. Harry wrapped himself around the dog, heedless of both blood and tears getting on his dark fur. Grayson left the bedroom, the door closing behind him with a quiet snick, and Harry wished he was anywhere else in the world.

All he’d ever wanted was to be safe and loved…

For two weeks, Grayson locked Harry in the bedroom whenever he went to practice. For two weeks, Harry didn’t see anything outside the flat. Mostly, he stared at sky blue walls, curled up on the big bed, dreading the moment Grayson would require something of him again. Padfoot would curl up as close to Harry as he could get, whining low and miserable, doing his best to give comfort to the owner he loved. When Grayson was home, Padfoot was locked in his kennel-cage. Padfoot had made the mistake of growling at Grayson and Harry had been hard-pressed to keep the animal alive and with him; the cage was a lesser evil and they both tolerated it with minimal fuss.

Finally, Grayson decided Harry had been punished long enough. He got ready for practice while Harry cleaned up from breakfast, then approached. Harry expected to be ushered into the bedroom, but Grayson simply pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead, and said softly. “I’d like dinner ready and the flat clean by the time I get home.” He flicked his eyes towards the mantel where Harry’s wand sat and asked. “You remember the rules?”

Harry nodded numbly, feeling like he was made of television static, and watched in silence as Grayson moved towards the fireplace. As soon as Grayson was gone, Harry ran for his wand. He curled his fingers around the handle, breath rushing past his lips in too-fast pants. His fingers tightened spastically around the wood, then Harry turned towards Padfoot with a manic grin.

“I have to...I have to go, but I’ll be back, Padfoot. Give me...fuck, give me an hour or so, okay, boy? Then we’re both out of here. I promise.”

Padfoot whined and Harry took it as agreement with his plan. Throwing a handful of Floo powder into the flames, he stepped into tickling emerald warmth and whispered two words in a way that sounded like ‘freedom’ to his own ears. “Diagon Alley.”

Harry was cursing softly as he threw clothes into his trunk. Padfoot was pressed against his legs, whining miserably, clearly confused and picking up on Harry’s own wildly shifting emotions. “Shhh...” Harry chided the dog, wondering what the hell he was going to do next, even as he closed the lid and latched it securely. “Shhh, it’s okay. It’s...it’ll be fine, okay, boy? We’ll be fine.”

Harry had wasted two hours arguing with Gringotts about withdrawing money, getting absolutely nowhere. He’d finally pulled out the maximum he was allowed at any one time - a mere fifty galleons - and demanded it be converted to Muggle money. He had two hundred and fifty pounds...which wasn’t enough. It was nowhere near enough. But it was better than nothing, and it was all Harry could get for the moment. He’d figure things out; he always had in the past. Now he just had to grab his trunk and Padfoot’s leash and some food - for both of them - and they could go. He didn’t know where, but decided it didn’t matter. He’d run as far as he had to, to get away from Grayson.

“Almost done, boy.” Harry whispered, reaching down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “We’re almost out of here, just...hang in there for a few more minutes.”

“Going somewhere?”

Harry whipped around so fast the room continued to spin sickeningly for a minute even after he’d stopped. He stared, wand raised in a shaking hand, at Grayson. “No...” Harry whispered, hating the fear coating the back of his throat like a bad taste; hating how it made him tremble and dragged at him until he couldn't move or breathe, let alone fight. “How? You were at…how?”

“Gringotts knows to inform me if you should attempt to withdraw funds, Harry.” Grayson’s eyes were cold and his smile was razor-sharp and when he moved it reminded Harry of a predator; reminded Harry that he was prey. “I don’t enjoy having my day interrupted. This is quite a lot of trouble you’re giving me lately. It’s going to have to stop, Harry. I won’t tolerate it.”

Gathering his courage, Harry raised his chin, fingers tightening around his wand reflexively. “I’m leaving. I...I’m done, Grayson. I can’t...” Harry’s breath hitched again and he shook his head, blinking back tears furiously. “I am so done and I...I’m leaving. You need to let me go.”

“Do I? Well, then.” And Grayson’s tone was so light - so pleasant - that for a split second Harry wavered. His wand lowered, just a little, and Grayson snapped. “Accio wand!”

“No!” Harry cried, lunging at Grayson without thought. Before he could make contact, Grayson gripped Harry’s wand with both hands and there was a sickening crack.

An anguished keen tore itself from Harry’s throat even as he kept moving forward. “You bastard!” Harry was screaming now, and sobbing, and pounding his fists into Grayson’s chest in his fury. “How could you? You fucking bastard, how could you?”

Grayson backhanded Harry, then threw him to the floor. When Padfoot growled and bared his teeth, Grayson snapped. “Control your mutt, Harry, or I’ll put him down.”

“I hate you!” Harry whispered, voice tight with tears as he scrambled for Padfoot. His fingers hooked under the dark blue collar and he tugged, dragging the dog into its cage and shutting the wire-mesh door. He pressed his forehead tight against it for a moment, leaning all of his weight against the cage before turning to glare at Grayson again. “I hate you.”

“You’re going to learn to behave, Harry, one way or another. You’d do well to cooperate.” Grayson tossed the pieces of Harry’s wand on top of his trunk, then leveled his wand at the piece of luggage. “Incendio.”

The scream that ripped itself from Harry’s throat was mindless; it was grief-driven and tinged with madness. Everything Harry owned - save the dog behind him - was in that trunk. His photos, the Marauder’s map, the cloak, his clothes...literally everything. For long minutes the only sounds were the crackle of flames and Harry’s continued screams. Harry didn’t think he could have screamed more - or louder - if the spell had been burning his very body down to ash instead.

When Grayson finally lowered his wand, it was with a thoughtful hum. There, amidst the ashes, was a shimmering puddle of silvery fabric and Harry hiccoughed repeatedly between sobs as Grayson lifted it up and shook it, ashes drifting silently to the carpet. “Well, this is durable, isn’t it?”

“Please...” Harry croaked, making a grabby hand motion, desperate to hold the last thing he had to connect him to everyone he’d lost in his life. “Grayson, please...”

Sighing, Grayson shook his head. “Honestly, Harry. What makes you think you deserve anything right now? I told you what would happen if you tried to leave, didn’t I?” Harry felt all of the blood drain out of his face, remembering the kiss of a wand against his throat and the promise of death whispered in his ear.

Voice still reasonable, Grayson added chidingly. “I think I’m being rather generous in my punishment, all things considered. Perhaps, if you’re very good for a very long time, you’ll earn this back.” He flicked his eyes to the cage behind Harry and added with a tender smile. “And Harry? Do take the time to consider what you have left to lose before trying something like this again.”

Harry snarled, pressing his back against the cage door, arms spread wide in a protective gesture. Grayson simply tsked softly before turning and walking out of the room, the invisibility cloak still in his hands. Harry wondered what he was going to do with it; wondered if he’d ever see the hallow again. Swallowing hard, Harry crawled over to the large pile of ashes and sifted desperately through them, hoping against hope that something - anything - had survived the spell.

When his fingers brushed parchment, he clutched at it with a pounding heart and pulled it free. He stared down at folds and creases and tattered edges in awe, before whispering. “You brilliant, brilliant man. You’d never have let anything hurt this, would you, Sirius?” Because though he wasn’t sure why, Harry was very confident that ensuring the Map was all but indestructible had been his godfather’s idea. And though he couldn't activate it without a wand, Harry was relieved beyond words that the Map had survived.

Harry quickly moved to Padfoot’s cage, sliding the battered parchment underneath it, determined to keep it safe from Grayson. He simply couldn't stand the thought of losing anything else.

It was already past Harry’s birthday when opportunity knocked.

Harry had been on perfect behavior, having little to no contact with anyone other than Grayson. He kept the flat clean, and cooked Grayson’s meals, and took care of Padfoot. They were allowed to go for walks only under Grayson’s steely-eyed supervision, and Harry had long-since been banned from doing any of the shopping or handling money in any way. The feel of his wand - the wood against his palm and the way it made his magic stretch and preen, eager to be used - had faded to a surreal sort of memory. The aching loss of his things had settled into a dull pain that never really went away, but was at least manageable. Harry ate when given permission, showered when ordered to, and allowed Grayson to dress and undress him as he pleased, like a life-sized doll.

Harry seemed to exist solely for the purpose of pleasing Grayson. He had a hard time remembering a time when that wasn’t the case; when his life consisted of things other than fear and pain and resignation.

Opportunity came in the form of an owl while Grayson was at a game. Harry no longer attended games; he wondered if Grayson thought he was going to start shouting the truth for the world to hear in the middle of a match. The sad thing was, Harry didn’t think he could, even if he sometimes daydreamed about doing just that. To tell everyone the truth would be admitting his own failure - his inability to choose a proper partner; his inability to see the truth before it was too late; his inability to protect himself. Harry couldn't think of asking for help without feeling sick and ashamed at the mere idea of admitting everything Grayson had done to him; admitting what he’d been reduced to.

The owl flew up to Harry - and really, Harry didn’t think he’d ever get used to receiving mail in such a manner - and stuck out its leg. Harry untied the parchment, frowning at the official Gringotts seal. Why would Gringotts be contacting him? He had no control over anything anymore. Opening the missive one-handed, Harry absently gave the owl a treat; it took off a moment later and Harry turned his full attention to the letter in his hands. His eyes grew wider and wider as he read it, each word making something bright and strong spread further through his chest. The letter was talking about things that, for the most part, Harry didn’t understand, but…

But the words ‘entailed estate’ and ‘officially denied transfer of control’ jumped out at him. Gringotts was writing to let him know that, although the rest of his considerable wealth was - as it had been for ten months - still firmly under Grayson’s control, the bank had determined that Grimmauld Place was not and could never be. It was impossible for Harry to sell or give away the property in any manner, unless it was to a direct blood relative of the family Harry had inherited it from in the first place. Heart racing, Harry glanced at the clock. He had at least three more hours before Grayson would be home; before he’d be missed.

“Padfoot!” Harry called out, grabbing the dog’s leash and the few loose wizarding coins scattered on the table near the door; Grayson must have been in a hurry to have left any money lying around, even pocket change, but Harry was grateful. Just as Harry rushed into the bedroom and snatched the Marauder’s Map from its hiding place, the massive black dog bounded up to him and Harry clipped the leash onto his collar before striding determinedly to the fireplace.

He threw a handful of Floo powder in, then hesitated to look at Padfoot...but there was no way he was leaving the dog behind and no way he was risking coming back for him. Not after the last time. “Merlin, I hope this is safe...”

Pulling the dog into the flames, he called out the address for Diagon Alley. It took him all of ten minutes to get from the Leaky Cauldron to Gringotts, and a mere ten more to get up to a goblin and request his limit of fifty galleons. It took him a mere thirty seconds to be denied; Grayson had ensured Harry could withdraw nothing and Harry swallowed hard, knowing the bank would inform him of this withdrawal attempt. Shaking his head because it didn’t matter - it didn’t matter - Harry hurried Padfoot straight to the owl post office. He quickly sent off a letter to the Floo Department at the Ministry, using almost half of the money he’d grabbed to do so, but it was important. The letter would seal Grimmauld Place’s Floo from everyone - immediately - thus protecting Harry.

Knowing he had to beat that owl, Harry all but ran back to the Leaky with Padfoot, using the Floo to access the old house. After Harry unclipped Padfoot’s leash, releasing the dog into the abandoned confines of the house, he sat down to watch the fireplace. He wouldn’t be able to relax until the magic there flashed red, signaling that the Floo was cut off from the Network. He had to know he was safe.

For three days and three nights, Harry curled his body around Padfoot at the foot of the main staircase, listening to Grayson shouting and pounding on the door from the other side. Kreacher - who had maintained the house as best he could in Harry’s absence and who, as an elf employed by the House of Black (owned by Harry or not, it still was what it was) had more access to Harry’s money than Harry himself did - had quickly procured food for both his master and master’s dog, as the elf called Padfoot. He understood that he was not to open the door for the man demanding entrance, and he never asked Harry questions he couldn't - or didn’t want to - answer. Instead, Kreacher made Harry food, and took Padfoot to the garden to do his business, and fed and watered Padfoot as well, and promised Harry over and over that the house was well-secured despite the time it had sat empty.

On the fourth day, Grayson didn’t show up. Instead, a delivery of flowers did. Then another. And another. And another. By the end of the week, Harry felt a bit as though he was living inside a greenhouse. Or, perhaps, a flower shop. On the fourth day, in addition to the still-arriving flowers, there was a small stuffed teddy bear. More stuffed animals - growing increasingly larger and plusher each day - followed. After two weeks of plush toys and flowers arriving daily, Harry ordered Kreacher to confine the offerings to a parlor so he wouldn’t have to look at them anymore. Each one arrived with a note from Grayson, and each note set Harry’s teeth on edge.

‘I’m sorry.’ Three of the notes said that, and nothing more.‘I love you. I miss you. Please forgive me.’ Two of them said that. After those, the notes got more and more apologetic; more romantic; more everything. They begged Harry to meet Grayson; to give him a chance to apologize in person and try to fix things. Each note was read, scoffed at, and tossed onto a table. Sometimes, Harry found himself reading them over and over again, drawn like iron filings to a magnet by the apologies he knew he couldn't trust but desperately craved anyway. Grayson had too much to apologize for to ever have this be okay. Harry knew that.

And yet, Grayson’s words called out to him, like a siren’s song, growing more believable with each reread. He sounded so sincere…

After three weeks, Harry’s invisibility cloak arrived, complete with another note begging Harry to meet him for coffee so that they could talk. ‘Just talk to me, please, Harry. Just for a few minutes. Even if you never forgive me, please just let me apologize in person. I owe you that much, at least.’

And despite the alarm bells ringing in his head, a week into September Harry gave the name of a small muggle coffee shop he knew had outdoor seating, and a date - two days later - and a time.

He brought Padfoot to the meeting, just in case, and hated the way his hands shook when he walked up to see Grayson already sitting under one of the umbrella-shaded tables. “Harry...” Grayson stood and took a step closer, then froze when Padfoot growled dangerously. His eyes lowered, his face fell, and his shoulders drooped. “I suppose I deserve that.” He admitted softly.

Harry curled his hands tight against the urge to comfort Grayson, fighting down the voice in his head insisting he had to make Grayson happy. “You deserve much worse.” Harry bit out from between clenched teeth, hating the part of him that melted - just a little - at the meek way Grayson nodded in agreement. “You said you wanted to talk, so...talk.”

Grayson nodded again, eyes still lowered, and gestured to the table. Two cups of coffee were already sitting there and Harry took a seat only after Grayson had. He curled his fingers around the warm cup, stealing some of the soothing heat for his hands though it wasn’t really chilly yet. There was just something about hot ceramic against his palms that he found comforting. He had no intention of drinking it, though; he didn’t trust Grayson not to have done something to it. Refusing to be the one to break the silence - refusing to be the one to break - Harry simply sat quietly, contemplating the shadow cast on the table by the umbrella overhead, waiting.

“I’m sorry.”

Harry’s head came up, a decidedly unimpressed look on his face, and Grayson winced. “I know that’s not adequate, Harry. Believe me, I know. But it’s the truth. I...have a temper. A very bad one. And I should never have taken it out on you. That was inexcusable of me.”

“Yes, it was.” Harry retorted, determined to give no quarter; to hold strong against those pleading blue eyes and the faint tremble to that soft mouth. “Is that all? I’ve got better things to do with my time than listen to you state things I already know.”

“I’m seeing a Mind Healer.” Grayson offered, and Harry froze in the act of rising from the table, mouth falling open in shock. “I don’t want to hurt you, Harry, or anyone else, ever again. So I...I’m getting help. I know that’s probably not enough to convince you to come home. I know...I know you don’t trust me, and that’s my own fault, but I wanted you to know that...that I’m getting help.”

Harry sank slowly back down onto the chair, then whispered. “You...you’re really seeing a Mind Healer?” Grayson nodded, his cheeks bright red, and Harry chewed on his lower lip as his heart did a slow flip in his chest. “You’re doing that for me?”

Grayson’s head came up and he met Harry’s eyes, face vulnerable and earnest and pleading. “Yes? And no? I...it’s for you, because I want you to feel safe, but...it’s for me too. I need to do this for myself. I...I hope you can understand that.” Harry nodded slowly and Grayson seemed to wilt in relief. “I understand if you can’t forgive me, Harry, but I swear that I will never hurt you again. I love you and I...I want to get better.”

He swallowed hard, then added in a whisper. “I want to be better. For you.”

“Grayson...” Harry’s breath shivered out on something that wasn’t quite a sob. He was thinking back to how things had been in the beginning; to the early months of their relationship, when Harry had felt loved and cared for and infinitely safe in Grayson’s arms. Was it possible to have all of that back again? Was there a chance, now that Grayson was trying so hard to mend the broken parts of himself?

“Don’t decide right now.” Grayson said quickly, reaching out and curling his fingers over one of Harry’s hands. His eyes were so wide and pleading, brilliant blue and shining with emotion and a hint of tears. “Just...think about it, please. I...I know you loved me, and I want to be worthy of that love again. If you...if you can find it in your heart to give me another chance, I swear I’ll do better, Harry. Just think about it.”

Harry nodded, ducking his head and slowly sliding his hand out from under Grayson’s. The older man let him go, looking resigned but hopeful. “You’ll let me know?” He asked, tone quiet and beseeching. “Even if the answer is no, you...you’ll let me know?”

Harry nodded again, though he didn’t look up. “Of course. I...I’ll let you know. I just need some time to think about it.” He peeked up and added honestly. “I’m glad you’re getting help, though. That...that’s good.”

Grayson nodded and stood, giving Harry a small smile. “Thank you, Harry, for listening. No matter what you decide, I’m grateful you gave me that much.”

Harry watched him go, his hand dropping down to stroke over Padfoot’s head in an absent minded fashion. He had no idea what he was going to do, because everything suddenly seemed so much more complicated than it had when he’d woken up that morning.

One week later, Harry and Padfoot moved back into Grayson’s flat.

Grayson’s promise lasted a little over a month. Halfway through October, Harry told Grayson he didn’t want to attend the Potter Day celebration. Grayson’s response involved the back of his hand. Harry had bruises on one side of his face for days. Grayson apologized; Harry threatened to leave.

In the end, Harry went to the event, Grayson scheduled therapy for every week instead of every other, and Harry stayed.

It was early June the first time Harry’s stomach rebelled. If pressed, he couldn't have said what set him off except, perhaps, that it had something to do with the smell of the food he was cooking. Once it started purging, his body didn’t seem to want to stop and Harry honestly felt like his stomach was trying to turn itself inside out. Or, perhaps, escape through his mouth. He wasn’t sure which.

Grayson came home some fifteen minutes later to a smoky apartment, burnt supper, and Harry hunched over the toilet dry heaving.

Much to Harry’s relief, Grayson was in a good mood, despite what he stepped out of the Floo to find. He cleaned up the ruined meal and ordered take-out while making sympathetic sounds at Harry, who’s stomach slowly settled down. Harry was ordered to lay on the couch, with his head in Grayson’s lap, which he did. He fell asleep to the feel of Grayson’s fingers carding gently through his hair, convinced he was getting a stomach flu. His last waking thought was to hope Grayson didn’t catch it. Harry wasn’t sure what Grayson was like when he was sick, but he didn’t particularly want to find out. Odds were, it wouldn’t do anything good for the man’s temper.

Two weeks before Harry’s birthday, the truth slammed into him. Quite literally.

He was in Diagon Alley with Grayson, ostensibly to pick out a cake for Harry’s birthday. Mostly it was because if the Wizarding World didn’t see them together every few weeks, the newspapers started speculating. Grayson didn’t like speculating. But the cake-story was what Grayson cheerfully told the photographer who’d snapped their picture while they were walking towards the bakery. Harry honestly didn’t want a cake, because he’d noticed his pants were getting tight and it was making him worry about weight gain.

It wasn’t until the bakery owner was handing Harry samples that it happened. He was trying something - he wasn’t sure what, something with a berry filling - and the taste coated his mouth, making his whole body heave. Slamming a hand over his mouth, Harry ran for the door of the shop, praying he wasn’t going to throw up all over everyone’s shoes or the store’s shiny floor. He heard Grayson making excuses behind him about the stomach flu Harry couldn't seem to shake entirely - the oddest things kept setting him off - even as he dashed outside into the main thoroughfare.

Harry slammed right into someone else - his whole left side ached from the contact - right outside the door. He didn’t stop to see who, but hoped they were okay. He ran into the alley next to the bakery, braced his hand against the wall, and proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach. It wasn’t until he felt a light hand on the small of his back that he realized he’d been followed. Praying it wasn’t a photographer or reporter, Harry continued heaving for several long minutes while the woman beside him rubbed circles into his back and crooned soothing nonsense at him.

Finally Harry straightened up and turned to her with an apologetic look. She was older than Harry, probably in her thirties, and was smiling sweetly. Her dark hair framed a heart-shaped face and her brown eyes were soft and sympathetic. She had a fair-haired baby - a girl, if the pink dress was any indication - perched on her hip, held secure by the hand that hadn’t been petting Harry, and a little blonde boy was clinging to her leg, watching Harry with wide blue eyes.

“Feeling better?” She asked softly, and Harry nodded. “Good. The way you almost mowed me down, I was quite concerned and couldn't resist checking on you. You should try chamomile or mint tea. Or ginger candy. Or sucking on a lemon wedge. Those should all help.”

“I...what?” Harry asked, confused.

The woman laughed softly. “First pregnancy, I’m guessing? That’s always the worst, since you don’t know any of the tricks. Trust me. Chamomile or mint tea, ginger candy, or a lemon. Lemon ice works, too. Best things for morning sickness.”

Harry’s mouth moved soundlessly for a moment, before he whispered. “I...I’m not pregnant.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline; she didn’t look like she believed him. “Oh? Because you look pregnant.” When Harry dropped a hand to his flat stomach, she laughed again and shook her head. “No, silly, not there.” She reached out and brushed her fingers along Harry’s jawline, adding. “It’s here that you’re showing. I can’t explain it, really, but...I’m very good at telling when someone’s expecting. Trust me, you’re pregnant.”

Before Harry could gather his scattered wits, the woman had grabbed the little boy’s hand and turned away, calling over her shoulder as she left. “Congratulations, Mr. Potter! I’m sure Mr. Wenke will be thrilled.”

Harry stared after her, knees so weak he had to lean against the wall, and prayed she was wrong.

Harry bit his tongue on his panic for more than a week, letting himself get swept along on the tide of Grayson’s birthday party plans. Harry’s friends and Grayson’s teammates were all expected, along with certain ‘important people’ that Grayson felt merited an invitation and it was all just a big excuse to have them plastered across the headlines as the Wizarding World’s favorite couple. Harry was one half of a shining fairy tale love, but it wasn’t the kind everyone thought. It was a Grimm tale, full of blood and pain and more fear than Harry knew what to do with most days, and the secret he was terrified was growing inside him only made it worse. The nausea and sickness came slinking back and Harry refused to try any of the things the woman outside the bakery had suggested, as though one of them working would make all of her words true.

Three days before his birthday, Harry couldn't do it anymore. The possibility was more terrifying than the reality would be, he was sure of it, because at least if he knew - one way or the other - he could start to formulate a plan for what would come next. Not knowing - wondering if he was, or wasn’t - was driving him mad. So, after a morning spent hugging the toilet, Harry found Grayson in the living room and struggled for words. Already dressed for practice and ready to head out, Grayson’s patience was minimal.

“What, Harry?” He snapped, wand twitching between his fingers in agitation. “I’m going to be late if you don’t just spit out whatever’s gotten into your head.”

“I...” Harry swallowed hard, then dared a glance up from under his lashes, face pleading. “I want to go see a Healer, Grayson. I...the nausea isn’t going away. It’s...it’s not getting better. I…please. I need to see a Healer.”

For a long moment, Harry had no idea what Grayson was going to say; how this as going to play out. Then Grayson’s whole face softened. “Oh, love, of course.” He walked over and carded his fingers through Harry’s hair, leaning down to press a kiss to Harry’s temple. “Let me just Floo my coach and tell him I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s and then we can go.”

Fear had Harry’s pulse jumping and he blurted out. “I can go by myself.” When Grayson’s eyes narrowed, face tightening with anger, Harry hastily added. “I don’t want you to have to miss practice when it’s probably nothing serious. I...it’s fine. I can go alone, really.”

Grayson huffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course you can, but you aren’t going to. I’m not letting you go sit in a Healer’s office by yourself, feeling sick and miserable and worried. That’s ridiculous. I can miss one practice.” He pressed another kiss to Harry’s head and added. “Go get your shoes, love. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

Knowing there was no use in arguing, Harry simply nodded and did as he was told.

Harry had only been to St. Mungo’s a handful of times, almost all of them as a visitor, and he’d mostly gone to specialty wards when he was there. This...was not a specialty-ward visit. Instead, they were directed to the floor that dealt with run-of-the-mill illnesses and injuries. Harry sat nervously beside Grayson, filling in a small stack of paperwork about his symptoms and medical history while his boyfriend flicked through a Quidditch magazine. He hoped Grayson wasn’t paying too much attention to what he was doing as he filled in the area asking ‘Are you pregnant?’ with the word ‘maybe’ before hastily flipping the page.

When his name was called, Grayson rose with Harry and followed close behind as they were led to an examination room and instructed to wait. The Mediwitch who’d led them in quickly took Harry’s vitals, his height and weight, and then ordered Harry to strip to the waist, saying.“The Healer will be with you shortly.”

She vanished again before Harry could do more than nod. Grayson sat on an uncomfortable looking chair beside the examination cot, and Harry shifted restlessly after stripping off his shirt. He jumped a little when Grayson was suddenly beside him, looking pensive. “Is...something wrong?” Harry asked, throat tight.

“Hold still.” Grayson said stiffly. His wand pressed lightly against Harry’s upper arm and Harry’s eyes widened when Grayson murmured a healing spell. Harry looked down in time to see the last green-and-yellow remnants of a bruise fade away.

Harry dropped his eyes to his lap immediately, terrified of acknowledging the healing since it meant acknowledging the injury. He hadn’t realised that mark was still there; it hadn’t hurt in days, anyway. Grayson ducked his head down and brushed his lips over the spot, murmuring against Harry’s skin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Harry whispered, still not looking up from his knees, which were, after all, rather fascinating, even beneath his jeans. “Th-thank you for healing it.”

Grayson made a soft humming sound and settled back into his chair. Harry struggled to remember how to breathe around a tongue that suddenly felt too thick. When the door opened, Harry flinched before he could stop himself, then regretted it immediately. It wouldn’t do to look nervous or afraid in front of some stranger.

“Hello, Mr. Potter. I’m Healer Moroe, but you can call me Gia.”

The woman who entered was older than Harry, and he figured she was probably a couple of years older than Grayson as well; somewhere in her late-twenties, if he had to guess. She was shorter than Harry, and a little bit thicker around the waist than was considered fashionable but she curved in all the correct places - and quite nicely, if Harry was being honest with himself, though he didn’t want to seem like he was staring and brought his eyes up from her chest to her face rather quickly. Her eyes were very blue and she was smiling in an amused way that let him know she’d caught him looking, and Harry’s cheeks heated quickly as he bit back an apology he knew would only make things more awkward. Her dark brown hair fell in loose curls to her waist, though it was pulled back neatly at the nape of her neck to help keep it out of the way. Harry hadn’t thought anyone could pull off the lime-green Healer robes, but against her fair skin and dark hair they didn’t look quite as terrible as normal.

Healer Gia’s eyes went to Grayson and she smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room. Patient only. You understand, I’m sure.”

Harry spoke before Grayson could. “It’s okay. He...he can stay.” When Gia raised her eyebrows at him, mouth opening to argue, he added firmly. “I want him to stay.” Merlin only knew what Grayson would do if he was forced to leave Harry alone with the Healer.

Huffing in exasperation, Gia rolled her eyes but nodded. “All right, Mr. Potter. If you insist. What brings you in today, then?”

“Er...I’ve been throwing up a lot.” Harry mumbled, then he gave Gia a weak smile and added. “And, could you please just call me Harry? I really hate being called Mr. Potter.”

Gia’s mouth twitched up at the corners before she composed her face back into some semblance of professionalism. “All right, Harry. Now, I’m going to run a few quick diagnostic spells on you, based on what you wrote down on the forms when you came in. Is that okay?”

Harry nodded, dropping his eyes to his lap again as she raised her wand. He knew it was proper etiquette to ask before casting on someone, but the question didn’t make much sense to him. If he didn’t want to be diagnosed, he wouldn’t be there. Gia only took a few minutes, working quickly and efficiently, and Harry barely had a chance to grow bored with staring at his slightly-swinging feet before she was finished, tucking her wand into her pocket and smiling at him.

“Well then. I have to ask a couple of personal questions, real quickly, and then we’ll be able to finish up.” Gia glanced over at Grayson before smiling at Harry again. “Have you been engaging in unprotected sex?”

Harry’s whole face turned red in a matter of seconds and Grayson sat up straighter on his chair, eyes wide. “That’s highly inappropriate, don’t you think?”

Gia turned to him and said mildly. “Actually, Mr. Wenke, it’s my job. Would one of you care to answer the question so we can move on?”

Grayson was grinding his teeth. Harry could see the muscle in his jaw jumping, so he managed in a slightly-squeaky voice. “Yes. We...yes.”

“I suspected as much, but confirmation is required for your chart.” Gia said, tone level and relaxed, which helped some of the tension in Harry’s shoulders ease. “Have you been trying to have a child?”

There was a clattering sound as Grayson got to his feet so quickly the chair fell over, and Harry’s whole body was thrumming with tension again in an instant. “What?” Grayson asked, voice sharp. “No, we...” He glanced at Harry, looking suddenly uncertain. “Harry, you haven’t been taking anything, have you?”

“Of course not!” Harry managed to say, words breathless and stunned. “Grayson, where would I even get something like that? I don’t have any...” He stopped, nearly biting clean through his tongue, before hastily saying. “I don’t do the shopping, you know that.”

Grayson was still standing there, practically vibrating with something - anger? Fear? Surprise? Harry didn’t know - and Gia cleared her throat. “Harry, you’re immensely powerful, so your body wouldn’t necessarily require a potion or spell to aid in conception. I just need to note in your chart if one was used, for care-reasons.”

Harry nodded jerkily and Gia gave him a soft smile. “You don’t seem quite as startled as Mr. Wenke. I’m guessing you suspected you might be pregnant?”

“I...” Harry glanced carefully at Grayson, then dragged his eyes back to the Healer. Swallowing hard, he admitted softly. “There was a woman, when I was throwing up in public almost two weeks ago. She...said something. It made me wonder if...” Harry swallowed again, then asked. “Am I?”

Gia’s eyes were soft and she nodded slowly. “Yes. You’re about eleven weeks along. The nausea should pass in another few weeks, but if it doesn’t you should let a Healer know. We can schedule you with a pre-natal specialist before you leave today, or if you have family or friends who might want to recommend theirs you’re welcome to wait and schedule when you’ve chosen someone. Don’t put it off for more than a few weeks, though. You’ll want to get everything checked regularly.”

There was an awkward pause where no one said anything, then Gia nodded towards the door. “I’ll give you two a few minutes to talk while I grab a list of our pre-natal Healers and some basic information for you, and I’ll fill out the paperwork for you to get the proper nutrient potion from an apothecary. Excuse me...”

Harry felt frozen in place as the door shut softly behind Healer Gia. He could feel Grayson’s eyes on him, so intense it almost felt like a touch, but he couldn't bring himself to look. Swallowing so hard his throat made an audible clicking sound, Harry finally forced words out. “If...if you w-want me to...” Harry stopped to take a shuddering breath, then tried again. “If you don’t want this, I mean, I can get an...”

