Scaredy Cat

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/29924775.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Additional Tags: Pining Harry, stress-catism, Neville-bashing, Bizarrely, because I
actually really like Neville, Depressed Harry, Draco Malfoy is a small
and adorable kitten, infidelity (not involving drarry), lingering war
trauma, ok fine I'll admit it, there's ptsd, Drug Use, Angst with a Happy
Ending, Death of a Parent, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2021-03-08 Completed: 2021-04-05 Chapters: 19/19 Words:
53382

Scaredy Cat
by GallaPlacidia

Summary

Draco is cursed and starts uncontrollably turning into a kitten whenever he's stressed. There
is, of course, only one logical solution: he must move in with Harry until they figure out
how to break the curse.

Notes

I am posting this irresponsibly early so it may not post as often as usual! "I will not post
until I have 10,000 words," I told myself last night. But CARPE DIEM, YOLO, etc.
 Chapter 1

“It’s not funny!” said Neville.

“It’s a little funny,” said Malfoy.

“You could have died,” said Neville. Malfoy shrugged. He looked studiously comfortable in
Harry’s office chair, although he hadn’t looked at Harry once. Malfoy, Neville and Hermione had
stormed into Harry’s office half an hour ago, and Harry had yet to figure out why.

“Look,” said Harry, “can someone explain to me why you’re all here?”

Hermione, Neville and Malfoy all fell silent.

“I still don’t see why we’ve come to Potter,” said Malfoy, sullenly. Neville nodded.

“I don’t either. Hermione, can’t you—”

“No!” said Hermione. “I’ve told you both, I’m too busy with the election, and Harry will be able to
keep Draco safe better than I can, so—”

“I’m not comfortable with Draco just moving in with Harry,” said Neville, at which Draco laughed
bitterly and said,

“Yes, well, you gave up to right to be comfortable with my actions when you fucked my cousin in
our bed on my birthday, didn’t you?”

“Hang on,” said Harry, who hadn’t had any coffee that morning, and was coming to deeply regret
it, “hang on. Draco’s moving in with me? And Neville—Luna?”

“Luna’s fancied Neville for ages,” said Malfoy. “It’s not her fault. Do you know all you had to do,
Neville? Just not shag her. It’s actually deceptively simple. I’ve never shagged her once. Happy to
give you tips, if you need.”

“I’m sorry, okay, I said I was sorry—” said Neville.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but seriously, why the fuck are you guys here?” asked Harry. Neither
Malfoy nor Neville seemed to hear him.

“You’re sorry? Oh, how marvellous,” said Malfoy. “Now I don’t feel betrayed at all. Marry me,
Nev! Marry me!”

“You know perfectly well I wouldn’t have slept with her if you hadn’t been so bloody uptight!”

Malfoy made an outraged, mewling sound, then froze.

“Fuck,” he said. “Neville. Go.”

“But—”

Malfoy shook his head. He seemed to be concentrating very hard.

“Please,” he said, and Neville got to his feet.

“I am sorry, Draco.”

Malfoy only shook his head again. Neville looked at him with that disorienting expression he often
had when he looked at Malfoy. They had been together for two and half years, and Harry had
noticed it, time and time again—the hungry, possessive way Neville looked at Malfoy, and the
tentative way Malfoy looked back. Malfoy closed his eyes and started taking deep, steadying
breaths.

Neville left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Draco’s been cursed,” said Hermione. Malfoy laughed.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I figured that was why you were here. What sort of curse?”

“I turn into a cat when I’m stressed,” said Malfoy.

“Er,” said Harry.

“A kitten,” said Hermione. Malfoy scowled.

“A cat,” he said.

“A very small kitten,” said Hermione. “About as big as a rat.”

Malfoy opened his eyes.

“Oh, come the fuck on, Hermione,” he said. “A rat?”

“Would you have preferred I said a small ferret?”

“You’re dead to me,” said Malfoy, and Harry was struck by a familiar loneliness.

After the war, the boundaries between friendship groups had grown blurry. Ron had confessed to a
crush on Pansy Parkinson and started up a strange and unexpected friendship with Blaise Zabini.
Ginny briefly dated Theo Nott. Harry started playing friendly games of quidditch with Marcus
Flint. Neville fell in love with Malfoy. It was all very weird, but in a nice way. Harry liked it. They
all liked it.

The only exception to the general amnesty was Malfoy, who had quickly become a key member of
Harry’s friend group, yet continued to hate Harry.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hermione had protested, when Harry complained about this. “He’s just…
shy.”

They had been at Ginny’s twentieth birthday drinks. She had chosen a disgustingly cool nightclub.
Malfoy was dancing shirtless on a table.

“Shy,” Harry had repeated. Malfoy did a shot and the crowd cheered.

“Well,” said Hermione, “he doesn’t hate you.”

But Malfoy never looked at Harry. He only ever called Harry by his last name. He was funny and
charming around Ron and Hermione, but with Harry he was polite, as if Harry was an adult at
teenager’s birthday party.

Harry had tried apologising for sectumsempra, once, thinking that maybe that was the reason for
Malfoy’s persistent coldness. He had cornered Malfoy in the kitchen of Malfoy and Neville’s
house, while everyone else was playing a high-octane game of Risk.

“Hey,” he’d said.

“Oh, hello,” Malfoy answered, his eyes flicking past Harry’s face. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, that’s okay,” said Harry. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you.”

“It’s my go in a second. I want to invade Australia,” said Malfoy.

“Everyone wants to invade Australia. It’s Risk.”

“Yes, but I already have control of Indonesia, so—”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry. Malfoy frowned, still not looking at him.

“Sorry,” he said.

“About—about sixth year. In the bathroom,” said Harry.

Malfoy opened the fridge, pulled out two beers, and handed one to Harry.

“Don’t do this,” he said, and left. By the time Harry returned to the sitting room, Malfoy had
conquered Australia.

Harry wasn’t sure what was so unforgivable about him, when Malfoy had evidently got over all his
school animosity towards Ron and Hermione. It made Harry feel small and crazy and unlovable.
But that was nothing new, so he sucked it up, and didn’t say anything more about it.

“A kitten,” he said, now. “You turn into a kitten when you’re stressed.”

“I really think it’s more of a small cat. Imagine a very compact lion,” said Malfoy.

“Lions don’t purr,” said Hermione.

“Right. You can fuck off,” said Malfoy. “And actually, I think I’ve done my duty by coming here
—Potter knows I have stress cat-ism, and you’ve been a very responsible friend, Hermione, and
Neville can go jump off a cliff, and—”

“Draco needs to stay with you while you figure this out, Harry,” said Hermione.

“Er. Why?” asked Harry.

“An excellent question,” said Malfoy. “One for the ages. Why?”

Hermione cast him a sour look.

“Because whoever tried to murder you—”

“That’s a strong word,” interrupted Malfoy.

“It doesn’t seem like a very harmful curse, in fairness,” said Harry.

“Draco, can I have a word with Harry alone, please?” said Hermione. Malfoy sighed, then lifted his
eyes to look straight at Harry. His gaze was direct and overwhelming. Harry felt his heart speed up.
“She’s a hysterical woman, Potter. Remember that. Her womb’s probably wandering all over the
shop.”

“I do not have a wandering womb,” said Hermione. “Stop telling people that.”

“Could have fooled me,” said Malfoy, standing. God, he was tall, and his legs went on forever.
“Oh, bollocks, Neville will be lurking around outside, like those charity people with the buckets
outside the tube at Christmas—”

“Go to my bedroom,” said Harry, pointing at another door.

“Ah,” said Malfoy. “Sleeps at the job. Dedicated. Right. Yes. Bed in the office? Why not.”

He slipped through the door into Harry’s office bedroom. It was a bit odd, now that Harry thought
about it, but he stayed up so late cursebreaking sometimes, it had seemed only natural…

“Harry,” said Hermione. Harry dragged his eyes away from the bedroom door.

“Hm?”

“Draco was attacked. The assailant cast the curse, Draco turned into a kitten, the assailant put him
into a bag with some heavy stones, and threw him in the Thames.”

“Oh, shit,” said Harry.

“Luckily, a little girl saw and fished him out.” Hermione’s lips twitched. “Gave Draco a saucer of
milk and called him a very good boy.”

“Okay, okay,” said Harry, trying not to think about telling Malfoy he was a very good boy. “So the
curse was cast with malicious intent.”

“And Draco has almost no control. He’s working on it, but until we break the curse, he’s liable to
be killed any time he turns. He’s quite vulnerable as a kitten.”

“Hermione, can’t you…?”

Hermione had done cursebreaking for a year after the war. She was better at it than Harry—and
Harry was very good. But she’d never really liked handling dark objects, whereas Harry found
them fascinating.

Hermione nibbled her lip.

“Harry, I’m so swamped, I’m not sure I can focus on anything but the election—and you know I
can’t keep him safe, if someone—”

And then, to Harry’s dismay, she dissolved into tears.

“Oh,” said Harry, coming round his desk to sit next to her. He patted her awkwardly on the arm.
He hated it when she cried. “Don’t cry, Hermione. Of course I’ll do it.”

“I’m just so scared something will happen to him,” she said, through tears. “I know you hate him
—”

“I don’t,” said Harry.

“—but to lose someone after the war, especially after we’ve all grown to love him, I just can’t,
Harry, I can’t—”

“Hermione,” said Harry. “It’s okay. I’ll sort it out. You know I will. Just leave it with me, okay?”

Hermione nodded wetly.

“Thanks,” she said, and hiccoughed. “God, how embarrassing. Sorry.”

Harry’s office bedroom door opened and Malfoy came across the room to kneel in front of
Hermione’s chair.

“Were you listening at the door?” asked Harry. Malfoy ignored him.

“Darling,” said Malfoy, putting his hands on Hermione’s knees, “when was the last time you ate
something?”

“Breakfast,” said Hermione.

“Breakfast! And it’s nearly noon. You’ll starve to death. You’ll waste away like something out of a
Keats poem. I can’t have it.”

Hermione was laughing. It wasn’t the way she laughed with Ron and Harry, like the three of them
were part of something. It was an affectionate, oh I love the way you are laugh.

“I’m fine,” she said. She glanced at Harry. “Sorry. I’m fine. I’m a bit frazzled, that’s all.”

“She’s ravenous,” said Malfoy, decisively. “She’s on her last legs. Can you make it to Nando’s,
darling, or shall I carry you?”

“You eat at Nando’s?” asked Harry.

“Potter, there’s not time for your opinions! Can’t you see she’s at death’s door?”

And Malfoy physically picked Hermione out of the chair. She was giggling uncontrollably. Harry
didn’t blame her. It was disorienting to discover that Malfoy was strong.

“We’ll be back in an hour,” said Malfoy over his shoulder, not looking at Harry. Harry was hungry,
and he liked Nando’s, but it was clear he wasn’t invited. Which was fine: Harry had an egg
mayonnaise sandwich in his rucksack.

“Harry, d’you want to come?” asked Hermione, through laughter.

“Conserve your energy, dearest,” Malfoy told her. “You’ll pull through yet, by God!”

“No, I have…” said Harry, but Malfoy had already carried Hermione out of the room. “…a
sandwich.”

————

“So, er, this can be your room,” said Harry. Malfoy inclined his head, but didn’t say anything. He
had scarcely said a word since arriving at Grimmauld Place. “From what Hermione said, you
probably shouldn’t go out too much unless someone is with you. But Hermione said you were
actually looking for a new place to live anyway, since Neville… er, sorry about that, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“I thought Ginny cheated on me once, but actually she hadn’t,” said Harry, then winced. God, had
he really said that? Malfoy was looking at him with a puzzled frown.

“You think Neville didn’t actually cheat on me?” he asked.

“No, er,” said Harry. “I mean, did he? It doesn’t seem very Neville.”

“I don’t know, is putting your dick in Luna Lovegood cheating?”

Harry passed his hand over the back of his neck. Malfoy was going to stay with him. He’d be in
Harry’s house, an obtrusively hostile presence, until Harry broke the curse.

“Yeah, I mean, that does sound quite cheaty, in fairness,” said Harry. “Unless you had like. An
arrangement.”

“An arrangement, Potter?”

“Yeah, you know, like it’s okay if you shag Luna as long as I can shag Hermione, something like
that.”

Malfoy looked scandalised.

“Hermione!”

“No, I wasn’t saying—although you do flirt with her a lot—it was just an example.”

Harry had spent several years wishing Malfoy would look at him. Now that it was happening, he
wished that Malfoy would stop.

“She’s with Ron,” said Malfoy.

“Right, well, but if they had an arrangement…” said Harry, mortified.

“My God, Potter,” said Malfoy, and then left it at that, as if he couldn’t bring himself to explain the
depths of Harry’s depravity.

“So, er, just make yourself at home,” said Harry. “Maybe after dinner, I could ask you about the
curse.”

“Sure, anything to speed this up,” said Malfoy.

——————

Malfoy was not forthcoming about the curse.

“Do you have any suspicions about the identity of the assailant?” asked Harry, trying to focus on
his notebook, and not on Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy had his head tilted back against the kitchen wall,
and his long throat bobbed when he swallowed.
“Someone who dislikes me, I imagine. Do you know you have mould? You should get that looked
at.”

“I have. The house just likes it. Can you think of anyone specific who might have cause to dislike
you?”

Malfoy moved his head to cast Harry a disparaging glance.

“Not a soul,” he said, with a curl to his lip.

“It would really help if you had any idea,” said Harry.

“Aren’t you cold?” asked Malfoy.

“No, er, are you?” asked Harry. Malfoy shivered, then stood.

“Neville’s coming over. Hope that’s all right. Figured it would be, since you love him and
everything.”

“That’s fine,” said Harry, but Malfoy had already left the room. Harry hated when he did that.

Neville appeared in the fireplace twenty minutes later.

“Hi, Harry,” he said, scanning the room. “Is Draco around?”

“I thought you two were broken up?”

Neville glared at him. They had grown apart, since the war. Neville had got hot, and Harry had got
sad.

“It’s complicated,” said Neville.

“Did you really cheat on him?”

Neville didn’t answer. He went to the door, and shouted “Draco!”

Malfoy strolled downstairs.

“Dearest, faithful love of mine,” he said, lounging in the doorway. “I thought I heard your
melodious voice.”

“Harry, can I talk to Draco alone, please?”

Harry stood, but Malfoy glared at him. Harry wished people would stop glaring at him. He was
having a rough enough day as it was. Malfoy’s hair was falling into his eyes, and Harry wanted to
push it back.

“Don’t go, Potter,” said Malfoy. “I don’t want to be alone with him.”

“You’re so melodramatic, can you just be an adult for a second?” said Neville.

Malfoy gave a fierce grin.

“Oh, yes. Let’s be adult. How was it? I don’t mean Luna, Lord help her. How was it for you? Did
your dick have a nice time? Tell me in glorious, adult detail.”

“Would anyone like some tea?” asked Harry.

“Tea sounds lovely, thank you, Potter,” said Malfoy, quick and glittering.

“You know perfectly well it’s not all on me,” said Neville. “Things were terrible long before your
birthday. You never want to have sex—”

“Black tea? Herbal? I have rooibus if you guys don’t want caffeine,” squeaked Harry.

“—yes, and the solution to me having hang ups about sex was fucking Luna, yes, of course,” said
Malfoy. “It all makes sense now!”

“You never used to have hang ups!”

“Yes I did! I just didn’t trust you enough to say no!”

“Listen,” said Harry, “this really seems like a two-person conversation.”

“Potter, so help me God, if you leave I’ll smash all your mugs,” said Malfoy.

Harry looked at the mug he was holding.

“I like my mugs,” he said.

“What do you mean, you couldn’t say no?” said Neville. Neville, like many sweet and vulnerable
children, had grown up rather hard, rather brittle. Paranoid that people were taking advantage of
him, or trying to make him feel guilty.

“You’re fucking rough during sex, Nev. It hurt. That’s why I didn’t want to do it.”

Harry rested his head against his kitchen cabinet and sighed, wishing he was doing something more
agreeable, like being tortured, or literally dying.

“It hurt,” repeated Neville.

“What, did Luna not mention? Or perhaps…” Malfoy’s face went red, blood blooming angrily in
his cheeks. “…perhaps you weren’t rough with her. Perhaps you’re gentle with people you don’t
fundamentally resent.”

Neville looked as if he had been inflated. Harry poured the tea. He’d settled on mint, because he
thought that might be soothing.

“D’you know what your problem is, Draco?” said Neville, voice trembling. “It’s the same problem
you’ve always had. You could have told me all this, and we would have talked it out—fuck, I loved
you—but no, you were too cowardly.”

There was an outraged mewling sound, a sudden flash of white fur, and then nothing.

Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit,” said Neville.

“Where d’he go?” asked Harry.

“Under the sofa. Draco…”

“I think you’d better leave,” said Harry.

Neville ran his hand over his face.

“Yeah. Fuck. Okay. Sorry about…” he couldn’t seem to look at Harry. “Yeah.”

Harry managed a tight smile. Neville looked at the sofa.

“Draco…” he said.

“Just go,” said Harry. So Neville went.

Harry sat on the ground, then dropped his face so that he could peer into the dim space beneath the
sofa.

Two eyes glowed at him, flatly reflective. He could see nothing else.

“You all right?” asked Harry. There was no answer. Harry sighed, then poured some milk into a
saucer. “Malfoy? Want some milk?”

There was no movement. Harry left the saucer on the floor, then tried to coax Malfoy out with a
peacock feather Ginny had once given him for nebulous sexual reasons. The trouble was that Harry
didn’t know what he was dealing with: a kitten, or Draco Malfoy furiously seething inside a
kitten’s body.

It didn’t matter, anyway. Harry sat by the sofa for an hour, and Malfoy didn’t move. Harry tried to
make the room as comfortable as he could for a kitten or for a very angry man, then went to bed.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Summary

All right, all right, FINE, I'll admit that this story is going to deal a fair bit with
lingering war trauma.

Thank you for all your lovely and frequently hilarious comments (NAZGUL
SCREAMING), I'm sorry I'm not able to answer them at present but I do read them all
and feel Great Joy!

He was awoken by a small, pathetic meow. It was incredibly quiet and scratchy, as if the kitten had
been meowing for a long time and had hurt his tiny throat.

“Malfoy?”

Harry turned on the light. He had left his bedroom door open. On top of the door, precariously
balanced, and looking very small indeed, was Draco Malfoy the kitten.

It was the sort of thing Harry would have expected to find funny, but when he was faced with the
reality, he simply didn’t. Instead, he leapt out of bed, his heart twisting. The kitten was so little, and
looked so frightened.

“Hey,” said Harry, softly. He approached the door with light steps, and held out his hands. The
kitten scrambled away, making another soul-scratching sound as he meowed. “Hey,” said Harry,
again. “I’m not going to hurt you. Hang on.”

He got a footstool and managed to catch him.

“How are you this soft?” he asked, as he drew the kitten carefully down to his chest. It scrabbled
away from him, clearly terrified.

“Ow, fuck,” said Harry, as one of the kitten’s claws caught his skin. In his moment of pain, the
kitten leapt out of his arms and fled underneath Harry’s bed. Harry licked at his scratch, then
remembered he was a wizard, and healed it with his wand.

“Malfoy,” he said, sitting on the floor by the bed. “Come on. You can come out.”

A small rustling from under the bed, but no kitten. Harry got the peacock feather and made it brush
around the floor. He was just about to give up when a tiny paw darted out.

“Ah,” said Harry. “You like the feather.”

The kitten sprang forward, a look of comical determination on his sweet little face. He caught the
feather with both paws, and was utterly confused when Harry drew it away. He was a scrabbly
little thing, all white fur and huge eyes. More of those tiny, stupid little meows. He stood up on two
legs, tried to catch the feather, and fell over.

“Oh my God,” said Harry. “You are insanely cute, what the fuck.”
They played with the feather until the kitten was panting, and then Harry dared to try and touch
him. The kitten ran under the bed, but came out again shortly afterwards, and this time let Harry
touch his head. It was then that Harry noticed it was shivering, small tremors shaking its entire
body.

“Are you cold?” asked Harry, and remembered that Malfoy had been cold earlier, when he was
considerably larger and more capable of handling low temperatures. “Here, let me—”

Harry wrapped the kitten up in a jumper, and after a brief tussle, the kitten gave up struggling and
began to purr. Harry suddenly noticed that he was kissing the soft fur on the kitten’s head.

“Shit. Sorry. That’s not okay,” said Harry. The kitten yawned, revealing razor sharp white teeth,
then went to sleep. In Harry’s arms.

“Right,” said Harry. He climbed back into bed. The kitten opened his eyes a few times, then
recurled himself in Harry’s arms under the duvet, and began to snore very softly.

Harry woke up with his arms wrapped around a very human Draco Malfoy.

“Ah!” he said. Malfoy turned over to look at him, blinking sleepily.

“Why are you snuggling me?”

“You—you were a kitten!”

Malfoy sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“No shit.” He frowned and rose out of the bed.

“Are you all right?”

“It’s actually good you saw. Now you’ll be able to break the curse quicker,” said Malfoy, going to
the door. He was a little uneven on his feet.

“Hang on. Malfoy. Stop.”

Malfoy paused, his back to Harry.

“I’m sorry we ended up…” said Harry. “You’re just quite cuddly, as a kitten.”

“I’m a cat.”

“By no stretch of the imagination are you anything more than a tiny, adorable kitten,” said Harry.

“Yes, well, this has been sufficiently embarrassing,” said Malfoy, and left.

It was like having a teenager, reflected Harry that afternoon. Malfoy hadn’t emerged from his
bedroom all day, and the only sign he was even in the house was the pulsing techno coming
through the door.

After dinner, Harry knocked. The music stopped abruptly, then the door opened. Malfoy looked
horribly handsome. He licked his lips, and Harry noticed that he had a tongue piercing, which
Harry had a hard time not taking personally. It was like Malfoy was trying to be a walking fantasy.
“Er,” said Harry.

“Can I help you?” asked Malfoy, polite as a waiter at a fancy restaurant.

“Why don’t you like me?” burst out Harry.

“Sorry?” said Malfoy.

“You’re friends with Ron and Hermione. You dated Neville. Why don’t you like me?”

“I don’t understand the question. I don’t dislike you.”

“But…!” said Harry. He had spent all day looking up feline curses. Malfoy’s fur had been the
softest thing Harry had ever touched. He’d fallen asleep in Harry’s hands. “You don’t… you don’t
like me.”

Malfoy looked truly puzzled.

“I’m sorry, am I missing something?”

“Just answer the question,” said Harry, hopelessly. He wished he hadn’t asked. He wished he was
downstairs, washing dishes by hand and contemplating how short life was, once you’d finished
doing all the things people needed you for.

“We’re friends,” said Malfoy.

“No, we’re not,” said Harry, and Malfoy had the gall to look hurt. “Don’t look at me like that. You
didn’t invite me to your birthday drinks. You invited Terry Boot.”

“Boot has good drugs,” said Malfoy. “You wouldn’t think it, would you? But he does.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

“Oh, look…” said Malfoy, slouching against the door, all elegant and shoulder-y, like a sexy
panther. “I didn’t think you’d come, if I asked.”

“It’s still nice to be asked,” said Harry, sullenly.

Malfoy seemed to be assessing Harry, and Harry felt certain he was not coming off well. It was
awful to have deteriorated. It was awful to have peaked so long ago, and so unpleasantly.

“Yes,” said Malfoy. “You’re right. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you to my birthday drinks.” He paused.
“You didn’t invite me to yours, you know.”

“I didn’t have birthday drinks!” said Harry, because he was apparently determined to impress upon
Draco what a loser he was.

“Ah.”

There was a humiliating silence.

“Thank you,” said Malfoy. “For last night.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You were rather kind,” said Malfoy.

“I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sorry. How much are you you when you’re a kitten?”

“A cat,” said Malfoy.

Harry laughed.

“Right. Sure. How much are you—?”

“Have you made any headway on breaking the curse? Because there’s a flat I was thinking of
leasing, but I don’t want to pay rent there for a month if I’ll be here,” said Malfoy.

A heavy weight of sadness fell on Harry’s heart. It did that, sometimes, came down on him like a
cloud.

“No,” he said. “I’m working on it.” And he left Malfoy to his techno.

When Harry first noticed himself rolling into depression, he had tried to stop it. He’d gone to
parties when he was eighteen, the dorm parties at the curse breaking academy, the kinds of parties
where someone had propped the door open with a text book and twelve people were squashed
around a desk and a single bed. But when Harry came in, the parties always got weird.

It varied, how people reacted to his fame. Sometimes they pretended they didn’t know who he
was. Sometimes they got drunk and cried on his shoulder about how intimidated they were to meet
him. Sometimes—more often than you would think—they were nasty to him, as if they were
determined to get a Harry Potter party anecdote, and making fun of him or spilling a drink on him
was better than just saying they’d made boring small talk with him once.

Ron and Hermione managed all right, but they had each other. Or maybe that wasn’t it, because
they were always there for him, of course. Maybe it was just that Harry was boring, when it came
down to it. Maybe the most interesting thing about Harry had been that someone wanted to kill
him, and now that no longer applied. Certainly that was what Malfoy seemed to think.

Oddly, the only new friends Harry had made as an adult were Slytherins he had known at school.
Marcus Flint never asked him difficult questions. Pansy Parkinson had once shown up at Harry’s
house, off her face on MDMA, and eaten an entire roast chicken out of Harry’s fridge while telling
him boring childhood anecdotes that she evidently believed were profound. Blaise Zabini made fun
of Harry on the rare nights Harry ventured to the pub, but in gentle, soothing ways (“Ahh, I see
Harry’s made time for us in his busy schedule of being the finest curse breaker in all the land.
How many orphans have you rescued today, Harry?”)—ways that made Harry feel rather
important instead of ancient and useless.

Harry felt distinctly useless as he tried to figure out Malfoy’s curse. Malfoy sat opposite him at the
kitchen table, looking bored. Harry held his hand, casting diagnostic curses with two fingers
pressed against Malfoy’s pulse.

“Have you angered anyone at work lately?” asked Harry.

“I’m an editor. I anger people daily. It’s my job,” said Malfoy.

“Maybe we could make up a list of people who might have cause to—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Potter,” said Malfoy, and pulled his hand out of Harry’s grasp.
“You’re being very uncooperative,” said Harry.

Malfoy laughed. It was an unhappy sort of sound.

“Let’s just write down the names of everyone in Britain who might want to harm me, shall we?
Have you got a year or two?”

“People seem to be pretty over the whole war thing, from where I’m standing,” said Harry, drily,
because Lucius Malfoy had only served three months in Azkaban. He was now on several
important boards, and he dictated the world with his money, just as he always had.

Malfoy fell silent. His nose was a sharp, carved line, and his dark eyelashes swept over his cheek as
his blinked. Harry realised that he had wounded him, somehow, although he wasn’t sure how he
could tell. Malfoy was quite expressionless.

The floo flared up, and Ron came through.

“How’s the dream team?” he asked, ruffling Malfoy’s hair.

“Dreamy,” said Malfoy. “Tell me how the real world is. I’m dying of boredom.”

Harry winced at his notes. Of course Malfoy was bored. He was with Harry.

“Mayhem,” said Ron. “Pansy’s been voted Miss America. Hermione’s joined a nudist colony.
Neville—shit, sorry.”

“That’s all right. I’m totally over him. Absolutely and completely un-heartbroken.”

“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

“Brilliantly. Potter and I have started a torrid affair.”

Harry choked on his tea.

“Don’t mind him,” said Malfoy. “He’s just worried I’ll reveal how kinky the sex is. Make sure you
mention that to Neville, when you next see him. See if you can imply that Potter beats me with a
paddle.”

“Stop it,” said Ron. “You’re giving Harry a heart attack.”

“I’m fine,” said Harry. “We’re not having a torrid affair.”

“No,” said Malfoy, abruptly serious. “We’re not. Why are you here, Ron?”

“Just wanted to check you were being nice to Harry,” said Ron, reaching over and eating some of
Harry’s toast.

“Am I being nice, Potter?” asked Malfoy.

“You’re being unhelpful,” said Harry.

They sat around the table, Ron and Malfoy chatting merrily away, Harry glumly chewing the
inside of his cheek and thinking about what Malfoy had said about Neville hurting him. Malfoy
had never been one for pain. Harry was quite sure that there was nothing Malfoy would find sexier
than being handled gently.
He thought of the kitten (they seemed separate; Malfoy and the kitten) purring, his little face
peeping out the folds of Harry’s wool jumper.

Half an hour after Ron’s arrival, Malfoy’s owl came knocking at the window. Malfoy let him in
and pursed his lips when he saw the writing on the envelope.

“Your dad?” asked Ron. Knowingly, as if he recognised that expression, as if he knew a whole
long backstory about Malfoy and Lucius. Harry imagined the two of them sitting late into the night
as Malfoy spilled his impenetrable heart out. And what had Ron given him in return? What ache
had he revealed to Malfoy? Because, of course, Harry knew there were things Ron couldn’t talk to
Harry about—how Ron still felt threatened by him, how Ron still had secret fears that Hermione
might have preferred Harry, how Ron resented that Harry’s vast inheritance continued to smooth
his path. Had he told all that to Malfoy?

Malfoy nodded and ripped over the envelope. His eyes scanned the letter.

“Oh, for fuck’s—” he said, then turned into a kitten.

“Oh my God,” said Ron, then sprawled across the kitchen floor to catch Malfoy before he could
flee under the sofa. “Gotcha!”

The kitten swarmed onto Ron’s shoulder, but Ron grabbed him.

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re cute as fuck and I’m going to cuddle you,” said Ron.

“Not the height of consent, really,” said Harry.

“Draco would dress me up in a bonnet if I ever turned into a kitten in front of him; don’t talk to me
about consent. Holy shit, Draco, you are adorable.”

He was holding the kitten up in front of his face. The kitten stopped squirming and began a loud,
contented purr, which only increased in volume as Ron flipped him onto his back and cradled him
like a baby.

“Do you have to fix the curse? He’s a lot better like this,” said Ron. He scratched the kitten behind
his ears, and the kitten stretched languorously.

“What do you think was in his letter from Lucius?” asked Harry.

“Ugh. Who knows. Some shitty thing about Draco being a disappointment, probably,” said Ron,
stroking the kitten under his chin. But when Harry came near, the kitten scrabbled to get away, and
thrust his head into Ron’s armpit.

“You’re scaring him!” said Ron.

“How am I scaring him?!” said Harry, outraged.

“You always scare him.”

“…what?”

Ron made himself more comfortable on the floor and coaxed the kitten out from under his arm.

“Draco’s terrified of you,” he said, as if reminding Harry of something he already knew.

“What? No, he isn’t,” said Harry.

Ron shrugged.

“Hang on. Has he said something to you?” asked Harry.

“No,” said Ron. “But he is. It’s why he’s so weird around you.”

“But…” said Harry, at a loss. “But I’m not…”

“I know,” said Ron. “I’ve tried telling him what you’re like, but it’s no doing. Ow! If you don’t
watch out, Draco, I’m going to trim your claws.”

“Wait, but what the fuck,” said Harry. Ron looked up, and seemed to finally realise how upset
Harry was.

“It’s not because of anything you do,” said Ron.

“Then what is it?”

Ron scowled.

“It’s because you’re Harry Potter.”

“Why would Malfoy care about that? He never did before,” said Harry. The kitten’s fur looked
softer than a rabbit’s. He seemed to trust Ron inherently. Harry rubbed at the frayed and painful
hangnails on his fingers. He was beyond hurt. The idea that Malfoy was like all those terrible
people at the academy parties was a betrayal that went so deep it undermined half his childhood
memories.

But Ron just shrugged again.

“He’ll get over it,” he said.

“Right, but what the fuck,” said Harry. “Also, he’s not scared of you and Hermione, and you both
did way more than I did in the war, really.”

“Neither of us ever tried to kill him,” said Ron.

“I didn’t try to—”

“No, I know you didn’t, Harry, obviously. Just, he doesn’t know that, does he? Can you understand
us, mate?” This latter addressed to the kitten, who continued to purr contentedly. “I don’t reckon
you can. Can I put your head in my mouth?”

“Do not put his head in your mouth,” said Harry.

“But it’s so small,” said Ron.

Malfoy turned back into a human a few hours later. When he came to, he was asleep in Ron’s lap.
Ron poked him in the ear.

“Ow!” cried Malfoy, waking up with a start.

“Mate. You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Ron.
“Fuck off,” said Malfoy.

“I could have crushed your skull with my hands,” said Ron.

“Potter, I think we’ve found our criminal. Ron here’s a psychopath.”

“How are you feeling? Do you want some water?” asked Harry. Scared of him. As if Harry was
something rather more or less than human. It made Harry want to shrivel up inside his skin and
disappear.

“That’d be great, thanks,” said Malfoy. “Ron, did you just spend two hours snuggling me?”

“Yeah, and you loved it, you furry little creep.”

“Everything all right with your dad?” asked Harry, as he passed Malfoy the water. Malfoy didn’t
meet his eyes.

“Nothing new,” he said.

“He’s a twat,” said Ron.

“A stunning insight from Ron Weasley, as always,” said Malfoy. He sighed and stretched. “I’d
better go answer him.”

“Stop talking to him,” said Ron.

“Then my mother would have to deal with it,” said Malfoy.

“Let her, for once.”

Malfoy gave Ron a little smile.

“Leave me alone?” he said, and Ron rolled his eyes, and they were really fucking good friends,
weren’t they? Malfoy trusted Ron, and maybe even loved him. But Harry—Harry was frightening.

“I’m going to bed,” said Harry, and stalked out of the room. He lay in bed and was so lonely it was
hard to breathe.
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

Blaise Zabini: agent of chaos

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry had several other cases he was working on. Malfoy worked from home. They ate their meals
separately, because Harry tended to eat at his desk at the office. Malfoy was polite, vaguely
hostile, and spent most of his time in his room.

He was also very popular. Harry hadn’t been this social in years, because people came around
every day to see Malfoy. He’d come home and hear Pansy Parkinson cackling away in Malfoy’s
bedroom, or Ron and Hermione would be in the kitchen with Malfoy playing cards. One time,
Harry found Luna crying on Malfoy’s shoulder in the sitting room. Harry backed quietly out and
never mentioned it.

“Is it true that Malfoy’s scared of me?” Harry asked Blaise. Malfoy was cooking something in the
kitchen with Ron and Hermione, but Blaise never helped with anything if he could help it. He was
ensconced in the sitting room with a gin and tonic in each hand.

“Scared of you? No, why would you say that?” said Blaise. His eyes darted around the room. He
wasn’t a good liar, although he seemed like someone who would be.

“Come on,” said Harry.

“He adores you!”

Harry fixed Blaise with an exasperated look.

“He does not adore me.”

Blaise sighed.

“Draco… is not really over the war,” he said.

“Neither am I! Neither is anyone!”

Blaise looked at him for several seconds.

“Harry… I don’t want to overstep. But are you… all right?”

“I’m fine,” answered Harry automatically.

“Hmm,” said Blaise, still watching him. Then he leant back and took a deep sip of gin and tonic.
“Draco’s such a forthcoming drunk.”

