The Rehabilitation of Draco Malfoy

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/54336001.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Luna
Lovegood, Minerva McGonagall, Gregory Goyle, Pansy Parkinson,
Ginny Weasley, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, Horace Slughorn
Additional Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts, Touch-Starved
Draco Malfoy, Touch-Averse Draco Malfoy, Mutual Pining,
Sectumsempra Scars (Harry Potter), Harry Potter is Obsessed with Draco
Malfoy, Harry Potter Returns Draco Malfoy's Wand, Wandless Magic
(Harry Potter), First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Draco Malfoy is
Good at Sex, POV Alternating, Emotional Sex, Explicit Language,
Explicit Sexual Content, Emotional Porn, Rimming, Oral Sex, Anal Sex,
Anal Fingering, Coming Untouched, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Good Friend
Luna Lovegood, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Top Draco Malfoy,
Protective Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Has a Saving People Thing,
Draco Malfoy is Obsessed with Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy is Bad at
Feelings, Jealous Draco Malfoy, Bottom Harry Potter, Childhood
Trauma, Past Abuse, BAMF Draco Malfoy, Magically Powerful Draco
Malfoy, Legilimens Draco Malfoy, Legilimency (Harry Potter),
Legilimency Sex (Harry Potter), Switching, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Scars,
Sectumsempra (Harry Potter), Hogwarts Eighth Year, Cinnamon Roll
Harry Potter
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-03-08 Updated: 2024-03-13 Words: 43,028 Chapters:
13/?
 The Rehabilitation of Draco Malfoy
by sayschu

Summary

Harry Potter spent the first year post-war being the hero everyone needed. Draco Malfoy was
abandoned in Azkaban, where a plot to punish Death Eaters has left him more vulnerable
than ever. Now they're both returning to Hogwarts, and while Harry aches for a connection,
Malfoy can't bear to be touched.

[DO NOT COPY, EDIT, OR REPOST THIS WORK ANYWHERE, IN ANY FORM.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the work of J.K. Rowling and is not my intellectual property. I
intend no copyright infringement and seek no financial gain from this work. This work of
fiction is purely for entertainment purposes.]
 Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

Harry Potter’s historic anniversary address from the front gates of the fully restored Hogwarts
Castle came to a poignant close, and everyone with a beating heart was in tears. Everyone but
Mehetabel Vane.

Her hands were tingling, excitement barely contained. But containment was absolutely
necessary, and she was committed to doing whatever was necessary.

Mehetabel stood quietly off to the side of the Golden Trio and Neville Longbottom, just
behind the Minister and the delegates and the Hogwarts staff and the other war heroes chosen
to make speeches on the one-year anniversary of Voldemort’s death.

They spoke of the lives lost, sacrifice, unity, peace, beginning again. They spoke of healing.

Cameras kept flashing around them. There was a lot to see, of course. All these famous
heroes. A crowd in the hundreds, possibly more than a thousand, spread out over the vast
scenic grounds. The venerable school and site of the final battle, some parts old and some
new, rising up in all its magnificent glory. A pressing mix of dark and light clouds rolling in
the sky cast a dramatic backdrop to the proceedings.

Mehetabel kept her watery blue eyes on a sealed box in Hermione Granger’s hands. The box
had no hinges, no lid, no seams. It would have to be opened by magic, and they were so, so
close to that moment. Mehetabel had waited a year for it and could barely stand the few
minutes that remained.

It had all been Mehetabel’s idea, the Collaborative Unifying Rehabilitation Effort (CURE).
Although she had submitted the outline for the detailed war recovery plan, she was not
qualified to lead the enormous endeavor. Once the Wizengamot approved it, implementation
fell mostly on the shoulders of Aurors and Ministry politicians, as well as donors and
volunteers.

The biggest, most public action taken by CURE so far was the collection of memories from
the surviving participants of the Second Wizarding War. It had taken several months to
complete the ambitious project. Most people were willing—eager even—to provide their
memories in the service of historical documentation. It was a painstaking business cataloging
what happened and when and to whom since the second coming of Voldemort.

For the victims, it was terribly painful, but according to interviews in the Daily Prophet, the
experience of reliving every aspect for the official record was also quite cathartic. Turning in
memory vials to the Ministry was touted as a way to heal and move forward. The paper
printed pictures of witches and wizards in line at the ministry on a daily basis.

A few were reluctant or flat-out refused to participate, even with the promise that the contents
couldn’t be used to incriminate. The most vocal opponent, Hermione Granger, was quoted as
saying that the program’s intentions had not been sufficiently outlined to the public, and they
could only have her memories if they provided a detailed and binding magical contract that
confirmed exactly how the memories would be used.

Mehetabel had rewritten the contract nineteen times.

Harry Potter and members of the Weasley family were never quoted, but neither did they
participate until Hermione Granger was satisfied that the memories would only be used for
record keeping, and they would be kept protected deep in the Department of Mysteries.

Finally, today was the day, 2 May 1999. Mehetabel dug her sharp fingernails into her
sweating palms.

Inside that unbreakable box was every war-related memory the Golden Trio had to offer.
With the way her heart was beating and her head was soaring, it was a struggle to keep the
appropriately sad frown on her face.

She’d done it. She’d gotten the final piece of her intricate puzzle. It had only taken blood,
sweat, tears, and nineteen painstakingly vague contract revisions.

She’d known she would succeed eventually due to the nature of trauma. The strangeness of
that first year following the war—the simultaneous euphoria and devastation, joyous relief
and aggrieved emptiness—had taken its toll on everyone, but especially the Golden Trio. In
the end, good critical thinking was shrugged off as post-war paranoia, and Hermione
Granger’s diligent efforts were wasted, her protests worn down by public pressure and grief.
Some of the final contract’s words and phrases like “teaching resource” and “with the goal of
enlightenment” and “best interest” gave it just enough flexibility for Mehetabel to achieve the
covert aims of her special project.

Mehetabel Vane was the Head of a very specific and confidential subsection of CURE: the
Organization Regarding Death Eater Rehabilitation (ORDER). Only a handful each of Aurors
and Healers, magically bound in confidentiality, understood what her program was about to
do.

Even with extension charms, Azkaban was crammed past its capacity with convicted Death
Eaters and those yet to receive a trial. “Rehabilitation” was the big buzz phrase of the new
post-war world they were living in. The exact process of the Death Eaters’ rehabilitation was
still pending, as far as the public knew, though the Prophet speculated it would involve Mind
Healers. They weren’t totally wrong.

Memories were about to become a means of control. Manipulation for some. Well-deserved
torture for others. The dawning of a new era for all.

Mehetabel was many things. A Potions Master first, then a trained Healer. A Hogwarts
alumnus who graduated the year Tom Riddle was born. A muggleborn who once had been
called “the brightest witch of her age” before Granger even existed. She also had a niche
interest in historical artifacts and collected them by any means necessary. The crowning
achievement of her collection was the original memory Pensieve crafted in 1283, which
many wizards believed had been destroyed because it was inferior to its perfected successors
(two of which were kept in the Department of Mysteries and one in the Hogwarts
Headmistress’s office).

Many wizards were wrong. The original Pensieve was superior in every way, and it would
soon make a grand debut.

A radical, anti-pureblood extremist. That’s what some colleagues used to call Mehetebel, but
they didn’t say it anymore, not now that everyone was finally in agreement that the time of
magical purebloods was at an end.

Now was the time for justice.

She stepped forward to take the box.

CHAPTER ONE

Returning to Hogwarts felt bizarre and almost silly to Harry Potter. After two years removed
from education and normalcy, it felt like a mistake. The problem was that every option for his
life felt like a mistake. There were a hundred roads open to him, and none of them led
anywhere.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked Ron, because Hermione had already explained,
multiple times, why it was important that they (finally, belatedly) make up their last year of
school and get their NEWTs. He was tired of that argument.

“Nope,” Ron answered. “It’s a bloody nightmare. How’m my supposed to remember what we
learned sixth year? I thought the reward for being war heroes was we didn’t have to do this…
kid stuff anymore.” He gave a pointed look at a tiny girl climbing into the first-year boat to
cross the lake. She tripped and nearly went overboard.

That wasn’t exactly what Harry was complaining about. In fact, his sentimentality for the
“kid stuff” was the only good thing about this plan.

He explained, “I’m more concerned about being here a year later than everyone else in our
year. Like it’s too late for us.”

There had been too much for the Golden Trio to do this past year. The wizarding world had
needed them to be hands-on for every memorial, every dedication, the rebuilding, even the
Ministry’s rebranding. Then there were the Death Eater trials. Demand to see them had been
at an all-time high now that the Chosen One rumors had been confirmed. It had been a full-
time job, going wherever they were needed.

It was emotionally exhausting, but they’d handled it. Every time he wanted to run screaming
and go into hiding, he reminded himself of everyone who had suffered a loss, everyone he
had a chance of helping, however slightly. He owed it to them.
All the other students in their year had immediately returned to the badly damaged school to
complete their education and get their NEWTs. From what Harry had heard, it had been an
emotional year, which may have contributed to Ginny reconnecting with Dean Thomas. And
this was after everything he’d heard she and Justin Finch-Fletchley had done in the Room of
Requirement while Harry had been gone hunting horcruxes.

Waiting around for the savior of the wizarding world was more trouble than it was worth,
apparently.

For the millionth time, he stopped that train of thought before it could twist his stomach. He
hadn’t had an appetite in a year and was actually looking forward to the start-of-term
banquet. Another bout of depression would ruin the meal.

With a cursory glance at the thestrals—how many more students could see them now?—
Harry climbed after Ron and Hermione into a carriage. And was caught by surprise by the
fourth occupant.

“Luna? What are you doing here?” The last time he’d seen her was at the anniversary, though
there hadn’t been time to talk then.

“Is that you, Harry?” she asked in her soft, unassuming voice.

“How’d you know? Was it my expression?” Since the war’s end, the three of them had gotten
quite good at disguising their appearance. Harry was glamoured to look younger, blonder,
and scarless.

“Oh, I know your aura,” she disclosed. “You used to have two, but now it’s just the one I like,
blue with pink edges. The dirty black one is gone, did you know?”

It might be the first time he truly believed one of her tales. “I suppose so.”

Figuring he’d have to look like himself eventually, he used his wand to drop the disguise, and
Ron and Hermione followed suit.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Luna. But didn’t you finish your education last year?” Hermione
asked.

“I did. Headmistress McGonagall said I was welcome to come back again and retake my
NEWTs. I failed them all, you see.”

Ron sputtered, “But you’re a Ravenclaw!”

Hermione slapped his leg in reproach. “I’m sure it’s…the nargles are behind it.”

Luna shook her head.

“Oh, um, the blibbering humdinger?”

“No. It was the torture, of course.” Her voice was as dreamy as always, which added an extra
level of menace to her words. “At Malfoy Manor.”
“Right,” Ron said, eyebrows raised. “Feeling any better about this year?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s good that nothing stays the same.”

“Right,” he said again.

“The four of us, are we the only, er, older students this year?” Harry asked.

“I don’t believe so.”

Before he could ask Luna to explain, they had arrived at the castle and were being ushered
into the Great Hall by an unfamiliar face.

“That’s Zeno Agrios,” Luna informed them. “New Transfiguration professor and head of
Gryffindor house.”

Harry thought back to his first impression of McGonagall all those years ago, how stern her
face was, black hair pulled into a severe bun. After everything they’d been through, he felt
close to McGonagall now, like family, no longer so intimidated.

He tried to keep that in mind as he met the hard, beetle-black stare of Professor Agrios.
Broad-shouldered and square-jawed, he towered over them with the unpleasant look of
someone who caught a bad smell. One side of his thin upper lip curled.

“Find a seat anywhere,” he grunted. “No special allowances for repeaters.”

“Oi,” Ron said when they were out of earshot. “He makes it sound like we flunked out
instead of defeated the darkest wizard of all time.”

“Well, I did,” Luna said. “Over there is the new Defense professor, Protea Findlay. She’s
head of Slytherin now.”

Findlay was petite with dark features, younger than Harry expected, and innocently pretty
with wide-set doe eyes. She was smiling at a group of Hufflepuffs who had gathered around
her, definitely not what he would’ve expected from the head of Slytherin.

“You’re kidding,” Harry protested.

“I’ve heard of her,” Ron said with a slightly too appreciative twinkle in his eye. “She won the
dueling competition last year.” Harry vaguely remembered being invited to participate in the
competition and having no more interest in that than any of the other invitations he’d
received.

Whatever else Ron was going to say about it was drowned out by voices. The appearance of
the Golden Trio in the Great Hall caused a small commotion. Excited murmurs, cheers, and
greetings, shorter students standing on their seats to get a view of them. A little crowd
forming around the Gryffindor table, trying to get in a quick word or a handshake.

It was enough of a disruption to force the Headmistress to begin her address with, “Please
take your seats, everyone. There will be plenty of time later for harassing the older students.
Thank you. Welcome to another year at Hogwarts. Let’s begin the sorting.”

Professor Agrios set up the stool and the ancient sorting hat. Harry didn’t know why that
bothered him. Things really haven’t changed at all, Harry thought uncomfortably. What was
he expecting? Not this line of excited first years and the same four house tables, not
everything continuing exactly the same way, like nothing serious had happened. Like it didn’t
matter.

The hat’s rhyming song was almost identical to the year of Harry’s sorting. Then the first
years were sorted with painful slowness, though none were as much of a hat stall as Harry
had been. Each second that crawled past sucked the air out of the room.

“Harry, are you alright?”

Hermione’s voice was distant, just a faint echo, while the blood pounded in his ears. Propping
his elbow on the table, he covered his mouth with his hand and tried to manage or at least
conceal his out-of-control breathing.

At the head table, half the professors were missing. Where was Hagrid? He hadn’t been by
the boats either. No Snape, no Dumbledore, no Charity Burbage. Didn’t it matter? Didn’t they
care?

Many students were missing as well.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to disappear, to be with the ones who were dead or absent.
He had more in common with them, he realized.

Maybe he should’ve come back last year when there was still evidence of the battle in each
broken wall and bit of rubble, destruction throughout the castle, signs beyond the pretty
marble sculpture out on the grounds that listed the names of the fallen. It wasn’t enough.

The sorting ended and McGonagall’s short pre-feast speech began. Hermione gave the
Headmistress her rapt attention. Ron had a distant look in his eyes.

No one else was upset. It was only Harry struggling to handle how the world continued to
turn. What was wrong with him, and why was nothing wrong with anyone else?

He had to get away from this false reality, this pretense of normalcy.

Yet…where would he go? Even when he was enmeshed in the collective tragedy, drowning
in the tears of those who clung to him and grieved, it wasn’t any better. He always needed to
get away from them too.

All roads led to nowhere.

Sour bile rose up in his throat.

“I have to—” get out of here, he was going to say, when the loud bang of the Great Hall doors
interrupted both him and McGonagall.
Footsteps were loud in the sudden silence that followed: the booming footfalls of Hagrid,
then the pounding march of a stern Auror that Harry vaguely recognized, and between them,
the dragging steps of Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy…Malfoy…it’s Draco Malfoy. His name echoed all over the hall in a mix of whispers,
indignant shouts, and derisive tittering. The nature of this dramatic entrance meant that
Malfoy was garnering even more attention than Harry Potter had—and anyway, everyone had
seen Harry Potter at every event in Britain this year. He might be famous, but he was old
news.

Malfoy, on the other hand, hadn’t been seen since his very public trial. The trial that still
haunted Harry’s nightmares.

Even at the height of his popularity, even with every word of his testimony obsessed over and
memorized beforehand, he hadn’t been able to talk Malfoy out of Azkaban.

No Death Eater had walked, not even if he’d taken the Dark Mark under duress. It was
Harry’s biggest failure after the war. What returned to him, night after night, was the terror on
Malfoy’s pale face as he’d been dragged from the dungeon courtroom and away from Harry’s
sight.

Whatever Malfoy had endured this year had aged him. His white-blond hair was long,
stringy, and dull. His cheekbones and chin were even pointier, his cheeks gaunt. He was
underfed and had lost all the expensive grooming that had been so much a part of his arrogant
countenance. There was something disturbing and off-balance about seeing him in baggy
muggle clothes and a tattered robe falling off his shoulder.

His red-rimmed eyes looked straight ahead, unseeing.

McGonagall said nothing about it, just gestured toward the Slytherin table, where the newly
sorted first years hastily squeezed in to make room. It took a full minute of wand-waving for
the Auror to complete his spells on Malfoy. Hagrid took his extra wide seat at the head table,
and the Auror came up to McGonagall for a quick word before departing.

As if nothing had happened, McGonagall began the feast and the tables filled with food.

“You have to eat,” Hermione told Harry, scooping up potatoes for him, followed by steak and
kidney pie. Ron’s mouth was already full.

“What do you reckon they’re playing at?” Ron asked, spraying a bit of food. “Having a
prisoner of Azkaban at Hogwarts?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “If you would start reading the Prophet…”

“What?” Harry asked.

“It was in the Death Eater column. Malfoy is being released on probation.” She shrugged.
“This makes sense. He has nine months of house arrest, but without a house or any family
willing to take him in, he’s being released to Hogwarts.”
“What about his mother?”

“I think she lives in France now. Malfoy has to stay in Britain.”

Malfoy Manor was still in Auror custody, probably for the foreseeable future. Death Eater
families had been stripped of all assets, which were then used to fund the war recovery
efforts, rehabilitation program, and war orphan funds.

When Harry eventually tore his eyes away from Malfoy’s hunched shoulders, he noticed Ron
and Hermione both staring at him.

“What?”

Ron grimaced. “You’ve got that look again, mate.”

“What look?”

“Well,” Hermione hedged, “it’s either the ‘Malfoy’s up to something’ look, or the ‘I need to
save someone’ look. It’s been a while, so I’m not sure which is which anymore.”

“Maybe both,” Ron laughed. “Makes me nostalgic, that look.”

Harry kept his head down, not sure how he felt about that. Sometimes it was nice always
being with the people who knew him best; other times, he’d give anything for some privacy
inside his head.

He glanced once more at Malfoy’s harsh profile and noticed his frenzied motion. The first
years were eyeing him with disgust. He was eating as if he hadn’t eaten in a year, and it
reminded Harry of his own first Hogwarts feast after a childhood of abuse and starvation.
Harry’s heart squeezed painfully.

This was what Harry had been looking for. Here was someone else who wasn’t okay.
Someone else who still felt the war like a jagged knife lodged in his chest.

How much had Malfoy really changed? How would he respond if he knew Harry’s thoughts
were deeply sympathetic? Harry could almost hear him say, “I’m nothing like you, Potter.”
Picturing Malfoy sneering almost made Harry smile. He hastily shoved a croissant in his
mouth to hide it.

McGonagall rose and amplified her voice once more. “Again, welcome to another year…”

Harry’s attention wandered during the opening speech with its old reminders about the
Forbidden Forest and Filch’s list of banned items. Inevitably, his mind resurrected his last
memories of Malfoy. He skipped over the trial, flinching, and went back to the Battle of
Hogwarts, the fiendfyre rescue, and the glimpse of Malfoy desperately trying to save himself
amidst the battle chaos. He thought of Malfoy Manor, how Malfoy had refused to turn Harry
in, how disarming Malfoy had ultimately won Harry the war.

He thought of sixth year, Malfoy’s terrible fear at the top of the astronomy tower, how hunted
he’d been all year, and the sectumsempra that Harry had never properly apologized for.
He thought of Malfoy’s slim hawthorn wand, which Harry had lied about to his best friends
as well as the Minister of Magic himself. It wasn’t destroyed; it was hidden in his trunk,
wrapped tightly in a red and gold scarf.

The Gryffindor table was already half empty when Luna nudged him back to the present. He
jumped up and followed her.

Harry was almost out of the Great Hall when he overheard Ron’s quiet words to Hermione
ahead of him. “Well, could be worse. It’s better than the blank inferi look he’s had for a year.”

“I’m not so sure,” she answered.

 CHAPTER TWO

Head Girl Deirdre Daris pulled them out of the queue for Gryffindor tower.

“Didn’t anyone tell you where your dormitory is?”

Hermione made a sound of dismay. “I completely forgot. We’ve got rooms in the dungeons
this year.”

“It’s quite nice,” Luna said, prepared to lead the way. “Neville invited me to the eighth year’s
common room last year when we were together.”

“You dated Neville?” Ron blurted.

Harry didn’t hear her response because Deirdre grabbed his arm and pulled him out of line.
“McGonagall wants a word with you first, Potter. In her office.”

“Oh. Right. Fine.”

Harry glanced back at the Great Hall to check if the Headmistress was still there; they could
walk together. But she wasn’t. What Harry saw instead was Professor Agrios manhandling
Malfoy, pulling him roughly up to standing by his arm and half dragging him toward the
queue to the dungeons. Harry had half a mind to jinx the professor and check Malfoy’s arm
for bruises.

It shouldn’t bother Harry, but it did. So many, many things bothered him that shouldn’t.

“You’d better go,” Hermione said, nudging Harry.

Feeling useless and irritated with it, Harry made his way to the gargoyle guarding the
entrance to headmistress’s office. Then realized he didn’t know the password.

“Er, sherbet lemon? Acid pops? Fizzing whizbee? Transfiguration? No, that’s pants. Um,
Hogwarts? Hogsmeade? Quidditch? Dumbledore?” The gargoyle surprised him when it
opened to the winding stairs.

At the top of the stairs, he knocked on her closed door and instantly tensed at the knowledge
of the two portraits he was sure to see upon entering.

“Come in, Mr. Potter.”

The first thing he noticed was how much cleaner and fresher the office felt compared to the
last time he’d been here, clutching Snape’s memories in his sweaty hand. The second thing
he noticed were the blank canvases behind McGonagall.

“They’re not…”
“I asked them to visit their other portraits tonight, but if you wish to speak with them now, I
can call—”

“No,” he practically shouted. “That is, I mean, not right now.”

“Of course. When you feel ready for that, you have only to ask. Have a seat.”

He followed her directions, disconcerted at feeling like a student again.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, Hogwarts has a new dormitory, which was used for eighth year
students last year. It was set up in the dungeons adjacent to the Slytherin dormitory because
that part of the castle sustained the least amount of damage. The entrance is behind the
portrait of the Suffering Seer, and the password is ‘flobberworm,’ although it appears you
enjoy guessing passwords.”

“Oh. Not especially.” After a tense moment of silence, he asked, “Was that all?”

“No. Potter…”

He got the impression that she was changing her mind about what she wanted to say.

“Originally, you were intended to share a room with Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. Am I
correct in assuming that they are in a relationship and that the living situation might be less
than comfortable for the three of you at this point in time?”

His cheeks felt hot. “Yeah, that might be awkward.”

“You are adults now, so allowances can be made. Would you rather room alone or with Miss
Lovegood?”

“I…alone, please.”

“Fine. I’ll have your things moved.”

“Thank you.” More silence. “Is that all?”

“Potter…” She took a deep breath. “I’m sure you noticed that Draco Malfoy is attending
Hogwarts this year.”

He nodded.

“He will also have a room to himself, but you’ll be sharing a bathroom and a common room.
Do you have any concerns about that?”

A powerful flutter in his stomach wasn’t exactly a concern. “No, I’m sure it will be fine.”

“The two of you have always been at odds. In all my years, I never saw two students as
determined to hate each other. You need to understand that if there’s even the slightest chance
of trouble, the Aurors will escort him back to Azkaban.”
Her voice broke on the word, and a look of deep guilt passed briefly across her face before
she ruthlessly controlled it.

“I don’t want Aurors at my school, Potter. Is that understood?”

“Of course.”

“After what happened in your sixth year…under no circumstances are you to hurt Mr.
Malfoy. Is that understood?”

“Yes, I would never. Not again. That was the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

She nodded and some of her worry seemed to ease. “This is going to be a difficult year for
him. If you see anything troubling, if you have any concerns at all about Mr. Malfoy, I want
you to come to me. Only me.”

“Profes—Headmistress, are you asking me to watch him?”

Her mouth twisted and her eyes narrowed. “This is the other reason I asked Albus to leave us
tonight. He feels that the part Draco Malfoy played in the war was necessary, and I trusted
him; Albus was always thinking fifty steps ahead. He was right about many things, as you
well know, but the sacrifice of Mr. Malfoy is unacceptable to me, and I don’t intend to fail
him again.”

It appeared that Harry wasn’t the only one who felt responsible for Malfoy’s sentencing and
wanted a chance to fix things.

He nodded. “I understand.”

“I had hoped you would.”

“What about…are there rules? With his probation, I mean.”

She spread her hands. “He has weekly rehabilitation sessions at the Ministry. He can’t leave
the grounds under any other circumstances. Beyond that, no, he simply needs to keep his
head down and stay out of trouble.”

Harry doubted that would be as simple as it sounded.

With a possessive impulse that shamed him, he thought of the hawthorn and unicorn hair
wand hidden in his trunk. “Does Malfoy have a wand?”

“He may experience some difficulty there. He hasn’t performed magic since the war, and he
was given one of those standard Ministry wands, dreadful things but better than nothing. All
the Malfoy assets were seized, but I believe Narcissa may have access to Black family
holdings. I’ve already sent her an owl about her son’s complete lack of belongings. I’m
hopeful she can provide the basics, otherwise Hogwarts has a fund for assisting less fortunate
students.”
Draco Malfoy, wealthy pureblood heir, reduced to a charity case. Maybe some people would
see it as justice, but Harry hated the idea. He knew how it felt to own nothing but hand-me-
downs and broken things no one else wanted.

“If you won’t be able to move past your history with Mr. Malfoy, tell me now. I can find him
a room somewhere else.”

He looked down at his hands when he asked, “Do you believe people can change?”

“Absolutely.”

He met her gaze and felt his stomach settle. “Me too.”

As the stress of the day caught up with him, he was suddenly very tired.

She smiled a little as she rose and shook his hand. “It’s good to have you back, Potter. You
know where you’re going?”

“Yes.” He’d been to the Slytherin common room before, but he wasn’t going to explain that
to McGonagall.

Although faint trepidation followed him out of her office, he found himself much happier
about returning to Hogwarts.

Draco Malfoy did not believe in change. Case in point, here he was crying in a Hogwarts
bathroom, like it was sixth year all over again. Utterly alone, again. No way out of his
predicament, again.

He’d lost track of how long he’d been in the shower, his tears mixing with the hot spray of
water. His emotions were a mess he couldn’t begin to untangle.

Maybe none of this was real. If he finally left the bathroom and fell asleep on the soft
Hogwarts bed, would he wake up back in Azkaban? Or worse, back at the Manor with the
Dark Lord?

Everything that had happened didn’t feel real, and yet all of it was with him, writhing inside
him, a constant undeniable presence of evil. It was burned into his skin and stamped into his
soul.

Despite the length of the shower, he didn’t feel any cleaner. He had no soap or shampoo, not
even clean clothes or pajamas to change into. He had to rely on the subpar wand to dry his
body and hair, and clean the loose muggle clothing that the Ministry had provided when he’d
been released. They’d also provided a robe that was simultaneously too wide and too short
and seemed immune to transfiguration. Not that it mattered, but he suspected they’d done it
on purpose. One last degrading jab at the Death Eater.
He knew it was childish and vain to care about that shit, but he hated this. Fresh tears pricked
behind his eyes as he pulled the dingy gray shirt over his head. He should be happy just to
have a wand in his hand, happy to be out of his tiny cell, but he was incapable of happiness or
even gratitude, as if the dementors were still with him. Without his ego, ambition, or pride,
what was left of him?