Harry couldn't continue; couldn't keep speaking. His throat seemed to close on itself, hot and tight, and his eyes were damp and stinging with salt. Grayson’s fingers touched the vulnerable spot under his jaw, right below his chin, and Harry flinched away before he could stop himself. Immediately Harry’s eyes flew to Grayson’s, wide and terrified. His lungs locked up on him, trapped halfway around an intake of air, when he saw the look on the older man’s face.

Grayson hadn’t looked at him like that in...well, Harry wasn’t sure Grayson had ever looked at him like that before, actually. His breath escaped in a rush and he whispered. “G-grayson?”

“Shhh...” Grayson’s hand came up, curving gently around Harry’s cheek, and his thumb brushed away a lingering tear. “It’s okay, love. I promise, everything is going to be fine.” He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, slowly moving his face from side-to-side in a way that effectively rubbed the tips of their noses against each other in a sweet, affectionate manner. “Everything is going to be perfect, Harry.”

“You...you aren’t angry?” Harry managed at last, still not quite sure what to make of the incredibly tender, loving look on Grayson’s face. It was soft, and sweet, and it made Harry ache. “Really?”

Grayson let out a breathless laugh, then ducked down to press a series of kisses - fast, and light, and full of joy and affection - across Harry’s stomach before he looked up at Harry with a wide grin. “I’m not angry, Harry. I am absolutely thrilled. We’re going to have a baby.”

Harry let out a laugh that was equal parts relief and amazement. “I...yeah. Yeah, we are.” Harry bit his lip for a minute, then couldn't help himself. “You...you swear you aren’t angry with me? I...I didn’t mean to get pregnant, and I...I don’t want you to be angry.”

“I’m not. I promise.” Grayson straightened up and pulled Harry into his arms. Harry melted against him, beyond grateful that this was going so well.

Grayson’s next words had Harry’s heart stuttering in his chest, the fear rushing back so fast it left him feeling sick all over again.

“We’ll have to have a much shorter engagement than I’d ever planned on, of course, so we’re married before the baby is here, but that’s alright. We’ll adjust.”

As Harry lunged for the rubbish bin, he could feel Grayson’s eyes on him - hot and possessive - and wondered if Grayson knew why he was throwing up. He wondered if Grayson knew how terrified Harry was of marrying him; of being his, forever. As bile burned its way up his throat, sickly sweet and painful, Grayson’s hand rubbed gentle circles in the small of his back. He was crooning soothingly at Harry, voice soft and sympathetic, and Harry wanted nothing more than to run - as far and as fast as he could.

Grayson leaned in, voice warm in Harry’s ear, and whispered. “We’re going to be a perfect little family, Harry. I love you. Both of you.”

Harry couldn't help thinking the words sounded like a threat.

Harry fidgeted, tugging restlessly on the clothes Grayson had laid out for him. The deep blue button-up was very nice, as were the black trousers, but they weren’t really his style and it made him twitchy. As did the reason he was wearing them in the first place.

Grayson had announced their engagement and the pregnancy at Harry’s birthday party - having pressed a heavy gold band onto Harry’s finger only hours earlier - and then spent a good twenty minutes talking to a reporter from the Daily Prophet about what, exactly, he wanted printed. Two days later, Harry had been stunned when Grayson informed him that the owner of the newspaper wanted to publish a book - ‘Just a small piece; a public interest sort of thing.’ - about their romance. The Wizarding World doted on Harry, after all, and was eager for all of the details of his life with his soon-to-be husband and father of his baby. More shocking than the interest in Harry’s personal life - which, after all, was nothing new - was the fact that Grayson had agreed.

For the next three months - while they planned the wedding and picked out a house and prepared for the baby - a writer in the employ of the Daily Prophet would be following them around, taking notes and asking questions and snapping pictures. So, being obtrusive, in a general sort of manner. Harry wasn’t sure why Grayson had agreed, except that he seemed to love the spotlight just as much as Harry hated it. Harry wondered idly how long Grayson would manage to hold his temper for; how long before he was forced to try to explain away bruises to a reporter he didn’t want around in the first place. Or maybe, if he was lucky, the presence of the baby would prevent Grayson from hurting him. For the next six months, anyway.

Harry didn’t want to get his hopes up, though. He wasn’t really a lucky person, most of the time. Privately, Harry thought it was because he’d used up his entire life’s worth of good luck while fighting Voldemort and there simply wasn’t any left over for anything else. It was a depressing thought, and Harry did his best not to dwell on it. He had other things to worry about.

Like the reporter who was going to be there any moment.

Grayson made a small, annoyed sound when Harry tugged on his sleeve again and Harry froze, glancing over at him nervously. “For Merlin’s sake, Harry, stop fidgeting. Just...sit still.”

Harry nodded jerkily, then promptly proceeded to jump to his feet in surprise when the fire flared green and someone stepped through. Harry’s mouth was hanging open in shock, he had no doubt about that, but he didn’t think it was an unreasonable reaction, considering. Slim hands with long, thin fingers were brushing soot off of impeccable clothing. Perfectly tailored black slacks emphasized long legs, and a long-sleeved black button-up - it was made of silk, Harry’d bet anything - showed off broad shoulders. An emerald green waistcoat with black pinstripes, of all the bloody pretentious things, was hugging a trim waist and flattering the long, lean torso of the man in question. The pale, aristocratic face - one Harry hadn’t seen in three years - was suddenly the only thing he could focus on.

Draco Malfoy was standing in Grayson’s flat, looking rather comfortable and as though he belonged precisely where he was.

There were changes, of course. Harry thought Draco had gotten taller - not surprising, considering Lucius and Narcissa were both statuesque - and he’d certainly filled out somewhere along the way. Gone was the gaunt, malnourished look Draco had sported at the end of the war. Harry had last seen him during the Malfoys’ trials, when he’d testified on their behalf and returned the hawthorn wand. Harry remembered Draco’s hair being longer; now, instead of framing his face, it was buzzed short at the back and sides. The top wasn’t much longer, and was styled into tousled looking spikes that somehow managed to look casual and elegant at the same time. Most surprising, to Harry anyway, was the gleaming metal that pierced Draco’s skin in several places. A small silver barbell with emerald green balls - it matched his stupid waistcoat, Harry realised - graced the end of Draco’s right eyebrow. A series of silver hoops closely hugged the curve of Draco’s left ear - nine of them, one after the other - from the lobe right up and around the top of it. Most distractingly, there were twin hoops curving over Draco’s full lower lip - silver against lush pink - one on either side, right where his lip was thickest.

“Malfoy?” Harry gasped, unable to keep the surprise in even as his eyes made another circuit from Draco’s head to his toes and back. “You look...wha...guh.” Harry ended his non-sentence on a thick sort of sound that wasn’t quite surprise and wasn’t quite disgust and definitely wasn’t anything like appreciation, thank you very much.

“Potter.” Draco’s lips curved into a smirk somehow made obscenely wicked thanks to the metal hoops Harry couldn't quite reconcile with Draco Malfoy of all people, no matter how well they seemed to suit his face. “You’re as eloquent as always, I see.” He flicked his eyes to Grayson and added. “And you’re the Golden Boy’s boyfriend, I take it. Wank, was it?”

“It’s Wenke, actually.” Grayson’s tone was polite, but his teeth were a bit too close together as he spoke and Harry winced at the sign of budding anger. Draco’s grey eyes flicked between the two of them for a moment, before settling his gaze on Grayson when he added. “And I’m his fiance. That is, after all, why you’re here.”

Draco raised one eyebrow - the pierced one, incidentally. “So it is. Imagine that.” He turned back to Harry and drawled. “So, Potter. Three years post-war and you’re reclusive, engaged, and pregnant. Not quite what was expected of you by the masses, though some of us could have guessed at the reclusive bit.”

“Are you two friends?” Grayson’s tone was sleek and pleasant; it had Harry tensing in response. That was never a good sound. “I thought I’d met all of Harry’s friends...”

“We’re not friends.” Harry said quickly, perhaps a little quicker than was strictly polite, but Harry couldn't be bothered worrying about that. It was unlikely he’d offend Draco anyway, considering it was the truth.

“Mmmm...no, not friends.” Draco agreed, looking at Harry in a way that felt too probing; as though he could see all of Harry’s secrets. Harry didn’t know when Draco had gotten so intense, but he wasn’t sure he liked it. “Just two people who share some common memories, right, Potter?”

Harry resisted the urge to tell Draco to shut up and instead turned to smile weakly at Grayson. “We were the same year at Hogwarts. Draco was a Slytherin, so you can just imagine the animosity, I’m sure.” Grayson had been a Ravenclaw during his time at the school, but it wasn’t as though everyone didn’t know about the House rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Draco let out a short bark of laughter and added. “Not to mention my father was a Death Eater, as was I. No, no, Wank. Potter and I were not friends.”

“It’s Wenke.” Grayson corrected again, tone a little sharper this time. “And I’d hardly go around bragging about being a Death Eater if I were you. I didn’t know any of your lot were even out of Azkaban yet.”

“Sorry, I’m just awful with names.” Draco’s voice didn’t sound particularly apologetic, and his grin certainly wasn’t, but Harry didn’t expect much else from the prat. Some things clearly hadn’t changed. “And I never went to Azkaban, actually. Potter here testified for me, if you can imagine such a thing. Bit of a nutter you’re marrying, you know. Just imagine, the blessed Savior testifying for a Death Eater.”

“You weren’t a Death Eater.” Harry snapped, exasperated with Draco’s theatrics. “You were Voldemort’s stupid errand boy, at best, and mostly you were just a whipping post. Why the bloody hell did the Prophet send you, anyway? It’s not as though they’re unaware of our history.”

Draco just laughed, looking utterly unbothered by Harry’s words. “Because, Potter, I am the absolute best at what I do. Biographies are my life’s blood these days. Something about my charm has people just...opening right up for me.” Harry drew back a little at the suggestive eyebrow wiggle Draco gave him, his stomach twisting up on itself and his palms growing sweaty. “And considering it’s you, they wanted the best. So.”

Draco pulled a notepad out of a small black messenger bag Harry hadn’t even noticed he was wearing, along with a muggle biro - Harry didn’t know what to make of that any more than he knew what to make of most of Draco - and smiled sweetly. “Let’s start with some basic scheduling, shall we? I’ll be shadowing you for anything to do with the wedding, the house-hunt, and the baby. Shopping, baby name discussions, doctors, cake testing, caterers, invitations, outfits, florists, house viewings...I will be there every step of the way. You leave me out of something, we’re going to have an issue. I don’t like being left out and my boss won’t like it if I have to complain. I also expect to shadow you for some normal, daily stuff as well. I need to get a feel for your daily routine, and schedule some time to do one-on-one interviews. I want details. How you met, dating, moving in together, all of it. It’s going to be awkward, and invasive, and at times unpleasant, but you’ll buck up and do what has to be done because you signed a contract and I fully intend to get everything I need for this book, one way or another.”

He glanced up from where he’d been writing to flash a much sharper smile at them both. “Do we understand each other, gentlemen?”

Harry nodded stiffly, but Grayson was frowning. It was his polite, ‘I’m displeased with you.’ public frown, but it still left Harry feeling a bit unsettled. “I’m not sure I care for your lack of professionalism, or the way you seem to be deliberately antagonizing my fiance.”

Draco snorted. “Please. Potter and I have known each other for long enough that this is negligible. Also, it’s not up to you if I do this or not. As I said…contract. So. We can do this the easy way, which has me being as unintrusive as I can manage...or we can do this the hard way, which involves me being a lot less pleasant and probably some lawyers, too. Which would you prefer?”

“Grayson.” Harry moved to the older man’s side, kneeling in front of the sofa before reaching out and grabbing his hand. He waited until Grayson was looking at him, eyes dark and dangerous, then pressed Grayson’s hand to his cheek and murmured. “It’s fine. Malfoy’s a prat, but he’s harmless, really. We...we don’t want any bad press because we couldn't get along with the Prophet’s writer, right?” Grayson nodded slowly, his shoulders and jaw relaxing by degrees, and Harry smiled in relief. “It’ll be fine, I promise. Everything’s going to be perfect.”

Grayson’s thumb dragged across Harry’s lower lip, then he smiled slowly. “Perfect. Yes, of course.” He glanced over at Draco and his smile turned into the charming, dimpled one that had first drawn Harry in. “I’m certain we can work with you, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Please, call me Draco.” The blonde smirked as he dropped into an armchair and casually swung one leg up over the arm, reclining against the other. “Now, about scheduling...”

“Of course.” Grayson said agreeably. He glanced down at Harry and added. “Why don’t you go fix lunch for us, love, while I sort out the details with Draco? I’m sure it would just bore you, and I’ll fill you in on the full schedule once we’ve worked it all out.”

Harry knew better than to hesitate. He nodded, pushing to his feet immediately. “Of course.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Grayson’s mouth, then waited while Grayson pressed a kiss to his still-flat belly. Then he turned and started to leave the room without another word, barely sparing a glance at Draco.

As he crossed the room, Draco said quietly. “My, my...Potter certainly has gotten…domestic.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Grayson laughed, all friendly and public once again. His next line - one he’d teasingly delivered in various instances too many times for Harry to keep track of - had Harry gritting his teeth as he finally stepped into the kitchen and out of range of their conversation. “I’ve got him well-trained.”

After a moment of white-knuckling the counter, Harry took several deep breathes and murmured to himself. “I can do this. It’s just for a little while, and it’s not any different just because it’s Malfoy and not some stranger.” He pressed his hand to his belly and reminded himself that keeping Grayson happy wasn’t just about him anymore, or even him and Padfoot. It was about the baby. “I can do this.”

Shaking his head and straightening his shoulders, Harry began to cook.

On the 11th of August - two days after his initial reappearance in Harry’s life - Draco Malfoy showed up at Grayson’s flat again. Harry and Grayson were brought to a photography studio owned by the Daily Prophet for what they were told will be their first photoshoot. Harry was informed of this fact when the photographer commented that they’d get more used to the whole process the more they did it.

“First?” Harry squeaked as he was positioned in front of a fake fountain with Grayson and ordered to stare lovingly up at his fiance. They were supposed to be taking engagement photos; Harry wasn’t even sure what that meant and he had no intention of asking. “Malfoy, what does he mean, first?”

“He means you’ve never had a photoshoot before, obviously.” Draco snarked back, rolling his eyes.

His shirt was a deep eggplant purple this time, overlaid with another waistcoat. This time it was black with charcoal grey pinstripes that were barely visible and somehow made you want to stare. Or maybe that was just Harry. The balls on his eyebrow piercing were purple as well and Harry was torn between being amused and disdainful of the way Draco matched his body jewelry to his clothing. He didn’t find Draco’s snide attitude amusing in the slightest, though. No, it actually brought Harry back to feeling like a schoolboy who was rather interested in beating the crap out of Draco for no real reason. The feeling made him feel a little sick; he didn’t like having violent thoughts, not anymore. As a result, he was a little snappish.

“I meant the part about getting used to this, because it’s only our first.” Harry’s words were bit out from between teeth he had clenched into the smile the photographer was demanding from him. “How many of these are we doing?”

“Why, as many as I deem necessary, Potter.” Draco’s teeth flashed charmingly, then he raised an eyebrow at Grayson. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you, Wank?” He paused, then added innocently. “Oh, excuse me, I meant Wenke, of course.”

Grayson smiled right back, easily dropping to one knee in front of Harry when the photographer instructed him to, the camera’s shutter clicking away in the background of their conversation. “Of course not, Draco. Also, I thought I instructed you to call me Grayson at our last meeting.”

“Mmmm...” Draco grinned at Grayson and Harry frowned because it seemed a little too intimate of an expression to be directing at someone else’s fiance, though Harry wasn’t jealous so much as worried about the safety of everyone involved - himself, and Draco, and the baby - if Grayson took a liking to the former-Slytherin. “Of course, how could I possibly have forgotten? Still, that’s hardly appropriate, considering I’m meant to be an impartial biographer.”

“Nonsense.” Grayson squeezed Harry’s hand a little harder than necessary when the photographer admonished him again to smile lovingly, though his tone as he continued speaking to Draco was pleasant and even. “We’re going to be spending an enormous amount of time together over the next three months. It’s only reasonable we should all use each other’s given names.”

Draco threw his head back and laughed and Harry found his breath catching in his throat at the sight and sound of it. Draco’s laugh was low and husky and warm; it was unabashed and unselfconscious.

“Perfect, Harry! That’s exactly the expression we’re going for. Keep it up.” Harry’s cheeks flushed at the photographer’s praise and he made sure his eyes were firmly locked on Grayson’s face even as the older man got to his feet and tugged Harry against his chest for a kiss.

As their mouths touched and the camera clicked away, Draco finally managed to stop laughing and said in amusement. “I don’t think Potter and I will be using each other’s given names any time soon, Grayson.”

Grayson broke the kiss and turned his head, resting his cheek against Harry’s messy hair and replied. “Nonsense. I insist. You don’t mind, do you, Harry?”

Harry sucked in a trembling breath, then closed his eyes and smiled, pressing his cheek to Grayson’s chest and letting the pounding of his heart drown out the sound of the camera’s shutter still clicking away. Harry was terrified of what that flickering lense was capturing and prayed it was nothing that couldn't be explained away by his hatred of the spotlight. “Of course not, Grayson.” Harry said at last, when Grayson’s arms around his waist tightened in a way that was not-quite threatening but still made Harry’s stomach flip unpleasantly. “Whatever you think is best is fine with me.”

When Grayson finally released him and Harry opened his eyes again, he told himself the speculative look on Draco’s face was nothing more than his imagination.

“Grayson, why don’t you come answer some questions for me while Harry is posed for the shots of that little baby bump he’s got going on?” Draco’s face lost all hint of inquisitive probing when Grayson looked at him, and Harry was doubly sure he’d imagined it. “Kill two birds with one stone, as the muggles say.”

As Grayson was dragged off to the other side of the room, Harry was moved in front of a red and gold backdrop and posed standing in several positions, hands either at his side or pressed snug to the barely-there curve of his belly. Part of him wished he knew what Grayson was saying to Draco. Mostly, Harry was glad he didn’t have to listen to the - most-likely - lies with a smile on his lips. The deception was wearing Harry thin, rather quickly. He just wanted it all to be over and done with.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

Harry had never heard a heartbeat so fast; like a hummingbird’s wings, quick and light. It filled the room and Harry’s throat clogged with tears at the sound. He heard a camera shutter click and shot Draco a dirty look, but the blonde just smiled sweetly back at him and snapped another picture. “Stop it!” Harry hissed, brushing away the tears clinging to the corners of his eyes. “Don’t be a prat.”

“I’m not.” Draco replied, voice soft and not taunting in the slightest. “Honestly, Harry, no one is going to judge you for tearing up over the bump’s heartbeat. That’s pretty standard stuff.” When Harry continued to glare, Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, come off it. This is my job, remember? You need to get used to it.”

Grayson cleared his throat and Harry glanced over at him, cringing a little when Draco’s camera went off again. “I know you don’t enjoy your life being offered up for public consumption, Harry, but the Wizarding community loves you and they want to know that you’re happy. Once they’re assured of that, I’m certain they’ll leave our family in peace, which I know is what you want. Surely you can bear it, just for a few more months?”

Harry swallowed hard, then nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to...to be so cranky.”

“That would be the hormones, Mr. Potter.” The Healer who had cast the spell to let them hear the baby’s heartbeat was smiling kindly. Mitchell Jameson had salt-and-pepper hair and warm brown eyes set in a kind face, silver wire-rimmed glasses perched on his thin blade of a nose. “You’re going to be moody and temperamental. You’ll have days where you crave touch and days where you want to cut off the hands of anyone who even thinks of putting them on you. Your energy level will jump over the next week or two, then flag again in a few months time as you slide into your third trimester. It’s simply a part of the process.”

Harry nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek as Healer Jameson ended the spell broadcasting the baby’s heartbeat. “The Mediwitch said we could see the baby today. Is that...can we? I...I really want to.”

Healer Jameson nodded and Grayson’s face broke out into a dimpled smile. Harry couldn't even begrudge him that, because he was smiling just as widely. He squeezed Harry’s hand, then pressed a kiss to the growing bulge just above Harry’s pelvic bone and murmured. “Can’t wait to see you, baby. Daddy loves you.”

Healer Jameson cast, and a sort of three-dimensional image appeared above Harry’s belly. Harry stared in silent awe at the little blob. Jameson pointed out that the baby was roughly the size of a lemon - Harry didn’t know why people used food to explain the baby’s size, but he supposed it was accurate enough - and its head was a little more than a third of that, which made it look a bit like an alien. Not that Harry cared, because that was his baby, even if it was funny looking.

Jameson was talking - something about the baby growing hair and eyebrows, and something about the spine starting to straighten, and then something else about how the baby’s facial muscles were developing and allowing for smiles and frowns - but Harry wasn’t really listening. His eyes were riveted on the image of his little miracle; the tiny person growing inside him was moving around. Harry wished he could feel it, but settled for watching. The little thing’s movements were fluid and graceful and nothing - not even the sound of a camera’s shutter going off repeatedly - could ruin the moment for him.

The Healer was still talking, explaining about the baby’s palate forming, and Harry nodded along as though this were utterly fascinating when, really, it wasn’t. He didn’t care about what the baby’s intestines were doing. He just wanted to watch - him? Her? - it for as long as possible. Grayson was a solid presence at his side, and Harry startled a little when Draco appeared on the other side of him suddenly.

“Sorry.” He murmured, eyes locked on the baby, looking intensely curious. “Tiny little thing, isn’t it? I didn’t think it’d look quite so much like a person while it was still so small.”

Harry’s lips curved up a little and he glanced up at Draco. “Is this making you want to find a nice witch to settle down with, Draco?”

“No.” Draco shook his head, giving Harry a funny little smile in return. “No, I have no intention of marrying some vapid little pureblood debutant as Father insists I must, now or ever.” Grey eyes flicked back to the baby’s image and he added softly. “Congratulations, Harry.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat for a second, then Harry nodded and whispered. “Thanks.” And if Harry had a sudden urge to grab Draco’s hand and never let go, then no one had to know. It was probably just the stupid hormones, anyway.

Harry rather hated going shopping. Being pressed into dress robe after dress robe was doing nothing for Harry’s mood. His happy glow from two days earlier had worn off, and no amount of anything was going to improve his current disposition. He had tried thinking of the baby - bringing to mind the Healer’s visit and the sound of that tiny heartbeat and the three-dimensional image he’d spent twenty minutes staring at before they finally had to go - but none of it helped. He was cranky and irritable and he was sick of trying on robes. The sound of Draco’s camera snapping away each time Harry emerged from the dressing room for Grayson to assess wasn’t helping.

“I rather liked the dark green.” Draco was cheerfully discussing the options with Grayson while Harry was handed another set. “Not the first one, the cut was all wrong when you factor in how big his belly will be by November, but the second set. Green’s a good color on Harry, though he hardly ever wears it.”

“It’s a Slytherin color.” Harry muttered as he stepped back into the dressing room, arms full of midnight blue fabric that felt like it was going to itch fiercely. “I don’t want to get married in Slytherin colors.”

“Well, you’re not getting married in red.” Grayson chided, earning a snort from Draco.

Draco’s voice was laced with laughter when he added. “Even ignoring how wildly inappropriate it would be, red’s hardly his best color anyway. Green really is ideal, though dark blue or grey or black wouldn’t be too bad.”

There was a pause as Harry exited the dressing room, fidgeting because he’d been right and the robes itched something awful, then Grayson asked quietly. “Are you really set against the green, pet?” Grayson’s robes had already been chosen, and were a deep charcoal color.

“I...” Harry hesitated for a moment, because he really didn’t want to wear green, but...he didn’t want to argue with Grayson, either. “I’d prefer something else, but if you like the green best I can tolerate it.” He finally said, trying to be as reasonable and pleasant as he could.

Grayson seemed to consider that for a minute as he studied Harry, then he smiled and said. “If you don't like the green, of course we can choose something else. Perhaps a lighter shade of grey – more of a silver, if you would – to offset the darker grey of my robes. Would you be alright with that?”

Harry nodded immediately, smiling brightly. “That would be fine, Grayson. Thank you.”

Ignoring Draco's piercing gaze, Harry stepped back into the dressing room while Grayson asked the sales-witch about robes in silver, eager to get the itchy blue nightmare he was wearing off.

Harry wasn't thrilled when Draco dragged him to the second photoshoot, but he did his best to bite his tongue and smile through it. The first set of photos they took were recreations of Harry's standalone photos from the week before. Draco explained that by photographing Harry each week in the same poses, they would be able to create a timelapse sort of effect for the book, showcasing his growing belly. Grayson watched the entire process like a hawk – albeit from the other side of the room – while Draco apparently interviewed him some more. He was taking notes, anyway, once again holding a notepad and biro. Harry didn't think he'd ever get over the sight of that, actually. Draco Malfoy's fingers clicking a pen in and out absentmindedly while he spoke, in between jotting things down. It was...surreal.

When Harry's individual shots were done, Grayson was brought over while Draco explained. “These are for the baby announcements, of course. You'll want one in the paper – a proper one, not that one mixed in with your engagement announcement from Harry's birthday. That was rubbish. You'll also want to send them out to friends and family and the like, as well as including a photo or two in the shower invitations.”

“The invitations for what?” Harry asked, feeling about six steps behind on all of the planning; he was rarely included when Draco and Grayson were talking and Grayson never told him much once Draco left, leaving him more than a little in the dark.

“The baby shower.” Draco repeated, even as the photographer – the same one from last week, and Harry still didn't know his name – began to position Grayson behind Harry. “You'll want to choose someone to plan that. Most commonly, it's whomever you intend to make the baby's godmother, but that of course is up to your discretion.”

Grayson's chin rested on Harry's shoulder and Harry was instructed to lean against his chest, head tipped back so he could smile up at him. Grayson's hands pressed to Harry's belly, right where it was beginning to curve outwards at the sides, and Harry's hands were resting lightly on Grayson's wrists. He imagined they looked like the perfect family; a picture of beauty and love and happiness. Grayson's own loving smile was not directed back at Harry, but down at Harry's belly, where their child grew. Harry wondered if there was an ironic sort of symbolism in that, but he'd always had trouble understanding irony and wasn't really sure.

“Well, don't you just look lovely together.” Draco murmured as the camera's shutter clicked away. He was smiling, but when Harry turned his head – just slightly – to meet that quicksilver gaze, there was something hard and unpleasant lurking behind his eyes. “The public is going to eat these pictures up.”

Grayson made a pleased sound above Harry's head even as the photographer's assistant stepped in and moved them around at her boss's direction. Harry wound up facing his fiance, hands on his belly, head bowed to smile down at it. Grayson's hands rested on top of his, his head bowed as well. The top of Grayson's head brushed against Harry's as the camera began to click away again. And somehow, the camera wasn't the most oppressive thing in the room. It wasn't even the idea of hundreds – or even thousands – of strangers seeing these pictures and reading the stupid book Draco was writing and thinking they knew even a single thing about Harry's life. No, for some unknown reason, the thing Harry could feel pressing the heaviest on him was Draco Malfoy's eyes.

Stranger than the weight of that gaze was the way it made Harry feel both hopeful and afraid.

Harry had never realized how many different types of flowers there were. Why would he? It wasn't as though he'd had a lot of cause to know anything about flowers. Sure, he could name some of the common garden flowers Aunt Petunia had liked to have in the yard, and he could name a couple of magical flowering plants he remembered from Herbology and Potions classes respectively, but that was hardly enough information to allow him to choose centerpieces and garlands and whatever else they needed for a wedding. Harry wasn't even sure, because he'd never actually attended a wedding other than Bill and Fleur's and he hadn't really been interested in the decorations.

What he did know was what he liked the look of, and what he didn’t. Which he supposed should be enough, since he didn’t think the florist was going to be offering him horrible options. That would reflect poorly on him, after all, and would surely be bad for business.

Grayson was discussing price-limits with the florist. Harry knew better than to try to involve himself in anything financial, so he’d wandered over to the wall of glass-fronted cases that housed a multitude of flowers and greens. A palm pressed lightly to the glass revealed the presence of cooling charms and Harry’s lips twitched up a little because he was always fascinated by the way witches and wizards used magic to get around things that muggles had found technological solutions for. The two really weren’t as far apart as some people liked to think.

“See something you like?” Draco’s voice was somewhere between condescending and amused and it made Harry shoot him a dirty look out of habit. “Is that a no, then?”

“I don’t know the first thing about flowers.” Harry said at last, after several minutes of Draco simply staring at him inquiringly. He glanced into the case whose door he still had a palm pressed to and added. “There’s a lot more types than I realized. How do people choose?”

Draco lifted one shoulder carelessly. “Oh, I’d imagine lots of people have a favorite flower, Harry.” Hearing Draco say his given name hadn’t gotten less-weird during the two weeks it had been happening for. “And color-themes help narrow down one’s options, since spelling the flowers various colors results in them wilting much faster even with preservation charms. Hardly worth it.”

“How do you know so much about flowers?” Harry hadn’t meant to ask the question, really, but once it was done there was nothing for it but to wait for an answer.

Draco’s mouth quirked up at the corners and Harry’s eyes were drawn again to the metal piercing his lip. Two small silver spikes had replaced the hoops for the day and Harry found himself wondering if they’d feel skin-warmed or cool. “I know a fair amount about a lot of things, actually. You’d probably be very surprised. The flowers, though...that’s mother’s doing. One cannot assist in the running of charity galas and the like without knowing all there is to know about flowers, and caterers, and a whole host of other things as well.”

“Oh.” Harry had never really given much thought as to who planned the various events he’d attended in the past, like the one to help fund the repairs to Hogwarts and the one to build a monument for everyone lost during the second war against Voldemort. “Wouldn’t your house-elves handle something like party setup, though?”

“Are you one of those house-elf freedom fighters?” Draco asked with a huffed sort of laugh and a slightly squinty-eyed, mistrustful look. ”You are, aren’t you? Merlin knows Granger spearheaded that whole disaster and you always did follow where she led.”

“First off, laws protecting house-elves aren’t a bad thing to anyone who’s not mistreating them in the first place.” It was worth quoting Hermione to see the constipated look on Draco’s face before he added. “I don’t think they should all be forced free, though, so don’t think I’m judging you if your mother has teams of them blowing up balloons and setting tables. They should have a choice, though, whichever way they want it - free or owned. And you never answered my question.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “No, Harry, they aren’t party-planning. They might be called in to place things where they need to be, and definitely for cleanup afterwards, but they’re not making decisions. A house-elf wouldn’t know a gardenia from a gladiola, so why would they be asked to choose which one to use in the centerpieces?”

There was a pause, then Harry pointed out. “Well, I don’t know the difference between a gardenia and a gladiola but I’m expected to choose.”

Draco was still laughing when the florist - Harry thought his name was Antonio something-or-other but he wasn’t positive - and Grayson joined them. “Well, you two seem to be having a lovely time.” Grayson purred, sliding a possessive arm around Harry’s waist. “See anything you like, pet?”

And just like that, Harry’s good mood and easy, relaxed attitude were replaced with anxiety and a shaky sort of tentativeness. “I...don’t really know much about flowers, Grayson. I wouldn’t want to choose the wrong thing...”

“Oh, there’s not really a wrong thing.” Maybe-Tony chirped cheerfully. “I mean, there’s some things you’d want to steer clear of for reasons like scent or connotation, but I can help you there. It’s all about what you like.”

“Is there anything you like?” Grayson prodded, smiling lovingly at Harry while his fingers stroked lightly against Harry’s side.

Knowing Grayson wanted him to say something, Harry blurted out the first thought in his head that related in any way to flowers. “What about lilies?”

There was a pause, then Grayson frowned and asked the florist. “Aren’t lilies traditionally a funeral flower?”