“Okay?” said Harry. He was still shaken by Blaise’s question. Hermione asked him that,
sometimes, and Mrs Weasley, but it never seemed to register. They loved him in ways that felt
concrete, and blind.
“Draco doesn’t talk about the war,” said Blaise, “but when he’s drunk he’s quite, quite open.”

“Are you suggesting I get him drunk and force him to talk to me?”

Blaise looked pained.

“What an ugly way to put it,” he said.

“I’m not doing that.”

Blaise smiled and muttered to himself.

“What?” asked Harry.

“Gryffindor,” said Blaise. “But, you know, it’s not the sort of deceit that Draco feels betrayed by.
In fact,” Blaise looked pensive, “I’m not sure deceit is the way to wound Draco at all. Consider:
lying is so often a way to care.”

“Think I can do without that sort of care, myself,” said Harry, bitterly. It had come up in his throat,
the bitterness. Unexpected, like bile. He stood.

“Harry,” said Blaise.

“‘going to bed,” said Harry.

Blaise looked as if he wanted to say something, but all he said, in the end, was “goodnight”.

Two days later, Harry came home late from work to a drunk Draco Malfoy, and Blaise, smug and
black-eyed and watchful.

“Hello, Harry,” he said. “How many maidens did you rescue from fates worse than death today?”

“Saving the world,” said Malfoy, into his wine glass. “Wine, Potter?”

“No, thanks. Blaise—”

Blaise made a show of looking at his pocket watch.

“Look at the time! I’d love to stay and chat, but I can’t, Harry, simply can’t.”

“Blaise…”

“Goodnight! Do keep Draco company, won’t you? He’ll get dour if left.”

“I’m cheery,” said Draco.

“As an earthquake. Goodnight, all,” said Blaise, and disapperated, which was both rude, and proof
of his (in Harry’s opinion) sinister sobriety.

Malfoy peered up at him.

“Wine?” he offered again.

“All right,” said Harry, and poured himself a glass.

“Cheers,” said Malfoy. They clinked glasses, then sat in silence on opposite ends of the sofa. Harry
didn’t know what to say. He knew what Blaise intended: for Harry to simply ask all his burning,
hurting questions. But it felt like taking advantage.

“Sorry I’m in your house,” said Malfoy, abruptly.

“I invited you,” said Harry.

“Under duress. Because Hermione cried,” said Malfoy.

“Yeah, but I would have done it anyway, if it was what was needed.”

Malfoy frowned and placed his glass on the side table. He stared at it very hard, licked his finger,
then began to make the crystal sing, running his index along the rim. He glanced at Harry.

“I’m being rude,” he said.

“Are you?”

Malfoy nodded.

“You’re never supposed to do this.”

He stopped. Harry tried to do it with his own glass, but it stayed obstinately silent.

“It’s not working,” he said.

“You need—” said Malfoy. He shuffled to his knees, took Harry’s hand, and licked the tip of
Harry’s index finger. He did it so quickly and in so business-like a manner that for a moment,
Harry was fooled into believing it was a perfectly normal thing to do. But by the time he had
remembered that it was not, in fact, acceptable to go around licking other people’s fingers, Malfoy
was already back on his side of the sofa.

“Try it now,” he said. And when Harry did, it worked. The glass sang a pure, clear note of music.
Harry forgot his discomposure—he had felt Malfoy’s tongue piercing—and grinned.

Malfoy did not grin back. He only watched Harry, his features solemn.

“Neville thinks we’re shagging,” he said.

“Er, why?”

Malfoy’s eyebrows moved up and down in a quick, puzzling movement.

“He’s always been a bit threatened by you.” He picked up his glass, then put it back down,
unsipped. “He thinks I have a crush.”

“…do you?”

Malfoy just laughed. Harry hadn’t had anything to drink, but he felt suddenly drunk. Dizzy and
hopeful and sad.

“I heard something about you,” said Harry. His words sounded loud in his ears.

“Oh, dear,” said Malfoy, and put his head on the sofa arm. “What?”
“Someone told me you were—” it seemed preposterous to say it. Self-important and stupid. Malfoy
lifted his head. He looked utterly miserable.

“What? Gay? Evil? Thought I’d already come out about those.”

“Scared,” said Harry. “Of me.”

Malfoy just stared at him.

“Which is fucked up,” clarified Harry. “Because I saved your life. And spoke for you at your trial.
And you know me.”

“I don’t know you,” said Malfoy.

“Obviously it was stupid. And not true. What that person said.”

Malfoy looked at his hands.

“Malfoy,” said Harry. His voice sounded too stern.

“I’m drunk,” said Malfoy unhappily. Harry breathed out.

“Sorry. You’re right. Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” he said. Malfoy frowned, still not looking at
Harry. “It’s just,” Harry said, not completely sure he could control the words, “you were never
scared of me, ever, at school. And what the fuck is even scary about me? I mean that’s fucking
insulting, actually, right? Because—snakes are scary—”

Malfoy shuddered.

“—and, and murderers are scary,” Harry went on, “which, by the way, I never did murder anybody
—and neither did you, so…” he trailed off.

Malfoy swallowed and closed his eyes, as if he was steeling himself to say something very
important. What he said was,

“Um.”

Harry shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m… yeah. I’m going to bed. Sorry, again. Do you need anything?”

“No,” said Malfoy, very quietly. “Thank you.”

When Harry left, Malfoy still sat on the sofa, looking at his hands.

“I tried to cast sectumsempra, summer of sixth year.”

Harry span around. He had been chopping green chilli peppers, and hadn’t heard Malfoy come in.
It had been almost a week since the night Malfoy was drunk, and Harry had been avoiding him
ever since.

“Sorry?”
Malfoy shifted on his feet. He wore muggle clothes around the house, soft cable-knit jumpers and
skinny jeans so tight that Harry had to forcefully remind himself not to stare.

“On a horse,” said Malfoy. “Dead horse. I don’t go around torturing animals.”

“I know,” said Harry, mystified.

Malfoy leant against the doorframe. He never seemed to come into rooms, if he could hover at
their edges instead.

“So—dead horse. Off to the glue factory that weekend. I figured… anyway, I tried to cast it.
Sectumsempra.” He frowned and plucked at a bit of lint on his jumper. “Didn’t work. It’s one of
those intention spells, you know? Where you have to mean it.” He glanced at Harry. “You’ve got
to, ah, to really want to slice someone open. To hurt them. You have to really want them to hurt.”

“Draco,” said Harry, helplessly.

“And, you know, I get it, I do. And you were angry. So… when you weren’t angry, in the Room of
Requirement, or at the trials—what I mean is, it’s something I admire about you, actually.”

“That I cursed you?”

“That you did what was right, instead of what you wanted.”

“Sorry, just to check,” said Harry. “You think I have some intense desire to murder you that I
overcame because of my moral fortitude?”

Malfoy gave an abrupt bark of laughter.

“Yes.”

“That’s not… Draco, that’s not it, at all.”

“I’m Draco all of a sudden?”

“Everyone calls you Draco,” said Harry. He was still holding the knife. He put it down.

“You don’t,” said Draco.

“Yeah, because you call me Potter!”

“I couldn’t…!” spluttered Draco. “It would have been incredibly presumptuous, if I had started
being like, Oh Hazza, Hazza and I go way back—”

“I’m not saying you should have called me Hazzah…!”

Draco turned into a kitten and fled under the sofa.

Harry finished cooking. Ate his food. Tried several times to coax the kitten out from under the
sofa, to no avail.

In the night, he turned over and elbowed the kitten in the face.

“Shit,” said Harry, as the kitten gave a piteous, sleepy meow, moved a foot away to sit in the crook
of Harry’s knee, and went back to sleep. Harry stared at him for a moment, then lay back down.
 He next woke up because Draco Malfoy the human, all six feet of him, was getting off the bed.

“Draco,” said Harry. It was the early hours of the morning. The light slanted delicately through the
curtains, fresh and tentative. Draco paused with a hand on the post at the foot of Harry’s bed.

“I got cold,” he said.

“I can turn up the heating spells,” said Harry.

“No, it’s fine,” said Draco. He wouldn’t look at Harry, and seemed to waiting for his dismissal.

“Draco,” said Harry. Draco lifted his eyes. Like a guilty creature awaiting punishment. Harry sat up
a bit in bed. “I like you,” he said.

Draco’s mouth dropped slightly open.

“Sorry, that came out wrong,” said Harry, hastily. “I’m not—this isn’t, a confession of—I mean, I
like you as a person.”

Draco looked no less surprised.

“You’re funny,” said Harry. “You take care of Hermione.”

A long pause.

“Say something,” said Harry.

“I like you too,” said Draco.

“You don’t have to say that.”

Draco knocked on the bed post, clearly just because he wanted something to do with his hands.

“So,” he said. “What now?”

“Erm,” said Harry. “Friends?”

Draco smiled, not looking up.

“Okay,” he said.

Chapter End Notes

Harry has a sofa in his kitchen, yes.

 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

So, listen, I, too, thought this would be a nice story about kitten!Draco. The fact that it
is in fact about the debilitating mental impact of war has taken me by SURPRISE.

When Harry got back from work that evening, Draco was waiting in the kitchen with fish and
chips.

“Friends have dinner,” he said.

“It is known,” agreed Harry.

“Do you eat fish and chips?”

“I honestly eat everything,” said Harry. They sat at the table, spreading the greasy paper and doling
out vinegary chips without speaking. Draco was smiling too much. It looked uncomfortable.

“How did you become friends with Ron and Hermione?” asked Harry.

“Aggressively,” said Draco. “And with ulterior motives.”

“Right, well, of course.”

“And it’s easier when you’re eighteen, because you’re more sure of things,” said Draco. Harry
gave a wry smile.

“That’s true,” he said. “Not sure of anything much, these days.”

“Anyway, they were surprisingly receptive,” said Draco. “Don’t know why.”

“It was lovely, becoming friends with Marcus and Blaise and everyone.”

“Blaise is obsessed with you.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Harry.

“Oh, not in a sexual way,” said Draco. “You’re not his type. Wait, are you even into guys?”

“Think I’m into anything,” said Harry. “Don’t think the mechanics make much of a difference to
me.”

“Hm. That’s refreshing. Anyway, I just mean that Blaise thinks you’re fascinating. He’s always
saying he wants to write your biography.”

“God. Why?”

“You should let him, by the way, he’s an excellent writer. And he’d do a better job than Eloise
Midgen.”
“What has she got to do with it?” asked Harry, who hadn’t thought about Eloise Midgen since he
was about fourteen.

“Don’t you know? She wrote your biography.”

“What?”

“It was crap.”

“You read it?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Draco. “I have a post-war reading group. Well, I say group, it’s just me and Nott
and Goyle.”

“That’s a bit fucked up,” said Harry. Draco nodded solemnly.

“Yes,” he said. “We read all the stuff written about the war.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy.”

“It’s not.”

“Why would you do that?”

But Draco went vague.

“Oh, you know…” he waved his hand. “But Blaise would do a great job. Not yet, obviously. Wait
till you’re in your fifties and have taken out a few more dark lords.”

“Not planning on taking out any more dark lords,” said Harry.

“Sorry,” said Draco, looking embarrassed. “I was being glib.”

Harry tilted his head.

“I know, Draco.”

“Right. This is terrible. Is it terrible?”

“Terrible,” said Harry.

“I’m not at my best when you’re around.”

“You’re doing fine,” said Harry. “How am I doing?

“Fine,” said Draco. “Maybe we’re both being very charming, actually.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Harry, and Draco smiled.

They spent a lot more time together, after that, although it wasn’t quite comfortable. Draco was too
polite, and had a habit of clarifying when he was joking as if he thought Harry was incapable of
figuring it out.

“I’d kill for mint chocolate chip ice cream,” he said once, then flushed and added, “not actually.”
“Really? You wouldn’t AK someone for an ice cream?” said Harry. It was very late on a
Wednesday, and Harry lay on the kitchen floor, because there was no food in the house and it was
hopeless.

Draco frowned. He stood by the open kitchen cabinet, poking through old cans.

“You’re making fun of me,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Draco nodded, then pulled out a can of butter beans.

“This will do, with some salt.”

“My life is depressing,” said Harry, as if he was joking, and it worked, because Draco laughed.

But if Draco wasn’t quite as exuberant around Harry as he was with Ron and Hermione, he would
at least look Harry in the eye. Ask him questions. Talk to him. It was a marked improvement.

Every suspect Harry investigated was innocent. It was an impossible case, and although Draco
never complained (well—he complained in a way that was more comedy than complaint), Harry
knew it troubled him. He was, after all, largely confined to the house. Harry overheard him talking
about it seriously with Hermione.

“The longer I’m not at the office, the more dispensable I become,” he said.

“They love you,” said Hermione.

“Ha.”

“Anyway, you can sue them if they sack you.”

“There’s my girl,” said Draco, although he didn’t really sound reassured.

A few times, he received letters from Lucius, which invariably prompted him to turn into a kitten.
The same thing always happened then: he hid from Harry until he got cold and lonely, then
climbed into bed with him. When he crept away in the morning, Harry pretended not to wake up.

Twice, Neville came over.

“I’m not doing this again,” said Harry, and left the house for three hours. When he came back—
both times—Draco was a kitten.

“Tell him to stop visiting,” said Harry, the second time. Draco had come back to himself quicker
than usual, and insisted on making margaritas.

“I make them strong,” said Draco. “Hope you like headaches in the morning.”

“I could tell him to stop coming over,” said Harry. “It fucks you up. And it’s not like you’re going
to take him back.”

“I’ve invited eight people over. It’s an impromptu party.”

“Draco. You’re not going to take him back.”

Draco handed Harry a margarita.

“Hermione says I never really loved him,” he said, not looking at Harry.

“And? Did you?”

Blaise emerged from the fireplace.

“Impromptu party?” he said, kissing Draco on both cheeks. “Hallo, Harry! Tell me truthfully: how
many innocent lives did you improve today between the hours of nine and twelve?”

“Where do you buy your shirts?” asked Draco.

“Draco,” said Harry, and Draco’s hand paused on Blaise’s arm.

“I don’t know, Harry,” he said. Honest and serious.

“Did I interrupt something?” asked Blaise gleefully. “I heard the most dreadful thing about you and
a paddle, Harry. I wouldn’t have believed it, if Ron Weasley hadn’t been my source.”

“Leave Harry alone,” said Draco. “It’s not his fault he’s an insatiable sadist.”

“Oh, fuck both of you,” said Harry.

“We’ve never done that, but I, for one, am willing,” said Blaise.

“Do you know what Oscar Wilde said about Swinburne?” asked Draco.

Blaise sighed and threw Harry a significant look.

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me, whether I want you to or not,” he said.

“He said—let me see—that Swinburne ‘had done everything he could to convince his fellow
citizens of his homosexuality and bestiality without being in the slightest degree a homosexual or a
bestialiser.’”

“You wound me,” said Blaise. “I have never claimed to be a bestialiser.”

Harry told himself he would bring up Neville again the next morning, but Draco had been quite
right about the strength of his margaritas. Harry’s headache was so debilitating he had to call in
sick at work, which he had never done before.

Harry was so busy with Draco and Draco’s five thousand closest friends that he didn’t notice he
hadn’t been quite so low lately until a bad day struck.

It started in the morning: his alarm went off, and Harry stared at the ceiling, not remembering why
it was worth getting out of bed.

At work, he stared blankly at an enchanted snow globe with three small children stuck inside, and
distantly recalled that he had, just yesterday, enjoyed his job. All he felt now was a desire to touch
the snow globe without his protective gloves and crawl into a small imaginary world.

He forgot to eat lunch. He stood for ten minutes in his office bedroom, the heels of his hands
pressed to his eyes, and was gripped by strange, flashing memories. He let them sweep over him.
He had learnt it was far more painful to resist.

It was bodies, mainly, and not the bodies of people he loved—he never saw Dumbledore or Dobby
or Fred or Lupin or Tonks or Sirius —it tended to be the bodies of people he hadn’t known, at the
Battle of Hogwarts. Disjointed, mangled corpses. They came upon him at unexpected moments,
like a stabbing pain in the spine, and Harry just tried to breathe, to breathe, to breathe.

Grimmauld Place was blessedly empty when he got home—or, at least, Draco was upstairs. Harry
made it to the sofa before he burst into dry sobs. He wasn’t sure what he was crying about. He had
never been much of a crier, and it embarrassed him that he had weakened so much that he couldn’t
keep it together, when everything was so much easier now than it had been. Seventeen-year-old
Harry had gone through a war and barely shed a tear, but twenty-four-year-old Harry couldn’t
handle a fucking day in the office, what the fuck.

There was a sound at the door. Harry looked up. He had taken off his glasses—tears on the lenses,
such a mess—but he could make out the white blonde hair.

He shook his head violently, and Draco left without a word. If Harry hadn’t loved him before then,
that would have done it.

He cried blankly, after that, the kind of empty weeping that felt more like shock than anything else.
Sometimes Harry was just stunned with horror. When he came out of these periods, he was always
impatient with himself: Ron and Hermione hadn’t left half their minds on a battlefield. But when
the feeling came upon him, there was nothing to be done but buckle down and endure.

That was what he was doing; enduring, when he heard a soft little meow at his elbow. Tiny white
paws kneaded tentatively at his thigh.

“Ow,” said Harry, surprised. One of the kitten’s claws caught on Harry’s jeans, and he tried in vain
to get his paw free. Harry had to unhook it for him.

“Hi,” said Harry, wetly. The kitten climbed onto his lap. Harry picked him up, put a pillow on his
lap so the kitten wouldn’t accidentally scratch him, then lowered him down. The kitten nuzzled
Harry’s jumper, curled close to Harry’s stomach, and began to purr vigorously.

Harry stroked the kitten under the chin, and he tipped it up rapturously for Harry’s fingers.

“The thing is,” said Harry. He blinked and a tear fell on the kitten’s fur. “Sorry. The thing is,
sometimes I miss it. Because there’s nothing so vivid as war.”

The kitten rolled onto his back. He was so small that Harry could comfortably cover his whole
body with one hand.

“That’s a fucking awful thing to say. I know. But sometimes I just… want to see colours the way I
used to.” Harry closed his eyes, remembering. “Vividly.”

The kitten was warm, responsive. Harry was still sad and sick with thoughts, but he was comforted.
It was good, not to be alone.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Draco turned back to a human. Harry lay
lengthways on the sofa, staring at the heavy ceiling, and suddenly the imperceptible weight of a
kitten was replaced with the quite noticeable weight of an adult man.
Harry pulled his hands away from Draco’s body, but Draco didn’t move. It seemed as if he was
asleep, his cheek pressed into his hands on Harry’s chest.

Very, very slowly, Harry put his hands on Draco’s body. His back muscles were warm through the
cotton of his shirt. Harry let his fingers feel the place where Draco’s shoulder blades protruded in
soft triangles.

“What happened?” asked Draco, sounding very much awake.

“Sorry!” said Harry, removing his hands. There wasn’t an obvious place to put them, so he just sort
of froze in a jazz hands position, which he was aware was not ideal.

“It’s fine,” said Draco. “You can.”

Harry lowered his hands again. Draco had said he could. Harry was visited, briefly, by the memory
of Draco calling Hermione a mudblood in second year. Inexplicably, the thought made him press
Draco a little closer.

“What happened?” asked Draco again.

“You turned into a kitten. I guess something must have stressed you out.”

“No, I mean, like… did something happen at work, to make you…?”

Draco’s voice was muffled. His hands were warm on Harry’s chest.

“Oh,” said Harry. “No. Nothing happened.”

Draco propped his chin on the back of his hands to look at Harry. His eyes were dark with residual
eyeliner. He only wore it sometimes, thank God. He was distracting enough when he wasn’t trying
to be hot.

“Harry,” said Draco, with a small frown. “Are you very sad?”

Harry couldn’t speak for several seconds. Draco watched him patiently.

“I haven’t got anything to be sad about,” said Harry.

A muscle twitched in Draco’s jaw. He lowered his face into his hands for an instant then raised it
again.

“Shall we have friends over to play Risk?” he asked, not quite gently, but something close. Gentle-
adjacent, which Harry found much easier to accept.

“I’m no good at Risk,” said Harry.

Draco smiled.

“You can be on my team,” he said.

 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes

Some more war trauma up top, also I suspect you guys will HATE this chapter lol

This particular round of what Harry privately thought of as self-indulgent moping lasted about a
month. He startled at unexpected sounds. At random intervals, his hands would shake so badly he
would have to step away from his desk rather than risk dropping a cursed object. He was plagued
with dreams he hesitated to call nightmares, because they weren’t horrific, only guilt-inducing.

One recurring dream featured Colin Creevey. In the dream, Harry ran towards the quidditch pitch.
Colin ran after him, his camera covering his face, saying Don’t leave me! Don’t leave! When Harry
stopped, Colin lowered the camera, and became as he had been at the Battle of Hogwarts. Pale,
incongruously peaceful. And he said it again: Don’t leave me.

Harry awoke from these dreams just hating himself. They didn’t frighten him, or make him panic,
which was why he didn’t term them nightmares. No: they were just dreams about people needing
him, and not receiving help.

He would sit up, and the kitten would open his sleepy eyes and yawn, and Harry would scratch him
behind the ears until he purred. Because the kitten was always there, that month. Harry was so
overwhelmed that he didn’t really think about it. He just took it for granted that every night, Draco
got stressed, transformed, and came to sleep in his bed. The kitten was a blessedly light sleeper. He
woke up with Harry and went to sleep with Harry, so easily, so unobtrusively.

Perhaps Harry would have noticed quicker that something had changed if Draco’s behaviour had
altered when he was himself. But it hadn’t. Draco was tentatively friendly, wary of making of
jokes. He continued to have friends over all the time, and relax around them in ways he never
would around Harry. And Harry was too busy not sinking to question what it was that stressed
Draco so regularly.

Draco was usually himself by morning. He tended to slip away without much fuss, but
occasionally he stayed for a while, not quite touching Harry, and they watched each other. It was
weird, of course, and at first Harry had worried about it—about whether he was making a fool of
himself—but Draco didn’t mention it, and neither did Harry, so it just became something they did.

Things got better slowly. They always did, which was one of the reasons Harry felt so stupid for
letting it get to him, when he knew these episodes were only temporary. He soon found he could
sleep through the night without waking himself with dreams, and he got hungry at mealtimes
again, and stopped crying at unpredictable moments throughout the day. It was easier to be alive.

Draco was awake before him, that morning. Harry woke up and found that he was watching him.
Harry closed his eyes, something soothing settling over his heart.

“It wasn’t the war that was vivid,” said Draco.

Harry opened his eyes.

“That’s just being young,” said Draco.

“I… what?”

“I miss it too. The vividness. But just because we were young during a war doesn’t mean war was
responsible for everything that was lovely about our youth.”

“Oh, you fucker,” said Harry. “You understand everything when you’re a fucking kitten!”

He was sort of more amused than annoyed, but Draco’s face went completely white, and he rolled
out of bed in one swift motion.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice tight and frightened.

“Hey,” said Harry.

“I don’t understand everything. It’s a bit blurry. Some things linger. I’m sorry.”

“Draco,” said Harry, getting out of bed and going to where Draco stood, fully dressed in his clothes
from the day before, head bowed.

“I should have told you,” he said, looking so defeated.

“Has the curse changed?” asked Harry, the question occurring to him for the first time. “You’ve
been turning so much more often.”

“No,” said Draco, but Harry didn’t believe him.

“I can’t help you break it if you don’t tell me things.”

“It hasn’t changed.”

“Then why are you—”

Draco finally met his eyes, and he looked a bit pissed off, now.

“I know how to stress myself out, okay?”

“What?”

“I knew you didn’t want my company, but it’s pretty straightforward getting myself to transform.
I’ve been firecalling my father every evening, that’s all.”

Harry stared at him. His feelings were at a bottleneck, too many of them at once—gratitude and
pity and guilt, and love, of course.

“Say something,” said Draco, his voice rising unhappily.

But Harry couldn’t. Instead, he reached out and took Draco’s hand. Draco let him. Let Harry run
his index over the tip of each finger.

“Do you miss having claws?” asked Harry. He hadn’t meant to ask it. It had just come out.

“No,” said Draco. His voice was strained.

Harry touched each of Draco’s fingers, sweeping his index up their long narrow length, stopping at
the last knuckle before moving on to the next. The pale hairs on Draco’s arm stood up on end, and
when Harry had done one hand, Draco gave him the other as obediently as if Harry had
commanded it.

“It feels good. When you stroke me,” said Draco.

“When you’re a kitten?”

Draco shook his head.

“Whenever,” he said. Harry caught his breath.

“Don’t transform before you come to me, anymore,” he said. “Just come to me.”

He ran his index across Draco’s knuckles, then let him go. Draco swallowed.

“If you want to, I mean,” added Harry. “You don’t have to.”

Draco stood uncertainly for a moment, then said,

“One of our regulars submitted an article yesterday that I’m pretty sure’s offensive to hags, so I’ve
got to go deal with that.”

“Someone’s got to look out for the hags,” said Harry.

“I’m just doing it so Hermione will fancy me.”

“I assumed.”

Draco made a halted attempt to step towards Harry, said, “Yeah, so—” and left.

Harry could hardly concentrate at work that day. His mind strayed to Draco’s hitched breath, his
pliant fingers, the way he had said “It feels good. When you stroke me.”

Harry knew he could be a bit oblivious, but the moment had been intimate. A step towards
something Harry hadn’t realised how much he wanted until it was there in front of him: Draco, in
his bedroom, caring for Harry, letting Harry care back.

Harry knew that Draco could get anyone he wanted. It was something Harry maybe resented a bit,
when he was honest with himself—the degree to which everyone seemed willing to let old sins go.
He thought Draco deserved to be forgiven, or at least for his change to be accepted, but it felt as if
forgiveness had happened so easily. As if it was less of a choice than a surrender. It was too
difficult to decide what people deserved after the war, so a decision had simply and quickly been
made, and stuck to.

If the decision had gone the other way—if Draco had been unquestioningly reviled and ostracised
—Harry would have disliked that, too.

And, in fact, none of it was really about Draco.

The point was that Draco was gorgeous, popular, rich and successful. Harry was spent. Draco was
an ascendent power, and Harry a waning one. He did not delude himself into thinking they were
equals. They had never been equals. Immediately after the war, Draco had been nothing, and Harry
had been the single most famous person in Britain. Now, photographers followed Draco on the
street. Harry, meanwhile, was spoken about in the same bored and respectful tones as the Minister
for Finance.

He and Draco were both very lucky, Harry reminded himself. Harry was good at appreciating what
he had, although his appreciation was more punitive than grateful. Look at what you have. Look at
it. Look at it. How dare you.

But despite the many, many reasons Harry knew Draco had not to want to be with him (he was
heartbroken over Neville still, wasn’t he?), Harry also knew that Draco liked it when Harry stroked
him. That he had let Harry touch his hands worshipfully. That he had deliberately stressed himself
out so that he could comfort Harry every night.

Harry left work early, feeling braver than he had in years.

Draco was making cocktails in the kitchen. He turned around when Harry came in, a bright, false
smile on his face.

“Harry! You’re home early. Mojito?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” said Harry. Draco turned back to the counter and began cutting a lime.

“Me, too. Wanted to be the first to tell you the good news,” he said, and Harry had a presentiment
that whatever the good news was, Harry was not going to like it.

“That Jesus died for our sins?” he said, laying his briefcase on the kitchen table.

“Ha. No,” said Draco. “Neville and I got back together. Would you fetch the rum out of the liquor
cabinet?”

Harry felt a complicated, looping sort of sensation in his insides, like falling off a broom.

“What?” he said. His voice sounded oddly hollow. “Are you serious?”

“I never joke about rum,” said Draco.

“Draco. Look at me.”

Draco turned around, wiping his hands on his jeans. He did not meet Harry’s eyes.

“This is a bad and stupid idea,” said Harry, slowly, enunciating each word. “Do not do this. He
cheated on you. He was a dick about it. He called you a—”

Draco put up a hand, and Harry stopped instantly.

“We weren’t communicating well for a while, and that was my fault as well as his,” said Draco.
“But we’ve been working on it, and…”

“On your birthday!”

Draco’s eyes flashed up to Harry’s, angry and sharp.

“I remember, thanks,” he said. “And I hardly think I’m in a position to hold a grudge against
Neville. Of all people, I am well-versed in the importance of forgiveness.”

“What, so because of the war you’re fine with being in a bad relationship?”

Draco’s cheeks were pink. Harry remembered this from school, the way Draco flushed when he
felt spiteful and hunted.

“You don’t know a thing about me and Neville,” he said. “Don’t pretend you do.”

“He didn’t notice that he was hurting you during—”

“The sex has been good lately,” interrupted Draco.

“Lately,” said Harry. “When have you—” he stopped when he saw Draco’s expression. “Oh. You
never stopped sleeping with him.”

Draco shook his head.

“He loves me, and I love him. That’s…so much more than I ever thought I would have. So don’t
you stand there, Harry, and tell me I can’t have it. You said,” and suddenly, all at once, Draco was
near tears, “you said we were friends, you said that, and I believed you because you’re you and I
trusted you not to lie. So if that’s not…”

He stopped and tipped his head to look at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. The tears came anyway, and
he at wiped them with his wrist.

“If you don’t think I deserve to be loved, then—then you lied, because that’s not fucking
friendship,” he said, lowering his chin on the last word to look defiantly at Harry.

“What? Obviously I think you deserve to be…” he stumbled over the word, and Draco laughed,
wiping away fresh tears.

“You can’t even say it,” he said.

“Right, yeah, and we all know I have a healthy attitude to love. But no, this is so clearly all about
you, isn’t it,” said Harry. He instantly wished he could take it back, because Draco looked stricken.

“I’m sorry,” said Draco. “You’re right. I don’t understand you at all. But I really hoped you would
be happy for me. Neville loves me.”

“You can love someone and not deserve them.”

Draco smiled; a quick, brave, anguished thing.

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”

Silence fell heavily between them.

“Well,” said Harry. “If you love him, that’s good, then, I guess.”

Harry was so stupid. And in a way it made sense; he and Neville had always been destined for
similar things, to have lives that doubled each other. It made sense that they would both fall for the
same person. And it was Neville’s turn, now, to be chosen.

“Anyway, it’s good news for you,” said Draco, “because I’m moving out. Neville can keep me
under house arrest, instead.”

Harry couldn’t tell if Draco was being glib, or if he meant it. If living with Harry had been a prison
sentence, with Harry as gaoler.

“When?” he managed to ask.

“Tonight. Now. My bags are packed already.”

“Is it because—” the last of Harry’s courage petered out, and he didn’t say what he had intended: is
it because of this morning? Is it because of how I touched you? Is it because I’m in love with you?
“—because you’re scared of me?”

“What do you mean?” asked Draco, beginning to put away the glasses he had got out for cocktails.

“Is that why you’re leaving in such a hurry.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” said Draco. “I’m just getting out of your hair.”

“You weren’t in my hair,” said Harry.

“You should come over soon. Nev and I are planning on getting a television so we can watch this
weird muggle show Dean told us about. Doctor What? About time travel? Very inaccurate
apparently, but Dean says it’s fun. Anyway, I’ve never had a television. My father nearly had a
heart attack when I told him. Will you come over? You don’t have to.”

As Draco rambled, he walked up the stairs to his bedroom. Harry followed. Watched as Draco
picked up two neat leather suitcases.

“Will you be safe?” asked Harry. “With Neville?”

Draco frowned.

“Are you… what do you mean? Because if you’re asking if Neville would ever hurt me, he
wouldn’t. He’s an idiot, but he’s not…”

“No, I… I mean, that’s good to know. But I meant, if the person who cursed you comes for you.
Can Neville keep you safe?”

“Oh,” said Draco. He straightened up, dropping one suitcase to push his hair out of his face. He
looked surprised. “Yes, I think so. Thank you.”

“I know I’ve been useless,” said Harry, because he had. He had let Draco down. He was suddenly
aware that he had barely tried at all to break the curse, because he had known that once the curse
was broken, Draco would move out, with his playful laugh, his serious grey eyes, his warm,
kittenish shape in the night. And now Draco was moving out anyway, and Harry hadn’t helped
him. Hadn’t pulled through when Draco needed him.

Draco put out a hand as if to touch Harry, then drew it back.

“Harry. No,” he said. “No, you’ve been…”

There was a silence, during which Harry realised he was going to cry if Draco didn’t leave soon.

“It’s been a pleasure,” finished Draco. “Sincerely. A pleasure.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t speak, because his voice would have given him away.

“Well. Goodbye for now,” said Draco. Harry nodded again, and Draco looked so sad. Harry stuck
out his hand. Draco looked at it for a second, then shook it.

“Thank you,” said Draco.

He hesitated as he picked up the suitcases. Harry watched him. He hadn’t known what he was
going to say to Draco when he came home from work. Certainly he hadn’t planned on professing
undying love. But he had imagined touching Draco again, gently, until Draco leant into him. Until
Draco let him kiss him.

Draco went to the stairs, then paused. He glanced at Harry. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

“What,” said Harry.

“I am scared of you,” said Draco. And he looked it. He looked as if he was doing something
dangerous, and couldn’t believe he was going through with it. “Terrified. But not because you’re
frightening.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. When he opened them, Draco was halfway down
the stairs.

Harry went to his bedroom and shut the door so that he wouldn’t hear Draco using the floo to
leave.
 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes

Your distressed comments only make me WORSE (and are very lovely to read, thank
you!!)

“I know. But there’s no getting through to him,” said Ron.

“If you’d heard the fight they had the day Draco first moved in…!” said Harry.

He had waited until the next day to speak to Ron and Hermione. The night Draco went back to
Neville, Harry had just gone to bed. It was peculiar, how different heartbreak felt to the usual ways
he experienced misery. He was conscious, even as the loneliness tore at him, that it was a much
friendlier sort of unhappiness. The war memories felt mechanical, somehow, as if they weren’t
emotions designed to be felt by humans. This pain, if nothing else, was human, and Harry was
grateful to Draco for that.

“They’re not always that bad,” said Hermione. “They can be rather sweet.”

“Yeah, but it’s still shit Draco took him back,” said Ron.

“Yes. It is,” said Hermione. They were at their local pub, a muggle one where they were never
disturbed.

“It would be one thing if Neville had actually felt guilty, but he kept blaming Draco…!” said
Harry.

“We’ve both talked to Draco,” said Hermione. “But he’s obstinate. And ultimately, you can’t force
people to break up, even if you wish they would.”

“They’re both a bit fucked up, to be honest,” said Ron. “I’m not sure either of them would do better
elsewhere.”

“So that’s it?” said Harry. “We’re all just doomed to be trapped in shitty relationships if we didn’t
have the foresight to fall in love in fucking fourth year like you two?”

Ron and Hermione fell silent.

“Sorry,” muttered Harry.

“Harry, mate,” said Ron. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Need another drink,” said Harry, and went to the bar.

