Work Text:
am I the front door or am I the land
Draco pauses outside his front door, wishing for the millionth time that it was possible to pack lightly enough to take the Floo. An awkward dance—adjust bags, tuck mobile under arm, reach into coat pocket for wand. He waves the wand to unlock the wards, cursing under his breath as his work bag (lightened with a Charm, but still awkward with bulk) slips from his opposite fingers and falls to the ground. He tucks his wand under his chin, looking down to lock it in place, and opens the door. Once it's open, he kicks his work bag until it crosses the threshold, then stumbles in behind it.
With relief, he lets everything but his wand drop to the floor. After the walk to Hogsmeade, Apparition (three jumps), and the walk home from the closest London Apparition point (somehow there is only one Apparition point per twenty Underground stations in the city, and Draco's building has anti-Apparition wards), he doesn't have the energy or the coordination to care for his possessions. The books in his work bag are surely already a jumbled mess, the edges of the paperbacks and journals bent as if he isn't the type of person to care for his belongings. He is the type to care, but.
And given he can't pack lightly enough to take the Floo, if only he didn't live in the city! It's legal to Apparate willy-nilly around the countryside!
He looks up, catching his wand as it falls, then sighs. His hair is in his eyes and stuck against the moisture of his lips, and he pushes it out of his face impatiently.
The flat smells weird—stale, dusty. Like home, but in an uncanny way, as if the smell is only ninety percent correct. A wave of his wand opens the windows. A second wave activates a Ventilation Charm.
What should he do next—Shower? (He smells at least as weird as the flat, after all that.) Unpack? Eat a snack? Work on his journal article about the efficacy of salves versus counterspells versus salves-and-counterspells? He can't decide—each option seems equally necessary, equally onerous.
A beep. He looks around—where had his mobile got to? It isn't in the pile at his feet, it isn't in his pocket. Oh. It's still clamped in his left armpit.
Draco presses his lips together, as if that action has the power to suppress unwanted emotion.
He takes a deep breath, forcing the air past his anxious diaphragm, before continuing.
Three dots appear as he's about to put the mobile away, so he pauses to watch. There's something magical in knowing that Harry is typing a response right now. There are five hundred fifty-two miles between London and Hogwarts, but Draco still knows what Harry is doing right this second.
Draco's eyes prickle, and he actually wonders for a moment if he has any antihistamine potion in the cupboard before he realises with horror that it's not allergies. It's his blasted feelings. His body is attempting to emote.
"Fuck." He looks at the pile of bags, which makes him yet more annoyed. He kicks at the work bag—hard this time, forgetting he'd Lightened it—and it shoots across the room and slams into the bookshelf. "Fuck!"
...
...
until you can move along I'm wondering
five years and three months ago
"We can be practical," Potter said. Wheedled, really. Potter was wheedling.
"Can we?" Draco challenged. He wasn't trying to be difficult. He truly doubted their ability—his ability, Potter's ability, their combined abilities—to be practical. It wasn't a trait for which either of them were particularly known.
Even as he said it, he was distracted by Potter's lips. The freckle on his left jaw that disappeared into his stubble when he hadn't cast a Shaving Charm in the past half a day. The way his green eyes kept unfairly and conspicuously trying to undress Draco.
They were in the magical wing of the British Library, surrounded by revision materials. Harry's papers were in a large stack, covered with chaotic markings. Draco's were in folders with colour-coded tabs, marked with highlighting charms and a new favourite he'd discovered in a Muggle store, "Post-It Flags." There were only two weeks until exams. It was plenty of time to prepare academically; it wasn't nearly enough time to start something with Potter.
"I mean, yeah." Potter fiddled with his biro. "We've done much harder things."
"We have not," Draco said reflexively, willfully ignoring Potter's brushes with Avada Kedavra and victory over Voldemort. Then, "I'll grant you, we have been responsible about—about us, as it were—thus far. But I don't think we can use prior responsibility as grounds to stop being responsible now. If anything, we need to be more responsible now. We're about to enter the real world."
Healer training was to start the first of September, but Draco needed to be available starting the fifteenth of August for two weeks of orientation and service. Potter's Defence Mastery in Berlin—the best programme in the world—didn't start until the first of October, but he planned to go early to get himself set up and to take a crash language course called Deutsch fürs Zaubern.
"We are," Potter agreed. "But, come on." A maddening little grin appeared on Potter's face and he cocked his head to the side. "I know you. Surely you don't believe you need to be one hundred percent responsible all the time."
Draco watched the muscles shift in Potter's forearm as he rested his chin on his fist.
"Draco."
"Huh?" Draco blinked, returning his gaze to Potter's.
"Do you think people need to be responsible all the time?"
"I mean." Draco cleared his throat. "...No. It's not very human to define one's ethical ideals in such an uncompromising way. That's what the Dark Lord did, really."
Potter cocked his head again. He was like a wheedling puppy. "What do you mean?"
They'd kissed. Once. Drunk. A few months ago. Draco had never meant to let it happen, and it was clear that Potter hadn't, either. Sure, they'd not been very successful at not making eyes at each other. They'd found themselves flirting despite their own best efforts and the efforts of their friends to stop them. Pansy had taken to positioning herself and her current paramour between Draco and Potter because, she said, "They lacked a single brain cell between them, so she would have to act as Draco's executive function."