“Well, technically, yes.” Maybe-Tony was smiling apologetically at Harry. “I mean, of course people use them for other things and I’d be more than willing to use them in your centerpieces if that’s what you’d like, but there is a historical leaning towards funerary arrangements when using lilies.”

“Well, that won’t do.” Grayson said firmly, giving Harry a loving look. “We certainly don’t want our wedding associated with funerals, right, pet?”

And Harry knew he was supposed to agree, but he couldn't help himself. Once he’d said lilies, he’d sort of gotten instantly attached to the idea. “I want lilies.” He said, though not quite as firmly as he’d have liked. “For my mum, Grayson. It would mean a lot to me.”

There was a span of several heartbeats - loud and quick in Harry’s ears - where Grayson simply stared at him, then he sighed softly. “I suppose, if you truly want lilies...” His mouth drew down in a slight frown before he shook his head and smiled charmingly again. “We’ll manage, I’m sure. Anthony.” - and dammit, Harry had been close with his guess of Antonio - “What flowers would you suggest to compliment the lilies?”

Harry wondered if he’d made a very big mistake by pushing the issue. This was twice now in as many weeks that Grayson had given in to him - first on the color of his robes, and now on the flowers - and Harry couldn't help the sense of dread growing inside him as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

Hermione and Ron showed up two days after the trip to the florist, and Harry was stunned to learn Grayson had invited them when he greeted them with smiles and hugs and a kiss to Hermione’s cheek. “We’re so excited about the baby, of course.” Grayson was enthusing, beaming like...well, like a proud father, Harry supposed. “It wasn’t planned, mind you, but we’re thrilled anyway.”

“Well, Harry’s always wanted a lot of kids and stuff, right Harry?” Ron nudged his best friend in the side and Harry forced a smile to curve his lips when he really wanted to cry. “I bet you’re glad now you didn’t go into the Aurors, huh? You’d have had to take an extended leave, otherwise. This way’s probably easier, since you already don’t have work.”

Harry stared at Ron for a moment in silence, then said very stiffly. ”Excuse me. I need to check on dinner.”

As Harry fled from the room, Grayson’s voice followed him. “He’s a bit hormonal, I’m afraid, but the Healer said to expect that. I’ve found it’s best to just give him a bit of space when he gets overwhelmed.”

Harry could hear Ron making agreeable noises, then the talk turned to Grayson’s career and Quidditch in general and Harry slumped over the counter, head in his hands, trying to remember how to breathe. A hand on the small of his back startled him, his head jerking up and his body twisting away in a fluid motion that came from too-frequent practice. He stared, wide-eyed, at Hermione. She had her hands up near her shoulders, palms towards Harry and fingers spread wide in a show of peace, and her lips were parted in a small ‘O’ of surprise. Harry wondered how to explain himself, even as his heart beat rapidly in his chest and blood rushed loudly in his ears. His mouth felt full of too much saliva and a metallic taste was clinging to the roof of his mouth.

Harry made a run for the trash bin and barely made it before he was throwing up, shaking all over and retching noisily while Hermione made soothing sounds from beside him. When he finally regained control of his stomach, he gave her a wobbly smile. “Sorry. That’s mostly stopped, but...”

“It’s fine, Harry.” Hermione ran a dishcloth from the drawer under the tap and brought it over to him, then helped wash his face and the back of neck, which had grown slick with sweat while he’d been heaving. “I’m worried you’re overdoing it, though. With house shopping, and planning the wedding, and this book deal Grayson said you’ve got going on - and I’m surprised, really, that you agreed to it - and the baby...it’s a lot. Are you resting enough?”

“Of course, Hermione.” Harry sank gratefully onto one of the benches in the kitchen’s little breakfast nook when Hermione waved him towards them and began checking on his casserole for him. “Grayson is handling a lot of the wedding details, actually, and we’ve got a realtor narrowing down house choices for us, so we don’t have much to do until she’s got some picked out to show us.”

He hesitated for a minute, then added. “The book thing is...odd. Did you know that Draco writes books now, Hermione?” When Hermione nodded, giving him a funny look, Harry shrugged helplessly. “What? I don’t read as much as you, and certainly not biographies. And it’s not as though I’ve been keeping tabs on Draco.”

“No, I don’t suppose you’ve done that for a few years now.” Hermione admitted with a laugh, and Harry scowled at her though he didn’t mean it and she only laughed harder. “I’m only taking the mickey, Harry, though you were a bit all over him in sixth year.”

“He was a Death Eater!” Harry protested, though he’d argued against that fact many times and didn’t mean it in the way it probably would have sounded to anyone who wasn’t Hermione...or maybe Ron.

“Yes, well, that’s hardly the point.” Hermione leaned back against the counter and studied Harry’s face intently; it made him a bit nervous but he struggled not to show it. “I haven’t seen him since we finished up at Hogwarts, actually, though he took the time that year to apologize to me and we even studied together sometimes. He seemed...different.”

Harry snorted. “That’s one way to put it. He seems to have some sort of wild, rebellious streak or something. His bloody lip is pierced. Twice. And he writes with a biro!”

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. “Well, you won’t hear me condemning him for that, considering I’ve said for years that pens are more convenient than quills. As to the piercings...well, he’s got Black blood, doesn’t he, and Sirius was always a bit wild. So was Tonks.”

Harry thought of Sirius’ flying motorcycle, and Tonks’ bubblegum pink hair, and nodded slowly. “I suppose so. I just never really think of them as being related. But of course they are, so...” Harry sighed, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. “It’s all just a bit surreal, that’s all. The baby, and a house, and a wedding, and Draco Malfoy with a muggle pen and piercings writing a book about me.”

“I’d imagine so.” Hermione tipped her head to the side, eyes narrowed shrewdly on Harry’s slumped shoulders and weary face. “Harry, is there anything I can help you with? You know I’m here for you...”

For a moment - just a moment - Harry considered telling her everything. His hand pressed to the curve of his stomach, which grew fuller every day, and he wondered what would happen. Would she sneak Harry away, when Grayson wasn’t home? Or steal him away under false pretenses, smiling all the while so as not to give away the whole thing? Would she draw her wand and go toe-to-toe with Grayson, fierce and unyielding as she’d always been when fighting at Harry’s side? Would she stroke his hair and soothe the parts of him that never seemed to stop hurting anymore?

Then Hermione spoke again, voice soft and full of fondness. “I mean, I don’t really know much about planning a wedding or anything, but I helped Molly plan Fleur’s baby shower for Victoire and the one for Percy and Audrey’s daughter, Molly. So maybe I could do that?”

And the illusion shattered around Harry, leaving him with Hermione and Ron’s - and everyone else’s - baffled faces as they demanded answers to questions that he simply didn’t have. Why had he stayed? How had Grayson gotten control over everything? Why had Harry allowed him to do this to him? Why had Harry let Grayson break him down into such small pieces and reassemble him into something else entirely after discarding what he didn’t like, filling in the empty spots with his own will? How could Harry possibly be so weak against one person when he had defeated an evil tyrant; a monster in every sense of the word? And Harry didn’t know how to answer the questions he knew were inevitable if he asked for help, now or ever.

He had no words to explain how slow and insidious Grayson’s behavior modification had been. He didn’t know how to make someone else understand the things he only barely comprehended himself. The way Grayson had lured him in. The way Grayson had carefully and precisely chipped away at him until he barely recognized himself. The way Grayson had slowly superimposed his own will - his thoughts and needs and desires - over Harry’s, until they always came first, like instincts; like breathing. Harry couldn't explain the way he felt; the fear he had that maybe this was all he was worth - all he had ever been worth.

Someone to cook and clean. Someone to be sneered at and pushed around. Someone to vent frustration on. A living, breathing punching bag. A poseable, life-sized doll to bring out for company to coo over, and stashed away the rest of the time - out of sight and out of mind. Someone to warm a bed; to bear and rear children; to smile for the cameras and complete the portrait of ‘a perfect family’.

Hadn’t he spent his childhood wondering why he wasn’t getting the same love Dudley was? Maybe it’s because this was what he was meant for. Used, in one form or another, for the whole of his life. Passed from one owner to the next to the next, never operating under his own will even when he thought he was. Perhaps - just perhaps - he stayed in part because he feared there was nothing else out there but another string of Graysons waiting in line to be the next to claim him as theirs. Wasn’t the one he knew - the one he was trained to make happy - a better option than the unknown?

Harry wondered how long he’d been silent - how long he’d been thinking - but imagined it hadn’t been long at all because Hermione didn’t seem concerned at his lack of response. A small, cruel part of Harry’s mind - the part he suspected was shaped entirely by Grayson’s words and will - whispered, ‘Maybe she just doesn’t care.’ Harry did his best to silence it. He tried to remember all of the times Hermione - and Ron - had stayed by him. He struggled to convince himself that this would be no different - unswerving faith and unquestioning loyalty.

And that traitorous part of his mind brought up the time Ron had turned on him in fourth year, and the time he’d left during the Horcrux hunt, and the way both Ron and Hermione had dismissed Harry’s suspicions and fears about Draco during sixth year. And what was to stop history from repeating itself? What was to prevent his friends from doubting him in the absence of proof? Proof he most assuredly did not have.

Nothing.

So Harry forced his lips to curve and said simply. “I’ll have to ask Grayson if he has anyone in mind for planning the baby shower. Draco suggested letting a friend do it, but we haven’t talked about it yet.”

Relief that he’d held his tongue warred with fear when Grayson’s voice said from the doorway. “That’s part of why I invited you tonight, Hermione. I knew Harry wanted you to plan the shower and I think it’s a perfect idea. We can have Draco send over the photo meant to be included with the invitations and leave everything in your oh-so capable hands.”

As Hermione began to enthuse about decorations and food and games - baby showers had games? Harry’d had no idea - and Ron rolled his eyes and made weird suggestions and Grayson seemed to listen avidly, Harry wondered when his life had become this.

Lies, and pain, and fear, all wrapped up in a shiny bow labeled ‘True Love’ and firmly placed on a shelf intended for ‘Happily Ever After’ stories.

Harry wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there - not entirely, though he could trace each step in his mind - but he was beginning to believe he was never going to escape.

On August 23rd - as Harry’s fifteenth week of pregnancy was drawing to a close, and the day after Ron and Hermione’s visit - Grayson had to leave for one of the qualifying matches for the 2002 Quidditch World Cup, because of course he was on England’s team. England was one of the last sixteen teams and this was the first of Grayson’s final qualifying matches, and hopefully - for Harry’s sake - it would be one he won. He would return on the 26th. So when Draco sent an owl the morning of the 23rd demanding - not requesting; Draco never requested - Harry’s presence on the 24th for another photoshoot, Grayson was more than a little annoyed. He immediately owled Draco back, explaining his pending absence. The swift reply explained that Grayson wasn’t needed - only Harry - as this photoshoot was for the weekly shots of Harry’s baby-bump and nothing else.

And bound as he was by the contract, there was nothing Grayson could do. He left - with only a silent look that spoke volumes more than any single threat could have - and Harry prepared himself for a couple of hours in the company of Draco Malfoy and a photographer.

By the time Draco arrived to fetch him on the 24th, Harry had worked himself into a fit of anxiety. He was tense and miserable and cursing the fact that none of the jeans or slacks he owned - a measly two pairs of each - wanted to button over his growing bulge. Finally, when the Floo flared with a whoosh that announced Draco’s arrival, Harry decided he didn’t even care and simply walked out of the bedroom with his jeans unbuttoned and a pout on his lips, because why the fuck not.

“Having trouble?” Draco asked with a grin, making Harry’s pouting lower lip tremble a bit. Draco immediately looked sorry. “Now, now, none of that!” Draco hastened to his side, tone soothing and conciliatory. “It won’t matter for the shoot and we can make a quick clothing run at one of the speciality shops afterwards since you’ve reached this stage. No worries, Harry, and no tears. I don’t do well with tears.”

Harry opened his mouth, prepared to refuse the shopping trip - he had no way to pay for anything without Grayson present - but stopped himself at the last second knowing he had no reason for not wanting to go. At least, no reason he could say. So instead he smiled and nodded, silently vowing to plead exhaustion after the photoshoot to get out of it. Deciding to lay the groundwork for that excuse, he said quietly. “Can we go, please? I’m already tired and I just want this done so I can rest.”

Draco studied Harry’s face for a moment - and the hoops were back in his lip, rather than the spikes, Harry noticed when his mouth pursed thoughtfully - before he finally nodded towards the fireplace. “Come on, then.”

It wasn’t until they were at the studio that everything came to a head at last.

The photographer - who Harry was finally introduced to; his name was Jean Claude but said just Jean was fine - and his assistant - Lizbeth; Lizzie for short - were setting things up still and Draco nodded to a small seating area. The one he’d used to interview Grayson during Harry’s previous solo-shoots. “So, I’ve spent a significant amount of time interviewing your fiance, Harry, but I haven’t really gotten any one-on-one time with you. I’d like to take the opportunity to rectify that little oversight, since I’ve got you all to myself for once.”

“Er...okay.” Harry swallowed hard, watching warily as Draco pulled out his notepad and pen, clicking it once before flipping through pages of notes to a clean sheet of paper. “What do you want to know?”

“Oh, simple things. Fun facts and anecdotes. Nothing too complicated.” Draco smiled and his right eyebrow rose teasingly, drawing Harry’s attention to the silver bar and the twin red balls capping either end. Draco’s outfit was starkly black-on-black - shirt, slacks, waistcoat, and tie - and the hint of color there, in the body jewelry, seemed oddly out of place. “Ready to start?”

When Harry nodded, Draco jumped into the first question straight away. “Favorite color?”

“Blue.” Harry admitted, knowing most people assumed red; he wasn’t sure why.

Draco’s pen never stopped moving - despite Harry’s short answer - as he asked. “Favorite Quidditch team?”

“Ap...Tutshill Tornados.” Harry corrected himself almost immediately and without much thought; Grayson played for Tutshill, after all.

“An Arrows fan?” Draco grinned when Harry blushed and started to stammer. “That can be our little secret, if you like.”

Harry nodded, still red-cheeked, and Draco’s smile slid into professional politeness as he asked. “How long have you and Grayson been together?”

“Three years in November.” Harry said, adding. “November 15th.” It was a date Harry would never forget; Grayson had ensured that. It was also the date Grayson had chosen for their wedding.

“And how long has he been hitting you?”

Harry’s head snapped up, eyes widening even as his mouth fell open in shock. Draco’s grey eyes were glittering and his smile was more like a grimace and Harry couldn't breathe because no one had ever asked him something like that before. Even when his friends had occasionally hinted at the question of something being off, they’d never accused Grayson of abuse. Not outright, anyway. And never had anyone mentioned violence. Grayson was far too careful for those sorts of suspicions.

There was a very tense span of time where Harry’s mouth moved though no sound came out, and he struggled to pull air into his lungs. Every breath sounded loud and harsh in his ears but his lungs burned with a need for more air and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't seem to get any. His vision swam and the room tipped sickeningly and Harry had the vague notion that he was about to pass out, but it was hard to worry about it when everything was muzzy and heavy and sort of blurred around the edges.

The firm press of skin-on-skin startled Harry. He struggled to make his eyes focus and realized Draco had pressed his palms to Harry’s cheeks and tipped Harry’s head up, then leaned down until their foreheads were pressed together. All Harry could see was grey eyes and pale skin. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the frantic pounding of his own heart, but dimly under that he could just make out Draco’s voice. His mind struggled to filter out the sounds of his own body, latching onto Draco’s voice instead.

“...my voice, Harry. Come on, I need you to focus for me, can you do that? Ah...” Draco’s tone softened a little and Harry sucked in a shuddering breath even as Draco seemed to sigh in relief. “There you are. You’re doing really well, Harry. Just keep listening to my voice. I want you to focus on that. Nothing else. Don’t think about anything else, not just yet. We’ll worry about the rest later, together. Right now, it’s just me here. Just my voice in your ears. I’m here with you and you’re doing a great job. Are you listening to me?”

Harry nodded jerkily, his face still cradled in Draco’s hands, and the former Slytherin instructed. “Breathe with me now, Harry. In, nice and slow...” He inhaled and Harry did as well, seemingly helpless to do anything else. “Good, Harry, and now out...” And again, Harry obeyed.

It was several minutes of tandem-breathing later when Draco finally asked. “Feeling better?”

Harry nodded again, slowly this time, and whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Draco sighed and drew back, shaking his head and giving Harry a sympathetic look. “Don’t apologize for being human. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you that way, me knowing. I’m sorry for that, but I thought if I surprised you, you’d be less-likely to lie about it.”

“How did you know how to do that?” Harry asked, voice still terribly soft as though if he spoke too loudly something might shatter and pointedly ignoring Draco’s accusation against Grayson. “Help me, I mean.”

“I had panic attacks myself, just after the war.” Draco admitted, seemingly without any embarrassment; Harry wasn’t sure why that surprised him, but it did. “There’s calming potions, of course, and certain spells that can help, but Pansy and Blaise found that muggle focusing methods often worked best and had none of the side-effects of potions or spells. They also didn’t have to worry about if we were in a muggle shop and it happened. They could still help.”

“Oh.” Harry wished his voice wasn’t quite so small, but didn’t know how to fix it. His tongue felt heavy and thick and clumsy in his mouth as he finally addressed the elephant in the room. “Draco, about what you said. Grayson, he...it’s not...”

But Draco was staring at him with too-knowing eyes and no judgement to be seen, and Harry couldn't seem to make the lies come. Finally, he managed. “I don’t know how this happened. I...I don’t know what to do.”

Draco nodded slowly, then asked. “Do you want to leave him? I won’t judge or interfere if you don’t. But if you do, I can help you.” Harry just stared at him with damp green eyes, so Draco repeated the question. “Do you want to leave him?”

Finally, Harry nodded and Draco smiled. “Okay. Let’s get through the photoshoot, then we’ll go pick up some comfortable paternity clothes for you and some take-away for dinner, and then we’ll go back to your flat and you can tell me everything. Then we’ll plan.”

“I...” Harry managed a deep breath - and if it shook, then that was okay, because it was still a breath - and then ignored the way his cheeks were flushed with shame as he admitted. “I don’t have any money. Grayson controls everything.”

“Of course he does.” Draco’s face darkened for a moment before he took a slow breath and smiled at Harry. “I’ll pay for the clothes. And dinner, of course. We’ll just tell Grayson the clothes are a late engagement present for you and say I showed up with them today.” When Harry nodded silently, Draco nodded towards where Jean and Lizzie were waiting. “Come on, then. Photos first.”

And though he felt a bit numb and his limbs felt sort of heavy and he was worried what Lizzie and Jean were thinking of this whole mess and how Draco was going to help him, Harry did as he was told.

It was so easy, after all, for Harry to obey.

Harry was wearing a pair of stretchy black paternity jeans - the front had a panel of soft stretch fabric that would allow for his expanding belly - and a blue tee-shirt that fit easily over the baby bump with room to spare when Grayson came home on Sunday afternoon. He had won his match and was in a good mood, and he simply smiled and said he’d need to thank Draco for the lovely gift when Harry said where the clothing came from. Harry smiled and started on dinner and did his best not to look guilty.

Draco had listened while Harry had explained everything that had happened over the almost three years he’d been with Grayson. He explained his lack of financial say, and how he didn’t have a wand, and his refusal to leave Padfoot behind for fear of what Grayson would do to the dog, and his growing fear for the baby inside him and what Grayson might one day do to it; if he would one day hurt their child as he’d hurt Harry. And then, Draco had explained that they needed enough evidence to allow Harry to regain control of his fortune, to allow Harry to keep himself and the baby out of Grayson’s hands, and to help weather the scandal that would follow a broken engagement as public as theirs. Harry was wary, and terrified, and horridly uncertain because if Grayson found out what they were doing...well. Harry wasn’t sure what would happen, exactly, but he knew it wouldn’t be good. So Draco had instructed him to act as though everything was normal.

Harry was trying, though it wasn’t easy. Thankfully, he’d been so off lately - overly emotional and just generally odd, really - because of the pregnancy hormones, that he didn’t think Grayson would notice if his acting wasn’t precisely stellar.

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were spent in a whirlwind of house-viewing - four houses each day - that left Harry exhausted and wrung-out. The realtor talked about things Harry didn’t understand or, alternately, didn’t care about and Grayson seemed to have a very precise vision in mind for their home and Harry couldn't find the energy to argue about it at all. What was the point, when he was planning on leaving? Grayson could live wherever he wanted. Harry simply didn’t care.

It was late on the evening of the 29th when Harry found something he was willing to fight over. He tried reminding himself that he was leaving. He tried telling himself nothing about the wedding mattered because he wasn’t actually going to marry Grayson. Draco had sworn they’d get Harry safely - a word he’d stressed heavily - away before the November 15th deadline. Harry knew he should just agree to whatever Grayson wanted, for the sake of making things easier on himself until Draco executed whatever plan he’d come up with. He knew it was the intelligent thing to do, and Harry had gotten very good at being agreeable for his own sake.

But somehow, this time, he just...couldn't.

“We can’t get married at Westminster.” Harry was exasperated and frustrated and completely exhausted and he wanted a lie-down, not to have to explain muggle politics to Grayson, but clearly he didn’t have a choice. “Only the royal family can, and members of some special Order, and their children.”

“So we’ll get the Queen to make an exception.” Grayson waved his hand dismissively. “You saved her entire country, Harry. The least she can do is let you marry at Westminster.”

Harry made a frustrated sound - almost a scream - in the back of his throat and glared. “I don’t want to get married at Westminster! It’s pretentious and I won’t do it. I want to get married at Hogwarts.”

“We’re not getting married at a school, Harry.” Grayson’s voice was sharp and cold and normally Harry would have been cringing back already but for some reason - maybe the hormones, or the subject matter, or the lure of freedom so close - he was too furious for caution and Grayson’s words had him seeing red. “That’s utterly plebeian, and unacceptable.”

“It’s a castle. How is a bloody castle plebeian, Grayson? That makes no sense!” Harry was shaking all over and he could hear Padfoot whining from his crate in the other room and everything was just making him angrier. “It was my first home and it means a hell of a lot more than some stupid building, and I’m not going to use the fame I never even wanted to get married somewhere I don’t want to get married just to appease your bloody ego!”

In hindsight, shouting that at Grayson was probably one of the stupider things Harry had ever done.

The hand around Harry’s throat was unexpected, though maybe it shouldn’t have been. Harry’s hands came up, his short nails clawing futilely at Grayson’s wrist as strong fingers pressed bruises into the soft sides of his neck and the ‘V’ formed by Grayson’s thumb and index fingers pressed snug against his windpipe, cutting off most of Harry’s air. Harry gasped around the pressure as best he could, struggling to keep air in his lungs.

“Please...” Harry managed to wheeze out, desperately. “Baby...”

Grayson released Harry’s throat, sneering. “You just won’t learn, will you? You really must like being punished, Harry, or else why would you provoke me?”

Harry was curled protectively forward around his belly as he glared at Grayson through the fringe of dark hair falling into his tear-damp eyes. “I’m pregnant.” Harry hissed, his heart aching at the realization that he’d been right; Grayson had no more love for the child in Harry’s womb than he did for Harry. “You bloody selfish bastard, I am pregnant.”

“Well, I’d best take care with your belly, hadn’t I?” Grayson’s words were barely spoken before the back of Grayson’s hand was connecting with Harry’s cheek, his head snapping to the side with the force of the blow. “And for both your sakes, Harry, you’d best learn to mind your tongue.”

Before Harry could reply - or even gain his bearings after the backhand - Grayson had curled the fingers of one hand around Harry’s left wrist and spun him around. Harry cried out - loud and pained - as Grayson hauled his arm behind his back and up between his shoulder blades. The movement wrenched his shoulder terribly and Harry was helpless to resist as Grayson propelled him forward, right into the wall separating the living room - where they’d been arguing - from the hallway leading to the bedroom.

As Grayson shoved Harry’s upper body against the wall, Harry arched his back, keeping his belly from being crushed against the unrelenting surface. “Grayson...” Harry hated the whimper in his voice - the plea - but couldn't help it. “Please stop.”

Grayson curled down over him, breath hot and damp against Harry’s ear. “You’re going to listen to me very carefully, Harry, or you’re going to be very sorry.” He pulled up on Harry’s wrist and Harry choked out a scream from between clenched teeth; it felt like something was tearing in his arm. “Are you listening, pet?”

Harry keened softly, pressing his tear-damp face against the arm he’d thrown up at the last second to prevent his face from slamming into the wall. “Y-yes.” He managed shakily, nodded rapidly. “Yes, I...I’m listening.”

“Good.” Grayson’s lips brushed over Harry’s cheek - the one still throbbing from Grayson’s hand - before he began to speak softly. “We are going to marry at Westminster. You are going to do exactly as you’re told every step of the way, before and after the wedding.”

The hand not holding Harry’s wrist captive behind his back stole down and pressed against the curve of Harry’s belly, beneath his tee-shirt. Harry sobbed as cruel fingers pressed just hard enough to make his pulse skitter with fear before nails bit into his skin with malice. “If you displease me again, Harry, I’ll make sure you regret it. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded weakly and suddenly Grayson’s hands weren’t pinning him anymore and Harry was being spun around and Grayson was staring at him expectantly. Sucking in a trembling breath, Harry threw his arms around Grayson’s neck and buried his face in the taller man’s chest, apologies spilling from his lips without thought. It was several long minutes before Grayson’s arms came up around Harry’s back, stroking soothingly and signalling that the worst was over.

Finally, Grayson drew back with a quiet sigh and brushed his fingers over Harry’s cheek. “Come to bed, love. You look tired and I want you before you sleep.”

Meekly, Harry slipped his hand into Grayson’s and followed him to bed. ‘Obey.’ The single word echoed in Harry’s mind, right up until he finally fell into dreams. And even in sleep, the word haunted him. ’Obey.’

Harry wasn’t sure why Draco had wandered into the bedroom - or why Grayson hadn’t stopped him - but he didn’t like the way Draco was glaring at him as he stalked closer. He hadn’t even realized the former-Slytherin had arrived yet; he’d thought he had at least another half an hour to get ready. “Wh-what are you doing?”

Draco ignored him as he grabbed the shirt Harry was holding protectively in front of himself and yanked it out of Harry’s grip, seething. “When did he do this to you?”

Harry’s eyes went to the bedroom door, fear rising quickly, and Draco made an annoyed sound. “Dammit, Harry, do you think I’d be in his bloody bedroom if he were still here? He let me know he doesn’t like me taking you to photo shoots without him, then ran off to Quidditch practice. Now, when did he do this?”

“Wednesday night.” Harry whispered, shame making heat flood his cheeks; he couldn't bring himself to meet Draco’s eyes. “I...argued. I shouldn’t have. I know better.”

“Don’t.” Draco growled, and Harry flinched as Draco’s fingers curled around his jaw. But the blonde’s touch was gentle as he tipped Harry’s face up. “You should be allowed to argue, or disagree, or whatever else. You shouldn’t be afraid he’ll hurt you if you make him angry or unhappy.”

Harry sucked in a shuddery breath as Draco released him and headed for the living room, calling back. ”I need to grab something. Don’t move.”

“Draco...” Harry was eyeing the items - a small muggle tape recorder and a small camera - with unease the second the other man walked back into the room. “I don’t...I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Harry...” Draco brushed his fingers lightly over Harry’s throat - not enough pressure to hurt, despite the deep bruising - then pushed a button on the recording device. “Just tell me what happened on Wednesday after the last house we viewed.”

Harry warred with himself for a long, tense moment - fear and hope a messy tangle inside him - before he finally nodded and began talking. He took Draco through the fight with Grayson. Through harsh words and cruel hands and fresh bruises. Through fear and nails in his skin and the threat against his unborn child. Through exhaustion and resignation and being used like a living, breathing sex toy before he was allowed to sleep. He couldn't meet Draco’s eyes and pointedly ignored the way Draco snapped pictures while he talked. He photographed Harry’s cheek - bruising splashed across one high cheekbone and the corner of his eye - as well as his neck - more bruising in the shape of fingerprints - and even the crescent-shaped marks left on Harry’s belly - the five little spots where just the smallest bit of skin was missing. He also took pictures of Harry’s wrist, though it was barely red with just the faintest smudging of purple in a couple of places where Grayson’s grip had been particularly tight.

“There’s no bruising on your shoulder or upper arm or upper back, but all your other wounds are now documented.” Draco started to click the recorder off, then hesitated as he studied Harry in silence for another moment before asking. “How did he expect you to explain these at today’s photoshoot?”

“He didn’t.” Harry walked over to the dresser and picked up his concealer, absently noting it was starting to run low and making a mental note to ask Grayson for another bottle. “I use this if I have to be in public before a bruise or mark fades. It works really well.”

Draco considered this, moving closer to take a picture of the makeup Harry was holding before asking. “Why doesn’t he just heal them?”

Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek, then admitted softly. “I think...he likes looking at them. He healed the one I had when we went to the Healer and found out I was pregnant, but he’s never healed one other than that. I used to try, when I still had a wand, but I’m pants at healing charms. The concealer worked better.”

“What makes you think he likes seeing the bruises?” Draco asked, and his voice was low like Harry’s had been and Harry found it oddly soothing that Draco was matching his tone.

“He’ll touch them while they’re still fresh, or press kisses to them. Not in apology, but with affection.” Harry shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, though he wasn’t cold. “When they start to heal and fade, he’ll sometimes press on them until I cry out in pain, making them darken again. Making them last longer. It’s almost like they prove how much control he has over me. How much he owns me.”

Draco growled, making Harry flinch before he could stop himself. The blonde rubbed a hand over his forehead for a second before dropping his hand and giving Harry an apologetic look. “Sorry. I’m angry, obviously, but not with you, Harry. I’m not going to hurt you, but I understand if you don’t believe that.”

Harry nodded, then turned away, unable to look at Draco anymore. Instead, he faced the mirror above the dresser, unscrewing the lid on his concealer and dipping two fingers into it. He hissed a little in pain as he began spreading it over his neck, then jumped when Draco’s slim fingers took the jar from him. Silently, he pushed on Harry’s shoulder until he turned and faced Draco, his eyes locked somewhere off to the side. Draco’s touch was light and careful as he applied the concealer to Harry’s neck, then moved on to his face.

When Draco finally grasped Harry’s hand and held it up between them to spread concealer over the marks there, Harry couldn't resist looking at him. Draco’s face was focused and serious as he covered the faint bruising, but when he noticed Harry looking at him it softened considerably. “What?” Draco asked, raising one eyebrow, when Harry just continued to stare.

“Why are you helping me?” Harry had been trying to sort it out for a week, but he just couldn't figure out Draco’s motivation. ”What’s in it for you?”

“Who says there’s anything in it for me?” Draco’s fingers were warm against his hand and wrist. He’d finished applying the concealer but hadn’t let go. Harry wasn’t sure he wanted him to. “Gryffindors aren’t the only ones who can be altruistic, you know.”

Harry blinked up at him, surprised and a little guilty because he hadn’t been thinking that exactly but it wasn’t far off, either, and what did that say about him that he could still be so prejudiced against a single House after everything he’d been through? Then Draco’s thumb swiped lightly over the inside of his wrist before pressing more firmly against his palm, making little circles. Harry shivered a little, surprised by his body’s reaction to such a simple touch - especially given that it was Draco Malfoy who was touching him - and dropped his eyes to watch what Draco was doing.

It looked innocent. Draco’s pale skin against Harry’s - a mere shade or two darker as he rarely got outside in the sun anymore - and his thumb still tracing small circles into his palm. It looked innocent, but it felt dangerous. Draco’s hand was warm - almost hot - against his. Harry’s pulse was racing and his breathing had gone quick and uneven and he wasn’t sure how much of that was fear and how much was...something else. Something he didn’t know if he was willing to put a name to.