“Ye-es, it is rather a shame,” said Blaise. They were having lunch together at a trendy restaurant
that only sold extremely elaborate savoury tarts.
“And it’s only because he doesn’t think he deserves better,” said Harry, angrily spiking his fork
into his lavender, fennel and earl grey tart.

“Correct. Yes,” said Blaise, but he seemed distracted.

“And now he’s living with Neville, and I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to be a dick, but
to be honest I’m not at all sure Neville could handle it if the assailant came back and tried to finish
Draco off!”

“Ah,” said Blaise, carefully laying down his cutlery and folding up his napkin. “I’m glad you
brought that up. There’s something I’ve been meaning to have a friendly chat with you about.”

“What?”

Blaise smiled nervously.

“Well, if I tell you, you have to promise not to put me in prison,” he said.

“…what did you do? I can’t promise that.”

“Then I can’t tell you,” said Blaise. “Shall we get the bill?”

“Blaise.”

“The fact is, Harry, I’m not a prison-y sort of person. You’d do very well in prison. I’m quite sure
you’d find it most illuminating. But people like me are better suited to, oh, Paris.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing very bad,” said Blaise. “And you’re fond of me. Just promise.”

Harry made an exasperated sound.

“I promise. Tell me.”

Blaise bit his lip.

“Well, I may or may not have given a friend of ours a condition known, in medical circles, as…”

“Oh, you didn’t.”

“…stress-catism,” finished Blaise.

Harry took a second. Then:

“Blaise. What the fuck.”

“I think once you hear my reasoning—”

“Someone threw him in the Thames!”

“I threw him in the Thames,” said Blaise.

It wasn’t funny anymore. Harry was cold with anger.

“Why.”
“Well, I had to make it seem like a serious threat. Otherwise there’d have been no cause for him to
move in with you. Anyway, I was on hand to rescue him! I have such a sweet little cousin in
Highgate, and she very obligingly gave me one of her hairs for my polyjuice. Generally, I’m not
terribly fond of small children, but—”

“Explain. Yourself.”

Blaise looked rather abashed.

“Yes. All right,” he said, and his voice lost most of its theatricality, becoming clipped and
business-like. “We all know you’re not keen on Draco—”

“Jesus,” said Harry, “what a fucking mess.”

“—and we all know how Draco feels about you, and—”

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

“Oh, clearly we were mistaken, but Pansy and Nott and I thought he was quite enamoured. Neville
thought so too, you know. Anyway, after the debacle of his birthday, he was… well, in a pretty bad
way, and I thought… stop looking at me like that, Harry, it’s very distracting. I know you want to
hex me; restrain yourself.”

“You’re making it very difficult,” said Harry.

“I thought if you were somehow forced to spend time with him, you’d come around. And that he
might not go back to Neville. So there you have it. My grand plan.”

“You do realise,” said Harry, through gritted teeth, “that Draco is morbidly afraid of someone
killing him because of what he did in the war?”

Blaise sighed.

“It wasn’t my finest complot, I’ll admit,” he said. “But… in all seriousness, Harry, I was worried
about him. I see now that all my scheming has come to nothing, but it was worth it if there was
even the smallest chance it would…” he twisted his mouth. “Change the path he was on. But it
didn’t. So. Are you going to put me in prison?”

Harry thought before answering.

“I said I wouldn’t,” he said, finally. “But you have to tell Draco.”

“Ah. Is there a way that might be avoided? You see—”

“No,” said Harry. “You tell him, or I will. He needs to know that no one was trying to hurt him.
Jesus. Slytherins are fucked in the head.”

Blaise motioned to the waiter for the bill.

“That’s a matter of perspective,” he said. The waiter approached with the bill. “Ah, thank you so
much! My tart was scrumptious. But then, aren’t they always?”
“You have to come,” said Dean. Seamus picked up a cursed wallet and yelped as it set his hand on
fire. Harry put out the flames with his wand.

“I told you not to touch anything,” he said, rustling in his desk drawer for burn salve.

“Sweet and merciful Jesus! That fucking hurt,” said Seamus. “Do you have any sex curses in here,
Harry?”

“What you don’t get is that Doctor Who travels through time,” said Dean, as if nothing had
happened.

“Yeah, no, I picked up on that, actually,” said Harry, rubbing the salve on Seamus’ burn. “Seamus,
don’t touch anything with mercury in it until the Spring Equinox, or you’ll die.”

“Wicked,” said Seamus. “What’s this?”

“Don’t touch anything!” cried Harry, but it was too late, and Seamus sprouted wings out of his
head.

“He has a companion,” said Dean, looking supremely unconcerned about Seamus’ head-wings.
“And the companion goes with him on his adventures.”

“I understand the premise of Doctor Who, Dean,” said Harry, who was trying to pull Seamus down
from the ceiling by his ankle.

“I don’t like it, Harry,” said Seamus. “Make it stop.”

“Can you two seriously stop visiting me at work?” asked Harry, transfiguring his tie into a leash
and collar. “Here. Put this on.”

Seamus took it with interest.

“Is this part of your BDSM thing?”

“What BDSM thing?” said Harry.

“See, I don’t think you can have understood the premise, because if you did, you’d be coming to
Draco and Neville’s viewing party,” said Dean.

“Blaise says you’ve got a sex dungeon,” said Seamus, putting on the collar. “And that you made
Draco crawl around on the floor wearing a latex body suit.”

Harry groaned.

“Did you really?” asked Dean. “And Draco did it?” He looked pensive. “I see that. Draco’s got a
subby vibe.”

Harry handed Seamus’ leash to Dean.

“Both of you get out. I’ll see you on Saturday for Doctor Who,” he said. Dean cheered, and
Seamus gave a hawkish screech.

“Uh, Harry, Seamus is developing a beak,” said Dean.

“Yes, that’ll happen when you touch the Bird’s Prey keychain, like a twat,” said Harry. “Take him
to St Mungo’s.”
“Anyone want some coke?” asked Pansy, and Theo Nott swatted her face with his huge hand.

“Read the room, Pans. Not that kind of night,” he said. Pansy shrugged and poured some out onto
one of Neville’s coffee table books about South American plant life.

“Oh, Pansy, not that one, it’s really expensive,” said Neville.

Harry hadn’t seen Draco yet. Ron sat on Hermione’s lap, and she needed the loo and kept giggling
and saying “Stop, stop! I’ll wee on you!” to which Ron responded by waggling his eyebrows
suggestively. Goyle was telling anyone who would listen that the secret to his guacamole was
Tabasco sauce. Seamus looked very gloomy about his beak and the thick white feathers on his
head, although Harry personally thought he’d got off easy: the wings, at least, were gone. Ginny
and Luna cuddled together in a tiny armchair that was certainly not big enough for two people.

“Where’s Draco?” Harry asked Dean.

“The Doctor is nine hundred years old,” said Dean. “Can you believe that?”

Harry tried Marcus Flint, who was an eminently sensible person when he wasn’t trying to crush
you at quidditch.

“Talking to Blaise, I think,” he said.

“Okay, okay,” said Neville, to the room at large. “Everybody listen up.”

“Let’s go clubbing,” said Pansy, her eyes glassy and dilated. Theo Nott swatted her face again.

“All right. Dean Thomas is going to give us a recap of Doctor Who so far, and then it’ll be time for
the show,” said Neville. “People who haven’t seen television before: it’s bloody weird but we’re all
in it together.”

Everyone cheered, and Dean began to monologue about Doctors past and present.

Harry slipped out of the room, and found Draco and Blaise laughing on the stairs.

“Blaise,” said Harry, and he must have sounded rather threatening, because they both stood, and
Draco brushed quickly past Harry, saying “I’m glad you came” in an undertone as he left.

“Hallo, Harry,” drawled Blaise. “Did you come to the aid of many haplessly cursed muggles this
week?”

“You said you’d tell him,” said Harry. Blaise looked surprised.

“But I did.”

“You—but—”

Blaise cocked his head.

“Harry. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d thought he’d mind.”

“He forgave you?”

“Our Draco’s quite big on forgiveness, these days,” said Blaise. “But even so. I told you. Deceit is
not the way to wound Draco. Neglect—cruelty—simply not caring—those are all most effective,
but lying? No, no, no.”

That old, Dumbledore-shaped anger rose up in Harry’s chest.

“I’ve been cared about by people like you,” he said. “I fucking remember what it’s like.”

Blaise frowned. Harry had the sense that he’d hurt his feelings, but he couldn’t bring himself to
care.

“Harry!” came Ginny’s voice from the sitting room. “Get back in here, you’re missing the
beginning!”

He didn’t think anyone had noticed him leaving. Blaise hooked his arm through Harry’s, and said,

“Forgive me, won’t you?”

“It’s not on me to forgive you,” said Harry.

“No, but do, all the same,” said Blaise, then went to sit between Pansy and Theo.

“Blaise sandwich,” said Pansy, and she and Theo both leant in to kiss his cheeks. “Can we go
clubbing yet?”

“Calm down, cokey,” said Theo. Blaise rested his head on Theo’s shoulder and closed his eyes,
and Harry knew he would forgive him, because it was simply easier.

There was a spot free next to Draco, but Harry sat on the floor by Ginny and Luna instead. They
both began to braid his hair. And it was nice, really, having so many friends who knew and liked
each other. Harry had a good job and good friends and sometimes that was the most frightening
thing of all: that there was no reason for the bleakness.

When the adverts came on, Harry slipped into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. They had a lovely
kitchen; Neville and Draco. Neville loved to cook and Draco loved to host, and consequently the
counters were lined with glass jars of pasta and rice and sugar, and the window bloomed with pots
of basil and mint and rosemary. It was clean and well-lit, the bright home of two people in love.

Harry filled the copper kettle and put it on the hob, trying not to notice how shiny the copper was,
how neat the hob.

“You came,” said a voice. Draco. Harry’s head snapped up. Draco came into the room for once,
and closed the door behind him, although he did then slouch against the larder door in his typical
fashion.

“Couldn’t miss Doctor Who,” said Harry. “Dean threatened to find the script online and read it to
me if I didn’t come.”

“He’s dedicated,” said Draco. His gaze was too intense. Harry could feel it all over his body, even
though Draco only looked at his face. “How have you been?”

“Good, yeah,” said Harry. “And you?”

Draco gave him an exasperated look.

“No,” he said. “I was actually asking. Come on.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m… better, yeah. You caught me at a weird moment, when you were staying at mine. I was in a
bit of a mopey phase.”

Draco hoisted himself up to sit on the counter, then tilted his head.

“And what does a mopey phase look like, for Harry Potter?”

Harry didn’t know what to do with his hands. He rested them on the counter in front of him, not
looking at Draco more than he had to.

“You know. The usual.”

Draco shook his head slowly.

“I don’t know. Tell me.”

Harry could feel the heat creeping into his face.

“Just, weird dreams, shit like that. Being a bit weepy for no reason. But it’s all right now.”

Draco gave a quiet laugh.

“All resolved, is it?”

Harry cleared his throat.

“How’ve you been? Fucking Blaise…!”

Draco laughed, louder this time.

“Blaise! I know! And when I think of how much time I spent kittening around—he lifted it, by the
way.”

“But you two are good now? Just like that?”

Draco didn’t answer for a moment. He kicked his feet against the cabinets.

“Harry,” he said, in a tone that Harry hadn’t expected him ever to use again. “…Harry, are you
aware that you have a lot of friends?”

Harry was silent.

“And that they’d all be there for you in a heartbeat, if you wanted?” said Draco.

Harry felt a tightness in his throat.

“They‘re busy,” he mumbled.

“I’m not busy,” said Draco, and Harry laughed.

“You’re the busiest. You have a full-time job and eight million friends and a boyfriend.”

“But it’s a matter of prioritisation. And I’d always prioritise you.”

Harry looked up, then. Draco was so painfully handsome. So gorgeous, and so inexplicably
unavailable.

“You’d prioritise me,” repeated Harry.

“Always,” said Draco.

They stared at each other for a long, heady beat. Then Harry broke his eyes away.

“That’s stupid. We’re not even close friends.”

“Oh,” said Draco, “well in that case, fuck you, I hope you die under a bridge.”

Harry laughed.

“I wasn’t saying—just. You only started talking to me recently.”

“But don’t you think…” said Draco. “I don’t know. Don’t you think…”

Harry wasn’t sure what gave him the courage, but he went to stand in front of Draco, who widened
his knees so that Harry could come between them. They were barely touching, but they were close
enough to kiss.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah. That with everything you and I have been through, it’s…”

“We almost understand each other already,” said Draco. Still watching him intently, as if he was
trying to guess what Harry would say before he said it.

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“What if I wanted to be close friends with you,” said Draco. “What if I wanted you to tell me, the
next time you felt… mopey.”

Harry leant his head forward into Draco’s chest, and Draco put his hand to Harry’s hair, touched
the braids Ginny and Luna had left.

“How are things with Neville?” asked Harry. Draco’s fingers didn’t falter in his hair.

“Good. We’re talking a lot more.”

Harry stepped away.

“That’s great,” he said.

Draco paused.

“Yeah,” he said.

He stayed in the kitchen after Harry left.

 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

Drug use (MDMA) and a brief mention of a suicidal character

Oh ye of little faith in the comments. Do you really think kitten!Draco is not coming
back? HE WILL.

Harry wasn’t sure where that left them. It was pretty obvious that he and Draco were drawn to each
other, but also that Draco had no intention of breaking up with Neville, and what was Harry
supposed to do with that?

Go to quidditch matches with Draco, apparently. Draco became rather aggressive about pursuing
their friendship. Aggressively. And with ulterior motives, he had said, about how he had befriended
Ron and Hermione. Harry wondered if there was an ulterior motive now, and, if there was, whether
Draco had any idea what he was doing.

At night, on bad days, Harry saw everything very clearly. Draco was in love with Neville, and felt
sorry for Harry because Harry was pathetic and washed up and embarrassing. At night, on bad
days, Harry understood that it was shameful that he saw Draco at all, when the dynamics between
them were so uneven: Draco knowing that Harry loved him, and Draco feeling nothing but pity in
return.

But those moments of miserable clarity gave way, in the day, to a more muddled need. So he never
turned Draco down, even though half the time Neville came too.

The first time Neville came with them to a quidditch match, he waited till Draco went to the loo to
have A Proper Talk.

“I know you shagged Draco,” he said. Harry jerked his head around to stare at him.

“What? Did he tell you that?”

“No,” said Neville, bitterly. “He said you didn’t.”

“Right. And you don’t believe him?”

“All Slytherins lie,” said Neville, his jaw tight. Harry wanted to shake him, because actually he sort
of agreed, but—

“You’re supposed to trust your boyfriend, though,” he said.

Neville just pressed his forehead into Harry’s shoulder.

“Please,” he said. “Please let me have this.”

“I’m not…!” said Harry. “I’m not doing anything!”

“Cuddling without me, boys?” said Draco, sliding between them on the bench and giving Neville a
quick peck on the mouth.

Harry wanted to confide in someone, and he knew Ron and Hermione would have been receptive
and kind, but there was something about their united front that made him dread the thought. He
considered Luna, and Ginny, and even Marcus Flint, but in the end it was Pansy he told.

She came in through the floo at ten p.m. on a Tuesday, gurning her face off and high as a kite.

“Harry! I brought you something,” she said, and gave him the lollipop she had been sucking on.

“Er, thanks, Pans.”

“Do you have any ice?” she asked. Huge pupils, sweaty, wearing old workout clothes and no make
up, her jaw working horribly as her muscles clenched.

“Do you often get high by yourself, Pansy?” asked Harry, filling a glass with ice and giving it to
her. She picked up a wedge of ice and put it down the front of her top.

“Yes,” she said, lolling her head. “Is that bad?”

“It’s not great,” said Harry.

“Want some ice?”

“No, thanks.”

“Feels good,” she said. “It’s good to feel good, for once.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, with a small smile. “I get that.”

They ended up on the floor in front of the fire.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pointing and flexing her toes. She kept alternating between rubbing ice all
over her skin, and wrapping herself in thick blankets.

“It’s okay,” said Harry.

“I was scared, I thought he would kill everyone,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Honestly, Pansy, it’s fine. We’ve been over this.”

“It would be so sad if you were dead.”

Harry wanted to divert her thoughts, because her gurning had got worse, and her lips were
beginning to bleed.

“I think I’m in love with Draco,” he said. Pansy’s chewed-up mouth spread into a wide smile.

“Ohhh!” she said, dreamily. “That’s good! He loves you too.”

Harry shook his head.

“He’s not right for you, though,” said Pansy. “He’s all fucked up.” She stretched her hands above
her head and rolled her neck. “He and Neville can be fucked up together.”

It felt childish to say But I’m fucked up too. Anyway, maybe he wasn’t, compared with other
people.

When she began to come down, he took her up to his bedroom, and held her when she asked him
to, even though her muscles kept twitching and she smoked spliff after spliff, ashing on the
pillowcase. Occasionally, she punctured his twilight sleep with sad little statements like, “I tried
meditation,” or “Dean made me go to therapy but it didn’t work. He said it would work.” They
were iceberg stories, the tips of a whole miserable existence, and Harry had no way to answer.

It was past noon when she woke up. Harry had taken the day off work to look after her. He brought
up a tray of wholewheat pancakes, orange juice, and tea.

“Harry,” she said blankly, when she saw the tray. She looked pretty, in a tired, rescue-me sort of
way. “Were you always this lovely?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Of course. Famously lovely.”

Pansy lunged forward and kissed him. Harry started away.

“Pansy…”

“Oh, God,” she said, and began to cry. Harry sat awkwardly next to her on the bed and patted her
shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. You must think I’m beyond pathetic. I mean,
compared to you, I have no reason at all…”

“No,” said Harry. “I don’t think that. You’ve been through hell, we all have, of course you’re not
over it. No one expects you to be.”

It was like tickling, he realised. You couldn’t tickle yourself. He could say those words to Pansy
and mean them, but applied to himself they lost all their effect.

“How can you be so nice to me,” she wept, “when I was awful my entire life…”

“You’re not awful now,” said Harry.

“I’m a little awful,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” said Harry. “Anyway, it’s better, liking you. It’s so much nicer. I wish we could
have liked each other all along.”

Pansy raised her head to look at him, silvery tears clinging to her eyelashes.

“You have no idea how much we look up to you,” she said.

“Er,” said Harry. “We?”

“All of us. Our friends. Everyone.”

Harry stared at her, momentarily stunned by the notion that anyone he knew might still admire
him.

“You’ve really got your shit together,” she said.

It was like a blow. He turned away and tried to smile.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. He stood. “Eat your pancakes, they’ll get cold. Here, let me
heal your mouth first.”

A few hours later, she had eaten and showered and cried again. She hugged him goodbye.

“Pansy… don’t tell anyone what I said. About Draco.”

“I won’t.”

“Not even for some conniving Slytherin reason. Please.”

She looked up.

“Okay. I really won’t.” She bit her lip. “Please don’t tell anyone that I tried to kiss you.”

“When? You must have dreamt it,” said Harry.

She looked him seriously in the eye.

“I won’t ever forget how kind you were to me today.”

“Anytime,” said Harry.

“Oh, she’s all right,” said Draco, stopping to sample some cheese at the cheese stall. At his
insistence, he and Harry went to the farmer’s market every Saturday. “Pansy’s always been a bit
wild.”

“There’s wild, and then there’s taking pills by yourself on a Tuesday,” said Harry. “She’s not okay,
Draco.”

Draco bought a St Saint-Félicien cheese in a ceramic dish.

“Hold this,” he said, handing Harry a large bouquet of sunflowers. They smelled fresh and
summery, and it occurred to Harry that he didn’t have less money than Draco did. He just spent it
on worse things: meal deal sandwiches from the chemist’s on the way to the office, lukewarm
bottles of Sprite, out-of-season fruit.

When Draco had finished paying, he turned his attention back on Harry.

“Fine,” he said. “If you must know, Pansy has a drug problem, and none of us have any idea what
to do about it.”

“I thought no one knew,” said Harry. “I didn’t know, really.”

“It’s because she’s witty when she talks about it. It can be hard to know when she’s serious. Blaise
is like that, too. He spent the whole year he was nineteen making suicide jokes and we didn’t find
out till last year that he actually attempted it twice.”

“Oh,” said Harry. Draco took the sunflowers back from him.

“Maybe we should all see terapthrists,” he said.

“Er, terapthrists?” asked Harry.

“Yes, you know, Dean’s always banging on about them. By the way, have you noticed how few
muggle-borns we’re friends with, as a group? It’s a bit fucked up, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” said Harry.

“I think about it all the time,” said Draco, gloomily.

“Did you mean therapists?” asked Harry.

“Is that not what I said?”

“You said terapthrists.”

“Well, fuck,” said Draco. “I’ve been telling everyone about terapthrists.”

“Pansy said she went, and it didn’t help,” said Harry.

“Pansy just thought her terapthrist was stupid. Sorry, what’s the word again?”

“Therapist.”

Draco closed his eyes.

“Therapist, therapist, therapist,” he murmured. “The-ra-pist. My father says muggle words are
harder to pronounce, but Hermione says that if muggle-borns can learn to pronounce Elphias
Doge, wizards can figure out how to say exceltricity.”

“Electricity,” corrected Harry.

“Fuck!”

Harry laughed at him, and Draco knocked into him with one shoulder, a shy grin on his face.

“Anyway. I might go to one,” said Draco. “Dean says it’s just someone you pay money to talk to
about yourself. I pay money for all sorts of things I enjoy far less than talking about myself.”

“I don’t like talking about myself,” said Harry.

Draco sighed.

“It’s been awful discovering that all your qualities are genuine,” he said.

“Is that a quality?”

“Humility? Of course,” said Draco.

Harry wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t fancy dissecting his flaws with Draco, whose hair shone
silvery white in the morning sun, and who seemed so very contented.

They spent a lot of time together, in those months. Draco grew slowly more comfortable around
Harry, although he still occasionally froze up when he made a joke, and became formal and
academic as he explained that the joke did not, in fact, represent his views.

“Draco. I know you wouldn’t actually punch Ron,” said Harry.

“Because I don’t want to. And even if I wanted to, violence is never the answer.”

Harry thought of casting the Cruciatus curse on Amycus Carrow.

“Sometimes it’s the answer,” he said.

Draco’s eyes became rather panicky.

“Er,” he said.

“Calm down. Okay. As a general rule, violence is not the answer,” said Harry, and they went back
to their game of Exploding Snap.

They went flying together. Harry had dinner with Draco and Neville at their perfect fucking house.
They went to quidditch matches, and board game nights at Ron and Hermione’s. When Luna threw
an Elucidation Ceremony, Draco stood tensely beside Harry at the stone circle and waved his
burning sage.

“Okay?” Harry asked him, quietly. Draco’s eyes kept flicking between Neville and Luna, although
Neville and Luna were both ostentatiously not looking at each other.

“Yes,” said Draco.

“How can I not be okay with it,” said Draco, two days later, at the pub he and Harry liked to go to.
“It’s Luna. I mean, let’s break it down, shall we?”

He was gesticulating too much, not meeting Harry’s eye. Harry wondered if he had talked to
anyone else about this. It didn’t seem like he had—the words felt fresh and unspilled, and Harry
was puzzled by that. When had he become Draco’s first choice for anything?

“A) Luna is my cousin,” said Draco. “And I know, I know, I of all people should be aware that just
because someone is in your family doesn’t mean that they’re, uh… it doesn’t mean…” he stopped.
Put his head in his hands.

“But family can still be important to you, all the same,” said Harry. Draco cast him a grateful look.

“Yes. Precisely. Which leads us to point b), I love her. She is—or she was—someone I thought of
with pure and unadulterated affection, and the fact that that’s more complicated now is absolute
shite, basically. God, am I the most boring person in this pub?”

“The guys over there are talking about finance,” said Harry. “I overheard them when I was getting
our drinks.”

“Oh, good. That’s a relief. Just the most boring person at this table, then.”

“I’m not bored,” said Harry.

“Well, you’re very polite. Point c) is in many ways the most salient, perhaps I should have begun
with it. Okay, yes: call it point a): I imprisoned her in my dungeon for—”

He put his head back in hands.

“Draco,” said Harry.

“—a year. So. That’s the first point to consider. Because, um, that’s quite a bit worse than sleeping
with someone’s boyfriend. By most standards. Maybe not if you’re a moral relativist. But certainly
in our culture—not to generalise—but—”

“Draco.”

“—I think most people in our era and context would agree that, generally speaking, it’s worse to
lock up a teenage girl for a year than to sleep with someone else’s boyfriend.”

“Okay,” said Harry, “but they’re both shit. Not equally shit, but still both definitively shit.”

“Do you want me to shut up?” asked Draco.

“No.”

Draco lifted his eyes wearily to the ceiling.

“You wouldn’t tell me, if you did. Okay. I’ll shut up.”

“It’s okay to feel complicated about Luna. I feel complicated about Luna, since she did that. It was
fucked up.”

“Neville’s the one who should have said no,” said Draco. He fiddled with a cardboard coaster,
rolling it up and down the table with his palm. “Okay. No. It’s fine. You know what Oprah would
say?”

“…Oprah?”

“God, having a television is great,” said Draco. “Yes. Oprah would probably tell me to, to forgive
and move on. And you know what? I have.”

“You’ve moved on.”

“Yes,” said Draco, nodding forcefully. “Just now. Congratulate me; I’m enlightened.”

“You’re funny when you’re sad,” said Harry.

Draco gave him a strange look.

“Not always,” he said, and Harry was transported back to standing at the top of the stairs, to Draco
telling him that he was scared, but not because Harry was frightening.

“No,” said Harry, and they stared at each other, suddenly so much more than friends.

They didn’t only hang out one-on-one, although they did that a lot. Draco had a habit of showing
up at Grimmauld Place, wearing eyeliner and his black jacket with all the zippers, and forcing
Harry to come out.

“I’m tired,” Harry would say.

“You have to come. Millie is coming, and you know she never comes to parties.”

“I don’t want to get drunk.”

“Neither do I. Let’s be sober and bitch about the stupid drunks.”

“Where’s Neville?”

“Already there. Harry, come on, Hermione said she was going to wear a dress.”

“Oh, well, in that case…!”

And it was easier to go out, when Draco was your particular friend, because he was always at the
centre of everything, and he made it so effortless. He’d hold out a hand to Harry on a dance floor
and pull him into a throng. If Harry left the room during a game of Charades at a house party,
Draco would force the game to stop until Harry got back. He filled Harry in on in-jokes he didn’t
understand, and included Harry in everything.

“You know,” he said to Harry once, “I think people worry so much about bothering you that they
leave you out.”

Harry’s heart had sped up, although Harry wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it was such a generous
interpretation of Harry’s loneliness.

“Maybe,” he said. He smiled, hoping it seemed casual. “I like that you bother me.”

And they’d had another one of their moments, then, when Draco had looked at him with heavy
meaningfulness, and Harry would have kissed him if it weren’t for the fact that Draco was happily
dating someone else.
 Chapter 8

“D’you want to know something fucked up?” asked Draco. They were at a minor league quidditch
match. Neville hadn’t come, which was a relief, because Neville seemed to going through some
stuff, and had an unpleasant habit of bursting into tears when his team missed a play.

“I don’t know, do I?” said Harry. Draco smiled.

“I sort of miss being a cat, sometimes,” he said.

Harry laughed.

“Really?”

“Yes. I even asked Blaise to cast it on me again, but he wouldn’t. Said you would kill him.”

“Is this you asking for my permission?”

“No,” said Draco. He made a sweet little pawing motion with his hand. “I just miss it. It was
relaxing.”

“Well…” said Harry, a definitely very bad idea occurring to him. “I do have a cursed object that
would turn you into a kitten.”

“…what. Is it a sex thing?”

“Not everything is a sex thing!” said Harry, although he was forced to undermine this statement
immediately. “But yes, it is a sex thing. It’s… ugh. If you mention this to Blaise I will kill you.
Hermione bought me a book on impact play last week, because Blaise told her I wanted to explore
flogging.”

Draco made an impatient waving gesture.

“I want to hear about the cursed sex cat object!”

“It’s… a collar. And if you think the starter word, it turns you into a kitten. Then all you have to do
to transform back is think the safeword.”

“Why is that illegal? How peculiar. Can I try it?”

“Yeah, but I can’t give it to you, it’s still technically owned by the department.”

“That’s fine, you can supervise. How marvellous! I can’t tell you how I’ve missed purring.”

They went back to Harry’s office after the match. Harry found the collar in one of his cabinets and
held it out to Draco.

Draco couldn’t manage the clasp.

“Harry… can you…?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Harry, flooding with dread. Draco stood perfectly still and let Harry work the
clasp. It was at the front of his throat, and Harry could feel his hot skin beneath his fingers.
“Thank you,” said Draco, and they looked at each other like that again.

“Okay, so,” said Harry, stepping away and clearing his throat. “The starter word, believe it or not,
is kitten. The safeword is notkitten.”

“Do you know, I think originality is overstated. I like the simplicity of kitten.”

Draco instantly turned into a kitten.

Harry had wondered whether he would look different, but he was the same. Small, fluffy, white,
and promptly hiding beneath Harry’s desk.

Harry sat on the floor.

“Draco?”

The kitten poked a very tentative head out from under the desk.

“Hi,” said Harry, but the kitten seemed uninterested in him. Not until he had walked around the
entire perimeter of the office did he come to Harry. He gave his soft, pathetic meow.

“Yeah? Me, too, mate,” said Harry, and picked him up.

It was somehow different, picking up the kitten now that he and Draco were friends. Harry felt
more comfortable manhandling him. He curled the kitten up into a small ball in his hands.

“Look how small you are,” said Harry, and the kitten purred.

Harry held him tucked under his chin for about ten minutes, then said, “you should probably
change back, just to check you can.”

A moment later, he was holding human Draco in his lap, Draco’s head under his chin.

“Mmmmm,” sighed Draco happily. “It works.”

For a second, neither of them moved. Draco’s legs were crooked over Harry’s, their bodies pressed
against each other. He was warm and solid and Harry wanted so badly to have some kind of claim
on him.

Instead, he said, “we should put the collar back.”

Draco shifted slightly. Put his hands on Harry’s chest so that he could push up and bare his neck to
Harry. Harry determinedly looked only at the collar, not at Draco’s face, so near and so exquisite.

Harry fumbled the clasp several times before he got it. He drew the collar away from Draco’s neck,
but Draco did not move. There was barely an inch between their lips.

Draco closed his eyes, and Harry knew with a certainty he rarely experienced anymore that Draco
wanted Harry to kiss him. And Harry might have done it, if Draco had been anyone else. He
wanted Draco enough not to care that it would hurt Neville, that it would be destructive and
reckless.

But it was Draco, and Draco would never forgive himself.

“You should get going,” said Harry. “Neville will be wondering where you are.”
Draco’s eyes flew open.

“Yeah. Yes,” said Draco, and scrambled to his feet. Harry put the collar back in the cabinet.

Draco did not ask to use it again.

One time, Draco said to Harry, idly,

“Would you be my best man, if Nev and I got married?”

They were waiting for their cheesy chips at the local chip shop after a night out with their friends—
minus Neville, who Draco said was stressed, whatever that meant. They were hungry beyond
sociability, and Harry was completely out of it. Draco’s question had the same effect as a bucket of
ice water to the face.

“You’re engaged?”

Draco blinked, surprised.

“No. It’s a hypothetical question.”

Harry fixed his eyes on the laminated menu on the counter they leant against.

“What about Goyle?”

“Greg’s a childhood friend. He doesn’t know me.”

“Blaise? Theo? Ron? Hermione? Literally anyone else?”

Draco grimaced at the counter.

“All right. Good to know.”

“Surely you can see that it would be a bad idea,” said Harry.

“Yeah. Sorry I asked. God, how long can cheesy chips take? What are they doing, growing the
potatoes from scratch?”

“Don’t marry Neville,” said Harry.

Draco glanced at him. He looked as if he might say something, and then the chips arrived.

In late January, Harry came home from work to find his house filled with all the people he liked
most in the world, wearing party hats and pulling party poppers.

“SURPRISE!” they shouted. Lee Jordan set off indoor fireworks. There was confetti. Harry was
baffled.

“Are you surprised?” asked Hermione, kissing his cheek.

“Er, yes,” said Harry, “given that my birthday’s not for another six months?”

“It was Draco’s idea. It’s your half birthday,” said Hermione. And sure enough, there was Draco,
talking in undertones with Ginny, who held half a cake with twenty-four-and-a-half candles. He
grinned when he caught Harry’s eye. Harry loved him so much it was hard not to push through the
crowd and kiss him in front of everybody.

“Draco said everyone had to give you half a gift,” said Neville, who Harry hadn’t noticed was
nearby. “So he and I clubbed together and got you season tickets to the Tornadoes.”

Neville looked too thin, and he hadn’t shaved. Harry’s heart roiled with guilt.

“Thank you so much,” he said. “Wow. Thanks. How’ve you been; Draco says you’ve been busy
with work?”

“Yeah, yeah, good,” said Neville. He was looking at Harry too hard, with an expression that was
almost pleading. “And you?”

“Good, thanks. Hope you’re not working too much,” said Harry, because it seemed like the most
polite way to express “You look like shit and your friends are worried about you”.

“Love my work,” said Neville. “Only time I’m really happy.”

“Er,” said Harry, but Blaise barged into the conversation like a car through a glass window in an
action film.

“Harry, hallo, happy half birthday! You look quite bamboozled. Draco told us to buy half a gift,
but I’m still trying to get you to like me again, so I bought you this very expensive port and these
antique port glasses. Would you like me to tell you how much it cost, altogether? Because it was a
lot.”

“No, that’s okay,” said Harry, taking the port and the port glasses. “Thanks.”

“Have I bought my way back into your favour yet?”

“No,” said Harry. Blaise gave an extravagant sigh and draped himself over Neville.

“Quel dommage! But no fear, Harry, I’ll buy you something so extravagant for your real birthday
that you’ll have to be my friend again,” he said.

“Gifts are not the way to my heart, Blaise.”

“What a mysterious statement! Care to tell us all what is?”

Neville looked sharply at Harry.

“Er. Food,” said Harry.

The cake was delicious. All the Weasleys were there, and Hagrid. Harry was catching up with him
in the dining room when Draco came in.

“Oh, sorry,” he said.

“Malfoy,” said Hagrid, and for the first time, Harry understood how hostile it sounded, when
everyone who cared about Draco used his first name. He saw how Draco stood straighter and
lowered his eyes and spoke stiffly to Hagrid, as if the name “Malfoy” had been an insult that Draco
was trying not to acknowledge.

When Draco started to leave, Harry called after him.

“Draco!”

Draco turned around.

“This is the best half birthday ever,” said Harry. Draco gave him a radiant smile.

“Can’t be too hard, given that you didn’t even have drinks with friends on your real birthday,” he
said.

“Ohhh, that’s what this is about?” said Harry.

“‘Course,” said Draco. “Can’t be friends with a poor old saddo.”