He'd never asked Potter about it, obviously, but it seemed like something similar had been going on with Potter's friends. For a while, Granger would interrupt Draco's conversations with Potter, pulling Potter away under various flimsy excuses. Finally one night, she and Potter were having a hushed, intense discussion, and she suddenly shouted, "No, Hazza, you know what? No. I can't do this! Get someone else to be your minder!" and stormed out of the pub. After that, Boy and Girl Weasley had taken turns trying to keep Potter away from Draco, but they were even more shit at it than Granger had been.
Unfortunately, neither the bodily expanse of Pansy and her paramour nor Potter's friends' dragging him away had been able to stop Draco from following Potter down a rickety carpeted staircase towards the pub toilets.
"Are you following me, Malfoy?" Potter had said, and the odd thing was that he'd said it with no malice, with the opposite of malice—with a lopsided, encouraging smile.
"Why would I do such a thing?" Draco responded weakly, but it seemed not to matter that his repartee was sub-Hufflepuff quality, because Potter had taken a step closer and Draco's drunk brain had directed his hand to grasp Potter's arm.
"I don't know," Potter had said, challenging. "Why would you?"
Draco wasn't a fool. He didn't answer. He kissed him.
He kissed him, and Potter kissed back, and for a minute, he allowed himself to be completely lost to it.
If the kiss had been shit, Draco probably would've kept doing it. It was how good it was that stopped him. Potter had blinked back at him when they pulled away, and took a step back. He looked like Draco felt—like he'd had a bucket of cold reality dumped on him. "We probably shouldn't—"
"I don't think we should—" Draco let go of Potter's arm. "If it was a year ago, or hell, even six months…"
If they did that, he wouldn't be able to stop. He'd secret himself away in Potter's bed and fail all his courses in his final term. St Mungo's would revoke his spot in the training programme. Potter would get kicked out of his Defence programme and Draco would hold the blame for the Saviour's career downfall.
Potter looked away, over Draco's shoulder. "You're right. We should, er, focus on uni. Our futures or whatever. You know."
"Right," Draco said, ignoring the way his heart seemed to have detached itself from its vascular perch and dropped, reverberating, into his pelvis. "Education. Focus. Otherwise you'll become a washed-up bloke who peaked at seventeen."
The corner of Potter's mouth quirked up. "And where would that leave you?"
"Fuck off," Draco had said, pushing past Potter into the toilet, closing the door in his face even though Potter was the one who had left the table to use it.
But that had been months ago. And Potter was right—they had been responsible since then. They had mostly even stopped flirting. Mostly. (The rest wasn't to be helped, really. They were only human.)
"Malfoy," Potter repeated. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know." Draco looked at the highlighting quill in his hand. "Voldemort wanted his followers to act Imperiused, to deny their humanity and feelings and needs. I don't think that can be the ideal, can it? I don't think we need to act 'responsibly' all the time. To do so would be to deny human nature. And what does 'responsibility' even mean, really?"
Potter reached out a finger to run along Draco's hand, over the knuckle, down his pinky. "I've never known how to be responsible."
Draco snorted, ignoring the way his skin prickled and his heart raced in the wake of Potter's finger. "What a crock of dragon dung. You were responsible for our entire society."
Maddeningly, Potter shrugged. "That's different. It's harder when it's just for me, being responsible for myself. For my career or my life or whatever." An impish grin stole over his face. "You said Voldemort wanted you to deny your feelings and needs. So what you're saying… You're saying that this," here he stopped to gesture ridiculously at his body, "is what you need, aren't you? You need me?"
The prat sat back in his wooden library chair, never breaking eye contact or dropping his smug smirk, letting his knees fall open.
Draco's mouth went dry despite his annoyance at the little display. Wanting to give Potter a taste of his own potion, Draco leaned forward and grabbed Potter's thigh, squeezing his thumb into the inner thigh muscle.
Green eyes widened, grin dropping slack. As if he'd thought Draco wouldn't take his bait. Honestly! Draco always took his bait.
"Maybe I do," Draco whispered. "Have you done enough revision for today?"
"What?" Potter blinked at him, looking satisfyingly stunned.
Draco let a slow grin appear. "You said we can be practical about it. So presumably that means we can get out of here on the condition that we're both done revising. I've done enough for today. Have you?"
Potter hurriedly waved his wand; all of his papers and notebooks disappeared into his bag. He jolted upright, the heavy chair scraping terribly on the floor, drawing looks from the surrounding tables.
Draco stood, his heartbeat so loud in his ears that he couldn't hear anything as he led the way out of the library to the Apparition point. For a moment, he thought he might vomit. He'd never done anything like this. It felt very… premeditated. It was still daylight. They were sober. They were friends. This was Harry Potter. What were they doing? There were only a couple weeks left of uni. Soon they wouldn't even be in the same country. What was he thinking?!
Something jolted Draco backward—it turned out to be Potter's finger hooked into his belt loop. "Potter, what are you—"
Potter kissed him. They'd made it almost to the intersection, swarming with people, Muggles waiting for red buses, wix heading for the Apparition point, tourists with cameras, people queuing to cross the street and for Mr Whippey. They all disappeared, the world narrowing to green eyes and hot lips. Draco was greedy with it, and found himself grabbing at Potter's face. His sensations were heightened—the feel of Potter's glasses stem against his thumb, his wild hair, so much thicker than Draco's, between his fingers. After months (years?) of fighting it, it was a relief, like an Aguamenti on a hot day, like finally letting go after holding yourself up for too long.