Harry dragged his gaze back up to Draco’s face and was surprised to see the slight smile curving his lips upwards. “I suppose, if we’re being honest, there is that to consider. As a factor, anyway.”

“There’s what to consider?” Harry asked, because he’d never been very good at reading between the lines or at leaving well enough alone, even when he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Draco’s smile grew and his grey eyes sparkled as he answered. “Mother always says I’m sweet on strays, and I suppose she’s right. I’ve never been able to resist them, even if it’s harder to get close; to gain their trust. And you’ve had that lost kitten look since the first time I met you, Harry. It’s why I wanted to be your friend right from the start.”

“I thought you wanted to be my friend because I was Harry Potter.”

“I didn’t know you were Harry Potter the first time we met.” Draco pointed out and Harry frowned since he was pretty sure Draco had said his name that day on the train by way of greeting. Then Draco added. “Robe shop.”

And Harry’s eyes widened because he’d forgotten. He’d forgotten that he hadn’t met Draco on the Hogwarts Express. No, he’d met Draco a month before that, while trying on robes on his birthday. Not that Draco had made a better impression that day than he had on the train, because he hadn’t. Not at all. But Draco was right about not knowing who he’d been. Harry had only given his first name during that meeting.

“You...” Harry glanced down at where Draco was still stroking his palm, then slowly pulled back. His voice was a little stiff when he spoke. “I’m not a stray, Draco.”

Draco laughed and shook his head. “No, you’re not. But you’re still people-shy at the same time you’re touch-starved and you still have those big kitten eyes.” Voice turning serious, he added. “I’ve been sweet on you most of my life, Harry, even when I wanted to hex the daylights out of you because you were acting like a stupid Gryffindor. But I’m not helping you because I want you for myself.

“I’m helping you.” Draco explained before Harry could ask. “Because I’ve seen way too much suffering that I couldn't do anything to stop. I can’t just sit by and watch it happen. Not when I’m capable of helping. And you’ve saved my life before. Paying that back seems like the right thing to do.”

“So...you...want me?” Harry wasn’t sure he could wrap his head around that. “You never said anything.”

“Of course not.” This time, Draco snorted and rolled his eyes. “We were at each other’s throats, then on opposite sides of a war. If you’d been out and about a bit more post-war before winding up with Grayson...” Draco paused, then shook his head. ”No, probably not even then. I had a lot of finding myself to do after everything that happened, Harry. I gave myself that time. Because I did, I can say it now. I like you. If you work it out that you like me, too, somewhere down the road, I‘d like to give us a shot, assuming I’m still single. For now, I’d really like to help get you away from the abusive twat who stupidly thinks he can get away with hurting you.”

When Harry just blinked in surprise, Draco shook his head and sighed in fond exasperation. “While you process that, finish getting dressed. We’ve got a photoshoot to get to. And Harry...” Draco added over his shoulder as he left the bedroom. “Take your time. There’s no expiration date on my offer.”

Harry watched the bedroom door swing shut behind the blonde and wondered when the hell his life had become so bloody complicated.

Harry probably shouldn’t have found Draco’s constant needling of Grayson so amusing. Anything that pissed Grayson off was a potential hazard for Harry, after all. He knew that; he acknowledged that; he adjusted his own behavior as much as he could accordingly to offset Draco’s. He just also found it hilarious. Harry wasn’t stupid enough to laugh, mind you, but it was still damned funny to watch Draco smile and charm his way around Grayson’s objections to Draco’s plotting and planning. Grayson had signed a contract agreeing to essentially whatever Draco deemed necessary for the sake of the book. Now, his hands were tied and Draco was using that to his full advantage all while somehow never letting on that he knew something was amiss with Grayson and Harry’s relationship.

And Harry had to admit that, in addition to being hilarious, it was also rather impressive.

Harry was actually cleared to make purchases again because of Draco, though he still couldn't withdraw funds and all purchases were subject to review - and subsequent return if rejected - by Grayson. Still, it was something. More than he’d had in a very long time. All because Draco had insisted on doing a series of “shopping” photoshoots involving The Chosen One - and only him - for the book. Meaning Grayson had either had to allow Harry to make purchases, or explain that Harry couldn't make purchases, or find some excuse to have the shopping photos be entirely staged. Grayson had chosen Door Number One, much to Harry’s surprise.

Draco had simply smirked at Harry and winked the second Grayson looked away after agreeing to the series of excursions.

Which was how Harry wound up with Draco and Jean and Lizzie - each armed with a camera - following him around a toy store, and a maternity/paternity clothing store, and a store full of baby things, and one full of household stuff like bath towels and oven mitts and plates and silverware and a thousand other things one needed for a house. It was pitched to Grayson as a “Harry Potter gets ready to set up house, while his fiance diligently practices for his first World Cup.” sort of thing and Draco promised they’d be doing a shoot or two of Grayson playing - both with the Tornadoes and with England’s team for the 2002 World Cup. Harry wasn’t sure he really enjoyed shopping, but he did like the things he was picking out and he really did need more clothes that would accommodate his ever-growing belly. Harry had read, of course, that he’d be gaining about a pound a week during his second trimester but as his seventeenth week of pregnancy drew to a close he was more than a little horrified over how quickly he was losing his formerly-lithe shape.

The fact that Draco also made sure to take some time in the photo studio each day to gather more details about Harry’s relationship with Grayson and the abuse - creating a rather detailed timeline of events a little at a time - was just one more reason to tolerate the shopping. Any excuse that allowed him time with Draco away from Grayson was a good one.

On Friday, the 31st of August, Draco seemed to decide he had pushed Grayson far enough for the week. He graciously allowed the man to attend their “baby-bump photoshoot” (as Harry had taken to calling the weekly progress photos in his head) despite him not actually needing to be there. Harry was relieved when this seemed to mollify Grayson’s temper somewhat; in any case, his mood improved significantly when Draco shrugged at his request to come along and acted like it didn’t matter to him one way or the other what Grayson did. Harry knew it was all an act on Draco’s part, designed to help protect Harry by ensuring Grayson didn’t suspect their plans, but it was convincing nonetheless.

If he hadn’t known better, Harry would have sworn Draco didn’t know a thing.

Monday, the 3rd of September, found a new level of joy - and weirdness - in Harry’s life. Draco and Grayson were talking in the living room - Harry thought Draco was setting up having a photographer follow Grayson around for his away game with the Tornadoes on the 8th - while Harry fixed lunch in the kitchen. When it happened, Harry was actually putting a partial box of fusilli back in the pantry and humming to himself, eager for the pasta salad he was making to be done. He had one hell of a craving for it, which was sort of odd because he normally didn’t like pasta salad very much. He was bending over, one hand pressed to his belly in a subconsciously protective way, reaching towards the lower shelf that held the pasta when it happened.

Beneath his hand - beneath his skin - was a press. A solid, definite push that Harry couldn't possibly mistake for anything other than the baby growing inside him making itself known. There had been flutters before this - funny little twitches and stirrings he’d been hesitant to claim were the baby’s movements because he just wasn’t positive about it - but this was unmistakable.

The cardboard box slid from Harry’s fingers and long, tight spirals spilled out across the pantry’s tiled floor - some bouncing and rolling out into the kitchen around his feet - even as Harry brought that hand up to press against his belly beside the other. Seconds later the baby nudged back against his palms and Harry let out a watery, breathless laugh.

“Harry?” Grayson’s voice from behind him was low and annoyed, though Harry imagined he would sound concerned to most people. “What happened, pet?”

Completely uncaring about anything besides the baby, Harry didn’t give a single fuck if Grayson was pissed off about the pasta all over the floor. He spun around, beaming. “The baby is kicking.” He proclaimed, knowing he was probably radiating happiness. He felt like he should be shining he was so pleased. “Like, really kicking. I can feel it and it’s weird, and freaky as anything, and amazing.”

Grayson’s anger melted away instantly and he was suddenly pressing his palms to Harry’s belly, slotting them around Harry’s hands and looking eager. Sure enough it was only a few seconds before the baby kicked out again, or did another somersault, or whatever it was doing in there. Grayson gasped, then knelt down in front of Harry looking awed. He suddenly pulled Harry’s hands away from his stomach, then tugged up Harry’s shirt without any warning. Harry flushed as the bulge - complete with the faintest beginnings of stretchmarks, despite the salve Harry was putting on twice a day - was exposed to both Grayson and Draco, the blonde standing back a bit and snapping a picture with his ever-present camera. Harry glared, but there was no real heat behind it and Draco could tell.

Harry looked down again as Grayson’s hands cupped his belly - skin-to-skin this time. When the baby moved again, Harry watched with wide eyes as his skin rippled and moved eerily. As Grayson leaned in and pressed a kiss to his stomach, Harry dared another look over at Draco. He looked torn between emotions. Harry saw anger dance across his face as he looked at Grayson, which Harry had come to expect because Draco had a temper and he seemed to truly loathe Grayson. Not that Harry blamed him. Harry also saw longing, though, as his eyes jumped to Harry’s belly beneath Grayson’s palms.

And without really knowing why, Harry spoke. “Would you like to feel, Draco?”

Draco jerked in place, a sort of aborted movement forward, then said. “I...is that appropriate?”

Harry shrugged. “Why not? People feel pregnant women’s bellies all the time, right? Like, friends and family and stuff. I don’t mind.”

Draco looked at Grayson and the man smiled, nodding. “Harry’s right. It’s perfectly acceptable. Come and feel how strong my baby is, Draco.”

Harry’s teeth ground together at the possessive pronoun being applied to the child growing inside Harry; it negated his claim on the child as though he were of no more consequence than an incubator. But he nodded at Draco’s questioning look and smiled when the blonde approached. Grayson rose to his feet and stepped to the side, allowing Draco the room he needed to move close enough to touch. Harry watched as Draco’s pale, fine-boned hands settled on the curve of flesh, a look of nervous concentration on his face as his palms barely brushed Harry’s skin.

Lips twitching up, Harry said softly. “I’m not going to explode or break if you put a little pressure, Draco. If you want to feel the baby move, you’re going to have to touch a little more firmly.”

“Right.”

Draco took a deep breath, then pressed his hands more solidly against Harry’s belly. His skin was hot against Harry’s and he still looked utterly focused. The baby moved again and Draco watched with a sort of reverence as Harry’s skin shifted again with the motion. Grey eyes flicked up to Harry’s and there was tenderness there, and heat, and a longing so strong it tugged at Harry’s heart. He felt like a puppet on a string, being pulled closer to Draco, and Harry knew he had to resist even if he didn’t want to. Giving in wasn’t an option. Not yet. Not with Grayson standing there watching them, eyes sharp if currently unsuspecting.

The baby pushed against Draco’s touch again and the blonde bit his lip before dropping his hands and stepping back, fingers curling tightly into his palms as though resisting the urge to touch again. “Thank you.” Draco’s voice was low and soft. “I’ve never been around a pregnant person before. That was...a unique experience.”

Grayson smiled indulgently at Draco. “Of course. Now, why don’t we leave Harry alone so he can finish making lunch and cleaning up? He’s so particular about how he likes things done and it’s probably best if we’re not underfoot.”

Harry saw Draco’s fingers twitch as though itching for his wand, but he simply smiled and nodded, following Grayson back into the living room. Harry watched them go, thinking how strange his life was. His fiance - who was also the father of his child - had touched his belly with a possessiveness that made Harry’s skin crawl. His school rival - and a former Death Eater (unwilling or not) - had touched his belly and Harry had wanted to beg him to never stop. He was terrified of the man who claimed to love him...and was trusting someone who’d once tried to cast an Unforgivable on him, to save him.

Harry sighed as he tugged his shirt back down over his stomach, then rubbed it lightly. He smiled when the baby moved again and admitted softly. “I have no idea what I’m doing, baby. No bloody idea.”

‘But,’ Harry reasoned as he grabbed the broom and began sweeping up pasta. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing while fighting Voldemort, either, and that turned out fine.’ It wasn’t much, really, but Harry was beginning to hope that his stupid-good luck would hold out, just for this one last thing.

“If I have to eat one more bite of cake, I’m going to puke.” Harry hissed, making Draco snicker beside him. Grayson was narrowing options down with the baker - for the third time - and wasn’t close enough to hear Harry’s complaint, thank Merlin. “I mean it, Draco. We just did this for my birthday. Why are we doing it again?”

“Photos.” Draco sing-songed the word, looking disgustingly chipper. But then, he hadn’t had to try fifty or so bites of cake in the last hour. Casting Harry a suddenly sympathetic look, Draco lowered his voice and asked. “Do you need to step into the loo? If you do throw up, you might feel better.”

Harry shook his head, determined to get through the ordeal without incident. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. I just want to be done. It’s bloody cake. It shouldn’t be this hard to pick one.”

Draco made a noise Harry assumed was meant to be sympathetic and agreeable, though he couldn't be sure. Harry sighed and went back to staring out the shop’s windows at the hustle and bustle of Vertic Alley, knowing Grayson would let him know when he needed to taste something again.

It was strange, because none of the individual things he was being forced to do - flower selections and cake tasting and seating charts and house showings and baby-related things - were a big deal, but when they were all piled together, one on top of the other, with Grayson’s abuse icing the whole thing…

Harry couldn't wait to be washed of the whole mess. Pressing his hand to his belly, Harry added silently. ‘Except for you, baby. Daddy loves you. Promise.’

On Thursday, the realtor took them back through the five houses Grayson had liked the best from their previous viewings. Harry smiled whenever Draco or Jean pointed a camera at him and nodded along when the realtor spoke, but he was barely paying attention to anything. If someone had asked him to rank the houses in the order he liked them best, from greatest to least, he couldn't have done it. He supposed it was a good thing Grayson didn’t care which one Harry liked, since he didn’t have to lie about it. He just smiled and agreed when Grayson looked pleased by something and let his face go politely blank when Grayson seemed annoyed or unhappy. He was just so tired.

By the time they got home, Harry simply collapsed into bed still-clothed. He was asleep in minutes.

Harry was surprised to wake up alone on the 7th. Groggily getting out of bed, Harry was confused when he realized he was nude. Hadn’t he fallen asleep still dressed? Harry saw a note on the nightstand and snatched it up, skimming the neat block letters Grayson always used. Grayson had left for his away match with the Tornadoes; he would be back early on Sunday. He expected Harry to behave himself during his photoshoot with Draco that day, and explained that Draco would also require Harry’s presence on Saturday, though it didn’t say what for. Harry sighed and sank back down onto the side of the bed, wincing a little as muscles in his lower back and buttocks and upper thighs protested.

Harry froze, fingers clenching around the parchment in his hands so tightly it ripped and shifted his hips in a small rocking motion. His muscles twinged again and Harry felt sick. Glancing at the clock, Harry decided he had enough time to take a hot shower. He wanted to scrub away any trace of Grayson’s touch, because though he couldn't remember it - he had been exhausted and slept like the dead - Harry was positive that Grayson had not stripped his unconscious form with pure intentions. His aching muscles and nudity pointed accusing fingers and the fact that Harry couldn’t remember being fucked did nothing to reassure him. He felt unclean on a level that went deeper than skin and though this was hardly the first time Harry had suspected (strongly suspected) that Grayson had used him like a doll while he was asleep, it didn’t get any easier to accept the concept.

Determined to be presentable - regardless of how he felt - by the time Draco arrived, Harry headed for the bathroom. There was nothing else he could do. Not yet. But he made a mental note to tell Draco, because the blonde would just drag it out of him one way or another and Harry had learned it was easier to just volunteer the information when something happened. Harry wasn’t sure how, but Draco always knew.

He wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but Harry was secretly grateful. He didn’t know why, but knowing Draco already knew when something was wrong made talking about it easier.

“So...this is the place he can’t touch.” Draco mused out loud, his eyes moving curiously over the drawing room the Floo trip had deposited them into. “It’s rather gloomy.”

Harry shrugged. “I never really did much renovating or redecorating.” He admitted, adding. “Also, your family decorated the place, so...”

“Yes, well. Clearly Mother has better taste than her aunt did.” Shaking his head, Draco set his bag down and pulled out his tape recorder and his camera. “Alright then. Show me the gifts he sent - whatever is left, as I’m assuming the flowers are long dead - and the notes. Take me through the first time you left. Explain everything that brought you to here and then what eventually led you back to him. I want it step-by-step.”

Shaking just a bit, Harry waited for Draco to turn the recorder on. Then, Harry started to speak. He explained the first three nights, when he’d camped out by the front door with Padfoot, wandless and defenseless beyond the walls of the house and the magic protecting it and the dog he’d had with him and an old house-elf. Harry explained how he’d spent three days and nights praying the wards held against Grayson’s fury. Then he led Draco to the room he’d had Kreacher put Grayson’s peace offerings in. He showed Draco the empty baskets and vases from all of the flowers and let him take pictures of the accompanying notes, ordering them as best he could from oldest to newest though he knew his memory was far from perfect and it had been a long while since he’d received them. Then, Harry called for Kreacher and let the house-elf tell Draco what he remembered from that tense time period and answer any questions the former-Slytherin had.

When Draco finally called a halt to things, it was late enough that Kreacher pleaded with Harry to be allowed to cook dinner for them. Harry and Draco agreed and it wasn’t long before the meal was over and Harry was slumping - full now, and wrung out, and in desperate need of a nap - onto a sofa. Chuckling, Draco ordered him to rest before they returned to Grayson’s flat. Tired as he was, Harry didn’t even protest. He just closed his eyes, dragged a throw blanket over himself, and drifted off to sleep.

Harry woke up feeling much better. The bone-deep exhaustion that came from having to relive everything he had been through was gone and Harry felt energized. Blinking open his eyes, Harry stretched along the length of the sofa, letting out a pleased hum as he did so.

Harry blinked again, surprised, when he heard Draco rasp hoarsely. “Fuck...”

“Draco...?” Harry asked, voice low and husky with sleep. A vaguely blurry Draco stepped into Harry’s line of sight and Harry struggled not to squint, knowing it didn’t really help; he’d just have to wait until Draco was close enough to see properly, or until he had his glasses.. “Er, do you know where my glasses are?”

Draco pulled in a shaky breath, dropping to his knees beside the sofa and murmuring. “Do me a favor and don’t punch me for this, yeah?”

“Wh-” The rest of Harry’s question was cut off as Draco’s lips came down on top of his.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, eyes wide and body tensing up. But Draco’s lips were gentle against his, the twin metal hoops pressing lightly into Harry’s lower lip, smooth and strange and just slightly cool, and Harry softened quickly. With a quiet sigh, Harry’s lips parted slightly. Draco drew back for a few seconds, then leaned in again, mouth open just a bit. The kiss was light and mostly chaste, just lips and a hint of shared breath passed between them. Draco’s hand curled along Harry’s cheek and jaw, cradling his face tenderly. The whole thing was warm and sweet and Harry’s throat felt tight by the time Draco finally lifted his head.

Draco’s thumb brushed lightly over Harry’s cheek and his lips curved up into a smile somewhere between wicked and tender - and Harry hadn’t realized that was even possible, but apparently it was - and then he was leaning back in. This kiss was not soft, or gentle, or tentative. Draco’s mouth was a firm pressure against Harry’s, and the instant Harry parted his lips further Draco licked his way passed them. Harry couldn't contain the soft moan that built in his throat as Draco kissed him fiercely. The blonde’s tongue tasted the inside of Harry’s cheeks, traced the line of his teeth, and flicked lightly over the ridges on his palate. As Draco’s hand slid back, curving around the back of Harry’s neck and allowing him to adjust the angle of their kiss with ease, Harry reached up and tangled his own in Draco’s hair.

Harry’s fingers curled into the silky strands and tugged even as he arched upwards, suddenly desperate to get as close to Draco as he could. He couldn't remember a time when he’d felt like this; when he’d wanted someone as much as he wanted Draco Malfoy in this moment. Harry didn’t think he’d ever gotten hard - as he was now, aching and needy - from just a few kisses, but there was no denying his arousal. Draco tasted of bitter coffee and sugar-sweet vanilla and Harry found he wanted to suck the flavor from the other man’s tongue.

When Harry turned his head, breaking the kiss and pulling in much-needed air, Draco’s mouth pressed sucking kisses along the line of his jaw. Harry whimpered as damp lips and a flickering tongue traced their way towards his ear, a ragged moan escaping as the edge of Draco’s teeth scraped over the tender spot where his jaw ended. Draco let out a low noise, almost a growl, then his tongue followed the curve of Harry’s ear, teasing and wet. The blonde’s hot breath over the now-damp skin had Harry shivering as delicious little shocks of pleasure licked their way down his spine.

“Merlin, I want you...” Draco’s voice was a low purr in his ear. “Harry, can I...?”

Harry’s breath hitched in his chest as the fingers not curled around the nape of his neck slipped under the hem of his tee-shirt, touching skin in a barely-there caress that was as much a question as it was a promise. Harry wondered if he’d ever had this before; someone who touched him like it was the highest privilege rather than a right they had. Ginny had barely touched him at all - kisses and some over-clothes frantic grabbing was as far as they’d ever gone - and Grayson…well. Even in the beginning, when Grayson had been loving and attentive and passionate, he had never been hesitant. Harry couldn’t recall a single moment in time where Grayson’s touch had been anything less than sure and confident. Harry couldn't imagine Grayson touching him the way Draco was - as though uncertain it would be welcome, and willing to back off if that was the case. But then, Grayson didn’t really take no for an answer.

Not to mention, he viewed Harry as his. His to control; his to hurt; his to fuck. Harry’s own wishes and desires were secondary, when they mattered at all.

And it was that thought - Grayson’s possessive mentality - that brought the whole thing crashing down around Harry’s ears.

“Wait...” Harry gasped, hands dropping down to press against Draco’s chest almost frantically. “D-draco, wait! I...I can’t, I...”

Draco froze immediately, lifting his head to stare down at Harry with concern. “What’s wrong?” Harry’s eyes were huge, pupils blown wide with a strange combination of arousal and fear, and his breathing was too-quick and uneven. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

Harry was shaking his head, tears brimming up and spilling over in seconds. His breathing sped up even more and he gasped out in sheer terror. “He’ll kill me. Draco, he’ll kill me.”

Draco’s shoulders slumped and he leaned down, resting his forehead against Harry’s and letting out a shaky sort of laugh. “Harry, it’s okay. It’s all right. Just breathe for me.”

“It’s...no, he...”

Harry felt like his heart was going to break through his ribcage and land on the floor, still beating fiercely. Desperately, he shoved against Draco until the taller man shifted back, then Harry was off the couch and across the room, back to the wall and shaking all over, trying to figure out why the room was spinning dizzily. He couldn't stop shaking his head and he held up his hands to ward Draco off when the blonde started to creep closer to him. Harry couldn’t think when Draco was touching him - couldn't think at all just at the moment - and he needed to be able to. Needed to sort out how to undo this mess; how to fix this. He needed to remember why Draco’s touch was a bad thing, even if it felt right.

Even if it felt like everything he’d ever wanted or needed.

“Shhh...” Draco’s voice startled Harry into opening eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. Draco was kneeling on the floor - near him but not touching - and Harry wondered when he’d sunk down onto the floor; he didn’t remember doing that. “Harry, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?”

Harry nodded, feeling heavy and fuzzy. His face was numb and so were his hands, and Harry thought he should be worried but he couldn't clear his head enough to care. The room tipped funny and went grey around the edges, making him feel sick, but he struggled to focus on Draco’s voice; on his face.

“Good, love. That’s good. Listen to me.” Draco leaned in closer and his breath wafted over Harry’s face, warm and soft and soothing despite the alarm bells in Harry’s brain screaming that proximity meant danger. “I am not going to let Grayson hurt you. Do you understand me, Harry? If he tries, I’ll kill him. He’s never going to hurt you again. I swear it.”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, shaking his head frantically again, because Draco couldn’t promise that. He simply couldn't. Grayson was insane and Draco couldn't guarantee Harry’s safety or his own, no one could, because no one understood just how dangerous Grayson was. Except Harry. Harry knew it too well. Harry knew a lot of things, actually, and one of them was that this was all going to end so badly. He was suddenly certain of it.

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise and fear when Draco’s hand suddenly moved to cover the lower half of Harry’s face, dragging his attention back to the blonde. “I’m sorry.” Draco’s words were sincere, and Harry’s heart clenched at the open, honest look on his face. “You’re too upset, and I don’t have a paper bag. Just relax. It’s going to be okay, Harry.”

Draco’s hand pressed more firmly against Harry’s mouth and nose, making it hard for him to breathe around the stifling pressure. Harry made a panicked sound at the back of his throat, high and thready despite being muffled, and his hands flew up to scrabble uselessly at Draco’s wrist. His whole body was shaking and tears were still spilling over and he didn’t understand what Draco was doing or why. He thought his vision should be dimming, the way it did whenever Grayson choked him, but instead his head was clearing. Harry could suddenly think clearer and the cold, numb feeling in his hands and face was replaced by a tingling sensation, like after your foot has fallen asleep; like how Harry had always imagined static and white noise would feel if you could touch them.

After what felt like forever - but was probably only a couple of minutes - Draco slowly removed his hand. “Do you feel better now?”

Harry nodded, then whispered. “What...I mean, why did you...”

“You were having another panic attack, and you were too far gone to listen to me properly. You weren’t going to accept anything I told you, not even breathing instructions.” Harry nodded because Draco was probably right; Harry had been no state of mind to do anything other than be afraid. “You were breathing too fast. Pulling in too much air. It’s called hyperventilation and it’s when you flood your brain with too much oxygen. Problem is, your brain doesn’t understand what’s happening and convinces you it needs more rather than less, which just makes the problem worse.

“If you can’t slow your breathing, you eventually pass out.” Draco’s lips quirked up into a wry smile. “Fun part is, once you pass out your breathing rhythm returns to normal and the problem fixes itself, but until you pass out you feel like you’re suffocating. So. Easy way to fix it is to restrict breathing, or force the person to breathe in their own air. Breathing into a paper bag works best, but the hand-covering-mouth-and-nose trick is what Pansy used to do for me in a pinch.”

“Oh.” Harry wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that; didn’t know how to address what he was feeling or how it contradicted itself or...or anything, really. “Er...thanks, I guess.”

Draco stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “Harry, I wasn’t trying to push you. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about kissing you for years and I couldn't resist anymore.” His lips quirked up and he added. “Don’t let it go to your head or anything, but you’ve got a very kissable mouth.”

Before he could really think about what he was saying, Harry blurted out. ”Aren’t all mouths kissable?” As Draco laughed again, Harry could feel his cheeks flooding with mortified heat. “Forget I said that.”

“No, no.” Still chuckling, Draco waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s a valid question. Sure, all mouths are kissable but some are more - or less - so than others. It all depends, really. And yours is rather more.”

Harry made a funny sort of sound that Draco couldn't possibly know the meaning of because Harry wasn’t really sure himself, then said. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. It’s just...I’m engaged.”

If Harry had thought that was going to dim the heat in Draco’s eyes any - a sort of cold-water dose of reality that would cool his lust - he was sorely mistaken. “Only temporarily.” Draco’s eyes were dark as he leaned in closer to Harry once more. “And I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Draco’s voice was a low, throaty purr that wound its way sinuously down Harry’s spine, making him shiver. It was almost enough to make him push aside his better nature, but Harry’s moral compass was still pointing due North and he couldn't quite ignore it. “I’m still engaged. I...I don’t cheat, Draco. It’s not who I am.”

“Harry.” Draco’s eyes narrowed and there was anger in the flickering muscle in his clenched jaw, but his voice was soft and earnest. “Grayson lost any right to fidelity the first time he punished you. He lost all claims to loyalty or honesty or anything the moment he started abusing you. You don’t owe him a fucking thing. And if you still think of him as your fiance - I mean if you really, truly think of him that way, despite everything - than you probably aren’t ready to leave and I doubt you’ll stay gone long and maybe you should think about what another leaving attempt will result in when you go back, because it’s probably not worth it in that case. Especially since this will be pretty public. But if you really are done, then deadlines and official dates are just superfluous and, I repeat, you do not owe him anything.”

Harry swallowed hard, then dropped his eyes. “I...don’t know how to do this, Draco. I know I used to make decisions based on instinct, and on what I wanted or needed in that moment, but I don’t remember how and sometimes it feels like I only ever thought I was making choices but really it was always someone else’s needs or desires or whims pulling the strings.”

Draco considered Harry’s words, then held out a hand. When Harry glanced between the open palm and Draco’s face uncertainly, Draco said. “You’ve spent a long time giving, Harry. So, if you want, this can be your turn to take. To be selfish. To figure out what you want, independant of anything or anyone else. I’m willing to be your living toy for the night. It’s up to you if you want to play.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to make a choice about you.” Harry whispered. “For all that we’ve known each other for years, I don’t know you, and I barely know myself.”

“This doesn’t have to mean anything.” Draco was standing with his hand still held out to Harry, looking like the epitome of patience and understanding. “I mean, of course, on my end it does because I’m completely comfortable with my feelings for you and I won’t lie about them. But on your end, and for us as a unit, it doesn’t. It doesn’t have to mean we’re together now, or that we ever will be, or that we won’t be. It doesn’t have to mean anything we don’t both agree on. It can just be me giving you what you need and you taking, at least this once.”

“You’d be okay with that?”

“I think a lot of what I’d be okay with would probably surprise you.” That wicked twist was back on Draco’s lips and it made Harry’s stomach do a pleasant sort of flip. “But this specifically? Yes. I’m okay with it. Are you?”

After a long pause full of tension and rapid contemplation and nervousness laced with arousal, Harry finally made his choice. “Yeah. I‘m okay with it, too.”

Harry hadn’t thought through what, precisely, a night of being selfish entailed. He had never been in the driver’s seat - to use a muggle phrase - during sex. He had been thinking about Draco for a couple of weeks - guiltily, but still - and had always imagined Draco being in the lead. He had imagined being pushed against a wall, or yanked into a heated kiss, or thrown onto a bed. He had never imagined himself doing the throwing. Harry wasn’t sure he could.

But he wanted Draco, that much he was certain of, and Harry found himself oddly determined not to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

In the end, Harry couldn't have said how he managed to get them up two flights of stairs and into the bedroom he’d claimed for himself after Voldemort’s defeat, but he did manage it. He didn’t remember much of the journey, though the sound of Walburga’s portrait shrieking after them upon being woken up - and Draco’s amused laughter - wouldn’t soon be forgotten. Harry had somehow tripped them both as they climbed the stairs, more focused on kissing Draco until neither of them could breathe than on where his feet were being placed. Harry had landed sprawled across Draco’s chest while the former-Slytherin groaned, his back having made painfully hard contact with the stairs. Walburga had begun shouting, Draco had thrown his head back as he laughed, and Harry had set his teeth to the bared expanse of throat that action exposed and turned Draco’s laughter into moans. The rest of the trip to the bedroom was as much of a blur as everything leading up to that moment had been, but Harry decided he remembered the important bits.

The taste of Draco’s mouth, sweet and bitter and perfect against his. The feel of Draco’s silky hair against his palms, curling around his fingers, as he angled Draco’s head to deepen a kiss. The way Draco’s breath caught in his throat when Harry rocked their hips together, pressed against a wall halfway up the second staircase. The press and tangle of Draco’s fingers against his own as he walked backwards, pulling Draco up the last few steps. The way Draco’s pupils blew wide, eyes hungry as they devoured the sight of Harry’s skin when he pulled his shirt off and threw it somewhere over his shoulder while guiding Draco down the gloomy hallway towards his room. The hissed noise of encouragement Draco gave him when he placed both hands on Draco’s chest and pushed hard enough to topple the blonde back onto his bed.