“Harry’s not a saddo,” said Hagrid, gruffly. “He’s the most beloved wizard of our time, and if you
can’t see that, Malfoy—”

“—it’s okay, Hagrid, he’s only joking. We’re friends,” said Harry. By the time he had convinced
Hagrid that Draco wasn’t bullying him, Draco was gone.

Harry searched through the house for him. It was a herculean task, because Draco appeared to have
invited everyone Harry had ever spoken to. Viktor Krum was there, and earnestly entreated Harry
to come visit his new lake house in Bulgaria any time Harry liked.

“Definitely,” said Harry. “Definitely. I have to go now, but very excited to, er, lake it up.”

Hannah Abbott, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Michael Corner, Terry Boot (who was indeed handing out
drugs, Draco had been right about that), practically everyone in the DA, every student from their
year at Hogwarts, all smiling and wishing him a happy half birthday. But no Draco.

Harry had almost given up when Pansy got up on a chair and began to clink her glass with a spoon.
Harry paused by the front hall bannister, distinctly nervous. But Pansy seemed sober, for once. The
crowd fell silent.

“Harry,” she said, “we all know there was no love lost between us for the first, hmm, seven years
of our acquaintance.”

Laughter.

“And frankly, you’re still insufferable,” she went on. (“Hear hear!” said Blaise.) “But not for the
reasons I thought. Not because you’re stuck up, or attention-seeking, or a despicably smug goody-
goody.”

“Is it normal to roast the half birthday boy?” shouted Harry across the room. Pansy laughed and
shook her head.

“No. You’re not any of those things we mistook you for. But you’re still insufferable, Harry,
because do you know what insufferable means? It means too extreme to bear. And it’s true. I still
can’t bear you, Harry, because you’re so kind you reorder the world. You love people who don’t
deserve it, and help people without expecting anything in return, and ultimately, you’re so good
that it’s insufferable. It’s hard to bear. Because it’s so lovely it’s hard to look at.”

Harry felt faint. He was surprised to find that he didn’t feel self-conscious, because Pansy was
watching him so affectionately, and he only had eyes for her.

Pansy broke away her gaze and raised her glass.

“Friends and foes: a toast. To the insufferable Harry Potter.”

And the whole crowd lifted their glasses, shouting, “To the insufferable Harry Potter!”

The rest of the evening was a wonderful blur. It was, as more than one person remarked, rather like
a wedding. For Harry, it was gloriously, magically overwhelming. He had never before realised
that so many people felt so strongly about him.

And Draco, who had organised it all, was nowhere to be found, not until the early hours of the
morning, when people began to leave, and Harry found him washing up in the kitchen.

“Hi!” he said, when he saw Harry. He had his sleeves rolled up and his hands were sudsy. He used
his forearm to push his hair out of his face, looking exhausted. “Are you all right? I didn’t realise it
would turn into such a rager, are you having a terrible time? Was it torture?”

“It was perfect,” said Harry. Katie Bell was making out with Oliver Wood in a corner, and George
Weasley was having what looked like a profound conversation with Dean and Seamus at the
kitchen table.

“That’s a relief,” said Draco. “Was worried you’d be furious at me.”

Harry shook his head and thrust his hands into his pockets so that he wouldn’t try to touch Draco,
to push back that strand of hair that kept falling into his eyes.

“I’m sorry about what Hagrid said,” said Harry.

“What? God, don’t be, it was nothing; I shouldn’t have made that stupid joke. I’m sorry if I was
out of order.”

Harry came closer.

“You weren’t. You never are.”

“Well that’s patently untrue,” said Draco, returning to his dishwashing. “Listen, I have to go soon,
but I’ll come back in the morning and clean up. Ron said he’d help, you won’t have to do a thing.”

“I don’t know how to thank you for tonight,” said Harry, his voice coming out husky and
overwrought. Draco looked alarmed.

“It’s really nothing,” he said.

“Did you hear Pansy’s speech?”

“I helped her with it,” said Draco. “The first draft was utterly scathing. I reminded her that Mrs
Weasley would not take kindly to anyone poking at her precious Harry.”

“It was…” said Harry, then swallowed. “Nice.”

Draco looked at him.

“Yeah?”
Harry could only nod, and Draco laughed affectionately.

“Oh, you poor twenty-four-and-a-half year old thing,” he said. “You’re dead on your feet. Dean!
Come put Harry to bed, will you?”

Dean leapt to his feet and dragged Harry away, even as Harry still struggled to explain to Draco, to
express to him what it had meant to him—what it had signified, that party.
 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

The posting schedule may not be as regular from here on out--I'll still PROBABLY be
posting close to daily but I can't guarantee. No post tomorrow, certainly

Thank you for all your lovely and speculative discussions in the comments, they're
very interesting to read!

A week later, Harry was reading by the fire when Draco fell into his sitting room through the floo.
He was extremely dishevelled, and had been crying, as was apparent from the streaky black
eyeliner running down his cheeks.

“Hi,” he gasped. “Is this an okay time?”

Harry leapt out of his chair and drew him close. Draco was stiff and shuddery and damp-faced
against Harry’s neck.

“Of course,” said Harry. “What’s wrong?”

“We broke up. I don’t want to talk about it. Can I use that stupid cat collar? If I have to be in my
head another minute…”

“Yeah, okay, yeah,” said Harry. He let Draco go. “I mean, I feel obligated to tell you that turning
into a kitten when you’re upset is, at the very least, a weird coping mechanism.”

“Don’t, I can’t,” said Draco. “I can’t be funny now, please don’t…”

“Okay. I’ll be right back,” said Harry, and apparated to his office to fetch the collar. When he
returned, Draco was on a fire call with Ron.

“But that’s good,” Ron was saying. “I’m proud of you!”

Draco only shook his head, his hands pressed to his eyes.

“Hey,” said Harry. Draco lowered his hands.

“Thanks, Ron,” he said, voice wobbly. “Lunch soon?”

“Yeah. Hi, Harry, take care of him, will you?”

“I’ll try,” said Harry, and the floo went out.

“Did you get it?” asked Draco.

“You’re like an addict,” said Harry, sort of joking, sort of not. But Draco responded—rather
horribly—by laughing so hard he began to hyperventilate.

“Okay, okay!” said Harry. “Hold still and I’ll put it on you.”
Draco just about managed to nod. Harry attached the collar, and had barely shut the clasp when
Draco transformed, as if all he had been thinking was kitten kitten kitten in a litany.

After that, things became calmer. The kitten seemed out of sorts; not at all playful. He was more
needy than usual, and when Harry shut the door to have a shower, the kitten sat outside bathroom
door meowing in tones of heightened misery the entire time.

In bed, the kitten kept trying to get closer to Harry, kept repositioning himself and shivering in
strange, vibrating starts. Harry stroked his little head and murmured stupid things into his fur, It’s
okay, hey, I’ve got you, you’re okay, and finally the kitten fell asleep.

When Harry woke up the next morning, the kitten was still curled up on Harry’s pillow. He
watched Harry with wide awake eyes.

“So are you just going to be kitten-Draco forever now?” asked Harry. The kitten licked at the end
of his tail. “Draco. That is not a real option.”

There was no response. The kitten followed him around the house as Harry got up and had
breakfast. Once Harry had put the dishes away, he picked the kitten up and cuddled him close to
his chest.

“It’s time, Draco. Come on.”

For a second, Harry thought Draco was ignoring him. It was the weekend, after all. Maybe he
planned to stay a kitten until Monday. But then Draco stood before him, face still dirty with tears,
hair ruffled and clothes unkempt.

“Is there anymore of that bacon?” he asked croakily.

“Oh. Yeah,” said Harry, and fed him. He watched Draco eat. Watched Draco line up his knife and
fork neatly on his plate when he was finished, and sigh.

“It was mutual,” said Draco, staring at his empty plate.

“What happened?”

“We should never have got back together in the first place. It was a mad idea. How on earth were
we ever supposed to work? I would never have dreamed of dating someone on the opposite side of
the war if he hadn’t come after me like a fucking heat-seeking missile.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure there are cases where people with a history like that could work,” said
Harry.

“Oh, so I should go back to him, should I? Try harder? Do you know how fucking hard I tried?”

“Draco. That’s not what I’m saying. You know it isn’t.”

Draco slumped in his chair.

“Yeah. Sorry. I know.”

“I’m sorry you feel like shit now. But I really think this is a good thing. He didn’t make you
happy.”
“So?”

Harry was so sad for him it was hard to think. Draco grimaced.

“Sorry for bursting into your house like this,” he said.

“You don’t actually think you have to apologise for that, do you?”

There was something like a smile on Draco’s face, if only for a few seconds.

“No,” he said. “I know you don’t mind. I was just being polite. In fact, I was hoping I could stay
with you for a while.”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“I thought we were quite good housemates.”

“Me, too,” said Harry.

“If you haven’t got any plans, I think we ought to go on a very long and exhausting walk and then
eat an enormous pub lunch.”

“You live life well,” said Harry, and went to get his shoes.

So they slipped effortlessly back into their old ways. Draco insisted on turning into a kitten every
night, and although Harry felt sure that it came from an unhealthy place, he couldn’t say no. It was
too lovely having Draco in bed with him every night, even if he was just a kitten.

Some days, Draco would transform early, and spend the evening purring in the hood of Harry’s
hoodie. But that was rare, because usually Draco went out, and forced Harry to come too.

Draco didn’t drink a lot. He very rarely did drugs, and when he did it was in such moderation that
Harry wasn’t sure what he even got out of it. He was cheerful and funny, outgoing and sociable. It
took Harry several weeks to realise what it was about Draco’s behaviour that showed the cracks.

“When was the last time you were alone for two hours?” he asked Draco. They were in the
supermarket. Draco would never go by himself. If Harry was busy, he enlisted someone else.

“Last night?” said Draco.

“You were with me, last night.”

Draco flushed.

“Oh, does that count? I don’t think it should.”

Harry put two cartons of milk into their basket.

“See, by my reckoning, you haven’t spent more than twenty minutes alone in weeks.”

Draco rubbed his eyebrow with one finger.

“All right,” he said. “I’ve been rumbled. I don’t like being alone.”
“Yeah, okay, me neither, but this is pretty extreme, don’t you think?”

“Ha. Uh, it’s not so good in my head, when I’m by myself,” said Draco. “Do we need apples?”

Harry put a bag of apples in their basket.

“What does your terapthrist say?”

“Hilarious. Erm, she, er… yeah. Says I should get over myself, basically.”

“She does not say that,” said Harry. He hadn’t been to a therapist himself yet. He hadn’t had
another episode in a while, not since his half-birthday party, when he had realised for the first time
that no matter how lonely he felt, he was loved.

He reckoned he was probably over the war, anyway. God knew it had taken him long enough to
stop whingeing about it.

“Well. Not in so many words,” said Draco, examining the ingredients list on a jar of pesto. “Says I
ought to try ‘sitting with my thoughts’.”

“And?”

Draco wrinkled his nose.

“How eloquent,” said Harry. “When we get home, you’re going to spend twenty minutes in your
room by yourself.”

Draco’s eyes widened.

“Harry—that’s not a good idea.”

“Twenty minutes. And after we can listen to the quidditch on the radio and make dinner.”

Draco looked unconvinced, but he obediently went to his bedroom when they got home.

He did not emerge after twenty minutes. Harry went to the door and knocked. There was no
answer, so Harry went in.

Draco sat perfectly still on his bed. Feet flat on the floor, hands resting lightly on the bedspread,
head bowed.

“Draco?”

“Yeah,” said Draco, roughly.

“It’s been twenty minutes.”

A long silence. Then Draco stood, every movement oddly cautious and controlled, and followed
Harry down to the kitchen. Harry tried to talk to him normally, but Draco only answered in
monosyllables, and didn’t listen to the quidditch at all.

Harry turned off the radio.

“Are you okay?” he asked, although it was obvious Draco wasn’t. Draco looked up.

“I should start looking for a flat.”

Harry almost said Okay, almost accepted the statement as a rejection. But he paused before
answering, and noticed that Draco looked… awful.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Although, I’ve been thinking, you could just stay here. Pay rent.”

“You mean… housemates?”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

Draco gave a tentative smile.

“You mean it?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, and Draco’s smile widened. So they were housemates.

“Should I just ask him out?” Harry asked Pansy. They walked down a shaded path by Regent's
Canal in Kings Cross. Pansy was sober. She had been sober a lot more, lately.

“Who? Draco?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, God, no,” said Pansy. “No, if you do that he’ll bolt. He’s a bolter.”

“I noticed,” said Harry, grimly. “You think he’d go back to Neville?”

“Probably. Not sure Neville would take him. Heard he’s sleeping with Luna.”

Harry tried not to show his relief. The idea that Neville was off the market was deeply reassuring,
although he knew it would wound Draco.

“He’d bolt somewhere, anyway,” said Pansy.

“Why? Why, when he likes me? I know he does. The other day he stared at me for—I am not
exaggerating—twenty minutes when he thought I wasn’t looking,” said Harry.

Pansy shrugged.

“He and Neville were a shitshow, and he likes you more than Neville, probably, and has more
history with you. So it’s bound to be an even bigger shitshow. And that makes him sad.”

“That’s such incredibly stupid logic,” said Harry. “I thought he was supposed to be clever.”

“About decisions? When has Draco made a good decision ever?”

“So I’m in love with him, and he fancies me, and we live together, and there’s nothing we can
fucking do about it?” said Harry, kicking at an old cigarette butt.

“If you wait long enough, he’ll come to you,” said Pansy.

“Sure.”

“Trust me,” said Pansy, and, as it turned out, she was right.
“God,” said Draco, stretching and flopping down onto the other end of the sofa from Harry. “Not
to be weird, but are you fucking horny?”

“Er,” said Harry.

“I’d forgotten how shit it is to be single.”

“It’s not so bad,” said Harry. “Better than being in a bad relationship.”

Draco laughed darkly.

“Yeah, that’s true.”

He still wouldn’t talk about the break up. They had run into Neville when Dean and Seamus
insisted that they all go to a new bar opening. Neville had gone to almost comical lengths to avoid
talking to Harry, but he and Draco spent a cordial ten minutes together, and Draco came away from
the encounter looking thoughtful and calmer than usual.

“Anyway,” said Draco. He put his feet in Harry’s lap and tilted his head over the side of the sofa.
“It’d be good to have someone to casually have sex with.”

Harry exhaled, half laugh, half exasperation.

“Yeah,” he said. Draco raised his head.

“So?”

“Oh, are you offering?” asked Harry. Draco flushed.

“It was just a suggestion,” he said, defensively.

“Right. You think if you and I have sex, it would be casual.”

“Why not?”

Harry gave him a look, and Draco dropped his eyes.

“It’s just convenient,” he murmured. “No strings. People do it all the time.”

“Okay,” said Harry, with a scoff. “Come over here and kiss me casually.”

There was a long silence, then Draco drew his feet away from Harry’s lap. He sat up. Harry
watched him, not at all sure what Draco would do. His heart hammered beneath his ribs, uncertain
and hopeful and scared.

Draco crawled over to him, straddled his lap. Harry’s hands went to Draco’s hips and eased him
down. He looked up into Draco’s face, and there was nothing casual about this, there couldn’t be,
and he knew Draco could see that too. He was frowning, looking rather frightened, and he bit his
lower lip before lowering his face to Harry’s.

Such a slow kiss. It was like flying too fast, knowing you had lost control of the broom and were
about to fall. Draco’s hand went to Harry’s jaw, and Harry heard himself make a little noise. He
pressed Draco closer, his hands flat on Draco’s back, and he could feel how hard Draco was.

“Casual enough for you?” asked Harry, when they stopped for breath.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything serious,” said Draco.

“You’re so fucking stupid sometimes,” said Harry.

“Yeah,” said Draco fervently. “Yeah, I know.” He kissed Harry again. “Come upstairs,” he said.

“We can’t be casual, Draco,” said Harry. “You do know that?”

“It’ll be fine,” said Draco. “Come upstairs.”

Harry traced Draco’s profile with his finger—down his forehead, his sharp nose, his lips, his chin,
his neck. Draco closed his eyes and breathed in juddering halts.

“Do you have scars on your chest?” asked Harry.

Draco nodded.

“Just ignore them,” he said.

“Casually?”

Draco pressed his forehead against Harry’s.

“Yeah,” he said.

So they went upstairs, and had the least casual sex of Harry’s life.

“You’re so graceful,” Harry told him, as he kissed the hollow of his collar bone. “I could watch you
all day, forever.”

“God, I love your hair,” said Draco, nibbling at Harry’s earlobe. “It’s so hard not to touch it.”

“You can touch it.”

“No like, generally,” said Draco. “Last week, when you came downstairs with wet hair, and it was
so black I thought it would drip ink….”

It took them forever to take off their clothes, because they couldn’t stop talking—

“How do you smell so good?” asked Draco.

“Let me see your tongue ring,” said Harry.

“I love your hands,” said Draco.

“Your body reminds me of a snake. But like, in a good way,” said Harry. (Draco laughed,
Thanksssss, with a snake hiss.)

“Do you know that you’re the hottest guy around? Like are you aware?” asked Draco.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me touch you,” said Harry.

“I knew you would be a good kisser,” said Draco.

“I can’t get enough of you,” said Harry.

“I need you closer,” said Draco. Harry pushed Draco’s shirt off him, stroked the long scars with his
fingers as Draco shivered.

“I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s not why the spell worked. I just wanted the spell to work,
whatever it was, so you wouldn’t hurt me,” said Harry.

“Let’s not talk about it,” said Draco, and stripped Harry’s shirt off.

But they carried on talking all the way through—

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Just hold on a second.”

“We can stop, I don’t want to hurt you, fuck you feel good…”

“You can move.”

“Harry…”

“It’s okay, you feel amazing, you look amazing…”

“Have you thought about this before?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, ah! Fuck! God, you’re good at—”

“—I can’t believe we’re doing this—”

“Don’t stop—”

“Can’t—fuck—are you close—”

And after, after they had rolled apart, they showered together, although they could easily have used
magic. They were playful, splashing each other, breaking out into sudden and stupid wrestling that
quickly devolved into kissing.

Draco came back to Harry’s bedroom, of course. He hadn’t slept in his own bedroom since he
broke up with Neville.

But when Harry got into bed, Draco put on the kitten collar.

“Draco,” said Harry. “Please…”

Draco turned into a kitten, curled up on the end of Harry’s bed, and stared with glowing eyes into
the dark.
“I love you,” said Harry, the next time they had sex—the next day. He breathed it into Draco’s ear
as Draco pushed into him. “I’m in love with you.”

It was if he hadn’t spoken at all.

 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

Me: so here's the END point I am getting towards, but--

Tepre: I think there should be more kittens.

Me: Give it a rest with the kittens. I'm dealing with WAR TRAUMA.

Tepre: Fine. Another party. With maybe, I don't know--just spitballing, here--some
more kittens.

Me: There will be no more kittens!

I always find the first part of a story easier to write than the middle/end, so bear with
me with updates, and thank you to Tepre for her useful advice after she realised that I
could not be compelled to insert more kittens into the narrative

It probably would have bothered Harry more if things hadn’t been so good between them. Kisses
when they came home from work, Draco stroking Harry’s hair as Harry napped on the sofa, long
chats into the night and spontaneous cooking decisions (Draco: “I don’t care if it’s 3 a.m. I want
cake and I want it now.”). They never did PDAs, but they fucked all over the house. It didn’t matter
where they did it, or how long it lasted: each time was as raw and intimate as the first.

When Harry made fun of Draco insisting it was casual, Draco changed the subject. Every night,
Draco turned into a kitten and let Harry cuddle him, as if that made any difference to how serious it
was between them.

After a month of this, Harry was fed up.

“So,” he said, “casual doesn’t mean exclusive, does it?”

Draco froze. He was reading the Daily Prophet, and he kept it carefully in front of his face.

“It doesn’t usually mean exclusive, no,” said Draco.

“Cool. We should go out tonight,” said Harry.

The newspaper trembled.

“…out?” asked Draco.

“Yeah. To a club. So I can pick someone up,” said Harry, fiercely. He waited for Draco to break,
to admit that that wasn’t what this was. But Draco only folded his newspaper with a degree of
briskness that suggested the newspaper had done him personal harm.

“Sounds lovely,” he said, and went to work.

They met up at the club. They had been before, when Blaise took it into his head that their friend
group wasn’t queer friendly enough (“half of us are queer,” Seamus had protested).

“You know that Blaise is straight?” said Draco, as they waited for their drinks.

“…you’re joking.”

Draco shook his head.

“Britain’s best kept secret. He’s in love with Pansy.”

“I thought he was shagging Theo,” said Harry.

“Oh, he’s tried it, of course. But, as Anthony Blunt said of Louis MacNeice, he’s totally and
irredeemably heterosexual.”

“Why does he…? And does Pansy like him back?”

The drinks arrived and Draco took a long glug.

“She does, yeah,” he said. “But he’s scared she’ll die of an overdose and send him over the edge.”

“Fuck,” said Harry.

“Quite. All right, happy hunting,” said Draco, sliding off his bar stool and plunging into the crowd
of sweaty dancers. Harry stayed at the bar. He could watch Draco from there, could see how when
men approached him, Draco would smile with a polite lack of interest and move away.

Harry bought a drink for the guy next to him at the bar. He was a slim-hipped young man wearing
a fairly cool military jacket and more sparkles than Harry personally thought necessary. He was
friendly and obviously up for it.

“Do you want to go somewhere more private?” he asked. Harry searched the crowd for Draco but
couldn’t spot him.

“I’m sort of seeing someone,” said Harry.

“Oh,” said the guy, looking confused.

“Yeah. I mean. I’m trying to make him jealous,” said Harry.

“Is that him?” asked the guy, with a grin, nodding at Draco, who was pushing through people as he
moved towards Harry. He held a pint glass and his expression was hard to read. He was blinking
much too much.

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“Then let’s make him jealous,” said the guy, and kissed Harry.

It was weird, kissing someone who wasn’t Draco. It felt curiously physical. Kissing Draco was
always a bit of an out of body experience, like Harry flew out of his head the moment Draco
touched him.
When Harry pulled away, Draco crouched a few feet away from him, desperately picking up
shards of broken glass.

“Think it worked,” said the guy, and leant away to talk to the man on his other side. Harry knelt by
Draco.

“Hey,” said Harry, taking his wrists.

“Dropped a glass,” said Draco, or it sounded like he said that. It was so loud. Harry repaired the
glass with his wand, even though that was risky, and put it on the bar. Draco stood behind him,
watching the guy who had kissed Harry talk to another man.

“Come on,” said Harry, and pulled Draco into a quiet corner so he could apparate them home.

“Sorry,” said Draco, the instant they arrived. He wouldn’t look at Harry. “Didn’t mean to, to, er, to
cockblock you. Sorry. The glass just slipped. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t,” said Harry.

“He probably wanted to go home with you, until I fucked it up,” said Draco. His voice sounded
thin.

Harry put his hands on Draco’s waist, kissed Draco on the cheek.

“Did you like seeing me with him?” he asked.

“What sort of question is that,” said Draco, faintly.

“Do you like knowing I can shag other people? Does that feel good to you?”

Draco tried to shrug one shoulder, but it was a stiff and unconvincing action.

“How would you feel if I brought someone home tomorrow night?” asked Harry, and Draco
flinched as if Harry had hit him. “If I fucked them in my bed? How do you think I would feel if you
did that?”

“I wouldn’t do it in your bed,” said Draco.

“I love you,” said Harry. “Stop pretending this is anything but serious. You’re being a dick.”

Draco glared at him.

“So are you,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “So let’s stop doing that. Let’s be good to each other, for a change.”

“We can’t,” said Draco, dropping his forehead to Harry’s shoulder.

“Why not!”

“Because it won’t work.”

Harry wanted to shake him. He put his hands on Draco’s slim biceps and squeezed—not too hard.
“Fine,” he said, although something twisted in his chest. He wondered if he was being masochistic
in going after this at all. Maybe Draco wouldn’t ever want him enough. “But we won’t see other
people.”

Draco made a sound.

“For hygiene,” Harry added, frustrated. “Okay? Does that satisfy you? You don’t give a fuck about
me but don’t want to put yourself at risk of any weird diseases?”

“Of course I give a fuck about you,” said Draco, quietly.

“Yeah,” said Harry, stepping away. He was so tired. He was so, so tired of feeling this sad. “Yeah,
you really know how to make a boy feel special.”

Draco winced.

“You know,” said Harry conversationally, “you’re not the only one who’s terrified.”

“You don’t understand!” cried Draco, his voice cracking on the last word. “You only think you
love me because you don’t know me. I know how this goes, I’ve seen it, and I don’t want…” He
flicked his wet eyes towards the ceiling. “Neville looked at me like that, in the beginning. You’re
asking me to let you despise me. Because that’s the next step, Harry, even if you don’t see it yet.”

“That would be persuasive and tragic reasoning if I was Neville,” said Harry. “But I’m not. I know
you pretty fucking well, Draco. I’m not going to suddenly decide I don’t love you.” He turned
towards the door, not sure he could say anything else to Draco that wouldn’t reveal how pathetic
he was; When you look at me I stop being lonely, my life feels okay when you’re there, I think I can
do it, if you’re there…

“Please don’t leave me alone right now,” said Draco, and sank onto the sofa. “I know you’re angry
at me, but please don’t.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. He went to Draco, scooped him up into his arms, and rocked him with all the
gentle tenderness he showed to Draco as a kitten every night. Draco wasn’t crying, but his
breathing was laboured and he kept saying sorry.

When he was a little calmer, Harry kissed the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t want you to see anyone else,” he said. “Will you agree to that, at least?”

Draco nodded.

“Okay,” said Harry, and kissed Draco’s lips, softly, gently. “Casual. Exclusive friends-with-
benefits. That’s what you want?”

Draco looked shifty, but nodded again.

“Okay,” said Harry. “That’s not what I want, but okay.”

So Harry didn’t say anything when Draco turned into a kitten. He just closed his eyes and breathed
the strange, half-kitten half-Draco smell at the back of the kitten’s neck, and tried not to mind that
this was all he could have.
When he woke up, Draco was himself again, and he sat on the edge of bed.

“Draco?”

Draco turned to look at him, looking caught out.

“Morning,” he said, his eyes skitting nervously over Harry’s face. Harry was struck by a sudden
loneliness. He didn’t know what Draco was thinking. If Draco knew what Harry was thinking, it
didn’t seem to matter to him. Harry got out of bed and opened the curtains.

“Do you want to do anything today?” asked Draco.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Harry hated that he couldn’t let it go. That he couldn’t just be casual, that he was waking up first
thing in the morning plagued with doubts that he felt compelled to make Draco’s problem.

“No, I don’t dye my hair,” said Draco. “Yes, my tongue piercing does make blow jobs better.”

“I knew that already,” said Harry.

“Ha.”

Harry leant his head against the window pane. It was cold and fogged.

“Well, go on,” said Draco. He sounded apprehensive. “Ask.”

Harry thought about finding some innocuous question to ask instead, but he needed to know.

“Am I doing the same thing Neville did to you?”

A moment, in which Draco didn’t answer, and Harry’s heart sank through him. Then:

“…what do you mean?”

“You told me once that he came after you…. Like a heat-seeking missile, was the term you used, I
think,” said Harry.

Draco was silent. Harry turned to face him.

“Am I coming after you like that? Is that what’s going on?”

Draco made a small movement with his head.

“It was different,” he muttered.

“How.”

Draco frowned. He was staring very hard at a balled up thread on his jeans.

“Well… like I said… it had never occurred to me to fancy him. So I was very surprised. And
flattered, but I knew it was a bad idea…” he glanced quickly at Harry, then back at his jeans. “I
was right about that, incidentally. So I resisted for a while, but he seemed so certain, and I thought,
God, who am I to say, I’ve never been right about anything in my entire life—ironic, given that, in
fact, that was the only bloody time my instincts weren’t, you know. Mired in evil.”

He screwed his face up, as if he had just been revisited by some vivid memory.
“You’re okay. Go on,” said Harry.

“Maybe it was evil, anyway,” said Draco, his eyes still closed. “I don’t know, I think it’s a stupid
word. Implies something rather grand and inhuman, doesn’t it? Something ordinary people aren’t
capable of.”

“Neville,” said Harry.

“Oh. Yes.” Draco passed his hand over his face, opened his eyes, and went back to staring at his
jeans. “Anyway, I figured… Neville makes better choices than I do, and he’s chosen me, so it’ll be
fine. And I was selfish, I suppose; I wanted him. But yeah. He came after me pretty hard. And it
was so soon after the war, and I thought—he’ll break my heart, but that’s almost like, like
reparations?”

Harry swallowed.

“Is that why you have sex with me? Reparations?”

Draco laughed unhappily.

“God. I wish.”

“Then why, if you think it’s such a terrible idea? If you know what I want, and know you don’t
want it? You started this,” said Harry.

“I shouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have, but then Pansy told me about that girl you were planning to ask
out at the office, and the idea that you would bring her home and I’d have to be nice—and I would
have been, obviously, but just—God—the thought of it—Fuck it sounds selfish when I say it out
loud—”

“What girl at the office?” asked Harry.

“Pansy said…”

“And you believed her?”

Draco looked at him. There was something impossible in his expression, like mingled hopefulness
and despair.

“Yes?” he said.

“I can’t look at anyone but you,” said Harry.

“Oh,” said Draco, in a small voice.

He stared at Harry, something like fear still on his face, but also something else, something hungry
and desperate and fascinated. Harry knelt in front of him, rested his head in Draco’s lap, and Draco
passed cool fingers through his hair. Draco was right about one thing: it was casual, how they
showed each other affection. Easy.

“So Neville sort of pressured you into dating him,” said Harry.

“Not exactly. I wanted to and didn’t want to, at the same time,” said Draco. “And then I just didn’t
really feel like I could say no. Not that… I could have, of course, he’s not—but. I’m not always…
good at saying no to things I know I shouldn’t do.”
Harry gave a short, sad laugh.

“Do you feel like you can say no to me?” he asked. Draco dug his fingers into the base of Harry’s
skull, working at the knots. He thought for a long time before answering, which was terrible.

“I feel like…” Draco seemed to be searching for the words as he spoke. “…like I can say that it’s
casual.”

Harry sat up on his knees, and Draco’s hand slipped to cup Harry’s jaw, his thumb touching
Harry’s lips. Harry closed his eyes, because it felt as if the very eyeballs were swelling with
something.

“You know, if you just want to be friends, I would be fine with that,” he said. “I mean, I’d be sad,
but I’d get over it. I would never hold it against you. You don’t owe me anything.”

Draco lightly kissed his eyebrows.

“I don’t want to be friends,” he said. Harry sighed and tilted his mouth for a kiss, which Draco
gave him.

“But you’ll tell me, if that changes,” said Harry. Nose pressed to nose.

“Yes,” said Draco. “And, by the way, I owe you everything. You saved my life.”

Harry drew back.

“You saved mine, too,” he said.

“That was different.”

“I don’t see why,” said Harry.

“I’m not really sure what we’re talking about anymore,” said Draco. “Is it Neville? The war? Our
purely casual sexual arrangement?”

Harry laughed and kissed him. It was such a nice, friendly kiss.

“I think we just recapped last night in a way that I could understand,” said Harry. “Casual,
exclusive friends-with-benefits.”

“And that’s still not what you want,” said Draco.

“No. But now I think I understand why you want it. So it’s okay.”

Draco pulled slightly away from him, tilted his head, and gave Harry a puzzled look.

“What?” asked Harry.

“Nothing,” said Draco. Harry squeezed Draco’s thigh, and Draco continued. “It’s just—you’re
patient.”

“That’s not something I’m accused of often,” said Harry.

“Well,” said Draco, still with that puzzled look, “maybe you’ve changed since the war, too.”

And there was something about the way he said it, slowly, that made Harry feel more hopeful than
he had in years.
 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes

This is a bit of a cliffhanger so maybe hold off reading if that will stress you out!

“Mimolette,” said Draco, passing Harry an orange cheese sample at the farmer’s market. “When I
was a child I ate a lot of this. My mother was concerned.”

“It’s orange,” said Harry, because he felt that Draco had possibly overlooked this.

“Just eat it,” said Draco.

Harry did. It was delicious.

“How is your mother?” he asked, much later, when they put the flowers in vases. There were a lot
of rules about this, apparently. Draco had been horrified when caught Harry putting four carnations
in a pint glass. Sometimes Harry suspected Draco was slowly and secretly working through some
sort of finishing school curriculum.

“My mother?” repeated Draco, turning the vase this way and that and adjusting the foliage.

“Blonde woman, gave you the gift of life, is this ringing any bells?”

“Hmm, not sure.”

“Her name’s Narcissa? She sent you a parcel full of chocolate last week?”

“Ahhh, the chocolate gifter, yes,” said Draco, but didn’t actually answer Harry’s question. Harry
knocked him with his shoulder. Draco dipped his head, then spoke. “She’s the same as always.”

“Do you two get on?”

“I can’t talk about my mother with you.”

Harry sat on the kitchen table.

“Why not?”

“Because—look. I would never complain to Ron about money. Or to Hermione about my mixed up
feelings re: pureblood culture.”

“So… because my mother’s dead,” said Harry.

“I have many people I can complain to about my parents,” said Draco. “And it’s not you or
Neville.”

“Hang on,” said Harry. “You never spoke to Neville about your parents?”
“Of course not,” said Draco.

“But you were with him for over two years. And your dad is…very much still in your life.”

“Yes, Lucius is resistant. Like certain forms of gonorrhea. There, would you put this in the sitting
room?”

“Do I have a say in what topics you decide are too sensitive for my traumatised ears?”

Draco threw him an uncomfortable look.

“Yes,” he said.

“Okay. So I don’t mind if you complain about your mum to me. I mean, as long as you’re not
taking it for granted that you have one.”

Draco vanished the stray leaves with his wand.

“No,” he said, not looking at Harry. “I’m very grateful she survived.”

Harry widened his knees and pulled Draco to stand between them. They were quiet together for a
gentle, thoughtful moment.

“She’s just…” said Draco, into Harry’s neck. “Unchanged. They both are. And that makes it very
difficult for me to talk to them.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, stroking his hand slowly up and down Draco’s back.

“But I imagine it’s the same thing muggle borns deal with. A cultural rift. I mean, not that—I
shouldn’t compare—I only mean, lots of people have this problem, in one way or another. Which
lessens it, I suspect.”

“Your dad’s a dick,” said Harry, and as he had hoped, it made Draco laugh.

“You make him sound like his worse crime is being rude to waiters.”

“I bet he is rude to waiters,” said Harry, and Draco laughed again, with this strange, affectionate
look, as if Harry had done something especially thoughtful. Harry wasn’t sure that he had done
anything that thoughtful—just criticised Draco’s father in a way that didn’t feel weighty and
miserable. But maybe that was enough.

“You know,” Harry told Pansy, when they went to her house for her housewarming (she had
moved in a year ago and only just finished unpacking), “you shouldn’t have lied to Draco.”

“He had to stop wearing that cologne. I have no regrets,” she said.

“What? What did you tell him about his cologne?”

“That I’d smelled it on four different men I banged, all of whom wore fedoras.”