Someone whistled, shocking them apart. Harry grinned—a bigger grin than Draco could remember seeing in recent memory—and Draco laughed, the joy bubbling up and out of his mouth in a way he didn't recognise. He grabbed Harry's hand, twining their fingers together, and took off running for the Apparition point.
They only made it to Draco's bed because the sofa looked, to Harry, "too uncomfortable for what I want to do to you," a comment which nearly made Draco black out.
After, when they lay, panting, next to each other, the anxiety started to creep in. Harry was leaving. Harry was moving to bloody Germany. They had less than a month, and in that time they had to prepare for exams they absolutely could not fail.
"We can be practical about it," Draco said. Even to his own ears, he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
"Definitely," Potter said, equally dubiously. "It's not irresponsible to have fun. To feel pleasure."
Draco let his head fall towards Harry. He wasn't sure if he deserved to feel pleasure or to have fun. He needed to prove himself to society, he needed to give back, to become a Healer, to Heal where he had once harmed. But Harry Potter? Harry Potter definitely deserved pleasure. "It would be irresponsible not to seek pleasure, when it's right here in front of us. Wasteful, even."
"Downright ungrateful." Potter leaned forward to nip at Draco's nose.
Draco swatted him away, laughing, and rolled on top of him. "I'm going to, very responsibly, pleasure you. Again. Before we go back to revision."
"How do you reckon that's responsible?" Potter asked, amused.
"Increased levels of dopamine will result in improved retention," Draco pulled out of his arse, then lowered himself down Potter's body before the prat could call his bullshit.
...
...
me just a practical afterthought placed at the back of the lot
Draco eats a prepackaged dinner ("Just add magic!") because Harry would give him shit for forgetting to eat. He tastes nothing, but finishes it and cleans up the kitchen. Feeling unmoored, unsure what to do, he decides to fall back on his upbringing and make a cup of tea.
He gathers his laptop and notes and prepares a workstation on the sofa. Tea and a glass of water. His mobile. A quill. (He refuses to switch to biros, and at this point it's less because of the principle of the thing and more from stubbornness and because it's become a running joke between him and Harry.)
He sits, adjusting the pillows behind his back, and opens the laptop.
It's so quiet. Well, it's London; it's never entirely quiet. But all the noise is outside the bounds of Draco's space, not inside with him. He's just spent four days sharing Harry's quarters in Hogwarts, and Harry is anything but quiet. The man can't sit still for five seconds without one of his body parts starting to vibrate. He jiggles his biros; he hops up to make tea; he stops work to randomly shoot cleaning charms around the rooms. Years ago, Draco didn't understand it—he would frown and say things like, "I thought we were working now?" or "Can you sit still for five minutes?" But it's part of Harry's process. He can't think if he's still for too long. He's always hungry and can't focus if he is.
With annoyance, Draco notices that he's smiling. He brings his eyes back to the screen. He will not be a lovesick fool.
Since at least the sixteenth century, the field of Spell Damage has been divided into two opposing camps. On one side, in the tradition of Cursebreaking, is the group committed to the therapeutic practice of identifying, ending, and reversing offending spells. On the other, in the tradition of Herbopotionology, is the group that focuses on healing through the internal or external application of exogenous magical agents (potions, salves, tinctures) to neutralise the effect of spells. Speaking representatively for the first group, Healer D. Twycross (1589–1678) wrote…
The last time he'd worked on this, Harry had fallen asleep on his shoulder. (If someone had asked Draco five years ago which job was more exhausting, Healer or Hogwarts professor, Draco would've said Healer without a second thought. Healers work twelve-hour shifts and generally don't have time to eat or or even to sit during their shifts. Lives are always on the line—literally, immediately on the line. Having seen both professions up close, though, he knows now that the Hogwarts professors are more exhausted.) His first indication that Harry had awoken was him saying, without moving his head from Draco's shoulder, "Who made up the word 'herbopotionology'? It blows."
Draco groans and picks up his phone.
Draco:I hate you
His head flops backward, eyes closing. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyeballs, crushing them until psychedelic patterns emerge. He hears his phone ding, but waits a minute before reaching for it, trying to centre himself.
Harry:I hate you too
Draco slams his laptop shut and tosses it to the other side of the sofa.
Draco:I hate you more
...
...
it's hardly love if I can't let you run
four years and eleven months ago
"I don't understand," Pansy said, sprawled on Draco's bed next to his suitcase. "Are you boyfriends or not?"
Draco turned from the wardrobe. "We are not. You know this."
"Okay, let me clarify." She was unconsciously picking at her nail polish. "Were you together before he left? And you broke up because he was leaving? Or were the two of you fucking nonstop for like six weeks while pretending you weren't a couple, at which point he left and you both continued to simply pretend you aren't together?"
"Pansy."
"What? I'm genuinely curious."
Draco rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. He didn't want to talk about this because he knew the minute he talked to someone else about it, it would sound ridiculous. "We didn't become a 'couple' before he left because we knew he was about to leave. It would've been an eminently stupid time to start a relationship."
"But since he left…" She made a motion for him to finish her sentence.
Draco leaned his hip on his wardrobe. "Since he left, I don't know! I haven't seen him in ten fucking weeks!"
"But you've owled." After a moment, she added, "...Correct?"
Shit. Draco tried to keep his face from moving. If he was perfectly still, he wouldn't reveal anything. "Correct."
Her eyes narrowed and she sat up, pushing the lid of the suitcase off her legs. "What aren't you telling me? I know you've talked to him. Have you been Flooing? You hate Floo calls." She gasped, pointing an accusatory finger at him and wagging it. "Draco Lucius Malfoy! You got a Muggle phony!"