Looking down at the worn-out, generic pine wand in his hand, he felt absolutely powerless.

That was the moment when the bathroom door opened. He raised his useless wand in defense
and felt his face tightening into the old, familiar sneer he always employed to protect himself,
a weak kind of shield to mask his deep vulnerability.

Of course it would be Harry Potter. What further proof did Draco need that nothing ever
really changed?

Potter looked a little taller, a little stronger, even more vibrant and powerful than Draco
remembered. His dark hair was even wilder, his eyes even greener and more intense behind
those stupid glasses. Although his sleeping clothes—a plain cotton tee and joggers—weren’t
any better than the trash Draco got from the Ministry, Potter’s clothes fit tightly, showing off
his lean, appealing shape. It was as though his looks were catching up with his hero status.

Potter stood frozen in the doorway with his empty hands slightly raised, his expression wary.

“Come to slice me open again, Potter?” Draco’s voice was low and rough from lack of use,
yet he still managed to spit out the name with venom.

Potter flinched. “No. You going to try the cruciatus?”

“Maybe I should.”

Potter’s eyebrows pulled together. “Do you want to go back to Azkaban?”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t make any difference.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Surely the food is better here.”

He was making jokes? “Just leave me alone, Potter.”

“Well, that’s one thing I was never good at.”

“One of many.”

His laughter was silent. “I can always count on you to take me down a peg, Malfoy.”

Draco bared his teeth. “Sorry I don’t worship you.”

“I’m not. That’s what you never understood about me. I hate all that hero bollocks.”

Draco’s grip on the wand faltered. “You’re right—I don’t understand that. What the hell do
you want?”
“Right now? I want to take a piss without getting hexed.”

Humiliated, Draco lowered his eyes and the wand. The little bit that was left of his ego was in
tatters, which was exactly what he deserved. Defeating a Dark Lord had given the Chosen
One some well-deserved confidence. He wasn’t the weak, knobby kneed boy anymore, but a
grown man who had apparently grown past their childhood rivalry.

Draco hated him more now than ever before.

“Just leave me alone, Potter.”

While pushing through the tight doorway to escape the bathroom, Draco’s chest brushed
against Potter’s arm and absorbed the electric buzz of his magic. The fool was so full of
power, and so terrible at concealing or controlling it, that Draco could almost see the
shimmer of it around him. Around them both now, like an embrace.

He got a nose-full of Potter’s scent, which was the same primitive earth and sweat smell he
remembered from years past, with something extra now, a masculine cologne or aftershave
that suited this more mature version of him. If he could collect Potter’s essence in a bottle, it
would look like a thunderstorm and smell of ozone and lightning scorching the earth.

The door was almost shut when he heard the whispered, “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

He lay awake for hours after, too scared to close his eyes, too overwhelmed by his senses, too
exposed in this empty room that was so much bigger than his guarded cell. If dreams were to
come, they would be filled with unspeakable horrors—or the decadence of his upbringing,
which wasn’t much better than the cruciatus curse.

His old method to avoid dreaming was to count the stones of his cell; it had been irritating
how he always ended with a different number. Other times, he’d trace the cracks in the stones
with his eyes, imagining shapes or letters or runes in the design. Sometimes he would
practice every spell he could remember—just whispers and wand motions because his prison
cell repressed magic.

It was after midnight, just when he was about to lose the battle with unconsciousness, that
Draco’s defenses fell and his mind’s eye conjured the fixated gaze of deep green eyes with
long, dark lashes. Those eyes that seemed to see what no one else ever did.

He had just enough wakefulness to think not this again before long-standing dreams
featuring an exasperating Gryffindor stole him away.

No, nothing ever really changed.

 CHAPTER THREE

“It really doesn’t bother you that we’re sharing a dormitory with Draco Malfoy?” Ron asked
in the middle of a rather loud fight with Hermione.

It began when he wanted her to perform protective spells on their room. “You know, the ones
you used on the tent when we were hunting horcruxes.” She had apparently refused, and Ron
had caught up with her in the eighth-year common room.

She tied back her hair and crouched down to tie her shoes. “Perform the spells yourself if
you’re so frightened of the big bad Death Eater. I’m going to breakfast.”

“What are you on about?” Ron looked over to the sofa where Harry had been sitting for
several hours already, unable to sleep after one of his epic nightmares; this time it was the
one with Nagini bursting out of the dead body of Bathilda Bagshot. Harry knew Ron wanted
him to back him up, but he couldn’t find the energy to do more than shrug. He was much too
tired to get in the middle of this.

“Have you forgotten who he is?” Ron half shouted. “This is the ferret who called you a
mudblood and wanted Slytherin’s monster to kill you! He poisoned me! He stood there in the
Manor and watched while Bellatrix—”

“Enough! I haven’t forgotten, Ronald, but the war is over. Malfoy can’t hurt me anymore.”

“Bloody mental,” Ron said when she was gone. He flopped onto the sofa beside Harry. “He
wanted to turn you in to Voldemort in the middle of the battle. How can she say the war is
over?”

Harry rubbed his aching forehead. “Malfoy paid for it. His friend burned to death. He went to
Azkaban. His father got the dementor’s kiss.”

“Which would make him even angrier, I’d reckon. You aren’t warding your room either?”

He couldn’t tell Ron the truth, that he would welcome an attack from Malfoy just for the
chance to feel normal again, to feel like he still had a purpose. To feel even a little spark of
the fire he’d lost. That confession would make him sound more “bloody mental” than
Hermione.

Everyone expected Harry to hate Malfoy, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Whenever he looked at
him, Harry relived that moment in the courtroom when the Wizengamot had cast their verdict
and Harry had failed him.

During their little reunion in the bathroom last night, Harry could’ve antagonized Malfoy. It
was certainly his first kneejerk reaction to fight back with insults. If Malfoy had been in top
form and mocking someone’s death or misfortune like he used to, then a clapback would’ve
been justified. But Malfoy wasn’t at the top of his game; he had looked empty, like he’d been
hollowed out and all that was left was the echo of the cruel boy he’d been. That had made
Harry’s decision to break the pattern easy. And anyway, changing their dynamic might be a
better way to get a rise out of Malfoy. If nothing else, it would be interesting. An experiment
of sorts.

“No,” he finally answered. “Malfoy isn’t stupid. He doesn’t want to go back to prison.”

Because Ron looked like he was going to argue more, Harry maneuvered him to safer topics.
“We better get something to eat. Starting the day with double Potions will be rough on an
empty stomach.”

Just then Malfoy appeared on the stairs. How much had he overheard? Ron stalked out of the
common room without a word, while Harry hung back.

“Good morning.”

“Sod off, Potter.”

He snorted. “I guess you slept as well as I did.”

“Did the war damage your brain?”

He held the portrait open for Malfoy and thought about the void in his head where Voldemort
used to be. “Yeah, probably. Why?”

Even with overgrown hair, secondhand robes, and half-moon bruises beneath his eyes,
Malfoy looked posh and intimidating when he glared down at him. He had at least three
inches on Harry.

“Have you forgotten we aren’t friends?”

Meeting that sharp, silver gaze made his heart skip a beat, like a stupefy to the chest. It was
past time he admitted it to himself: no one had ever affected him the way Malfoy did. Harry
didn’t know what it meant, this gravity that had always pushed and pulled him toward the
cruel, pointy git.

Although he didn’t know what, if anything, he should do about it, it was time for him to stop
hiding from it.

“I haven’t forgotten anything. Even if I want to, I can’t forget.”

Malfoy grunted. “Poor, sad Potter. Traumatized by your glorious victory, are you?”

Malfoy’s mocking yanked him out of his self-pity like a splash of cold water. Not bothering
to mask his hurt, Harry said, “You never understood a single thing about me, you know.”

They walked side-by-side toward the Great Hall in edgy silence. Harry couldn’t resist
glancing over at him repeatedly, trying to dissect the nameless yearning that plagued him.
Clearly, it was one-sided. Except for a tiny sigh, Malfoy ignored him.
If Harry hadn’t been watching, he would’ve missed the moment that Malfoy’s composure
cracked. They stepped through the doors into the Great Hall together, and Malfoy’s hands
began trembling, his eyes darting left and right and losing some of their focus.

He looked how Harry felt—panicked and overwhelmed by the pressing crowd, the overly
loud voices, the clang of silverware, the harsh morning sunshine from the charmed ceiling.

Impulsively, Harry grabbed his elbow and turned him around. “Come with me.”

“What?”

Malfoy must’ve been close to having what Harry thought of as “episodes” because he only
put up a token protest when Harry steered him away and down the stairs in the direction of
the kitchens.

“Trust me.”

When they reached the fruit portrait, Harry said, “Now tickle the pear.”

“Are you mad?” His eyes were comically wide with an undercurrent of anger that Harry was
beginning to understand was actually fear.

“I’m serious. Tickle the pear. It’s worth it.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and did as ordered, revealing the doorknob that opened the entrance to
the impressive kitchens. Harry hoped that the bustle of house elves would be less
overwhelming than their fellow students.

It was impossible for Harry to come here and not think of Dobby. The absence of his favorite
house elf caused the painful wound in his heart to fester. Then he noticed Kreacher over by
the long, hot bank of stoves, scowling at him. Although they had tentatively become friends
since the Battle of Hogwarts, old habits died hard. At Harry’s urging, Kreacher had followed
him to Hogwarts for the year, part-time only so he could still maintain Number 12
Grimmauld Place.

“Hello, Kreacher.”

“Master Potter.” He shuffled over, and Harry wondered if Kreacher was finally getting too
old to be working. Were there retirement facilities for house elves? He’d suggest it to
Hermione next time he needed something to distract her.

“Oh,” Kreacher gasped when he looked upon Malfoy. “This is Master Malfoy. The last in the
line of the noble and most ancient House of Black.”

“Er…yeah,” Harry said. Honestly, he figured Malfoy would have pureblood cousins out there
somewhere, but maybe not.

The only one more surprised than Harry was Malfoy, who had frozen with his mouth open.
Harry struggled not to laugh.
“Malfoy, this is Kreacher. He served your Great-Aunt Walburga. I inherited him along with
Grimmauld Place.”

While Malfoy became acquainted with the besotted house elf, Harry was surrounded by his
own group of enthusiastic elves.

“Mimsy. Topsy. It’s good to see you.”

Despite what was clearly a busy time for them, the elves bowed and fell all over themselves
to greet “Master Harry Potter!” He spent a few minutes catching up with them, though he
couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting back to Malfoy and Kreacher.

Eventually, Harry placed his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. “This is Draco
Malfoy,” he said to Mimsy and Topsy. “The Great Hall was really too crowded for us. Do you
have a quiet corner where he could have some breakfast? Maybe some fruit tarts and a mug
of hot chocolate?”

Malfoy’s head whipped around. “How…How did you…?”

He supposed he’d just given himself away by knowing Malfoy’s weakness for the tarts
served at breakfast on the weekends and the hot chocolate that was usually reserved for the
winter holidays. Why bother hiding it now? Really, what did he have to lose?

So, Harry winked.

Kreacher seemed as chipper as Harry had ever seen him, delighted by the prospect of serving
a Black descendent. All the elves hurried to obey Harry’s wishes, and Topsy brought him his
own treacle tart.

“Oh, thank you. Take care of my friend, okay? I promise I’ll be back for a real visit after I get
settled in.”

After one last glance at Malfoy, who was now sitting on a stool near Mimsy’s fireplace
looking charmingly confused, he left to find Ron and Hermione.

Draco was lost in thought, drowning in it. His shoulder burned where Potter had grabbed it.
That was the first time he’d been touched with any measure of kindness since the end of the
war. How piteous was that? How starved for affection was he that he kept reliving it, Potter’s
hot and overly large hand squeezing his shoulder of all things?

After a year without clocks and very little sun, Draco wasn’t used to thinking about time. It
wasn’t until Kreacher began ringing his hands and looking between Draco and the door that
he realized he’d be late for his first class.

“I better go.”
Kreacher gasped in relief. “Yes, Master Malfoy, do not be being late. Where is your books?”

“I don’t have any. Thank you for breakfast.”

He raced toward the Potions dungeons, trying hard to occlude his emotions about Severus
Snape and the upheaval of being back in school and Harry bloody Potter, but his occlusion
was as rusty as the rest of his magic and the panicked dash across the castle wasn’t helping.

“I’m sorry, professor,” he said breathlessly to Slughorn.

“Nonsense, we’ve barely started. Take a seat.”

Hoping not to be overheard, Draco whispered, “I haven’t got a book, sir, nor any supplies.”

Just as quietly, Slughorn said, “Ah, yes, the Headmistress mentioned…We’ll get you sorted,
no worries. We’re partnering up for a simple calming draught to start things off, and Mr.
Potter has asked to be paired with you. Lucky for you, eh? Have a seat there and we’ll get
started.”

To the rest of the class, he said, “Instructions are on the board, ingredients in the cupboard.
Let’s get brewing!”

Lucky. Right. He lowered himself into the chair beside Potter and used cold disdain to
smother the humiliation.

“Why are you doing this, Potter?”

Potter, who was setting out his potions tools in the center of their table, fumbled with his
silver knife.

“I can switch with Luna Lovegood if you’d rather. She also volunteered to partner—”

“No,” Draco interrupted. Luna was on the list of people he couldn’t bear to look at or speak
to now. “Please.”

Potter’s hands froze at that, his emerald eyes gazing up at him. Draco tried to wipe blank
whatever expression was on his face.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that word,” Potter mumbled.

“Just start the fire already. My wand is for shit. I’d probably melt the cauldron like
Longbottom.”

Draco felt a strange burst of pride at making Potter laugh.

For something to do, Draco fetched the supplies from the store cupboard.

As the long hour dragged on, he couldn’t resist mocking every less-than-perfect action from
Potter.
“Merlin, stop, you’re mangling the skullcap leaves…Third years brew this potion, and you’re
mucking it up…Who taught you how to mince valerian root?…Stop, stop, stop. That’s
entirely too much powdered root of asphodel. Fuck, Potter, how did such an wanker defeat
the Dark Lord?”

“With your wand,” he mumbled.

Their eyes met through the steam pumping off the cauldron. There was depth to Harry’s
expression, layers of history that couldn’t be put into words but maybe he would try if Draco
would let him.

As much a coward as ever, Draco turned away. “The eight minutes are up,” he said, subdued.
“Now add the asphodel. I’ll measure out the wormwood essence.”

Even with Potter’s ineptitude, they managed a perfect sky-blue calming draught and received
top marks. Slughorn asked them to bottle up as much as they could to give to Madam
Pomfrey because, in Slughorn’s words, “There’s been a need.”

“Merlin,” Draco muttered.

“What?”

“That explains why he’s got a class of NEWT students doing remedial potions. We’re just
stocking the hospital wing.”

“Whatever the reason, I appreciate him going easy on us. I’m badly out of practice.”

“Don’t fool yourself, Potter. You were never good to begin with.”

“Lucky I have you, then,” he said with that blasted wink. Why was he winking at Draco of all
people? Perhaps for the same reason he’d saved Draco from the Fiendfyre. He was a
complete mental case.

The lean muscles in Potter’s arm flexed as he swung his full bookbag over his shoulder.
Salazar’s balls. Draco’s gaze flitted over the broad, firm chest, the lean waist and hips. It had
been a long time since Draco had noticed how fit a man was; sex was an urge from a previous
life and had no place here.

“What’ve you got next?” Potter asked.

“I’m required to take Muggle Studies.” He blamed the fog of inappropriate attraction for his
out-of-character willingness to answer.

Potter squinted at him. “Required? As part of your parole?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, Potter. It’s a Hogwarts requirement for returning Slytherins.”

“Oh. Right. Well, if you need any help, I’m not pants at that, you know.”
Draco gestured at Potter’s muggle attire and lack of school robes. “Yes, we all know how
pathetically muggle you are.”

Once again, Potter just smiled instead of rising to the bait.

Things only got worse after that. Apparently, Potter was taking most of the same NEWTs as
Draco. The only classes they didn’t share were Muggle Studies, Ancient Runes, and Care of
Magical Creatures. In the rest of their classes, he could feel Potter’s gaze burning into him,
and he spent half the lesson fighting the urge to hex him. He began arriving to classes early
and sitting in the back row.

Then there were the evenings and early mornings. Draco stayed in his room as much as
possible and had no shortage of distractions—the classwork was brutal, his concentration was
prone to fracturing with devastating flashbacks, and he was rapidly becoming obsessed with
learning and mastering wandless magic. The sooner he could toss the ministry wand, the
better.

Still, he passed through the common room at least twice a day, always seeming to run into
Luna Lovegood and the Golden Trio. It got to the point where he was almost desensitized to
their presence. He could acknowledge Lovegood’s fanciful greetings without having
flashbacks of her torture, most of the time. He was no longer tensed for Weasley to hex him,
since Weasley had had plenty of opportunities and hadn’t done anything worse than scowl at
him. Granger’s approach was mostly to ignore him, which was the best-case scenario, really.

Potter was, unsurprisingly, the absolute worst. Not only did he have the nerve to smile that
charming smile at him on a daily basis, he kept turning up in their shared bathroom. Potter
would frequently enter the showers, half-dressed or worse, just as Draco was finishing up or
drying off. It was maddening. Even if Draco had just taken care of business minutes before,
the sight of Potter’s fit chest and arms, all that golden skin, and the flash of a hip or the
dimples at the top of his buttocks would make his cock twitch all over again.

There was never any real relief from the constant Potter bombardment. The best Draco could
do was come up with more inventive insults, especially in Potions when they were forced to
work together on increasingly difficult and delicate tasks, when they sat so close that Draco
struggled to concentrate on anything other than Potter’s scent and voice and the way their
hands occasionally touched.

Still, Draco wasn’t the same person he used to be, not completely. He found himself
incapable of hurling real damage at Potter; insulting his dead parents, for example, was no
longer funny.

Potter was still an insufferable, big-headed prat, but Draco had lost his edge. He no longer
had the stomach for real cruelty, perhaps because his own trauma went too deep and hurt too
much. And anyway, the goal of his cruelty had always been to get Potter’s attention. Well,
Draco certainly had his attention now…and he should’ve been more careful what he’d
wished for.

That left the question…why? What possible reason could Potter have for the staring and
smiling and winking? Draco would almost swear Potter was flirting.
He’s straight, Draco forced himself to acknowledge again and again. He’s messing with you
like always. Potter is straight.
 CHAPTER FOUR

It went that way for the next few weeks, Malfoy baiting him, and Harry taking it in stride just
to enjoy how his lack of response irritated Malfoy. Harry couldn’t resist following him
around, and Malfoy couldn’t resist making fun of Harry’s hero status and abysmal potion
brewing. He wasn’t actually that bad at potions, so Harry began to suspect himself of
mucking up his brewing on purpose just to earn more of Malfoy’s glares and insults.

Eventually Malfoy obtained secondhand books and supplies and more clothing, but none of it
was up to his old standards. Harry wondered what that meant about Narcissa Malfoy. Why
had she abandoned her son to Hogwarts charity? It wasn’t in line with what Harry
remembered of her in the Forbidden Forest, lying bravely to Voldemort’s face to rescue her
son. Or the previous years when she would spoil Malfoy with big parcels of gifts in the
morning post. Those boxes had never failed to make Harry envious.

According to the Marauder’s Map, Malfoy spent most meals in the kitchens with the house
elves. When he wasn’t there or in class, he was holed up in his room, pacing.

“Who are you looking for?” Hermione asked on a Saturday in October, with a knowing look
in her eyes. They were working on a Defense Against the Dark Arts essay in front of the
common room fireplace, but Ron had dozed off in his chair, and Harry had taken a break with
the map. Their new DADA teacher was a huge Harry Potter fan, so he spent more time
escaping Findlay’s embarrassing flirtations than actually learning anything.

“Mischief managed,” he uttered, not answering Hermione.

“We’re going to Hogsmeade tonight. You should come, get out of the castle.”

Eighth year students were allowed to leave the grounds whenever they wanted. Harry had
followed Hermione, Ron, and Luna to the Three Broomsticks for drinks a couple times
before, but he always wound up surrounded by strangers and the press, and then there was the
other problem…

“It always feels like a double date.”

“Would that be so bad? You went to Slughorn’s party with Luna.”

“She’s just a friend.”

“Is there anyone else you might want to invite?”

As if summoned by Harry’s wordless thoughts, Draco Malfoy appeared, descending the stairs
from his room.

“No.”
“There’s no one? We could write to our old friends, you know, get the DA together for a
reunion. Maybe Cho Chang—”

“I don’t want to see Cho Chang!” he shouted a little too loudly, and Malfoy turned, catching
his eye for a split second before going through the portrait hole. Harry itched to activate his
map again.

“Would it be better if we went out in our glamours?”

Harry groaned. “I’m tired of it all, Hermione. I don’t want to need glamours. I don’t want to
go drinking or talk to strangers or be the savior. I just want to rest, okay?” At the look of
disappointment on her face, he reminded himself that going out for a drink was not this big,
awful thing that he was making it out to be. “Fine. I’ll come along. Just one drink.”

She sighed her thanks and the room fell silent, until a particularly loud snore from Ron made
them laugh.

Although the common room had a decidedly blue tint, rather than the greenish hue of the
Slytherin dungeons, there was still something quite subterranean about it. Shadows were cast
not from the sky but from fractured light through the gently waving waters of the Black Lake.
Black and gold floating candles flickered around the room.

It was spacious, considering the eighth-year students numbered only five this year. There was
always a good seat open near the fire.

Their house color was a watery turquoise-teal, apparently. It permeated the sofas and chairs,
throw pillows, blankets, even the magical clock on the mantle. Luckily there was color relief
in the ivory carpeting and the high stone walls, which were every shade of gray.

Two sets of stairs curved upward in the northeast and northwest corners; perhaps last year,
when there was a full house of students, those staircases had been divided by gender, but this
year their rooms were all on the next level up using the northeast stairs.

Harry knew which door was Malfoy’s and had hesitated outside it on more than one occasion,
fist raised to knock but never following through.

“What about Thursday?” Hermione asked. “Has anyone worked up the nerve to ask you?”

“What are you talking about?”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The Halloween Ball.”

“What?”

“You’re so oblivious, Harry. You didn’t hear any of McGonagall’s announcements? You
haven’t noticed all the girls following you between classes? This year, the Halloween feast is
a ball.”
“I wasn’t planning on going to the feast.”

“What—”

“It’s the anniversary of my parents’ death. I was asked to speak in Godric’s Hollow.”

“Oh, Harry. I can’t believe I forgot. Are you sure you don’t want a break from that?”

“They’re my parents.”

She nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry. We’ll come with you.”

He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. Stay. Go to the ball. Please. Give Ron a chance to do it right
this time, eh?”

More reluctantly, she nodded again.

On Monday, Harry did notice an uptick in girls following him around the castle. Two worked
up the courage to ask him the ball, one of them right in front of Malfoy when they were
walking to herbology. It was the first time Harry had heard Malfoy full-out laugh in years.
Even though it was at his expense, the sound of it made the blood shiver in Harry’s veins. He
stammered an apologetic “no, thank you” to the girl and made a hasty escape.

Tuesday at breakfast, a beautiful reddish-orange owl swooped in with the morning post and
dropped a thick letter on Harry’s toast. Much too important for Harry’s attention or food, the
owl promptly flew away.

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “You’re getting mail from Pansy Parkinson?”

Harry clutched the envelope. “How do you know her owl?”

“We’ve corresponded for months now. Ever since her apology letter. I didn’t realize you
wrote her back too.”

“Oh, er…” It was true that he’d received an apology from Pansy shortly after the war, but
he’d never bothered responding. He’d been in a bad place then, and had gotten thousands of
letters he was incapable of answering.

It wasn’t until this past weekend that he’d gotten the idea to reach out to her for a bit of help
with Malfoy’s situation.

He scanned her response quickly, keeping it turned away from prying eyes, and then checked
the various order forms she had enclosed, which already had the boxes ticked for Malfoy’s
favorite hygiene products and robes in what Pansy assured him were his size. He laughed out
loud at some of the items—who spent eighty galleons on a single bottle of cologne?—and
couldn’t wait to make the purchases. Harry wasn’t the type to throw money around, but this
was a cause that finally excited him.
He grabbed his things. “I’m going to run to the owlery before class. See you.”

He express-ordered every item Pansy suggested, plus a few extras like soft bath towels in
Slytherin green and a set of expensive dress robes in the perfect shade of silver-blue that
matched his gray eyes in case Malfoy was going to the Halloween Ball, with specific
instructions that everything be delivered anonymously and discreetly to Draco Malfoy’s room
at Hogwarts. Then he sent a quick thank you to Pansy.

As a result, he was twelve minutes late to Potions, but no amount of censure from Slughorn
or Malfoy could dim Harry’s smile.

“What. The. Fuck.”

When classes concluded on Halloween, Draco returned to his room to find it filled wall-to-
wall with boxes.

Everyone in the castle was buzzing with excitement over the stupid ball, and all Draco
wanted was peace and quiet. Maybe a nap since he’d barely slept last night. But his bed was
covered, as well as his desk and the floor.

He recognized the three different store names on the boxes and bags—they were his favorite
stores in wizarding Paris. For a fleeting moment, he thought of his mother, then pushed down
that painful suggestion. She was in no position to be shopping for him. But if not her, who?

He began taking lids off boxes and emptying bags, growing more excited with every
luxurious item he uncovered. He ran his fingertips over the fine material of the robes. Only
Slytherins had lived with Draco long enough to know all of his preferences, and Pansy and
Greg were the only people who had reached out to him since his release from prison. No way
would Gregory Goyle think to do all this.

He went to the common room fireplace, ignoring Weasley, Granger, and Lovegood in their
fancy ball clothes, and floo-called the small clothing shop in London where Pansy worked.

And elderly witch answered the call. “What on earth are you calling for, boy? I can barely get
on my knees.”

“I need to speak with Pansy Parkinson. It’s about…an order.”

“Blast. Hold on.”

He could see a cluttered office and hear some shuffling and yelling. Soon Pansy was in his
line of sight.
“Draco. Goodness. What are you doing calling me at work?”

“Not that I’m not grateful,” he began, “but where did you get the galleons for all of this?”

“All of what?”

“My room is filled with boxes. A thousand galleons worth of things. And here I thought you
were as destitute as the rest of the Dark Lord sympathizers.”

She shushed him fiercely. “They don’t know about all that here, hence the appeal of this
place. Now tell me, exactly how many boxes did you get?”

“My entire room is filled. What in Merlin’s name is going on?”

Her eyes lit up. “That is interesting. Very interesting. You have a secret admirer, Draco.”

“These are my brands and sizes. No one but you could do this.”

She cackled. “The admirer is a secret to you, not to me.”

“You evil witch. Who did you speak to?”

“Someone is showering you with incredibly expensive gifts. Can’t you just enjoy it? Are you
or are you not a Slytherin?”

“I swear to Salazar, if you don’t tell me who did this—”

“What difference does it make, Draco?” She sounded exasperated.

How could she not understand? “My pride is all I have.”

“Maybe not! And your pride is going to ruin everything. Again. Did you learn nothing during
the war? Take the good when it’s offered, you daft git.”

“Tell me who.”

“So you can send a formal thank you note? Or so you can alienate the one wizard who’s on
your side at that awful school?”

When she worded it like that, the answer became glaringly obvious. “Potter.”