Harry was momentarily distracted.

“You slept with multiple people who wore fedoras?”

Pansy swept her eyes up and down Harry, assessing him.

“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re shagging Draco, aren’t you? There’s no way you know what a
fedora is without outside intervention.”

Harry felt the blood rush to his cheeks.

“You told him I was going to ask out a girl at work,” he said, trying to get back to the point.

“And let me guess, he trotted straight home to have panic sex with you,” she said.

“Well that makes it sound horrible, thanks,” said Harry. Pansy shrugged.

“I think panic sex is the only kind he does,” she said.

Harry thought of Draco that morning, languorous and sinewy, driving into Harry with leisurely
thrusts, whispering stupid things into Harry’s ear, things like you’re so lovely when you’re tired
and I could do this forever and, Harry’s favourite, you’re better than breakfast. Because Harry
knew how Draco felt about breakfast.

“I don’t know,” said Harry.

“So has he fucked it up yet?”

“No,” said Harry, annoyed, “and that’s a shitty thing to say.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, and he noticed that her pupils were too wide. She was on something,
although he wasn’t sure what.

“Well, watch,” she said. “He will. He’s not right in the head.”

“Unlike you,” said Harry, and then regretted his nastiness, because her shoulders hunched, and her
head drooped, and she said, so quietly it was hard to hear,

“Yeah. Unlike me.”

“Are we going somewhere?” asked Harry, one evening. Draco was putting on his jacket. His
fingers paused on one of the zips.

“Yes—I am.”

“Oh. Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed,” said Harry, and went into the kitchen. Draco followed him
a moment later. Lounged in the doorway; long, long legs and black jacket and sweeping hair.

“I’m…” said Draco. “I’m going to a restaurant.”

Harry took off his jumper, suddenly boiling up with panicky heat.

“Got a hot date?” he asked.

Draco laughed, sounding genuinely surprised.

“In a sense?” He paused. “I’m going alone.”

Harry looked at him properly, then. Draco had put on eyeliner, and he looked terrified.
“You’re dressed up,” said Harry.

“Makes me feel more confident,” said Draco. “Tell me not to go, and I won’t.”

Harry shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Go have dinner by yourself.”

Draco scowled.

“I knew you would say that,” he said. “Alas. My last hope.”

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

A small and worried smile.

“Thanks,” said Draco.

When he came back, a short hour later, he put on the collar without a single word and spent the rest
of the evening as a kitten. The weather was getting warmer, and he was shedding. His fur got
everywhere, but Harry didn’t mind. He took the kitten’s paw in his hand, pressed on the little pink
pads. The kitten didn’t purr much that night, but he stayed close to Harry, and Harry did his best to
show that that was okay.

Draco started going out alone a lot more, after that. Sometimes he was fine when he got back.
Other times, he was silent for hours after, and when he spoke it was only to start horrible
conversations—

“Where you glad when Crabbe died?” he asked.

“Do you think it’s fair that I didn’t go to Azkaban?” he asked.

“Is my rent so cheap because you’re fucking me?” he asked.

Harry tried to see beneath the question to the fear.

“No,” he answered, and “I don’t know what’s fair, but I’m glad you didn’t go,” and “your rent is
cheap because this place is a shit hole, but I’ll gladly take more money if you want.”

Meanwhile, the newspapers were gearing up for the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, and
something shifted terribly in Harry’s head. He tried to ignore it.

“Are you all right?” asked Draco. They were at the pub with a huge group of friends—even Parvati
and Lavender, who didn’t seem to like them anymore and only hung out with muggles.

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“You’re staring at that packet of crisps like it stole your girlfriend,” said Draco.

Harry pulled his gaze away. Rubbed lights into his eyes.
“Just tired,” he said.

“Let’s go home, then,” said Draco.

“You stay,” said Harry, because Draco had been laughing all night, and telling stories, and
generally having a typically good, Draco time.

“What are you two muttering about?” asked Ron, across from them. Now Harry thought about it, it
was surprising that Draco had chosen to sit next to Harry at all—he was so nervy about anyone
finding out about them. He made jokes about Harry’s BDSM exploits, but he didn’t stick to
Harry’s side. He tended to butterfly around, although he often came back to whisper things to
Harry, as if they were secretly tethered together. But today, unusually, he had sat next to Harry.
Harry wondered what it meant, or if it meant anything at all.

“Housemate secrets,” said Draco. “None of your business.”

“So weird that you guys are housemates,” said Ron. “Do you fight all the time?”

“All the time,” said Draco. “Naked. In mud. Imagine that, Ron.”

“Gross,” said Ron, and changed the subject.

“See you,” said Harry into Draco’s ear, and slipped away. Grimmauld Place was calm and empty,
and Harry paced from room to room, wearing his heart out.

When Draco finally got back, he took one look at Harry and ran him a bath.

“I don’t need a bath,” said Harry.

“You’re filthy. Get in,” said Draco, and Harry obeyed. Draco sat next to him on a little stool,
telling him all the gossip he had picked up at the pub. Harry closed his eyes. The water was so hot
that it made him feel dizzy.

“Are you asleep?” asked Draco. Harry shook his head.

“Just tired,” he said, so Draco helped him out and wrapped him in a huge bath towel. Rubbed him
dry and kissed him neatly on the lips.

Harry fell asleep while Draco was still getting ready for bed. When he woke up briefly in the night,
the kitten slept in the crook of his knee. Later, Harry would remember that night, and wish he had
been able to keep it, to capture it.

They had sex the next morning. Draco was a little hungover. Loose and sleepy.

“I love you,” he said, when he came.

Then he rolled off Harry and hid his eyes with his forearm. He had covered up the mark with a
swirling black tattoo of a sinking ship, but he would never let Harry look at it properly. Harry
wanted to study it, to figure out how the artist had transformed the skull into something new,
something equally but differently morbid.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” said Harry, after a long silence.

“I think we should just be friends,” said Draco.

Harry shut his eyes. He wasn’t even surprised. Or he was, but only at his own foolishness. Has he
fucked it up yet? Pansy had asked, and Harry had been so sure he knew better than her.

“Draco… don’t do this.”

Draco sat up and began to dress.

“You said we could be friends. You said to tell you if I changed my mind about wanting—what
we’ve been doing,” he said.

Harry pulled the duvet up to cover himself.

“I know, but—”

“So I’ve changed my mind,” said Draco.

“Because you’re in love with me! That’s not a good reason to break up—”

“It’s not a break up,” said Draco. “We weren’t together. We were just fucking around, and I want to
stop now.”

“Have you forgotten that I love you too?”

Draco tilted his head head to look at the ceiling.

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry if I’m hurting your feelings.”

“My feelings—fuck, Draco, you’re—just take a chance on us!”

Draco lowered his head to look at Harry, and gave a quick smile.

“You know I’m a coward,” he said.

“You’re not,” said Harry. “You can do this. We can do this. We’re good together. Draco!”

He got out of bed and tried to take hold of Draco, but Draco stepped back.

“You can talk me into staying, Harry, but it won’t be because I want to.”

Harry’s heart gave a horrible jerk. He made a helpless, desperate gesture with his hands.

“I just… I love you. I want to be with you.”

Draco’s eyes went blank.

“Okay,” he said, his voice hollow. “I’ll stay, then.”

Harry went back to the bed and put his head in the pillow. Draco sat next to him and placed his
hand on Harry’ shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he said, in that same, hollow voice.

“No,” said Harry. “Of course not.” He turned his face to Draco, and tried to smile. “You’re right.
Let’s just be friends.”

Draco stared at him silently, his lips tight.

“Okay?” said Harry.

Draco frowned, blinked several times, then said,

“Thank you.”

And then he left, his steps jerky and wrong, and knocked hard into the edge of the doorway as he
fled.
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Neither of them mentioned Draco moving out. It was obvious he should, and Harry could tell
Draco knew that, because he kept doing ostentatiously good housemate things like buying a year’s
supply of loo roll, or gardening. But Harry was beginning to crumble. Had been crumbling before
Draco ended things. It made it easier to handle the Draco situation, because he simply didn’t have
the room to think about it; not when he felt as if weights were attached to all his limbs, as if his
head was drowning, as if he couldn’t quite control his hands.

Draco was unobtrusively helpful through it all. They didn’t talk—they couldn’t seem to look at
each other. But when Harry blanked one evening at the pub (all the sounds blurred together and his
eyes prickled and there was something he couldn’t swallow in his throat, and nothing had
happened, nothing, only that Dean had mentioned he and Seamus were going to the anniversary
event at Hogwarts), Draco got him a glass of water. Maybe he was going to get him water anyway,
Harry didn’t know. But in the moment, it had felt kind. When Harry stopped remembering to eat,
Draco showed up at his work at lunchtime a few times a week and took him out to restaurants.

“Work going well?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Harry. And then, twenty minutes later, when he remembered the rules of
conversations, “Work going well for you?”

Draco smiled.

“Yeah,” he said, and took Harry out to lunch the next day, too.

“Go shower,” he told Harry, when Harry hadn’t for five days.

“I’m tired.”

“You’ll be glad you did.”

Since Draco was usually right about that sort of thing, Harry obeyed, and felt much better
afterwards.

At lunch, a few days later, Draco cleared his throat. Harry was so used to them being perfectly
silent that he had almost forgotten Draco was there, and was bewildered to find Draco looking at
him—well, at his left ear. Draco seemed unwilling to make eye contact.

“I can move out,” said Draco.

Harry’s thoughts were slow.

“Okay?”

“It’s just…” Draco frowned at his plate. “Well, you seem a little, ah. Tired? Lately. So I was
thinking. I’m up for a promotion at work, and if I get it, I’ll be travelling a lot for several months.”
Harry tried to follow what he was saying, but it was hard, because his stomach ached. Different
parts of his body were always hurting, and he had given up trying to figure out why. It was
probably all psychological, anyway, which made him feel stupid.

“I could stay with you until I find out about the promotion,” said Draco. “If you want? But I can
also leave. It’s up to you.”

“…leave?”

Draco finally looked at him.

“All right,” he said. “That settles it.” And he stayed.

A week went by before Harry understood what Draco had told him, that day at lunch. A week of
losing whole hours (he would startle and realise he had been staring unseeingly at something and
wasn’t sure how long it had been), of going to the bathroom just to gasp, of Colin Creevey begging
Harry not to leave in his dreams. One day, he was visited by such a brutal and nameless rage that
he could barely keep his teeth from chattering as he handed his mended cursed objects to the
archives. When he got home, he swept all the books from the shelves, threw half of them in the fire
—for no reason, what had the books done to him, what had anyone done to him, who was alive and
punishable? Nothing, nothing, nothing, and Harry broke the framed photograph of Ron, Hermione
and him at Hermione’s twenty-first birthday party, and he broke the ceramic pig Luna had given
him “to help with spiritual decay”, and he smashed his fist into the glass case of the curiosity
cabinet.

No, he didn’t, because something stopped him. Draco stopped him. It took Harry a second to
notice, because the connection between his brain and his body was so faulty, these days. But Draco
was holding his arms back, and Harry stopped struggling when he understood what was going on.

Once Harry was still, Draco stepped away.

“Please don’t hit me,” said Draco, and the rage worsened, or became something else, something
wilder and sadder and more like grief.

“I will never hurt you,” said Harry, seizing Draco by the face and pulling him close. Not for a kiss.
Just close.

“Okay,” said Draco, resting their foreheads together. “Just breathe with me.”

So Harry did. In a little while he wasn’t angry anymore. A little while after that, he realised that he
was hideously embarrassed, and dropped his hands away from Draco’s face.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“I was thinking Chinese, what do you fancy?” asked Draco, as if nothing had happened. Harry
wasn’t sure how he felt about Draco’s easiness. Maybe it implied that nothing Harry had done was
out of the ordinary. Maybe it was it was self-pitying, to think that his wave of uncontrollable fury
had been a form of suffering. He wished, distantly, that Draco would ask him something, anything.
But Draco never did.

They ate the food in the kitchen. Draco put on the radio; it was some sort of play, and he kept
laughing. It was soothing, like being held after a fright.
When Harry went back into the sitting room a few days later to clean up after his humiliating
temper tantrum, it was all in order. The framed photograph of Ron, Hermione and him was back in
its spot on the chimneypiece. The ceramic pig was on the bookshelf, still preventing spiritual
decay, although half the books were gone. Draco evidently hadn’t been able to save them from the
flames. It wasn’t impossible magic, but Draco never went near fire if he could help it.

It occurred to Harry that Draco hadn’t been using the kitten collar, since they broke up. They had
slept in separate bedrooms every night, and Harry knew Draco couldn’t keep away when he was
kitten. He wondered, briefly, how Draco was managing so much time alone. But Harry’s sadness
was at such a pitch, just then, as to be fundamentally selfish, and he couldn’t think beyond himself
for long.

It was that night that he realised what Draco had meant, at lunch. When he’d said he would stay.
When he’d said that Harry seemed tired.

It was late, past two in the morning. Different dream, this time: just a knife flying through the air.
In the dream, that was all that happened, which Harry recognised was not actually cause for
distress. Still not a nightmare. Just a dream. But within the dream, Harry knew where the knife was
going, knew what it would pierce, and he watched, unable to move, as the knife flew—flew—

When he woke up, he couldn’t remember who the knife was bound to kill. Dobbie, he supposed. It
didn’t matter: the knife hadn’t killed anyone, and anyway, it was just a stupid dream. But Harry’s
heart pounded as if he had just really seen someone murdered. His whole body was cold with
sweat. He pressed his hands to his head, almost wishing his scar would hurt so the pain would
focus him.

That was when he realised. Draco was staying at Grimmauld in case Harry needed him.

Perhaps he should have realised it earlier. It seemed obvious now. But the thought came upon him
like a sudden release, and his tears subsided enough so that he could breathe. He could talk to
Draco. That was why Draco had stayed. Draco was waiting for Harry to ask for help.

Harry stumbled out of bed. Maybe he was wrong, maybe this was a bad idea, but the notion that
Draco was so nearby and so potentially ready to comfort made it impossible for Harry to resist
seeking him.

“Hello?” said Draco, when Harry knocked. He sounded sleepy and confused. Harry let himself in.

“Hi, uh, can you talk for a minute?” said Harry. He’d intended to be casual, and not give off a
weeping into his sort-of-ex’s bedroom in the middle of the night sort of vibe, but his voice gave
him away.

“Come here,” said Draco, sounding much more awake. The room was dark. Harry followed
Draco’s beckoning hands and climbed into his little single bed. Draco slid his arms around him.
Tucked Harry’s head into his chest. “What is it?”

Harry just cried.

“Oh, my love,” said Draco, softly kissing Harry’s hair. “Dear Harry. You poor, sorrowful thing.”

He didn’t try to talk to Harry. He ran his hands over Harry’s back, through his hair, kissed his
forehead and his eyebrows. “Darling,” he said.

Harry cried until he was no longer vibrating with misery, until his spine stopped shivering, until
the horror had subsided. Where did it go? It seemed to live in him, in his blood, like malaria. It
seemed incurable.

“Sorry,” said Harry, when he could speak.

Draco kissed his forehead again.

“You must think I’m pathetic,” said Harry, pathetically.

“I will never think that of you,” said Draco.

“No one else is fucking… everyone else has moved on, I’m the only one who—it wasn’t even a
fucking nightmare, I’m just losing it, and—everyone else is fine,” said Harry.

Draco didn’t say anything for a while, which Harry took to mean that he was rethinking his
position on Harry’s pathetic-ness.

“Lee Jordan told me once that George regularly has him take polyjuice potion with his hair in it
and Lee pretends to be Fred,” said Draco.

“Wh-what?”

“Makes Lee feel like shit. But George says it helps,” said Draco. He tilted Harry’s chin up so that
they could look at each other. “No one is fine, Harry.”

“Ron and Hermione—”

Draco shook his head.

“They think you cope with the war by not talking about it. They don’t want to bring it up in case
they send you spiralling. But they’re having such a hard time, Harry. And they miss you like mad.”

Harry couldn’t take it in.

“They’ve said that?”

Draco nodded.

“I’ve wondered what you and Ron talk about,” said Harry.

“You, mostly.”

“But he’s not—he’s not falling apart,” said Harry. “I’m—I feel like I can’t stand it, sometimes.
And it’s so pathetic, when—”

“It’s not.”

“No, I’m… I just mean, when I was seventeen I took everything that came at me, and now I’m in
my mid-twenties and I can’t handle, just, life.”

Draco stroked away the tears with his index.

“You’re going to be so fine, Harry.”

Anger erupted in him like an explosion, wiping him out—a catastrophic, claustrophobic anger, that
Draco didn’t understand, that Harry wasn’t fine, that he would never stop startling at fireworks,
that the Harry he had spent half a life learning to like was gone and now all that was left was this
slow and broken replacement…

“Yeah?” he said, furious, “Is that what you told yourself, when you joined the Death Eaters?”

Draco’s hands stilled in Harry’s hair, and the anger disappeared. It was like a fire going out. All the
light and clarity vanished, leaving behind only the miserable knowledge that he had hurt Draco.

“Sorry,” said Draco, humble and penitent. “That was stupid of me.”

“No, I, I didn’t mean to say that.”

Draco was so stiff beside him. He took his hands away from Harry and tucked them close. There
was a respectful space between them now, as if Draco wanted to get out of the bed but was too
polite to leave without permission.

“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s fair game. Great way to win an argument with me, actually. Nev used to
do that, when we fought, and d’you know, he won every time?”

He didn’t sound bitter, only rather distant.

“I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry,” said Harry.

“I’m sorry I’m not the right person for you to talk to, that’s all. Shall I call Ron or Hermione?”

“You are the right person,” said Harry, reaching for Draco’s hand, and Draco let him take it. But
Harry didn’t know if he wanted to be touched, or if he was simply and choicelessly giving Harry
what he wanted.

“I won’t ever do that again,” said Harry.

“It’s not a big deal. I was a Death Eater. It’s quite natural you remember that, when you remember
the war.”

“I’m not saying I’ll never want to talk to you about it again. But if I do, I’ll ask you, and set a time,
and have a conversation with you. I promise never to just—hit you with it like that.”

Draco’s eyes were lowered. He smiled.

“That’s very generous. But I think you’ll find that anger and resentment are difficult emotions to
conceal,” he said.

“I don’t resent you,” said Harry. “Is that what you think? How can you ever relax around me if you
think I secretly resent you?”

Draco raised his eyes and gave him a steady look.

“Oh,” said Harry. “You don’t relax around me.”

“Harry… I’m no good at talking to…your side about the war. I always made things ten times
worse for Neville. May I make a suggestion?”

“I’m sorry, I fucked up,” said Harry. “I wasn’t even thinking about you when I said that. I just—”

“You could wear the collar. It doesn’t fix anything but sometimes it’s nice to get out of your head
for a while. It might help you sleep.”
 Harry put his hands to his face and sobbed.

“Oh—Harry—” said Draco, sounding so upset, and his hand touched Harry’s shoulder, lightly,
uncertainly. Harry pushed himself into Draco’s arms, and Draco held him, but it wasn’t like before.
Draco was awkward, clearly uneasy about touching Harry more than he had to.

“Okay,” said Harry, finally. “Yeah. Let’s try the collar thing.”

“I know it’s at the very least a weird coping mechanism, but…” said Draco, and Harry managed a
small laugh.

Draco came back with the collar. Harry sat up and bared his neck, but Draco wouldn’t look him in
the eye, no matter how hard Harry stared.

Kitten, thought Harry.

Chapter End Notes

I was planning on having Harry try kittenhood BEFORE you all waded in with your
puppy dog eyes so don't get any ideas
 Chapter 13

When Harry was older, he would sometimes try to remember the weight and texture of those early
miseries, but never with much success. He would have a dim recollection that it had been hard, so
hard that it had felt impossible to get through, but only in the way he sometimes remembered books
he had read in childhood—he remembered what he had decided about the books, not the books
themselves.

The only image that stayed vividly with him was that of grief as a predator, waiting for moments
when Harry was weak to pounce. And that was how it had been all that night, like being mauled by
something cruel and nebulous that would never let him go.

The moment he turned into a kitten, the feeling seemed to drop him. (That was always how it felt—
Harry didn’t have feelings. Feelings had him.)

He was small, and alarmed, but bold. Distantly in the corner of his mind there was something
trying to get in, but first he focused on the physical. There was something soft beneath his paws, so
he kneaded at it, and was flooded with strange, unplaceable comfort.

Draco touched his head—tentatively, at first. Harry moved against his hand, because it felt good.
Not exactly good on its own; more like the sudden absence of pain. And then Draco scratched his
chin, and it did feel good then, purely, simply good, and Harry’s whole body vibrated, his bones
moving against the easy pleasure in a way that felt good for them, somehow; healing.

Something was trying to get into his mind, but couldn’t.

Harry rolled over onto his back.

“Oh, you’re easy,” said Draco, and rubbed Harry’s belly. “You’re supposed to protect your belly
from enemies, you know.”

The words floated cloudily through Harry’s mind. He could have chosen to understand them more,
if he wanted, but he decided they weren’t important.

Something was trying to get into his head. Harry could ignore it. But it felt bad to ignore it.

Draco scooped him up into his arms.

“You do this to me all the time, so I’m going to assume it’s okay,” he said, then kissed the top of
Harry’s head.

It became more and more obvious with each passing moment that Harry was ignoring something
crucial, something undeniable.

He remembered resisting the imperius curse in Mad Eye Moody’s classroom. It was like that?
Draco kissed the tops of Harry’s paws. It felt good to purr, it felt simple. Mad Eye Moody hadn’t
been Mad Eye Moody, anyway, and Dumbledore hadn’t been who Harry thought he was when he
was a child and Dumbledore seemed like God, and Harry wasn’t Harry anymore—

Unkitten, he thought.

“Hello,” said Draco, surprised. Harry was in his lap on the bed. Draco had one of Harry’s hands
held to his mouth. “You’re back quick?”
Harry’s life fell back on him, heavy and poisonous. He pressed himself into Draco’s chest, and
Draco resisted for a moment, then wrapped his arms snuggly around him.

“‘didn’t work,” said Harry.

Draco rocked him slowly.

“Didn’t you like it?”

“I could feel my thoughts at the margins,” said Harry.

“Couldn’t you just ignore them? That’s what I do.”

Harry shook his head. He felt uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was in Draco's room, and
that Draco probably wanted him to leave.

“I’ll go, in a bit,” he said.

There was a long silence before Draco kissed the top of Harry’s head, and said,

“It’s okay. Stay.”

“Are you just saying that because I want to stay?” asked Harry. He was too tired to dissemble. He
was wrung out.

“No,” said Draco, then again, more slowly, “no.”

They rearranged themselves in the bed, Draco spooning Harry, wrapping his arms tightly around
his torso.

“Thank you,” said Harry.

“Anytime,” said Draco.

It wasn’t awkward in the morning. Draco made them both coffee and brought it up to bed. Neither
of them said a word. Harry was so tired he felt like an alien in human skin.

Draco showed up at his work at lunchtime. They had another silent lunch, and after work Ron and
Hermione showed up with food and wine.

“Draco said you’ve not been feeling well,” said Hermione.

They’re having such a hard time, Draco had said. Draco, incidentally, was nowhere to be found.

“Oh, the Slytherins are having some exclusive snakes-only get-together,” said Ron, when Harry
asked about him.

“It’s not like that, Ron,” said Hermione. “Don’t be envious.”

“I’m not envious!”

“Ron doesn’t like it when Draco and Theo hang out without him,” said Hermione.

I’m no good at talking to…your side about the war, Draco had said, and Harry hoped that he could
talk to Theo and Goyle, at least.
After they’d eaten, Ron and Hermione sat on either end of the sofa, Harry in between them. It felt
purposefully engineered. They had both been on good form all through dinner, funny and easy and
in love, apparently unperturbed by Harry’s quietness. But then, Harry was so often quiet.

“Draco said you wanted to talk to us,” said Hermione, gently.

Harry frowned.

“Did he?”

“Is he being a meddling Slytherin, or is he right?” she asked. “Do you want to talk to us?”

Harry didn’t know. He fixed his gaze on his feet on the sofa. His knees were up by his chest.

“About what?” he asked.

“Well…” Hermione hesitated. “Draco said, about the war.”

“I don’t really know how to talk about that,” said Harry.

“Have you tried getting very drunk and shouting at strangers?” asked Ron. “That’s what I do.”

Harry looked at him.

“You never get drunk.”

“Not around people I care about,” said Ron.

Harry frowned.

“But… you’re…” he glanced at Hermione. “You two are really great together. I thought.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, his eyes going to Hermione’s as if pulled by a string. “We’re good.”

“But that doesn’t mean we’re fine, Harry,” said Hermione. “…did you think it did?”

“You seem happy together,” said Harry. “I mean, I want you to be happy together.”

“We’re together,” said Hermione. “When we’re happy and when we’re not.”

“But Harry, mate, we… have we been leaving you out?” asked Ron. Harry stared at his feet some
more.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”

And then things got a little blurry, because Hermione practically smothered him with hugs, and
Ron kept saying, “but you’re my best friend, I thought you just didn’t want… that… anymore,
you’re my best friend,” and by the time Draco came home the three of them were so completely
entangled on the sofa that Harry couldn’t move.

Draco pretended to take a picture of them with an imaginary camera.

“Papped!” he said. “The Golden Trio engage in sick, fully-clothed sexual perversion! Turn to page
three to find out more.”

“How was your wanky Slytherin party for twats?” asked Ron.
“I will sue you for slander,” said Draco, unwinding a long scarf and dropping it on the coffee table.
It wasn’t even cold out. But Draco liked to be warm.

“Come join,” said Hermione, so he did, climbing in behind her on the sofa and resting his head on
her shoulder.

“I bought you this jumper,” he said, rubbing his cheek on it.

“It’s so fucking soft,” said Ron. “Please buy her more clothes.”

“It’s not her birthday,” said Draco, sleepily.

None of them moved, then. They just lay together in pile. Harry’s neck was twisted at an odd
angle, and Hermione’s hip dug into his stomach, and after a little while it hurt, but Harry didn’t say
anything, because hurting that way felt better than being alone.

When Ron and Hermione left, Harry and Draco went numbly upstairs. Draco’s bedroom was
across the corridor from Harry’s.

They both hesitated.

“Well—” said Harry.

“I don’t want to lead you on,” said Draco. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

Harry didn’t say anything. Draco bit the side of his lip. It wasn’t seductive. It was nervous and
uncertain.

“But if you need me in the night…” he said, dropping his eyes.

“Will you go to sleep with me? Just sleep?”

Such tiny little movements in Draco’s face. Harry understood none of them, only that they meant
Draco was thinking, that Draco didn’t know what he thought.

“Is that a good idea?” asked Draco, finally.

“No,” said Harry. He was loose-tongued with sadness, still. “But I need you.”

Draco held one of his elbows, pinning his arm to his side. He nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said, and followed Harry into his bedroom. They stripped off into boxers, as they had
so many times before, and climbed into bed. Opposite sides of the double, a wide space between
them, Draco on his back and Harry on his side.

“What did you tell Ron and Hermione?” asked Harry.

“I’m sorry,” said Draco immediately.

“It’s okay. It was good. We talked a bit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”
Draco sighed.

“That’s good,” he said. “It didn’t make sense, how you’d grown apart.”

Harry pushed his face into his pillow until the guilt had passed.

“Yeah,” he said, when he was back in the present. “I’ll try to be better.”

“Harry…”

Harry waited, but Draco didn’t finish.

“Do you talk to the Slytherins about the war?” asked Harry.

“Oh. Ah, a bit? Sometimes. There’s our post-war book club. We only... talk sideways? You know
when you can see something out of the corner of your eye but it disappears if you look straight at
it?”

“I suppose?”

“So,” said Draco, as if that explained everything.

When Harry woke up in the night, Draco sleepily said, “come here, darling,” and welcomed Harry
into his arms. “You’re okay,” he said into Harry’s hair, as Harry trembled. “Poor thing. You’re
okay.” But when Harry had calmed down, and said, “Draco?”, Draco had fallen asleep again, and
didn’t answer.

Only once, in the weeks that followed, did Harry directly try to address what was going on between
them. They slept in Harry’s bed every night—Draco no longer used the collar—they had lunch,
and on days when Harry felt a little better, they chatted and laughed and were generally the best
kind of friends—but they never kissed, and rarely touched.

Harry didn’t bring it up in when they were in bed. He brought it up, oddly, when they were both
sitting in the open window of Seamus Finnegan’s downstairs loo. The party was too loud, and
Harry had said, “I’ve never had a cigarette. I want to try one,” and Draco had laughed at him,
stolen a cigarette from Pansy, and led them to the loo. He lit it for Harry, grimaced, then passed it
over.

“You’re going to hate it,” he informed Harry.

“Maybe I’ll become very cool,” said Harry, before taking a drag and coughing up half a lung. He
choked and choked against Draco’s side, and Draco patted him on the back, laughing and forcing
Harry to drink water from the toothbrush mug by the sink.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just that you were so determined. And cool is the one
thing you can’t achieve through trying.”

“Why does anyone smoke?!” asked Harry, picking a little piece of ash off his tongue. He felt sure
he had done it wrong. Surely tongue-ash wasn’t supposed to be part of the experience.

Draco took the cigarette from him and flushed it down the loo, then climbed back into the window
sill next to Harry. It was a perfect spring night, a small breeze nipping at them through their
jumpers.

They were quiet for a moment.

“I still love you,” said Harry.

Draco closed his eyes, looking abruptly miserable. Harry turned his face to the cool wood of the
window jamb.

“Sorry,” he added.

“I got that promotion,” said Draco. “I’m going to be in New York for six months. It’s sort of a
training thing? At the New York office.”

“Congratulations,” said Harry, to the window jamb.

Draco nodded, picking at his jumper.

“Don’t know if I—can do it,” he said. For a second, Harry thought that Draco was going to say,
because I’ll miss you so much, but then Draco put both hands to his head and said, “I don’t know
anyone in New York.”

“You’ll make friends at the office,” said Harry.

“I’ll be alone—an awful lot,” said Draco. His voice was halted, as if he was trying to keep control
of it.

“You’ve been better recently,” said Harry. Draco gave a little laugh.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m all sorted out, now.”

“You know…” said Harry, delicately, “if you ever wanted to talk…”

Draco cast him a strange look.

“You and I can’t talk, Harry.”

It was funny, that after all that had passed between them, it was Draco who couldn’t trust Harry.
But Harry didn’t say that aloud, because he knew that was exactly the sort of statement that made
Draco unable to trust him. And Harry got it, maybe, a bit. Got that Draco couldn’t unburden his
heart to someone who might one day feel angry and lash out with devastating precision, just where
Draco was most breakable. Draco was guilty, and Harry had the power to make him feel that, any
time he wanted.

“I think we’d make each other really happy,” said Harry.

“So let’s go out, then,” said Draco, dully. “Whatever you want.”

“Don’t do that. That’s not fair,” said Harry. “I’ve never…”

Draco smiled tightly.

“Sorry. You’re right.”

Dean stumbled into the bathroom.

“Are you two fucking?” he asked them, as he got out his dick and peed, with very poor aim, rather
more near than in the toilet.

“You didn’t even close the door, you barbarian,” said Draco.

“No, we aren’t,” said Harry.

“I tried to fuck Draco, once,” said Dean, in a confiding tone. Draco sighed and looked away. He
seemed very old, all of a sudden. Very tired. “He wouldn’t,” said Dean. “Frigid cow.”

“Was this, like, at school?” asked Harry, because Dean and Seamus had been together since the
war.

“Recently,” said Draco, under his breath.

Dean did up his jeans and stumbled back out of the bathroom, oblivious to Harry’s horrified
expression.

“Do they have,” said Harry, finally, hopefully, “an… an arrangement?”

“No,” said Draco.

“…are they breaking up?”

“They’ll never break up. Dean cheats, Seamus pretends he doesn’t notice. Or maybe he really
doesn’t notice. I don’t know. Seamus finds life quite difficult, I think. He doesn't look at it too
hard."

“That’s really sad.”

Draco looked Harry steadily in the eye.

“A bad relationship is worse than being single,” he said. “Remember?”

He was so handsome. Carved and slender-wristed and kind. Harry wanted to belong to him.

“How can you know if something will be bad before you try it?” he asked.

Draco's eyebrows came desperately together.

“I really, really like having you for a friend, Harry,” he said, and then Pansy burst in with Ron, both
of them saying “okay okay okay let’s get them to try it!” and they pulled Harry and Draco out of
the loo into the kitchen, where they made Harry and Draco taste a bizarre concoction they’d
created, which Harry suspected was largely vodka and salad dressing. And Harry didn’t bring it up
with Draco again, whatever it was.

And Draco accepted his promotion.

 Chapter 14

“You can firecall me,” said Harry. He leant against Draco’s doorframe, in a strange reversal of
their usual roles, as Draco finished packing. A long, clean swoop of fair hair covered Draco’s face
as he bent his head.

“‘m not keen on firecalls,” he muttered. “Sticking your face in a fire. No, thanks.”

“Right,” said Harry. “Er. Letters?”

“Mobile phone?” said Draco. “They’re very common in New York, apparently. I’ll have to get one
for work.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sounds good,” said Harry. Draco held up a pair of purple skinny jeans.

“Pack or leave?”

“Pack. You look great in those,” said Harry. Draco smiled and put them in his trunk. “Maybe we
shouldn’t talk much, anyway,” said Harry.

“I’ll be busy, I think,” said Draco. “But if you need me—”

“Yeah, same,” said Harry. “Busy. But if you need.”

Draco left without much fanfare, early the next morning. He left a note on the kitchen table:

Harry,

Thanks for being the best housemate™ . Call me whenever, I’ll make time.

Draco

And his number at the bottom.

“Draco’s in love with you,” repeated Ron.

“That’s really beside the point,” said Harry.

“But Draco’s in love with you,” said Ron. “Blimey. This is weirder than when he started dating
Neville. And that was weird enough.”

“Try not to let your crush on Draco distract you from what Harry is saying, Ron,” said Hermione,
looking a bit exasperated.

“You… what?” said Harry. They were in the park—it was a glorious, daffodil sort of spring that
year. Blue skies, and even Hermione was wearing sun dresses.

“Oh, come on, he’s hot as fuck,” said Ron. “I’m allowed to be confused.”
“Apparently that’s the norm, when it comes to Draco,” said Harry, gloomily eating a crisp. He had
received a text from Draco that morning: No fish and chips in Manhattan. Should I kill myself now,
or later?

Lol but also pls don’t joke about that, Harry answered, and Draco didn’t text back.

“So where did you leave it?” asked Hermione.

“I mean, I don’t know. Draco’s been pretty clear for a long time that he doesn’t want to be with me.
And I feel like maybe I could convince him he’s wrong, but I also know he would feel like I had
pressured him into a relationship. So I don’t know.”

Hermione hesitated.

“Harry…” she said.

“What.”

“Draco and Neville were very unhappy.”

“Has everyone forgotten that I’m not Neville?”

Hermione shook her head, eyes widening.