Fucking hell. Pansy had always been too sharp for Draco's good. "It's not called a phony. They say 'phone'. And yes, I got a mobile phone. It's purely practical! International owl flights are not reasonable." At the look on her face, he continued, "Animal abuse, even. Do you want me to get on the wrong side of PETA?"
She looked like Samhain had come early. "I can't believe you didn't tell me!"
He closed his eyes. "I knew you would make a big deal out of it. Which is exactly what you're doing."
"You became a patron of Muggle communications infrastructure for a boy! You are the public of Muggle 'public works'!"
Draco tried to make a face that would stop her, though he knew he was too anxious for it to succeed. "Are you quite finished?"
"No!" She bounced on the bed. "How often have you been talking to him?"
"Often enough." Draco turned back to the wardrobe and resisted the urge to bang his head on the shelving.
"So every day, then. Really, Draco, this proves my point. You're dating Harry fucking Potter. You're an adorable, disgusting couple. The Chosen One calls you schmoopie-pie."
Draco ignored the way his heart accelerated. "He would never. And we are not. We're couple-adjacent, maybe. We were definitely fucking before he left. I'm definitely fucking him today in…" He looked at his watch. "Five hours."
Pansy squealed, and Draco hated the part of himself that wanted to squeal with her. "Just because you haven't defined the relationship doesn't mean you're not in a relationship. If you've been talking every day on your new Muggle electric machine equipment, it's not just fucking."
"Well, no." Draco pulled out two shirts and held them up for inspection. "Which one? Or both? And it's not 'just fucking' either way, because we're friends. As bizarre as that is. But that doesn't mean we're in a relationship. I can't simply assume I'm in a relationship with Harry bloody Potter, Pans."
"Nix the white one. I agree you shouldn't assume. That's why you need to talk to him about it."
He put the white shirt back on the rack and joined her on the bed. "But." He exhaled deeply. "If we have a conversation about whether we're in a relationship, what if… what if I don't like the answer?"
She reached for him and he toppled into her lap. Her hands found his hair, stroking it away from his eyes. "It's better to know either way. But Draco. He's been talking to you every day and he invited you to visit him in Berlin. You said the Weasel and Granger haven't even visited him yet! There's no non-relationship explanation for this."
"He might just want a fuck." Draco glanced up at Pansy through his hair.
She flicked his forehead. "And there's not a single person in Berlin he could fuck? Don't act stupid."
Draco groaned. "What if he fucked someone in Berlin? He probably did, right? I hate that. Why do I hate that?"
She sighed like he was the most exasperating person in the world. "Have you fucked anyone else?"
"You know I haven't."
"Well, you'll ask him. But he's Harry Potter. I'd say it's unlikely."
He frowned at her. "He's so fucking fit, Pans. Anyone would fuck him. What are you talking about?"
"First of all, he's fit enough, but I don't think your assessment of his looks is particularly unbiased. Don't look at me like that! It's true! What I meant is that he's Harry Potter. He's a Gryffindor—chivalry, et cetera—and he's good and he doesn't strike me as the type to sleep around. You know, Draco, this whole needing-reassurance thing is unbecoming."
Draco exhaled against her leg. "Okay."
"So let's select an outfit that makes you look like the most fuckable person in Berlin, and then you'll go. And you'll fuck him, and you'll talk to him about it."
"Okay."
"Draco, do I need to make you take an Unbreakable Vow?"
"For fuck's sake. I promise!"
...
...
Aside from his mother tongue, Draco was fluent in French, as good as one could ever need to be in Latin, and conversational in Italian. Through these languages, he had a passable ability to understand any romance language. Unfortunately, this meant the only Germanic language Draco knew was English. And, well, the two were not famously interdecipherable.
German wix didn't seem to believe in bilingual signage, either. Which, good for them! Draco didn't think the entire world should cater to the English. But also, he had been at the International Portkey station for all of two minutes and he was already helplessly lost.
He glanced down at the pamphlet he'd got from the British portkey terminal and approached a worker. "Hello. Wo ist der Abholort?"
The woman took pity on him and answered by pointing. He nodded in thanks and tried to adjust his grip on his bags. He was already in the Muggle area of the station, so he couldn't Levitate them. He'd Lightened one and Expanded the other, but he kept forgetting which one was Lightened and putting too much force into handling the wrong bag. He wished, for the millionth time, that it was possible to Shrink all items without ruining them. (The problem was that, when you Shrank an item, it and the magic it contained became tiny. When you Unshrank it, the item would return to its original dimensions, but the magic never seemed to reattach itself properly to the object's restored mass. So any item with built-in magic couldn't be Shrunk without the risk of ruining the magic. And basically all of Draco's shit had embedded magic. Maybe he needed to start buying more Muggle things so he could easily perform magic on them. (And wouldn't that be ironic?) Although he was pretty sure that Shrinking and Unshrinking electronics would risk breaking them, too, for completely different reasons. Something about microchips and processors. He made a mental note to ask Harry.)
When he rounded the corner and saw Harry, the heavy bag slipped from his shoulder, dragging his beautiful new camel-coloured wool coat off with it. Shit. Harry hadn't seen him yet; he was turned in the opposite direction looking at his phone. Draco let the bag drop to the floor so he could fix his coat. He got the coat sitting properly on his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair, checked the waistband of his trousers, made sure the fly was zipped. He forced a deep inhale, hoping it would calm his ridiculous heart, which had decided to start beating double time.