She smiled. “I have to say he took me by surprise. He certainly doesn’t dress like a gay
wizard, does he?”

“Potter isn’t gay.”

“Oh, you poor, blind thing. A boy doesn’t spend a fortune on another boy unless he
desperately wants to fuck him. Wake up, darling.”

Draco’s heart was racing out of control. “You belong in St. Mungo’s.”

She scoffed. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you honestly telling me you haven’t been madly in love with Potter for the last nine
years?”

“I’m… I’m telling you there’s no way he…Potter isn’t bent, Pansy.”

“You just keep telling yourself that.” She wished him a happy Halloween before ending the
call.

For the next twenty minutes, he waited uncomfortably in the common room, expecting Potter
to join his friends. They kept looking at Draco, Granger most of all, and it was making him
mad. Had she heard his side of the floo call?

“Is Potter coming?” he finally blurted.

“He isn’t here,” Hermione snapped, then her expression softened. “What about you? You can
come to the ball with us if you’d like.”

Weasley sputtered.

“Yes,” Lovegood agreed. “I’ll dance with you, Draco Malfoy.”

For a moment, he was stunned speechless that the two women he’d seen tortured in his
family home were inviting him to a dance. He would blame Gryffindor stupidity, but
Lovegood was a Ravenclaw.

“Um, no, thank you. I’m not really in a dancing mood.”

He returned to his room wondering where on earth Potter had gone.

Harry couldn’t stand being here, not like this. Crowds upon crowds had turned up in Godric’s
Hollow. There had been hourly tours of the town’s landmarks throughout the day, including
the memorial statue, the graves of Lily and James Potter, and the badly damaged yet
preserved house where they had died and Harry had received his first lightning bolt scar.

It was in front of that house that he stood on a raised platform and spoke a slightly modified
version of a speech he’d given dozens of times before. Every word scraped like glass in his
throat. Every hand he shook was another drop of draught of living death, building up to
poison the life out of him.

He didn’t know if he needed to scream or cry or send blasting hexes wildly into the crowd,
but he had better do something soon before he hyperventilated or vomited. He could see the
Prophet headline now: Hero Loses Mind and Lunch at Halloween Memorial.

If he were alone, he would touch his parents’ gravestone and try to bridge this impossible
gap. It was an awful feeling, admitting that he didn’t know his own parents, that they
remained strangers to him and always would be. He could pretend. He could imagine. He
could speak to them, but all he really had were a few moments with the resurrection stone at
the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He’d been robbed of everything else.

I’m so sorry, Mum, he thought, the tears in his eyes making the house a blur. I’m so sorry,
Dad. I’m not strong enough today. I can’t hold on.

But what choice did he have? He shook another hand, accepted another hug, tried to listen to
another sympathetic greeting. This was what they needed him to do. Again, and again, and
again. How could he refuse?

He couldn’t even see the cemetery through the press of people in the way. He couldn’t move,
couldn’t hear, couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

When he began to see spots, he knew the episode was seconds away. He gathered the last of
his energy, focused on his magic, and cast a faint depulso to give him the space to apparate.

He landed on his hands and knees just outside the gates to Hogwarts and cried out, a sound
that was far too anguished to be caused by the gravel scraping his palms. He had just enough
presence of mind to wonder what the wards would do to him if McGonagall had forgotten to
prepare them for his re-entry, but of course she’d taken care of it, and he was allowed to
stumble, gasping with dread, toward the castle.

He thought he’d been walking a long while, but the castle was still far in the distance when it
became clear he couldn’t go any further. He collapsed against a tree, belatedly grateful it
wasn’t the whomping willow.

Now count, he ordered himself. One, two, three. Another ragged gasp. Four, five, six.

Eventually, he was counting out loud, letting the sound of his own voice ground him in the
here and now. He was alone. He was safe, or as safe as he ever was. He could see
constellations in the night sky, could count the stars while his frantic heartbeats slowed.

Was the Halloween feast still going? He pulled the Marauder’s Map from the inside pocket of
his formal robes.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” It looked like about half the school was still in
the Great Hall, while the rest were moving about in the dormitories. He found himself on the
map, far off and alone. One other set of footprints was similarly isolated—Draco Malfoy was
alone on the Quidditch stands, close enough to the tree where Harry sat that when he arched
his neck to look, he could see the moonlight reflecting on the pale skin of the hunched figure.

He wiped the map and set off toward the Quidditch pitch. The night air cooled and dried his
skin as he walked.

He didn’t know why he wanted to be with Malfoy so badly. Only moments ago, he’d been
desperate to be alone, sick at the thought of being touched or spoken to or even in the same
vicinity as another wizard. He remembered all the meals Malfoy was eating in private and
thought maybe, out of everyone, Malfoy might understand.

Or maybe Harry was just spoiling for a fight, because the first thing he said when he sat
beside Malfoy was, “So. Couldn’t get a date to the ball?”

He didn’t disappoint. “Fuck you, Potter. Can’t you ever just leave me alone?”

“But this is what we do, isn’t it? I figure I might make some ‘Malfoy Stinks’ badges next. It’s
only fair.”

His blond hair glowed white in the faint light and reflected in a mesmerizing way when he
shook his head in annoyance. “How do you always seem to know where I am? I swear
you’ve got a tracking spell on me. Obsessed much?”

Frightened of his urge to admit yes, Harry let the silence drag out. The he pulled the map
from his robes.

“Here,” he said, giving it to Malfoy.

“I don’t want your trash parchment.”

Harry pressed his wand to it and said the words to activate the map. “This is how I snuck
around for years, how I followed you sixth year, how I got away with so much. Well, this and
an invisibility cloak.”

Malfoy spent a long time speechlessly studying the map, while Harry studied Malfoy.
Moonlight and shadows made his features appear even sharper. From one angle he looked
feral and dangerous. From another, he looked half-starved and vulnerable. Harry longed to
touch him, to see if his skin was warm or cool, soft or rough. Not knowing was painful.

“I remember the cloak.” Malfoy broke the silence.

"Ah, yes. The train." He rubbed his nose. "How'd you know I was there?"

"You aren't as subtle as you think you are. And I can always feel your magic."

Really? Before Harry could ask more about that, Malfoy continued, "I started putting it
together after I broke your nose. I remembered in Hogsmeade, your stupid floating head.”
“Yeah.”

“You helped Sirius Black escape?”

“Buckbeak too. And Norbert, Hagrid’s dragon from first year.”

His laugh was derisive, but at least it was a laugh. “I still caught you sometimes.”

“I know. Imagine how much more you could’ve done if you’d had the map. You wouldn’t
have had to polyjuice Crabbe and Goyle into little girls to stand watch.”

Malfoy’s hands tightened on the map, and Harry realized what he’d done. They hadn’t
spoken of Crabbe’s death, and of course it would be a painful subject.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” Malfoy tried to hand back the map, but Harry wouldn’t take it.

“Keep it for now.”

“I don’t need your bloody map.”

“Mischief managed,” he said, showing Malfoy how to deactivate it. “I want you to have it,
until we graduate. Like I said, it’s only fair.”

“Let’s get one thing straight, Potter. I have no use for your pity.”

Harry understood then that they were talking about more than the map. “There’s a difference
between pity and…and…caring.”

“Is this a joke? Since when does the Chosen Arsehole care about me? Why would you? Have
you forgotten I’m a Death Eater?”

“What is your problem?”

Malfoy asked with loud and deliberate slowness, “Potter, did you buy all of those things in
my room?”

I fucked up again, Harry realized. Was there any point in denying it? Why was he still such a
fool, always wearing his heart on his sleeve?
 CHAPTER FIVE

“Potter, did you buy all of those things in my room?”

Potter’s silence was all the answer Draco needed. He got his frozen arse off the Quidditch
stands and stalked away, shoving Potter’s stupid, amazing map in the chest pocket of his
robe.

Of course, Potter was following him, stomping over the sticks and fallen leaves like a
petulant child.

At least Potter was breathing now. Even from a distance, Draco had heard Potter gasping for
air when he’d apparated outside the school gates. He thought he was going to have to come to
the rescue when Potter collapsed under that tree. Now he was trailing after Draco, panic
attack apparently forgotten.

Was Potter going to follow him all the way to his room? He’d rather not have an audience for
this argument. In the shadow of the astronomy tower, not far from where the body of Albus
Dumbledore had lain, Draco finally turned to face him and asked, “What the hell are you
playing at?”

“I’m trying to be your friend!”

“Doesn’t the Lucky Prat Who Lived Twice have enough bloody friends?”

Draco was momentarily stunned when Potter shoved him in the chest. He was such a muggle,
using brute force instead of magic.

“We’re not children anymore! Why are you still antagonizing me?”

It felt unbelievably good to shove Potter back, making him stumble against the outside wall
of the astronomy tower. Brute force was actually quite satisfying. “Why isn’t it working?”

Another shove from Potter. “Maybe I’m as thick as you always said I was!”

Another shove from Draco. “No surprise there!”

“Maybe…” Potter was breathing hard.

Draco stepped closer. “Maybe what?”

“Maybe I’ll take whatever I can get from you,” he yelled. Then quieter, he said, “Maybe
you’re the only one who sees me clearly.”

Draco stepped even closer, crowding into his space. “Ah, but before, you said that I ‘never
understood a thing about you.’”
Potter looked miserable and flushed, and those gorgeous eyes kept darting to Draco’s mouth.
“Maybe it’s me who doesn’t understand. Maybe I’m every awful thing you say I am.”

Draco was dumbstruck. “Just when I thought Gryffindors couldn’t sink any lower, Harry
Potter is too daft to know he’s the best fucking thing to ever happen to the wizarding world.”

“What?”

Draco couldn’t bear the distance between their bodies anymore. He pressed one hand to the
tower wall and with the other he cupped Potter’s face. Potter’s eyes widened, and he bit his
full bottom lip, then released it. Draco dipped his head down, slightly tilted. Except for his
ragged breathing, Potter was absolutely still. Was he afraid? Draco hoped he was afraid.

Their lips were a breath apart when Draco whispered, “You’ve got no brains at all, have
you?”

“Shut up.”

Potter dove at him, stunning him again.

Draco had wanted the upper hand. He’d thought he had been in charge of this. He’d wanted
to confuse Potter about his sexuality and break the tension that was always taught and
tingling between them. Messing up his relationship with the girl weasel would be a bonus.

But Potter had stolen all his thunder and unleashed a storm. Potter wanted this? Potter
wanted this.

His hands were gripping Draco’s hair. His mouth was hot and soft moving against Draco’s,
sucking and biting one lip, then the other. He didn't seem to care that his glasses were in the
way. When Draco finally gave in and parted his lips, giving Potter entry, he discovered that
Potter’s kissing was just like his magic—explosive and open, uncontrolled and laid bare and
bloody overwhelming with power. He half-expected Potter’s magic to shake the tower to
rubble.

When their tongues touched, Potter keened, a sound of pure, tortured pleasure.

This level of unguarded honesty was as foreign to Draco as being cared for.

Suddenly, he wasn’t sure of anything. Could he do what he wanted? Could he press his body
against Potter’s and take, take, take the way he used to in his secret fantasies? He hated the
uncertainty of this, the wildness. He’d never…Merlin, there’d never been anyone he wanted
this much. The Boy Who Lived and had rejected him from the start. He wanted to keep
Potter’s taste inside him, wanted to meld their bodies together. No one else had ever pushed
past Draco’s lofty walls and set all the hidden parts of him on fire this way.

Potter answered the unspoken question when his hands moved down, parting Draco’s robes,
grasping at his back, and pulling him forcefully until they were flush together. Draco let his
weight press him even tighter against the tower, and Potter made that wonderful needy sound
again.
Potter’s body was built broad yet lean, just tall enough that Draco didn’t have to bend in half
the way he once did during his disastrous attempt to kiss Pansy. Draco changed the angle and
took his turn plundering Potter’s mouth while grinding his erection against Potter’s stomach.
Potter gasped beautifully at the contact and gave himself up to Draco so willingly it made his
head spin.

He slid his thigh between Potter’s legs, and it took very little encouragement to get him
writhing and panting, rubbing his hardness against Draco exactly the way he intended. Then
Potter surprised him again by hitching his leg up around Draco’s hip, strong and flexible, and
Draco couldn’t resist stroking his hand up that thigh until he was grabbing and kneading
Potter’s round, perfect arse.

He wanted Potter naked. Wanted to feel his skin, wanted to see the places no one else got to
see. He wanted it so badly that Draco almost performed a nonverbal, wandless vanishing
charm on their clothes. That was the kind of advanced magic he’d been practicing almost
every night since his parole, and he thought he could probably manage it now, but what then?
Was he going to fuck Potter right here? That kind of indecency with the Chosen One would
get him sent back to Azkaban.

And just like that, reality crashed down. This is Potter. He was kissing Harry Potter, who
hated him. Draco was so completely out of his mind that he was half-prepared to fuck Harry
Potter. To ruin him, taint him. To damn them both.

“Fuck.” He forced himself to stop, to hold up his empty hands, to step back, and back again.
Both of them were breathing audibly, robes in mild disarray. Even after a year in prison,
Draco prided himself on control over his emotions and these particular needs, but one look at
Potter’s kiss-swollen lips and the obvious bulge in his trousers nearly did him in.

Only one thing would get them out of this situation, out of it for good, and it made his gut
churn with disappointment. Draco had to really hurt him.

“So, Pansy was right about you. Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived to Suck Cock.”

One quick flare of pain flashed across those deep green eyes.

“I guess that explains all the extravagant gifts. I know I’m beautiful, Potter, but I’m not for
sale.”

“That’s not—no—I didn’t—”

“You’ll have to look for some other bloke to bugger. I’m sure the Chosen One won’t have
any trouble finding volunteers. Even if you’ve got a Death Eater kink.”

Draco thought it was a hurtful enough parting shot and turned to make his escape, but
Potter’s hand whipped out and vised on his arm, right over the Dark Mark.

“Why are you doing this?” Potter growled.

“You keep forgetting who I am.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

He shook off the hand and got away, walking at first, then jogging, then running to the safety
of his room. This time, Potter didn’t follow him.

Not wanting to run into anyone from the Halloween Ball, Harry stayed there against the
Astronomy Tower, casting warming charms and running his mind over the memory of the
kiss again and again. He didn’t yet know how to extract and save a memory (Hermione had
personally performed all the memory extractions that they gave to CURE), and the best
alternative was to burn the memory into his brain until it had no chance of fading.

Questions swirled around and around, and Harry was forced to conclude that Malfoy was
right about him. Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived to Suck Cock. It was cheap and dirty and
true. Just the thought of Malfoy’s body had him so worked up he considered wanking right
here in the open—under a disillusionment charm, of course.

Instead of giving himself something to feel shame about later, Harry made his way to the
owlery. Yearning to check the Marauder’s Map lest he run into anyone, he felt completely
lost without it. But he meant what he’d said—it was only fair that Malfoy got his turn with
that kind of omniscience. He would loan him the invisibility cloak as well, if he could be sure
Malfoy wouldn’t think Harry was trying to “buy” him with it. Merlin, what a git.

Was it always this difficult to start a…well, a relationship with someone? He supposed a few
complications were natural. Ron and Hermione had certainly had hurdles to overcome before
finally getting together. With Ginny, Harry had been afraid of Ron’s reaction, but that hadn’t
been so bad in the end. In fact, Ron’s reaction would probably be worse when he found out
his best mate was hot for Draco sodding Malfoy. It hurt knowing that. Harry was beginning
to care for the prickly Slytherin, and yet he felt like he wasn’t allowed to share his excitement
and confusion with the most important people in his life.

He was torn about it. If he told Ron and Hermione, they would have a lot of questions that
Harry wasn’t ready to answer. Would they think differently of him if they knew he was bent?
He hoped not. But the fact that it was Malfoy he wanted definitely would not go over well.

In the owlery, he used a scrap bit of parchment and a muggle pen to write his impulsive letter.

Seamus,

How have you been? Are you enjoying the Department of Magical Games and Sports? I
heard you were working security at the Quidditch World Cup last year. Sounds like an
awesome job, or at least, an adventure.
 I’m going to ask some personal questions, and it’s okay if you don’t want to answer. I’m
probably the world’s biggest prat for doing this in a letter. When did you realize you
were gay? Did you always know? Did anyone react badly when they found out? Any
advice for someone who’s freaking out about his new attraction to men? One man in
particular has got me turned inside out, and I don’t know what to do.

I’d like to keep the contents of this conversation private please. Thanks. I’m sorry I’ve
been out-of-touch since the war. It’s been a difficult couple of years for everyone.

Harry Potter

Now that the truth was in front of him, written out in ink, he dithered for several minutes
about whether he could or should send the note. Finally, he called down a school owl. He
hadn’t been sorted to Gryffindor for nothing.

“Take this to Seamus Finnigan in Ireland, okay?”

When the owl was out of sight, he couldn’t put off his return to the castle any longer. And the
timing was just exactly wrong. Harry reached the portrait of the Suffering Seer just as
Hermione and Ron stumbled down the stairs, laughing and groping, their fine party clothes
rumpled after a long night of dancing and, apparently, drinking. Descending behind them,
Luna appeared pristine and unaffected.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” Luna intoned. “I’m sorry you missed the ball.”

Hermione managed to say the password and she and Ron fell through the portrait hole in a fit
of giggles.

“Not really in a ‘ball’ kind of mood,” Harry said.

“Draco Malfoy said the same thing. Were you with him tonight?”

“Er, briefly.” Not for the first time, he got the impression that Luna could read him like a
book. He changed the subject upon entering the common room. “I had to give a speech in
Godric’s Hollow tonight.”

“Did you want to do it, or was it a moral obligation?”

“Oh, well, I wanted to visit my parents, you know.” He left out the fact that he hadn’t been
able to get anywhere near their grave.

“There isn’t one system for deciding what is morally required, but I hope you won’t give
more than you have. Because then you’ll have less than nothing for yourself.”

“I…don’t need anything.”

“Everyone needs something.”

Ron finally noticed him. “Harry, mate, you missed everything.”

“Take your girlfriend to your room. I’ll leave a hangover potion outside your door.”

“You’re the best. Have I told you that? Harry Potter is the absolute best."

He shook his head and said goodnight to his friends, wondering if Draco was safely in his
room or wandering the grounds in the dark. Harry had no way to check.

Seamus’s response came rather quickly, landing in his breakfast bowl during the morning
post. Hermione used tergeo to siphon off the mess while Harry fed the owl a bit of sausage.

“Who’s it from?” Ron asked.

“Just catching up with Seamus. I asked him how the Quidditch World Cup went.”

Both of his friends were surprised and satisfied with that answer, but he read the letter under
the table to protect its contents.

Harry,

It’s great to hear from you, and don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I knew pretty
early on who I was attracted to, and I had no trouble talking about it with my mum. Da
took the news a little tougher, but he came around. It’s not as big a matter in the
wizarding world as it is with the muggles. Unless you’re a pureblood trying to continue
the bloodline and all that tosh.

There have been a few incidents when I’ve been out with a boyfriend in muggle Belfast
and got some bigoted comments. It’s tempting to fight back, but nothing good ever
comes from that.

The bloke you fancy would be crazy not to fancy you back, Harry. My advice is to tell
him and see what happens.

I hope you’re enjoying your final year at Hogwarts. I miss it. Last year was wild with
parties in the Room of Requirement. The Patil twins kept smuggling in firewhiskey and
Dean kept initiating muggle games. It was fantastic. Fill me in on the good gossip,
yeah?

Maybe I can get a holiday and visit the Scottish countryside soon. I’ve got loads of
stories from the Quidditch World Cup to share.

Seamus

“Um, Harry?”
He blinked over at Hermione. It looked like the Great Hall was clearing out for class.
“Yeah?”

“Was that really from Seamus?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just I’ve never seen you incendio a letter from a friend before.”

He looked down at the little pile of ashes in his lap and quickly brushed it off. “Oh. Just.
Yeah. Did you know that the Room of Requirement is still functional? I thought the fiendfyre
would’ve destroyed it.”

They walked together behind Ron.

“I’m sure the Room of Hidden Things, in particular, is destroyed. But it’s possible that the
magic can still produce other rooms.”

The three of them agreed to meet there after classes to check it out, provided Harry and Ron
promised Hermione they would study for their Charms test immediately after.

After a brutal nightmare about losing his grip on Malfoy’s hand and watching him fall into
fiendfyre, Harry wouldn’t go back to sleep even if he could. His whole body was shaking
from the adrenaline and terror, and he couldn’t stand to return to that horrible fire again. He
could feel it there, the heat licking behind him, that constant threat. His afternoon visit to the
Room of Requirement was probably responsible for bringing out this particular dream.

Nightmares had been a little easier to recover from in the old days when he slept in a room
full of other Gryffindor boys snoring lightly behind their bedcurtains. It felt different in an
empty room, cold and harsh. It was the same way at Grimmauld Place.

A quick tempus showed him it was just past midnight. He put his glasses on and headed
down to the common room, where at least there would be some warmth.

He wasn’t the only one with that idea.

Malfoy’s long legs were curled up, his head on the arm of the sofa, blond hair fanned out. He
wore silky blue pajamas that reflected the low firelight. Even in sleep, he didn’t look calm.
There was a troubled line in the center of his forehead and a pinch of pain at the corners of
his eyes and mouth.

They’d run into each other here before, and it was always a bit awkward. They would both
acknowledge that they had bad dreams and refuse to talk about it, which left them staring at
the fire and occasionally dozing off.
Harry wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, watching him like a creep, before
something changed. Malfoy’s lips parted on a gasp and his eyes squeezed tighter. Then he
started to twitch.

“Uhn. No. Uhn.”

His long fingers jumped and curled, searching for something. His feet gave small kicks.
“No.”

“Malfoy.” Harry got down on his knees and took Malfoy’s hands in his, squeezing. “Wake
up, Malfoy. You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

“Uhn. Uhn.” He jerked violently. “No!”

Finally, his glassy gray eyes opened. The rise and fall of his chest were rapid and
pronounced.

“P…Potter. What the fuck?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

Malfoy struggled to a semi-upright position, still breathing in harsh gasps. “That’s…huh…

none of your business.”

“Fine. I didn’t ask anything, Malfoy.”

“What are doing here?”

“You aren’t the only one with bad dreams.”

He nodded as he remembered their previous encounters too. “How often is it? For you?”

“Every night,” Harry answered, “but some are worse than others.”

Harry became aware that his hands were still clutching Malfoy’s. It probably wouldn’t take
long for Malfoy to notice, but Harry would hold onto them as long as he could.

Malfoy didn’t ask, but Harry told him anyway. “In tonight’s dream, I was back in the Room
of Requirement. Only this time, I failed. You slipped out of my reach and that fire…that
fucking fire.”

It was silent for a long time while they both watched the docile flames in the fireplace,
contemplating evil.

Finally, Malfoy spoke. “I dreamt about fiendfyre a lot when I was in Azkaban. I wish I had
fallen.”

“Malfoy—”
“I wish it had ended there, or even earlier. I could have saved myself a lot of trouble. A lot of
pain. That’s all my life can be, Potter. My name is a curse. Even my skin is a curse.”

They both looked at the tattoo on his forearm, which was as dark red and well defined as
ever. There’d been an interesting article in the Daily Prophet shortly after the war that
explained how the protean tattoo was permanent and would never truly fade, even with
Voldemort’s death. It had bothered Hermione most of all, the idea of something being that
permanent, but she hadn’t taken the time to do her own research on it, much as she wanted to.

Before he could think twice about it, Harry leaned forward and placed his lips against the
inked skull in a tender kiss.

It was probably only shock that held Malfoy still and stopped him from shoving Harry away.
“What?” he whispered, shivering. “What are you doing?”

Harry continued over the length of the snake, slowly kissing his way down his arm. When he
got to Malfoy’s smooth, unmarked wrist, he licked his skin lightly, kissed him again, and
pressed Malfoy’s palm to his cheek.

“I have scars too,” Harry said.

Malfoy swallowed audibly. “Once again, you’re forgetting who I am.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Really? Because I took the Mark willingly. I was proud of it. It was my chance to prove
myself to the Dark Lord.”

“Was proud,” Harry pointed out. “Past tense. The sorting hat said the same thing about me,
that I had a thirst to prove myself and I’d do well in Slytherin. I wanted so badly to belong
somewhere. I think maybe I would’ve done anything for someone to show even the slightest
bit of affection for me.”

“What are you talking about? I thought you had a muggle family.”

Harry was so ridiculously glad that Malfoy was letting him hold his hand that he didn’t really
register the confused outrage behind the question. “They didn’t want me,” he said with a
small shrug. “They hated magic, so they hid it from me, lied to me. I had to cook for them,
but I didn’t get much to eat. They took pleasure in giving things to my cousin right in front of
me—that was worse than having nothing. They locked me in a cupboard under the stairs.
That’s where my first Hogwarts letter came, to Harry James Potter in the cupboard under the
stairs. I wish I could’ve kept the letter, but they destroyed that too.”

The conversation had taken on a dreamlike quality. Harry kissed Malfoy’s palm and gazed
into the orange flames. “Hogwarts saved me. I would fight a hundred dark lords if I had to,
you know. I’d be happy to. If I don’t do what I’m supposed to do, if I don’t have something
to offer the world, I’m afraid I’ll be back in that cupboard again.”

“Potter, look at me.”

He did. Malfoy’s eyes burned brighter than the fire.

“You will never be back in the cupboard. Do you hear me? You don’t have to do anything
else or save anyone else. You’ve done your job. You don’t have to go back. Don’t you get it?
You’re Harry Potter. You can do anything now, and the world will still love you.”

“I can do anything?”

“Yes!”

“Can I kiss you?”

 CHAPTER SIX

“Can I kiss you?” Harry Potter asked the Death Eater, and the Death Eater felt the world stop
spinning.

“Why would you want to?” Draco whispered, and his eyes felt hot. “I’m cruel. I taunted you
for years. Are you mad? There were times I would’ve let you die to save myself. There are
hundreds of witches or wizards you could be with who aren’t evil.”

“You aren’t evil.”

“Ruined, then. A criminal. Unredeemable.”

Potter kept kissing the palm of Draco’s hand, the base of his thumb, his wrist. The heat
pooled in Draco’s chest and lower. His reaction was so strong, so out of proportion, that he
thought he might be sick. He wanted to yank his arm away but couldn’t find the strength.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Harry Potter, of all wizards, being abused by his family for a
decade. What had Dumbledore been thinking? Of all the children that had needed protecting,
Potter should’ve been a priority. Had those muggles ever received justice for their treatment
of him?

He was also surprised that Potter dreamed about the fiendfyre when there were so many other
things he could be having nightmares about, surely. How many times had he faced
Voldemort? Yet his dream was about failing to save Draco.

Most of all, he couldn’t believe Potter wanted him. Draco had seen for himself how many
witches and probably wizards were ready and willing to date the big hero, and why wouldn’t
they? Potter was unfairly attractive in that rugged, dimpled, barely-put-together way. He’d
proven he had a heart of gold, incorruptible. While Draco had languished away in prison,
Potter had turned from an earnest and awkward teenager into a dashing and powerful leader.

He was bloody intoxicating.

And the savior was on his knees in front of Draco, nibbling on his wrist. Draco slammed his
eyes shut because he couldn’t bear the sight of it.

“Why me?” He almost meant Why now? because Draco used to believe he had something to
offer. Now there was no money, no future, no respectability.