“Harry, of course not! You’re so different. It’s just… it’s not easy, dating someone with that much
history. Remember when Ginny dated Theo? And then he made some offhand remark about—oh, I
don’t even remember what. And she thought he was slighting Fred?”

Harry hadn’t really followed Ginny’s brief relationship with Theo.

“And he wasn’t,” said Ron. “Obviously. But even I… like sometimes, when I’m having a bad day
and have had a few drinks, I think of Draco and want to punch him. Or maybe I just remember
wanting to punch him. But if I was dating him—”

“Don’t get any ideas,” said Hermione, and Ron grinned before becoming serious again.

“It would be hard,” he said. “Because I wouldn’t be able to hide that, and he would know, and it
would hurt him, and then when I calmed down I’d feel terrible but also… I don’t know, I mean, he
poisoned me, right?”

“I never want to punch Draco,” said Harry.

“I just think maybe it’s a good thing he’ll be away for a while. Give you some space to think about
whether this level of complication is really something either of you can handle,” said Hermione.

“Harry!” said Blaise, opening the door of his extravagant townhouse with a crocodile smile. “Are
we to be best of friends again?”

“I’m never trusting you with anything ever,” said Harry, elbowing past him. “Jesus. Your house is
nice.”

“Diamond mines, fur trade, and extensive property in Dubai,” said Blaise. “Mother has such
excellent taste in men… Come through to the roof terrace. Mipsy! Cocktails. Or tea. Both, in fact.”
Ten minutes later, Harry was sitting on the most comfortable chair known to man, on a perfectly
manicured terrace, sipping a cocktail.

“This is delicious,” he said.

“There are advantages to a friendship with me. Granted, they’re largely aesthetic or economic, but
they are advantages nonetheless. So, Harry, what brings you away from your busy schedule of
saving the world?”

“You know how our friend group hangs out a lot? Like as a group?”

“We are a ragtag collection of childless layabouts, yes,” said Blaise.

“I think I didn’t realise how much everyone was hanging out one-on-one behind the scenes,” said
Harry.

Blaise cocked his head inquiringly.

“Just…” Harry continued, “Draco seems always to know everything about everyone. Because he
spends time with people one-on-one. So I thought I would try that.”

“If you wish to press me for gossip, Harry, I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you terribly. I never gossip.
I’m famous for my closed-mouth discretion.”

Harry laughed, and Blaise smiled, looking rather… relieved. And he relaxed a little in his chair.

“You know…” said Harry. “If Draco’s over the stress-catism thing, I follow his judgment.”

“Do you."

“Yes.”

“And you find Draco to be a wise and reliable decision maker, do you?”

“You know, all you guys are dicks about him,” said Harry. “You could try having a little faith in
him.”

Blaise raised one eyebrow and leant back in his chair.

“Draco’s the cleverest idiot I know. I have faith in both his cleverness, and his idiocy.”

“Tell me about you and Pansy,” said Harry.

Blaise went very still.

“What a little traitor,” he said, eventually. “I can’t believe I trusted that boy.”

“She’s using less, these days,” said Harry.

Blaise’s lips curled up unhappily.

“This isn’t a war,” he said. “You can’t just wade confidently in and fix everything. You’ll make a
mess.”

“All right,” said Harry. “Just wanted to register my investment.”

“Noted,” said Blaise, and changed the subject. But several hours later, when Harry was walking
down the bright clean steps of Blaise’s townhouse, Blaise said,

“She’s my best friend, you see.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I get it.”

“Do you ever think about the war?” asked Harry. Marcus fumbled his broom as he put it back in its
locker.

“Er,” he said, looking at Harry. They were both sweaty from an afternoon of hard flying. “Doesn’t
everyone?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry. “Do they? I do.”

Marcus’ eyes went soft. It always looked strange when he was gentle, because his face was was
crooked and loutish. But Harry liked it.

“I can imagine,” said Marcus.

“So… you do?”

“Lost two cousins and an uncle. I was only close with one of the cousins,” said Marcus.

“I’m sorry.”

“’s all right. We all go sometime.”

“I’ve never found that very comforting,” said Harry.

“No, me neither,” said Marcus. “But I…”

He looked suddenly huge in his awkwardness, and ran a hand through his hair.

“It’s weird, talking to you about it,” he admitted.

“We don’t have to,” said Harry.

“Just, you know. My cousin—Cato—he wasn’t…” Marcus sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
“…on your side. On the right side, I mean.”

Harry sat on the changing room bench and looked at Marcus expectantly.

“He was a few years older than me. Really funny. Good at quidditch, too. We—we used to fly
together,” and suddenly Marcus was crying. It was so quick that by the time Harry reached him,
the tears had stopped.

“Sorry,” said Marcus.

“Don’t apologise,” said Harry.

“I just miss him,” said Marcus. “That’s all.”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“I saw his favourite biscuits in the shop the other day. They’re French, usually nowhere carries
them. And I had this moment of thinking, Oh, I’ll get them for him and he’ll be so pleased, and
then I remembered.”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry.

“…I just blubbed and blubbed. Everyone stared. So embarrassing, you know? But never mind. It’s
important to be cheerful.”

“Is it?” asked Harry.

Marcus met his eye seriously.

“Yes,” he said.

It was two weeks before Draco called Harry. Harry was in the bath, staring at his ceiling and
letting his mind lie flat and still in a not-horrible way, and his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Harry Potter?”

“Draco! How are you! How’s New York? Are you American yet? Do you live in a penthouse?”

“I share a flat with about two hundred friendly cockroaches,” said Draco. “How are you? Are you
feeling all right?”

“Fine. How glamorous are you?”

“Extremely. I live above a pizza shop. Yesterday, an old Russian man spat out a tooth at me.”

“Fantastic.”

“Was the tooth loose already? Had he kept it in his mouth in the anticipation of finding someone
with a particularly spittable face? No way to know.”

“You’re living the life. Have you made friends?”

“Er, a bit. There’s the guy showing me the ropes at work. Chett, can you believe it? I nearly died
when he told me.”

“Chett? What’s he like?”

“Brash and friendly. You’d like him. Although, you like most people, I think it’s one of your most
admirable traits.”

“And… how’s it been, being alone more?”

There was a long pause.

“Draco? Are you still there?”

“I’m here. Sorry. Yeah, it’s been, a bit trying, actually. A bit, you know, er. Harrowing. But I’m
through the worst of it now, I think. Hopefully.”

“You should have called,” said Harry.

“It felt like something I needed to sort out alone,” said Draco, quietly.

“And have you? Sorted it out?”

“Er, no,” said Draco, and laughed. “But. I’m all right. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, fervently. “You, too.”

“You’ve been okay?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I’ve been talking to people. About the war. And just, I don’t know, talking
more.”

“That’s good?”

“Yeah, it’s good,” said Harry.

“Good,” said Draco. “Good.”

They slipped slowly into talking more often. Harry tried not to call, because he had a feeling Draco
had taken the promotion partly to get some distance from Harry. But Draco started calling him
once a week, then twice a week, then three or even four times.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he said. “I’ll let you go in a second. I just went to Times Square for the first
time and I need to debrief.”

“Were you alarmed?”

“Alarmed! It was magical! All those… lights! I gobbled it up. I stared open-mouthed. Someone
stole my wallet, obviously. I was the most touristy tourist you ever saw.”

“It must be amazing; I’ve only seen pictures,” said Harry. Draco sounded as if he was pacing.

“Oh, it was terrible. Absolute nightmare, and I’m never going again. They had all these men in
cloaks and masks? I must have seen at least three. And people were paying them to take pictures.”

“Like… Darth Vader impersonators?”

“I don’t know. It was awful. I threw up in a bin. All in black, with masks…”

“But you liked the lights,” said Harry, because it sounded as if Draco was steering himself in the
wrong direction.

“I liked the lights. All right, I know it’s late where you are, I’ll leave you alone.”

“What are you up to this evening?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” He was a little breathless.

“Will you be all right?” asked Harry.

“I feel as if I’m going to die,” said Draco, conversationally. “But that’s just part of being alone, I
think.”

“Er, I don’t know if it is.”

“The lights were good. I loved the lights. The, the screen things. Made all the advertisements seem
so lovely, I wish the wizarding world was lovely like that, instead of filled with hideous Victorian
hangovers.”

“You think Time Square is lovelier than Diagon Alley?”

“Of course,” said Draco. “It’s so… new. It’s exciting. I wish those men in masks hadn’t been there.
God it’s hot. All right, I’m going to take a very cold shower and then remain perfectly calm.”

“You don’t sound okay,” said Harry.

“Sort of… black cloak things? They wore? Who were they impersonating?”

“Darth Vader. He’s a famous villain from a series of muggle films.”

“Oh, a villain, yes, that makes sense, they looked like—that. God, God—anyway. Sorry to call
again! Sleep well.”

“I can stay on the phone,” said Harry.

“No, no, I’m actually fine, I just haven’t eaten. I’m just hot.”

“We could watch the film they’re from,” said Harry. “Darth Vader, I mean.”

“Erm, and he features quite a lot, I suppose?”

“I think you’ll enjoy it,” said Harry. Draco seemed uncertain, but he also clearly didn’t want Hary
to leave, so they watched A New Hope together on the phone. As Harry had predicted, Draco grew
calmer. Harry fell asleep after an hour. When he woke up, Draco had hung up long ago, but there
was a single text from him:

Thanks x
 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes

All you commenters are giving such great ideas about Chett! Can't wait for him and
Draco to elope #teamChett #Chaco #Dett #Harrywho?
#IAdoreYourCommentsDon'tStop

A few days later, Pansy Parkinson showed up on Harry’s doorstep with a suitcase.

“Can I move in?” she asked, then barged inside.

“Um, sure,” said Harry, shutting the door and following her to the kitchen. “Are you okay?”

Pansy burst into tears. This seemed to be happening to Harry a lot, these days. He patted her
awkwardly on the shoulder.

“There, there,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. And it worked, because
Pansy stopped crying.

“Housemate rules,” she said, sniffing. “I hate blue cheese. You can’t have blue cheese. The smell
makes me gag.”

“I don’t like blue cheese…? Pansy, what’s going on?”

“I just fancied a change of environment. All my flatmates are drug addicts.”

“Right,” said Harry.

Pansy flung herself into a chair.

“Blaise is such a cunt sometimes,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “He definitely is. What did he do this time?”

“Said he didn’t believe I was actually going to get clean. Said I always said that. Said it didn’t
make a difference.”

“Huh,” said Harry, who felt this was not, in fact, one of Blaise’s cuntier moments.

“Well, I’ve moved out, haven’t I??”

“You have,” said Harry, and put the kettle on. “And you’re in love with him.”

“I hate him.”

“That, too.”

“I need to get a job,” said Pansy.

“I thought you were an heiress,” said Harry.

“I’ve asked my parents to cut me off. Oh. Do you mind if I owe you rent for six months?”

“You know this is not the way these agreements are usually arranged?”

“I could ask Mummy to send you some money, I suppose,” said Pansy. “But I don’t want to speak
to her ever again. I’m too ashamed. You ask her. Can you get me a job? Can I smoke in here?”

“No.”

“Fuck.”

From this inauspicious beginning, Harry had worried that living with Pansy would be, at the very
least, tumultuous, but in fact she turned out to be rather a conscientious housemate. Particularly
because she avoided all situations where people might conceivably get away with doing drugs, and
seemed to want mainly to sit on the couch, watching television.

“I bought you a television,” she said, the first day Harry came in and found her watching Oprah.

“With what money?”

“My trust fund?”

“I thought your parents cut you off,” said Harry. Pansy looked confused.

“Not my trust fund.”

“Right. Of course. How stupid of me.” He pointed a finger at her. “You have to pay rent.”

Pansy had the nerve to actually pout.

“Ugh, fine. Come watch with me?”

HP: [selfie of Harry and Pansy]

HP: hello from me and my new housemate

DM: Explain yourself

HP: can I call

Draco was stunned.

“So she’s just… quit?”

“Seems that way?”

“And she’s living with you?”

“Yeah. Unexpectedly. She’s actually pretty great, though, we have a laugh.”

“Of course she’s great. She’s Pansy. My future wife.”

“You’re marrying Pansy?”

“We have a deal. If we’re both single at forty, we’ll get married in a massive cathedral and make
everyone buy us extravagant gifts. She’s really quit?”

“I think?”

“God. I wish I was in London. I’m missing everything.”

“How’s it going over there?”

“Oh, fine. Chett and Draco take on the world. You know how it goes.”

Chett again. Harry wondered how, exactly, it went.

“How are you, Harry?”

“I’ve been okay,” said Harry.

“I actually want to know,” said Draco.

Harry laughed, his heart pulling inside him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know you do. And I’m actually okay. Just now.”

He didn’t say, I miss you. He didn’t say, I’m still hoping for you, or I’m scared I’ll always love you.

Dean and Seamus broke up, rather improbably, over a game of Charades. They were on opposing
teams, and Seamus was trying to make his side guess “The Life and Times of Tristram Shandy,
Gentleman”. Seamus was spectacularly good at Charades, to the point where if you had him on
your team, the other team got to have an extra round to make up for their disadvantage.

In his two minutes, Seamus successfully got his side to guess “The Life and Times of Tristram
Shandy”, which was quite a feat given that no one in the room had ever heard of the book.

“Time!” called Marcus.

“You didn’t get ‘gentleman’,” said Dean.

“So? I got every other word!” said Seamus.

“Doesn’t count. You wouldn’t give Luna the point when we guessed ‘water’, but not ‘fall’.”

“Come on, Dean, don’t be a pedant,” said Harry. Seamus team were making outraged sounds, but it
was all in good humour—very few among them were actually competitive. Marcus was a terrible
loser, so he never played; just kept time. But Seamus stood at the centre of his sitting room, his
face pale and his fists balled.

“You know perfectly well it counts,” he said.

“Sure, if you’re a cheater,” said Dean, and Seamus gave a strange sort of shriek. Everyone fell
silent at once.

“Get out,” said Seamus, his eyes burning into Dean. “Get out. Get out of my house, get out of my
life. Get out!”

Dean stood. His expression held so many different things, Harry couldn’t begin to guess at it. He
stepped forward, took Seamus in his arms—Seamus went quite floppy and let him—and kissed
him as if he was the only thing that mattered.

“I’d love you if you let me,” he said.

“Fuck off,” said Seamus.

“Okay,” said Dean. “Okay.”

He looked at Seamus with that complicated expression once more, then left the room.

Seamus temporarily moved in with Harry and Pansy, a fact Harry only discovered when he got
home from work and found Seamus and Pansy eating ice cream from the carton on the floor of the
front hall.

“Bad day?” asked Harry, sitting in between them. Pansy passed him a spoon.

“Pans said I could move in with her,” said Seamus.

“This is my house,” said Harry.

“Oh, yeah,” said Seamus. “Can I move in? Just for a few weeks. Don’t fancy being alone just
now.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I guess so.” He pretended to be put out about it, but secretly he was quite
touched. The idea that Pansy and Seamus both saw him as a refuge made him feel strong, or useful,
at least.

Harry hadn’t known that Pansy and Seamus were so close. They made constant references to things
they had done together (“God, how nice was that villa in Croatia?”) and kept pulling Harry aside
to talk to him about each other.

“Do you think she’s using secretly?” asked Seamus.

“Don’t let Seamus cook by himself,” said Pansy. “He always blows things up, and he does it on
purpose.”

Seamus turned out to be a much more trying housemate than Pansy. He did, indeed, blow things up
on nearly a daily basis, and it became much less funny when Harry realised the degree to which it
was true, what Pansy had said. That he was doing it on purpose. Or, more specifically, that he was
purposefully and recklessly not trying to preserve himself. Harry once caught Seamus closing his
eyes before he crossed a busy street.

“It’s why Dean couldn’t handle it,” Pansy told Harry, one night. She had let herself into Harry’s
bedroom, and sat at the foot of his bed, painting her toe nails. “I mean he was a real shit to Seamus,
and there’s no excuse for it. But Dean got tired of feeling like Seamus just wanted out.”

“That’s… complicated,” said Harry.

“Everything’s complicated,” said Pansy, letting her dark hair fall in front of her face in a curtain.
“Everyone.”
Harry had another bad period after Seamus moved in. But he thought about Seamus closing his
eyes before he crossed the street, Lee Jordan taking polyjuice, Pansy taking drugs, Ron getting
drunk and shouting at strangers. He thought about Draco saying he was actually totally fine, he
was just hungry, he was just hot.

“I get these, er, these bad weeks,” he told Hermione. She didn’t look up from the laminated menu
of the pub where they were having lunch.

“That’s understandable. What kind of bad weeks?”

“Just… hard to… do anything. Or think. Or manage.”

It sounded stupid. Harry still said it. Because maybe he wasn’t the only one who was having a hard
time managing, and oddly that thought made things easier.

Hermione looked up.

“That sounds really difficult.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, appalled to find he was on the verge of tears. “Yeah, it’s a bit shit. Draco
helped a little, when he was here. But actually, nothing helps that much. It just happens.”

“Do you want advice or sympathy?”

“Er… both?”

Hermione smiled.

“My advice is, let’s you and I have lunch every day until you feel a bit better, and you should talk
to Ron. He’s good about this stuff, surprisingly. And you should see a therapist. I know a really
good one.”

It was Hermione, and she always knew what to do. He slumped in his chair, relief surging through
him.

“As for sympathy…” Hermione took Harry’s hand in hers. “I love you so much, Harry. I’m so
sorry you’re having a hard time. I know it doesn’t fix anything, but you have so many people who
care about you, and I’m really, really glad you reached out.”

The next few weeks passed strangely, in stops and starts of memories. Harry spent a lot of time
lying on his sofa, staring at his ceiling, but in his more lucid moments, he was grateful that Pansy
and Seamus sat with him.

“I didn’t realise he was fucked up,” said Seamus once. He and Pansy tended to talk as if Harry
couldn’t hear them, when he got like this. It was sort of true. He could hear them, but often only as
if they stood very very far away.

“Yeah, me too,” said Pansy.

“Makes me feel…” said Seamus.

“Yeah,” said Pansy. “Better, almost.”

“I felt like a right dick being so, you know, when he was totally fine.”

“Poor Harry,” said Pansy, and she ran a hand through Harry’s hair. Harry closed his eyes and
thought, idly, of Draco. Of Draco holding him and calling him a poor, sorrowful thing.

He sat up.

“Oh, hello,” said Seamus. “You hungry?”

Harry shook his head.

“Tough,” said Seamus. “You’ve got to eat, see.”

“Maybe there’s some pasta left,” said Pansy, and went to go look. Harry got his phone.

HP: having

HP: a bad time, lately

Draco texted back instantly.

DM: shall I call?

DM: I’m in a meeting but will absolutely fake a bathroom emergency if needed

DM: tell me that isn’t friendship

HP: ha

HP: no thank you

HP: I don’t need anything from you, like I don’t think you can help

HP: just wanted you to know

DM: I know the feeling

DM: I’m glad to know

DM: I wish I was there

DM: I would get you a glass of water and be quite useless

DM: and you would know I was trying very hard to help

HP: yeah

HP: and you would say nice things to me

DM: I can say nice things now if you like?

HP: yes

Draco took a long time to respond, and he kept writing things then deleting them. Finally, he wrote,

DM: you’re the best person I know

DM: if anyone deserves simple and enriching happiness, it’s you

DM: and I am convinced you will get it eventually

DM: convinced

HP: thank you

HP: less convinced than you, but thank you

DM: Did you know

DM: in Ancient Egypt

DM: linguistically, loving wasn’t something Person A did to Person B

DM: it was something Person B had in them, that compelled Person A to feel love for them?

DM: sorry if this is confusingly expressed; Chett did Egyptology at Chicago but I tune out a lot
when he talks about it

HP: Classic Chett

DM: what I’m getting at

DM: is that people don’t love you, Harry Potter. You * make* them love you

DM: there is something in you that makes you fundamentally lovable

DM: and that will bring you happiness.

Harry stared at his phone, the letters blurring.

DM: …Harry?

DM: was that an incredibly naff thing to say

DM: I’m sorry

HP: no no

HP: no
HP: thank you. Got to go

DM: oh ok

DM: God I really just went at you with the Ancient Egyptian linguistics, sorry lol

DM: ignore me

DM: sorry again

Late that night, it occurred to Harry to wonder why Chett had been talking to Draco about love,
Ancient Egyptian or otherwise. The thought made Harry snap his eyes open and stare in blank
sorrow at the ceiling.

“I just feel like we’ve grown apart,” said Neville.

“Oh,” said Harry.

They stood in Neville’s kitchen. Neville had invited everyone around to watch some program
Harry had never heard of, and Seamus had insisted the Misery Household attend.

“I don’t like that name for us,” Harry had protested. Anyway, Seamus only wanted to go because
Dean would be there. Harry and Pansy both knew that, and didn’t know what to do about it.

“Nothing, I suppose,” Pansy had said, when Harry asked her. “We can’t make them not get back
together.”

So they had gone as a household—the Misery Household—and Seamus looked fucking hot, of
course. Pansy had seen to that. He was at his loudest and brightest, and Dean stared at him from
across the room, handsome and intent and longing.

Blaise sat in between Theo and Pansy. He kissed her on the cheek, as he always did. If Harry
hadn’t known that they were embroiled in a punishing romance narrative, he wouldn’t have spotted
the way Pansy looked at Blaise, uneasily trying to prove she was sober, or the way Blaise kept
glancing at her when she wasn’t looking.

All of it made Harry miss Draco. He slipped away into the shiny kitchen, and that was how Neville
got him alone, which, it transpired, was something Neville had been trying to do for a while.

“You can relax. I know about you and Draco,” he said.

If Neville had thought this would make Harry relax, he was mistaken.

“Yeah?” said Harry, wishing he was home, wishing he was in New York, wishing he was in some
different moment of his timeline. “What do you know?”

“That you were sleeping together,” said Neville. “Before he went to New York. A while before.”

Harry stared at him.

“How did you know?”

“He told me,” said Neville.

“You guys still talk?”

Neville shook his head, looking frustrated. Breaking up with Draco seemed to have had no impact
on whatever it was he was struggling with—his hair was straggly, his eyes bloodshot.

“I just… I know what he must have told you,” he said. “About me. About how awful I was to him.”

Harry wondered if there was any polite way to tell your childhood friend/the ex-boyfriend of the
man you wish you could have had the privilege to term an ex-boyfriend that you didn’t really want
to discuss his relationship with said man you were still madly in love with.

No handy phrase came to mind. Harry waited, his hands resting behind him on the counter. Neville
apparently took this for enthusiastic encouragement. He pulled out a chair from the kitchen table,
sat, and leant his head on one hand.

“I didn’t mean to be awful. And he wasn’t perfect either, by the way, he never fucking told me
anything, it was like dating a very polite teenager.”

Harry thought about Draco’s quiet reserve. Remembered how Draco had treated Harry before they
were friends, like a teenager who didn’t want to disappoint anyone.

“Draco sort of still is a teenager,” said Harry.

“Yeah,” said Neville. “I know. He’s…” he shook his head again. “Anyway. I didn’t mean to fuck
him up or whatever. I loved him. I still love him; I always will, you know?”

“Shouldn’t we get back to the sitting room?” asked Harry, desperately.

“I get these hallucinations,” said Neville, and Harry sank back against the counter, resigning
himself to his fate.

“I’m not sure that’s the word,” said Neville. He seemed, frankly, as if he was having a very bad
day. “I see them out of the corner of my eye. It’s my mum and dad. They sort of crawl around. I
saw them on the tube a week ago, it—”

He caught his breath.

“Neville…”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine. I mean, it’s fucked. But like, I’m used to it.”

“Hermione made me see a therapist,” said Harry.

“You?” said Neville. “But you’re perfect!”

“I’m—what? No,” said Harry.

“Look, I’m trying to tell you something,” said Neville.

“Er, okay,” said Harry.

“When my parents died in the war—”

“I didn’t know,” said Harry. Neville waved his hand impatiently.

“It’s, you know… Everyone in that ward died. Natural causes, under Death Eater watch. They
fucking killed them, obviously, killed anyone they didn’t think would be useful in their grand new
world. I don’t know which Death Eaters. Could have been Lucius.”

“I’m so sorry, Neville.”

“And that’s what I always thought, when Draco and I were dating, and mum and dad would—you
know, the hallucinations. I’d get back to Draco, and think, did your dad kill my parents? Your dad,
who you still speak to? Did you know about it? Were you involved?”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Neville had his head in both hands now. Was talking largely to the
table.

“And then he would try to help, to talk to me about it, and I just—I just would be so angry with
him—so he stopped trying, and that made me angry too—and I said a lot of stuff to him.”

Things were starting to fall in place in Harry’s head. Draco’s conviction, when Harry first went
through a difficult period, that Harry couldn’t possibly want him around. Draco’s insistence on
transforming into a kitten to give silent comfort. The deep hurt he had tried to hide when Harry
made that offhand remark about him being a Death Eater, moments after Draco had held him and
loved him.

“So why didn’t you break up with him?” asked Harry.

“Because!” said Neville, sitting up to look at Harry with exhausted, reddened eyes. “Because he’s
fucking amazing, isn’t he? Because he’s wonderful, because I loved him! Because when mum and
dad went away—the hallucinations, when they weren’t there, we were perfect!”

“Except that he was always scared you would get angry at him.”

“I was angry at him. Aren’t you?”

Harry shook his head, slowly.

“No,” he said.

Neville looked back at the table.

“Well, I didn’t think I was, either. He was scared that would be a problem when I first asked him
out, and I said it wouldn’t be. Because I thought it wouldn’t be. I thought I was over it.”

Harry thought he was over it.

Neville stood.

“Anyway. I just wanted to explain myself.”

“Thanks,” said Harry. “You know, my therapist is really—”

“I’m fine,” said Neville. He hesitated. “I like seeing them. It’s better than nothing. I know that’s
fucked up.”

There wasn’t anything to say to that. Harry let him leave.

Harry didn’t wait for the rest of the Misery Household. He called Draco as he walked home. He
felt too rangy and restless to apparate, he needed to move.

“Harry Potter!” cried Draco, when he picked up.

“Hey.”

“Someone Chett assures me is very famous bought me a coffee today.”

“How famous?”

“Less than you, don’t worry,” said Draco.

“Oh good, wouldn't want to feel insecure. You with Chett now?”

“No, I’m home for a bit. How’s everything with you?”

“I, er, just had a chat with Neville.”

Harry could feel Draco grow serious.

“Ah. Is he well?”

“Not really, no,” said Harry.

“Oh. I thought Luna would be better for him.”

“Maybe she is, I don’t know. We didn’t talk about her. We talked about you.”

“How ominous,” said Draco, lightly.

“The thing is,” said Harry, talking too quickly, because he had to get it out, even though it hurt, “I
really, really, have no anger towards you. That time I said that thing about you—in bed—it wasn’t
about you, it was just me being frustrated, but—”

Draco’s voice was sharp and panicky.

“Harry, please don’t. Please.”

“No, I’m not trying to—I’m not—just listen. I know I don’t resent you. But you don’t know that.
All the way through our friendship, you’ve walked on eggshells. You’re always scared that I’ll
snap and say something hateful. And you’ll always be scared of that. I didn’t understand, Draco. I
didn’t understand how deep that went.”

He was walking so fast he was sweating, but still it wasn’t fast enough.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I love you. But you can’t be happy with me. And you so, so
deserve to be happy with someone. I want you to be happy with someone. I want you to be happy.”

Draco didn’t answer for so long that Harry actually checked his phone to see if the call had cut out.

“Draco?”

“Yeah. I’m just… give me a second.”

Harry waited. He slowed his pace, took a few deep breaths. He felt heartbroken and clean and
brave.
“Thank you,” said Draco. It sounded awkward, oddly formal. “I… it’s… strange, hearing you say
all that. That I deserve… not to feel that way. In a relationship.” Draco paused. “It’s…
meaningful.”

“I love you,” said Harry, earnestly, hoping that Draco would understand. I love you more than
romance.

And Draco must have understood, because he said,

“I love you, too.”

Harry laughed, suddenly weak, and so lonely.

“So I guess I’m going to start dating other people,” he said.

“Neville was so sure it would be okay,” said Draco, as if he was apologising. “But the things I did
aren’t… it would be normal if you hadn’t forgiven me, in a secret corner of your heart. It would be
healthy. It’s madness to think you could be entirely over it. That it wouldn’t come out, like some
kind of terrible, leaking poison, when neither of us expected it. I did… such bad things, Harry.”

“I know myself. But I can’t see how you would be happy if that’s what you were scared of. So like
I said—I’m going to sleep with a lot of people.”

“God,” said Draco, with a watery laugh. “I’m sure you will.”

“And you’ll…”

“But we’ll be friends,” said Draco, perhaps sensing how little Harry wanted to say find someone
else. “Won’t we?”

“Always,” said Harry.

 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

I PROMISE the happy ending is COMING I PROMISE

Brief drug overdose moment in this chapter, not v detailed or graphic

Pansy wouldn’t go clubbing with Harry, and neither would Seamus, out of solidarity.

“You shouldn’t have asked her,” he told Harry. “You made her sad.”

Harry felt stupid, but when he tried to apologise, Pansy looked at him like he was a worm.

“Why would I care? Go get fucked up, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“I’m not going to get fucked up,” said Harry.

In the end, he went with Ginny, because he was doomed to have bizarrely intimate friendships with
the people who broke his heart, apparently.

“She’s cute,” said Ginny, pointing with her chin at a petite brunette on the dance floor. “For me,
not for you.”

“Right. We’re here for me, though,” said Harry.

“Oh, he’s really hot.”

“Where?”

“Back off, I saw him first.”

“I’m trying to get laid, here, Ginny.”

Ginny pointed at man who was humping the wall, occasionally licking it.

“How about him?”

“Thanks so much. You’ve been a real help,” said Harry, and went to get a drink.

It wasn’t so hard, in the end. Harry was cute, if you didn’t talk to him too long and realise what a
mess he was. He was obviously aware that the looks first, personality after atmosphere of a night
club served him well. The guy who bought him a drink was hunkier than Harry tended to go for,
but maybe it would be nice to go for something so different from Draco. They made out, felt each
other up a bit, and when the guy asked Harry if he wanted to come home with him, Harry said yes.

“I’m leaving,” he told Ginny, who was dancing with a very pretty boy.

“Okay, love you, be safe,” she said.

It was a muggle club. The man who had picked Harry up was called Will, and they walked home
because the tube had stopped and Will lived nearby. Bracing night air swept away the fog of
alcohol.

“What do you do?” asked Will.

“Er…” said Harry blankly. “Like. Crime. I mean I investigate crimes.”

“Fine, don’t tell me,” said Will, with a laugh. “I’m a drama teacher.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “I don’t really like drama.”

It was hard to think of what to say, after that. Will had long, sloping gait, and he walked with his
hands in his pockets.

“You don’t usually do this?” he asked.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You seem nervous.”

“I’m trying to get over someone,” said Harry.

Will gave him a sympathetic look.

“Yeah, I feel you. Me and my boyfriend broke up last year, it was rough. Have you been with
anyone since?”

Harry shook his head.

“Okay.” Will cocked his head and smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

It was sweet. It felt nice, even though it didn’t mean much, because Will had no conception of what
Harry needed, of how little he had ever been cared for, and how much he seemed to need to make
up for that initial lack.

Harry felt terrible when they got back to Will’s place. It was filled with posters for films Harry
didn’t recognise, and reminded him of how fundamentally he and Will didn’t know each other.

“Do you want a drink?” asked Will.

Harry shook his head.

“No, let’s just…” he said.

Will came close, put a hand under Harry’s chin, and tilted it up.

“Do you want to just go to sleep? You seem nervy.”

“No,” said Harry. “I mean, we can, if that’s what you want.”

Will smiled.

“No,” he said. “I want to fuck you.”

Harry stared at him, wishing and wishing that this could be easy, comfortable, right. Wishing that
Will loved him and he loved Will and they were home to each other. Wishing he had a home in
someone. In Draco.
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Let’s do that.”

Will was lovely. Slow, considerate of Harry’s pleasure. Just lovely. Harry missed Draco physically,
an ache in his chest.

“Sleep over?” asked Will, afterwards.

“Yeah,” said Harry. He slept badly. The next morning, Will made him coffee and breakfast and
told him he wasn’t looking for anything serious.

“Neither,” said Harry.

“Well, if you’re up for it, we could meet again?”

“Er,” said Harry. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Will gave him an appraising look.

“Not as over him as you thought?” he asked.

“Oh, I never thought I was over him,” said Harry.

When Ginny asked if he wanted to go clubbing again, Harry said no.

HP: slept with someone

DM: oh

HP: weird to tell you?

DM: no no

DM: so so fine, ofc

DM: how was it

HP: good

HP: different

DM: good *bc* different?

HP: I don’t know

HP: I miss y—

He backspaced.

HP: How’s New York?

DM: I bought a bag of pistachios and it cost $14 and then I found an insect inside

HP: so business as usual

DM: very much so

DM: but the end is sight

DM: only three months till I get back!

HP: halfway through!

DM: will you see them again?

DM: person you slept with

HP: I don’t know

HP: maybe

HP: are you

HP: sorry scratch that

DM: am I…?

HP: sorry no nothing

DM: seeing anyone?

HP: that is the inappropriate and invasive question I was trying not to ask, yes

DM: haha

DM: do you really want to know…?

HP: would you really tell me?

DM: I’d tell you anything.

HP: ok

HP: maybe I’ll hate myself later

HP: tell me

DM: three one-night stands, each more depressing than the last

DM: I don’t *like* sex with strangers

DM: just kept feeling like if I picked a different stranger…?

HP: it’s weird bc they don’t know you???

DM: so weird! Hateful!

HP: it’s strange to be naked with someone who doesn’t know, like—

DM: …calling my “tattoo” cool

HP: oh shit

DM: yeah.

HP: do you think it would be different if they were wizards?

DM: uh

DM: bc…?

HP: like they’d know about the war

DM: oh. maybe

HP: hang on what did you think I meant

DM: that you were asking me if I still think wizards are superior, I suppose

HP: I told you

HP: I won’t ever question you about the war without warning you

Draco didn’t answer for a long time.

DM: it’s nice that Chett doesn’t really know about the war

DM: as in, he does

DM: he doesn’t think my TATTOO IS COOL, Jesus

DM: but

DM: he has no reason not to be generous to me, and compassionate

HP: he sounds nice

DM: he’s very nice to me.

HP: is he gay?

DM: unclear

HP: would you like him to be?

DM: is this something you want me to answer

HP: unclear
DM: lol

DM: anyway I hope you’re feeling ok

DM: after your sexual adventurousness

HP: thanks

HP: you make it sound like I tried sex in a tree or something

DM: sex in a tree?

DM: my God, Harry

DM: the equilibrium required

DM: I shudder to think

HP: have to go, house dinner

DM: MISERY HOUSEHOLD

DM: say hello from me x

Harry was quite sure Draco fancied Chett. He tried not to think about it. In an effort not to think
about it, he slept with Seamus. This was easy to arrange: it was reckless and stupid, so Seamus
leapt at the chance.