Harry turned.
Draco focussed all his effort into not breaking into an incandescent smile. Play it cool, Draco. It was a miracle that Harry Potter wanted anything to do with him. He couldn't let on how overly invested he was.
Harry, apparently, had none of these qualms. His face broke into a wide smile. And oh, Harry was made to look like that—like the lightning bolt on his forehead suggested, his face was made to be cracked open by warmth. Harry started jogging towards him, and Draco was tempted to mirror the action, but his bag was at his feet and, anyway, he was frozen in place by the sight of Harry.
Harry came to an abrupt stop a foot away. "Hi," he said, still grinning.
"Hi," Draco said, and he'd lost track of his own mouth. It was stretched into a smile at least as wide as Harry's.
"Hi." Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"Guten Tag." Draco was pretty sure he'd remembered that usage correctly from the pamphlet. Harry laughed, and Draco's chest swelled with accomplishment the way it did, without fail, every time he made Harry laugh.
A bit jittery, Draco looked left and right, assessing, and when he didn't see any threatening cops or judgmental thugs, he let his body follow its instincts—his lips found Harry's in a quick, hard kiss.
"Hi," Harry said again, quieter, and kissed him again. "I was worried you wouldn't want to kiss me anymore. Not that I wouldn't respect that decision! You're under no obligation to want to kiss me."
"You've always been slow on the uptake." Draco sagged forward and their arms tangled around each other as Harry sagged back against him. "I fucking missed you."
"You smell like home." Harry's words were muffled against his neck.
Surprised, Draco huffed a laugh. "I smell like England? What does England smell like? Tea and rain?"
"No, you smell like you. Like Draco."
Draco's chest constricted. He couldn't dwell on the casual way Harry had just assigned equivalence to 'home' and 'Draco' or he'd stop functioning altogether. Harry didn't mean that.
And he knew what Harry meant. Harry smelled like Harry, like summer nights tangled together after exams, like lazy flights over Ottery St Catchpole skiving off their friends' outrageously unskilled Quidditch games, like a perfect summer ruined only by the knowledge that it couldn't last. Harry smelled like his soap and his magic and whatever it was deep down that was the essence of Harry Potter.
"You smell good too." Draco leaned in for a deeper kiss, unable to stop himself. It had been ten weeks.
Harry pulled away as if he was going to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and kissed him again. Pulled away again. "Let me take you home."
"What, no dinner first? Slag."
Harry's mouth twitched with amusement. "Okay, then. Dinner. I know a place that—"
Draco grabbed his arm. "Absolutely not. Take me home."
"Slag," Harry laughed, his eyes dropping to Draco's body as he leaned down to pick up the fallen bag, then he ran his hand down Draco's lapel. "You look fit in this coat."
Draco preened. "Thank you. You look fit in this… what do you call this? Graphic tee? But you'd look fit in a burlap sack, so."
"I almost wore my burlap sack!" Harry gasped, mirth sparkling in the green of his eyes. "But it was dirty." He grabbed Draco's hand, threading their fingers together and leading Draco through the terminal.
"How's your German coming along?" Draco asked, unable to quell the temptation to be a little shit where Harry was concerned.
"Fuck off," Harry grumbled. "It's coming terribly, as you well know. My most recent realisation is that the word 'freund,' which one would think means, you know, 'friend,' actually can mean either platonic friend or, because why the fuck not?, a romantic partner in a committed relationship."
Draco snorted. "That's not confusing at all. Though I suppose 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend' are somewhat similarly confusing for English learners."
"And I was—very reasonably, I might add!—confused because of this. So my friends were trying to explain it to me and said that, to clear up the ambiguity, you can say 'feste freund' to clarify that it's a boyfriend, not a friend. So I was like, 'What does 'feste' mean?' and they said, 'It means like, tightened or hardened. Not soft or wiggly?' And I just stared at them for a good minute."
Draco pressed his lips together, quelling a laugh. "So to say that a 'friend' isn't a 'friend' but is actually a 'boyfriend,' you specify that it's a tightened or hardened friend?" He paused. "That's quite apt."
Harry threw his other hand up. "Apparently! To be honest, Draco, I've given up! Luckily my new German-speaking friends enjoy taking the piss out of me for it. Speaking of, did you want to meet my friends? Later tonight? I told them you were coming."
"Obviously," Draco said, squeezing Harry's hand as they left the station. "I need faces to put with their names. And I need to make sure that Richard—" he pronounced the name with exaggerated distaste, "knows he's not the only one vying for your affections."
Harry turned towards him so Draco wouldn't miss his eye roll. "Richard isn't into me."
"Uh huh," Draco parried. Harry was blind, and not just his vision.
"What else do you want to do while you're here?"
"Besides you?"
Harry grinned. "Besides me."
"I want to check out the magic at the wall." Draco paused, thinking. "Other than that, whatever you want to show me."
“Alright. Here’s another thing. Why does a single German word mean 'bye', 'walkover', and 'free lottery ticket'?"
...
...
Harry's new friends were nice, but the bar was too loud, and Draco's brain wouldn't stop thinking the people crowding the bar were about to throw punches when actually their German just sounded aggressive to his English sensibilities.
"What do you think, Harry?" Richard asked, leaning forward, eyes awkwardly flitting to Draco.
Richard was definitely into Harry, no matter what Harry said. The bloke was nice-enough looking, a little like if an artist had tried to paint a grown-up Cedric Diggory but didn't quite capture his hotness, but Harry was showing zero interest in him and was clearly oblivious to the entire dynamic.