The room was warm and silent like it waited for Potter’s answer as well.

“You and I are very different,” Potter said, “but we’re not. We’re the same. We were just kids,
victims of our upbringing, given tasks so far beyond our abilities. We trusted the adults to
keep us safe. But they didn’t keep us safe. Maybe they couldn’t. For good or evil, they killed
who we were. I walked into the Forbidden Forest. You walked into Azkaban. We both came
out different, and nobody sees it.”
Potter rested his forehead on the edge of the sofa, and Draco finally had the opportunity to
pull himself free from Potter’s tender touch. Relief from it was instantaneous, but his self-
control still suffered. Without his permission, Draco’s fingers ran through all that soft, messy
hair. Potter’s dark curls were almost as overgrown as Draco’s straight blond locks.

“Why can’t they see it?” Potter continued. “They see who we were, not who we are now.
Even my best friends, who were right there for most of it, act like nothing changed and life
goes on. But it doesn’t go on. Not for you and me. And I don’t know what to do now.” Potter
leaned to the side, rubbing against Draco’s hand like a kitten enjoying the attention. “But
you…you do see me, don’t you? When you’re not being a tosser.”

Potter glanced up with humor dancing in his molten green eyes, and Draco laughed.

“Oh, Potter. If studying you were a competitive sport, I’d have the trophy.”

“I thought so.”

Draco thought he might as well point out of the obvious, since Potter was so forgetful. “For
years, I went out of my way to make your life as miserable as possible. Do you know how
hard I worked at it? I spent most of my time thinking of ways to hurt you. I hated you. Do
you think that goes away just because you’re sort of fit now?”

“Am I?”

“Only someone as starved for affection as you could find a compliment in there, Potter.”

“Maybe,” he sighed. “But you are not who you were before, Malfoy. Not really. And it
doesn’t matter to me what other people think. Is that what’s bothering you? Someone finding
out? Would that cause problems for you?”

Indignant laughter bubbled up his throat. “For me? Problems for me? How did you live
through the war with no survival instincts at all? You can’t go around kissing Death Eaters.”

“You said I could do anything, and the world would still love me.”

“Not this. They would never forgive this.” Draco climbed off the far side of the sofa, being
careful not to touch Potter. He was afraid that one touch would be all it would take to shake
down his defenses again.

Insulting Potter didn’t work. But if Potter thought there was a chance he was doing the wrong
thing, he would inevitably choose to be noble, right? Saint Potter.

“I would never forgive you for ruining yourself with me,” Draco said, then pleaded with him,
“Please. They’re looking for any excuse to send me back to prison. Let me get through this
sodding year without drawing attention to myself. You have to stay away from me.”
After the midnight incident, as Draco thought of it, sleep eluded him for two entire days and
nights. Was it a sickness or a curse? It was something in his skin that kept him on edge,
stimulated in a way that wouldn’t allow relaxation. As unpleasant as it was to be conscious
for such a long period, it afforded him plenty of time to practice with his magic.

While nonverbal magic was important and respected in the wizarding world, wandless magic
had a stigma attached to it. It was associated with children, with accidental magic, something
to be embarrassed about, not practiced or perfected. After all, the whole purpose of a wand
was the way it enhanced a wizard or witch’s magic, how it “chose” them based on their skills
and qualities, how it guided them and brought out the best in their magic. Without a wand, a
wizard’s magic was weak, basic, lacking direction. At least, that’s what everyone believed.

Draco had never seen any adult with a wand bother trying to perform magic without one. Not
Dumbledore or McGonagall or Snape. Not his parents or Aunt Bellatrix. Certainly not
Voldemort, who had been obsessed with wandlore at the end there.

For most of his life, Draco had believed everything he was told—all those prejudices about
half-bloods and muggleborns, and all the proprietary details about what “really” mattered,
what it meant to be a Malfoy, what it meant to be a proper wizard. After he learned the hard
way that blood purity ideals were complete bollocks, it wasn’t a far leap to start questioning
the other things he’d been raised to believe, including the idea that good wandless magic
wasn’t possible.

He had to go back far, more than three hundred years, to find books that addressed wandless
magic with any seriousness. He poured over them for hours at a time in the library, trying to
make sense of the archaic language and unusual ideas, and any time the Marauder’s Map
showed any students or teachers heading his way, he’d either take the books back to his room
or disillusion himself in a library corner.

Draco had become incredibly dependent on that bit of enchanted parchment. After what felt
like a lifetime of anxiously watching his back, he found peace in the little footprints across
the map. Knowing he could avoid Filch, avoid Peeves, avoid anyone and everyone if he
wanted to, was soothing. It quieted the grasping terror and fears that had been his constant
companion for so many years.

Now the only time he felt overcome with anxiety was on Fridays. Draco climbed the stairs to
McGonagall’s office as soon as classes ended on Fridays and used her private fireplace to
floo to the ministry for his court-ordered rehabilitation.

It was odd to feel anxious about something he never remembered. Almost the entire weekly
event, as he understood it, took place subconsciously.

There was a new statue in the ministry atrium, depicting the heroes of the Second Wizarding
War, with Dumbledore and Potter in the center looking taller and handsomer than ever, other
members of the Order of the Phoenix around them with wands raised, and the names of the
fallen appearing around the base when you stood closer. When he’d first begun his
rehabilitation, Draco had despised the insipid statue, assuming that Potter had delighted in the
adulation and all that positive attention heaped on him.
He thought he knew better now. If anything, Potter would hate this statue more than Draco
did.

From the moment of his arrival, Draco’s wand was confiscated from him, and he was
escorted by a member of Ministry security across the atrium and down in the lifts to level
eight, then down a long hallway and through a barrier not unlike platform 9-3/4. The grip of
the wizard’s hand on his arm was tight and painful and therefore didn’t affect him like a
touch from Potter. Pain he was used to.

Security left him in the hands of his assigned mind healer, a witch named Mehetabel Vane.

Vane’s hair was a uniform shade of dark gray and parted on the side in a sleek bob. He found
it difficult to meet her eyes, which were not a normal blue. It was almost like a milky film
coated her irises. Then there was her voice. It was a completely average voice for a witch, not
too high or too loud, and it hadn’t bothered him in their first session. But since then, every
time she spoke, it felt like his skin was crawling with bugs, and the sensation had gotten
worse with every returning trip. He dreaded Fridays.

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy.”

There was no emotion at all in her voice or expression. Draco recognized occlumency when
he saw it, and it always made him itch with curiosity. What was Vane hiding?

“Healer Vane.”

“Have a seat and we’ll get started.”

She had a strange habit of holding her extra-long wand, base to tip, between her forefingers.
She held it that way right up until she took a deep breath and began her work.

Each week, he fought to memorize the series of spells that Vane performed on him. After all
these months, he almost had it all. Almost. He was that gifted an occlumens that he could
quietly, invisibly subvert the concealing charms she used within his mind, even without his
wand. It was one of the biggest motivators for his practice with controlled wandless magic.

Her process began with privacy wards, then a potion that tasted like calming draught but was
a deeper color, possibly a preventative? Then there were three spells. Remember them, he
ordered himself.

Intermens aperta and a slow, circular wand motion.

Transpicio and a sharp slashing motion down.

Hypnomium diutinus and a wide arc.

The world went black.

Draco woke up as he always did, coated with sticky sweat, simultaneously too hot and too
cold, with no memory of what happened. The only indication that anything happened was the
time. As always, two hours had passed.
“Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy.”

No, he was never given time to physically recover or even get his bearings. Tonight’s security
wizard pulled him to standing and dragged him through the barrier, up in the lift, across the
atrium to the wall of fireplaces. He felt delicate and unraveled, exposed and sensitive. He
barely noticed his wand being pressed into his hand or the words the wizard said before
pushing Draco into the green flames.

Sometimes McGonagall was there when he fell out of her fireplace, and sometimes she
wasn’t. Tonight, she wasn’t, and he was glad. Instead of pretending he was fine, he could take
a few minutes to sprawl awkwardly on the hearth rug, coughing out ashes. He could count his
heartbeats and try to remember the healing spell that helped with headaches. Sweet Salazar, it
felt like his head was splitting in half.

“Leniens,” he tried, but his voice broke and he had dropped his wand when falling out of the
fire. He picked up the pine wand and tried again. “Leniens.” The relief was weak but it was
enough for him to get his face off the floor and sit with his arms wrapped around his legs,
collecting himself.

He would need a potion, feverfew or dittany, if he wanted better pain relief. He couldn’t
remember any more powerful spells.

Remember. Spells.

Intermens aperta, transpicio, hypnomium diutinus. He could remember. Merlin's fucking

prick, he finally did it. He could remember all of Vane’s incantations before he’d lost
consciousness.

Not even his aching head could stop him from scrambling off the floor and running for the
library, dodging students on their way to the Great Hall for dinner.

“Malfoy!” called Harry Potter.

He didn’t stop, didn’t even hesitate. This was too important. He had to get to the library and
get to some fucking parchment before his battered head forgot everything again.

“Madame Pince, can I borrow a quill? And parchment. Please. It’s important.” He whispered
his entreaty and tried to soften the intensity he felt so as not to scare the witch.

“Ridiculous. A student as old as you should remember his supplies.”

“You’re right, of course. I’ll replace the items, I promise. But it’s terribly important.”

Her face was a bit pinched, but at least she handed over the items. He scribbled quickly,
pleased it was a self-inking quill. Intermens aperta, transpicio, hypnomium diutinus.

“One more thing. Do you know which books I could use to research these spells?” He turned
the sheet so she could read.

One of her eyebrows quirked. “Are you having me on? Those aren’t spells.”
“What?” For a moment, he wondered if she was right. He wasn’t intended to remember what
Mehetabel Vane did to him. It could be a planted false memory.

Pince looked him up and down and became slightly less suspicious. “Nothing I’ve heard of,
anyway. You might try the section on experimental magic.”

“Hm. Thanks.”

He’d never encountered a spell that Madame Pince hadn’t at least had a rudimentary
awareness of. She’d been his main source of help during sixth year, although if she’d known
what exactly she’d been helping him with, she would’ve been horrified. He couldn’t have
repaired the vanishing cabinet without her.

His mind raced as he paged through several books, from Experimental Curses and Jinxes to
A Wizard’s Guide to Magical Experimentation. In case Madame Pince was mistaken, he also
went through the most up-to-date and complete reference manual of spells. Of course, she
was correct; they weren’t even listed under “pending approval.”

Was he mistaken? Was this an effect of Vane’s concealment charms, that his memory
replaced the real spells with fake ones? The alternative was that his rehabilitation healer was
using unregistered spells on Death Eaters. Maybe most of the wizarding world wouldn’t care
about that, but it was still illegal.

He felt his magic crackling in his fingertips like confirmation of this wild thought. He quickly
got himself under control and stacked up the books. He had some thinking to do.

“Granger,” he said a week later. He’d used the Marauder’s Map to find her after dinner. She
was blessedly alone after exiting the lavatory.

“Malfoy?”

“Do you have a minute?”

She frowned. “Yes?”

“How much do you know about spellwork invention?”

“Um, I know some of the theory. I’ve never attempted it myself.”

“When a new spell is invented, there must be a process for developing its counter-spell.
Something more useful than this.” He held up the dreadfully thick book he'd gotten from
Madam Pince, The Counter-Spell Compendium.

“Oh, yes. Of course. I think Grunnion’s Second Law describes the process best.”
“You’re a dream, Granger.”

“Oh, Godric, what have you done?”

He shifted his bag. “What do you mean?”

“Only a true catastrophe could lower you to asking me for help.”

Shame slithered down his spine.

“Look, Granger. I owe you an apology. A thousand apologies, actually. I didn’t really get a
chance and now it seems like…too little too late. It all feels too late.” He rubbed his forehead.
“I’m sorry for Malfoy Manor, for not doing anything. My aunt, I should’ve…I couldn’t…and
I’m sorry for treating you the way I always did. I was wrong and a bloody coward. I let
myself believe everything I was told for entirely too long, and the way I acted—”

“Malfoy, it’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You were a child.”

“So were you three, but that never stopped you from making the right decisions every blasted
time.”

“More like the most reckless decisions possible. I can’t believe any of us survived our
childhoods.”

When he laughed, her eyes lit up. Dare he think it, she looked pretty. “Well, anyway, I’m
sorry. If there’s ever anything I can do to make it up to you. And no, there isn’t a catastrophe.
Just a sort of mystery I’m working on. Of course I would come to the smartest person here
for help.”

“Laying on the flattery. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this. What about Harry and Ron?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, something uncomfortable fluttering in his chest.

“Have you done this with them? This apology business?”

“Oh.”

Clearly, she could read the answer on his face. “Consider it, yeah? We’re reasonable people.
At the start of the year, it almost looked like you and Harry could be friends, but then, I don’t
know. Did something happen?”

His cheeks heated. Damn his pale complexion. He willed it under control. “Potter’s a fool.”

“Well, yeah, it’s part of his charm.”

He rolled his eyes, and this time she laughed.

“Let me know if you need any more help with your mystery.” She walked in the direction of
their dormitory.

“Granger,” he called out. When she looked back over her shoulder, he said, “Thank you.”

It felt immeasurably good to get a smile and a nod from her.

 CHAPTER SEVEN

By December, Harry was certain Malfoy was using the Marauder’s Map in the exact opposite
way Harry had been. While Harry had used it to follow the prat, Malfoy was using it to avoid
ever seeing Harry outside of class.

The only exceptions were in the middle of the night when one would stumble over the other
in the common room after they’d both woken from nightmares. If Harry dared to talk about
something personal there, Malfoy would stalk back to his room.

It was essential, therefore, to maximize class time where Malfoy couldn’t get away.

“I saw what Stonewood did yesterday,” Harry said quietly in Potions, and Malfoy’s hand
paused infinitesimally while slicing Adder’s Fork lengthwise to divide the tongue into halves.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Potter. Focus on the cauldron. If you muck this up, there isn’t another new moon
for thirty days.”

Bronwyn Stonewood, a seventh-year Gryffindor, had cornered Malfoy in the narrow corridor
outside charms and had held him at wand point. Harry hadn’t been close enough to hear what
Stonewood was saying, but he’d seen the cold emptiness wash over Malfoy’s face. If Malfoy
dared to defend himself, there was no doubt he’d face prison.

Harry had nearly lost his cool, bumping into a suit of armor in his haste to get to them.
Stonewood heard the racket, of course, and both he and Malfoy had fled, turning corners in
different directions, by the time Harry arrived.

“Raise the heat,” Malfoy ordered. “More. We need a rolling boil.”

“Just trying not to melt your new cauldron.”

In another desperate attempt to get Malfoy’s attention, Harry had sent him a full set of the
highest quality school supplies last week, shipped from Diagon Alley. Uncharacteristically,
Malfoy hadn’t said a single word about it, had simply brought his copper cauldron to Potions
like it was nothing new. When Slughorn had asked where he’d gotten the exquisite item, he’d
said it was a gift and didn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

“Only Longbottom could melt a copper cauldron,” Malfoy said in his old caustic tone, but
Harry didn’t fall for it. It sounded like a line delivered by an actor.

For the rest of class, Malfoy dodged all of Harry’s conversation attempts. In the end, their
veritaserum appeared to be in perfect condition for the maturation process through very little
effort on Harry’s part.
In Charms, Malfoy sat with Hermione of all people, and when they were the first ones to
complete the day’s tasks—nonverbally removing the charms Flitwick had placed on random
muggle objects—they whispered together for the rest of class. The sight was so distracting
that Ron melted the wheels off a skateboard and Harry turned his entire desk into porridge
and had to go change his trousers.

In Transfiguration, Professor Agrios seemed to hate everyone, but Malfoy most of all. Malfoy
was forced to sit at a table by himself and do all his work on his own, even when the rest of
the class was partnering up. Harry was tempted to stay after class and ask Agrios who he had
lost in the war—if he could get through to him and remind him who was really at fault,
maybe it would make a difference—but his friends agreed that it would be a wasted effort.

In DADA, Harry’s attempts to get partnered with Malfoy for dueling were unsuccessful
because their pretty, soft-spoken teacher was determined to duel Harry herself. Luna got
Malfoy.

Up until now, Professor Findlay had been a detached and underwhelming teacher, going over
complex theories and debates with very little practical work, and she’d always called him Mr.
Potter. But today, as they stood across from each other at the front of the enormous dueling
room, her brown eyes had an unfamiliar twinkle as she said, “Ready, Harry?”

Remembering what Ron had said about Findlay winning a dueling competition, he willed
himself to forget about Malfoy and concentrate on his magic, the feel of his wand in his hand,
and his wits. He performed the bow as expected, and the duel began.

Things went well at the start, exciting in the way dueling always was. Basics first: she
blocked his expelliarmus and sent fireballs. He redirected them to the stone wall, which
shook on impact, then sent a stinging jinx, langlock, and incarcerous. She dodged, blocked,
and severed the ropes before they even had a chance to tie her up. Findlay moved with
surprising speed and her petite size made her extra difficult to hit.

Something about the ropes made her grin. Even as she sent one of the empty desks charging
toward him, she taunted, “Thought about tying me up, have you, Harry?”

The inappropriateness of the question sank in after he used depulso on the desk. It was
tempting to hesitate, but in a high-intensity situation, it was best to stay focused and worry
about her comment later. It wasn’t the first time an opponent tried to defeat him with head
games.

He switched to nonverbal, which admittedly wasn’t his strong suit, but it seemed necessary
when he was up against a professional. She still dodged and shielded every stupefy, body
bind, and stinging jinx he sent her way.

The longer they volleyed, the more space they took up. Any other duels that were still
engaged must’ve decided to call a truce. They pressed themselves to the outer rim and put up
protego shields for themselves. The bulk of the room was Harry’s and Findlay’s now. It
quickly filled with smoke, sparks, flashes of red light, and the cheering and jeers of his fellow
students.
Findlay’s laughter set his nerves on edge. It wasn’t a deranged cackle like Bellatrix; instead,
it was a low and sultry sound that made Harry blush inexplicably.

She seemed determined to make him feel foolish—at one point she cast engorgio on his
shoes, making him trip; later, she blindfolded him with obscuro and took that moment to
spank him. The touching was the worst part. She spun like a dancer around his latest deluge
of hexes and wound up behind him where she could wrap her arms around him, trapping his
wand arm, laughing that laugh against his back. He felt nauseated at the contact while he
forgot every spell that could help him and resorted to physically shaking her off. Again and
again, she slid across the floor or twirled in the air, always ending with her hands on Harry’s
arm, his neck, his waist, a pat on the arse.

Her comments made it all worse. “You’re even better with that wand than I thought you’d
be…Ooh, I almost felt that one, darling…You’ll have me on my back in no time.”

He couldn’t decide if it was better or worse to have an audience for this horrid display. It was
good to have witnesses, and yet sort of degrading. How closely was Malfoy watching? Harry
knew he looked awful, hair plastered to his face, sweat dripping, oddly humiliated at every
turn even though it was by all accounts an evenly matched fight, unless she was throwing it.
Occasionally, a few comments from the watching students registered.

Malfoy’s voice: “Did she seriously…oh, fuck this.”

Ron’s voice: “Bloody hell, who is this bird?”

A seventh-year bloke: “Wow. This is not the show I was expecting.”

Malfoy’s voice: “Fuck. This. No.”

In Hermione’s (and Ron’s) honor, Harry tried something a little different. He cast avis to
conjure a flock of birds and oppugno to send them shooting angrily at Findlay’s face.
Although this did make her laughter cut off with a huff, she had no compunctions about
killing the birds swiftly and brutally. She fell back on confringo, apparently a favorite, and
this time Harry hit back with a rather powerful blast of glacius, strong enough to break
through protego. Half the room, including his classmates, was covered in frost.

Ron’s voice: “Nice one, mate.”

Findlay quickly recovered from her surprise and regrouped. She threw a hot-air charm and
was only a split-second too late to block Harry’s tripping jinx. But she responded with a
carpe retractum that pulled Harry on top of her, chest to chest.

Hermione’s voice: “Harry, finish this! My word.”

Luna’s voice: “He doesn’t appear affected.”

Malfoy’s voice: “I swear…I bloody swear…No, it isn’t…I don’t care if she’s a teacher…No!
This is enough!”
Perhaps Findlay could hear them too, or perhaps her magic was getting drained. The lights in
the room flickered to indicate that dueling was over.

Relieved, Harry got to his feet and stepped toward his classmates, trying to catch his breath.

Harry could only watch, bewildered, as Malfoy stormed out of the room.

Hours later, Harry’s mind was still turning it over while poking at his dinner in the Great
Hall. “You really don’t think it’s weird that he left before class was over?”

“Harry!” Hermione scolded. “Malfoy is not up to something!”

“That’s not what I mean! I just…you’re sure he wasn’t injured?”

“Ask Luna if you’re so worried. She was his partner.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped when he stood and picked up his food, like she didn’t think he
would really take her advice. Well, he was. He found Luna at the Ravenclaw table tonight,
but no one was sitting near enough to talk to her. That was good for Harry’s purposes, though
he worried that she was being left out like usual.

“Hey, Luna.”

“Harry. You must need something.”

Guilt was a quick stab. “Am I really that bad? I also want to know how you’re doing. You
look a bit isolated here. You should sit with us at the Gryffindor table.”

“I often do.”

“Right.”

“What’s brought you over here? You’re worrying about something. Or is it someone?”

What she’d said in the carriage ride on their first night, about the way her torture during the
war affected her, still worried him. “Is it difficult for you to be around Malfoy?”

“Oh, not at all. He and his mother were pleasant at the Manor. Draco would sneak me light,
food, and books when he could manage it. He gave me a watch, too, because it was
disorienting to not measure time. I find his company soothing.”

Harry could honestly say that he had never thought of Malfoy as soothing. Even the one time
when he’d brushed his fingers through Harry’s hair, he’d been snarky and difficult. “Really?
Does he, er, have an aura?” Her comments about Harry’s no-longer-dual auras also lived rent-
free in the back of his mind.

“Of course. His is a very deep purple with streaks of silver sometimes.”

“Interesting.” Harry considered asking her to explain what all these colors meant, but he
needed to keep on track. “How did it go when you dueled with him today?”
“Draco’s wand didn’t choose him. He can barely defend himself.”

A whole new direction of fears opened up inside Harry. How many students in this school
thought the way Bronwyn Stonewood did? And Malfoy couldn’t defend himself? The urge to
follow Malfoy, to protect him at all costs, was alarmingly powerful. If only there was another
Marauder’s Map. If only Malfoy wasn’t avoiding Harry.

“Did you hurt him during the duel?”

“Why would you think that, Harry?”

He pushed the food around his plate with feigned nonchalance. “It was the way he ran out of
the room as soon as the dueling ended. Was he injured?”

“Not physically, no. He left because of the siren.”

“The what?”

“Protea Findlay. I worked it out last year that she’s part siren.”

He cut more off his lamb chop. “Sirens aren’t real,” he said, forgetting for a minute who he
was talking to.

Another Ravenclaw girl, who apparently had been eavesdropping, scooted closer and said,
“No, they’re real. They were the first known merpeople.”

“But they have to live in water, then, yeah?”

“Sirens are island-dwelling maidens,” the girl explained. “But it’s believed that they died
out.”

Luna shook her head. “They didn’t. They mated with wizards and the bloodlines were
diluted. Professor Findlay is only part siren.”

“But…” Harry hesitated, lowering his voice, “Why would that make Malfoy leave the
room?”

“Jealousy, of course.” Luna’s earnest eyes bored into his. “She was directing her allure at
you. Didn’t you feel it? Most of the boys, and at least one girl in the class, were in her thrall
by the end of your duel.”

He had no idea what to make of that. Allure? Thrall? Sounded a lot like veela powers. But
then, what affect did that have on Malfoy? Harry’s own jealousy twitched.

“Was Malfoy in her, um, thrall?”

“Oh, no. Draco is gay. We talked about that at Malfoy Manor sometimes.”

He’d known, logically, that Malfoy must be interested in men after their encounter outside
the Astronomy Tower, but hearing Luna confirm Malfoy’s sexual orientation out loud made
Harry’s head spin.

Then he realized the implication of her comments about Harry. Apparently, a gay man
wouldn’t be pulled in by the female siren’s allure, and Luna had said: She was directing her
allure at you. Didn’t you feel it?

No. He’d felt demeaned, not allured.

“Luna, are there any other reasons a person wouldn’t…respond to a siren’s allure?”

“The other reason is when you’re already in love with someone else. I’m sure that’s why
Ronald Weasley wasn’t affected. Do you want to tell me who you’re in love with, Harry?”

His heart stopped, then restarted at double speed.

Noticing that their plates were mostly empty, he rose unsteadily to his feet and asked Luna to
go for a walk with him to the Black Lake. In his eagerness to get away from everyone, they
left with unusual haste.

He should’ve known that the Ravenclaw girl had been listening, should’ve known what
conclusions she would draw. By breakfast the next morning, most of the school was
convinced that Harry Potter was in love with Luna Lovegood. Two days later, the story ran in
Witch Weekly, complete with a three-week-old photo of Harry and Luna drinking and
laughing at the Three Broomsticks.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

During the following week, Harry discovered that being Luna Lovegood’s supposed
boyfriend was quite enjoyable.

The best part was seeing Luna get truly flustered. Every time he threw his arm around her in
the Great Hall or tried to hold her hand in the hallways, she would sidestep, groan, and give
him a look of indignation so unusual on her ordinarily dreamy face. It never failed to make
him laugh loudly, drawing even more attention.

Then there was the added benefit that fewer girls were following him around and asking him
out.

Then there was Malfoy, who’d been acting strangely ever since the duel and the girlfriend
rumor. He no longer hid during meals, evenings, or weekends, but turned up wherever Harry
was, clearly using the map. Malfoy was subtle about it, of course, in a way Harry could never
hope to be; he didn’t make eye contact, was never too close, and always seemed too occupied
to actually be watching.

If it were anyone else doing this, Harry wouldn’t have noticed. But it was Malfoy.

Although they never got a chance to talk, Harry appreciated the attention on multiple levels.
For one thing, he didn’t have to worry that someone like Stonewood was attacking Malfoy as
long as he was nearby. For another, he was just so damn easy on the eyes. Harry could spend
all day staring across the room at Malfoy, at the way the white-blond hair fell over his eyes
while he read, and never get tired of the view.

It also gave him a chance to observe multiple sides of Malfoy, each sexier than the last:

Nervous Malfoy in the breakfast crowd, who still managed to slip sweets into his mouth with
posh elegance despite his shaking hands.

Cozy Malfoy in the common room, who sat cross-legged on the sofa by the fire in his silk
pajamas, looking impossibly young.

Swot Malfoy in the library, who studied in the corner by the restricted section and nearly
gave Harry a heart attack when he put on a pair of narrow silver-rimmed reading glasses.

Furious Malfoy in DADA, who loudly claimed Harry for every duel henceforth and worked
Harry even harder than Findlay had. Harry left each class sweaty, sore, exhausted, and
flushed by more than the workout. Harry won every duel but thought it was due more to
Malfoy’s weak wand than anything else.

At the end of another week “dating” Luna, Harry insisted they walk along the Black Lake
with a warming charm after dinner, just to see if Malfoy would somehow follow. Harry was
disappointed; if Malfoy was following, Harry couldn’t see him.
“Do you have big plans for Christmas?” he asked Luna.