Harry loved the way Draco looked at him - there was lust there, and a desire to claim, but also a sort of tenderness and generosity that left Harry in awe of the other man. Draco wanted Harry, yes, but he wanted Harry in the most selfless way imaginable. Harry could see it painted all across his sharp face; could read it in those expressive silver-grey eyes. Draco was eager for whatever Harry was willing to do, but there was no drive to push for more; no thought of any desires beyond Harry and what he wanted. It was heady, and more than a little of that was because of how starkly honest Draco was about the whole thing.

As Harry’s shaky fingers pushed tiny buttons through equally tiny buttonholes that he could have sworn were fighting him, Draco lay still beneath him. Harry’s weight rested on Draco’s hips and he could feel the blonde’s cock, hard and ready, beneath his ass; could hear the way Draco’s breath moved unevenly passed kiss-swollen lips to settle shakily in his lungs, ragged and harsh and desperate. And yet Draco’s hands rested at his sides, fingers relaxed, and his body was loose and soft, as though he were in no rush; as though he were perfectly content with whatever pace Harry chose to set. Draco had promised to give Harry whatever he wanted; had promised tonight was about Harry; had authorized Harry to take whatever he liked. And Harry was both shocked and aroused by how completely Draco was keeping to his word.

The former-Slytherin was not an inactive participant by any stretch of the imagination, but he was somehow utterly undemanding. He kissed back when Harry pressed their mouths together, but never leaned into Harry when the brunette began to pull back, instead allowing the retreat with grace. Draco moved where Harry directed, and made encouraging sounds when Harry’s mouth on his throat or Harry’s hands tugging on the buttons of Draco’s shirt met with his approval, but he made no move to rush things along - or to slow Harry down - but simply went along with Harry’s actions. Draco was unabashed in reacting to Harry, but his reactions were just that - reactions. His every move was a response to something Harry had done. It was raw, and primal, and honest, and almost immediately Harry was craving more.

As he pushed aside the sky blue silk - Draco’s choice for the day, and a color that almost made his eyes look more blue than grey for once - the blonde shifted beneath him in a sinuous slide that somehow made it terribly easy to toss the - no doubt expensive - fabric aside. Harry’s mouth hung open, more than a little shocked though he wasn’t sure why given Draco’s multitude of piercings, which clearly spoke of a fondness for body modification. It shouldn’t have surprised him at all, to see color inked across Draco’s porcelain complexion, but it did. There was simply so much…

Harry ran the tips of his fingers over Draco’s right collarbone, tracing along curling lines and looping swirls that made up three small words. ‘So it goes...’ And there, after the ellipses, was a string of seven small, all-black birds, with the first of the lot practically touching the last small dot. Not much more than the vague shadowy shape of them, they flew in a slight up-and-down rollercoaster of a line that curved around the outside of Draco’s shoulder, towards his back. The rest of the ink he could see was, well…

Vast.

It started on Draco’s left wrist, and Harry honestly wasn’t sure where it ended as it disappeared around the back of him and beneath the waistband of his trousers as well. On Draco’s left forearm, there had once been stark black lines that weren’t quite anything anymore but which any witch or wizard above a certain age knew were the remnants of the Dark Mark. Now, those lines were invisible. Washed away by the new lines of ink that covered that area and so much more, and Harry wondered if covering the Mark had been Draco’s first foray into tattoos and piercings or if it had come later.

The new tattoo was beautiful, and tragic, and it twisted something in Harry’s chest tight. There was a blood red rose, literally. There was blood dripping from the petals, in fact, as though the liquid had painted an otherwise-pristine flower the vibrant hue. Above the rose was a bird - cream-colored on its breast and belly, with brown-and-cream wings that darkened to near-black at the tips. And there, on its pale breast, was a single puncture wound, still dripping blood onto the flower below. The bird was clearly near-dead and Harry had to wonder at the macabre art. From around Draco’s wrist, a tangled thorny bush - black ink stark against Draco’s fair skin - seemed to grow, rising up and surrounding both bird and flower before continuing on.

Harry could see the briar wind its way in twists and spirals and curls around Draco’s left arm, right up to his shoulder. There, it disappeared round the back, to Merlin-knew-where, and also crept down Draco’s chest and torso. The far-reaching tendrils snaked around the words on Draco’s far collarbone, stopping half-encircling them and not quite near the birds. His right arm was starkly bare; it looked like unpainted canvas by comparison and Harry wondered absently if Draco had plans for it. Starting from Draco’s left shoulder, Harry couldn't resist tracing the thorny branches as they twisted their way down the left side of the blonde’s chest and torso, spiraling teasingly around one pink nipple and creeping into the spaces between Draco’s ribs before wrapping around his hipbone and disappearing beneath Draco’s trousers.

Harry’s fingers brushed the soft skin of Draco’s flat stomach, just-barely skimming the sleek curve of the metal hoop that pierced Draco’s navel. The muscles beneath his fingers tightened, and Draco’s skin prickled in the wake of Harry’s light caress. It made Harry feel powerful to evoke such a visceral response from someone as controlled and poised as Draco. Harry let his fingertips skim lower, over the thin trail of downy blonde hair that disappeared below Draco’s waistband and tempted him to explore further. Draco made a sound - half pleased and half pleading - and Harry had to close his eyes and take several deep breaths to steady himself.

When he opened them again, Draco was watching him down the length of his body. His silver-grey eyes were half-closed and his kiss-bruised lips were parted and he looked like every fantasy Harry hadn’t known he had; like sin and temptation, offered up with a generosity that made Harry’s mouth water. Unable to resist, Harry surged up and captured Draco’s lips once more, kissing him until Draco’s precious control was nothing but a memory.

Lifting his head at last, Harry took in the sight of Draco spread beneath him and coming apart at the seams. His pale skin was flushed, not merely across his cheeks but down his neck and shoulders and chest, rosy color bright beneath the tattoos. Draco’s hands were above his head, fingers curled tight around fistfuls of Harry’s sheets as though that might anchor him. His eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide and silver turned stormcloud grey around them, and there was a glassy, dazed quality that made Harry want to preen for having caused it.

Lips curving into a pleased smile - because why not - Harry lowered his head to lick a long, damp line up the front of Draco’s body. He started at the bottom of Draco’s ribcage, tongue moving swiftly up the center of Draco’s chest, then higher still. He flicked it teasingly in the hollow of Draco’s throat, then spared a few seconds to drag his teeth over the blonde’s adam’s apple. Draco groaned, hips twitching up and pressing their lower bodies together for a few dizzying moments.

Harry chuckled against Draco’s throat, body humming now with the rush of desire and power. Harry wasn’t positive, but he thought the last time he’d felt like this was during the war when a lot of his life had been ruled by instinct and adrenaline and a constant internal repetition of the word ‘now’ with the knowledge that he might not get a ‘later’. It was strange, to feel that urgency again, but familiar as well. It fit him better than he’d thought it would after all this time.

Riding the crest of that wave of confidence and certainty, Harry pressed his lips to the spot behind Draco’s ear, then dragged his tongue along the pierced curve of it. Draco whined softly and Harry growled, loving the contrast of warm flesh and cool metal tickling across the tip of his tongue. “As much as I adore the way they flatter your arse, I want you out of those trousers now, Draco.”

Draco laughed again, warm and bright, and Harry was in awe. He wondered at it; at the fact that sex could be like this, because he’d never realized. Hadn’t thought something could be blisteringly hot and yet somehow relaxed and unrushed and comfortable enough for laughter and teasing without lessening the need; without somehow dampening the mood. But all of that was true. For all of Harry’s hurried movements as he shifted off of Draco long enough to shuck both his denims and his pants, and despite the constant, too-fast beat of Harry’s heart in his own ears as he watched Draco shimmy out of the tailored black slacks, Harry wasn’t over-eager. True, he wanted to get his hands and lips and tongue on every inch of Draco’s skin - inked and unmarred alike - and true there was a growing sense of urgency as his cock was already flushed and leaking, but he also wanted to take his time. He wanted to savor Draco; to enjoy him.

The dichotomy was intoxicating.

As soon as Draco kicked his trousers completely off, Harry was on him again. He nudged his way between Draco’s thighs, fingers automatically tracing the newly-exposed ink. The briar’s branches twisted down Draco’s left leg, spiraling down to just above his knee. A single tendril branched out from Draco’s hipbone, veering to the right and ending…

Harry swallowed hard even as his fingers followed the delicate, thorny artwork. Soft, springy curls - a golden blonde just a few shades darker than the hair on Draco’s head - teased Harry’s fingertips as he parted them to follow the tight spiral of black ink. It ended just as it met the base of Draco’s cock, which was full and flushed and leaking just a bit, and was practically a work of art all on its own. Harry wondered absently what Draco had looked like shaved-clean, as he must have been when the tattoo was done. He wondered how long it had taken for the hair to grow back. He wondered if Draco ever shaved just to show off the tattoo better, though Harry didn’t think that was really necessary. The glimpses of black ink hidden by pale curls was actually incredibly erotic.

Harry’s fingers continued their exploration, sliding slowly up the length of Draco’s cock. The skin was soft and hot and Harry could feel it as Draco’s body responded to his touch. He could feel the blonde’s pulse, fast and strong, pumping blood into the erection that twitched with every light caress. Harry bit his lip, eyes locked on his goal as his fingers crept ever-closer to it; the very tip of Draco’s cock.

Aroused as he was, Draco’s foreskin was fully retracted, revealing the head. It was flushed a dark pink, and Harry’s mouth filled with saliva as he was almost overwhelmed by the sudden urge to swallow Draco down. To see if he tasted even half as good as he looked. To feel the weight of him on his tongue. To have his lips stretched wide around Draco’s not-inconsiderable width.

Harry settled - for the moment - for brushing over Draco’s slit, unable to bite back a moan as his finger shifted from damp skin to slick metal. The sound Harry let out was chased - almost echoed back, in a way - by a keening sort of whine from Draco. Harry wondered what it felt like; having the piercing touched. Glancing up at Draco’s face and seeing it painted with pleasure and lust, Harry decided it must feel amazing. Still curious as well as aroused, Harry dropped his eyes back to Draco’s cock, his fingers still absentmindedly teasing the bit of metal.

Despite all of Draco’s modifications, the silver barbell wasn’t something Harry had anticipated. But then, he didn’t know anyone who had their cock pierced. Or, if he did, they’d certainly never mentioned it. So even though he knew - in theory - that it was a thing people did, it wasn’t something Harry had ever really thought about. The barbell was capped by twin silver balls, one of which rested at the bottom of Draco’s slit. The other sat just slightly off-center, on the underside of Draco’s cock, just beneath the head. The silver metal shone brightly, and the upper ball was glistening wetly, which was unsurprising given the way Draco was leaking.

Harry swallowed, took a slow breath, then tentatively wrapped his left hand around the base of Draco’s cock. He blinked, staring at it for a long moment, then jerked back suddenly as though he’d been burned.

“Harry...?”

Harry glanced up at Draco, who had propped himself up on his elbows and was watching - his eyebrows pulled down in a look of concern - as the fingers of Harry’s right hand tugged repeatedly on his left. “Sorry.” Harry managed an apologetic smile, panting a bit, but not stopping what he was doing. “One second...”

It was actually several heartbeats later - Harry silently cursed his pregnancy for water-retention - before he let out a triumphant cry and held up a shiny circle of gold. Draco’s eyes widened as Harry flung the much-hated ring across the room before he grinned down at the blond. “Sorry, I just...couldn't stand the sight of it against your skin. Now, where were we?”

Draco stared at Harry, then suddenly lunged up and kissed him, hard and fierce and deep. When they broke apart long minutes later, both sucking in air almost desperately, Draco managed huskily. “I’ve no bloody idea why that was so hot, but I’m not complaining.” Grinning easily again, Draco let himself fall back and, raising his pierced eyebrow, purred seductively. “I believe, Harry, that you were using my nubile and willing body to indulge your every desire. Please…do continue.”

Harry hummed his agreement, then leaned in and pressed his lips to the center of Draco’s chest. “You’re so beautiful.” Harry murmured, brushing a series of damp, open-mouthed kisses down Draco’s slim torso, loving every twitch and gasp and sigh from the blonde. “Merlin, Draco, no one should be allowed to look like you do...”

“Mmmm...” Draco’s pleased hum slid into a throaty moan as Harry’s mouth reached his stomach and the brunette caught Draco’s belly ring between his teeth and tugged lightly. “Fuck, Harry...” One of Draco’s hands was suddenly sliding into Harry’s hair, long fingers clenching tightly as Harry grinned around skin-warmed metal and tugged on the piercing again.

Draco let out a sound somewhere between a whine and a moan, back arching up. Harry blinked in surprise at the strength of Draco’s response, cock throbbing sympathetically. Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek for several minutes, debating with himself, before finally making a choice. Harry slid sinuously up Draco’s body, shifting them both around until they were finally positioned the way he wanted. Harry wound up kneeling over Draco, essentially straddling the blonde’s hips. He could feel Draco’s erection, hard and hot, against the curve of his ass. Every time one of them shifted, it brushed against Harry and left another sticky-wet smear on his skin.

He stared down at Draco, then reached for the blonde’s right wrist were a wand holster was strapped. Draco turned his head to watch as Harry slid his wand - not the hawthorn one he’d returned three years earlier, Harry noted absently - from the holster and gave it a quick flick while murmuring a spell. Though the wand didn’t fight him, Harry still felt a little lightheaded at the feel of his magic doing something again. Shuddering - both from his magic use and from the effect of the spell he’d cast - Harry dropped the wand onto the mattress beside Draco’s head and braced his hands on Draco’s chest, locking gazes with Draco as he shifted his weight to his knees.

Harry kept eye contact - grey to green - as he reached one hand behind himself and curled his fingers around the base of Draco’s cock. The blonde groaned, hands coming up to touch Harry’s hips, palms only just brushing skin and fingertips the barest points of contact. Harry opened his mouth, prepared to tell Draco it was perfectly okay with him if Draco wanted to touch, but stopped before actually saying anything. Not because he had changed his mind - he hadn’t - but because he thought it might be more interesting - and enjoyable - to see what it would take to make Draco break. He wanted to make the former-Slytherin wild beneath him; wanted him so out of control he flipped Harry onto his back and fucked him breathless.

His lips curved slowly up into a smile filled with wicked intent, and he watched as Draco’s expression turned speculative. Determined not to give the other man a chance to think, Harry shifted his weight, moved his hand - and the cock it was still curled around - just a bit, then let his weight drop at the same moment he angled his hips and pushed back.

Harry keened, high and desperate, as his body - aided by the spell he’d cast - opened itself for Draco’s cock. His back arched as he sank down onto the blonde - perhaps a bit faster than was advisable - and he wanted to close his eyes and drop his head back and just savor the slight burn accompanying the too-full feeling, but that would have meant taking his eyes off of Draco’s face. Harry wasn’t willing to do that; not yet, anyway.

As Harry finally paused, fully seated with Draco’s cock buried inside of him, the blonde’s head was thrown back, petal-pink lips parted around a gasped stream of obscenities. His long, slim fingers were clenched tight on Harry’s hips now, grip so strong he was no doubt pressing bruises into Harry’s fair skin. Harry savored the idea of it; of having marks he wanted - Draco’s marks - colored across his body. Tangible evidence that he, Harry, did not belong to Grayson; not anymore. Proof that he belonged to himself, and to whomever he chose to give himself to, and no one else.

Harry began to move, slowly raising himself up before sinking back down onto Draco’s cock, bracing his hands low on Draco’s stomach and letting his legs do most of the work. As Harry slowly rode him, he let the sight of Draco’s face twisted in pleasure paint itself over memories of cold blue eyes and a sneering mouth. He let the sound of Draco’s voice, low and desperate as it wrapped around curses and praise and sounds of pleasure - ‘Harry, fuck...so good...beautiful, ngggh, oh god...so fucking perfect, so...shit, Harry, yes...just like that, fucking hell...’ - drown out cruel laughter and threats and insults. As Draco’s hands released his hips to run over his skin, one hand running over his thighs and his stomach while the other curled around Harry’s cock and began to stroke in a maddeningly slow rhythm that matched the speed of Harry fucking himself on Draco’s cock, Harry let it chase away the feeling of too-rough hands and pain and fear.

With every slow, rocking press and grind of his hips, Harry replaced horror and terror and misery with pleasure and power and freedom. Harry’s eyes did eventually slip closed, his head falling back as he shifted his weight again. His legs were growing weak, the muscles feeling tight as they strained to support him. Not ready to stop, Harry moved his hands so they were behind him, fingers curling into Draco’s thighs, taking some of his weight on his hands by leaning back even as his hips kept moving.

“Oh, fuck...” Harry moaned, hips stuttering as he lost the rhythm for a moment. He had forgotten about Draco’s piercing until the altered angle of their bodies had it skating over his prostate. Harry’s face flushed as he rocked his hips again, repeating the delightful stimulation that had pleasure sparking bright and brilliant behind his closed eyelids.

“Harry.” Draco’s voice was a low growl, and Harry noted dimly that the other man’s hand had left his cock - he was holding onto Harry’s hips again, instead - but he felt so good that he didn’t even care. He blinked open his eyes, still moving his hips - almost helpless to stop - and stared at Draco, who looked…well.

He looked desperate. Draco’s eyes were dark and wild as he stared entreatingly up at him. “Harry, love...please, I…fuck...”

Draco’s eyes rolled back, head pressing firmly into the mattress as his back bowed up, hips canting up in a barely-restrained thrust as he chased Harry, who had tightened around his cock before lifting himself again, going so far that only the tip was still inside him. Harry paused for a moment, watching as Draco struggled to control himself; to keep his promise. Finally, Harry granted some small measure of mercy. He let himself drop down again, taking Draco’s length with a low moan and a brief clench around the thick cock once again filling him.

A whimper escaped Draco’s lips, the sound easily the neediest thing Harry could ever remember hearing, and he decided he’d teased them both enough. Leaning forward until he was sprawled across Draco’s chest, Harry nuzzled into Draco’s throat and whispered heatedly. “I want you to fuck me so hard I forget I’ve ever been with someone who wasn’t you.”

For a moment, Draco seemed to stop breathing. Or maybe, Harry thought, he was the one who’d stopped breathing, lungs frozen as he tried to figure out what Draco would do now that the reins were in his hands. Then Harry was sucking in a startled breath and blinking up at Draco, who had managed to flip them over while still inside Harry. Draco’s eyes were glittering and full of heat, his mouth curled into a sort of snarl. As he ducked his head down to set his teeth to the spot where Harry’s neck and shoulder met, his hips began to move. Unlike Harry, Draco did not go slowly; it wasn’t easy or soft or anything close to gentle.

Harry’s thighs tightened against Draco’s hips, his hands coming up to clutch at Draco’s shoulders, nails biting into flesh and clawing desperately as Draco pulled out of and sank back into Harry’s body over and over. His hips moved fast, and hard, and Harry felt like he was being broken open in the most pleasurable way possible. Draco’s teeth were sharp points of pain, all along his throat and collarbone and shoulder, and somehow seemed to highlight the pleasure coursing through his veins. Draco’s body above and around him was strong and sleek and felt like safety and home and love in a way that made Harry’s throat tight, tears stinging his eyes, because he’d spent far too long dreaming of something that felt as right as this did, and even longer believing he’d never find it.

The tension in Harry’s lower belly was coiling tighter, heat searing through his veins with every push-pull of Draco’s body above his. Every maddeningly delightful thrust sent him spiralling higher; had him a little closer to falling completely apart. Harry wondered if this was what sex was supposed to feel like with someone who genuinely cared about him; wondered how he’d ever thought what he had with Grayson was passionate or loving or even acceptable, now that he knew this was possible.

Harry felt as though the heat and pressure building inside him had combined to turn him into something brittle and breakable; something ready to fly apart at the slightest touch. He felt like thousands upon thousands of micro-fractures were forming over every inch of his skin, too many spots weakened all at once, leaving him vulnerable and - somehow - breathlessly exhilarated all at once. When Draco’s hand slipped between their bodies and curled around Harry’s cock, which was throbbing and leaking and which Harry hadn’t even realized was being sorely neglected until it wasn’t anymore, it was as though something had tapped on one of those cracks in his skin, breaking him open along it like a splitting seam. The sensation spread, following the fault lines he’d felt forming, and all at once, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, he shattered.

It felt like he’d burst out of his own skin, his orgasm burning through him in the wake of the explosion, pleasure scorching through the glittering debris it left behind and burning all of the aching parts of him to ash; leaving nothing behind but glowing warmth and the sound of Draco screaming his name echoing in his ears and the certainty that Draco would keep him safe through this. When black crept into the edges of his vision, Harry wasn’t even worried; he welcomed the soothing oblivion with a soft sigh as everything in him went heavy and quiet and still.

Harry’s eyes fluttered open to the feel of a damp cloth being swiped lightly over his belly, then down between his legs. He blinked several times, then said softly. “You never did answer when I asked if you knew where my glasses were, you know.”

Draco laughed quietly, sitting down on the bed next to Harry. It put him close enough for Harry to see his face, which was soft and smiling. “They’re on the end table, downstairs. Want me to go get them?”

Harry debated it for a moment, then shook his head. “No, it’s all right, just...” Harry cleared his throat, feeling the awkwardness he always struggled with when calling for his house elf. “Kreacher!”

The elf popped in, just inside the door, staring for a moment before saying. “Why is Master calling Kreacher when he is entertaining Mistress Narcissa’s rebellious son? What is Master needing from Kreacher?”

Harry blushed, despite the sheet draped across his lap - and even knowing house elves frequently saw their owners unclothed while silently going about their duties and thought nothing of it - but he managed to squeak out. “I need my glasses, please. They’re in the parlor I was napping in earlier.”

Kreacher bowed, then disappeared with a crack. He was back only a few seconds later, holding the glasses out but making no move to approach the bed. Draco stood and walked over to claim the iconic black frames, completely unabashed in his nudity. “Thank you, Kreacher. I believe we’re good now.”

Kreacher glanced at Harry for confirmation, disappearing again only when Harry had nodded. A few seconds later, Harry’s trainers - and Draco’s dragonhide boots - appeared in the middle of the floor, along with Harry’s tee-shirt, which he could only assume the elf had found in the hallway. Harry’s cheeks flooded with embarrassed color and he let his face drop into his hands. It wasn’t as though he thought Kreacher was judging him - the elf hadn’t seemed to care one whit about finding Harry and Draco in flagrante delicto as the saying went - but that didn’t lessen his mortification at knowing the elf was fully aware of what he’d just done.

Draco’s hand touched his wrist and Harry lifted his head to peer blearily up at him. “Here...” Draco carefully slid the glasses back onto Harry’s face, one corner of his mouth tipped up in a wry grin. “Now you look like you again.” He stroked one finger over Harry’s cheek and added softly. “Would you like to talk now, or in the morning?”

“I...” Harry hesitated.

While he appreciated Draco giving him choices, he wasn’t sure what the right answer was or even what each answer would entail. If he said in the morning, did Draco expect them to spend the night together in Grimmauld Place? If he said now, would they part ways afterwards and regroup at a later date? Harry wasn’t even sure what Draco wanted to discuss. More about the abuse? Further plans for Harry’s safe extraction? What had just passed between them? Their potential future together? There were so many possibilities....and Harry didn’t know if he was up for any of them.

He also didn’t know if he was ready to spend a night sleeping beside Draco Malfoy.

Harry dropped his eyes, fingers twisting restlessly together as he tried to find something else - anything else - to talk about for a moment. That was all he needed, really; just a moment, so he could order his thoughts. His gaze caught on the outside of Draco’s right thigh, where a tattoo he hadn’t noticed earlier rested. In stylized cursive were five words: The freedom of the wind… After the last dot in the ellipses, there was a dandelion, atop a short stem. The blossom was one that had gone to seed, all soft and fluffy, and several of the little black things with their white-puff tops were separate from the flower itself, as though they had been blown away by some invisible breeze or a careless breath.

Harry let his fingertips brush one of the seeds, then voiced a thought he’d had fleetingly earlier in the evening, when he’d undressed the blonde. “None of these are magical.”

Harry knew magical tattoos sometimes moved across their owners skin, or took on a personality, or ran through a specific loop of motion, depending on the way they were charmed. Charlie had a dragon that breathed fire across his back and Harry had asked two dozen questions the first time he’d seen it, utterly captivated. He also knew that magical tattoos had a sort of low-level hum to them; a minor magical signature that would tickle across your skin if you touched it. Draco’s tattoos, on the other hand, had none of that. They were all stationary, and there was no feel of magic to them at all. And Harry was more than a little baffled by that fact, because while he had sort of come to accept the apparent rebellious streak Draco had going on, with the piercings and tattoos and all, the idea of him in a muggle tattoo parlor was simply unbelievable.

Draco hummed thoughtfully, and for a moment Harry thought he would insist on redirecting the conversation, but then he shrugged. “No, they aren’t. I wasn’t comfortable letting any witch or wizard near the Dark Mark, not even once it was barely recognizable. So I went to a muggle.”

Harry nodded, because that made sense, then asked. “And after that?”

Draco lifted his shoulder in a sort of half-shrug. “I like Ethan, and I trust his work. I honestly can’t imagine letting anyone else put ink on me. And Raina, his business partner, does all my piercings. Besides, most of the time when I’m in there, I’m adding to the original piece. Wouldn’t be right, letting someone else touch Ethan’s art.”

“Oh.” Harry glanced at Draco from under his lashes, then said. “So...you didn’t get it all at once. The, er...the thorns, I mean.”

“Merlin, no.” Draco laughed again, light and easy. “No, no. This has been a slow-growing work, and as long as I’ve got available skin I doubt I’ll ever really consider it finished. It wasn’t planned that way, but a few months after I got this one...” Draco brushed his fingers over the words on his right collarbone. “Well, I was craving more ink. It’s a bit addictive, you know, getting it done. And I wanted more, but I didn’t know what to get, so I went in and was talking to Ethan about it.”

Harry nodded to show he was listening, though Draco seemed a bit lost in memories, rather than paying attention to him. “And he said we could add more of the bramble, if I wasn’t interested in something new just then, and I figured, well, why not? So he curled it up my arm a bit more and I’ve been adding to it ever since, just a bit here or there, every couple of months.”

“It’s beautiful.” Harry wasn’t sure why he was saying that, except that it was true. “Can I...can I see the rest of it? I mean, it continues on your back, doesn’t it?”

“Mhmmm.” Draco shrugged again, his cheeks suddenly stained pink, but he shifted around until he was laying on his stomach beside Harry, baring the entire expanse of his back to Harry’s view. “There’s a few things, so...”

Harry let his hand reach out, tracing along the twists and spirals of the thorny black branches. They spread across the whole of Draco’s left shoulder blade, and down the left side of his back, to his waist. In the small of Draco’s back - between the twin dimples he had there, just above the curve of his holyshitgorgeous ass - was a silver banner, with black letters forming three Latin words. The letters were in a sort of stylized font - almost like calligraphy - and read: Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. Harry recognized the words as being the Malfoy family’s motto, and was more than a little surprised the blonde had permanently set them into his skin.

He touched them gently and said. “Do you believe this? Purity Will Always Conquer, I mean.”

Draco turned his head, blinking wide grey eyes at Harry over his right shoulder. After a tense pause, Draco said simply. “There’s more than one sort of purity, Harry.”

“Suppose so.” Harry agreed, because Draco was right and the fact that the Malfoy family had chosen to focus on a single aspect of purity had no bearing on the overall meaning of the phrase, and it certainly didn’t invalidate the sentiment behind the motto.

Harry brought his fingers up to Draco’s right shoulder blade next, where the creeping briar had yet to reach, and smiled a little sadly at the quote that was inked there in small, neat cursive. ‘Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do. - Voltaire’ Harry wondered if it was usual to credit the person you were quoting in a tattoo, then decided that - usual or not - it fit Draco’s personality. Harry wasn’t sure if he agreed with the quote or not, but he knew Draco did, and not merely because he’d gotten it permanently written on his skin. No, it was simply something he knew from the time they’d spent together recently. Draco truly believed there was evil inherent in the act of ignoring another’s suffering when you could alleviate it; that there was malice to ignoring pain you could help ease; that one bore the weight of their own indifference to injustice or hardship in the world.

Harry thought that was an awful lot of guilt for any one person to carry around, but he understood personal demons better than most. It wasn’t his place to judge.

The odd part was the other tattoo; the one that started at the base of Draco’s skull and went down his spine in a straight line, to about the middle of his shoulder blades. Harry couldn't figure it out, no matter how long he stared at it. It was a series of five circles. Or, well...sort of. There were five circular-type figures, anyway, one after the other, going down, with the briar twisting itself into the spaces between each one.

The first one - the uppermost of the group - looked like someone had cut a small circle out of the bottom edge, leaving a sort of very-fat crescent shape instead of a full circle behind. From the top curve of the circle to the curve where the piece of circle was missing were two parallel lines. The second was a full circle, with a second - much smaller - circle directly below it, close enough that Harry was certain it was a part of the second image somehow rather than a separate figure. The third and fourth figures were identical, and were slightly shallower crescents than the first figure. There were no parallel lines, but instead were three small dots - the center one slightly larger than the ones on either side of it - that nestled into the lower curve of the crescent. The fifth - and final - figure was another whole circle. Along the bottom curve of it, a second smaller circle overlapped - half inside and half outside the large one. In the upper-half of the smaller circle were two dots. One, which was centered along the upper curve of the small circle, was slightly larger; the other dot was on the right of the centered one, and was about half the size of the larger dot.

Finally, unable to bear the curiosity any longer, Harry spoke. “What are these circles?”

Draco groaned into the mattress, sounding frustrated and embarrassed and altogether unhappy. Harry blinked, then offered in a small voice. “You don’t have to tell me.”

The blonde sighed, then rolled over to give Harry an exasperated look. “Obviously. I could lie and you’d likely never know it. But, extreme mortification aside, I don’t mind telling you. And I do not like the idea of lying to you, especially about something that matters.”

“Okay.” Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then added. “I’m not saying lie to me, though. I was just saying you don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to. I won’t push.”

“I didn’t think you would.” Draco shook his head, giving Harry a sad smile. “No, it’s all right. I don’t mind. They’re letters, Harry, though they might not look like it. They were the second tattoo I got. Or the third, if you count the Mark, though I typically don’t. I got them shortly after I got the nightingale and the rose, actually. So...oh, three years or so, ago.”

“Those funny circles are letters.” Harry said skeptically. When Draco nodded slowly, he asked. “What do they spell, then?”

Draco’s face went bright pink all over and he mumbled something under his breath, making Harry’s eyebrows climb in surprise. “Er, yeah. I didn’t catch that at all, Draco. Want to try again?”

Draco huffed out an annoyed breath, rolled his eyes, and said crisply. “It’s your name. H-A-R-R-Y. Now, if we’re done discussing my tattoos, I’d like to talk about the matter at hand. Which is to say, getting you safely away from the abusive arsekettle trying to marry you.”

“You...have my name. Tattooed on you. On your back.” Harry wasn’t sure he knew how to wrap his mind around that. Wasn’t sure what he was meant to do with that information now that he had it. Wasn’t sure why Draco had told him in the first place. “Why?”

“Because.” Draco snapped, and Harry flinched back from his anger. Draco’s face darkened and he growled before grabbing a pillow and pressing it to his face as he screamed loudly.

Harry stared, wide-eyed, at the blonde until he finished screaming. Draco lowered the pillow and glared at Harry. “I understand that you’re fucked up fifteen ways to Sunday, Potter, but you need to understand a few things. First off, I am not Grayson. I will not hit you. Second, I cannot - and will not - temper my emotions for you. I’m most of the way in love with you, I want to bend you over the nearest available surface at least half the time I’m around you, and you absolutely infuriate me far too much to be good for my peace of mind, and that’s just how it is. Thirdly, I do not owe you a single damned thing, so if I don’t answer a question or answer with a non-answer, you let it go.”