And Draco didn't feel jealous. He didn't feel jealous! He threw his arm around Harry and allowed himself to feel smug about his non-jealousy. He was a fucking saint. Was this what it was like to be mature?
A woman in a classy black jumper and trouser jeans burst through the crowd, pushing her way to their table. "Sorry I'm late!" She had a French accent; Draco should've known from the jumper. Was that cashmere?
"Barbe!" Harry said, scooching closer to Draco to make room. "Draco, Barbe. Barbe, this is my… this is Draco."
She reached over Harry to extend her hand to Draco. "We're so happy to meet Harry's boyfriend!"
Draco smiled and shook her hand, but couldn't stop his eyes finding Harry's. They hadn't ever used that word. Boyfriend. And just now, Harry had very obviously chosen not to use that word. But it wasn't like Draco was going to correct this woman in this loud bar and say something like, No, we're not actually boyfriends even though we fucked all summer and we text or call or Floo each other every day and I came all the way to Berlin for the weekend and plan to bugger him thoroughly when this gathering disperses.
That would surely make it more awkward.
But fuck it all to hell, Pansy was right. He and Harry needed to talk about it. Ugh.
The conversation moved on around them, turning to imitations of their new professors, but Harry leaned into Draco's shoulder and said, "Sorry if—"
Draco didn't know exactly what Harry was going to say, but if it was going to be something about how he didn't have to let a woman named Barbe assume he and Harry were dating, he didn't want to hear it. Obviously, if anything, he wanted them all to assume he and Harry were dating. So he interrupted. "It's fine. We'll talk later." They could barely hear each other, as it was.
After only two drinks, Harry gave Draco a Should we get out of here? look, and Draco, while happy to stay and watch the dynamics of Harry's new friends, was more than happy to leave. They said their goodbyes (Richard looked disappointed, Draco noticed) and pushed their way out of the bar into the much quieter street. They were quite close to Harry's flat, so they started walking.
Berlin was nicer than Draco had expected. There was something about the graffiti-covered concrete that worked, adding to rather than subtracting from the vibe. And it didn't hurt Draco's opinion of the place that Lucius would hate everything about it.
"Are you hungry?" Harry asked, gesturing vaguely towards a bustling side street that looked to have food on offer. "There's a Wurstbar over there I've been to." When Draco shook his head, Harry sighed. "I don't know if you want to use that word."
"'Wurstbar'?"
Harry elbowed him. "No, git. 'Boyfriend.' I hope that didn't make you uncomfortable. I didn't use that word when I told them about you. I wouldn't, not without discussing it with you first."
Draco wished he could see the look on Harry's face, but it was dark and they were both facing forward. "It didn't make me uncomfortable."
"Okay."
Draco winced, recalling Pansy's threats of Unbreakable Vows. They had to bloody talk about it. Say something, Draco! "Did it make you uncomfortable?"
"Nope."
Without coordinating, they sort of slowed to a stop on the pavement. Draco turned to look at Harry, his heart rate accelerating with the anxiety of it all. He did not want to have this discussion.
Harry covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry. This is awkward. I made it awkward." His hands dropped and he pointed at a bench. "Let's sit. I'm not trying to force you to make us something it's not. That's not my intention. There are like, three countries between us, and we have actual years before we finish our programmes."
"Only two countries between us if you take a more southern route to avoid the Netherlands," Draco put in pointlessly, as he sat. "And one may as well avoid the Dutch, am I right?" He stopped, shook out his hands, trying to recalibrate. "Sorry, er. I think I'm stalling. I don't actually have anything against the Dutch. Yes. I know. I don't want to…" He groaned, unsure how to finish the sentence.
"What don't you want?" Harry asked, and the careful way he was holding himself, almost like he was bracing for impact, shook Draco out of his insecurity.
"I don't want to distract you from, you know, your life. Your career," Draco blurted. "I don't want to force you to put a name to this thing we're doing. I don't want you to make decisions—irreversible decisions, like doing poorly in a course—for the wrong reasons, especially for something as stupid as a, ugh, a relationship with me. I don't—"
"Whoa, wait." Harry angled himself to face Draco. "I feel the same way for most of what you just said, but hold on. A relationship with you isn't stupid. What the fuck? Why would that be stupid?"
Draco looked away. "Don't ask questions with obvious answers."
After the war, after the public outcry over his acquittal, Draco had been hesitant to involve himself with anyone, even friends. Even acquaintances. Draco was a Slytherin; he knew what his friends should do, if they were at all logical and strategic—they should avoid him. So he took the strategic action; he avoided everyone else so they wouldn't have to avoid him, and so he wouldn't have to deal with rejection. He would be a loner, but somewhat in control of it. It was a reasonable—lenient, even—punishment for his role in the war.
It had worked, for a while. It worked when he was living at the Manor with his house-arrested mother and studying independently to sit his N.E.W.T.s. But Draco wasn't going to hide at the Manor forever. He could be a loner, he could protect his friends by refusing to associate with them, but he couldn't do nothing for the rest of his life. Even if he were the type of person who could do nothing without dying of boredom (which he wasn't—he was still the same person who couldn't get through a Quidditch season without fashioning Dementor costumes or badges to antagonise Potter, after all), he had this uncomfortable, Hufflepuffish feeling that he needed to give back. To do something to make up for his misdeeds. So he had ignored his mother's lectures about pursuits commensurate with his "station" and enrolled at the Royal Academy of Magic.