“It will be quiet. My father has a hard time leaving home. It’s mostly rebuilt now, but I may
do some redecorating. And on Boxing Day, I have a date to the War Orphans fundraiser.”

His footsteps faltered. “Who—”

“So you really should stop your teasing, Harry,” she interrupted.

“Of course. I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble. It was just nice to get a break
from…everyone.”

“But I know you’d rather be with Draco Malfoy than me.”

He really had no cause to be surprised by her intuitiveness. “Malfoy won’t talk to me.”

“Why would that stop you from talking to him? If anyone knows how to get a reaction from
Draco, it has to be you.”

He crossed his arms as the warming charm grew weaker. “You have a point. Especially now
that he’s finally coming out of his room.”

“Isn’t it nice?” she asked. “Having someone want to protect you for a change?”

Protect him? Was she saying that was the purpose of Malfoy following him around?

“Protect me from what?”

“Professor Findlay, mostly. And he’s angry with me, which isn’t nice. I’d like Draco to be my
friend again, please.”

“And you think jealousy is somehow the reason for all this?”

“He cares about you.”

“He has a real backwards way of showing it,” he muttered. “Would you like to stage a big
public breakup? It could be fun. I’ll let you throw pumpkin juice at me.”

She snuck a look at him. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

She was already walking away from him toward the castle when Harry called out, “Hey,
Luna! Who’s your date with anyway? I should at least know who’s better than me.”

“Oliver Wood.”

“Bloody hell.” He huffed a surprised laugh at the name of his first boy crush, which had been
before Harry fully understood he liked blokes. He made a mental note to find out how Luna
had managed to reconnect with him now that he was a professional Quidditch star.

“Well done, Luna!” he called out.

She waved absently.

Then Harry noticed Malfoy, wrapped in a cloak that shimmered slightly like pearls, blending
into the snowscape beneath a tree that was so old and wide its branches hung over the frozen
Black Lake. Harry jogged toward him before Malfoy could mysteriously disappear again.

“Did you ever read The Chronicles of Narnia?” Harry asked in lieu of a greeting, crouching
down beside Malfoy.

He frowned. “Of course I have.”

“Really? But…oh. Right. You’re saying C.S. Lewis was a wizard?”

Only Malfoy could make a nod look so contemptuous. “Why do you mention it?”

Malfoy must’ve been using the items Harry bought for him; he looked almost like his old
self. His hair remained long, waving to his shoulders, but it was glossy and healthy now. His
skin was almost ethereal with its perfection, though he was still on the skinny side and had
circles under his eyes.

“You look stunning in the snow,” Harry confessed. “Exactly how I picture Jadis, the white
witch, from the story.”

A touch of pink kissed Malfoy’s cheeks. “Who are you then? Peter Pevensie the
Magnificent?”

“Hardly. If anyone, I’m Edmund.” The one who was helplessly seduced by the white witch.
Harry cast another warming charm and tried not to feel awkward about once again making
his attraction blatantly obvious.

Malfoy grimaced. “Well, Luna is a proper white witch.”

“Luna is just a friend.” Harry took Malfoy’s ice-cold hand, the one he wasn’t using to hold
his book. He tried to rub warmth into it, and the effect on Malfoy was instantaneous. His
head fell back against the tree and his eyes blinked slowly, looking heavy.

“What are you reading? Or rather, what are you pretending to read while you watch me take a
stroll with Luna?”

“Sod off, Potter,” he mumbled, his heart not in it.

“Are you my chaperone or my bodyguard? Are you protecting my virtue, Malfoy?” As soon
as he asked his teasing questions, he regretted them. What if Malfoy went back to hiding in
his room all the time?

“Someone has to protect you from yourself.”

Malfoy let his book fall closed and turned it so Harry could see the cover. Harry read out
loud, “The Complex Creation of Counter-Spells: a Concise Clarification by Erwald
Grunnion. Is he related to Alberic Grunnion, inventor of the dung bomb? I have his chocolate
frog card.”

“I believe so.”

“What class is this for?”

“Just a bit of light reading.”

Harry burst into laughter. “No wonder you get along with Hermione now. If you hadn’t been
a blood supremacist all those years, you two would’ve been thick as thieves.”

Although his mouth twisted, Malfoy resisted commenting.

Harry didn’t want to let go of his hand. The second he released him, Malfoy would probably
retreat again, always watching from a safe distance. Harry never had much patience for
safety.

“Are you staying here over Christmas?” Harry asked.

“Where else do you think I could go? Should I pay the dementors a visit? Bring them some
mince pies and Christmas crackers to pull?”

“Merlin, that’s a picture. I’d like to see them in festive jumpers. Do you think they’d be good
at pantos?”

While Malfoy had obviously been going for irritated sarcasm, he wound up joining in Harry’s
laughter. “There isn’t enough mulled wine in Britain to get me through this holiday.”

“What was Christmas like, growing up at the Manor?”

“Perfect,” he said quietly, pulling his hand back and standing up. He cast a hot air charm to
clean off his pearlescent cloak and started back toward the castle. The way his pale hair
swirled around his face made Harry want to dive in with both hands and capture his icy lips.
Malfoy’s beauty really was otherworldly.

When he didn’t seem likely to continue, Harry asked “What was perfect about it?”

“My mother. The effort that went into it. I wish I had appreciated it at the time. I wish I had
told her.”

“Can’t you tell her now?”

After a prolonged silence, Malfoy said simply, “No.” Then he asked, in an obvious attempt to
change the subject, “What do you do for the holidays? I certainly hope you don’t spend it
with those terrible muggles.”

“Oh. No. I haven’t seen or heard from the Dursleys since I came of age. I live at Grimmauld
Place in Islington. In the past, I either went to the Weasleys’ or stayed at Hogwarts for
Christmas.”
“And this year?”

Up until this moment, he’d assumed he was going to the Burrow, but now he found himself
wondering if he could get out of it. If he should. Christmas there last year would’ve been
painful anyway in the general malaise following the war, but it had been excruciating without
Fred. Adding in the way Harry’s relationship with Ginny had collapsed had made it
particularly brutal. Would it be any better this year? Would Molly be upset if he begged off?

Then there was the note he’d gotten from the Minister at breakfast, asking again if Harry
would attend the Ministry’s Christmas Eve Gala and perhaps say a few words. The War
Orphans Fund had asked him to attend their fundraiser on Boxing Day as well. He hadn’t
responded to either request yet.

“There are a few places I’m supposed to be. I don’t…I don’t know.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes as they climbed the steps to the entrance. “How could I forget? You
must have several invites. Famous Harry Potter can’t even have a holiday without making the
front page.”

Harry had gotten better at reading the jealousy beneath Malfoy’s tired old insults.

“I don’t want any invites. In a sensible world, they’d all go to you, since you’re so well suited
to fancy events and important people, right? And I’d be left the hell alone.” His frustration
grew unmanageable. “But it isn’t a sensible world. High society kicked you out for your
father’s crimes. I killed a monster and now everyone wants to hear me tell them it’s all okay.
Who knows? Maybe everything is okay, but I’m not.”

He could see the different sides of Malfoy arguing over how to respond. It would be easy for
him to hurt Harry in this moment, to mock his discomfort. After all, these were just
Christmas invites. No reason to be dramatic about it.

Instead, Malfoy made his own confession. “I spent my entire life pretending to be things I’m
not—brave, important, strong. Pretending is an awful way to waste your life, Potter. Tell
them no.”

“I can’t.”

He scoffed. “Harry Potter can do anything.”

“You already proved that false!” he burst, foolishly not caring who overheard. “I can’t kiss
you. Remember? And I can’t be selfish when others need me. If making the front page will
help people, then I’ll be on the front page.”

Harry stalked away from an immobile, speechless Malfoy.

The subject of holiday plans came up again the next day during lunch. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione were on one side of the table across from Luna and Malfoy. Ron and Hermione
were dominating the conversation, him complaining loudly about their course load, and her
scolding him about his study habits.
“It’s too late now,” Ron told Hermione around a mouthful of cobbler. “I have two tests this
afternoon and another first thing in the morning. What am I supposed to do?”

Malfoy sneered, “It clearly hasn’t put you off your appetite.”

“Fuck you, ferret.”

Before Harry could censure him, Hermione spoke up. “Hey. That’s uncalled for.”

“I need a break. I want it to be Christmas already.” Ron finished his cobbler and asked Harry,
“Are you packed yet?”

Harry drank his tea with exceptional slowness, meeting Malfoy’s eyes for only a second
before looking back down at his full plate. Unlike Ron, Harry was put off his appetite.

“I might not go to the Burrow this year.”

Ron dropped his fork. “What are you talking about? You have to. Mum’s counting on it.
Everyone’s counting on it.”

Hermione cut in, “I was going to ask you. Are you two going to the Christmas Eve gala at the
Ministry? I still haven’t responded.”

“Free drinks,” Ron said with a smile. “And my dad got an invite this year, so we’ll have
someone to talk to who isn’t insufferable.”

“Harry?” Hermione asked.

“I haven’t decided that either.”

Ron was shaking his head and opening his mouth, but before he could say anything, Harry
jumped up and grabbed his books. “I have to go.” He left without looking at anyone.

Draco was quite certain he was losing his damn mind. It wasn’t a surprising development
given the course his life had taken in the last few years. Dementors and a live-in dark lord
and the threat of death and an asshole father that he still had to occasionally remind himself
not to emulate were a reliable recipe for poor mental health. Add in his obsession with
everyone’s favorite golden boy, which was so boringly predictable as to be blasé, and Draco
really, truly hated himself.

He shouldn’t have lost control in Defense class. That was his first mistake. His plan to stay
away from Potter had been going really well right up until that siren had used her powers.
Draco had been watching and waiting for it to happen—this school really did have a terrible
habit of hiring unstable magical creatures to teach—and of course it was Potter who made
Findlay loosen the leash she had on her allure.
If Findlay had an ounce of morality, she would’ve called off the duel as soon as it started.
Sure, Potter was of age, but it was still highly inappropriate to use magic to seduce someone,
especially a student. The fact that she’d failed was evidence of Potter’s extraordinary
defensive power, nothing else.

Every second of that duel had been torture. There was little Draco hated more than feeling
powerless. He’d run to his room immediately after the duel because surely it would be better
to let out his frustration in private.

Watching Potter with Luna Lovegood in the weeks that followed had almost been worse
because there was nothing to be upset about.

Draco liked to think he could walk away, if Potter were happy and paired up with Luna or
even the girl Weasley. Then Draco could go back to believing he hated Potter. He would stop
thinking about the way Potter’s hair slipped between his fingers, how his lips felt, how his
mouth tasted. If Potter were truly happy, Draco could move on and focus on his own woeful
circumstances.

But Potter was not happy. He was, in fact, determined to sabotage his own happiness in
perpetuity if no one stood up and did something about it. What good were these oft-
celebrated best friends of his if they couldn’t see Potter was suffering?

While Granger was merely ignorant of it, Weasley was actively making the situation worse.

Draco caught up with the two of them in the common room after classes. Potter was nowhere
to be seen.

“Weasley.”

The ginger prat stopped on the stairs and looked over his shoulder. Granger paused on the
stair above him.

“I need to talk to you.”

“This should be interesting,” he mumbled, descending back to the common room.

Granger hovered there, clearly hoping to be allowed to overhear. If she was expecting more
of Draco’s “apology business,” she would be disappointed.

“You need to cut Potter some slack.”

Weasley’s laugh came out in a surprised burst. “Excuse me?”

“Potter doesn’t want to go to your house for Christmas this year. Or to the Ministry events.
Or to the Three Broomsticks again. You keep making him do things that hurt him.”

“What the fuck do you know about it?”

Draco uncrossed his arms, wanting his hands free amidst Weasley’s growing agitation. He
glanced at Granger, who was creeping down the stairs toward them. “I pay attention, which is
more than I can say for the two of you.”

“No one knows Harry like we do,” Weasley argued. “We’re his family. What gives you the
right?”

Granger touched Weasley’s arm. Surprising all of them, Weasley shook her off hard. “No.
This fucking ponce doesn’t get to talk to us about Harry. He doesn’t deserve to be in the same
room as Harry. Or us.”

“You’re out of line, Ron,” she said, oddly subdued, like someone dealing with a hippogriff.

Draco didn’t want her getting in the way. This was a long time coming. “No. Let him say
what he needs to say.”

“Oh, how generous of you, Malfoy. Yeah, I’ll say it. I don’t get why everyone’s so ready to
forgive you. You’re the same two-faced bastard you were at the Battle of Hogwarts. You’re
the same spoiled little prince who rubs it in my face that I haven’t got any money. Oh no, you
went to Azkaban, boo fucking hoo, ferret. You deserved to be there. I don’t know what you
think you’re doing with Harry, but stay away from him. You’re the last thing he needs.”

By the end of the speech, Weasley’s wand was in his hand. While Draco eyed it warily,
Granger looked quite upset. “Put your wand down. What are you doing?”

“You’re going to take his side? A Death Eater? Over me?”

“Ron,” Granger whispered. “You’re acting like you’re wearing a horcrux.”

That sentence meant nothing to Draco, but it had a marked effect on Weasley. His wand hand
lowered a bit and some of the fury on his face dimmed.

“I want you to stay away from him,” Weasley told her.

Draco almost laughed. Of all the moronic things he could say to Granger, that one should win
a prize.

“Excuse me?” she said in a voice so thin it could give him a paper cut.

“You heard me. Stay away from Malfoy.”

“You’re telling me who I can and can’t be friends with? Are you serious?”

Now Granger’s wand was in her hand, and Draco could barely keep a straight face.

“Are you serious?” Weasley’s comebacks needed work. “He’s fucking dangerous! He
could’ve killed Dumbledore and Katie Bell and me, in case you’ve forgotten. What about the
names he called you? He’s obviously got some weird mission this year to get the three of us
fighting each other.”

Now Draco did laugh. “Sweet Salazar, why?”

Granger cut in, “What is it you really want, then, Malfoy?”

“I want you to pay attention! Potter is supposed to be your best friend, and you’re looking
away while he’s drowning. And you,” he said to Weasley, pointing, “are pushing him under.”

Weasley raised his wand again.

“Drowning?” Granger asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Potter can barely focus in classes. He has nightmares every night. Every time you ask him to
do something, he does it, no matter how much he doesn’t want to. You, the Ministry, the
whole fucking wizarding world. Whatever you ask, Potter always answers, no matter how
much it costs him.”

“He wants to—”

“Bollocks. He’s been drowning under everyone else’s grief for so long that he can’t
remember how to breathe. I saw him when he came back from wherever he went on
Halloween. He apparated in the middle of a panic attack!”

“He’s lying,” Weasley said, still pointing his wand.

“Going to make me eat slugs, weasel?”

“I should.”

“Have a go if you really think dementors weren’t punishment enough. You know best, of
course.”

“Expelliarmus.”

Draco’s wand left his pocket and landed in Weasley’s other hand. He looked triumphant,
while Granger looked disappointed. Neither of them knew that Draco was better without a
wand than with one. Anyway, he had no intention of giving the Aurors an excuse to put him
back in Azkaban.

Weasley’s eyes had a power-mad gleam when he took a step closer to Draco and said,
“You’re going to stay away from Harry. And you’re going to stay away from my girlfriend.”

“Or what?” Laughing again, he suddenly understood how Potter had felt at the end of fifth
year when he’d told Draco: Well, I’m terrified now. I s’pose Lord Voldemort’s just a warm-up
act compared to you three.

“Stupefy.”

Draco blocked Weasley’s spell nonverbally with a lazy flick of his wrist that caused it to
deflect and strike the carpet, singeing a small black spot. Granger jumped back, confused.

“Petrificus totalus.”
Another easy block, another burn on the carpet.

“What are you doing? Locomotor mortis.”

He sent the spell to the floor again. “I won’t fight you.”

“Fuck you. Levicorpus.”

“You’re outmatched.”

“Sectumsempra!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Slugulus eructo.”

This time, Draco put up a strong protego shield and the spell rebounded on Weasley. He felt a
twinge of remorse, and a slightly bigger twinge of fear that this would have dire
consequences, but how else could he get through to him?

The ginger wanker crumpled over and burped up three slugs on the scorched carpet. “Not
again.”

“I’ll get a bucket,” Granger sighed.

When she was gone, Weasley said, “You leave us alone,” before coughing up two more slugs.

Draco leaned down and pulled the pine wand out of his sweaty grip. “Grow up, Weasley.”
 CHAPTER NINE

Harry was already having tea in Hagrid’s hut when Hermione dragged Ron and his bucket
through the door.

“Bin wonderin’ when you two would come ter see me,” Hagrid said.

“Bloody hell.” Harry switched to the seat closest to Hagrid. “How did this happen again?
Your wand isn’t broken, is it?”

“His wand is fine,” Hermione snapped, appearing much less sympathetic than she’d been the
first time around.

“And you brought him to Hagrid’s instead of the hospital wing for…nostalgia?”

“We’re here because I knew you were here. And we have questions. Several questions. About
Malfoy.”

Hagrid’s bushy eyebrows went up. “I’ll, erm, make some more tea, eh?”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, taking deep breaths to calm herself down. “How’ve you been,
Hagrid? How are classes going this year?”

“Fine, fine. Got an excellent group o’ new third years. And I got a whole crop o’ dugbogs fer
the seventh years. Havin’ a heck of a time keepin’ ‘em away from the mandrakes, though.
Professor Sprout’s right miffed.”

Ron gave an almighty belch and half a dozen slugs plopped into the bucket.

“This is gettin’ ter be a habit, Ron.”

“I’m not happy about it either,” he moaned a little breathlessly.

“How did this happen?” Harry asked again.

Hermione glared at Ron as if willing him to answer, but all that came out of his mouth were
more slugs.

“Ron and Malfoy got in a fight.”

“No.” Harry sat up straighter. “No, no, no. Malfoy can’t get in fights. He’s in serious danger.
One wrong move, and the Aurors will be here. McGonagall will never forgive me if I let that
happen. We can’t get him in trouble.”

Both of his friends squinted at him like they didn’t quite recognize him.

“What were you even fighting about?”

“Well, you.” At Harry’s blank look, Hermione continued, “Malfoy seems to think that
we’re…pressuring you when we should be helping you, or something. He made some
accusations, and you were quite vehemently championed. It was all rather strange coming
from him. Ron got really defensive, and Malfoy was snarky like always, and then Ron
completely lost the plot. He disarmed Malfoy and started throwing hexes at him.”

Furious, Harry stood up. Hospital wing? “Where is he?”

“He’s fine, Harry,” Hermione said, a sly look in her eyes, gesturing for him to sit. “He’s more
than fine. I’m still not entirely sure what I witnessed today.”

“Stupid git,” Ron gasped between slugs, “does wandless magic now.”

Was that a thing? Harry tried to remember if he’d ever witnessed a teacher or a member of
the Order of the Phoenix or even a Death Eater doing magic without a wand, and he couldn’t
picture it.

Hermione smiled at whatever expression was on his face. “Nonverbal, wandless magic.” She
did a little wrist flick to demonstrate. “Like it was nothing.”

“He’s the next dark lord,” Ron said. “Mark my words.”

“Now you stop there, Ron,” Hagrid bellowed. “Malfoy’s served his time. He’s nothin’ like
Lucius now.”

None of them expected Hagrid, of all people, to defend Malfoy.

“How do you know?” Ron asked gruffly.

“I spent more time with Draco Malfoy this year than I have with any o’ you three. He’s down
here twice a week helpin’ me with the creatures. Likes animals now, he does. I expect it’s cuz
they don’t see the Mark on his arm. There’s only a handful o’ students doing NEWTs in my
subject, and he’s one of ‘em.”

Properly chastised, they ate rock cakes and drank tea and belched slugs, lost in their own
thoughts. It sounded as though Malfoy had accosted Ron and Hermione, at risk of getting
himself tossed back to the dementors, in order to defend Harry. That wasn’t how someone
who was indifferent or uncaring behaved.

Kissing Harry was too dangerous, but getting in a fight with Ron wasn’t? What was Malfoy
playing at?

Then there was the wandless magic. Harry was going to have to see that for himself before he
believed it. How many more secrets was Malfoy keeping? What would it take to earn his
trust, if saving his life a couple times wasn’t enough? Malfoy would have some things to
answer for once Harry got him alone.

Then he remembered that Hermione was also hoping for answers.

“You said you have questions,” Harry murmured, catching Hermione’s eyes for a second
before looking back down into his tea.

“Yes. How often are you having nightmares now?”

He shrugged one shoulder.

“No, don’t do that. We spent months in a small tent, living in each other’s pockets. We tell
each other the truth. How often? Is it still every night?”

He nodded.

“You’re not sleeping?”

“I get a few hours. More than Malfoy does.”

“And how is it that you know how much sleep Malfoy gets?”

He didn’t like the direction these questions were taking. “We both go to the common room
when we can’t sleep. We talk.”

She made a weird, scrunched up face. “Is that all you do?”

Ron gagged on a slug. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just wondering. The way Malfoy was defending Harry was sort of, well, passionate.”

Ron vomited profusely. “You’re mental. Harry would never.”

Hagrid coughed a laugh into his ham-sized fist.

In an effort to be honest with his closest friends, Harry studied the thatched ceiling of the hut
while he said, “I care about him.”

When he looked back, fear and disgust were crossing Ron’s face. When he caught Harry
looking at him, Ron tried to conceal whatever thoughts plagued him.

“But are you, I mean, do you fancy, you know, blokes?” Ron asked. “Is that why you broke
up with Ginny?”

Was Seamus wrong about wizards being more understanding about this sort of thing? Or was
Ron just that much of a prat today?

“Ginny broke up with me, and that’s not the reason why. But yeah, I fancy both, or all. Any.”

Hermione’s smile was entirely too suggestive. “And Malfoy in particular?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry admitted. “He won’t be with me. He says I’m not good for him.”

Ron looked apoplectic. “You’re not good for him? That snake bastard. You’re twelve times
the man he is.”
The absurdity of even having this conversation made Harry laugh. “Thanks, Ron.”

Hermione had several more questions. She asked what happened on Halloween, and Harry
was surprised that Malfoy had known about his episode. She forced Harry to admit that the
public events and the speeches were getting harder and harder to cope with, and that he
sometimes felt like he was holding the entire wizarding world up on his shoulders.

“It’s just…heavy. Sometimes.”

“Oh, Harry. I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

Once Ron was officially done hacking up slugs and they were preparing to leave, Hagrid
spoke quietly to Harry. “You mean ter say you like Malfoy? Like, properly like him?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “He doesn’t want me.”

“Tha’ can’t be right.”

“Thanks, Hagrid. Does he talk to you when he’s here helping?” He was trying to picture it
and couldn’t, but he liked the idea that Malfoy had someone as kind-hearted as Hagrid to talk
to.

“Yeah, that’s how it started. Gave me a right good apology, he did. Sometimes we talk about
Azkaban, and yer third year. Sometimes, it’s the war. It’s a hard thing bein’ around people
after a year alone with the dementors. It’s hard ter come back from tha’. I think he must’ve
bin a bit like me before he came ter Hogwarts.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was a sensitive kid, Harry. Someone who looks like me can’t be scared of everything, can
he? But I was, more scared than you lot ever was. Lucky I had a dad who let me be meself
and taught me how ter to be kind. Malfoy didn't have tha’.”

The idea of Hagrid and Malfoy finding common ground was almost too fantastic to be
believed. He suspected Azkaban was at the heart of it more than anything.

“I’m going to write to the Minister again,” Harry vowed. “We have to get the dementors out
of Azkaban.”

Tentatively, Hermione said, “It doesn’t have to be your fight. You know that you’ve done
enough, don’t you?”

He shook his head. “No, I haven't. There are always going to be battles to fight, and if I’m the
one who can fight them, I will. I’ll go to the Christmas Eve gala,” he resolved. “It’ll give me
a chance to speak to Kingsley in person. He needs to be moving faster on this. A year and a
half should’ve been more than enough time. If I can’t get through to him, I’ll talk to the
press.”

Although a line of worry marked Hermione’s forehead, she didn't comment. Fueled by guilt,
she promised Hagrid that they would spend more time with him after the holidays.
After learning that Monday and Wednesday evenings were specifically when Malfoy helped
out with the magical creatures, Harry wondered if he’d be in the way if their visits
overlapped. Then he wondered why he kept torturing himself, why he couldn’t seem to help
trailing after someone who would never choose to be with him.

On the walk back to the castle, Hermione asked him what he truly, honestly wanted to do for
Christmas.

“I think I want to stay at Hogwarts. This place was the first and only real home I ever had,
and this is my last year.”

“Do you want us to stay too?” Ron asked, and Harry could see the sacrifice behind the
question.

“No, don’t do that. I think some time alone would be good for me. You should be with your
family.”

“You’re our family too,” Ron reminded him. “I really better pack.”

“And before we leave,” Hermione said sternly to Ron, “you have some apologizing to do.”

Ron gaped. “What?”

“You used sectumsempra!”

Harry froze on the front steps. “You didn’t.”

“I admit I got a bit carried away. It’s not like it did any harm. That wandless magic was
completely bonkers. I reckon that talent would’ve come in handy on our side of the war,
especially when your wand broke.”

Harry had thought things through a hundred different ways before, and this was no exception.
If he’d known wandless magic, he might not have stolen Malfoy’s wand. And if he hadn’t
disarmed Malfoy, he wouldn’t have become the master of the elder wand. He wouldn’t have
defeated Voldemort.

But instead of getting into all that, he nodded encouragingly at Ron, adding, “Yeah, you need
to apologize.”

“That poncy git has never apologized to me!”

“He apologized to me,” Hermione said. “And he meant it.”

“Blimey.”
In the afternoon on the day before Christmas Eve, shortly before students would board the
Hogwarts Express home for the holidays, Professor Slughorn held a holiday party for the
Slugclub. Much like the Halloween Ball, Hermione and Ron were treating this as a second
chance to get it right.

Perhaps Professor Slughorn felt the same way because this time he issued an invitation to
Draco Malfoy, as well as Luna Lovegood.

Harry hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to Malfoy alone yet, which was probably intentional
on Malfoy’s part. Ron hadn’t managed to apologize yet either, so they both were nervously
scanning the party crowd for a platinum blonde. Apparently, he’d be making a late entrance,
if he made one at all.

“Should’ve brought the map,” Ron muttered.

“Can’t. I gave it to Malfoy.”

“What? Are you barking mad?”

“Just for the year.”

Ron got a pinched look as he considered what that meant. “He’s been avoiding us then.”

“Yeah, he does that a lot, but I’ve found the key to getting him out of hiding.”

Ron grabbed a profiterole from a passing tray. “And what’s that?”

“Jealousy.”

Slughorn had extended his invite to some of the more recent graduates, which included a
rather nervous Ginny on the arm of Dean Thomas, and standing with them, a laughing
Seamus Finnigan who was finally getting that holiday in the Scottish countryside.

“You know,” Ron said, “Seamus is gay. If you, well, are looking for someone who isn’t a
pointy git.”

“Thanks, Ron, but pointy gits are my type. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

Ron’s gusty sigh ended with a groan. “Malfoy’s an arse. He’s going to hurt you. He always
hurts you. New year, same shite. You should’ve learned your lesson with him by now.”

“Even you have to admit that this is a new direction for us.”

Ron mumbled something along the lines of don’t see why you can’t give Seamus a try.

“I’m not attracted to Seamus.” Harry considered. “That being said…”

As the plan formed, Harry finished his drank and approached the group of old Gryffindors.
“Seamus, you finally made it for a visit.” Harry put a friendly arm around his back in
greeting.