The sex itself was quite fun—they both kept laughing. But after it was over, Seamus rolled onto his
back and was quiet for a long time, his arm over his eyes.

“Are you okay?” asked Harry.

“I love Dean so much,” he said, his voice cracking.

“Sorry,” said Harry. “For not being him, or whatever.” When Seamus didn’t respond, or even
move, Harry spoke again. “I get it. It’s lonely sleeping with someone when you’re in love with
someone else.”

Seamus lowered his arm to look at him.

“Forgot you were pining. Must be hard, with how much Ginny gets around.”

“Ginny doesn’t—anyway, I’m not pining for Ginny,” said Harry, outraged on several counts.

“Really? Everyone thinks you are.”

Harry listened to this statement long after it had been spoken.

“I don’t know that our friend group has a good handle on who I am as an adult,” he said, finally.

“Fair enough.” Seamus sat up and put on his boxers. “This was fucking sad. Want to do it again
sometime?”

“No?”
“Sure?”

“Pretty sure,” said Harry.

Seamus put on his jeans, then paused.

“Wait. So who are you pining for?”

“Draco,” said Harry, because it felt good to say Draco’s name, whatever the context.

“Really? But you’re you? And he bullied you all the way through school.”

“It’s complicated,” said Harry, through his teeth.

“Oh, sure,” said Seamus. “I know complicated.” He looked unhappy for a moment, then smiled.
“You’re a fantastic shag, by the way.”

“Thanks,” said Harry. “You’re not so bad, yourself.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Really, uh, really good.”

“I’ve sometimes wondered,” said Seamus, holding his shirt pensively to his chest. “I thought,
maybe that’s why Dean couldn’t keep it in his trousers. Because I was rubbish in bed.”

“You’re not rubbish in bed,” said Harry. “And even if you were, that’d be no excuse.”

“No,” said Seamus. “I suppose not.” He glanced at Harry. “He’s not quite right in the head—Dean.
He’s not like he was. I… kept hoping he’d be like he used to be. And it hurt him, I think. That I
didn't want him as he is.”

“Yeah,” said Harry blandly. How many ways there are to hurt someone, he thought.

HP: guess who I slept with

DM: if you say Ron

HP: Ron???

DM: so not Ron?

HP: oh my god

HP: obviously not Ron

DM: he’s got a great body

HP: he’s my ex’s brother and my best friend’s husband—

HP: you know what, w/e

HP: you and Ron have a weird dynamic

DM: excuse you, we have a *great* dynamic

DM: who did you sleep with, then??

DM: don’t make me guess, it’s actually quite a horrible game

HP: oh sorry lol

HP: Seamus

DM: Seamus

DM: wow

DM: did not see that coming

Draco typed then deleted several times.

DM: ok

DM: he’s single

DM: you’re single

DM: you’ve known each other for ages

DM: sounds perfect maybe

HP: no it was sad

DM: are you okay?

HP: apparently compared to all the rest of our friends I’m on top of the world

DM: but are you okay

HP: yes

Harry tried not to type it, but he couldn’t seem to stop his fingers.

HP: it made me miss you like mad.

DM: Harry…

HP: sorry,

DM: Chett asked me out

HP: oh
HP: wow

HP: that’s so great

DM: yeah. It’s

DM: I’m looking forward to it

HP: yeah ofc

HP: hope it goes great

HP: ah I have to go

DM: are you okay?

HP: yes!

HP: I’m happy for you

DM: you don’t have to be saintly with me

HP: lol

HP: I WILL be happy for you, eventually

HP: when I stop having all these pesky emotions

HP: is that better?

DM: much.

DM: should I not have told you?

HP: no I’m glad you did

HP: got to go

DM: x

“Chett sounds like a twat. I hate Chett,” said Ron, firmly.

“He’s actually lovely. I talked to him on the phone the other day, and he was really nice,” said
Harry.

“Oh, nice, sure,” said Ron.

“Ted Bundy was nice,” put in Hermione.

“Who’s Ted Bundy?” asked Ron.

“A famous serial killer.”

Ron widened his eyes and shook his spoon of ice cream at Harry.
“See? Chett’s going to murder Draco.”

It had taken Harry several weeks to admit to himself how unhappy he was and confess to Ron and
Hermione. They had come over instantly with food and wine, and Ron had taken a strong and
wholly unwarranted dislike to Chett. Because Chett was, in fact, perfect. He was funny, and clever,
and ambitious. He radiated mental stability, yet treated Draco’s fragile emotional state with tact
and delicacy. He made Draco feel normal, loveable, worthy.

Some of these things, Draco told Harry. Others, Harry found out when he interrogated Blaise at
Millicent Bulstrode’s bridal shower.

“Draco told me in confidence,” said Blaise.

“Please. Nothing you tell a Slytherin is in confidence,” said Harry. “Not unless explicitly stated.”

“Such prejudice! But since you are so eager, yes. Chett’s been good for Draco. They don’t talk
about the war at all. I believe Chett finds it rather tedious, in fact.”

“So Draco’s happy?”

Harry had known it was all over when Blaise looked at him gently.

“Yes,” said Blaise. “I think Draco’s happy.”

“Chett’s not trying to murder Draco,” said Harry, now. Hermione poured him some more red wine.

“I still hate him,” said Ron.

“I wish I could hate him,” said Harry. “But honestly, if he treats Draco right, I can’t.”

A month before Draco was due to return to England, Pansy overdosed. Blaise found her, took her to
St Mungo’s. Sat by her bedside with Harry and Seamus, perfectly silent. It was unsettling to see
him so serious. When he spoke, it was like someone else had seized control of him. He was polite
and unobtrusive and distracted, his eyes glued to her pale face. Once, he looked at Harry.

“She’s coming back with me,” he said. “If she’s willing.”

“Okay,” said Harry.

When Pansy awoke, she blinked confusedly at Blaise.

“Blaise?”

“Pans, I love you, God, you scared me.”

“It’s really you?”

“Yes. You should go back to sleep. It’s all going to be okay.”

And Pansy, who never trusted anyone, smiled softly and closed her eyes, obedient and faithful as a
child.
“Do you think it’s true?” asked Seamus, when they got home. “D’you think she’ll be okay?”

Harry thought of the solemnity with which Blaise had said it. Blaise, who was never serious.

“Yeah, I think so,” said Harry.

Harry was fast asleep when his phone rang. He sat up in bed, put on his glasses, and picked up.

“Hello…?” he said. His voice was scratchy with sleep.

“Oh, fuck, I woke you,” said Draco. “Fuck, sorry, go back to sleep.”

“No, no,” said Harry, making himself comfortable against his pillows. “What’s going on? Are you
okay?”

Heavy breathing.

“Draco? Did something happen with you and Chett?”

“What? No—I thought about calling Chett. But I just…”

“What’s wrong?”

Draco was silent for a long time before answering.

“It’s… it’s about my father,” he said.

“Is he okay?”

Draco gave a strange half-laugh, half-sob.

“How are you so wonderful?”

“I’m not,” said Harry.

“My father tried to kill you!”

“Is he okay, though?”

Draco gave another jerky laugh.

“N-no. Turns out, a few years ago—during the war—he handled a cursed object. And it’s done
something to his lungs. He’s got about five years left. Which I’m sure you think is plenty, but—”

“Draco, he’s your dad. That’s the part of him that matters right now, yeah?”

“God,” said Draco. “I woke you up. To talk about the war. I have no right to talk to you about the
war.”

“You can talk about anything with me,” said Harry.

Draco made a shuddery sound.

“Do you remember, when you said I walked on eggshells around you?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s true. But the funny thing is, the eggshells never cracked. No matter what I said—except that
once.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to this, because Draco and Chett hadn’t broken up. So he said
nothing.

“He’s in a lot of pain,” said Draco. “My father. That’s what’s hard. Because honestly, Harry, when
mother told me, the first thing I felt was relief. Isn’t that fucking awful?”

“It’s understandable,” said Harry.

“I can’t believe I just said it out loud,” said Draco, wonderingly. “And to you. You must think…I
don’t know what you think.”

“Don’t you?” asked Harry. “Tell me, Draco. What do I think of you?”

“You’re fond of me.”

“Draco.”

“I could stand it all quite easily, if he wasn’t in pain,” said Draco, and Harry forced himself, with
difficulty, to remember it wasn’t all about him.

“When did you find out?”

“This afternoon. Then I went to Time Square and just looked around for a while. All those lights.
The men in masks.”

“You poor thing,” murmured Harry. “I wish I was there. I wish I could take care of you.”

Draco began to cry.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this,” he said.

“Nonsense,” said Harry.

“I’m sorry,” said Draco, his voice thick with tears, “I’m sorry I made fun of you for being an
orphan. I’m sorry I called Hermione—that—and tried to get Hagrid sacked—and poisoned Ron—
and that I, I, stomped on your face, I hurt you—I’m just so sorry, Harry, I wish I could cut myself
off completely from who I used to be and bury him at sea but I can’t—”

His voice became incomprehensible at this point, although he continued to speak.

“Draco, darling, I can’t understand you,” said Harry.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this,” said Draco.

“But I’m so glad you are,” said Harry. And then Draco just cried, quietly, for several minutes.
Harry said nothing, just waited. Draco’s breathing slowly returned to normal.

“Thank you,” he said, eventually.

“I wish I was there,” said Harry. “Why don’t you ask Chett to come over?”

“You want me to ask Chett over?”

“I want you to not be alone when you’re sad,” said Harry.

“Harry…” Draco couldn’t seem to finish his sentence.

“What?”

“I wish I had always respected you this much,” said Draco, softly.

Harry wanted to say something simple and wise, something like the past is past, or there’s no use
worrying about what’s done. But the sentiment wasn’t true. The past did not stay in the past. It
bled into the present, shaped the future. It mattered dreadfully. And yet Harry could still love
Draco, as if Draco was some lovely plant grown in poisonous soil. The graceful, admirable result
of something Harry hated. And if anyone deserved to find something to love out of the war, wasn’t
it Harry?

“Are you still there?” asked Draco.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry I lost it like that. How embarrassing.”

“You’re fine. I only ever seem to like you more, anyway,” said Harry.

Draco laughed. He already sounded much better, much more composed.

“That’s because you’re starting from a pretty low point, liking-me-wise,” he said.

“True,” said Harry, and yawned. Draco heard it.

“God, what a selfish little shit I am,” he said. “Go to bed. Thank you for picking up. I feel a lot
better.”

“Good,” said Harry. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure. Go to sleep. You’re angelic.”

“Oh, fuck off,” said Harry. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Harry settled down in his duvet. Draco would be back in three weeks. If Harry had wanted to get
over Draco during his absence, he had completely and utterly failed.
 Chapter 17

DM: two weeks left in New York and I only just discovered frozen hot chocolate

HP: what’s frozen hot chocolate

DM: you know what’s shit about England though

HP: rain

HP: bad teeth

HP: far-reaching legacy of empire

DM: well, sure

DM: but

DM: what I was thinking was

DM: it’s been nice, feeling so light and unknown

Harry was wholly unprepared to deal with such openness, freely given. He stared at his phone for a
second, and Draco texted again.

DM: I introduce myself and people sometimes say “That’s an unusual name” or “Are you
British?”

DM: and if I’m nice they think I’m nice

HP: that must be freeing

HP: I would enjoy that too, frankly

DM: you know how sometimes you only realise you had a headache when it goes away?

HP: I think so?

DM: yeah. Like that

HP: are you nervous about coming back?

DM: yes

DM: for quite a few reasons

HP: you told me once I would be fine

HP: because
HP: idk something about being loveable

DM: what a profound and detailed impression my words leave upon you

HP: well

HP: I think you’re going to be fine, too.

DM: are you calling me loveable, Harry?

HP: I am!

DM: like a cuddly bear

DM: or a kitten, I suppose

HP: you could always stay in America

HP: if you’re happier there

DM: I’d need a visa marriage

HP: I’m sure Chett would step up

DM: anyway

DM: just had to tell you

DM: about the frozen hot chocolate

DM: I’m back to work

DM: x

It was funny, how much Harry missed Pansy living with him, although he couldn’t bring himself to
regret her loss when he saw how happy she was with Blaise. Blaise, too, seemed like a different
person—still drawling and theatrical, but inclined to kindness rather than cynicism.

“Are you terribly lonely without Pansy Parkinson, Harry?” he asked Harry, pulling her close and
kissing her on the cheek. “Are you like a flower in a winter of no sun?”

“I’m doing okay,” said Harry. “How are you two?”

“We’re okay,” said Blaise, looking at Pansy fondly. “Got to be.”

“You’re a very embarrassing boyfriend, aren’t you?” asked Pansy, although she seemed pleased.

“Very,” said Blaise.

“You seem well,” Harry told Pansy, when Blaise went to talk to Mipsy about dinner. “Compared to
the last time I saw you.”

Pansy wrinkled her nose.

“How ungracious of you to bring that up,” she said.

“So you and Blaise are together, and now you’re fine?”

She tilted her head.

“Aren’t you bitter, Heartbroken Harry?” she said. “No. Obviously it’s not at simple as that. I told
you, everything’s always complicated. But some people make things easier. Blaise makes things
easier. Bearable.” Her eyes flicked to the doorway as Blaise came back through. “More than
bearable.”

“I’m not bitter,” said Harry, because he wasn’t, but he was self-involved.

“Okay,” said Pansy, clearly disbelieving.

DM: how’ve you been doing?

HP: good thanks and you?

DM: no I mean

DM: how’s your

DM: you know. Your sleep

HP: it’s ok atm

HP: I had a couple of rough days last week but I hung out with Ron and Hermione

HP: and it was ok

HP: how’s your sleep

DM: grand

Harry was glad that Draco had found happiness abroad. He really was, and one day, maybe not too
long from now, Harry would be happy as well. It was a strange, anguished sort of feeling, because
getting over Draco felt like losing him. But increasingly, Harry could see that romance aside, he
had the people he needed in his life. There was something comforting about that, even if it wasn’t
quite what he wanted.

Draco got back on a Thursday, but Harry didn’t see him until the following evening, at Theo Nott’s
drinks party.

“Draco will be there, won’t he?” said Seamus, watching Harry violently trying to fix his hair in the
mirror. “Dean tried to sleep with him once, but he wouldn’t.”

“I know,” said Harry. He pushed down on a perky strand of hair, and it popped back up, in clear
defiance of Newton’s discoveries.
“Thought that was decent of him,” said Seamus.

“I mean. Minimally,” said Harry. “But yeah. Draco’s very decent.”

Seamus twisted his mouth.

“You look hot,” he said.

“I look…” said Harry, then gave up, because it was depressing. He looked just as he had at
seventeen: scrawny and hunted. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.
He’s got a boyfriend. He always has a boyfriend.”

Draco hadn’t mentioned Chett in a while. Harry hadn’t brought it up, because he knew how Draco
must be dreading the long distance.

“Maybe we should make out at the party to make Dean and Draco jealous,” said Seamus. Harry
laughed.

“Great idea. No.”

“Ahh, you’re no fun,” said Seamus, and they went to Theo Nott’s house.

Harry had been anxiously downing drinks for an hour by the time Draco showed up, looking
aggressively handsome. The kind of handsome that meant he was trying. Harry had lived with
Draco, knew how Draco dressed and styled his hair when he was eager to please. The moment he
caught Harry’s eye, he lit up, his face becoming soft and sweet. He waved. It looked nervous, as if
he thought Harry wouldn’t wave back, and when Harry did, he smiled even wider.

But everyone wanted to talk to Draco, to catch up—it was so rare that any of them went away.
Harry waited his turn. He didn’t have a special right, which hurt a little, but it was okay. There
were lots of people to talk to; it wasn’t like Harry was alone.

He had almost given up hope of speaking to Draco that evening, when Draco found him. Harry had
just listened to a fifteen minute Luna Lovegood special on the merits of a unique new mould she
was growing in her bathroom, and was very relieved when she suddenly remembered she had to ask
Neville about healthy mould temperatures. Harry was left, alone, leaning against the wall.

“Hey,” said Draco, appearing out of nowhere. He lounged against the wall next to Harry, and
Harry turned his face to look at him. Draco was smiling, just he had when he had first seen Harry,
as if being in Harry’s presence was a pleasure that hadn’t yet dimmed. He was so handsome. Harry
wondered if he had always been handsome. He had a feeling he had been, that Harry had noticed
before, at school, and put the knowledge away.

“Hey,” said Harry.

“Nice chat with Luna?” asked Draco.

“It was about mould.”

“Ah. Muggles use mould in their medicine. We did an article about it, last February.”

Harry laughed.

“Should I go get Luna?” he asked. “She’d be happy to discuss it with you at length.”

“No,” said Draco, still smiling, and putting one hand on Harry’s arm. They both looked down at
Draco’s fingers on Harry’s skin. Draco slowly pulled his hand back. “Sorry,” he said, his
expression serious.

“I didn’t think I’d get a chance to talk to you tonight,” said Harry, to try and cover the fact that his
arm had goose pimples from Draco’s brief touch. “You’re very popular.”

“People just like novelty,” said Draco. “I wanted to talk to you earlier. It’s so good to see you.”

Harry was a little dizzy, from the drinks, maybe, or from Draco. From the way Draco was looking
at him.

“It’s good to see you too,” he said.

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“You know,” said Harry, and this was the drinks, he was pretty sure, “you’re the only friend I’ve
ever really felt was mine, somehow. Just me and you. I know that’s stupid—”

“I am yours,” interrupted Draco.

It felt like—like a camera trick, in a film. The whole world spinning around them, and Draco quiet
at the centre.

“If you still want me,” added Draco. He blinked, strange and fluttering, as if there was rain on his
eyelashes. “Do you?”

Harry was blinking a lot too. For some reason, Draco’s words seemed to echo. If you still want me.
Do you?

“Yes,” said Harry, because it was obvious, and it was a stupid question, even though of course it
wasn’t.

Draco closed his eyes and tilted his forehead towards the wall, only for a second, then looked
shyly at Harry.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Harry. Draco smiled, but Harry couldn’t smile yet. He was stunned by a feeling that
was too important to be happiness. It was something else. But just as Draco’s nose nudged against
Harry’s, he remembered—

“What about Chett?”

Draco pulled back, his eyebrows rising in concern. He reached a slow hand to Harry’s face and
stroked it, palm to Harry’s cheek, thumb brushing under Harry’s eye.

“Broke up with him the night you and I talked about—about my father,” he said.

“You… why didn’t you say?”

“It felt presumptuous, to assume you might still…”

Harry shook his head, astonished.

“I do,” he said. “I do want you.”

Draco’s hand stilled on Harry’s cheek, holding him in place. He leant in. Harry didn’t move. He
waited for Draco to come to him. And Draco did, with a light, tentative kiss that felt like a
question. So Harry kissed back hard, and Draco made a small sound.

“Oh…” he said. “I’ve missed you!”

He grabbed Harry round the waist and pulled them hip-to-hip.

“Yeah,” said Harry, breathlessly, “I missed you, too—”

And then Draco’s face was so close to his, not quite kissing him, just close and worshipful, the tip
of his nose moving over Harry’s skin.

“Kiss me,” said Harry, and Draco huffed a quiet laugh before obeying.

A piece of popcorn hit Harry’s cheek. Harry broke away from Draco to see Theo Nott staring at
them.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, and Draco laughed—it felt as if Draco’s laughs were close to
the surface, just then—but did not answer Theo. He leant close to Harry’s ear and whispered,

“Take me to yours?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. He took Draco’s hand and led him through their friends.

“…they were getting off,” he heard Theo telling someone. “Draco and Harry. I’m not making it
up!”

In the front hall, Harry took Draco’s wrist and apparated them back to Grimmauld Place. The
sitting room, because he didn’t want to assume anything.

Draco was on him in an instant.

“Can we go upstairs?” he asked, in between kisses. Harry nodded, bewildered. He knew he should
probably stop this, check Draco wanted what Harry did (and what did Harry want? The question
conjured instant, dreamy visions of a neat little house, and Draco turning towards Harry with a
smile and a cup of tea, as if it were normal and comfortable that he was there…). But Harry was
too turned on to think, and he and Draco went up the stairs hurriedly, in silence. Well, Harry was
silent. Draco kept laughing.

“You’re tipsy,” he said, when Harry fumbled at Draco’s buttons.

“So’re you,” protested Harry. Draco shook his head.

“Sober as a child. Here, mind if I…?” he pointed his wand at Harry inquisitively. Harry nodded, so
Draco cast the sobriety spell. The world clicked into clarity, except where Harry needed it, because
when he looked at Draco all he could feel was a desperate, heady longing, that paid no heed to
reason.

“Still up for it?” asked Draco.

“Yes,” said Harry, and pulled Draco onto the bed with him. “Fuck, I love touching you.”

“My arms? Through clothes?” said Draco, laughing, because that’s all Harry was doing; rubbing
his hands up and down Draco’s biceps.
“Yes,” said Harry. “I love touching your arms through clothes. And your hair—and kissing your
eyebrows—” he demonstrated.

Draco’s hands were all over Harry, too, busily running all over him, as if he wanted to map out all
of Harry’s edges.

Then, it was as it always was. Sex with Draco had only ever been intimate and talkative, and this
time was no different.

“God, you look amazing naked. It’s a crime you have to wear clothes,” said Draco.

“I need you closer—”

“Hold still. Fuck, you’re tight.”

“I need you—”

“Harry—”

“I missed this so much…”

“Harry… me, too… Harry…”

 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes

It's just one long conversation, baby

Draco lay panting on top of Harry for a long time after they’d both come, his face buried in Harry’s
neck. Harry slowly moved his legs down when they started to cramp. Draco stirred, kissed Harry’s
neck.

“You’re perfect,” he said.

Harry pressed the side of his face against Draco’s.

“Do you have to go?” he asked.

Draco turned to look at him.

“What?”

“Can you stay?” asked Harry. Draco was frowning. He looked worried.

“If that’s okay?” he asked.

Harry shifted, and Draco rolled off him.

“…I can go if you prefer?” asked Draco, his eyebrows pressing confusedly together.

“No,” said Harry. “I want you to sleep over. I just wasn’t sure you would want that.”

“I told you,” said Draco. “I want…”

“You weren’t actually all that clear about what you want,” pointed out Harry. Draco closed his
eyes, looking exhausted.

“Look, can we shower?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Together?”

Harry laughed.

“Yes,” he said, and they went into the bathroom. Draco knew his way around Harry’s shower, of
course, and Harry watched, helpless with wanting, as Draco tested the temperature. And it was just
right, when they got in. Perfect. Draco poured out a small puddle of shampoo into his hands and
worked it through Harry’s hair. Harry stood still. His back was heated by the warm water, and
Draco’s careful fingers massaged his scalp, grey eyes fixed on Harry’s hair. When a bit of foam fell
onto Harry’s forehead, Draco wiped it away with a small, focused frown.

“Step back,” he said, and Harry tilted his head into the water. Draco did all the work, gently pulling
at the shampoo in Harry’s hair. “Am I hurting you?” he asked, once. He was so assiduous about
making sure no water got into Harry’s eyes.

“No,” said Harry. “Feels good.”

He had his eyes closed, and didn’t expect the kiss Draco bestowed upon him.

When Harry’s hair had been rinsed clean, Draco began to lather his body with slow, attentive
strokes.

“I’ve really messed you around,” he said, as he soaped Harry’ chest. Harry didn’t answer, because
it was sort of true, even though Harry had understood why, almost from the beginning. But Draco’s
face contorted in a lightning expression of pain, and Harry put a hand to Draco’s scarred chest.

“Hey,” said Harry.

“Sorry,” murmured Draco, barely audible above the water. “Turn around, I’ll do your back.”

They didn’t say anything else after that. They were silent when Harry washed Draco’s hair, when
Draco got out of the shower first and held out a towel for Harry, then wrapped him up in it and
stood holding him for twenty seconds. They were quiet as they brushed their teeth, although Draco
did laugh when Harry dried Draco’s hair with a towel, tousling him like a wet dog.

They went back to Harry’s bedroom, and were silent as Harry gave Draco a pair of boxers and a t-
shirt and got dressed himself. When he was done, he found Draco sitting, knees to chest, at the foot
of the bed, his back against the carved bed post. Harry propped himself up against his pillows,
facing Draco.

“You okay?” he asked, because Draco looked miserable.

“Just a bit worried I’ve fucked it before we’ve started,” said Draco.

Has he fucked it up yet? Pansy had asked.

“Tell me what we’ve started,” said Harry, evenly. Draco’s eyes flicked to meet his.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“That’s not fair,” said Harry. “You’ve known what I want all along. It’s your turn.”

Draco licked his lips, a nervous gesture, the tongue ring briefly darting into sight before
disappearing.

“It feels like too much to ask,” he said.

“Tell me.”

“I want to be your boyfriend,” said Draco, then looked quickly down.

Harry didn’t say anything for almost a minute. He was trying to figure out what to say, because part
of him wanted to shout for joy, but the rational, adult part—the part that knew to avoid pain—
wanted to more information before it celebrated. Draco waited patiently, hunching smaller and
smaller as the seconds passed, his chin on his knees, his eyes lowered.

“What changed?” asked Harry, finally. The space between them felt cavernous. Harry wished
Draco were holding him, but it was probably better that he wasn’t, because if Draco was here
because he was scared of being alone, or because he was heartbroken over Chett, or because he felt
he owed Harry something, then there was no point in Harry getting used to having him.

“I… it’s hard to explain,” said Draco.

Harry was seized by the urge to throw a pillow at him.

“Try,” he said.

Draco rested his forehead on his knees, then sat up and leant his head against the bed post.

“When did you first think about kissing me?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Harry, surprised. “A few years ago, probably.”

Draco nodded, looking at the ceiling.

“I first thought about it in fifth year,” he said. “In Potions. You cut your finger and sucked on it
and I thought I wonder what he’s like to kiss.”

“Fifth year,” said Harry, blankly. “Fifth year?”

Draco nodded again.

“After that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. All the time. You pushed out all my other
fantasies. You know what it’s like, when you’re fifteen.”

“But you were such a—”

Draco moved his head in a sudden, frightened movement.

“—twat,” Harry said. Draco’s head lolled back against the bed post. “I wasn’t going to mention the
war.”

“Is it all right if I mention it?” asked Draco, after a moment.

“Yes.”

Draco flexed his fingers, balled them, then flexed them long again.

“Kept thinking about it. What would it be like to kiss Harry Potter. Probably terrible, I told myself,
although I knew you’d be good at it; you’re good at everything.”

“I’m not.”

“Everything that matters. Anyway, sixth year.” He paused. “The bathroom.”

Harry reached out and put his hand on Draco’s ankle. Draco smiled, then continued. “Thanks.
That’s—well I knew it was real before then, I mean the Dark Lord was living in my house, I had
seen what he would do to me if I failed. But that was the first time I realised what you would do to
me, if I succeeded.”

Harry squeezed Draco’s ankle. Stayed quiet.

“That was when I realised how profoundly inferior I was to you,” said Draco.

“That may have been the worst thing I’ve ever done,” said Harry. “If anything, it proves the
opposite.”

“We’re talking about sixth year Draco, though,” said Draco. “I was very intimidated by strength.”

“It wasn’t strength. I was scared, and childishly trusting.”

“Well. So was I,” said Draco. Harry squeezed Draco’s ankle once more, then leant back into his
pillows.

“Go on,” he said.

“It was almost impossible not to admire you during the war,” said Draco, his gaze fixed
somewhere around Harry’s right ear. “You were so bold, and no one could catch you, and it was
obvious that you were powerful enough to frighten the Dark Lord—sorry, I am trying to break that
habit, but it’s so ingrained—”

“I don’t care what you call him,” said Harry.

“No, of course you don’t. You’re very easy to be around, did you know? It’s something Blaise
wants to write a whole chapter about, in your biography.”

“I’m not letting Blaise anywhere near my biography,” said Harry. “Go on. But skip the part about
me being all… war hero-y or whatever.”

Draco laughed.

“All right. What I’m trying to get at is that it didn’t help the… the wanting to kiss you thing.
Which was a particularly dangerous crush to have in that household, with all the bloody
legilimency that went on. And then you went and rescued me when I thoroughly—”

He broke off.

“‘Deserved to burn to death’?” asked Harry. “Is that what you were going to say?’

Draco had gone pale and haunted.

“No one deserves that,” he muttered. He blinked, hard, and looked away.

“I’m sorry about Crabbe,” said Harry, softly.

“Oh, don’t—not now, I can’t—I’m going somewhere with all this, and if I think about him, I’ll—”

“Will you come here?” asked Harry. Draco glanced at him.

“Would that be okay?” he asked, so earnestly that Harry’s heart twisted in on itself.

“Yeah,” said Harry, and Draco crawled over to him. But instead of climbing into Harry’s arms, he
sat next to Harry, then pulled Harry into his lap. He tucked Harry’s head under his chin, as if he
were a small child in need of comfort.

“I can’t believe I get to hold you,” he said. “It’s like getting to take a museum piece home.”

Harry stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” asked Draco.

“I’m not…” said Harry. But he didn’t know how to express it. It sounded so arrogant, to say, when
you treat me like a something superhuman it makes me feel inhuman.

“Oh,” said Draco, and tilted Harry’s head up, looked intently into his face. “I don’t mean, because
you’re Harry Potter. I meant because you’re something I’ve wanted for so long, and never been
allowed to have.”

“You did have me,” said Harry. “Before you left.”

Draco shook his head.

“No. I wouldn’t let myself. I broke my own rules, of course, because I’m stupid and weak, but I
didn’t allow myself to…”

He drifted off, his arms pressing closer around Harry, then placed a careful kiss on Harry’s scar.

“You’re perfect,” he said.

“I’m not,” said Harry, desperately.

“Harry. I’m not saying you don’t have flaws. I’m saying your flaws are perfect to me.”

Harry let out a long breath.

“Oh,” he said.

Draco’s eyes moved searchingly over his face.

“Would you like me to stop talking?”

“No,” said Harry.

“I feel I owe you an explanation,” said Draco. “Tell me to shut up and go, and I’ll shut up and go.
I’m perfectly aware you don’t owe me this.”

“No,” said Harry. “Go on. I want to understand.”

Draco sighed, closed his eyes, then opened them again.

“I’ve always been attracted to strength. After the war, I started to realise that what I had thought
was strong before was often brittle, insecure, when you took it apart. Violence isn’t strong, really.
Peace is strong.”

“You’re getting awfully philosophical,” said Harry. “I thought this was about me.”

Draco laughed, kissed him. As if he couldn’t help himself.

“It is. You saved me when you didn’t have to, and I realised that you were the strongest person I’d
ever known.”

“Because you thought I secretly wanted to murder you, and was resisting the urge,” said Harry.

“Well—yes. But I learnt a lot, and quickly, when I became friends with Ron and Hermione.” He
smiled to himself. “I’m very grateful to them. Sorry, this is incredibly meandering. I swear I’m
getting somewhere.”
“It’s nice,” said Harry. “You being so open.”

“You don’t mind it?” asked Draco, hesitantly. “I’m not boring you?”

“No.”

“All right. So. After the war, you didn’t like me, when everyone else did—”

“I did like you,” said Harry.

Draco rolled his eyes, as if Harry was being irritatingly polite.

“—and I thought, well, that makes sense, he’s always seen more clearly than everyone else, he
knows that I’m…” he stopped for a moment, as if he couldn’t find the right word, then seemed to
give up the search. “Then Neville asked me out. He always knew I fancied you. He’s perceptive,
you know? It definitely fucked with him. He has a bit of a complex about you.”

“I didn’t ask Voldemort to target me,” said Harry.

“Darling,” said Draco, his hand going to Harry’s head and pressing it close to his chest. “I know.”

They were quiet for a while. Draco’s breath was warm on Harry’s hair, and it was safe in his arms.
Harry slowly relaxed his muscles, and Draco seemed to sense when the silence was ripe to be
broken.

“But it was only a crush, at this point, because I scarcely knew you. And then fucking Blaise gave
me fucking stress-catism.”

“Because he wanted us to hook up, by the way,” said Harry.

“Was that the reason?” cried Draco. “He was so cagey when I asked him.”

“Worked, though,” said Harry. “Hate to give it to him, but it did work.”

Draco looked gloomy.

“Blaise’s plans always work. I have reason to suspect he masterminded my promotion to New
York.”

“Really? That’s kind of intense,” said Harry.

“He schemes when he’s unhappy,” said Draco. “When his mother got a divorce in third year, we
all had to burn our letters when we got them, because he went on a plotting rampage; it was like
living in a Shakespeare comedy. He got Theo to admit he was bisexual by organising a strangely
aggressive crossdressing night.”

“…and that worked?” asked Harry. Draco flushed.

“I make a very pretty girl,” he said. “As Theo argued, after he had kissed me. Anyway, this is
beside the point. Which is…”

They looked at each other. Harry remembered them looking at each other like this when Draco had
gone back to Neville. A look as raw and clear as a conversation.

“…living with you,” said Draco. “Learning about you. About how you struggled, so quietly,
without ever asking for help. How kind you were to me, when I was a kitten, and you could so
easily have hurt me through neglect. And then you started calling me Draco. And you—you
stroked my hands. Do you remember?”

Harry did. He remembered Draco standing in his bedroom, docile and shivery, letting Harry touch
one hand and then the other. He remembered that day at the office, convinced that something new
was forming between them, only to come home to Draco making cocktails, celebrating getting
back together with Neville.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I remember. You went back to Neville straight after.”

“No,” said Draco. “Not straight after. First, I went to my room, and panicked. I couldn’t breathe.
You have no idea how scared I was, when you figured out I had been deliberately transforming to
keep you company—I thought—I didn’t know you as well, back then. I thought you would do
something to me. And then you just touched me, instead, just stroked me as if I… mattered to you,
and…”

Draco kept shifting, as if he was uncomfortable, and wanted to be standing up. Harry moved out of
his lap to sit beside him.

“I was a terrible boyfriend to Neville. I drove him mad,” he said. He didn’t seem to notice that
Harry had moved away.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t seem so great either,” said Harry. Draco appeared not to hear him.

“Somehow you liked me. You, the best person I’ve ever known. It made no sense. It was terrifying,
because I fuck everything up, you know—I fucked up Goyle, and Crabbe, and my parents’
marriage, and—”

“Not sure this list is entirely rational,” said Harry.

“—I fucked up on both counts in the war, couldn’t be good and couldn’t be bad, and I made
Neville utterly wretched, and now you liked me, and I knew quite positively I would fuck that up as
well, so I just paced around my room trying to calm down, trying to think what to do. And when I
got to work, there was a bouquet of flowers on my desk, and I thought, Oh, Harry is just going to
take charge. He’ll decide. But they weren’t from you. They were from Neville.” He glanced at
Harry, as if waiting for Harry to say something, but Harry was silent. “He came over at lunch and
gave this whole speech and… I don’t know. I think I felt that maybe if you were my friend, I could
make you like me longer.”

“It was so awful,” said Harry. “I was so confused.”