Draco’s eyes were narrowed and he was scowling, and Harry was torn between wanting to soothe him - wanting to apologize - and wanting to flee, so he said nothing as the blonde continued. “I have been nothing but honest with you, and I expect you to respect my boundaries. Healthy relationships - friendships, romantic relationships, hell even work relationships - have boundaries. Mine include, but are not limited to: my body art, my family, my friends, and the war. You bring those up and I might balk. If I do, you back off. Are we clear?”

Harry nodded, then asked in a small voice. “Am I allowed to do the same? Refuse to talk about something? Tell you to let it go?”

“Salazar, he really did a number on you, didn’t he?” Draco’s whole face softened and he reached out - slowly, giving Harry ample time to move away - and pulled Harry into a loose hug. “Of course you are. Relationships are meant to go both ways, Harry.”

“Okay.” Harry curled into Draco’s embrace and mumbled. “My fame. Don’t wanna talk about that. Or the war. Or my childhood. Or...”Harry hesitated, then sighed and said it even though he wasn’t sure he should. “Grayson. I mean, I know we have to talk about him, because of what’s going on, but...but beyond that. Beyond what I have to say, I...I don’t want it brought up all the time or thrown around or...”

“Sorry.” Draco sighed and gave Harry a quick squeeze. “I know I mention it whenever you’re panicking or responding the way he taught you to respond. And you have every right to ask me to stop doing it. I’ll try to curb my tongue on that. Just glare at me if I forget, or say boundaries to remind me.”

When Harry nodded against his shoulder, Draco leaned back and met his eyes, adding. “I won’t lie and say this will be easy, for either of us. Relationships of any kind rarely are. But I’m willing to try. Are you?”

Harry stared at him, then nodded again, albeit very slowly. Draco smiled. ”Good. Now, I had an idea, for getting you away from Grayson. A specific exit strategy, if you will. Can we talk about that?”

“Oh. I...yes.” Harry’s stomach immediately twisted itself into knots and he found himself retreating from Draco’s touch entirely. He really had only one question. “When?”

“Right now.”

“What?” It took Harry a moment to realize Draco must have misunderstood his question. “No, I didn’t mean when should we talk. I meant when am I leaving.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I knew what you meant, and my answer stands. Now.” Harry could feel his mouth hanging open, knew he had to look stupid as hell, but couldn't do anything about it. His whole body had gone numb. “We can go and grab everything tonight, or first thing in the morning, then seal the house off again like you did the first time. It’s too late to get this into tomorrow’s paper, but we can headline it for the 9th. The backlash should keep Grayson distracted while we handle turning the evidence we’ve compiled over to the aurors, then we can focus on getting your finances back under your control.”

“I...what?” Harry’s head was spinning. “No, you...you said....this isn’t...now? Why...but I thought...I thought there was more time, I don’t...I can’t...”

“Harry, the goal was to keep you safe and gather your testimony and any evidence we could while waiting for an opportune moment, even if we had to create one because it was getting too close to the wedding.” Draco’s voice was low and soothing, like he was trying to head Harry’s panic off before it got too bad. “Right now, we’ve got the opportunity. We know where he’ll be until tomorrow evening, and we have a photographer with him, which means we’ll have warning if he leaves early. We might not get another chance like this and we have enough of your testimony, plus photos of some of your injuries. It has to be now.”

“Now.” Harry’s voice was less than a whisper; barely more than breath. “Draco, I...” Harry had been edging away from Draco as the blonde spoke, and he found himself practically falling off the bed, so he got to his feet, shaking all over. “That’s...no, I...I’m not ready. I can’t...I need more time. To...to prepare. I...”

“Harry…”

Draco reached out, and Harry cringed away from him. “No! No, you’re not...you’re not listening. I...fuck, I have to go, I can’t...I can’t do this right now.” Harry was grabbing for his clothes, frantically tugging them on, still shaking and babbling. “This is crazy. I can’t…now, like that’s even a...fuck, no. Where...”

Harry spun in a circle, eyes wild, denims on but not buttoned, shirt on inside out, and one shoe still held in his hand. “My ring. Where...where’s my ring? He’ll freak if I don’t have it, I...fuck, I threw it, where did it...”

Harry dropped to his knees, air rushing in and out of his lungs just a little too quickly as he started trying to look under the furniture. After a moment, he gave Draco a frantic, pleading look. “Help me find it. I need to...I have to go, but I...Draco, please, I need the ring. Please...”

Draco was sitting amidst the rumpled sheets, something Harry couldn't define splashed across his face, and Harry’s heart clenched because this...this was so unfair. And this wasn’t how it was supposed to go; wasn’t what was meant to be happening. But he wouldn’t take the words back; he couldn't. Not yet. He had to go back, and he needed the stupid engagement ring to do that, and he...he’d deal with Draco and the tangled mess of emotions between them and leaving later.

So he didn’t take the words back, but simply gave Draco another desperate look and said. “I’m sorry, Draco, but I...I need that ring.”

Draco’s mouth pinched tight for a few seconds, then he sighed and his whole body seemed to wilt. He picked up his wand and muttered. “Accio ring.” From under the dresser, a flash of gold zipped into Draco’s hand.

The blonde studied it for a moment, then shook his head and tossed it to Harry, who caught it numbly. “I told you before, I won’t push you.” Draco said softly. “If you aren’t ready, fine. Just...try not to get yourself killed while you’re working up to being ready for my help.”

Harry nodded, shoving the ring onto his finger and tugging his other shoe on quickly before standing. “You...you can take a shower here. Spend the night, if you like. It’s...I don’t mind. I just...can’t. I’m sorry.”

Draco simply nodded, dropping his eyes to stare down at his hands, as though the sight of Harry leaving was too painful to watch. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Harry turned and ran from the room.

Harry all but fell out of the Floo, immediately heading for the bedroom and Padfoot’s cage. He opened the door and wrapped his arms around the dog as he licked Harry’s face, whining pitifully as Harry sobbed into his fur. He knew he had to get up and feed Padfoot, and give him water, and clean his cage. He had to take a shower, and wash the clothes he had on, and clean the flat. He had to plan dinner for when Grayson came home the next day. He had to stop thinking about Draco’s defeated posture and blank face; had to stop focusing on the way his engagement ring felt like it weighed two tonnes; had to stop crying and shaking.

Just as he managed to get his breathing under control, the baby - who had been quiet and still for hours - pressed against the front of his belly. Harry pulled away from Padfoot and looked down at his stomach, and thought about the baby. He imagined bringing it home to one of the houses Grayson had liked best. Pictured trying to care for a child while keeping the house clean enough for Grayson’s standards. Wondered how he would feel the first time Grayson held their child, knowing the violence his fiance’s hands were capable of.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry curled himself around his belly and whispered. “Merlin, I’m an idiot...”

Shaking his head at himself, Harry pushed to his feet and looked around for a moment before shaking his head and heading for the living room. “Come on, Padfoot. You must be hungry.”

He walked up to the fireplace, Padfoot at his heels, and grabbed a handful of Floo powder. He tossed it into the flames and said. “Grimmauld Place.”

As the flames turned green, Harry gently nudged Padfoot through. After tossing a second bit of powder in and calling out the address again, Harry spared only a few seconds to glance back at the place he’d called home - and prison - for more than two years. Shaking his head, Harry slipped his ring off again, set it on top of the fireplace, and stepped into the flames. He would send Draco and Kreacher for his and Padfoot’s things. If he never saw this place again, it would be too soon.

Harry got Padfoot settled in with Kreacher - the house elf seemed to genuinely like the dog, though Harry thought half of that was his joy over being “useful” as opposed to actual affection for the animal - and slowly made his way up the stairs. Kreacher had assured him that Draco hadn’t left in the half hour or so he’d been gone, but he wasn’t sure what he’d be walking back into. Draco had every right to be angry, or frustrated, or simply done. Harry wouldn’t blame him for any of it. His damage wasn’t Draco’s responsibility, and it was impossibly unfair that Draco had to keep dealing with it. Harry knew an apology was all he could really offer, but he had no idea if it would be enough to mitigate whatever Draco might feel.

Steeling himself, Harry pushed open the door to his bedroom - and holy shit, it was his again, because he was going to live here again - and blinked in confusion. There was...no Draco. Harry spun in a slow circle, trying to figure out where the other man could have gone, before finally giving up. “Kreacher?”

The house-elf popped in and stared expectantly at Harry. “Is Master needing something else? Kreacher is feeding Master’s dog, and letting it into the garden.”

“Thank you for that, Kreacher.” Harry managed a wan smile for the elf. “I just wondered if you knew where in the house Draco is. You said he didn’t leave, right?”

Kreacher cocked his head to the side for a moment, then said in his raspy voice. “Shower. Does Master require more from Kreacher or can Kreacher be going back to Master’s dog and sleep?”

“No, that’s all, thank you.” Harry watched Kreacher bow before disappearing, then stood in the middle of the room debating with himself.

He could find a different bedroom to sleep in (as he’d offered his to Draco before taking off and had no idea if Draco was going to take him upon that or if he was planning to leave after taking a shower). Or he could join Draco in the shower (though that was a bit presumptuous). Or he could knock on the bathroom door and let Draco know he was back. Or he could have Kreacher inform him (though Harry doubted the elf would be pleased to be called back after being dismissed). Or he could just wait in the bedroom and see what happened. Draco’s dragonhide boots were still sitting near the door, so the blonde wasn’t likely to leave without coming back to the bedroom first, even if he didn’t plan to stay the night.

So. Choices.

After a few minutes of internal debate, Harry sighed and toed off his trainers. He tugged his shirt over his head and shimmied out of his jeans, then wandered over to the dresser in nothing but his boxers. Tugging it open, he stared down at the handful of items inside. The invisibility cloak rested in shimmering silver folds to one side of the drawer, the Marauder’s Map resting neatly on top. The other side of the drawer contained a handful of shirts - still swimmingly-large on Harry - that he’d left when he moved in with Grayson because he never wore the damned things anyway, except occasionally to sleep, and there was no sentimental value to them. They were relics of his time with the Dursleys; things that had fit Dudley once upon a time and had fit Harry never, but had somehow wound up among his clothes somewhere along the way.

Harry pulled out a dark grey tee-shirt and put it on, looking down at how it dwarfed his frame and wondered how long it would take before the material was clinging to his belly. Harry had no idea how fast his stomach would grow; no idea how big he was going to get. He wanted to know, though; couldn't wait for it, really.

Harry had barely slid beneath the covers - he felt chilled, but then, Grimmauld Place had always been drafty and damp, and Godric but he was going to have to do something about that before the baby was born - when the bedroom door opened. Harry went tense, eyes wide and locked on where Draco was standing just inside the door, frozen in place and wearing nothing but a towel. Harry swallowed hard, then averted his eyes from pale, inked skin covered in water droplets and pink from what had apparently been a very hot shower. He clenched his fingers in the comforter, eyes locked on the far wall, and waited.

“You came back.”

Harry nodded, glancing at Draco from the corner of his eye before looking at the wall again. “Yeah. I did.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, then asked. “Are you...er...spending the night here, or...?”

There was a pause and then, just as Harry risked peeking at Draco again, the blonde spoke. “I wasn’t going to, but I think I will, now. I don’t think you should be alone. Not yet.” When Harry just stared at him, wide-eyed and silent, Draco added. “I can sleep in another room, if you’d rather. Just point the way.”

Harry sank his teeth into his lower lip for a moment, then offered softly. ”You can...you can stay here. With me, I mean. If...if you want to. I...don’t mind.” He flicked his eyes to the dresser, then added. “There’s a couple of really huge tee-shirts in the middle drawer, if...in case you...I don’t know what you sleep in, so...”

Draco’s lips twitched up, and he rolled his eyes. “I typically sleep nude. Or in pajamas, if it’s cold. But, for the sake of both our sanities, I’ll take the shirt.” He crossed to the dresser and tugged open the drawer Harry had said, staring for a moment at the contents before picking up a dark blue shirt and pulling it on, letting the towel fall to the floor as soon as the fabric settled around his thighs. “So...” He said as he pushed the drawer closed and turned to face Harry. “That’s the cloak?”

“Er...yeah.” Harry shrugged a little, feeling twitchy and uncertain, fingers plucking agitatedly at the comforter. “If you want, you can look at it. Now, or in the morning, or...whenever. I know it’s fascinating to most people.”

“Hmmm.” Draco’s answer was noncommittal as he slid under the covers on the opposite side of the bed from Harry, flicking his wand to extinguish the room’s lights and leaving them in near-darkness. The moon - a few days past full and slowly waning - dripped silvery light across the floor and onto the bottom edge of the bed, but up where they were it was dark and somehow comforting. “Why did you come back?”

“I don’t know.” Harry wondered if his voice was going to slip into meekness - into smallness and quietness and weakness - every time he got nervous, or uncomfortable, or afraid, from now until forever. He hoped not; hoped he would eventually find a way to make his words have substance again. “I was running on fear, and it’s not like the fear is gone because it’s not, it’s...it’s just like the fear sent me running one way first and then the other after. So I had to run back there to realize I never wanted to be there again. Which probably sounds stupid, and I’m sorry because I can’t even seem to make up my mind and this is....this is awful.”

There was silence for several breaths, and all Harry could hear was the sound of his heart pounding in his chest, loud and frantic. Then slim fingers slotted between his own, and a palm pressed snug to his, and Harry wanted to cry because he apparently hadn’t fucked up this - whatever this was - or at least not beyond repair, and he was so damned relieved it made his muscles feel weak.

“I think it’s probably going to be awful for a while.” Draco said simply, squeezing Harry’s hand tight when his breath hitched miserably in his chest. “I think that’s normal, given what you’ve been through. That’s okay. I’m not expecting you to just be okay all of a sudden, you know.”

Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek, then asked. “You aren’t...angry?”

“Why should it matter if I was? If I am?” Draco asked, and Harry let out a wet, shaky laugh. He felt the blonde lie down and followed suit, though the only place they were touching was their still-clasped hands. “I’m not happy with the back-and-forth. I don’t like the idea that you ran back to him like that, even if you came to your senses quickly, because that could get you hurt or killed. It terrifies me, so it ticks me off as well. But it doesn’t seem unreasonable, given what he’s put you through. So, yes, Harry. I’m angry.”

Draco’s hand squeezed his again and he added. “I’m bloody well furious, in fact. But.” Draco sighed and Harry almost wished he could see the other man’s face. Almost. The darkness was too soothing for him to begrudge the loss, really. “But, my anger isn’t the point. You’re here. You’re trying. That’s what we agreed to. So I’m going to be angry, but I’m also going to be here for you, like I promised.”

“Okay.” Harry managed around the tightness in his throat. “I...okay.”

Draco sighed again, then murmured. “Sleep, Harry. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, after all.”

And though he would have thought he’d be too...too something - afraid, or excited, or upset, or uncertain, or Merlin-knew-what - to sleep, Harry found himself drifting off almost immediately, hand still tangled together with Draco’s.

Harry woke up some time in the early hours of the morning, when the sky was dark and the world was quiet and still, to the sound of his own screaming. He felt strong arms curl around him and collapsed into them, sobbing, the moment his brain registered the sound of Draco’s voice soothing him. Even as he pressed his face into Draco’s neck, shaking all over, Harry wondered how it was that Draco seemed to always know the right thing to say. Firm hands were stroking across his back, and long legs were tangled up with his own, and Draco’s heartbeat was racing under his ear, making Harry wonder how badly he’d scared the other man with his screaming.

“You’re safe, Harry.” Draco’s voice was a soothing rumble, repeating the same things over and over again, like a mantra against the evil poisoning Harry’s dreams. “I’m here. You’re not alone. You’re safe now.”

When the tears and trembling finally subsided, Harry wished he could still the hiccoughing-hitch to his breathing; wished he could sweep the lingering fear from his mind like cobwebs. “Sorry.” He managed at last. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Lips pressed firmly to his hair, and those strong arms tightened around him. “It’s fine. This is part of why I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Harry made a miserable sound, then drew back just a bit - created a small bit of breathing room between his mouth and Draco’s chest - then tipped his head back a bit and admitted. “I used to...before, I mean. I had nightmares. Before. It’s been a while. Can’t say I missed it.”

“I had nightmares for a very long time, from the end of fifth year on.” Draco said back, and it wasn’t a whispered confession, precisely, but simply spoken quietly, offered up into the dark and still space between their faces. “I still do, every once in a while. It always hits me just as hard, waking up panting and shaking. Maybe it’s even worse because I’m not used to it anymore, like the weeks or months between them lull me and make me forget just how awful it can be.”

Harry wondered if he should let Draco’s assumption stand, but decided against it. “I didn’t really have nightmares after the war. I mean, yeah, I sometimes dreamed about people who died - people I didn’t manage to save - but I know Voldemort is gone, so I never really had nightmares anymore.”

After taking a slow breath, Harry continued. “Grayson and I were together for a little more than a year the first time he raped me. I woke up screaming most nights for weeks afterwards. He...he’d wrap himself around me, whisper about how it was just a bad dream...and I’d lie awake the rest of the night, trapped close to the reason for my fear, terrified of what would happen if I let myself fall back asleep. Sometimes a bad day would bring the nightmares back, but...it’s been a while.

“I just don’t understand why...” Harry let out a shaky laugh, more nervous and uncertain than amused. “I’m finally away from him, and I’ve got help, and there’s a plan and all. I know he won’t be able to get into the house. He couldn't the first time. So I don’t know why I’m having nightmares now. I don’t know why I don’t feel safe.”

“Fear doesn’t just vanish overnight.”Draco leaned forward until their foreheads were pressed together, the shared air between their mouths growing warm and damp rather quickly. “After the war, you said you didn’t have nightmares because you knew the threat was gone. Well, that’s not the case. Not yet, anyway. He’s dragged you back before, in one way or another, and until you really believe he won’t - that he can’t - do that again, you’re not going to feel safe.”

Harry swallowed hard, then voiced the fear growing inside him. “What if...what if I never feel safe again? What if I’m always waiting for the day I wake up back in that flat, next to him? Or...or what if I never stop being afraid someone else is going to turn on me, the way he did? Draco, how do I spend the rest of my life feeling like I’m one wrong word away from shaking to pieces? Like a raised voice or a raised hand might send me screaming right out of my own skin? How do I do this for forever?”

“You don’t.” Draco said. “You absolutely don’t. You can’t. No one could.”

Harry wanted to believe Draco, who sounded so certain, but doubt lingered. “Okay, but what if...”

“No.” Draco cut him off. “No. You don’t, okay? You don’t do anything but get through today. You handle the fear for today. You deal with the anxiety, and the shaking, and the tears for today. Then, the next day, you do the same. You only have to live with it for one day, not all at once. If it gets easier, great. If it goes away, fantastic. If it doesn’t, you take it one day at a time. That’s all.”

Harry nodded, though he wasn’t sure he believed Draco’s words; wasn’t sure he could handle not knowing if the fear was ever going to go away. But he had the baby to think of, and that meant he had to try.

Draco seemed to sense his turmoil, because he slowly moved his head from side to side, gently rubbing his nose against Harry’s, and said. “I know you’re probably anxious and wound up, but we should try to get a few more hours of sleep. As soon as the sun’s up, we need to head out.”

Harry nodded, and closed his eyes, and decided if he couldn't sleep he would at least rest. So he pushed forward until Draco rolled from his side onto his back, and curled himself around the other man, head resting on the blonde’s chest. He timed his breathing to match Draco’s, fighting through the too-tight feeling that made his breath tangle at the back of his tongue every few inhales, and counted Draco’s steady heartbeat.

Though Harry had had no intention of falling asleep, it wasn’t long before he succumbed to the exhaustion dragging at his limbs.

Harry woke up the second time to the smell of bacon and sunlight streaming across the bed. He also woke up alone. Harry hurried to the bathroom, then - when Draco wasn’t there - to the kitchen, where Padfoot greeted him with a joyful bark and Kreacher was finished making breakfast. The elderly house-elf seemed content as he bustled around, and Harry felt a pang of guilt for having left the creature with so little to do during the last few years. Harry sighed and pushed the guilt away, because it wouldn’t do anyone any good at this juncture, and lightly patted Padfoot’s head as he passed the dog on his way to the table.

“Kreacher, have you seen Draco this morning?” Harry asked as he sat down, smiling at the elf when a plate of food and a cup of tea were immediately set in front of him. “Thank you. This smells amazing.”

“Master Draco is leaving some time ago, Master. He is telling Kreacher to be making breakfast and not to be waking Master until it is ready.” Kreacher seemed torn between annoyance at being given orders by someone who wasn’t Harry and instinctive admiration for someone of the Black bloodline. “Kreacher was obeying, only because orders made sense for Master’s health.”

“You’re allowed to follow Draco’s orders.” Harry said softly, between bites. “He’s got Black blood so it should be easy for you to allow, now that you’ve got permission, right?” Kreacher nodded cautiously. “It’s okay. Draco is helping me, and the baby. He’ll probably be around a lot.”

Kreacher walked off, muttering under his breath about extra work, but Harry could see the slight smile on his face and knew he didn’t mind. As Kreacher started the dishes to washing themselves in the sink, Harry asked. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

“Right about now.”

Harry jumped, twisting in his seat to see Draco standing in the doorway, smiling. “Morning, love.” He greeted as he stepped fully into the kitchen, trailed by a large trunk Harry had never seen before and holding a long, thin box in his hands. “I woke up early and decided to let you sleep for a bit while I went to pick up your things, but I swung by the Manor first to pick up a trunk to make transport easier. I know you didn’t have much, but I wanted to take all of the baby things you picked out during our photo-op shopping sessions.”

“Oh. I...didn’t even think about that stuff, actually.” Harry was suddenly terribly grateful he had Draco’s cunning on his side, because at least now he had some stuff for the baby, even if he couldn't access his money for some number of months, as Draco had warned might be the case. “Thank you.”

“Mmmm...you’re welcome.” Draco crossed the room, flicking his wand to settle the trunk onto the floor as he sat beside Harry and held out the box with a smile. “I brought you something else from the Manor. It doesn’t have to be permanent, mind you, but until you have access to your funds...or, you know, I can lend you money. It’s...I just thought, well...it’s an option. It should still work for you.”

“What is this?” Harry asked, lifting the lid on the box and peering down into it curiously. “Oh...oh, my god...this is your...” Harry couldn't quite remember how to make words and he was sure he was trembling. He was torn between the urge to thrust the box back into Draco’s hands, and the growing desire to snatch up its contents and never let go.

“My old one, yes.” Draco’s voice was soft and even; almost soothing. “You had no trouble using my new one last night, so I think this one should still work for you. And this one’s not being used as I have the one I got to replace it before you returned it to me. I hadn’t expected you to, you know, considering the role it played in the final battle, but...well. I couldn't bring myself to dispose of it, but it never felt quite right in my hand again.”

Harry finally gave in, curling his fingers around the hawthorn wand and realizing immediately that Draco was - once again - correct. It felt right. He knew he’d have no trouble casting; that this wand would never contest his right to use it. The fact that Draco had done this - that he had not only remembered that Harry was wandless but cared enough to try to remedy that fact - was overwhelming. The fact that he was offering back the wand Harry had once stolen from him only made it more meaningful.

“Thank you.” Harry managed, blinking rapidly to try to stave off the tears he could feel forming. “I...this is...” He glanced up, right into understanding grey eyes, and repeated. “Thank you. Really.”

“Of course.” Draco’s palm curled along Harry’s jaw, and he caught a stray tear with his thumb before adding. “It’s as much yours as it ever was mine, anyway. I’d imagine it missed you.”

Harry couldn't help it; he laughed. “Whatever the reason, I’m grateful.” Harry curled the fingers of his free hand around Draco’s slender wrist and squeezed lightly before letting go and shifting back just a bit, away from Draco’s touch. The blonde dropped his hand without protest. “So, what’s first for today?”

“First is sealing the house off.” Draco didn’t hesitate to launch into a detailed list of the day’s agenda. “Rather than restricting the Floo by address, I’ll pay the fee to have it coded to magical signature. Yours, of course, and mine if you’re agreeable. Anyone else can be discussed later. Non-coded calls will be filtered and you’ll be able to answer or not at your discretion. It’s a complicated bit of charm work, and it’s not cheap, so you can pay me back once your funds are released.”

“Okay.” Harry agreed readily because safety was, after all, his top concern. “Floo first. Then...?”

“The Prophet.” Harry cringed and Draco looked immediately apologetic. “I know. I know, but we have to get the truth out there before he starts feeding the paper lies. I’ll do all the talking, I’ve already got the article written and handing it over for publication won’t take more than a few minutes. After that we’ll talk to the Aurors. I don’t know how long that will take, so we’ll either head to the lawyer afterwards, or first thing tomorrow. Questions?”

Feeling a bit numb - and also suddenly nauseated - Harry shook his head and nudged his plate away from himself. ”No. No questions. Just...let’s just go. I just want to be done with this.”

Draco didn’t argue.

Harry wondered if the Auror he was talking to was judging him. He thought the man seemed nice enough, and he had seemed concerned while listening to Draco’s explanation of events. Then Draco had handed over the tape recorder/player and a stack of mini-cassettes, and the photographs of Harry’s injuries, before another Auror had led him away. Their statements had to be given separately, a fact Harry understood in the abstract but which he was less than thrilled with in practice. And now Harry had been talking for what felt like forever, detailing everything he could think of while the man - and dammit, Harry knew he’d been told the Auror’s name, at least twice, but he just could not remember it - took copious amounts of notes.

But while Harry had managed to get through the first few hours alright - albeit with more tears than he’d have liked to admit to - the sudden appearance of Head Auror Robards had made things take a rather unpleasant turn. Robards had wanted to personally assure Harry that they were taking these allegations seriously. So seriously, in fact, that they had interrupted Grayson’s Quidditch match in order to arrest the man. Harry’s throat had burned, his stomach had twisted around itself, and he had proceeded to deposit his breakfast in the Auror’s rubbish bin. Not because he was unhappy with this turn of events, but because it was all suddenly much more real.

Harry had gotten Grayson arrested. Publically. During a match. There would be no coming back from that. Grayson would kill Harry if he ever got his hands on him again; of that, he was absolutely certain.

Robards’ visit had been nearly two hours earlier, and Harry had been dry-heaving into the bin every twenty minutes or so since then. Which was why he was pretty sure the Auror in question was judging him. And probably slowly growing to hate him, as well. Nobody wanted to watch someone gagging on air for two hours. Harry shuddered as his body heaved again, stomach trying desperately to purge something that wasn’t there. A searing pain had taken up residence behind Harry’s temples and at the base of his skull, and he was pretty sure his face was a blotchy, unpleasant red from all of the crying he’d been doing. He felt miserable, and terrified despite knowing Grayson was in custody, and he just really wanted to go home and curl up in a ball and pretend none of this was happening.

A gentle hand pressed to the middle of his back had Harry jerking almost violently in place, eyes wild. “Sorry...” The Auror who’d been interviewing him looked remorseful, hands help up in a gesture of ‘I won’t touch you again.’ that Harry appreciated. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I got you some water, and a cupcake from the break room. It’s someone’s birthday - not sure whose, but yeah - and I thought maybe putting something in your stomach would help.”

Harry gratefully took the bottle of water, twisting the lid off and drinking slowly. As thirsty as he was, and as raw as his throat was, he didn’t want to risk throwing it right back up. “Thank you.” Harry whispered, tears once more brimming up though he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t run dry. He felt like he’d been crying forever. “I’m sorry for..for this.” He gestured to the bin. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me...”

“Stress, I’d imagine.” The Auror’s voice was kind; compassionate. “And don’t apologize. Coming here took all kinds of courage and strength. We don’t get a lot of domestic violence reports, not really, but my sister-in-law is a muggle Auror - a what-do-you-call-em...a cop - and she deals with it a lot. Hardest damned part of her job, she always says, especially if there’s kids involved or if the victim won’t leave or press charges.”

Harry’s breath hitched in his chest and he nodded, tears still spilling over. “I don’t feel strong, or brave. Not anymore. I don’t know how I let this happen. I...”

“Hey, now.” The man set the cupcake he was still holding on his desk, then crouched down in front of Harry and took his hands. He wasn’t much older than Harry himself, he realized, with a kind face. A picture of a pretty woman holding a toddler sat on his desk and Harry wondered if it was the man’s wife; wondered if she had any idea how lucky she was that she’d married someone kind. “Look, you can’t blame yourself. I know you got pushed into the hero role when you were just a kid, Mr. Potter, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t still human. You’re not the one who did something wrong. The fact that someone hurt you doesn’t make you weak, at all. It just makes them wrong.”

Harry nodded and the man offered him a small smile. “Now, how about that cupcake before we finish up? I just have to ask a couple more questions, about the residence and your possessions and stuff like that.”

“Okay.” Harry took the offered cupcake, but before he could manage even a single bite the too-sweet smell of the sugary frosting assaulted him and he felt his body heave again.

“Crap, sorry!” The Auror hastily took the cupcake away, backing up with it as Harry lurched forward over the bin again, the water he’d just swallowed making a swift reappearance. “I’ll just...take this out of here. Sorry.”

Harry just keened pitifully as his body kept heaving.

Merlin, he just wanted to go home.

When Draco was finally led over to him, Harry had been talking to the Auror for somewhere close to six hours. He was advised to speak to a lawyer regarding his finances as soon as possible, and told that the Ministry could hold Grayson for only twenty-four hours before releasing him. They wouldn’t be able to retain him in their custody until after the Court made a ruling. He was told not to contact Grayson, and to report it to the Aurors if Grayson made any contact with him. He was advised against being alone, even in public. Then, the Auror had given him a business card for a muggle therapist - one who specialized in domestic violence. His sister-in-law had given him a stack of them and he admitted he didn’t know much about muggle therapy, but said his sister-in-law swore by the woman on the card. So Harry took it and wondered if he’d ever call the number; if he could ever bring himself to talk about all of this again, with another stranger.

He just didn’t know.

Draco took him straight home from the Ministry, because it was too late to see the lawyer. So he brought Harry to Grimmauld Place, watching over Harry as he ate some of the dinner Kreacher made, then tucked him into bed with Padfoot guarding him from the floor. Harry wanted to ask Draco to stay; to curl up next to him. But it was early yet, and Draco had work to do though he promised he’d only be downstairs, and Harry was too exhausted - both physically and emotionally - to argue. So he closed his eyes and let sleep claim him, clinging tight to the knowledge that, at least for the moment, Grayson was secure behind bars.

It was the last peaceful night’s sleep Harry got for a long time.

The first time Harry stepped into the office of Blaise Zabini - and Harry still couldn't quite get over the fact that he was a lawyer, and a damned good one according to Draco - he wanted to sink into the floor and vanish. But Blaise was professional, and Draco was with him, and Harry got through it. If he cried, and cursed Grayson for doing this to him, and needed a pain potion afterwards to deal with his headache, then that was okay. Because he got through it.

When they were done, Draco dragged Harry out to lunch, with Blaise in tow. They met up with Pansy Parkinson at a muggle pub and Harry immediately loved the Slytherins for how normal they made him feel. Pansy let Draco and Blaise fill her in on some of the details the article in that morning’s paper hadn’t covered, promptly offered to murder Grayson and dispose of the body, then let the topic go. There were no barbs or recriminations; there were no probing questions; there was nothing. Just an offer of murder Harry wasn’t sure was joking, and then a normal lunch with normal conversation.

When Harry was quiet - eating slowly and sitting perhaps a little closer to Draco than was strictly appropriate, given the circumstances - the Slytherins filled the silence with their own words. Pansy gossiped about people they’d gone to school with while Draco and Blaise listened and occasionally added their own stories, and Harry let the conversation ebb and flow around him. It washed over him, soothing and calm, and Harry wondered at the lack of pressure being placed on him. But then, Harry realized, the Slytherins understood better than most the weight of things a person might not want to talk about. Harry imagined they were rather good at avoiding serious topics. He was still grateful.