“Harry!”

The first few minutes of polite greetings and catching up weren’t nearly as awkward with
Ginny as he thought it would be. She was looking at him strangely when she eventually said,
“You seem like you’re doing well. Better. Coming back to Hogwarts was the right move,
then?”

He shrugged and nodded noncommittally before tugging Seamus in the direction of the dance
floor.

“Dancing, Harry?” Seamus whispered in his ear in his lilting Irish accent. “Does this mean
you’ve come out? I’d think I would’ve seen something in the papers, even in Ireland.”

Harry shook his head, still deeply confused as to why anyone would care. “Not really. Ron
and Hermione know.”

“Of course they do.”

“I’m a terrible dancer, Seamus. I’m regretting this already.” But it was too late to stop
twirling, or in Harry’s case stumbling, in tight circles around the other dancers.

They’d been dancing and laughing about Harry’s two left feet for a few minutes when Harry
swore he could feel Malfoy’s gaze on his back. On the next turn, he searched the crowd and
found Malfoy near the door wearing the expensive dress robe Harry had bought for him.
Harry tripped again, attention caught on Malfoy’s fierce expression. It was the first time he’d
ever seen Malfoy with his hair tied back in a knot, and it made his sharp jaw and cheekbones
stand out that much more. He had the wild thought that Ron could be right; Malfoy looked
extraordinarily powerful standing there glaring, like the next dark lord. The tailored robe
accentuated Malfoy’s trim height, and the silver-blue fabric brought out the fire of his eyes,
gray embers burning with emotions that Harry was finally learning to read.

Malfoy was enraged. Was it all just from jealousy? Had Harry’s plan taken things a bit too
far? Maybe he should’ve danced with Ginny instead.

“I need a drink,” Seamus laughed, threading their fingers together, and Harry was aware of
how intimate it might look. “Come with me, Harry.”

“Er…”

Harry turned and bumped into Ron.

“He’s here,” they both said at the same time. Ron smirked.

“Go make your apology,” Harry said. “I want to talk to him when you’re done.”

He appeared to be swallowing a slug. “Right, fine. Wish me luck.”

They ate a few appetizers, and Seamus slammed back a red drink that smelled like tropical
fruit. He handed a full one to Harry.

“No, thank you.”

“Have a drink with me. It’s Christmas.” He was entirely too close to Harry again, their hands
still interlocked. Seamus was shorter than Malfoy, shorter even than Harry, and it was all too
easy for him to fit against Harry’s side.

Harry took the glass but didn’t drink anything.

“It’s nice to see the castle again. And you,” Seamus said, touching Harry’s elbow. “Hogwarts
wasn’t the same without the three of you.”

“Mmhm.”

“I haven’t seen Hermione yet.”

“She’s been in the corner with Professor Agrios since we got here, probably going over the
end-of-term test.”

Seamus laughed. “He’s a right prick, isn’t he?” They spent a friendly moment disparaging the
Transfiguration professor for being even tougher than McGonagall.

Then Seamus declared, “We should’ve done this ages ago.”

“Done what? Dance?”

“I was really happy when I got your letter. I didn’t know, I didn’t think you would ever…”

A sense of foreboding settled inside his abdomen. “Ever what?”

Seamus brushed his lips across Harry’s neck. “It’s okay, Harry. I like you too.”

Panic jolted down Harry’s spine. “Er…No. Not like…” He never should have sent that letter.
Had he written something that would give Seamus the wrong idea? What were the right
words to diffuse the situation with minimal embarrassment for everyone?

Ten seconds later, it hardly mattered, because Seamus was roughly yanked back a meter into
the appetizer table, jostling several trays and tipping a pitcher of butterbeer. A voice, quiet
with menace, said, “If you want to keep your hands attached to your body, you’ll keep them
off Harry Potter.”

“Bloody fucking hell. Malfoy? Who let a Death Eater in here?”

“Scared, Finnigan? You should be.”

Harry touched Malfoy’s shoulder. “It’s okay. It was nothing. Don’t get yourself in trouble
over me.”
Every muscle in Malfoy’s body stayed tense, but he stepped back from the wide-eyed
Gryffindor.

“Merlin’s beard!” cried Slughorn. “What’s going on over here?”

“Seamus tripped into the table,” Harry lied, slipping his arm around Malfoy’s waist to hold
him there. He was strung so tight he was vibrating. His waist was narrow and warm. “No
problem, really.”

“I should hope not. Come with me, Mr. Finnigan. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

The look of betrayal in Seamus’s eyes made Harry twitch uncomfortably. He released his
breath as Slughorn led Seamus away. The rest of the party guests went back to what they
were doing, though many were still sending furtive looks at Malfoy.

“Have you forgotten you’re on probation? First Ron, now Seamus. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking you’re too famous for your own good. Someone has to protect you. Even your
ex-girlfriend can’t keep her eyes off you.”

He really doubted that. “And it’s worth going back to prison?”

“I’m done being afraid,” Malfoy muttered. “Which I admit is new territory for me.”

Malfoy’s attention roamed all over Harry’s face and his body, which for once was dressed
fashionably. The effort Harry had put in was entirely in the hope of this reaction.

Harry moved so he was standing directly in front of him, so Malfoy had no choice but to
meet his gaze. He gripped Malfoy’s pale wrists and still detected a faint trembling. “I
defeated Voldemort. I think I can handle some innocent flirting.”

It didn’t appear that Malfoy had heard him. “At least this event is at Hogwarts. There’s
nothing I can do when you leave the grounds. I can’t help you if you have a panic attack or
someone takes advantage. I’m fucking trapped here, powerless.”

Harry was tempted to say it again, that he could handle things himself, that he didn’t need
Malfoy’s protection, when he noticed the glassiness of Malfoy’s eyes, the sheen of sweat
across his forehead. Harry’s somewhat unreliable instincts finally kicked in and told him to
tread carefully.

“You’re saying…you want to help me?” Harry whispered.

Malfoy nodded and his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally.

“You want to protect me? Keep me safe?”

“Yes.”

He moved closer, laying one palm flat on Malfoy’s chest and rubbing upward. “You’re the
only one who’s allowed to touch me?”
“Yes.”

His cock really liked the sound of that. Their bodies were close enough now that Harry was
almost kissing the underside of Malfoy’s jaw. He decided to test his theory. “Tonight, when
we have the whole dormitory to ourselves, will you come to my room?”

Malfoy’s eyes went dark and unfocused as he nodded.

“Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

Harry wasn’t sure exactly what spell Malfoy was under. It was a little like the imperius curse
or veritaserum, but more genuine. Harry’s theory was that it was caused by touch. He thought
back to all the times that he had placed a hand on Malfoy and the effect it’d had. Sometimes,
it made Malfoy confused, a little lost, or sort of docile and inclined to allow more. But Harry
had never gotten a reaction this strong.

Malfoy looked…seduced. Pliant and aroused. Flushed and possessive and willing. This might
be Harry’s favorite version of him yet.

“Will you touch me tonight?” Harry whispered.

“Yes.”

“Will you let me touch you?”

“I…Yes.”

“Am I yours?”

“Mmm, please.” It was soft as a sigh.

“Do I belong to you…Draco?”

At the sound of his first name, Draco’s cheeks flushed pink and his eyes became hooded.
Harry resolved to call him by his first name for the rest of his life if it got that kind of
reaction.

“Yes. You’re mine.”

Harry hummed in the back of his throat.

How soon would Draco come to his senses and backtrack all the pensive, possessive things
he said? Harry wanted to keep him this way, where he looked like he was one small step
away from giving in, one breath away from kissing Harry right here in front of everyone.

How strange it was to hear the always argumentative man saying yes, and even better, please.
Maybe he wouldn’t even remember his promise to come to Harry’s room. Only time would
tell.
Harry took one step back, creating a more socially acceptable distance between their bodies.
“Let’s dance.”

“What?”

“Right now, you’re going to dance with me.”

“Potter?”

He could actually watch it happen, watch as the awareness trickled back into Draco’s eyes.
Part of Harry was relieved to see the normalcy of Draco’s annoyance and the resulting sneer,
while another part was aching and nervous and hoping that Draco might keep his word to
come to him tonight, however out of character the promise might have been.

At Harry’s insistence, they danced, with Draco in the lead and criticizing every clumsy step
Harry made, and Harry laughing it off and stroking his hands over Draco’s chest at every
opportunity, thrilling to the way it made Draco shiver.

It was extremely good right up until Ginny interrupted.

 CHAPTER TEN

“Do you mind if I cut in?” Ginny asked.

“You want to dance with Draco?” Harry asked, purposely confusing her request just to see
what would happen.

“Of course not, you numpty. Come on.”

He cast one warning look at Draco to stop him from making a scene. A possessive current
raged under the man’s calm façade, apparent only in the flash of his white teeth when he
grimaced, the telltale alarm in his eyes, and the subtle clenching of his fists. Harry wondered
why that was such a devastating turn-on.

Harry let Ginny guide him a careful distance away. His hands went to her waist and hers to
his shoulders and they swayed slightly, both conscious that was the extent of Harry’s dancing
prowess.

“Since when do you call him Draco?” she asked.

He bit the inside of his cheek for a second. “It’s a new development.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” One of her eyebrows seemed permanently raised while she studied
him. “What’s going on with you?”

“Well,” he swallowed, “I might be more than a bit gay.”

“Is that supposed to surprise me?”

“It doesn’t?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just please don’t tell me you’re dating Malfoy.”

“I…I’m not.”

“And why does that make you look like a wounded crup?” She stopped even the pretense of
dancing. “Harry? Are you fucking kidding me?”

His gaze, when he tore it away from hers, landed on Draco who stood at the periphery
watching him with unflinching concentration. Harry's face grew warm under the attention.

A short distance away, Dean Thomas was also glancing at Harry and Ginny, but his attention
kept jumping to the side—to Draco—with distinct mistrust.
“How could you?” she gasped.

“I really don’t think it’s any of your business who I fancy.”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she said, “We used to be friends.”

“We’re still friends, Gin. But you don’t get a vote in who I date.”

She removed her hands from his shoulders, using them to act out her displeasure with
assertive gestures. “He hates my entire family. His father nearly killed me. Why would I be
okay with this? Malfoy is a Death Eater. I thought you, of all people…Has he got you under a
spell? A curse? Is that what this is?”

Here was all the anger and disappointment and suspicion that Harry had feared getting from
Ron. For some reason, he hadn’t expected it from Ginny. He should’ve remembered her
temper.

“Of course not.” He was good at resisting the imperius curse, among other things. “You know
me better than that, don’t you?”

“I thought I did.”

His own temper, which he ordinary kept a lid on these days, suddenly spilled over. She was
acting like he dumped her for Draco. She was the one who dumped him, and yes, it was the
right choice for them, he could see that now, but what excuse did she have to feel betrayed?

“No one is making you date him, Ginny. You’ve got Dean. You’re happier with him than you
ever were with me, and that’s great. Now you need to let me find my own happiness.”

“He’s a monster. A snake,” she spat. “Malfoy can’t make you happy.”

He studied her freckled face for a long moment and felt a well of sadness for what he saw
there. Then he leaned close and drawled, “I’m quite good with snakes.”

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

It was true; nothing good could come from this. Draco paced his small room in back-and-
forth patterns past the foot of his bed while studying the map, which was startlingly empty
now that most of the castle’s occupants had left for the holiday.

Tiny footprints showed Harry Potter pacing identical patterns in his own room down the hall.

This was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. There was nothing Draco was more experienced
in or more devoted to than self-preservation, and walking down the hall to Harry Potter’s
room would guaranty his destruction.
Draco’s feelings for Potter were buried so deep that no one—not Pansy, not Greg, not even
Draco himself—understood the full extent of them. No one could know that he’d spent years
watching Potter, wishing that just one of those unfettered Potter smiles were directed at him
instead of his closest friends. Wishing that he could be the one to hear Potter’s innermost
thoughts. Wishing he could be the one Potter would choose for comfort and everyday things.

Draco had endured plenty of sex dreams starring Potter, but worse than those were the
dreams of mundane intimacy. He wanted to eat meals beside Potter, study with him, fly with
him, criticize his bad habits, make him laugh. Draco wanted to be the one to fight evil beside
him. And these longings could never, ever see the light of day.

He couldn’t do this to himself, couldn’t let Potter tear him open. His heart was already
scraped raw from the constant proximity to the man. He recognized the overstimulation
within his skin from all the friendly touching and dancing they’d done at the party—he
probably wouldn’t sleep for a week. How much more could he possibly endure before he
crumbled completely?

Draco had lived with evil. He’d been tortured by Voldemort himself. He’d been imprisoned
by soul-sucking dementors. And yet the possibility of receiving tenderness from Harry Potter
was a line he couldn’t bear to cross.

He dropped his wand and the map onto the bed to free up his hands for wandless magic. He
craved the practice, which was the ultimate challenge of his self-control. “Lumos,” he
whispered, capturing the light in his hands as it grew and pulsed from his fingertips. “Nox.”

Again and again, he pulled the light from his magical core and extinguished it, until his room
seemed to pulse like a heartbeat.

Do I belong to you, Draco?

At the memory of Potter’s voice, his conjured ball of light expanded into a blinding flare.

“Fuck.”

After a hasty “nox,” he was still blinded. What more proof did he need? Even the memory of
Potter wrecked his control, the last bit of self-protection he had. Walking down that hallway
and knocking on Potter’s door went against every survival instinct he had.

So why was he considering it?

You’re weak. His father’s voice, so clear in his head, made him flinch. He’d heard that voice
often during his stay in Azkaban. Father had taught him the value in wearing a mask and
doing whatever was necessary to survive. And where had it gotten Lucius? A dementor’s
kiss.

For the second time in a matter of minutes, Draco cursed at himself. He collapsed on the edge
of his bed and covered his face with his trembling hands. When his frantic heartbeat slowed,
he conjured another ball of light and held it over the Dark Mark.
Some part of him always hoped it would change or fade in some way. It never did. In prison,
he’d obsessed over the Mark, scratching his too-long nails over it, trying to carve out the
magical ink to no avail. Nothing could remove the glaring evidence of his mistakes.

But Potter, oh Potter. He had kissed it. The savior’s perfect lips had trailed over the obscene
scar like a benediction. No one had ever touched Draco that way, like he was precious and
worth protecting, not even before the war.

There had been a time, not so long ago, that Draco had believed he was superior and deserved
to have whatever he wanted. Would the old Draco have jumped at the chance to walk down
the hall and fuck Potter for the sake of his own pleasure? Or would he have been self-aware
enough to know that any attempt to ruin Potter would only backfire on his own delicate
heart?

There was a knock on his door.

Confused, he checked the map, and of course it was Potter standing there. Who else would it
be?

He tried to wipe his emotions as effectively as he wiped the map. Occlumency shields in
place, he opened the door and said, “Impatient, Potter?”

“I didn’t know if you remembered.”

Potter pushed past Draco and looked around. He wore red flannel joggers and a worn-out
gray tee shirt. There were smudges on the lenses of his glasses, and his hair was messier than
usual. Draco imagined him tugging the strands in frustration. Oddly enough, it was the sight
of Potter’s bare feet that put the first dent in his rigid control. His toes were knobby like his
knees.

Draco tried to maintain his contempt. “I can remember what I said a few hours ago, yes.”

“You promised to come to my room.”

“And if you hadn’t been so impatient, perhaps I would have kept my promise.”

“Really?” Potter’s hope and pleasure were so transparent that Draco’s breath caught in his
chest. Was he never self-conscious then? Never afraid? Of course not; he’d defeated evil,
defeated death, what did he have to be afraid of?

Potter said, “You left before the party was over.”

Draco shrugged in what he hoped was an elegant, off-hand way. “You looked like you were
enjoying yourself with the girl weasel.”

That wasn’t true. Potter had looked like he was going to jinx the witch. It gave Draco enough
confidence to leave Potter to his own devices and get out of there before he tried to do
something wild like dance with him again.

“My ex-girlfriend doesn’t like you.”

Draco looked away. “I don’t blame her for that.”

“I don’t blame her either, but it pissed me off, and then you were gone.”

“I have better things to do than mingle with Slughorn’s sycophants.” That also wasn’t true.
Once upon a time, he would’ve relished the opportunity to swap words with notable wizards
and witches. These days, no one wanted to speak to a Malfoy unless they were putting him in
his place. He was almost accustomed to it now, the constant death eater scum barbs and well-
aimed hexes. No place would ever be safe for him. He couldn’t even imagine what it would
feel like to walk a hallway without watching every corner and alcove for a potential attack.

Potter was walking the perimeter of his bedroom, picking things up and putting them down.
He gestured vaguely at the room at large and said, “I didn’t expect this.”

“Expect what?”

“You’re messy.”

Clothes, shoes, towels, books, parchment, all the fine things Potter had paid for as well as the
boxes and bags they came in were strewn around. “I’ve always been. Why did you expect
anything different?”

“I don’t know. You were always so posh and put together. Discovering you’re a slob is
making me question everything I’ve ever assumed.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I was a spoiled only child with house elves. Messes were never mine
to clean up.” He gave the room another look, trying to see it through fresh eyes, and admitted
it was worse than usual. “I spent more than year with nothing at all. It’s a bit nice to be
surrounded by…things.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

Potter’s hand reached out, and Draco flinched away, then felt like a fool. Who was scared of a
touch? He might as well confess out loud how pathetically frightened and vulnerable he was
in this moment.

Potter didn’t give up, but he was cautious now. His fingers touched the lapel only of Draco’s
formal dress robes, careful to avoid getting too close.

“You look incredible in this,” Potter murmured.

“Is that why you bought these things? You have a kink for fine tailoring?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Want me to be your little dress-up doll? Your kept man?”

“No. Fuck.” His hand dropped to his side. “I was trying to help. That’s all.”
“Supplying a few basics would be helping. You bought out half of wizarding Paris. The
expensive half.”

Potter’s mouth quirked at the side. “Yeah, well, I don’t do things part-way. And you have
expensive tastes.”

“I used to. That was a different lifetime.”

He nodded. “I get that. What is it you want these days?”

The answers presented themselves so quickly that it hurt. Safety. Freedom. Forgiveness. To
be cherished by your big, clumsy hands. Each desire that burst from within him was more
impossible than the one before, and more painful to contemplate.

“Nothing you can give me.”

Potter’s expression darkened, and his hand carded through his hair just the way Draco had
pictured it. “You’re very contradictory, you know that? You say I can do anything, and then
you tell me all the things I can’t do. You say you’ll come to me, and you don’t. You say
you’ll touch me, but you won’t. You’re driving me mad.”

It was a little satisfying, at least, that Draco wasn’t the only one suffering, though he couldn’t
imagine why Potter cared. “You’re used to getting everything so easily, aren’t you? Everyone
bending over backward for the savior. That’s not my—”

Potter slapped his hand over Draco’s mouth. His other hand was on Draco’s shoulder, holding
him steady, pulling him closer. “Shut up,” he growled. “Would you just shut up? You know
that’s not who I am.”

He wanted to argue, was prepared to, but Potter was touching him again and a warm buzzy
static was extinguishing all those fears and vanishing his sense of self-preservation. Why did
this keep happening? It left him in a pool of feeling, swimming in Potter’s earthy scent, the
rumble of his voice, the ripple of his recklessly exposed magic. Draco’s eyes drifted shut as
his lips rubbed Potter’s palm and his tongue tasted his skin.

“Oh fuck,” Potter gasped. “Draco.”

Then Potter’s hands were on the back of his head pulling him into the deepest, most
devastating kiss of his life. Heat rippled through his body. Teeth nipped and pulled, hands
tugged, and Potter’s tongue fucked into his mouth in the filthiest way, more enthusiasm than
skill. Draco could barely breathe, and he didn’t care. His hands dove under Potter’s shirt and
gripped his waist so hard he probably left marks. Hoped he did.

The taste of Potter’s mouth, the warmth of his hands, all those delicious sounds he made—
Draco couldn’t get enough of them. He wanted to absorb them, keep them for all the cold and
quiet nights that were sure to stretch out ahead of him.

“You,” Potter breathed as Draco moved to his neck, sucking his skin. “You’re so untouchable.
That wall you put up. It’s like you won’t let me near you.”
“You’re near me now.”

Draco bit down on the sensitive muscle at the curve of his neck and shoulder, and Potter
shook.

“Oh, Godric, I need you. Don’t shut me out again.”

Draco moved his hands down into Potter’s loose joggers—pleased he wasn’t wearing pants
beneath—and grabbed his arse roughly, drawing their bodies together. “Say it again.”

Understanding, Potter moaned, “I need you, Draco.”

It was baffling that someone as ridiculously powerful as Harry Potter needed anything, let
alone him. Maybe what he needed was a break, a good fuck, a chance to forget for a while.
Draco could be that, even if it cost him everything.

Draco had just enough consciousness of mind to whisper against Potter’s mouth, “You’re
sure?” It simply didn’t make sense that Potter would want this with him.

Potter nodded and kissed him again, chasing Draco’s tongue while his fingers tightened in his
hair. It had been so long since he’d been touched, even lightly, in any way that wasn’t violent
or cursory. Every little touch consumed him, from the press of Potter’s thigh along his to the
way their noses brushed as they changed angles. It was almost too much to bear. He could get
lost in the sensations, just stay here forever being snogged senseless by the savior of the
wizarding world. Forget school, forget food, forget sleep, forget everything that existed
outside Potter’s mouth and his hands and his body rubbing up against him.

When he thought he might cry from how sensitive his skin felt, Draco took a step back and
tried to get a grip.

What he wanted right now, more than anything else, was to make Potter feel good. Maybe
Draco had a reputation as a selfish prick, but here in the privacy of his bedroom with a
willing Harry Potter, he wanted nothing more than to give and give. He wanted Potter
writhing under him, begging for more, coming undone, and then coming again. He wanted to
own him, even if no one else would ever know. He wanted to please him until Potter couldn’t
remember his own name. Draco had only ever dreamed of having that kind of power.

Draco turned him slightly and walked him backward toward his bed. “Potter, what is it that
you want?”

“Mmph, what?” His attention was locked on Draco’s mouth.

“Is there something you want? Is there anything you don’t want? I need to know before…”

“We’re really doing this?”

At Draco’s raised eyebrow, Potter rushed to say, “I want to—I’m just surprised. I was starting
to think you would never admit it.”

He kissed Potter’s jaw. “Admit what?”

“That Draco Malfoy could be attracted to Harry Potter.”

He really had no idea, did he? Draco kissed and sucked the tender spot beneath his ear until
Potter’s breathing was audibly labored. “Oh, I’ve admitted nothing.”

Potter’s hand slipped past Draco’s hip and didn’t stop until it cupped his hard cock. He felt a
little faint.

“You sure about that?”

“Fuck.” Draco’s head fell back and he let himself feel for just a minute, just one more second
of tentative stroking. Then he twisted away. “What have you done before? What are you
ready for?”

Potter bit his lip. “I’ve never, I mean, not with a man.”

“There’s no rush,” he whispered, and Potter visibly relaxed.

When Potter reached for him, he side-stepped again. “No. Let me.” He didn’t know how to
explain that he wanted to be present and fully aware for this, not drunk on being touched. He
didn’t know how to explain that when something felt good, it was actually very, very bad.

If it were up to him, he’d tie Potter to the bed to avoid any distractions and vulnerabilities,
but Draco didn’t want to scare him off.

It took very little work to get Potter naked. His oversized clothes pulled off easily, revealing a
body that had filled out nicely since their boyhood days. Draco couldn’t look at him without
fantasizing about what he wanted to do—those tanned and muscular legs would look good
around Draco’s waist. The hard cock jutting out, thicker than Draco’s, made his mouth water
to taste him, to feel its weight stretching his mouth open. Draco wanted to suck Potter in until
his nose was buried in the thatch of brown curls.

Potter’s broad chest had two unexpected scars—an exact oval carved into his right pectoral,
and a lightning bolt over his heart that matched the curse scar on his forehead. He thought
he’d understood what the lightning bolt scar meant, but the existence of a second was
disconcerting. He reached out to trace it with his fingertips.

“What does this mean?”

“Not sure,” Potter said breathlessly. “It’s one of the things I need to ask Dumbledore, er, his
portrait, I mean.”

“And this?” His fingers explored the rough texture of the skin within the oval.

“Long story. Not remotely sexy.”

“If you got it fighting evil, you’re wrong about that.”

Potter swallowed. “Oh, well, yeah. I did.”

Draco laughed at the reluctant hero and the strangeness of being permitted to explore his
body.

Potter said, “But these aren’t.” He held up his forearms to show a smattering of pale marks.
“Just grease burns, cooking for the muggles.”

“A child’s slave labor qualifies as evil to me.”

“I didn’t fight it.”

“You survived it and eventually escaped,” Draco explained. “That qualifies as fighting.”

“Not as sexy as breaking into Gringotts and flying away on a dragon, though.”

Draco wasn’t entirely sure he agreed. The mundane felt more real than the fantastic.
Something else caught Draco’s eye then, and he fingered the puckered line in Potter’s bicep.
“This isn’t a burn.”

“Mmm. Forgot that one. Basilisk fang.”

“Merlin.” Only Potter could have so many near-death experiences that he forgot about a
fucking basilisk. “Not even you could survive basilisk venom.”

“Dumbledore’s phoenix saved my life.”

“How much of your continued survival is due to pure fucking luck?”

“Like, ninety percent, probably.”

He laughed because it was either that or cry. “I knew it.”

Potter just smiled. Then a blush spread from his cheeks down to his neck and chest. “How
long am I going to be standing here starkers while you’re fully clothed?”

When Draco again dodged his reaching hands, Potter frowned. “Did I do something wrong?”

What could you possibly do wrong? I’m broken, and you’re a dream.

“No. It’s me. I’m not able…I can’t cope with…Please, don’t touch me. Since Azkaban, I
haven’t been—”

“Shh.” Again, Potter grabbed his lapel only. Draco realized he was shaking and getting
excessively worked up. What more could he do to ruin the moment he’d spent years
fantasizing about? Whatever had attracted Potter in the first place must be getting outweighed
by this display of weakness.

“It’s okay,” Potter crooned. “Whatever you need. Do you want me to go?”

“No. Stop it. Fuck. Stop being nice.”

“What?”
Draco growled and stared at the ceiling, trying to get himself under control. “I don’t need pity
from Saint Potter. I’m the villain here. You and me, we don’t do nice. We curse each other.”

With jerky movements, he pulled off the expensive robes and threw them across the floor. He
summoned his wand and made quick work of the fiddly buttons on his shirt, which joined the
robes.

“This,” he said, rubbing his own hand roughly over the slashing scars that disfigured his
chest and stomach. “This is what we do to each other. This I can handle. This I can
understand.”

“Fuck.” Potter’s eyes welled up but thankfully no tears fell. “What did I do to you?”

“Nothing I didn’t deserve. No,” he cried out, swatting Potter’s hand away. “Don’t touch me.
Not like that. It isn’t…Don’t treat me like I’m fragile. If all you have to give is kindness, then
don’t touch me at all. I have half a mind to tie up your hands. Maybe then you’ll see what
kind of man I am.”

Potter blinked. “Okay.”

“What?”

“Okay.” Potter held out his hands, wrist up. “Show me. Tie me up. Make me understand.”

Draco’s mouth went dry. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking for?”