It was at uni that his careful decision to be always alone had been thwarted. Because his courses hadn't been filled with strangers. They were filled with people he knew from Hogwarts—classmates from his year and the years directly above and below. They were all so chummy with each other, and Draco had resolutely ignored them. He pretended he was Silencioed; he didn't say a word to any of them, even Pansy. He didn't join in when the former Ravenclaws cautiously attempted small talk. He didn't accept invitations to join former Hufflepuffs at lunch, which Pansy happily did. It wasn't that the others seemed to forget his role in the war, or that they liked him or anything. They didn't. They were snappish to him, sometimes, and suspicious of his behaviour, for sure. But they didn't ignore him, either, no matter how much he silently begged them to.
Maybe if it had been only Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, Draco's solitude would've succeeded. It had been, of course, the Gryffindors who had thrown a Bombarda in all of Draco's plans.
Not Potter. Potter had, for once and to Draco's paradoxical annoyance and relief, ignored Draco almost completely. But back then, Potter had ignored most people. Most things. Not that he was rude or a hermit or anything, but he seemed, to Draco, completely unable to relate to the people around him. Potter had seemed almost bemused by their behaviour, by the way these old classmates acted like normal nineteen-year-olds. He talked when people spoke to him, and seemed cosy with his Granger and Weasel (though not, Draco couldn't help noticing, the Girl Weasley, who was off playing Quidditch somewhere), but at a notable remove from the others.
No, the first to fuck up Draco's plans had been Longbottom. He had seen Draco eating alone and sat across from him. He hadn't said a word, and neither had Draco, but they ate an entire meal next to each other. Then it had been Dean Thomas, who was in a Magical Anatomy course with Draco and could never keep track of his assignments; he started asking Draco what the day's assignments were. And when Draco had tried to ignore him (Honestly, what was Thomas's problem? Didn't he realise that talking to Draco was social suicide?), Thomas doubled down and started chanting, "Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy. Malfoy." until Draco gave in and told him the assignment. Before he knew what was happening, Granger was insisting he call her Hermione and sitting with him in the library every Tuesday to work on Organic Chemistry, a course which no one else was taking.
And the solitude that Draco had tried so hard to don like armour—to protect those around him, to protect himself—fell away. He still tried to keep himself apart from the others. He didn't want their reputations poisoned by proximity to him even if they were too imprudent to care. What he didn't anticipate was that, as a result of this, he would often end up on the outskirts of everything… with Potter. And, well, of all of these classmates, Harry Potter's reputation was surely the most robust. Surely he could withstand the stain of Draco's proximity. If Potter wanted to sit on the sidelines next to Draco, who was Draco to question him?
And so as the terms had passed, Draco found himself reluctantly and carefully engaging with old and new friends, but acting most like himself when sat in the corner with Harry Potter, who for some reason seemed to act most like himself when he was with Draco. Sometimes they talked about the war and it was horrible. Sometimes they talked about the war with humour so dark they cried tears of laughter. Sometimes they talked about fucked up shit from their lives that had nothing to do with the war. Neither of them could act like that with anyone else. No one else understood. No one else understood the way he and Potter were removed from the others, the way they coped with their trauma, the way triggers sometimes instigated panic attacks and other times instigated fits of giggles.
Since the war, getting close to people had always been against Draco's better judgement. He always tried to avoid it, especially in public. It was only Potter who had really broken through. Because how could Draco prevent that? How could he say no to Harry Potter, who was as fucked up from the war as he was, who for some reason found kinship and solace in Draco? How could he put up barriers to keep out Harry Potter? How could he refuse this person who had suffered so much loss? He couldn't. He wasn't strong enough. And even if he had been, he wasn't sure it would've been the right decision. If Harry fucking Potter wanted to sit in the corner with Draco while the rest of the world swirled around them, Draco had been forced to admit, maybe he wasn't bad for Harry. Maybe, improbably, Draco wasn't poison. How could he be poison if Harry Potter thrived in his company?
Within reason, anyway. He could be good for Harry if they were sitting in the corner together. If they were, strange as it was, friends.
Friends with benefits was already pushing it, really.
Harry nudged Draco, bringing him back to the present. "Why would a relationship with you be stupid?" he repeated, more pointedly.
Draco's body felt on the verge of imploding. He tried to ignore it. Harry deserved an answer. "Who starts a relationship when it's long-distance? That's ridiculous. Long distance is something couples do out of absolute necessity when they're already established."
Harry gently flicked his arm. "That is not what we're talking about. Don't try to change the subject. Whatever we decide about us, a relationship with you isn't stupid. I'm not moving on until we establish that."
Draco wanted to agree, to say whatever Harry wanted to hear so they could drop this and move on to the rest of this excruciating discussion. But he couldn't make his mouth say it. He opened his mouth, tried again. No. He couldn't spout something he didn't believe—not about this.
"Draco."
"It's not like you'd be starting a relationship with someone who deserved it. Like, I don't know. Longbottom. Or Lovegood. Or Longbottom-and-Lovegood. I imagine they would make for a jubilant threesome."
Harry looked amused, but he quickly schooled his face back to seriousness, not letting Draco distract him.
"That would make sense," Draco continued. "They would deserve it, and you would deserve them, and because they're good, they wouldn't unduly distract you from the important things in life."
Harry laughed. The bastard laughed. "You're so fucked up, it's hard to know where to start sometimes."