“I’m sorry,” said Draco, looking Harry steadily in the eye. “Now that I know you better, I can see
that it—it may have hurt you.”

“May?”

“I don’t want to presume,” said Draco.

“You kept looking at me, when you were with Neville, and I knew you wanted me, but you never
—it made me feel like crap,” said Harry.

“It literally never even occurred to me that I could matter enough to make you feel bad,” said
Draco. Harry shook his head in disbelief.

“That fucking afternoon you came back to my office to try on the cat collar and you wanted me to
kiss you… didn’t you.”

Draco looked at his hands.

“None of this makes me look good,” he said. He swallowed. “It’s hard. You have no idea how
much I care what you think of me.”

Harry thought about saying I love you then. Because he did, and he could tell Draco needed to hear
it. But he also didn’t know what had changed since the days when Draco had refused to be with
him, and until that was clear Harry was going to be conservative with his heart.

Draco waited a long time, obviously hoping for reassurance, and when he realised it wasn’t
coming, his face became rather sharp. His jaw tightened, and his eyes were bright. He was scared.
But he carried on talking, and Harry loved him more than ever, because it wasn’t easy for Draco to
be brave. He was trying so hard, and that meant so much.

“Neville and I broke up, fucking obviously—he had fallen in love with Luna by then. And he was
obsessed with the idea that I was secretly sleeping with you, which was infuriating, because I
wasn’t.”

He stopped talking.

“Until you were,” prompted Harry.

“Until I was,” continued Draco. “Because I was terrified of losing you. I didn’t want to sleep with
you. I mean, I did, God, I longed to, but—I feel like Neville only started to go off me after we slept
together. And then… and then you said you loved me.”

He looked at Harry. Harry looked away.

“Um,” said Draco, sounding distractedly unhappy. “So that was, that was nice. But… and I don’t
want to make excuses for myself. I messed you around for ages, I know that. But you have to
understand, when Neville and I first started dating, it was all right to begin with. And then it just…
deteriorated, and I realised that he had sort of despised me all along. I just, I just couldn’t stand the
thought of watching you go back to loathing me, not when I was so in love with you. So I broke it
off.”

“But you stayed,” said Harry, not outwardly reacting to the words I was so in love with you,
because they were in the past tense, and anyway, he had known Draco loved him for a long time. It
hadn’t made a difference. “At Grimmauld. To look after me.”

“You needed someone,” said Draco, almost defensively. “Maybe not me, but someone.”

“You were wonderful,” said Harry. Draco went still, as if he was scared that Harry would take it
back if he moved. “You were so considerate.”

They looked at each other again.

“Go on,” said Harry. “Then I referenced the Death Eaters and probably confirmed all your worst
fears.”

“It doesn’t make sense for us to be together,” said Draco. “It’s so natural for you to resent me. I
should be able to deserve a boyfriend who loves me, and you should be able to resent me—both at
the same time. You deserve that.”
“Resentment never made anyone happy,” said Harry. “You make me happy.”

Draco opened his mouth, then shut it again. He turned his head to his knees.

“It doesn’t seem as if I’ve made you very happy in the last year,” he said. “Or ever, really.
Anyway. Yes. I assumed you still hated me, even if you weren’t yet aware of it. So I took the job in
New York.”

“And dated Chett.”

“Yes.”

“Did you love him?” asked Harry.

“I tried to,” said Draco. “Because… because you had told me I deserved to be happy.”

“You do,” said Harry.

“What I just said; about how you deserve to resent me and I deserve to date someone who loves
me—it was like you understood that. And it was so… so truly selfless of you that—I mean, I
suppose I ought to have expected you to be truly selfless. It’s your thing. But all the same, I began
to think… if he loves me enough to let me go so I can be happy with someone else… maybe he
really just loves me.”

He had his arms wrapped around himself, his head leaning against the pillows. He let his legs slide
down the bed, so he was one long, self-contained line.

“That’s when it began to change. But the final twist was when I found out about Father, and
you…”

He closed his eyes. He said nothing for so long that Harry briefly considered the possibility that he
had fallen asleep. It was late, after all. But then he spoke again, eyes still closed, tears seeping
through his dark eyelashes.

“…Harry… I don’t know how you manage it. I don’t know how you can have forgiven me so
completely. I don’t know how you can stand to be my closest friend, the dearest person I’ve ever
had the privilege to know. How you could listen to me talk about my father’s illness and treat him
like the father of someone you loved, rather than who he really is to you.”

He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, and the tears that had collected around his lashes came
coursing down his cheek. But he didn’t open his eyes.

“I broke up with Chett that night.” He rolled over onto his side, resting his head on his bent arm,
staring straight ahead, at Harry’s thighs. “I know you’ve been seeing other people. I know you still
want to have sex with me. I don’t know if you still want… I know you deserve better than me, not
only because of our past, but because I haven’t treated you well throughout this. So… that’s the
whole story. If you want me, I’m yours. However you want me. Even if it’s not how I want it.”

Harry was sitting upright next to Draco. He slowly stroked a strand of Draco’s hair out of his face.
Draco shuddered and buried his face in his arm.

“Please say something,” he said, his voice muffled.

“And you want to be my boyfriend,” said Harry.

Draco gave another shudder. Harry suddenly realised that it was a sob; that Draco was crying,
because he had just unveiled himself, and he didn’t know what Harry was going to do with him.

Harry slipped down in the bed, lay on his side, and pressed his forehead against Draco’s.

“Hey,” he said, tipping his nose towards Draco.

“Hey,” said Draco, miserably.

“I’m really proud of you.”

“…what?” said Draco. Harry ran a hand soothingly up and down Draco’s arm.

“It was really brave, to tell me all that, not knowing how I would react.”

“I’m not brave,” said Draco, moving his head back to look Harry in the face. His eyeliner was
smudged, and his expression was confused, rather helpless.

“This was hard for you,” said Harry, still moving his hand over Draco’s body. “I think it was
brave.”

Draco’s eyes flicked from place to place, as if they were seeking anything but Harry to look at.

“I’m not brave,” he said again. “I’m terrified.”

Harry shuffled closer to him, pressed his body against Draco’s, touched his lips to Draco’s mouth.

“Don’t be,” he said.

Draco flipped Harry onto his back and climbed on top of him with a burst of energy that was
entirely unexpected.

“I love you,” he said, urgently.

“I know,” said Harry. “I love you too. Kiss me.”

Draco did, but broke away far too soon.

“What does this mean? What do you want?” he asked. “Please don’t make me guess.”

Harry pulled his face down for another kiss before he answered.

“Be my boyfriend,” he said. “Just mine.”

Draco closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them again, he looked determined but anxious,
as if he had bad news to deliver. He was propped up on his elbows above Harry.

“You have to give up your right to resent me,” he said.

“Okay,” said Harry, easily.

“…because one of us has to give up what we deserve, and with Neville I gave up the chance to
have someone love me well—”

“Draco,” said Harry, because Draco didn’t seem to have heard him. “I know. It’s done. I love you.
It’s simple.”
Draco stared at him.

“It’s not simple,” he said.

“It is, and it isn’t,” said Harry. “But I promise not to resent you. If I realise I actually do, we’ll talk
about it. Okay?”

Draco looked astonished.

“Okay,” he said, weakly. Then dipped his head slowly down for a kiss.

They had sex again, and for the first time, neither of them said a word. They were entirely silent. It
was the closest Harry had ever felt to another person.

Afterwards, Draco turned off the lights and spelled them clean. He curled around Harry. They were
both naked, now, and Draco’s skin was hot and lightly damp against Harry's back.

“I love you so much,” said Draco into Harry’s neck. The words came out heavy with emotion.

Harry was too tired to answer. He took Draco’s hand in his and squeezed. Draco squeezed back,
and Harry knew he understood.
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“I brought you tea.”

Harry opened his eyes. Draco perched on the bed beside him, dressed in his clothes from the night
before. Harry felt as if he had only been asleep for ten minutes, and when he spoke his voice was
croaky.

“What time is it…?”

“Eight,” said Draco, sunnily.

“Draco. Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t. Farmer’s Market. Wake up.”

Harry’s throat was dry, but he managed to laugh a little. Draco helped him sit, then handed him a
mug of tea. He climbed into bed next to Harry to drink his own.

“Are we okay?” he asked, when Harry was a bit more awake. Harry smiled at him.

“Yes,” he said. “Is this my future now? Eight a.m. wake up on Saturdays?”

“It is if you want cheap in-season fruit, yes,” said Draco.

Harry felt rather dazed as they walked through the Farmer’s Market. Draco bought flowers and
cheese and artisanal bread and all sorts of things it would never have occurred to Harry to want, but
to his surprise he came back to Grimmauld Place when they were done, and began putting the food
away in Harry’s cupboard. Seamus wasn’t home—Harry suspected he had hooked up with
someone at the party.

“I thought this was for your place,” said Harry. Draco pulled out a mouldy bag of sliced bread from
the back of Harry’s cupboard and brandished it at Harry.

“Shame on you,” he said, tossing it in the bin. “I don’t care what Luna says about the magical
properties of mould; it doesn’t belong on bread.”

“Where are you living, anyway?” asked Harry. “With Blaise?”

Draco turned back to the cupboard and finished unpacking his bag before he answered.

“Moved back in with my parents,” he said, casually.

“Oh,” said Harry. Draco turned around, his expression horribly bland.

“Is that a problem,” he said.

“Why would it be a problem?”

Draco just looked at him.

“Draco. Your dad’s sick. I think it’s nice that you’ve moved home. It can’t have been what you
wanted. I’m just worried it’s going to be really stressful for you.”

Draco’s neutral look melted away, leaving behind a strange, grateful sort of sadness.

“My mother’s having a hard time,” he said. Then he turned back to the flowers on the counter.
“Would you be terribly offended if I bought you some new vases? Your ones are so… unique.”

“They’re hideous,” said Harry, pulling one out and giving it to Draco. Draco began to snip the
flower stems. “I’d love some new ones. Is your mother okay?”

“Not really. Anyway, it’ll only be for—for a few years. He hasn’t got long. Then we’ll probably
sell the manor and she can get a flat in Chelsea, near her friends.”

Harry rested his cheek on Draco’s shoulder.

“You’re lovely,” said Draco.

“So’re you,” murmured Harry. “Buying me flowers. And fancy bread.”

“I like taking care of you,” said Draco, and Harry nuzzled into his shoulder.

“I can take care of myself,” said Harry. “I always have.”

“I know,” said Draco. “But that’s my job, now.”

Harry took the flowers out of Draco’s hands and cornered him against the counter for a long kiss.

Some time later, they lay on the kitchen floor, dishevelled and spent.

“What shall we do today?” asked Draco, his fingers moving languorously back and forth through
Harry’s hair.

“I’m starving,” said Harry.

“Accio baguette,” said Draco, and when the baguette was in his hand, he took a hearty bite out of
the tip before handing it to Harry. Harry did the same. The bread was crusty, soft on the inside.

“This is a very nice morning,” said Harry. He turned his head to look at Draco, who blinked at him
very slowly.

“Got something in your eye?” asked Harry.

“I read somewhere that that’s how cats say ‘I love you’,” said Draco, then did it again. And Harry
did it back, which made Draco smile.

It became something like a code between them. Harry would catch Draco’s eye across a room, and
Draco would blink slowly, and Harry would know he was loved.
The news of their relationship spread quickly, largely because of Seamus, who insisted on loudly
firecalling everyone he knew the moment he found out. When Harry asked who he was sleeping
with, however, Seamus grew secretive and changed the subject. Harry thought it was probably
Dean, which he found depressing enough to stop asking Seamus about it.

For a few weeks, Harry and Draco were the hot gossip of the group, with Blaise ostentatiously
telling anyone who would listen that he had known all along, and Harry blushing whenever anyone
asked him about it. Draco was much better at spinning the narrative. He simply told extremely
graphic bdsm sex stories when anyone asked him about Harry, until everyone learnt a) not to
believe a word he said and b) to avoid asking him about it. His imagination was both vivid and
disturbing.

Everyone stopped talking about it when something more exciting happened—Ron proposing to
Hermione.

“He was going to wait till next year,” Hermione told Harry confidentially, “but we decided it
might take the heat off you and Draco. Anyway, we don’t want to wait.”

Neville came up to Harry and Draco one afternoon at Blaise’s house. They were standing on the
balcony, judging Blaise’s furniture.

“I like it,” said Harry.

“It’s pretentious,” said Draco. “Or it would be, if it was yours.”

“I don’t like it for me,” said Harry. “I like it for him and Pansy.”

“I see you in a lovely house in the country. Made of stone,” said Draco. “Maybe in Godric’s
Hollow.”

Harry took his hand and squeezed it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too. And where do you see yourself?”

Draco looked at his shoes and smiled.

“In a lovely house in the country, made of stone, maybe in Godric’s Hollow,” he said, and Harry’s
heart nearly burst with happiness.

“Hey,” said Neville. Harry’s head snapped up. Neville looked a better than before—a little less
gaunt, and his eyes weren’t so bloodshot.

“Hey,” said Draco, instantly serious.

“Congratulations,” said Neville, addressing Draco. Draco nodded.

“Thank you. I hear you and Luna are very good together.”

“Don’t,” said Neville.

Draco dropped his eyes.

“How’ve you been?” asked Harry, quietly taking a step closer to Draco. “You look good.”

“Thanks,” said Neville. “I’ve been doing okay, actually. Luna and I have been seeing a shaman, it’s
really helped. Um… Draco… I heard about Lucius.”
Draco didn’t say anything, or even move.

Neville cleared his throat. It looked like he was steeling himself to say something difficult.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stiffly. “Are you okay?”

Draco looked up, his grey eyes wide and surprised.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.” He touched Neville’s arm. “Really. It means a lot.”

He and Neville shared a long look, then Neville shrugged away, looking awkward.

“Well, I’d better find Luna. Nice to see you both,” he said, and went away. Draco slouched against
Harry.

“That was lovely,” he said.

“Was it?” asked Harry, incredulously.

“Yeah,” said Draco.

Seamus moved back into his old flat pretty soon after Harry and Draco started dating, even though
Draco only slept at Harry’s three nights a week. Draco spent most of his time at the manor with his
parents. He and Harry texted constantly. Harry knew he wasn’t the first person Draco tended to
call when he was upset about Lucius—knew Draco went to Blaise and Pansy first, or to Theo. But
when Harry asked him point blank, Draco was always honest.

HP: how’s your dad today

DM: not so well

HP: and how are you?

DM: not so well

HP: sure you don’t want to come over?

HP: I can’t cook but I could order in something for you?

DM: I left you leftovers!!

DM: + you can make a salad, I made you a dressing, it’s in the jar labelled ‘dressing’

DM: I know this is complicated stuff, but I feel with guidance you should be able to figure it out

HP: ha, ha. come over?

DM: I really can’t, today

DM: mother is

DM: struggling
HP: yeah but you’re struggling too

DM: yes I’m very brave

HP: lol I’m serious

HP: it’s a lot

HP: just go easy on yourself

DM: you are always very kind to me.

DM: see you tomorrow? For Romione cake tasting

HP: you know they both hate that you call them that

DM: Witch Weekly came up with it

DM: don’t hate the player hate the game

HP: god, you’re awful

HP: it’s terrible to think I love you

DM: x

The first few times Harry suggested it, Draco was adamant.

“Absolutely not.”

“Draco. They’re your parents. I’m your boyfriend. You can’t stop us from ever meeting again.”

Draco laughed, coldly and bitterly. He stood by the sitting room window, his forehead resting on
the glass.

“I can certainly stop you from ever seeing my father again,” he said.

“But I want to see him,” said Harry.

“Why?” asked Draco, still cold, still bitter.

“Because I want to take care of you,” said Harry. “The way you take care of me.”

Draco didn’t say anything, but when Harry went to him, he turned around and wrapped himself in
Harry’s arms. His face was chilled from the window pane, and he warmed it against Harry’s neck.

“It’ll remind you of who I am,” he said, quietly.

“I know who you are,” said Harry.

“What if you don’t,” said Draco.

“You’re Draco Malfoy, reformed dickhead,” said Harry, and Draco laughed, and they didn’t talk
about it anymore that afternoon. But Harry didn’t let it go. Draco spent so much time at the manor,
and it weighed so heavily on him. Harry hated to think of him going through it alone. He asked and
he asked, until finally Draco agreed, with wide, unhappy eyes.

“You’re going to remember,” he said, several times.

“Draco. I never forgot,” said Harry, but Draco just looked resigned.

They went to the manor on a Sunday afternoon, around teatime. Harry asked Draco for advice on
what to wear, and Draco was strangely unforthcoming.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

There was very little Draco liked more than giving Harry sartorial advice. But Harry had only
really asked because he thought it might soothe Draco, and when it became apparent that it
wouldn’t, he just threw on an old jumper and some jeans.

“This okay?” he asked Draco. Draco barely glanced at him.

“It doesn’t matter what you wear,” he said.

“Aren’t your parents kind of… you know…” said Harry, trying to find a way to say insufferably
snobbish without being rude.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Draco. “They have no right to judge you, in any capacity. And they know
perfectly well what will happen if they do.”

Harry tilted his head. Draco was fixing his hair in the hall mirror. He hadn’t really looked at Harry
all day.

“…what will happen if they judge me?” asked Harry.

“I’ll move out and never speak to them again,” said Draco. “It was the same deal with Neville.
They behaved themselves. They understand threats.”

“You’re not nervous about them being rude to me,” said Harry, realising it as he spoke.

“They won’t be rude to you.”

“You’re nervous about me starting to hate you.”

“I’m always nervous about that.”

Harry stood behind him and kissed the back of his neck.

“I love you,” he said.

“Let’s go,” said Draco.

He was quite right. Narcissa was so hospitable it was almost uncomfortable. She took Harry’s
jacket. She had made sandwiches with the crusts cut off—herself, because it seemed that part of
Draco’s arrangement with his parents was that they couldn’t use house elves when his friends came
over. She had found out Harry’s favourite bakery and bought a selection of cakes, and she used the
formal family china. She smiled at him and asked him gentle questions and told him repeatedly to
have more cake. It was like having tea with a very polite, expensive Molly Weasley.

Lucius lay on the sofa, under several thick blankets, although the day was warm. His hair was thin
and grey.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Harry, “I don’t recall your name.”

Harry looked quickly at Draco, but Draco gazed on the floor, sitting tensely next to his mother.

“It’s Harry Potter, father,” said Draco, before Harry could decide what was going on. Was Lucius
pretending not to recognise him, to make the situation less awkward? “Remember—the boy who
lived.”

“Ahh, of course,” said Lucius. “Yes. I remember, now.”

But he asked several more times throughout tea.

“Remind me of your name?” he asked, and “Draco—who’s your friend?” and each time Draco
answered, in short, terse words.

After about half an hour, Lucius began to cough, and he didn’t stop for ten minutes, each wracking,
bloodied croak sounding as if it had scraped its way through his chest, like knives on cartilage.
Draco went to sit by him, looking so weary it made Harry tired to look at him. He stroked Lucius’
back, but didn’t say anything.

“Is there anything I can get you, Mr Malfoy?” asked Harry, because Lucius was so clearly in agony
and it was dreadful not to try to lessen it. Lucius didn’t respond. Perhaps he hadn’t heard him over
the coughing.

“There’s nothing that helps,” said Narcissa. So Harry just had to wait, watching Draco’s miserable
horror, unable to do anything to alleviate it.

When Lucius was done, Draco passed him a glass of water. He carried on stroking his back as
Lucius drank, then kissed his father lightly on the temple.

“I love you,” he said.

“I’m all right now,” wheezed Lucius.

“Poor father,” murmured Draco. “Maybe you should take a nap.”

“No, I’m all right, now,” said Lucius. He caught sight of Harry. “Who’s this?”

“I didn’t know it was so bad,” said Harry, late that night. They stood in the shower. Draco had been
downhearted all evening.

“Everyone’s parents die eventually,” said Draco. The water trickled over his face, getting trapped
in his eyebrows and eyelashes. Harry suspected he was crying, but it was hard to tell in the water.

“Well. Yeah. But it’s still shit,” said Harry.

“You know, he’s actually become much kinder,” said Draco. “All his edges worn off. It’s easier to
love him.”
Harry moved Draco out of the water and began to massage shampoo into Draco’s hair. Draco shut
his eyes. He always loved when Harry stroked him.

“Maybe that’s a silver lining,” said Harry.

“You’re so kind to me,” said Draco.

“I love you,” said Harry.

Draco put his hands on Harry’s chest and spread his fingers.

“I know,” he said. “You make—everything easier. Everything.”

“I’m glad,” said Harry.

After that, he came to the manor much more often. He held Draco when Draco retreated to the
kitchen to cry, and he got Lucius glasses of water, and asked Narcissa about her gardening when
Draco was too sad to make conversation. He even slept over, sometimes.

He learnt that Draco didn’t have nightmares—he had memories. Harry would wake up to a wincing
sound, and roll over to find Draco clutching his head.

“You okay?” Harry asked, the first time.

“Just remembered something I did,” said Draco. “Go back to sleep.”

“Something you did?”

“Something I said. To Ron. In fifth year. Go back to sleep.”

“Are you okay?”

Draco nodded.

“Go back to sleep,” he said again.

“Come here,” said Harry, and folded Draco into his arms. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” said Draco. “So much.” He pressed his fingers so tightly against Harry’s skin that
it hurt. “So much.”

“You know,” said Blaise, slicing into his honeyed ham tart, “ such a lovely little cottage just came
on the market in Godric’s Hollow.”

Harry leant suspiciously back in his chair.

“Why are you looking at real estate in Godric’s Hollow?”

Blaise widened his eyes innocently.

“I like to keep abreast of the property market!”

“In Godric’s Hollow.”

“Pansy’s birthday’s coming up. Thought I might buy her a little house as a gift.”
Harry and Blaise had started having lunch again. In fact, Harry had started having lunch with a lot
of people, when Draco was in New York, and he had kept it up. It was nice, seeing people so often.
Having different people to consult for different problems. It made him feel balanced.

“That’s pretty extravagant,” said Harry.

“A yacht is extravagant. A sweet little country cottage is thoughtful. Anyway, I found one that
would be just right for you and Draco, and it’s in his budget, if not yours.”

Harry ignored the nonsensical slight on his financial status.

“Draco and I aren’t looking to buy a house.”

“Aren’t you?” Blaise lifted his eyebrows. “Because when they sell the manor, he won’t have
anywhere to live.”

“They’re not going sell the manor until—”

“—yes, until.”

Harry put down his fork.

“You know something I don’t.”

Blaise took a delicate sip of his elderflower cordial.

“Blaise.”

“I don’t think it will be long until they sell the manor. And I think it would be nice for Draco to
have something to look forward to.”

Harry remembered Neville saying that dating Draco was like dating a polite teenager. It wasn’t true
anymore, of course—for one thing, Draco took care of Harry most of the time; cooked for him and
made Grimmauld Place beautiful and made Harry laugh. But it was true that he still found it hard
to openly tell Harry when he was sorrowful.

It didn’t bother Harry. It only made him love him more.

After lunch, Blaise took Harry to the cottage in Godric’s Hollow.

“It’s not far from the place I’ve bought Pansy,” said Blaise. It was little, with heavy Tudor beams,
and huge fireplaces. It had a small garden and a wooden gate, painted blue. White roses grew over
the walls.

“Yeah,” said Harry, making his mind up on the spot. “Okay. I’ll buy it. But you’re sneaky.”

“Oh, how marvellous. Now it’ll be far easier to persuade Ron and Hermione to buy the house next
door.”

“Are you planning to invade Godric’s Hollow? What’s going on?”

Blaise shrugged.

“It’s nice to have friends nearby,” he said, and for once Harry couldn’t accuse him of anything
nefarious, because it was true.
Lucius died two weeks later. Harry helped Blaise, Pansy and Theo organise the funeral. Draco was
unusually quiet, smiling too much and becoming rather polite, even to Harry.

“It’s better than how he used to act out,” said Blaise.

They all went to funeral—even Ginny. Draco had been so busy taking care of his mother and
arranging for the sale of the manor that he hadn’t asked about who would be coming to the funeral,
and when he saw them all—the packed benches, all for him, because he knew full well they
weren’t there for Lucius—he cried for the first time since his father’s death.

That night, in bed, they had sex.

“I love you,” said Draco. Afterwards, they lay curled up around each other, and Draco said, “I feel
okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I feel—it’s easier now it’s happened.”

“That makes sense,” said Harry.

“You don’t think that was an awful thing to say?”

“No,” said Harry.

“Where am I going to live,” sighed Draco.

“With me,” said Harry. Draco laughed into Harry’s skin.

“Sorry. I wasn’t fishing, I swear. Blaise said I could move in with him while I look for a place.”

“No,” said Harry. “I’ve bought us a house.”

Draco sat up.

“You what?”

“Erm, you don’t have to live in it, if you don’t want. It’s in Godric’s Hollow. It’s made of stone. It
has roses growing up the walls.”

“You bought us a house?”

Harry covered his face with his hands.

“I knew I shouldn’t have listened to Blaise,” he said.

“Oh, the fucker,” said Draco, then began to laugh. He laughed so long that Harry suddenly saw that
it was funny, and laughed too, until they were both nearly in tears, their heads resting together.

“God,” said Harry. “I’m sorry. What an insane thing to do.”

“It’s very romantic,” said Draco. “In that, romance-characters-who-don’t-talk-to-each-other sort of

way.”

“I can sell it?”

“What? No. We’re moving in.”

“We are?”

Draco kissed him.

“Yes,” he said. “I want to live with you. You’re home to me, anyway.”

Harry remembered that strange, rootless feeling he had felt when he slept with Will. The longing he
had felt for someone to tie himself to.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re home to me, too.”

————

It was April by the time they moved in. The garden was filled with unruly flowers, and Ron and
Hermione planned to move next door after their wedding in June. Harry knew he should,
objectively, have been happy, but the papers had started their yearly build up to the Battle of
Hogwarts, and he fell heavily back into sadness. Draco did all the unpacking alone, because Harry
was useless.

“Sorry,” muttered Harry.

“For what?” asked Draco, looking so genuinely confused that Harry didn’t apologise again. Draco
liked looking after him. He never saw Harry as a burden. It was strange to realise that, in slow but
steady jolts of understanding.

One night, Harry woke up in their new bed, and was so oppressed by horror that he shook Draco
awake.

“Oh, darling,” said Draco, and held him close. “Harry.”

“I just…” wept Harry, “…I just want it to go away…!”

Draco rocked him.

“It will,” he said.

“But what if it doesn’t? What if I just feel like this forever?”

Draco held him so tightly, and he didn’t seem tired at all, even though it was the middle of the
night, and they both had work the next day. He seemed as if he would hold Harry for hours, if
needed.

“Then…” said Draco. “Then we’ll get through it together. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

And suddenly, Harry felt it. Really and truly felt how not alone he was. It made him sob harder, but
his heart was lightened.

When Harry finally stopped crying, he went to the loo to wash his face. Standing at the sink, his
body began to shake with tears again, and he didn’t know why, because he felt better, but still they
came—and so did Draco. He let himself inside, and held Harry from behind.
“I’m here,” he said, and although that didn’t change the fact that Harry wasn’t over the war, it did
change something. It changed something, permanently, for the better.

————

“I want to have people over on the anniversary of the Battle,” he told Draco. Draco looked up from
the stack of articles he was editing.

“…like a party?”

“Like a… a gathering.”

Draco chewed on the end of his pen.

“And you want… me and Theo and Greg to come?”

“Yes.”

Draco laid his pen down on the table.

“If you want?” he said, hesitantly. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate.”

“We’re all friends with you guys,” said Harry.

“Well… yes… but friends with a fault line that we all try not to trigger.”

“I think it will help.”

Draco shrugged. Harry knew how nervous the idea must make him, but he also knew that Draco
would have done anything to make Harry feel better.

“All right,” said Draco. “I’ll organise it.”

So, on May 2nd, not quite ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry invited all his closest
friends over to the house he shared with Draco. Ron and Hermione brought wine, and Blaise and
Pansy bought far more expensive wine. The Weasleys came, and Lee Jordan, and Luna and Neville
(Luna looking placid, Neville twitchy), and Theo Nott and Greg Goyle and Marcus Flint, Dean
Thomas and Parvati and Lavender and Seamus, and Millicent and the Greengrass sisters, and more
besides. They sat in the lovely back garden, drinking Prosecco and eating the appetisers Draco had
made from an elaborate cookbook he was determinedly working his way through. The night was
warm, and dusk didn’t come until late. Draco had put up bunting and magical fairy lights, and the
whole garden looked like a day dream.

“Gossip,” said Blaise, coming to sit next to Harry and Draco on the grass.

“What?” asked Draco.

“Don’t encourage him,” said Harry.

“Dean Thomas and Ginny Weasley,” said Blaise, ignoring him.

“What?” said Harry.

“Oh, now he’s not above petty scandal,” said Blaise.

“That’s not gossip,” said Draco, with a yawn. Harry turned to him, betrayed. “They’ve fancied each
other for ages. Didn’t they go out in school?”

“But—Seamus!” said Harry.

“He’s with Theo,” said Draco, as if everyone knew this.

“What?”

“Ah. That may be a secret. Blaise—”

Blaise looked smug beyond words.

“I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone. I am secrecy itself.”

“How long have they been together?” asked Harry. “Draco, how do you always know everything?”

“Theo told me, ages ago. It was a whole drama. Casual sex but they both caught feelings, sort of
thing. I though everyone knew, they’re so obvious,” said Draco.

“And you knew about Dean and Ginny, too?”

“Ginny told me,” said Draco.

“Ginny told y—” said Harry, outraged. Draco tilted his head to one side.

“Now I think about it, she may have told me to tell you before Blaise did.”

“Oh, you’re so shit,” said Harry. “Literally, just, the shittest boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

Draco’s smug smile rivalled Blaise’s for sheer self-satisfaction.

“I’m the only boyfriend you’ve ever had,” he said.

“For now,” said Harry darkly, and Draco laughed and kissed him. Harry hadn’t been sleeping well,
hadn’t been functioning in general, but Draco still made him laugh almost every day.

The sun had gone down before Harry worked up the courage to do it. Hermione went from group
to group casting heating spells, and Draco lit candles. The low murmur of people talking reminded
Harry that summer was coming, and with it, Ron and Hermione’s wedding, and long, bright
evenings with friends. He stood, and struck his glass with a spoon.

Draco looked up at him, confused, then began to clink his glass, too. Soon the garden was loud
with clinking.

“Hi,” said Harry, and they fell silent.

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. His palms were sweaty. But he knew everyone there, knew
them well, and Draco sat on the ground beside him, watching him with affectionate curiosity.

“Er, I’m not very good at speeches,” said Harry. “I don’t… someone else could do this better,
probably. Hermione definitely could. But, er. I invited you all here tonight because it’s been eight
years since there was a war.”

He glanced at Draco, but Draco was staring very hard at a patch of grass.

“I guess what I’m trying to say, not very eloquently, is that, er, I’m not doing so well. I find this
time of year really hard. I, er, get these weird dreams, and—yeah, I mean, see, my hand is shaking.
Which is partly because I really don’t want to be giving this speech, but also because it just keeps
shaking, every year, for about a month in the lead up to this date.”

Everyone was staring at him, which was, he supposed, what he should have expected. But it was
hard.

He felt something touch his foot. He looked down, and saw Draco’s hand gently resting on it.

“Um,” said Harry. “Yeah. I think… I don’t know that I’ll ever not have the dreams, or feel like
everything goes very slow and watery when someone brings up the battle or anything that reminds
me of it. Like maybe I’ll always feel that. But something that really helps is feeling that other
people understand. That maybe some of you…” he looked around at them all. “That some of you
know what it’s like, not to be doing so well, in this particular way. And if you’re figuring it out, I
can too. And if I figure it out, so can you.”

“Hear hear,” said George Weasley. His voice sounded a little rough.

“Even though I’ve had a shit month,” Harry went on, “it’s been so much less shit than this time last
year, and that time was less shit than the year before, and… I’m just very grateful to the people
who have been there for me.” His eyes caught Ron and Hermione, Pansy and Seamus. Then he
looked at Draco, who still had his eyes lowered. “I’m so grateful to you, Draco.”

Draco’s head started up.

“For helping me understand that I wasn’t alone.”

They stared at each other, and Harry blinked, slowly, like a cat. Draco gave a surprised little laugh.

Harry looked back out at his friends, at his candlelit garden.

“And that’s why I wanted to make this speech, even though obviously it’s probably been a real
train wreck, and Ron is going to make fun of me for it for years. But I thought—what if one of you
thinks you’re alone—when you’re not. Because you’re here, in my garden, and every year we
grow away from the war it becomes just a little more distant, and a little easier. So. If you could all
lift your glasses—God, this is terrible, I’m so embarrassed—and drink to friends who are there, if
only you know to look.”

They did exactly as ordered: lifted their glasses and drank to his unwieldy toast, and Harry sank to
the ground next to Draco.

“Aren’t you an angel,” said Draco, into his ear. “Aren’t you just perfect?”

“That was terrible,” said Harry. “God, did I really do that? Maybe it’s a bad dream.”

“Harry…” said Draco. “I wish I hadn’t told you I love you already. I wish I could tell you now, for
the first time.”

“To make me feel better about how humiliating that was?”

 “I love you,” said Draco, seriously, and somehow it did feel like the first time. Draco’s eyes were
solemn, truthful.

“Harry,” said Hermione, bursting in between them and throwing her arms around him, “oh, Harry,
that was so beautiful!”

“A bit naff, but in a good way,” said Ron, coming to sit next to Harry. Then more and more people
crowded around him, congratulating him. Some of them seemed merry and bewildered, others
strangely earnest, some even near tears.

“I’m not over it either,” said Dean, quietly, when he hugged Harry.

“Thank you for saying that,” said Parvati, which made Harry wonder if she was lonely, and if he
should invite her over more often.

“Thank you for inviting us,” said Theo, shaking Harry’s hand a little too intently. “I know that…
it’s not easy to have me and Greg and Draco around on this date. Thank you.”

Lee Jordan just hovered near, as if he wanted to tell Harry something, but he was hoping to wait
until Harry was more alone to say it. And Harry wasn’t alone, because he was surrounded by
people who wanted to talk to him. Draco sat a few feet away, talking to Hermione, and when Harry
caught his eye, Draco smiled.

Then he blinked, slowly, like a cat saying I love you.

Chapter End Notes

Hi welcome you made it! Thank you to everyone who read along as I posted this
because I'll admit the genre shift took ME by surprise so you must all have felt very
caught out lol.

I will be releasing a podfic of this IMMINENTLY!

Thank you to Tepre for that lengthy chat about midway through that really solidified
my ideas; I'm very sorry there aren't more cats. I headcanon that Harry starts wearing
the cat collar sometimes as he becomes more relaxed and sometimes he and Draco just
spend a cat evening together where Draco strokes him as he reads. And like it's not a
coping mechanism, it's just pleasant. Draco is too aware of his tendency to use it as a
crutch to use the collar anymore, but cat!Harry is just a nice part of their relationship.

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