“Nope,” Potter laughed lightly. “But I’m not afraid of you. Do your worst, Malfoy.”
 CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chapter Notes

...earning some tags in this chapter.

“Do your worst, Malfoy.”

Harry purposely said the name with the same mocking derision he’d used when they were
young. He was going on pure instinct here, and he had a feeling that Draco wanted to be
called by his last name and wanted to be treated the way Harry used to treat him in school.
Draco didn’t want, or couldn’t handle, the caring emotions that welled up inside Harry.

As a conjured rope bound his wrists together, he had the distinct impression that he was about
to be punished. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that yet, but he had wanted Draco
for so long that he didn’t feel a moment’s hesitation in going along with this.

Draco shoved him in the chest, not unlike the way they’d shoved each other by the
Astronomy Tower, and Harry fell back on the bed. An invisible force pulled the rope up and
back behind his head, effectively tying him to the headboard. He pulled a little, testing the
knot and exploring how much slack he was given—not much, but enough to prevent too
much pain. He knew that if he were truly scared, his embarrassing temperamental magic
would probably blast him free of the rope and maybe destroy the bed in the process. He
trusted Draco enough that he didn’t think it would be necessary.

Maybe this was fucked up, maybe he’d regret it later, but Harry hadn’t felt this alive since
he’d killed Voldemort.

His cock, which had softened at the first sight of the sectumsempra scars on Draco’s
abdomen, was rock hard again and straining for contact, but Draco was maddeningly out of
reach. At least Harry had a good view. Draco’s trousers perfectly fit his long legs and tight
waist, doing nothing to hide the bulge of his erection. When Harry looked past the scars,
Draco’s pale skin was smooth and perfect over lean muscle. Harry was desperate to touch it,
to taste his sharp collarbones and grip his biceps and lick down the fine blond hairs beneath
his navel.

He had to settle for watching, which was probably for the best considering his problem with
stamina and his level of excitement over finally getting to experience the kind of sex he’d
only wondered about.

“You can still walk away,” Draco said, his voice low and as smooth as honey. “At any time.
Just say the word and I’ll let you go.”

“What word?”
“Pick one.”

“Oh, er, gillyweed?” He’d lived in a boys’ dormitory long enough to have heard of the
concept of safe words.

Draco nearly smiled. “You’ll remember that?”

“Yeah, saved my life in the tournament.”

“I’m going to work you harder than the tournament, Potter.”

“I have to tell you…” Oh, it was so humiliating. “I have a problem with…I don’t last long. I
could come right now just from looking at you.” He tamped down the urge to apologize.

“Good.” Draco’s hand slid down his own body, slowly, to cup his clothed erection.

“Good?”

“I want you to,” Draco said. “Then I’m going to build you up again. I want you to come so
many times that no amount of cleaning spells will remove you from my sheets. Can you do
that for me?”

Harry cursed, heart racing. His great fear of disappointing Draco the way he had disappointed
Ginny sizzled and burned away. The blood throbbed in his cock. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Draco tossed the pine wand on his desk and kneeled at the foot of the bed. Although his
hands were only stroking Harry’s ankles, at least he was touching him finally. Those smooth
white hands ghosted up over shins and calves.

“Do you think you can come with your cock untouched?”

“I…what? Is that normal?”

“Haven’t you ever had a wet dream, Potter?”

“Oh, I guess. I just assumed that I touched myself in my sleep.”

“Some people can come from mental stimulation, and from being touched on other parts of
their body.”

Draco picked up one of Harry’s legs and kissed the arch of his foot. When a zing of pleasure
shot straight through him, he thought he understood. Then he felt Draco’s teeth barely scratch
across his foot.

“Oh fuck.”

“That’s it, Potter.” Draco took his time, using tongue and teeth and fingers to slowly take him
apart. A nibble behind his knee, a hand massaging the tendons in his inner thigh, a kiss on his
hip bone.
He was so lost in the building pleasure that he caught himself murmuring “Draco” instead of
“Malfoy”; luckily his tormenter didn’t seem to mind. Draco held his hips down into the
mattress while he hovered over Harry, careful to avoid even the slightest contact with Harry’s
leaking cock. Then his head dipped down and Draco sucked one nipple into his mouth.

Harry had never gasped so loudly in his life.

“Mmm,” Draco hummed, and his teeth worked the tiny nub until Harry was writhing. “Hold
still.” Then he switched to the other nipple and the torture became too much.

He was going to break. He was going to burn up. He was going to die. Before he could figure
out what was happening, his balls drew up tight and he was coming in wild stripes across his
own abdomen and yes, Draco’s sheets. The orgasm tingled in a way he’d never experienced
before, as if the pleasure was being pulled from all the different parts of his body.

“Potter, you beautiful creature. Look how responsive you are.” Draco kneeled upright, his
legs bracketing Harry’s hips, and dipped his fingers in the mess Harry had made. When he
brought one fingertip up to taste, Harry whimpered at the sight.

“Kiss me,” Harry whispered. “Please. Kiss me please.”

Harry almost protested when Draco got off the bed, until he realized what he was doing.
After unbuttoning and unzipping, Draco pulled his trousers and pants off in one go. He had a
body like a marble statue, pale white, and his cock was long and stiff and perfect.

Then his fully naked body slid over Harry’s in the most delicious way, even as Harry’s tacky
semen slid between both of their stomachs.

Finally, Draco’s mouth slotted over his. Harry had waited so long for this, to taste him again,
to welcome the intrusion of Draco’s tongue stroking into his mouth, that he couldn’t control
the wanton moan it elicited. It was all so good—breath mixing, teeth biting, lips pressed
together with the most delicious friction. He wanted it all. How could he still be so delirious
with need when he’d already come like a geyser? His bound hands flexed, desperate for
freedom.

Draco’s cock pressed against him, a tantalizing stiffness digging into the inside of his hip. As
they kissed for minutes, hours, days longer, Harry felt his own dick filling again, as if it were
trying to reach out to Draco’s.

“This time,” Draco said, as if issuing a warning, “I’m going to worship your cock.”

“What?” Harry tilted his head up, trying in vain to capture Draco’s lips again. He tugged
futilely at his bindings.

“I’m going to touch your cock this time and suck on it until you come again.”

Harry’s head fell back with a moan he couldn’t control. There was nothing he could control,
not his voice or the rush of blood in his veins or the zaps of pleasure that followed every
touch Draco gifted. He’d never known how good it could feel to stop fighting, stop thinking,
and give himself over to Draco. Not even when he’d walked toward death had he felt this
vulnerable and this free.

What would his younger self have thought of this? That he was trusting Draco Malfoy with
every naked, vulnerable part of himself? It was perfect madness.

He couldn't decide if it was better with his eyes open or closed. The view of Draco kissing his
way down Harry's chest, his tongue flicking his sensitive scars and even more sensitive
nipples, was as sensual as Harry's warmest fantasies. With his eyes closed, though, there were
no distractions from the tactile sensations, and the intensity grew and compounded. Warmth
to heat to blazing fire. It was almost too much.

Then Draco's hand surrounded Harry's prick and his eyes flew open. His hips shifted
instantly, pumping his cock into those long, pale fingers, but not getting nearly enough relief.
As good as it felt, the pressure wasn't enough. The drag on his foreskin was feather-light. Was
this heaven or hell?

“Malfoy, please, I'm dying.”

“Wouldn't be the first time.”

“I can't believe you'd joke about that,” he choked.

“You’d rather have wonder and praise? I’m not a Potter groupie.”

“D-don’t want a groupie,” he stuttered as the stroking motion sped up.

“What do you want?” Draco asked.

“Everything. Show me what it feels like. Please. I’ve never done...”

“Are you serious? No one ever sucked you?”

He moaned at the first lick of Draco's tongue over his tip.

“Answer me, Potter.”

“Ahhh, no. Never.”

Draco didn’t mock him or ask for an explanation. He simply muttered, “Fuck,” and stretched
his mouth over Harry’s cock, sucking him in, tip to base. Things moved quickly and
vigorously then. Harry’s grip on reality dissolved as he lost himself in wet heat, the swirling
pressure of Draco’s tongue, the delectable friction, the light suction when Draco hollowed his
cheeks.

His heels dug into the mattress. The wooden headboard creaked ominously.

Draco was stronger than he looked. With his hands under Harry’s hips, he picked Harry up
slightly off the bed and rocked him roughly into his mouth until he coughed and tears formed
in the corners of his eyes. Harry had one second to wonder who was being punished here
before he was pulled back into the pleasure that was rising like a rocket, dangerously fast.

Draco’s mouth pulled off, and before Harry could whimper in complaint, the hot suction
enveloped his bollocks, first one testicle, then the other.

“What?” he gasped, seeing stars.

Draco hummed in his throat and the vibration travelled straight through Harry’s dick.
Overwhelmed, Harry froze as if petrified.

“Breathe, Potter. You have to breathe.”

Just as the air gusted out of his lungs, Draco returned, sucking his cock hungrily, and it was
all too much to contain. Harry shattered apart into a thousand pieces. Draco only sucked
harder until Harry wondered desperately if he would ever stop coming.

“God, Malfoy, stop. Unnff, please.”

Draco had swallowed some of it. What was left dribbled over his chin in a picture of
complete debauchery. He wiped his face on the sheets.

“How are your arms?”

Harry struggled to regain enough consciousness to form words. “Shoulders...sore.”

Draco rose up slowly and held one hand out. The rope vanished leaving behind an echo of
Draco’s magic on his skin that made Harry shiver.

“You did that without a wand.”

“I can do a lot without a wand.” Draco sat back on his heels. He held his hand up as if to
demonstrate and it was spontaneously shiny with lubricant. Leaning back, he stroked his cock
and sighed, offering Harry truly the best sight of the night so far.

Absentmindedly, like an afterthought, Draco said, “You really are beautiful like this.”

“Like what?”

“Blissed out. Well shagged. Your hair is even worse than normal. Your skin is red and
blotchy. And you’re breathing like you just swam the Black Lake.”

When Harry shifted and reached for him, Draco stilled.

“You still won’t let me touch you?”

Draco resumed his slow stroking and shook his head.

It hurt more than it should. Harry told himself to be understanding even as a small, petulant
part of him wanted to lash out the way he would’ve a few years ago whenever Malfoy hurt
him.

The reminder of who they used to be gave Harry the feeling that what they had here, what
they were doing, was more dream than reality. It felt like fantasy, and soon he would wake up
and Malfoy would hate him and he’d never have this opportunity again. If this was his only
chance to indulge, he wanted all of it. Anything he could get.

“Then use me, Malfoy.”

Draco raised one thin eyebrow in a languorous sort of question.

“I want everything. Now. I want you to fuck me.”

Harry rolled to his stomach and lifted up on his knees, trying to block out the nervous self-
consciousness that crept through him at exposing himself this way.

The only sound in the room was a quiet gasp from Draco.

Surely, after everything Draco had done to him so far, this was just more of the same, right?
But it wasn’t. Maybe sex meant nothing to some people, but it meant a lot to Harry—too
much, probably, but he couldn’t help it. His heart was tangled up and on display in everything
that he shared with Draco. Opening his body to him was certainly no exception.

That didn’t stop him from spreading his knees a little wider and taking a deep, steadying
breath while he waited for Draco to decide.

“Fuck, Potter,” he breathed. “You’ve never done this before.”

“No. I mean, I slept with Ginny, lasted about five seconds. Not a good memory.”

Harry had always pictured his first time being romantic. Soft kisses and passion-filled gazes
and whispered I-love-yous. Instead, his first time with Ginny had been motivated by an
embarrassing desire to not die a virgin, which had given the whole event an air of desperation
and grief. She had clearly been disappointed, and Harry had almost been glad to be leaving
on a suicide mission.

It didn’t really surprise him that his first time with a man wasn’t going to follow the script
either. While he would’ve preferred a tender face-to-face encounter, his expectations were
more realistic. In order of importance, his goals were to give Draco even a fraction of the
pleasure Harry had experienced in this bed, find out what the fuss over the prostate was
about, and not embarrass himself by falling asleep in the middle of the action because he was
really fucking tired after two draining orgasms of his own. He hadn’t known two in a row
were possible; a third was out of the question.

It did surprise him, then, that the first move wasn’t a finger up the arse, but a soft kiss at the
base of his neck. Draco’s erection slotting between his legs and nudging his sack was almost
too erotic for words, but those gentle lips caressing his spine were his real undoing. Draco
held Harry’s waist in his hands as his mouth seduced him one vertebra at a time. Once Draco
reached the top of Harry’s buttocks, he was inexplicably hardening again.
“Draco,” he sighed, placing his weight on his forearms and letting his forehead drop to the
mattress.

“Yes, Potter?”

He probably would have responded with something incoherent or sappy when a rushing
tingle inside his body made him jump. “Wha?”

“Cleansing charm.”

Harry had two seconds to contemplate the part of him that was just touched by Draco’s
wandless, nonverbal magic before the man’s fingers were gently spreading the cheeks of his
arse. He tensed instinctively, his thoughts becoming razor sharp in the expectation of being
breeched. Then Draco’s tongue swiped warm and wet along his cleft.

Harry yelped.

“Okay there, Potter?”

He whimpered, “Uh, yes?”

“Remember your word?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Gillyweed. He knew himself well enough to know he wasn’t going to use it.

“Good.”

Then Draco’s tongue returned, licking and curling and pressing determinedly across his hole.
Harry’s thoughts scattered like stars across the night sky, and his panting moans became
incoherent. Whatever noises he was making seemed to spur Draco on as he lapped and
sucked until suddenly the tip of his tongue pried Harry open.

“Fuck. Oh fuck. Ohhh.” He had no control over his body, which was trying to rock backward
onto Draco’s mouth. The sounds of the licks and sucks were obscene and fucking incredible.
Maybe Harry would feel shame over this shocking level of intimacy if he were capable of
anything more than writhing and panting. Torn between too much, too much and oh god, not
enough, he was lost within a trembling, desperate arousal like he’d never experienced before.

When a slick finger slid smoothly into his hole, there was no room for fear or nerves. “Yes.
Please, Draco, keep going. Yes.”

“Fuck,” Draco gasped, still kissing around his hole. “Look at you move. Can’t believe I’m
the first one inside you.”

Sweat formed across Harry’s forehead as he begged for more. “Please. I think I can take
more. Draco.”

“Love how you say my name.”

He slid in a second finger, and Harry cried out at the unfamiliar burn.
“Okay?” Draco asked.

“Keep going.”

His fingers twisted in and out slowly, smoothly, stretching him wider and driving him insane.
Now he was torn between too much, it hurts and please give me more pain.

“Want you,” Harry panted. “When? How long? Please.”

“Patience, Potter. I won’t be careless with you. We’re going to do this right.”

“There should be a spell for this.”

“There is,” Draco admitted.

“Then fucking use it. Open me up fast. I need you.”

“Fuck.” Draco murmured an incantation and pulled his fingers out, leaving Harry empty and
tingling and oddly loose.

Then there was pressure, the head of Draco’s cock lightly pressing against his hole, and
Harry couldn’t hold back a whimper. Wet lubricant dripped down his thigh. Why was Draco
hesitating? Did he not want—

“Ahh!” he cried as Draco finally popped past the tight ring.

Draco halted, rubbing his hands over Harry’s lower back, which was all the comfort he
needed to make him relax. He tried to rock himself back, but Draco held him steady.

“More, Draco.”

“I’m hurting you.”

“No. I’ve felt pain before. That’s not what this is. Please. Please.”

Steadily, Draco eased in deeper, filling every part of Harry he didn’t know needed filling. It
went on and on, until Harry’s legs were shaking and his lungs stopped working properly.
Draco bottomed out, the fronts of his thighs against the backs of Harry’s, and his lips returned
to Harry’s spine.

The tears that pricked in Harry’s eyes had nothing to do with the burning discomfort and
everything to do with the man holding him. One arm banded around Harry's waist, and the
other clutched his chest. Like a lover. He hated not knowing if he was allowed to touch those
arms or thread their fingers together, but a moment later, it didn’t matter because Draco was
sliding smoothly out and back in, and Harry needed every ounce of his strength to hold
himself steady and balanced under the onslaught of new sensations: the drag along foreign
nerve endings. His tight channel being worked open for the first time. Draco’s balls tapping
his arse when he was fully seated. The change in angle when Draco rose back up and slotted
his fingers into Harry’s hip bones. Then, the stunning twist of pleasure that the new angle
afforded.
“Ah! That was…fuck. Fuck, Draco. Again. Again.”

Draco’s thrusts sped up in earnest, a racing pulse, sliding through excess lubricant to nudge
that sensitive pleasure center deep inside of him. Harry gulped in air as everything seemed to
go up in flames—his vision, his skin, his heart. He was burning, and he didn’t care. Let the
fiendfyre take him if it felt like this.

The unrelenting onslaught did the impossible, hardening Harry’s cock to the breaking point,
tightening his balls with enough pressure that he was afraid, truly afraid, of what would
happen when the dam broke.

Straight through the build-up, Draco just kept fucking into him, an animalistic pounding, a
loss of control so unlike him that Harry suspected he was finally glimpsing something real,
and Harry was greedy for it. He wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than all of Draco
Malfoy.

Harry’s mouth opened to speak, but whatever emotional nonsense would’ve come out, he
held it in. As far back as he could remember, no one wanted words of love from him. It was
why everything else came out unfiltered and uncontrolled, because all his energy was
expended on containing how deeply he loved.

Draco wasn’t the first person to refuse Harry’s affection.

Not saying it or showing it didn’t mean he couldn’t feel it. As things stood now, all Harry
could do was drown in a violent outpouring of him, him, him. Draco, Draco, Draco.

“Potter.” The whispered name made goosebumps rise on Harry’s skin despite all this heat.
“So good. You feel so good. Need you to come for me.”

He could only grunt, desperately trying to hold back, to hold himself together, but Draco
wouldn’t let him. He pulled Harry upright and embraced him. Every part of Harry’s back
pressed against Draco’s front, skin rubbing against skin, and Draco’s hips kept pumping,
pummeling Harry’s prostate on every rough stroke. Then Draco’s hand slid down and stroked
his sensitive cock, rubbing his thumb over the leaking tip, and Harry made a sound he’d
never heard from his own throat—a deep, feral cry. His ab muscles tightened, and his mind
scrambled in a panic. Whatever part of his heart or soul that Harry wanted to protect, Draco
wouldn’t let him. With ruthless command, he slammed Harry over the peak.

“Fuck! Draco!” It rushed through his limbs, his arse, his cock, a pleasure-pain that erupted
out of him in fluid streaks across the sheets. It was a new kind of death, and he wasn’t sure if
he should sob or laugh as the electric shocks turned his body to liquid. He slumped back
against Draco, head on his shoulder, completely at his mercy.

Draco’s arms wrapped around him, holding them together. Just as Draco’s thrusts became
punishing, they faltered, and his arms tightened beyond reason, a stranglehold so unyielding
that Harry wondered if his ribs would crack. Draco was shaking. He came inside Harry with a
choking breath, almost a gasp of pain, his fingers digging into Harry’s flesh.
As the last of Draco’s orgasm pulsed inside him, Draco's mouth latched onto Harry’s neck,
teeth biting down.

Even if he'd had the strength to object, Harry wouldn’t have.

 CHAPTER TWELVE
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Draco was dizzy with too many emotions. Relief was chief among them because Potter
promptly fell unconscious after Draco’s softened cock slipped out of him, thank Merlin. He
barely twitched at Draco’s invasive cleaning spell, simply sprawled naked on the bed,
stomach down, and let sleep take him.

Sleep didn’t come for Draco, which wasn’t a surprise when he examined the evidence. Potter
had touched him. Not as much as he’d wanted to, maybe, but he had. No matter how much
Draco had wanted to keep it impersonal, this had been much more than a casual fuck between
former rivals. He could only hope that the effects of the overstimulation didn’t last for quite
so long this time.

Taking advantage of this rare opportunity, Draco brushed his fingertips over all that messy
hair and looked his fill of that golden, battle-hardened body. Even in the embrace of deep
sleep, there was something off about Potter. Something weary. Instead of setting him free,
winning the war had wrapped more heavy chains around their hero. The unfairness of it
nagged at Draco, who lacked the means and ability to do anything about it.

The whole world thought they knew how special Harry Potter was, but they had no idea.
They hadn’t even scratched the surface. They didn’t know how much he hurt himself for
them. How forgiving he was, how confident and charming and honest. Not even Potter knew.

Three orgasms with almost no break. Draco had to slap a hand over his mouth to mute the
sound of his own deranged laughter. Only Potter could have that in him. And here he was in
Draco’s bed. At least for tonight, he had wanted Draco.

What a fucking incredible gift.

His hand slid down to rub his chest where some deep and forgotten muscle ached from lack
of use.

Out of nowhere, his sight blurred and jumped. The flash in front of his eyes showed a
different room, a red and gold bed, and Ron Weasley standing over him. Draco felt a burning,
stabbing pain in his forehead, abject fear, and a violent urge to vomit. Past the vision, he
could still make out his own messy room, but in the forefront, opaque images began
flickering and whirring past like dreams at high speed, each carrying different sensations and
emotions that made him dizzy.

Now a vast space filled with shelves of glowing orbs. Flicker. An island in a dark cave
surrounded by murky water and ghostly inferi. Flicker. Gravestones with Nagini slithering by.
Draco jolted upright in panic, and the vision held. There was Wormtail and a small, scaly,
hideously blackened figure bundled in robes. The vision wavered around the edges. There, a
circle of Death Eaters. With horror, Draco spotted his father and Voldemort. Suddenly, he felt
the cruciatus curse. He felt it. The dead body of Cedric Diggory.

He blinked and dragged air into his lungs, and the visions snapped into nothing just as
quickly as they started.

“What the absolute fuck was that?”

It was something in the mind, some branch of legilimency or divination. Visions. The future?
No, Voldemort was past. A foreign intrusion. From where or whom?

He didn’t know what or how or why, but the timing of the invasion was easy enough to
understand. He’d been relaxed and emotional, a terrible circumstance for occlumency.

Draco stumbled out of bed and grabbed hold of the pine wand, unsure if he was capable of
wandless magic right now. Breathing slowly and deeply, he closed his eyes and cleared his
mind, visualizing wiping it clean of feelings, thoughts, and memories. There was nothing but
air. Then, with a skill learned under duress and honed through necessity, Draco rebuilt the
walls to protect his mind.

Harry woke up in a cold bed in an empty room, but he spied a familiar old parchment on
Draco’s pillow. Although it wasn’t as nice as a love note, it was practical.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

There was no sign of Draco or anyone in the bathroom or common room. Breakfast would be
starting soon, but no one moved in the Great Hall yet. Finally, he spotted Draco in the library.
Was it even open on Christmas Eve?

Harry hurried to his own room, threw on the first jumper and trousers he found, and opened
his trunk for the invisibility cloak. It wasn’t there.

He sat back on his feet and smiled to himself. It should probably be upsetting that someone
would take the priceless magical object that was passed down from his father without asking,
but Harry was thrilled at the idea. There was intimacy in borrowing each other’s things, and
in knowing each other well enough to understand it was allowed.

Grinning now, he pulled off his jumper and went back to Draco’s room, searching for the
shirt Draco had worn beneath his dress robes yesterday. He buttoned it up and held his nose
to the collar, breathing in that cool aquatic scent that made him shiver. He supposed Draco’s
cologne was worth the eighty galleons.

He jogged to the library, pleased to avoid running into Filch or anyone else who was staying
for the holiday. He found the bespectacled swot version of Draco at his usual table near the
restricted section. The invisibility cloak was draped over the empty chair next to him.
“You know, it’s really hypocritical that you made fun of my glasses for years when you wear
them too.”

“Potter, your glasses are atrocious.”

“It was what the muggles gave me.”

Draco finally looked up from the thick open book on the desk and pulled his reading glasses
off. “Why don’t you get new frames?”

“Maybe I want to irritate you.”

The smile came on slowly, until Draco’s entire face was warm and admiring. Harry felt his
heart trip and fall inside his chest.

“Good morning, Potter. How are you feeling?”

Heat bloomed all over his body. “Sore. Good.”

“Good.”

“Homework on Christmas Eve?”

“Research,” he said quietly. “How much do you know about legilimency?”

Harry took a seat, wincing a little, which made Draco grin.

“Er, yeah. Snape did legilimency on me in fifth year. Repeatedly. That was his idea for
teaching me occlumency. It was a nightmare.”

“So, you know how it feels to have someone in your head.”

He burst into laughter. “Oh yes. Better than most. Voldemort lived in my head for a while. I
spent some time inside his as well.”

Draco’s expression fell. “What are you talking about?”

The connection between Harry and Voldemort and the existence of the horcruxes had been
kept confidential, both to protect Harry’s privacy and to prevent any other dark wizards from
getting ideas. It had been a large part of Hermione’s objection to submitting their memories
to CURE.

In the quiet solitude of the library, Harry explained horcruxes to Draco and the reason he’d
needed to die in the Forbidden Forest.

“That’s not exactly legilimency,” Draco said at length.

“No. What Snape did was. Remember when you thought I was taking remedial potions? That
was actually Snape rummaging around in my head, which was the opposite of helpful really.
It made me even more vulnerable to Voldemort.”
“I suppose he wasn’t the best teacher when it came to you.”

That was an understatement, but Harry chose to keep Snape’s secrets on it.

“Why are you researching legilimency?” Harry asked.

“I had my own experiences with it. I’ve had Snape in my head, too. And my father, Bellatrix,
the Dark Lord. But I’ve never performed it on someone else—I’m trying to determine what it
is they see and how they see it.”

Harry nodded. “It’s just like using a pensieve actually. Like stepping into someone’s
memory.”

“Who?”

“Oh. Snape. I got angry during one of our sessions and managed it. I saw a bit of his
childhood memories without meaning to.”

“Were you seeing it from his perspective? Or were you on the outside, observing everything,
including Snape?”

“It was third person. I saw him as a child and as a teenager.”

“So strange,” he muttered, looking into the distance, unseeing.

“What is?”

“With legilimency, you don’t hear the person’s thoughts, or see the way they see, or feel the
way they feel. You’re in their head, but the experience is separate. However, when you
contained a part of Voldemort’s soul, you felt his emotions and saw things through his eyes,
yes?”

Harry nodded, pushing away memories of being inside the snake attacking Arthur Weasley.

“Interesting.”

“Why are you researching this?” he asked again.

Draco snapped out of his thoughts and closed his book. “We’d better get to breakfast.”

When they both stood up, Draco’s eyes widened and he bit his lip.

“What?”

“Nice shirt, Potter.” Then he pulled him in for a kiss.

As it deepened, Harry was careful to keep his hands to himself.

Harry could admit he wasn’t the best at reading people, but he had years of experience
studying Draco. From the moment Harry told him he was going to the Ministry’s Christmas
Eve Gala that night, Draco had become quiet, sitting stoically in the Great Hall and insisting
he was fine. If it were anyone else, Harry would’ve believed it, but he’d seen a similar look in
Draco’s eyes after the dueling incident. He wasn’t fine.

They walked in the snow to Hagrid’s hut, and Harry helped Draco and Hagrid in their
attempts to feed a family of knarls (and collect any valuable quills they dropped) without
them becoming suspicious of a trap. Winter was a tough season for the creatures, especially
because they resisted help.

They reminded Harry of Draco.

Harry followed him back to his room without asking permission, and as he expected, Draco
became exasperated and claimed he wanted some space. Harry pushed back—verbally, not
physically this time—until Draco snapped.