When lunch was over, Pansy kissed Harry’s cheek and insisted on being invited to the baby shower. Blaise shook his hand and promised they’d talk again soon. Then Draco took his hand and brought him home.

When Harry was curled up on his couch, he finally spoke. “I like your friends.”

“So do I.” Draco replied with a grin, and Harry rolled his eyes. Draco’s smile softened and he nudged Harry lightly with his shoulder as he sat beside him. “They liked you, too. Does that surprise you?”

“A little?” Harry admitted. “But I’m glad. It’s nice to be around people again.”

Draco hummed softly, then said. ”You know we can contact your friends, right? As soon as you’re ready. I’m sure they tried to contact you today, after seeing the paper this morning, but we left so early...”

Harry’s heart raced, his stomach twisted on itself, and his palms felt instantly sweaty. His friends. Harry tried to imagine how Ron and Hermione must have reacted to the Prophet’s story. How Neville, or Luna, or Ginny might have reacted to seeing that headline; the headline and article tagged with Draco Malfoy’s name. “Grayson Wenke Abuses Wizarding World’s Savior!” Draco had deliberately used Harry’s title rather than his name; claimed it was dissociative under normal circumstances but that, given Harry’s celebrity status, it was regrettably necessary. Harry didn’t mind, because he felt like the wording drew attention to Grayson rather than himself.

It wasn’t true, of course; Harry was certain he’d be mobbed in no time, in fact. He’d have reporters camped outside the wards the second they figured out where he was staying, just like they had after the war. But, for the moment, he could pretend it was Grayson they’d be mobbing instead. And, hell, if he was lucky, they’d at least mob Grayson first.

And now, Harry’s mind had wandered a bit off track and he forced it back to where it belonged - on his friends’ reactions to this whole messy disaster. He blamed the pregnancy for his scattered brain. He had no doubt he’d be dealing with concern and relief that he was safe; his friends were loving and supportive, after all. He was just worried about what else he might get. Like prying questions he didn’t want to answer. Like demands to know why he didn’t ask for help. Like pity.

So Harry rested his head on Draco’s shoulder and said softly. “Soon, maybe, but...not yet.”

Draco didn’t push. But then, he never did.

Harry didn’t get his wish of not yet. Though, to be fair, he could have refused the fire call. It was evening by the time the Floo chimed, and Harry winced when he heard the address, which sounded louder than the obnoxious chime had. He didn’t think he was ready for this.

“Would you like me to refuse it?” Draco asked softly, looking up from his notebook. He’d moved to an armchair around the time Harry had started dozing off, letting the brunette lay down across the full length of the sofa and covering him with a soft throw.

Harry rubbed blearily at his eyes, then reached for his glasses. “No, it’s probably best to just...get it over with. I doubt they’ll stop calling until I answer.”

Draco studied him for a moment, then flicked his wand and murmured the spell to open the Floo. Hermione stepped through, followed closely by Ron, and Harry winced again as they both immediately rushed across the room towards him. They came up short when Draco - who had already been halfway out of his seat the second Hermione walked out of the fireplace - moved protectively in front of Harry. Harry’s hands immediately reached up and tangled in the soft material of Draco’s sweater, just at the small of his back, clenching tight, even as he peered around the blonde to look at his friends.

Draco cleared his throat, and when both Hermione and Ron had dragged their eyes away from Harry to look at him, he spoke. “There’s some things you need to know before you approach Harry.” His voice was level and placid, and Harry was grateful for the matter-of-fact way he was handling this. He’d handled introducing Harry to Pansy and Blaise earlier the same way, so Harry knew what he was going to say; he only hoped his friends took it as well as Draco’s friends had.

“What things?” Ron asked and there was a bite to his words Harry didn’t like; an aggression that had no place being directed at Draco, not now with so much time gone by since school and the war, and with Draco helping Harry the way the he was.

Hermione touched Ron’s arm lightly, then tipped her head curiously to one side. “I saw you wrote that article and at first I thought...I thought it had to be some cruel joke. I think I wanted it to be. Just cruelty and malice and viciousness on your part, because then it wouldn’t be true. I didn’t want it to be true.

“But then...” Hermione’s eyes flicked to Harry for a moment, and there was so much regret there, and sorrow, and it made Harry’s eyes sting so he turned his head and pressed his face against Draco’s hip rather than face her. “I remembered things. The way Grayson was weirdly possessive of Harry, and how Harry slowly stopped spending time with anyone, and the time I showed up and he had bruises on his arm, and...and how I tried to tell him I was there for him, but maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe I didn’t question enough, because I wanted to be wrong about what I thought I was seeing, and...”

Hermione’s voice broke and Harry lifted his head to see her curling into Ron’s chest, shoulders shaking. “We should’ve seen it, mate.” Ron sounded hoarse; he sounded sorry. Harry hated it. “If we had known...”

“Well, you didn’t.” Draco said it simply, like it was nothing, and both Ron and Hermione gaped at him. “Don’t stand there and make this about you and your guilt or whatever this is. It’s not about you. It’s about Harry, and what he needs now.”

Harry made a small sound in the back of his throat and Draco’s hand came back, fingers carding through dark hair until his palm cradled the back of Harry’s head, dragging it forward until his cheek was once again resting against Draco’s hip, able to look at his friends while still maintaining Draco as a buffer. Maybe it was cowardly, or weak, but Harry didn’t care. Draco was the only person who seemed to understand what set Harry off, and he wasn’t about to risk falling apart again so quickly. He’d had enough stress the past few days to last a lifetime, and it wasn’t good for the baby. Or for himself.

“Don’t touch him unless he okays it first, or is the one to initiate it. If you do initiate touch, make sure he knows it’s going to happen and give him plenty of time to stop you if he needs to.” Draco’s voice was just firm enough to say ‘I mean business.’ without straying into asshole territory; Harry was grateful. “Don’t ask stupid questions. Actually, just don’t ask questions. If Harry wants to tell you something, he will. Otherwise leave it alone. If you trigger a panic attack because you don’t feel like listening or respecting boundaries, I’m going to be seriously pissed off and the next time the Floo chimes you will not be allowed through. For the sake of both Harry and the baby’s health, he needs to keep stress to a minimum. Understood?”

“Whoa. Mate.” Ron’s eyebrows had climbed into his hairline and he was staring at Harry in disbelief. “You have Draco Malfoy as a bodyguard. That’s bloody fucking weird.”

Harry couldn't help it; he started laughing. Draco sighed and shifted so he was sitting next to Harry, and the brunette slumped against his side, still giggling. “Yeah, I do.” He admitted shamelessly, because having Draco as a support - in a multitude of ways - was one of the few things Harry was currently comfortable with. “Draco’s been fantastic since he figured out what was going on. Used the interview process to get Grayson to talk, then used it to get me alone to offer help. And to get me away. So.”

“Thank you.” Hermione’s words were sincere as she sat down on the other couch, Ron following. “I don’t know how you saw it so fast, or how you managed to help, but...thank you. For whatever you’ve done.”

Draco shrugged and Harry practically heard the nerves lacing his nonchalant tone. “I lived with a psychotic genocidal maniac and his followers for a while. I pick up on dangerous pretty quickly.” He glanced at Harry and added. “As to helping...well. There were ulterior motives involved. And really, all I did was offer. Harry did all of the hardest parts by accepting and going along with my plan.”

Harry’s face flushed instantly when Hermione’s eyes narrowed and she asked in a clipped voice. “What ulterior motives, Draco?”

He glanced at Draco from the corner of his eye to see Draco raising his pierced eyebrow at Hermione, but saying nothing. Hermione’s face, when he looked back at her, had relaxed into a smile. “Oh, that. Finally told him then, did you?”

“Wait, you knew he liked me?” Harry blurted out, eyes wide as he straightened away from Draco. “Since when, and why the hell did you never tell me?”

Ron was staring at Hermione, looking horrified, and chimed in. “What do you mean, Malfoy likes Harry? You knew about this and you just kept it a secret?”

Hermione huffed in exasperation and rolled her eyes. “Oh, honestly. It wasn’t my secret to tell, and it came out when he and I were finishing our NEWTs. I didn’t think it was a big deal, because you were dating Grayson already by the time I found out, Harry. Why bring it up, given that?”

And Harry supposed she had a valid point, but it still rankled to know she’d known long before he did. “You just...you’re supposed to tell me stuff like that. I’m your best friend. If someone likes me, you tell me.”

“The way you told me Ron liked me?” Hermione raised an eyebrow when Harry flushed. “Or the way you told Ron that I liked him?” Harry muttered something under his breath and Hermione rolled her eyes again. “That’s what I thought.”

“I still can’t believe Malfoy likes you.” Ron grumbled, and when Harry gave him an annoyed look he held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Hey, whatever. Clearly you like him back, which isn’t surprising given you pretty much stalked him in sixth year, and he’s helping you, so. It’s cool.”

For a few minutes, everyone fell silent, then Harry said. “Hermione, Pansy wants an invitation to the baby shower, so...Blaise too, probably. I think it’d be rude to only invite one of them.”

“Blaise wouldn’t care, but Pansy would probably feel better if he was there.” Draco admitted, relaxing back against the cushions as Harry settled snugly against his side. “She’s socially nervous these days.”

Talk turned to the baby - to repairs and renovations for Grimmauld Place, and to nursery themes, and to plans for the baby shower - and Harry prayed the peace would hold, at least for a little while longer.

Harry snarled when the Prophet ran an article detailing Grayson’s “side” of things. He spoke of being a loving, doting boyfriend to an unstable Harry. He accused Harry of cheating, of constantly threatening to leave if he didn’t get his way, of having a wild affair with Draco while planning their wedding. The article speculated that Grayson might not be the father of Harry’s child. It accused Draco of having lost professional objectivity as a writer and called him a homewrecker. Harry threw the paper into the kitchen fire before he even finished reading the article, too furious for words.

Draco sighed, then stepped behind Harry to soothingly card his hands through dark hair, fingers pressing and massaging away tension and the dull throbbing ache that had started behind his temples. “We knew this was going to happen, Harry. I’m actually surprised it took him this long to do an interview.” He reminded Harry gently. “We knew there would be a scandal. That’s why we spent so much time getting evidence. It’ll be okay.”

“They’re going to believe him.” Harry said miserably. “The second it comes out that you and I are together, they’re going to think he was telling the truth about everything.”

Draco’s hands stilled in his hair, and in a cautious voice he said. “Are we?”

“Are we what?” Harry asked, pushing his glasses up as he rubbed tiredly at his eyes. He’d woken up with nightmares every night for the last ten days and his brain felt muzzy.

“Together.”

It took Harry a few seconds to put the two halves of that sentence together in his mind, and when he did he suddenly sat up straighter, dislodging Draco’s hands from his hair. “Er...”

Harry wasn’t sure how to answer that question, actually. Draco had been staying with him at Grimmauld Place, and slept beside him each night, and soothed Harry’s nightmares away when he woke them both with his screaming. Draco also came with him to every meeting with Blaise and the Head Goblin at Gringotts, and had taken him to lunch with both Pansy and Hermione - separately, except that one time, and Harry was a bit frightened by how well the two women seemed to get along - and spent his days always near enough to assist if Harry panicked. He was helping to plan the changes Harry wanted for Grimmauld Place, and insisted on screening the contractors doing the work personally, and was just generally a buffer between Harry and the rest of the world.

But despite the fact that Harry curled into Draco’s soothing warmth every night - and, more often than not, during the day as well - and despite the fact that Draco never hesitated to comfort Harry with touch, they hadn’t so much as kissed since that night.

And while Harry knew Draco had feelings for him - loved him, at least a little - and while Harry knew he desired Draco, and cared for him, he didn’t know what to do with those feelings. Not with Draco’s feelings for him, nor his for Draco. Harry had a criminal case against Grayson, and a civil case regarding his finances, and a house to remodel, and a baby on the way. He didn’t have time for dates, or even just a casual fling, and he certainly didn’t have the time or energy to focus on something more serious. Honestly, even the thought of being in another relationship terrified him.

And yet…

So did the idea of Draco leaving. Of waking up alone, sweat-drenched and sobbing, without the blonde’s comforting presence to help him fall back asleep. The idea of Draco not being there when he met with Blaise, or when he went shopping, or when he went to his Healer appointments - like the one they had to leave for in the next half hour or so - was devastating. The thought of being alone in the huge house - even if alone really meant with Kreacher and Padfoot and the baby - made him feel sick to his stomach. As for facing the rest of the world without Draco by his side...he couldn't even think about it. It made Harry want to wrap himself around Draco like an octopus and never let go; made him want to cling with greedy fingers; made him want to sink his nails into Draco’s skin and keep him, for as long as he could. For forever, if he could manage it.

And Harry had a feeling that that wasn’t healthy; that he was going to have to let go of Draco sooner or later and figure out how to stand on his own again. How to keep the ground beneath his feet stable. How to exist outside of a cage. He couldn't lean on Draco forever, and he couldn't base a relationship off wanting to not be alone. That wasn’t fair to either of them. The thing was, Harry wasn’t sure where all of that left them.

Knowing he had to say something, Harry finally managed to find his voice. “I don’t know. I know I feel safer when you’re with me. I know I care about you. I don’t know when I’ll be ready for more. I don’t know when I’ll stop flinching at unexpected touches. I don’t know when a raised voice won’t make me want to hide. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel entirely safe around anyone, even you.”

Draco studied Harry’s face for a moment, then said. “How about this, then. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want anyone other than you just at the moment, so I’m not going to randomly start dating someone else, but I’m also not going to sit around indefinitely waiting on you. But for now, I’m not going anywhere and we don’t have to do anything other than what we have been. I’m here if you need me and whatever happens, happens.”

When Harry nodded, Draco’s lips curved up into a small smile and he nodded towards the door. “Come on, then, Harry. We’ve got an appointment to get to.”

Harry felt numb. Not actually, mind you. It was more like...like the air around him had turned to television static, and it was wrapped around him, buzzing against his skin and insulating him from the world. Draco led him to the couch and he collapsed onto it. Literally. It was as though his body just went boneless all of a sudden, so he sort of half-melted and half-fell onto the cushions. Draco murmured something about tea, but Harry hardly noticed. His eyes wouldn’t focus on anything and his fingers were plucking restlessly at his clothes, muscles moving in small, spastic jerks that weren’t really accomplishing anything.

He didn’t notice when the Floo chimed, but he did notice when Draco came back into the room and accepted the call. He blinked several times and watched blankly as Hermione and Pansy stepped from the flames, smiling and laughing.

Pansy froze when she saw him, and it made Harry wonder absently what the expression on his face was showing. He honestly didn’t know. “What happened?” She asked, looking torn between concern and anxiety as her eyes flicked between Harry and Draco. “Did that bastard try something? Did he show up here or...”

Draco shook his head, touching her wrist soothingly. “We went to a Healer appointment.”

“Is everything okay?” Hermione asked, and there was a smallness to her words that drew Harry’s attention. “I mean, the baby isn’t...it’s okay, right?” Draco nodded immediately and she wilted in relief, then asked. “Okay, so if everything is fine, why does Harry look like someone just gave him the worst news of his life?”

“It’s a girl.”

Harry didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until Hermione squealed, offering congratulations and spouting off about baby shower decorations. Pansy, however, was studying him shrewdly. “What’s wrong?”

His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment, then he finally managed in a hoarse whisper. “What the hell am I going to do with a little girl? What...what am I going to do?”

Hermione’s excited babble died a swift death, and Draco mumbled something about fetching tea, but Pansy just studied him with a calm and patient look on her face. “You’re going to raise her. You’ll feed her and change her nappies, and you’ll give her baths and dress her in pink outfits with too many ruffles, and you’ll stay up all night when she’s refusing to sleep more than ten minutes at a stretch then pass out with her on your chest halfway through the afternoon. You’ll be her father. And you’ll love her, because that’s really all she needs.”

“What if I’m no good at it?” Harry asked, hands fisting in his hair as he shot her a desperate, pleading look. “I mean, what if I’m just absolute pants at this whole thing?”

“At what, parenting?” Harry nodded and Pansy shrugged, moving to sit next to him. “Honestly, I think everybody is sort of pants at it, at least in the beginning. But I’ve never met anyone who loves as strongly or as well as you do, so I think you’ll be okay.”

When Harry just stared at her, mouth open and eyes shiny and wet with tears behind his glasses, Pansy shifted uncomfortably and changed the subject. “So, have you thought about names?”

Baby showers were exhausting. When you piled it on top of all of the crap in Harry’s life, it was a nightmare. Draco insisted it be held someplace safe, which limited their options severely. Eventually, Pansy offered up Blaise’s London penthouse, insisting she’d talk him into it with no trouble. Harry hadn’t doubted her for a second. She and Hermione had formed a formidable team for the sake of the baby - and Harry - and he’d found it was best to just let them do as they pleased.

By the time the baby shower’s date came - October 27th, nearly two full months after leaving Grayson - Harry was creeping into his twenty-sixth week of pregnancy and was slowly getting his life in order.

Blaise had managed to wrestle control of a portion of Harry’s funds - namely the money left to him by Sirius, as it was linked to the entailed house and was thus easier to claim back under the complicated Wizarding law Harry didn’t understand at all. Harry’s money from his parents, as well as his returns from WWW’s profits - George had felt it was only right to make Harry a legal, silent partner considering he’d funded their start-up costs - and several other investments, was all still frozen. Blaise had insisted on that, stating that until the accounts were released to their proper owner he wanted to ensure Grayson wasn’t slowly draining money from them. He had also demanded a full accounting of every last knut, starting from the moment Grayson took control. If anything was missing or amiss, Blaise’s team would find it and Blaise would demand recompense.

With the newly released funds, Harry had immediately authorized the start of the remodelling and refurbishing of Grimmauld place. He had insisted on having some muggle contractors come in and wire the place up properly, as he wanted electricity, in addition to the rest of the work being done. He used magic so infrequently he didn’t foresee it being an issue, and house-elf magic didn’t disrupt electronics the way wand magic did, so Kreacher would be able to do his duties without concern. Since the work being done was so extensive, Harry and Padfoot had temporarily moved into Draco’s London flat, though Harry saw it as more of an extended-visit since they’d only be there for a month or so total.

Which was why, after the baby shower, Harry was listening to Draco grumble about the massive amount of baby things that were soon going to be invading his flat.

“You could always leave them here.” Pansy said as she stood on a chair, detaching streamers from the ceiling. “I’m sure Blaise wouldn’t mind, would you, darling?”

Blaise - who was watching Harry’s friends clean up while doing nothing to assist - raised an eyebrow. “I most certainly would mind, but I’d allow it anyway.” He smiled at Harry. “You’re more than welcome to leave the gifts here until the work is completed on the house.”

“No, I’d really like to go through everything a couple more times and start getting organized.” Harry explained from his spot lounging on the couch, hands resting lightly on the quaffle-sized bulge beneath his shirt. “Draco will just have to suck it up for a little while. We’ll be back home in two more weeks anyway.”

“Have you picked a name yet?” George was packing up the leftover food and cake and such, mostly because he and Hermione were the only ones Ron wouldn’t try to steal food from and Hermione was ever-so-helpfully writing up Thank You notes so that Harry wouldn’t have to.

“Not yet.” Harry admitted, watching in amusement as George cast surreptitious glances in Pansy’s direction as the petite girl stretched up to reach more of the streamers. “I really don’t know the first thing about naming a kid, so it’s a bit daunting.”

“What about Dahlia?” Hermione asked, glancing up from where she was kneeling next to the coffee table to smile at Harry. “That’s pretty, right?”

“Flower names are always nice.” George agreed, and Harry watched him look at Pansy again and did his best not to laugh. George was not subtle in the slightest, at least not when it came to flirting.

Pansy flashed a smug grin over her shoulder. “Flower names are the best. But I’ve always liked more traditional names, like Madeline or Adelaide.”

Ron snorted. “Harry, if you name that poor little girl Adelaide, she’ll never forgive you.”

“I still think you should name her after a star.” Draco said pointedly, an argument he’d been making for several weeks already, each time throwing out a new star-based name. “Like Vindemiatrix.”

There was a brief pause, wherein everyone simply stared at Draco, then Ron said seriously. ”Harry, if you name that poor little girl Vindemiatrix, I will never forgive you.”

Everyone laughed, and Harry watched as Pansy shot George a speculative look. Draco and Ron jibed back and forth over names. Hermione resumed writing out thank yous. Pansy and George both went back to their assigned cleaning tasks while Blaise supervised. Harry, for his part, watched the friends - both new and old - who had rallied closest around him during the last two months and wondered at the difference such a short time could make. He still woke up screaming some nights, and he still refused to go anywhere alone - not until the court case against Grayson was wrapped up and the man was firmly behind bars - but life was better. Better than he’d ever really believed it would be again, after how horribly it had spiralled out of his control.

How did the muggle saying go - when you hit the bottom, there was nowhere left to go but up? Yeah; Harry agreed with that. Nowhere but up.

Harry stepped into the room he’d chosen as the nursery. Draco was scowling at the partially-assembled crib Harry had picked out. He’d tried telling Draco he’d put it together himself, but the blonde had insisted he could do it, even after Harry pointed out that the house’s new wiring meant it had to be done sans magic. Harry had to admit it did funny things to his heart to see Draco wielding a screwdriver and cursing under his breath at the instruction booklet, all for the sake of his daughter.

Harry rested his hands on the swell of his stomach which, at twenty-seven weeks, was rather prominent and growing more so all the time. The baby kicked out against his hands and Harry smiled as he pushed gently back, wondering how it was possible to love someone he’d never met so much. As Draco fisted his hands in his hair and let out a frustrated sort of screaming sound, Harry decided the man needed rescuing from his own stubbornness and moved forward into the room.

“Hey.” Harry’s voice was low and soothing. “We’re hungry, and in the mood for a gyro. Put down the screwdriver and take me to Dragondale Deli, yeah?”

Draco huffed. “This crib is never going to get built if I stop, because I won’t want to come back to it. It’s a menace, I swear. Bloody impossible.”

“S’okay. I’ll just get Hermione to help me with it later. Between the two of us, we can handle a little muggle-style furniture assembly.” Harry held out one hand, still smiling. “Come on. Food. Surely you can agree that keeping my daughter fed is more important than cursing at a crib we don’t need just yet.”

Still grumbling, Draco got to his feet. He took Harry’s hand, then pressed a light kiss against the back of his fingers with a grin. “I suppose we can’t let Aludra starve.”

“Dear god, that’s awful.” Harry couldn't stop the laughter bubbling out. “What is wrong with you, that you’d saddle the poor thing with a name like that? Bad enough she’ll carry the weight of being a Potter.”

“Better than being a Malfoy.” Draco pointed out cheerfully as he followed Harry down the stairs. “She might be expected to battle dragons, but at least no one will assume she’s poisoned the canapes at a baby shower.”

“I still say Hannah was joking.” Harry opened the front door, tossing over his shoulder. “And at least no one’s harassing you for your bloody autograph while you’re trying to pick out a salve for hemorrhoids.”

Draco’s laughter had Harry turning and moving backwards up the front walk, drinking in the sight of Draco’s face flushed pink with mirth. “Oh, come off it. That did not happen.”

“It most certainly did.” Harry said. “Ask Hermione and Pansy; they laughed about it for the rest of the afternoon, the harpies.” He shook his head, then curled his fingers around Draco’s as soon as the blonde closed the front gate, tugging him down the sidewalk. “Come on, then. I’m starving and we’ve got to catch the bloody tube yet.”

As they headed off towards the nearest station, Harry decided he’d never get tired of hearing Draco laugh.

About a week after the trip to the Dragondale Deli with Draco, Harry was back. He wasn’t sure why, but his daughter seemed to have a fondness for lamb and Harry had taken a liking to the Deli’s gyros. By this point, the shopgirl knew him on sight and had his order in by the time he reached her register. She was the owner’s daughter, just past Hogwarts’ age, and Harry was very fond of her. The feeling seemed to be mutual.

“Thanks, Thea.” Harry took the bag holding his sandwich eagerly, his stomach rumbling. “You’re the best.”

“You’re welcome, Harry. No Draco today?” She asked.

Harry didn’t blame her for her curiosity because Harry rarely went anywhere without Draco. But he’d been spending the afternoon with Pansy, shopping for baby clothes, while Draco got some work done. Harry had left her flirting with George after they’d stopped into the shop so she could flirt, and he’d be heading right back over now that he had his food.

“Nope, not today. He’s working.” Harry dropped a galleon in the tip jar, grinning when Thea gave a little squeal and bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. She always responded that way to his generosity, and it never failed to amuse Harry. “I’ll be sure to bring him by in a couple of days, so you can get in a good ogle.”

“I do appreciate it, Harry.” Thea giggled, dark eyes sparkling. “He cuts a rather dashing figure, if a bit of a dangerous one, for all that he’s only got eyes for you. You’re a lucky man.”

Harry blushed and lowered his eyes, but agreed. “Yes, I suppose I am. You have a good day now.”

“You, too. Come back soon!”

Harry waved over his shoulder as he pushed open the deli’s door and stepped into the bustle of Vertic Alley. He started towards the walk-through that would lead him back to Diagon - and George’s shop - but didn’t make it that far. Instead, strong hands dragged him into the little alleyway between the Dragondale Deli and the women’s shoe shop beside it. Harry struggled for a moment, then froze when he felt a wand press against his throat, just beneath his jaw. Every muscle in his body went tense and Harry suddenly couldn't breathe.

“You shouldn’t have run away.”

Harry whimpered at that; at Grayson’s voice, a furious hiss against his ear. “L-let me go.” Harry hated how his voice went instantly weak; instantly small. Pushing past the fear, he said. “I swear I’ll scream, Grayson, and bring the whole Alley running.”

Grayson chuckled, then dropped his wand down so it was pressed against the side of Harry’s belly. “Go ahead, Harry. Scream. See if anyone gets here fast enough to save the baby.”

“It’s a girl.” Harry wasn’t sure why he said it, except that he was willing to say just about anything to try to stall whatever Grayson had planned. “You’re going to have a daughter.”

“A girl. What a pity.” Grayson sighed, breath hot on Harry’s neck. “I wanted a son. I suppose we’ll just have to try again, won’t we?”

Harry swallowed hard against the instinctive terror washing over him, and managed in a whisper. “Why are you here, Grayson? What do you want from me?”

A wet sounding snarl answered his words, and Harry cringed when Grayson’s free hand curled around the front of his throat, squeezing threateningly. “I want my life back, Harry. I want you to retract your accusations against me and come home like a good boy. Say the hormones made you crazy. Say that Malfoy brat told you to do it, or had you under a spell. Say whatever you have to, so long as you clean up the mess you’ve made.” His hand tightened for a moment as he added. “We were supposed to be married today, Harry. I don’t like the delay you’ve created with your hysterics.”

Harry had, of course, known the date. It was why he’d agreed to go shopping with Pansy; a desperate attempt to keep his mind off of what could have been. He just hadn’t thought of the implications; of just how furious it would make Grayson. A small noise behind them had Grayson turning, his grip easing just the slightest bit, and Harry didn’t hesitate. All the years he spent fighting Voldemort, and Death Eaters, and training with the DA and Ron and Hermione...it all came flooding back in an instant.

Harry let himself drop to his knees, dead weight - of which he had considerably more these days, thanks to the baby - breaking through Grayson’s hold in an instant. He twisted to the side a second later, quickly scrambling backwards, away from Grayson. Even as his hand curled around the handle of the hawthorn wand, Harry’s eyes moved past Grayson to see what had caused the distraction.

It was Thea, a bag of garbage clearly intended for the dumpster in her hands. Harry watched as Grayson raised his wand, leveling it at Thea, and shouted. “Run! Now!”

Harry sucked in a stunned breath - and Grayson actually shouted in surprise - when Thea obeyed, but not in the way Harry had meant. She threw the bag of trash directly at Grayson, then rushed him. As Grayson and Thea tumbled to the alley floor in a mess of flailing limbs, Thea’s father burst out the back door, wand drawn. Harry and the man both trained their wands on the tangled duo, waiting tensely.

After several moments, Thea’s father snapped. “Get out of the way, dammit!”

Harry watched as Thea seemed to tuck into herself before rolling clear across the alleyway. Her father immediately stunned Grayson before turning to Harry with a concerned look. “You alright, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nodded, then turned wide eyes on Thea. “What in the world were you thinking?”

Thea laughed, breathless and flushed. “I was thinking, Harry, that you’re pregnant and I’m not. And my male cousins all play rugby. So I’m pretty good with a tackle. Not to mention the element of surprise was definitely on my side.”

“She’s a bit headstrong.” Manny sighed, shaking his head. “Doesn’t surprise me one bit she rushed him. Was he threatening you then, Mr. Potter?”

“He had Harry by the throat, Dad.” Thea was scowling now, and she turned her head to spit in the direction of Grayson’s prone body. “And his wand was aimed at Harry’s belly. That’s the bastard what was abusing him, according to the papers. Right, Harry?”

Harry nodded, and quite suddenly his legs gave out under him and he found himself sitting down rather faster than he meant to. “He was going to take me with him. He...oh my god. Oh god...”

Thea made a worried sound, then said. “Harry, I’m going to use the Floo in Dad’s office to call Draco for you. What’s the Floo address?”

Harry gasped it out, closing his eyes against the dizzying spin his head was doing and trying to remember how to breath evenly. He was trying to count as he breathed - ten in, then ten out - but he had a feeling his counting speed wasn’t at all steady. Sure enough, by the time long fingers were cupping his cheeks, tipping his face up, Harry’s face and fingertips were tingling oddly. He struggled to make his eyes focus on Draco’s face, hands coming up to clutch at Draco’s wrists.

“Shhh...shhh, love. I’ve got you.” Draco murmured and it was only then that Harry realized he was letting out keening sobs with every breath. Draco pulled Harry onto his lap and began to rock, murmuring soothingly. “It’s all right, Harry. You’re safe now. You’re both safe, and the Aurors are on their way. There were witnesses this time, love. He’s not getting out again. Blaise won’t let it happen, I promise.”

With Draco wrapped around him and his voice near Harry’s ear, Harry calmed quickly. His sobs died down into hiccoughs, and he stopped trembling. When he finally lifted his head, Aurors were present and Harry wondered how he’d missed their arrival. Not much besides Draco really penetrated his panic attacks, though, so he supposed it wasn’t actually too surprising.

“We’re going to revive him now, Mr. Potter.” One of the Aurors said, then glanced at the back door to the deli. “Maybe you’d like to give your statement inside?”

“You can use my office.” Manny offered and Harry nodded, immensely grateful. “Come on, then. I’ll show you the way.”

Draco helped Harry to his feet, then they - and a single Auror - followed Manny inside while another Auror stood off to one side taking Thea’s statement. There were two Aurors standing over Grayson’s body and Harry hoped they were enough to subdue the man, though they had already taken his wand from his body so Harry imagined he wouldn’t be able to give them too much trouble.

Harry did his best to push Grayson out of his mind. He was going to give his statement, then do his best to forget this whole mess. He was not going to let this set him back. Grayson had taken far too much from him already, and now he was going to pay for it. Harry wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of taking anything else, ever again. For the sake of his daughter, as well as himself.

Harry spent his first Christmas away from Grayson quietly. Though he made it a point to stop by the Burrow on Christmas Eve to say hello to everyone and place their gifts from him under the tree, he wasn’t quite up to spending a whole day surrounded by loud, touchy people. Not even ones he loved. Instead, Draco ordered food in for them - Harry was off his lamb kick and craving spicy food, so they got Indian - and they spent the day marathoning Christmas movies on the telly Harry had gotten set up after getting the house wired. It was simple, and peaceful, and easy in a way Harry’s life never really had been.