“Bloody hell, would you leave me alone? You have a life! Go live it! Stop wasting your time
with me!”

Although he was unsurprised by the outburst, Harry searched for something to say that
wouldn’t make it worse. “I…er, I need your help.”

“Sod. Off.”

“I don’t know what to wear tonight, and I need to look serious. I’m going to the gala because
I need to speak to the Minister about something important. Can you help me or not?”

It was the best he could come up with at the spur of the moment, and it seemed to work
despite Draco’s obvious suspicion. He really was a knarl.

In Harry’s room, Draco was extremely put out by Harry’s wardrobe. He tsked over every
hand-me-down and worn-out robe, which was most of it, and hummed with pleasant surprise
over the few things that Hermione had picked out for him. Harry kept that fact to himself.

He sat on the edge of his bed and watched the man, trying to understand. Obviously, Draco
wished he could attend the gala with him. Any kind of imprisonment, even in a place as
pleasant as Hogwarts, was miserable. But more than that was bothering Draco. It could be
any of a hundred things. He had no family, apparently. No friends, at least not here. No home.
No possessions except what Harry and the school had provided. The boy who was once
obscenely wealthy didn’t even have two sickles to rub together now. The power and prestige
he’d once depended on were gone. A few years on the wrong side of a war had stripped him
bare and cost him the life and future he’d once expected.

And Draco refused pity.

Although Harry disagreed with Draco’s sentencing, he understood why so many people
thought it was justified. Being an asshole wasn’t a crime, but letting Death Eaters into
Hogwarts…almost killing Dumbledore…using imperius on Madam Rosemerta…all the
things he’d done under duress but without resisting…cornering Harry in the Room of
Requirement during the final battle…admitting that he had been proud of taking the Dark
Mark, in the beginning.

Harry found he couldn’t be objective about what Draco did or did not deserve, and it wasn’t
just because they’d had sex. His muscles tightened at the memory of Draco’s arms clutched
painfully tight around him, his cock buried deep inside him. No, if he were honest, he’d never
been objective about Draco Malfoy. Not when they were kids sniping on the Quidditch pitch.
Not when the fate of the war rested on whether Draco would identify him at Malfoy Manor.
Not when Harry had testified at his trial. And definitely not now that Harry was half in love
with him.

“Why are your muggle clothes so dreadful?”

Harry looked down lest Draco read the feelings he could barely acknowledge to himself. “It’s
mostly old clothing that was passed down from my cousin. Some were gifts from the
Weasleys. I don’t shop much. Anyway, tonight is formal, and I assume that means dress
robes. My options are limited.”

Draco was quiet as if speaking to himself. “Not exactly. Pureblood father. Muggleborn
mother. War hero. We need to blend. Something new.” In a louder voice, he asked, “Where
did you get this suit?”

Draco held up one of Hermione’s selections, a three-piece in light gray herringbone that had
cost him a fortune, not that he minded. Shortly after the war, when Harry discovered he
would not be reuniting with Ginny and his depression had been at its worst, Hermione had
insisted on getting him out of Grimmauld Place for a night, going on an outing. Harry had
insisted on avoiding the attention of wizardkind. They’d wound up with tickets to a muggle
opera, which had annoyed Ron more than Harry.

“I needed something formal for a fancy show in muggle London.”

“With a few minor adjustments, this will work…with this.” Draco held up the dressy dark
gray robe Harry had worn to Slughorn’s party.

“Both?”

“You’ll see.”

Although Draco performed the spells verbally, he did them without a wand. Mostly, he
changed the shape and style of the dress robe until it was more of a cape with unexpected
angles. Harry knew next to nothing about fashion, but he recognized that Draco was
transfiguring a work of art out of fabric and magic. An impressive display.

If only Draco could come with him tonight.

While Draco worked on slight modifications to the suit, Harry dug through his trunk and
pulled out a small bundle wrapped in his first Weasley jumper, which he hadn’t been able to
part with. He fidgeted with the bundle while he waited, trying to decide the best way to
broach the subject.

With a little flourish, Draco presented the final product. “Don’t worry—you’ll have your
clothes back; the modifications aren’t permanent. They should last until at least midnight,
though.”

“I’m Cinderella.”

“What?”

“Nothing. That’s incredible.”

“I’m sure it will need more tailoring. Put everything on for me.”

Harry set the bundle on the bed and did as ordered while Draco circled him, cinching fabric
as necessary. Draco’s magic flowing over the trousers felt as warm and calming as sinking
into bathwater. Harry finally turned to the tall mirror and couldn’t believe how sophisticated
he looked, as long as he ignored the mess that was his hair.

When he raised that concern, Draco asked if he ever tied it back. It was just barely long
enough for that now, but it had never occurred to Harry.

“The scar.” He rubbed his forehead, feeling self-conscious. “I never wanted to draw attention
to it.”

“Let me try something.” Draco summoned a band from his own room and tied up the top half
of Harry’s hair. Harry closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the way Draco’s fingers worked
over his scalp. Those hands, so adept at magic, relaxed him in a way that nothing else could.
Luna had been right; Draco was soothing.

He pressed a swift kiss to Harry’s temple that made him shiver. “What do you think?”

“Oh.” The lightning bolt stood out prominently. Was there anything to be ashamed of there?
Unwelcome attention had always been the downside, but he needed to garner attention
tonight after all. He needed to remind the Minister and everyone else at the gala that they had
responsibilities. If something as unrelated as a curse scar could get their attention, why not
use it?

“Okay. You’re right. This works.”

“Of course it works,” Draco scoffed.

Harry handed over his glasses. “Would you want to do something with these too?”

“You’re sure?” Smirking, Draco went through several transfigurations before he settled on
thin gold frames, rectangular, with lenses that had a subtly darker tint.
 “Oh, fuck,” Draco uttered when Harry put them on and the look was complete.

“What?”

Draco cleared his throat and turned away. Apparently, with his task complete, his flirty
appreciation was quickly fading back to stoicism. Harry had to find a way to close this gap—
he couldn’t stand the distance between them.

At Slughorn’s party, Draco had admitted that he wanted to help Harry, protect him, keep him
safe. The right approach was in there somewhere.

“I need another favor,” Harry said.

Draco’s sigh was part growl. “What is it now?”

“I don’t do well in a crowd.” He fidgeted with his cuffs. “People are always…staring. Acting
like they know me. I get trapped in these conversations where people dump everything like
I’m a mind healer, and I don’t know what to say or do. I think you know that I have these, er,
episodes sometimes.”

“That’s not something I can train you to handle in an afternoon. I’m not a mind healer either.”

“No, I know.” With nervous jerks, he unraveled the bundle on the bed to reveal two mirrors.
He passed the hand mirror with the beveled edges to Draco and kept the jagged shard for
himself. “Draco Malfoy,” he whispered to the shard and the image shimmered until it showed
part of Draco’s reflection. In Draco’s mirror, Harry appeared.

“Potter, two-way mirrors are extremely rare.”

“Yeah? I don’t know if they’re a Potter heirloom or a Black heirloom. My father and Sirius
used these to talk when they were in separate detentions.” He wished for the hundredth time
that he hadn’t broken his. “I know I can’t walk around the gala staring at a piece of glass, but
I thought if I had it in my pocket, if you could hear everything and I could hear you, it
wouldn’t be as bad. I’d have you with me. That’s probably stupid.”

“It’s brilliant,” Draco said too quietly to reveal any emotion.

“It is?”

“Well, it’s better than me using a glamour and sneaking into the gala.”

Was he serious? “Draco, you can’t chance that.”

He smiled dangerously.

Chapter End Notes

This is my first fan fiction, and I would really appreciate any comments. Thank you.
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

If Draco's sighs and angry groans were any indication, the gala was going horribly.

After shrinking his mirror shard, Harry had transfigured a secret pocket for it in the collar of
his shirt. This way, he could hear everything Draco said as if he were whispering in Harry's
ear, and Draco could hear anything that was said within a two-meter radius of Harry.

Draco wasn't happy, right from the start.

“Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter! Tell us, who designed your amazing ensemble?”

Under an onslaught of camera flashes, Harry stuttered for two seconds as his brain tried to
define the word “ensemble.” Then he blurted out, “Oh, it was Draco Malfoy.”

The way the reporter's face fell would've been comical if Draco hadn't been shouting
expletives at him. How was Harry supposed to know that answer was wrong? Even though
he'd just arrived at the gala and didn't need to piss, Harry dashed to the loo to get
clarification.

“What did I do wrong?” he muttered at the urinal.

“Fucking Gryffindors! No one wants to hear that the Golden Boy is friendly with a Death
Eater. Use your brain, Potter!”

“Remind me again, why do I care what they think?”

“Bloody hell. Why do I even try? Go ahead and flush your social standing down the fucking
toilet.”

“Take it easy. Merlin. I'm going back out there.”

As he made his way around the periphery of the festively decorated ballroom, searching
desperately for Ron and Hermione or his ultimate goal, Minister Shacklebolt, Draco kept up a
running commentary on every witch or wizard who shook Harry's hand. On the occasions
when Draco didn't recognize them by voice, Harry would greet them by name.

Draco always seemed to know the best way to get out of a conversation.

“Harry, m'boy.”

“Mr. Bagman, how are you?”

After several minutes of Ludo Bagman's long-winded Quidditch rhapsodizing, Draco said,
“Tell that self-important prick you stopped following Quidditch after the Magpies ignored
Sora Chitter's sexual harassment claims back in '98.”

It worked like a charm, as did telling a ribald joke to a stodgy member of the Wizengamot,
and pretending to sneeze in front of the infatuated junior undersecretary to the Minister who
was apparently a germaphobe.

“How did you know that would work?” he whispered to his collar.

“Politics is a small world. Father had a lot to say about all of these people. Even the new
recruits are from old wizarding families. Everyone knows everyone, unless you're
muggleborn.”

“Or were abandoned with cruel muggle relatives for the first half of your life.”

“Or that, yes.”

Hermione appeared at his side. “Talking to yourself, Harry?”

He sighed in relief. “I had to. My best friends were missing. What took you so long?”

Ron blushed all the way to his hairline. “Got a bit distracted. Sorry.”

“I'm not,” Hermione said smugly.

“Gross,” Draco said. Harry hid his laugh in a cough.

“I really like the new glasses,” Hermione said with surprise. “And I've never seen you with
your hair like that. Is this the suit that I picked out?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, brushing a hand down his front. “Modified.”

She touched the cape. “This is incredible tailoring. Who...?”

“Draco,” he answered with feigned nonchalance and turned his attention to his glass of
mulled wine.

Ron grimaced. Hermione's eyebrows went up as she asked, “Since when do you call him
'Draco'?”

The silken voice in Harry's ear said, “Since I fucked him, Granger.”

The wine sprayed out of Harry's mouth.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled, getting his wand out to clean the mess. His friends were frozen,
confused. “Just...I apologize.”

Ron's wits returned. “What was that about?”

Draco's laughter was smug.

“Eh. Nothing. Have you seen Shacklebolt yet? I was hoping to talk to him before speeches
started.”

“When we walked in, he was near the podium with that creepy old witch Hermione hates.”

“Mehetabel Vane,” she clarified with a sneer that was almost worthy of a Malfoy.

“But get this,” Ron said quietly. “She's here with her husband, who's a ghost.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded. “She takes creepy to a whole other level.”

“Talk to Vane,” Draco suddenly ordered. “Find her.”

Harry nodded and told his friends he'd join them when dinner started.

“No, take Granger with you,” Draco demanded.

“Ron too?” he asked under his breath.

“I don't care if Weasley's there. I need someone with intelligence.”

“Gee, thanks. Er, Hermione? I need your help.”

She gave him a very strange look but followed where he pulled her. When Ron saw where
they were headed, he took the lesser of two evils and headed to the bar to make nice with
Percy.

Crossing the ballroom involved dodging cameras, reporters, politicians, and starstruck guests,
but Hermione had gotten quite good at scaring people off with a look.

“Are you going to explain what this is about?” she asked.

“I would tell you if I knew.” He raised his voice when they reached their target. “Minister
Shacklebolt, good evening.”

“Harry, Hermione, I told you to call me Kingsley—we've been through a war together. Thank
you for agreeing to be here tonight. You're right on time. We've got a few minutes before
speeches start.”

Harry turned to the woman with the unnaturally straight gray hair. “It's Healer Vane, isn't it?”

“Hello, Mr. Potter.” She introduced her spectral husband as Amias Vane.

After the requisite small talk, Hermione asked the ghost about his profession, which was
probably more polite than what Harry wanted to ask (how he died). Vane answered for him,
and even answered Harry's unspoken question.

“He was an Unspeakable. He died during the first wizarding war when Death Eaters
kidnapped and tortured him for information.” She smiled with teeth. “We get that question a
lot.”

Draco said, “Ask about ORDER.”

Before he could, Hermione asked, “How is the rehabilitation effort going? Do you think more
Death Eaters will be recommended for parole or house arrest soon?”

“It's a long process, I'm afraid. Even the few who have been released from Azkaban require
further treatment.”

Draco's whisper came rapidly. “Ask what happened to Amycus Carrow. What really
happened.”

“Do you know what really happened to Amycus Carrow?” Harry had no idea what he was
asking about, but Hermione shot him a dark look.

Vane's bland expression stayed in place. “Sometimes people die in prison.”

Harry repeated the lines Draco fed to him. “The Prophet didn't list a cause of death.”

“I don't control the media.”

“He was in the ORDER program, wasn’t he? How did he die? It couldn’t have been old age,
and Azkaban cells don't have weapons or magic.”

“I have hundreds of patients, Mr. Potter. Even if I remembered such details, those files are
confidential.”

“If cause of death is classified, where’s the oversight?”

Shacklebolt gave a stiff laugh and dropped a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You're more of a
politician than I thought, Harry. Are you thinking of joining the Wizengamot or becoming a
solicitor?”

“Not the worst idea,” Harry said, speaking on his own for the first time in this conversation.
“I really could've used a solicitor back when the Ministry was trying to convict me of
underage magic.”

“The Fudge years,” Shacklebolt explained to Vane. “Come on, Harry, speech time.”

Oh, Merlin, not another speech. Harry muttered a long litany of curse words as he followed
behind the Minister, so distracted by his little crisis that he forgot Draco could hear him.

“Shh. You're Harry fucking Potter. You can do this. It's just a few lines. I'm with you.”

“Mmm, Draco. I can’t breathe. What am I supposed to do? Picture the audience naked?”

“Fuck no, who came up with that idea?”

“No idea. The front page of the Prophet tomorrow is going to be me barfing on a Christmas
tree.”

“And wreck my hard work? Don't be daft. Are you a Gryffindor or not? March your fine arse
up there and tell those wankers to have a happy Christmas and a healing and unified New
Year or whatever the fuck.”

So he did, and Draco took the piss over his lame jokes, and it was as fine as it could be, thank
Godric.

Harry spent the first half of the too-fancy dinner getting berated by Molly and Arthur for
declining their invitation to the Burrow tomorrow. He spent the second half berating himself
for missing his chance to interrogate the Minister about the dementors in Azkaban. Kingsley
was probably too apprehensive to let Harry corner him again.

When Hermione forced Harry onto the dance floor, he discovered it was a ruse to force him
to explain himself. “What was all that about Amycus Carrow?”

Draco gave him permission to explain. “I’ve got Draco listening in with two-way mirrors.
Those were his questions. I didn’t even know Carrow was dead.”

Her half-smile was a bit feline. “Both Carrows are, and a few lesser known Death Eaters as
well. What’s really going on, Draco?”

“He says he wants to meet with you after the holidays.”

“Good.”

At that moment, they were interrupted by an unfamiliar raven-haired woman with wide,
cunning eyes who tried to cut in and wouldn't take no for an answer.

Draco said, “How did Pansy get an invite?”

Pansy? Draco must've misheard the woman’s voice. With little choice in the matter, Harry
tried not to embarrass himself as he turned about the ballroom with the beauty.

“I'm Cambria Vincent,” she purred. “Editor of Enchanted Style Magazine.”

Draco crowed, “Bollocks. Pansy, you sneak.”

“Mr. Potter, I must ask about your new look. It’s inspired. I’d love to interview the designer
and get you on my front cover.”

“Get your claws off him,” Draco said fondly.

Harry took a chance. “Not sure I should do that for the girl who tried to sell me out to
Voldemort.”

Both Slytherins laughed. “How did you know it was me?”

“Lucky guess. And who’s the gentleman staring daggers at us from the bar?” He was tall,
handsome, and menacing, but Harry suspected another glamour.

“That’s Gregory Goyle. We run Enchanted Style together. He’s got a gift for photography.
Come on, Potter, a photo shoot with you in these new glasses would triple my readership.”

“Just the glasses?”

Draco snarled and Pansy gasped. “Oh, Potter, you are a surprise, aren’t you?”

“And what are you going to do for me, Cambria Vincent?”

Her voice turned sultry. “What do you want?”

Harry knew he was going to get shite for it later, but he murmured the spell to deactivate the
two-way mirror to Draco. Then he told Pansy what he wanted.

Draco pretended to be asleep when Potter returned that night. He’d thought about locking and
warding his room, but that would look childish. He was better off letting Potter in just to give
him the cold shoulder: a response commensurate with the offense.

After the rustle of shucked clothing, what he guessed were glasses and a wand hitting the
bedside table, and a few grunts and sighs, the bed dipped behind him under Potter’s weight.
For a few restless minutes, Draco kept his eyes closed and searched for the flow of Potter’s
body heat and the sound of his breathing.

The first touch on the back of his neck made him jump.

“Sorry,” Potter said, and Draco felt Potter’s lips form the word on his skin.

“For what?”

“Waking you up.”

“If you were sorry for that, you would sleep in your own bed.”

Potter’s laughter huffed along his spine. “Fine. Then I’m sorry for turning off the mirror.”

“Why should I care?”

“Right, yeah. I just…”

The lightest touch on Draco’s back caused an eruption of goosebumps over all his exposed
skin.
Potter cursed. “What happened to the silk pajamas?”

“I sleep naked. The pajamas are for the common room.”

“Fuck, Draco,” he breathed. “Let me touch you. Please.”

He shifted away. “I can’t.”

“Then tell me why. What do you feel when I touch you?”

Draco said nothing, half hoping Potter would give up and leave, while his traitorous other
half was desperate for more.

Potter continued, “Then I’ll tell you how it feels when you touch me—it’s like I was never
touched properly before you did it. Like my body belongs in your hands. Like I’ll never get
enough of you. Just your fingers are enough to excite me and calm me down and make me
beg. That’s a scary feeling, so I get why you don’t—”

“I’m not scared, you tosser.”

Once again, Potter’s fingertips brushed his back. “Tell me then.”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out, and I really don’t know,” he confessed.

“When did the problem start?”

He shrugged, unsure. Two minutes in bed with Potter and all his well-laid plans for being
cold and distant crumbled to dust. Pathetic.

“You weren’t always this way,” Potter insisted. “What about your t-trial? Did you have a
problem with touch at that point in time?”

“I wouldn’t know the answer to that. You weren’t touching me then. Before you, the last
person who showed me affection was my mother. She hugged me before my father took the
dementor’s kiss. That was the last time.”

“And it was okay when she hugged you?”

“Yes, but I don’t think it would be okay now.”

Draco was sure they were both reaching the same conclusion, that Azkaban was to blame for
his issues. His father had taken the kiss just one month after the final battle. Since then, a
year-long prison sentence was the only thing that had happened to Draco.

“Fucking dementors,” Potter snarled. “I’m not going rest on that until Kingsley does
something about prison conditions. Do you think the dementors had something to do with
Amycus Carrow’s death?”

Draco rolled onto his back but left a gap between them. “Sometimes they do. After enough
time, if you don’t have a reason to go on living, you just stop. Stop eating, stop everything.
But I don’t think that’s what killed the Carrows.”

“Something about the woman tonight? Mehetabel Vane?”

He hesitated before finally admitting, “She’s my rehabilitation healer.” Draco could almost
hear the gears turning in Potter’s head. “Don’t hurt yourself, Potter. Thinking isn’t your
strength. I’ll talk it through with Granger after the holidays.”

“Sod off,” Potter said, but Draco could hear him smiling.

Several minutes passed in silence, but he could tell Potter was still deep in thought, not
falling asleep. Draco sighed. “What is it?”

“I want to try something. I want you to trust me.”

“Potter…”

“Please?”

“Fine, but I reserve the right to hit you with a stinging jinx.”

“Understood.”

Potter got up on his knees and tugged off the blanket and sheet. Overcome with a need to see
him and see what was coming, Draco cast a faint wandless lumos and pushed the ball of light
to float hovering above them. Potter wore nothing but his tight black pants and a fierce
expression as he looked over Draco’s naked form.

Then he slapped his hand over Draco’s bicep, gripping hard, golden skin over pale white.

Draco breathed in and out three times before Potter said, “You okay?”

“I’m okay.” But when Potter let go, he did find it a little easier to breathe.

That was not the end of the experiment, however. Next, Potter slammed his palm over
Draco’s naked thigh and squeezed, and Draco’s cock twitched, going semi-hard. Based on the
bulge in Potter’s pants, he was also taking notice.

“Just tell me—or sting me—if I do something wrong.”

With rough conviction, he forced Draco’s legs apart, kneeled between them, and paused.
They weren’t touching, but he knew they would, and the knowing was terrible. The air
rushed out through Draco’s nose and his chest caved in, and fuck, he’d lied before. It was
fear. He was so fucking scared.

This time Potter slapped both his palms down on Draco’s thighs and squeezed so hard that it
hurt, his fingers digging individual bruises into the muscle. Draco whimpered and it was…
“Good,” he breathed. “It’s good.”
Then Potter’s head dipped down, his tongue licking a stripe up the length of his cock, and
Draco shrieked.

“Too much, too much, too much.”

Potter looked up, fingers still gripping. “Too much, or not enough? Should I go firmer? Take
you all the way in and suck you so hard it’s a punishment?”

Draco tried to answer but his voice was trapped, caught in his throat so he could only nod and
hope he didn’t die before the end.

Draco was certain that Potter had never done this before, but a little thing like that wouldn’t
stop him from recklessly diving in and doing a bang-up job. It hurt, being completely
enveloped in the hot, wet suction of Potter’s mouth with little to no warm-up, but he needed
the pain to ground him. Somewhere in the second or third bob of Potter’s head, this ceased
being just an experiment because Potter was moaning his enthusiasm and swirling his tongue,
shamelessly hungry for it.

His left hand moved up to Draco’s hip, still roughly digging in, while his right hand cupped
Draco’s balls, massaging and pulling in a way that made his toes curl. It was just on the right
side of pain.

Merlin, Salazar, fucking fuck. He was swamped in sensation. That mouth just kept going, and
Potter was extremely vocal about it. Every exhale was a loud groan of pleasure, and soon
Draco found himself joining in, letting everything he felt come out in breathy whimpers and
“Yes, Potter,” and husky moans and grunts.

When Draco’s hands found their way down to Potter’s shoulders, he kneaded the sweating
muscles while his hips began to thrust up, chasing after the ecstasy that was waiting just out
of reach.

For just a second, Potter’s movements went completely still and his mouth sucked impossibly
harder. Draco realized Potter had been rubbing and grinding himself against the bed and was
now coming with Draco’s cock in his mouth, and it was definitely at the top of the list of the
hottest things Draco had ever seen.

“Oh, Potter, fuck, you’re gorgeous.” When Draco slid his fingers into all that thick brown
hair and pulled, Potter groaned so loud that it vibrated in his prick. “That’s it. Damn you,
Potter. Yes, more. I’m going to come…I’m going to…”

His hips jerked rough and hard into Potter’s mouth as he climbed over that crest and tumbled
into jagged, aching bliss. He spilled ropes of cum into that sinful mouth and realized Potter
didn’t have a choice in taking it with the way Draco was gripping his hair. He quickly
released him, but Potter stayed there on his cock, sucking down every last drop.

Perhaps Potter could sense the moment that Draco was about to panic, because he let go of
him completely and gradually rose up to standing at foot of the bed, looking down at the
mess he made. Draco felt oversensitive and sweaty and sticky and nervous and yes, scared. It
wasn’t just what had happened, but also the way Potter was looking at him now, like he was
about to say something sappy, and that would absolutely kill him.

Draco anxiously cast his attention around the room and landed on the suit and cape that were
halfway through transforming back into Potter’s old clothes.

“Did you drop your finest garments in a heap on the floor, you peasant?”

There was a weighted pause while Potter caught up with Draco’s fragile state-of-mind.

“Hey. You are by far the messier one in this relationship.”

Relationship. Just the word made it harder to breathe.

Draco performed the cleaning spells, followed by a cooling spell to give some semblance of
comfort. Under Potter’s curious attention, he pulled the ball of light back to his hand and
extinguished it with a nonverbal nox.

“How do you do that?”

Showing off now, Draco performed the lumos and nox pattern that he so often fidgeted with
while deep in thought. “I can teach you, but not tonight. You should sleep.”

Potter laid on his side facing him, and it was obvious from his expression and his one
outstretched hand that he wished he could cuddle close to Draco. In apology, Draco leaned
forward and kissed Potter’s forehead and combed his fingers over his hair until his breathing
evened out with sleep.

Draco woke up in total darkness and had to rely on other senses to get his bearings. Wherever
he was, it smelled dank and musty, and he was of two minds about it. The thoughts that were
loudest and most present were frightened of his own ignorance. He didn’t know where he
was. But his other mind, the one buried so deep that it was almost an afterthought, recognized
this smell and knew this darkness. That other mind associated this place with shame, terror,
and self-loathing.

The air tasted like decay. He could hear other people breathing and a soft but steady drip…
drip…drip of liquid on stone. Somewhere in the distance, voices. His hands spread over the
hard, uneven floor. It was bitterly cold and damp. Where am I? Where am I? Where am I?

The cellar beneath the drawing room in Malfoy Manor, his secondary mind provided, but his
primary mind couldn’t hear him.

He searched his pockets for his wand and found nothing.

 “Dean? Are you awake?” asked a soft female voice. He clung to that voice with desperate
hope.

“Yes. Where the hell are we?”

“Malfoy Manor. It appears to be headquarters for Death Eaters.”

“Is that…Luna?”

“Oh, very good. I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me in the dark.”

Tears pricked in his eyes. He’d been captured. Last he remembered, he’d been camping in
another nameless forest by another unfamiliar stream with the goblin Griphook. Months of
fish and whatever they could forage. Nights spent trying to befriend his unlikely companion.
It all flooded back. Ted Tonks was dead. Dirk Cresswell, Garnuk, all dead. He should be dead
too, not here. Not captured in this awful place.

“What about Griphook?” he asked. “Is he here too?”

“I am here, Dean,” came a gravelly voice on his other side.

“Why are we still alive?”

A loud bang echoed through the dungeon-like place, followed by the creak of a thick metal
door and the intrusion of light.

“I believe we are about to find out,” said Griphook.

In the dim light, he looked about frantically and spotted Luna with colorful bruises on her
pale skin, Griphook with a murderous expression, and an unmoving lump in the corner with
thin white hair. Then he heard footsteps, and his attention turned to the stone stairs in front of
him, waiting for the figure who could decide his fate. Black shoes, then black robes, a white
hand clutching a wand, then a pointed, sneering face and hair so blond it glowed. All hope
drained out of his veins because he would never receive mercy from Draco Malfoy.

The other mind screamed.

Chapter End Notes

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