In the six weeks since Grayson’s attack and subsequent arrest, the papers had slowly found other things to write about and Harry was no longer being mobbed every time he tried to leave the house. Harry still didn’t like going out alone, but that was mostly because other people touching him - particularly strangers - set Harry off and reduced him to a shaking, twitchy mess. His friends had gotten very good at acting as a human buffer against unwanted contact, which helped.

As Harry dozed off while watching ‘A Christmas Carol’ - his head resting on Draco’s shoulder and the smell of burnt popcorn in the air due to an earlier incident involving the microwave and Draco in their ongoing battle - he wondered what he would do the following year. Would he be ready for a Weasley Christmas experience again, or would it be too much? The baby would be anywhere from one to two months shy of a year old by then, depending on when she decided to make her appearance. Harry fell asleep imagining chubby cheeks and golden curls and presents stacked high around a twinkling tree.

And if Draco was there, in Harry’s little fantasy...well, that was nobody’s business but his.

New Year’s Eve a week later wasn’t quite so quiet, but Harry couldn't bring himself to mind. Ron, Hermione, Pansy, Blaise, and George joined him and Draco for the evening. Pansy and George were looking rather cozy and Harry found himself hoping they worked out. They complimented each other well.

Heavily pregnant and surrounded by those he loved best, Harry wondered how he wound up so lucky. For all of the bad in his past, he wouldn’t change where he was in that moment for anything.

“You’re going to have to name her eventually.” Draco was lying sideways across the bed, on his stomach, chin resting on his folded arms. “It’ll be sort of awkward if you bring her home without a name and we have to call her ‘Baby Girl Potter’ or something until you figure out what you want to call her.”

Harry grinned up at ceiling, feeling his daughter move around inside him and knowing Draco was watching his skin ripple as she did so. Harry wasn’t sure why, but Draco seemed to love watching his stomach move. “Maybe I’ll name her that. Babygirl.” Draco snorted and Harry added. “Besides, I’ve got time yet.”

“You’re thirty-eight weeks, Harry. She could be born any day now.” Draco’s hand snaked out, fingers tracing lightly over Harry’s stretch marks. “She should have a name before she arrives, don’t you think?”

“I suppose. Although.” Harry looked down, marveling at the way Draco watched his belly in awe. “Maybe I’ll know her name when I see her. Like, in that moment, holding her, I’ll just know.”

“For Salazar’s sake, Harry, she’s not The Childlike Empress. “ Draco’s exasperation amused Harry almost as much as the random pop culture reference, though he knew Draco had enjoyed the movie when they’d watched it together and had immediately gone out buy the book. “You need to just pick.”

“So suggest something.” Harry snapped, irritation rising in an instant. Everyone kept prodding at him about this, but no one had given a name that felt right, so Harry couldn't help feeling like they weren’t really helping at all. “And this time, try suggesting something that’s not fucking horrible.”

“I’ve suggested plenty of things that aren’t horrible.” Draco’s voice had just enough bite in it that Harry winced before he could stop himself. “What’s wrong with Gemma, or Navi, or Cursa?”

Harry steeled himself against the urge to back down. “Too many things to mention, Draco. She needs a...a name that’s easy to say and spell, so she can learn it quickly. She needs a name the other kids won’t pick on her for, and one she won’t grow to hate for its strangeness. Something beautiful, that shows how much she means to me. She’s the best thing I got from Grayson, and I don’t want her to ever doubt that.”

“What about Tania?” Draco asked quietly, and Harry shot him a disbelieving look, making Draco shrug. “What? I think it’s pretty.”

“Do you have the entire star chart memorised or something?” Harry couldn't help asking, because he knew Draco was only suggesting star names and he never seemed to suggest the same one twice. “If so, why?”

“I like stars.” Draco admitted, fingers tracing lazy patterns over Harry’s belly with just enough force to not tickle, smiling every time the baby pushed up against his touch. “Besides, we did take an astronomy course at school, and I got a NEWT in it.”

”You’re like Hermione. You got a NEWT in everything, pretty much.” Harry rolled his eyes, but the exasperation in his tone was tinged with fondness. “Still, it’s crazy that you remember all those names. I don’t think I can even pick out the constellations anymore.”

“I like stars.” The repeated words were spoken softly, but in a way that made Harry feel as though Draco were sharing a secret. As though perhaps he’d never before told anyone he liked stars. “They make me feel closer to Mother. What about Merope? She’s one of the Pleiades.”.

Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, then said in a very quiet voice. “That was Voldemort’s mum’s name. She was Merope Gaunt.”

“Oh...” Draco cleared his throat awkwardly, then offered. “Perhaps one of the others? There’s seven of them. So, maybe...Asterope? Or Celaeno. Or Maia.”

“Maia...that’s pretty.” Harry hummed thoughtfully, rolling the name around on his tongue a few times. “Maia. I like it, but...Maia.” Harry sighed, then let himself drop backwards onto the bed in frustration. “I don’t know. It’s just not quite right.”

Draco’s brow furrowed as though in concentration, making Harry wonder if he was running through a mental list of stars. He let his hand go still on Harry’s belly, palm flush against the warm curve of skin. After a few minutes, he asked slowly. “What about...Mira? It’s in the Cetus constellation, near Andromeda. It means wonderful.”

“Mira.” Harry smiled, reaching down and running his hand lightly through Draco’s hair. “I like that. Mira Lily Potter. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Draco stared at Harry in stunned silence, then said. “Are...are you serious? You’re actually going to name her after a star?”

Harry nodded, uncertain what to do in the face of Draco’s reaction which seemed...less pleased than Harry had expected. “Is that a bad thing? Did...were you not serious about your suggestions? I know star names are a Black family thing and she’s not really a Black, but Sirius was my godfather and I’m Teddy’s, so I thought...” Harry bit his lip, then added. “If it’s a problem, I...I won’t.”

Draco shook his head. “No! No, it’s...it’s not a problem, Harry. I think it’s a beautiful name.” Harry gasped in surprise when Draco shifted forward enough to press a light kiss to Harry’s belly. “Hello in there, Mira. I can’t wait to meet you.”

Harry watched with damp eyes as Draco continued to talk to Mira, and wondered how he could possibly not love someone who seemed to love his child so much.

The first time Harry held Mira, he was exhausted and aching and so weak he could barely wrap his arms around the pink bundle being handed to him. He had gone all the way to forty-three weeks, and by the end he’d been threatening to cut her out of his belly himself if someone didn’t do something because he was so fucking sick of being pregnant. Harry had wanted, more than anything, to just hold Mira; to have her be more than a fierce nudging from inside his body. To have his daughter in his arms at long last.

Now that he did, he was overcome and at a loss all at the same time. She was terribly small, for all that she’d stayed inside him for so long, but Healer Jameson assured him that was quite normal with male pregnancies. Mira was perfectly healthy. She had a tangled mess of black curls already, and Harry couldn’t wait to see what color her eyes would be once she grew up a bit. The funny blue-grey newborn eyes Mira had were actually a rather lovely color, but Healer Jameson had advised they’d likely settle into something else entirely by the time she was six months old. She was all swaddled up in a soft pink blanket, and Harry wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was meant to be doing with her.

When the door opened and a mediwitch stuck her head in, Harry couldn't be bothered to look away from Mira. She spoke to Healer Jameson for a moment, then he said. “Harry, now that you’re cleaned up and settled, Mr. Malfoy would like to see you both. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” Harry told his Healer, still unable to tear his eyes away from the baby. The Healer nodded to the mediwitch, who disappeared again.

A few minutes later, the door opened again and Draco slowly approached the bed Harry was lying on. “Hey, love. How are you feeling?”

Harry managed a shaky smile. “Tired.” His eyes went back to Mira, who was sleeping peacefully. “Look what I made...” And Harry’s voice broke, tears spilling over, because his daughter was perfect.

“I see her.” Draco leaned down to press a kiss to Harry’s hair, and he stared down at Mira with the same level of awe that Harry was. “She’s beautiful, Harry.”

Harry took a slow breath, then offered. “Would...would you like to hold her?”

When Draco nodded, Harry carefully passed the baby girl to him, watching the look of intense love on Draco’s face and feeling his heart stutter in his chest at the sight. “Hey, princess.” Draco murmured as he gently rocked from side-to-side. “Hello, my beautiful girl. Your daddy did one hell of a job making you, didn’t he?”

As Draco looked up to shoot Harry a huge grin, Harry prayed that this, with Draco, would be something he was allowed to keep.

The first time Draco stormed out of Grimmauld Place - at two in the morning, when Mira was only a few months old and wouldn’t go to sleep for the fourth night in a row - Harry sank to the floor beside his daughter’s crib, one hand slipped between the bars to rest on her stomach, and sobbed until his tears lulled them both to sleep. He woke up several hours later, his back and neck aching. His head throbbed dully behind his eyes and Mira was awake again and screaming for attention.

As Harry dragged himself to his feet, unsteady and miserable, a soft sound from the doorway had him whipping around, tense and defensive, wand already in hand. Draco stood there, hands raised to his shoulders in a show of peace, one holding a bottle. As Harry lowered his wand to allow Draco’s approach, he tried muzzily to wrap his tired brain around what was happening. He wasn’t sure when Draco had come back, or why, or for how long. He wasn’t sure of much of anything, really.

As Draco carried Mira over to the rocking chair and settled in, bottle already in her mouth, he spoke softly. “I came in and heard her crying, so I made a bottle before coming up.” Draco glanced up at Harry, concern clear to see in his grey eyes. “Did either of you sleep at all while I was gone?”

Harry nodded dumbly. “Yeah, I...I fell asleep next to the crib at some point. She slept too, a bit. Dunno for how long, though.”

Draco’s eyes went to the floor, then he sighed and shook his head before looking back at Harry, eyes narrowed, though his voice stayed quiet and calm. “You have got to start taking better care of yourself. When you’re tired, let me take care of Mira so you can sleep. Don’t let it reach this point, Harry, where you’re dead on your feet and incapable of consoling her. No one wins when you do this to yourself.”

“I...” Harry turned around, hands clenching on the wooden rail of the crib, staring unseeingly down at the empty sheet, tears building behind his eyes. “She’s my daughter. I should be able to do this.”

“You are doing it.” Draco chided, and steel crept into his words. “But there’s no reason you can’t let me help you, unless you’re saying you don’t trust me with her. And if that’s the case...”

Draco fell silent and Harry spun around, shaking and defiant, and hissed in a whisper. “If that’s the case, what? You’ll take off again like you did earlier? You’ll prove I’m right not to? Fine. Do it then. We...we’ll be just fine without you, Draco, so fucking go if that’s what you want.”

Draco’s face twisted with fury, eyes going dark with it as well, and he stood in an eerily controlled way. He carefully set Mira - asleep once again - in her crib, then grabbed Harry’s hand and dragged him out of the nursery and down the hall, towards the bedroom they’d shared for months. Once inside, Draco closed the door and turned on Harry with a glare and a snarl. And while the logical part of Harry’s mind was shouting that Draco would never hurt him, Harry couldn’t help the way he backed up, wand leveled at Draco’s chest.

“I am not demanding you trust me fully, Harry. I know that’s going to take a long time.” Draco’s voice had lost the measured calmness he’d exhibited in the nursery, while holding Mira. “But if you think for one second that I would ever hurt Mira or not care for her properly, then I’m clearly doing something wrong. I love her, Harry. As much as if she were mine. I love her because she’s yours, and I love you. Even when you’re being a stubborn arse and pointing your wand at me, when all I want to do is shake you until you see sense, when you’re pushing me away because you’re too scared to believe I’m not going to give up on this.”

Draco was breathing heavily, face pink, and he bit out. “So tell me what the hell you need me to do to prove I’m capable of handling Mira so you can get some bloody sleep, because it’s killing me to see you like this.”

“Draco...” Harry dropped the wand, not caring in the slightest as it hit the floor and rolled under the bed. “You...you love Mira?” Draco nodded. “And you...love me?” Another nod.

“I’m sorry.” Harry whispered the words, and realized with a start that he meant them. This apology was not given to appease; to placate; to pacify. He was genuinely sorry, because he had never meant to hurt Draco; hadn’t even realized he was doing so. “I’m sorry, Draco. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m terrified all of the time, and I...I already ask so much of you without putting Mira’s care on you as well.”

“I don’t see it as a burden, you nutter.” Draco slowly moved closer, then guided Harry down onto the bed, pulling him into his arms. “I want to help you take care of her. I want to help take care of you, too. But you have to let me in. At least a little. Can you do that?”

Sniffling wetly, Harry nodded against Draco’s chest. “I’m going to try.” There was more Harry wanted to say, but the words tangled up on his tongue and wouldn’t come, so instead he closed his eyes and pressed close and hoped Draco could wait.

The first time Harry went to the therapist an Auror had once directed him to, Mira was six months old. Harry felt like he was slowly losing his mind. He knew Grayson was locked away. He knew he and Mira were well and truly safe. But that didn’t stop the nightmares, which still woke him up a few nights a week. And it didn’t stop the panic attacks, which he had at least once a day and which were utterly unconducive to caring for an infant. And it didn’t stop the way he flinched at raised voices, or unexpected touches. It didn’t stop the way he gave in to whatever anyone else wanted, without thought. It didn’t stop the smallness of his voice when giving his opinion, or the way he deflected when asked what he wanted, or the way his whole body shook when he was forced to make decisions or complete tasks alone, without proper direction or guidance or orders.

Knowing he was safe didn’t unbreak him.

And Harry knew he had to censor what he said to the therapist. Had to make Mira out to be adopted, or carried by a surrogate, or something. Had to use a gun or a knife in place of Grayson’s wand when explaining what he’d been through. Had to gloss over the ‘famous and hounded by the press’ aspect of his life, despite how stressful that was, even if the ‘scandal’ had slowly faded the longer Grayson was behind bars. But even with things edited the way they had to be for them to make sense, Harry was hoping she would be able to help him.

Harry wanted, rather desperately, to be able to move on. He wanted...well, he wanted a lot of things, really. But mostly, he wanted a life with Draco. A proper life. He was willing to do whatever it took to make that happen. So he went to therapy.

The first time Harry kissed Draco - again - was the anniversary of his freedom from Grayson. September 8th, 2002; one year of freedom.

The kiss was unrelated to the anniversary, in a way. Harry hadn’t done it to celebrate. He hadn’t done it to prove a point, or to mark time, or because there was a certain symmetry involved. No, it was nothing like that.

It was making pancakes and bacon on a Sunday morning, while Draco fed rice cereal mixed with pureed peaches to Mira, who had it a bit all over herself and a bit all over Draco as well. It was the smell of Draco’s morning coffee strong in the air, and the sound of cheerful baby babble and laughter. It was the quiet feeling Harry had of family, and rightness, and ‘This is what I’ve always wanted.’ that somehow snuck up on him. The fact that it happened on the anniversary was related only in the sense that Harry was extra-grateful about which man was seated at the table, feeding Mira, while he cooked.

The kiss was not planned.

Harry walked over with the plates of pancakes and bacon, and set them on the table. He brushed a kiss over Mira’s dark curls as he slid past her highchair. He touched Draco’s shoulder, and the blonde tipped his head back, smiling up at Harry. Harry’s intention had been to inquire if Draco needed more coffee. His lips were parted to speak, tongue curled around the words. But Draco’s grey eyes were light and laughing, and he had a smear of peachy-cereal across one high cheekbone. The metal hoops were glinting against his lower lip in the bright morning sunlight that flooded the kitchen, and he was smiling like he’d never been happier.

So Harry leaned in and kissed him, full on the mouth. When he lifted his head, his cheeks were flushed with embarrassed color and he stammered. “D-did you need more...er...coffee?”

“No.” Draco replied, face morphing from stunned to Cheshire cat grin in an instant. “But I’d like a bit more of that kiss, if you don’t mind.”

Harry squeaked in surprise as Draco yanked him down onto his lap, then kissed him breathless. In the end, it was the sound of Mira banging on her chair’s tray that had them breaking apart. “Later.” Harry promised as he pulled out of Draco’s grip, smiling shyly. “Tonight. Okay?”

Draco’s grin was answer enough for Harry.

Mira’s first Christmas was a little bit like how he’d imagined it would be, and a lot not. In the days leading up to the holiday, various friends and family stopped by with gifts, and Christmas Eve saw Grimmauld Place full-up with company coming and going all day and well into the night. A large tree decorated one corner of the parlor, and presents were stacked high beneath its branches, adorned with twinkling lights and glittering ornaments. And through it all, Draco stayed by Harry’s side, ready to whisk him away if he became overwhelmed. Mira was passed around like a beloved princess, and Padfoot wove in and out of everyone’s legs, begging for scraps.

And when Christmas morning brought peace and quiet, Harry was all the more grateful for it after the chaos of the day before. Harry, Mira, and Draco spent Christmas together, settled into the cozy warmth and cheer of the house, just the three of them.

Harry’s favorite part of the holiday came when Draco told Harry he’d found a buyer for his London flat. It was silly, because Draco hadn’t spent more than a night or two away from Grimmauld place in well over a year, but the idea that he’d sold his flat - really sold it, not merely put it on the market - was amazing, because it meant Draco truly intended to stay. It meant he considered Grimmauld Place to be his home. And it soothed the part of Harry that was always afraid, even after all this time.

The first time Harry said I love you to Draco was on Mira’s first birthday, and it was not at all the way he’d expected to eventually say it.

They were having a party at Grimmauld Place, and Harry was doing his best to get everything ready before guests started arriving. Hermione and Ron would be arriving within the hour, mostly so they could help with decorations, and Harry expected George and Pansy - who had been dating since sometime over the summer, after far too much dancing around one another for anyone’s sanity - not too long after, because Pansy loved decorating for parties and she absolutely doted on Mira. Blaise would no doubt show up halfway through the party with some ridiculously expensive gift and his latest conquest on his arm, though who that would be was anyone’s guess. The Weasleys were coming over - all of them, including the little ones, which was good seeing as the party was for a one year old, and Harry wanted her used to other children long before she was school aged. So Victoire who was nearly four years old, and Little Molly who was just three, and Dominique who was only six months old.

Andromeda was bringing Teddy, who was five already, something Harry had trouble believing most days. He often cursed Grayson for having caused him to miss so much of Teddy’s growing up, and did his best to make up for it by seeing Teddy as often as he could now. Teddy even had his own room at Grimmauld Place, for the times when Andromeda let him stay the night. Harry also thought Narcissa was coming, though he wasn’t sure about Lucius. Though both of the elder Malfoys had taken to Mira as soon as they were introduced, Lucius was still less-than-pleased that the little girl was part of a package deal that came bundled with Harry Potter, and the fact that he couldn’t count her as one of his family without accepting Harry’s relationship with Draco. The fact that he and Draco had been living together for more than a year hadn’t done much to convince Lucius he was fighting a losing battle any time he suggested it might not last between them.

Draco just rolled his eyes whenever Lucius made a snide remark. Narcissa, on the other hand, seemed utterly thrilled to count Harry as one of her family. Harry was still struggling to adapt to that as well.

But now, Harry was attempting to prepare all of the food for the party, with Kreacher’s help, of course, all while dealing with a newly-mobile - as in walking - Mira underfoot. Padfoot, as well. Harry would have locked them out of the kitchen, except the kitchen was alone on the lower floor and there was no where close enough that he felt comfortable leaving them, even if the house was baby-proofed. And Padfoot-proofed. And he still had to get Mira washed and dressed, and wash and dress himself.

And the cake. He had to pick up the bloody cake from the bakery. And he had to somehow do all of this in the hour or so before his decoration-helpers arrived, and Merlin only knew when Draco would be back because he’d been called into the office early in the morning - as he was no longer freelancing but was actually in the full employ of the Daily Prophet, and as such seemed to be at their beck-and-call whenever something major was happening. So Harry was really just hoping he’d make it home for the party, even if he could have used the extra hands immediately.

Mira suddenly let out a deafening shriek and Harry whirled around, praying she hadn’t hurt herself - because he didn’t know what he’d do if he had to take her St. Mungo's in the midst of all this - and simply stared.

Draco was standing there, Padfoot pressed up against one of his legs and Mira clinging to the other, holding both arms straight above his head. And there, in his hands, was a powder blue box with white lettering reading ‘Sweet Tooth’ and inside that box, Harry knew, was the cake. Harry had never been so grateful to see a baked good in his life, but between that and knowing Draco could wash and dress Mira while Harry got himself ready, he was ready to cry in relief.

“You’re home. And you got the cake.” Harry quickly stepped close enough to rescue the box from Draco’s precarious hold, setting it safely on the counter, far enough back that neither child nor dog would be able to get at it.

Then Harry stepped in close again and pressed a kiss to Draco’s cheek, saying with great gratitude and relief. “God, I love you.”

For a terrifying moment after Harry realized what he’d said, he thought Draco was going to make a big deal out of it. And Harry wouldn’t have blamed him, had it been any other day, but he didn’t have time for that conversation and didn’t know how to forestall it. But Draco just grinned and said. “Love you, too, Harry. Shall I run Mira’s bath and get her dressed?”

“Yes, please.” Harry scooped his daughter up, kissed her cheeks, then handed her over. As he did, he added. “I do love you, you know.” Just so Draco would know it hadn’t been a slip of the tongue, or something said in jest.

“I know, Harry. Have done for a while. But it’s nice to finally hear.” And that was that, it seemed. Draco left the kitchen to take care of Mira, and Harry hurried to finish the cooking so he could dress himself.

It wasn’t how Harry had imagined saying it, but that was okay.

The first time Draco shouted at Harry during an argument and Harry shouted back, the fight was nothing important, really. Harry wanted Mira - who was nearly two - to go into a daycare for part of the day. Not because he couldn’t watch her, but because Harry wanted her properly socialized at an early age. The fight was not about her going to daycare, but about the one Harry wanted to send her to. It was near the house, so Harry could walk her back and forth every day. The woman had smiled at Harry and Draco, and been pleasant, and the daycare itself had seemed clean and well-equipped. Harry saw no issues with it.

“You cannot send her to that place!” Draco had shouted, absolutely refusing to see reason or budge. “I won’t stand for it, Harry. I won’t.”

And Harry’s temper had risen to the occasion. “Well, it’s a bloody good thing it’s not up to you, then, isn’t it? I’ll send my daughter anywhere I like. Just because it’s a muggle place doesn’t mean it’s unsuitable!”

Draco growled, then snapped. “I don’t fucking care if they’re muggles, Harry. You know that. But I do care about the way that woman sneered at me whenever you looked away, and the way the little blonde one muttered something rather disdainful under breath regarding the fact that we’re both men. I won’t have Mira exposed to people who will fill her head with homophobic nonsense.”

Then he stepped close and added in a low voice. “Also, while I’m perfectly pleased you shouted back and stood your ground, do not ever imply that Mira is anything less than our daughter. She’s as much mine as she is yours and you damned well know it, and throwing her biological parentage in my face mid-fight is a low blow.”

“I...” Harry took a slow breath, struggling to rein his temper back in now that Draco had explained himself and made several solid points along the way. “Okay. First off, if someone is being disrespectful to you, just tell me instead of acting all high-and-mighty about the whole thing. And tell me when it’s happening. I’d have given them a piece of my mind, then stormed out of there if I’d known. Second off...you’re right about Mira. I shouldn’t have said that. I know you love her as much as I do.”

After a moment’s thought, he added. “Sorry I accused you of hating muggles, too. That was pretty stupid to say, but old habits and all.”

“Thank you.” Draco’s lips twitched up and he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t allow you the opportunity to properly go all white knight on my behalf, but those poor women wouldn’t have known what to do if you had. Also, I rather detest public scenes.”

“Never would have guessed that, considering how often you started them when we were kids.” Harry teased, having slowly grown used to how easily their fights always seemed to be settled. There might be shouting and tears and even one of them storming off, but once the air was clear and apologies given, that was it. “You seemed rather fond of them.”

“I just wanted your attention.” Draco pulled Harry into a slow kiss, then added. “You’re quite a sight all worked up in a fury, you know. Can’t help it if that gets me going, now can I?”

Harry just laughed, then pulled Draco in for a kiss. “Mira should be down for her nap for at least another hour, you know...if you’re not busy.”

“The day I’m too busy to sneak off with you, bury me as it means I’m dead.” Draco scooped Harry up into his arms and headed for the stairs, ignoring Harry’s laughing protests.

When the moment came wherein Harry realized he felt entirely safe with Draco, it was rather unassuming.

Maybe moments like that were meant to be monumental. Maybe there was supposed to be a huge epiphany, or a life-or-death situation, or a sort of stunning clarity. Maybe it was meant to shift the entire world around. That wasn’t how it was for Harry. Which wasn’t to say it wasn’t a big thing. It wasn’t as though the realization went unnoted, or unappreciated. It mattered, a great deal.

It was just that it happened softly.

It happened in between thoughts; in between breaths; in between heartbeats. Harry was listening as Draco - who had just gotten home from work - talked to Mira about her morning at daycare. Harry, of course, had gotten the same stories during lunch, after he’d picked her up and brought her home. Harry, for his part, was making dinner while they talked. He opened the oven to check the chicken and as the smell of herbs and roasting poultry wafted up, Harry felt a wave of nausea crash over him. He slammed the oven door shut, rushed to the bin, and breathed through his mouth in heavy pants while trying to quell the urge to vomit.

As the nausea subsided, Harry realized Draco and Mira were both watching him with wide eyes and concerned expressions. “You alright, love?” Draco asked, and Harry noticed the firm grip he had on their daughter, keeping her from rushing over to him. “Are you getting sick? If you need a lie down, I can finish dinner and feed Mira and settle her into bed.”

“I think the smell just hit me the wrong way.” Harry said, cautiously straightening away from the bin. “It’s passed now, I think. If I feel worse again, I’ll let you know.” Glancing at Mira again, he added. ”Perhaps no hugs or kisses tonight, though. Just to be safe.”

Draco nodded, and Mira spoke up, her tongue curling around some of her sounds in the lisping, unsure way young children often did. “Daddy, are you sick?”

“Maybe, sweetie.” Harry gave her a small smile. “And we don’t want you to get sick, so you’ll have to keep away from me until we know if I am or not.”

“But Papa will care for me?” She chirped, and when Harry nodded she smiled and nodded as well, which didn’t surprise him in the slightest. Draco had been caring for Mira for more than three years, after all; he was as much a constant in her life as Harry. “Okay. I hope you feel better, Daddy.”

As Harry turned back to the stove, he wondered if he truly was getting sick or if, perhaps, the nausea had another cause. He glanced over at Draco, who was engrossed in Mira’s storytelling, then pressed his hand briefly to his belly, as though that would somehow tell him if he was expecting or not. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Harry wondered what Draco would say if he was pregnant.

And the second after he had that thought, Harry realized there was no fear accompanying it. He wasn’t worried in the slightest. Just as he never worried when Draco became angry, even if he was angry at Mira. Harry never backed down when Draco raised his voice, and in fact had been known to yell back even louder. He couldn’t remember the last time Draco’s touch had made him flinch away. And he had long since stopped wondering if Draco would one day get sick of Harry and leave.

Harry trusted Draco. He felt safe with him. And having realized this, Harry suddenly knew precisely what he wanted to do. How he wanted to tell Draco. Smiling wickedly, Harry went back to making dinner.

It took Harry two months to get everything in place. There were things to look up, decisions to make, appointments to be scheduled...it was hardly an easy process. Harry chose the date deliberately, because Draco had to go on a trip in order to write his next assignment. He was covering an International Magical Conference and would be gone for a week, which suited Harry’s purposes perfectly.

When Draco came home, Harry was hard pressed not to show Draco his surprise immediately, but he held off as Mira told him about her week, and as they ate dinner. Once Mira was in bed, Draco went to take a shower - to wash the travel off, as he put it - and Harry eagerly changed into cotton sleep pants and an oversized tee-shirt, then sat on their bed to wait. Draco came into the room wearing only a towel and a sly smile, and Harry was tempted to let him have his way with him, but this was too important.

“Come here for a second.” Harry said, patting the bed beside him and ignoring the way Draco leered at him. “I want to show you something.”

“I’ve got something I want to show you.” Draco replied saucily, crawling across the bed to reach Harry, his towel sliding off in the process.

“Oh for god’s sake...” Harry laughed, grabbing a pillow and shoving it against Draco’s face as he leaned in for a kiss, using it to push him back before dropping it in Draco’s lap. “Cut it out for two minutes, yeah? I really do need to show you something.”

“Mmmm. Fine.” Draco gave Harry an exaggerated pout. “What’s so important, hmmm, love? Because I’ve missed you terribly, you know.”

“I went to see Ethan, while you were gone.” Harry said, and held out his right arm without another word, waiting for Draco’s reaction.

“Ethan? My tattoo artist?” Draco curled his fingers around Harry’s wrist, twisting Harry’s arm slightly so he could get a better look. “What...you got a...”

Draco froze suddenly, pupils dilating in an instant, breathing going fast and deep. As he stared down at Harry’s arm, he brought his other hand up, one finger tracing along a string of fifteen small black dots that decorated Harry’s outer forearm. Harry bit his lip, still waiting. He knew Draco understood; knew he recognized the dots for what they were.

“That’s my name.” Draco‘s voice was hoarse, and when he looked up to meet Harry’s eyes they were shiny and damp. “You wrote my name in stars...”

Harry couldn't stop the smile forming on his lips. “You like stars.”

For a moment, Harry thought Draco was going to lunge at him - in a passionate manner, of course - and he would have been entirely on board with that. But instead, Draco scrambled off the bed. Harry watched him move to his dresser, rooting around through a drawer almost-frantically. It was, admittedly, a rather attractive sight, as Draco was still nude. It was also a bit concerning.

“Er, Draco? Is...is everything okay?”

“What? Oh! Yes.” Draco was still shifting things around, but he turned to shoot Harry a grin. “Yeah, no, I just...can’t find...the...ah! Got it!”

Draco turned around, a small box in one hand, and rushed back over to the bed. “Okay, so. I was going to wait until next week, because you know I’ve always considered the seventh to be our unofficial anniversary. But fuck it, I don’t care.” He flipped open the box and held it out to Harry, revealing a plain, platinum band. “Harry, love. Marry me.”

“That...” Harry let out a watery laugh, then snatched the box from Draco’s hands. “God, that was a horrible proposal, you arse. You didn’t even ask.”

“Is that a no then?” Draco asked. When Harry shot him a dirty look, Draco grinned and plucked the ring from the box, then grabbed Harry’s hand and slid the ring on. “I thought so.”

“You’re lucky I love you, because you’re a complete prat, did you know?” Harry was grinning, though, as he leaned in to kiss Draco. Against his mouth, he murmured. “I have something else to tell you.”

“Mmmm....yeah? Am I going to like it as much as I liked the tattoo?” Draco ducked his head down and nibbled on Harry’s jaw. “Cause if not, can it wait?”

Harry moaned, then gasped out the words before he could get distracted. “I’m pregnant.”

Draco went still, then lifted his head to stare at Harry. “What?”

“I, er...I saw the Healer yesterday, while Mira was at daycare.” Harry bit his lip, then asked softly. “Are you happy, Draco?”

“Merlin, yes.” Draco pressed a hard kiss to Harry’s mouth, then pushed Harry onto his back and tugged his shirt up, scattering kisses over Harry’s belly. “I love you. I love you so much. Can we name this one Talitha? Do you want to get married before you get huge, or after the baby is born?”

Harry laughed, delighted. “First off, way to point out that I’ll get fat again.” Draco rested his forehead against Harry’s stomach and huffed out a laugh. “Second off, we don’t know if it’s a girl or a boy. And third off, Talitha is a horrid name, which I’ve told you before. And lastly...I love you, too.”

And as Draco shifted up Harry’s body to kiss him again, Harry realized he finally had everything he’d ever wanted. Love, a home, a family, safety...and he had it all with Draco Malfoy. Life was funny sometimes…

...and Harry was so grateful.