"Hey!" Draco nudged him, frowning. "I'm being vulnerable and you're mocking me!" Loudly, at a man walking by, Draco shouted, "You, sir! Kick this man out of Gryffindor!" The German Muggle glanced their way, then walked faster.
Harry laughed harder, attempting to shush him through the laughter. "First, I don't think whether we decide to be a couple has anything to do with whether you deserve it. That's not how lo— that's not how this works. And honestly, are you trying to convince me you're so evil you'll somehow derail my entire life path? Vain fucker. Not even Voldemort succeeded at that."
Draco buried his head in his hands.
"But all those pleas for therapy aside," Harry continued, "I do relate to how you feel. I don't want to get in the way of your Healer training, either. If we were trying to visit each other all the time, I don't see how it wouldn't like, get in the way. It would at the very least eat up a lot of time, and I don't know how much of that time we would actually need to be doing work, revising, yada yada."
Listening to Harry talk about what Draco did or didn't deserve had made Draco want to hide, but listening to him echo Draco's concrete concerns about starting a relationship did the opposite: it calmed him, made him want to engage. Made him think maybe they were in the same position, together in this. He sat up and took a deep breath.
"Exactly." Draco reached for Harry, brushing wild hair behind his ear. "I don't want you to resent me. Like, later on. I don't want you to look back at your early 20s and think, I missed out on so much. I missed out on everything because of Malfoy."
Harry wrinkled his nose, and Draco hated that he thought it was cute. "I mean, I guess I'm flattered that you care so much, but like, what would I be missing, if we were in a relationship? Hooking up with rando Germans? Casual sex? I'm not sure if you've noticed this about me, but I'm not much of a hook upper. A hooker upper? The only thing I'm worried about missing out on is, well, being with you. And screw you, because now I sound like a wetty! But I mean, do you feel like you'd be missing out on something, if we were together?"
Draco levelled him with an unimpressed look. "Me. Draco Malfoy. Disgraced ex-Death Eater. Missing out on something. By being with you, Harry Potter. Literally named the Most Eligible Wizard."
"That is all completely irrelevant!" Harry insisted.
"Trust me," Draco said. "I am not concerned about missing out on anything."
"Well, neither am I!"
Draco groaned and ran his hands through his hair. "I think maybe we're approaching this conversation wrong."
"Wrong how?" Harry asked, pulling Draco's hand into his lap.
"Forget everything else, all the complications, just for a moment." Draco took a steadying breath. "If none of that existed, would you want to be together? Properly? Not just friends texting every day and counting down 'til the next time we can fuck? Do you want to, that is, er, admit that we don't want to be with other people?"
"Yes," Harry said immediately, but then he blew out a long exhale. "It scares me though. That you'll leave. What about you?"
"Yes," Draco said, not justifying Harry's worry with a response. Honestly. As if Draco would leave. "But to be honest, what scares me is that you'll stay."
Harry honked an offended laugh. "Uh, rude? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Draco laughed, delighted at Harry's outrage even as his insides squirmed. "I just mean that, ugh. If it seems like a temporary thing, it doesn't scare me as much. I worry less that I will somehow ruin you, or your reputation, or your career."
"Draco, I swear to Merlin." Harry looked up at the sky. "I'm not like, well-adjusted enough to constantly reassure you that you're worth it, that you aren't going to ruin me."
Draco knew that. He knew it wasn't something Harry could do. He knew that because whenever Harry said it, he didn't believe a word of it.
"I'm barely well-adjusted enough to believe I won't ruin myself," Harry said, nudging Draco's shoulder with a grin. "All I can say is that if I want to be with you, why the fuck shouldn't I? Assuming you also want to be with me. Because like, even if you were right that it would fuck my career or reputation, which for the record, I don't agree with, do you have any idea how much I don't care about my reputation? In fact, I quite like bucking people's expectations. It's one of my favourite things!"
Draco carefully allowed himself to relax, just a bit, and leaned into Harry's side. "What about the other stuff? All the practical and logistical reasons why it's a terrible idea?"
"Well, I don't know." Harry sighed. "We haven't been officially together these past ten weeks, and yet we've still been talking to each other every day. So it kinda seems like maybe we're already distracting each other, a bit. Maybe that's okay."
Draco thought about the past few weeks—waking up to texts from Harry, going to his classes and sending quick texts to Harry when funny things happened, smiling when he received complaints from Harry about random things, telling his cohort of trainees what Harry is up to and dealing with their good-natured ribbing about it, eating dinner at his tiny kitchen table, surrounded by books, but pausing for a break when Harry called. Working late into the night every day this week so he'd have three free days to come to Berlin. Sending each other terribly grainy Muggle phone photos because they wanted to see each other's faces. The sense Draco had recently that maybe if he played his cards right, those photos could become a bit sluttier…
Was there really any way that Harry Potter could get more distracting?
"I think you might be right. I think we may have already reached maximum distraction. The distraction saturation point." Draco turned to look at him. "Has it been a problem for you? I've been alright, honestly. I'm getting my work done. I'm doing well."
"No problem," Harry said, simply. "It makes me happy to talk to you. After we talked last weekend, I hyperfocused a ten-page paper on applications of Patronus theory in like, three hours. Being happy is good for productivity."
Draco affected a sage nod, willfully ignoring, for the sake of performance, the way Harry's words made him feel. "Just like orgasms are good for dopamine, which is good for productivity. So, really, if you care about my productivity…"
"Wanker," Harry said, laughing.
Draco leaned forward and grinned. "Not this weekend." Harry snorted, and after a moment passed in which they watched people walking by, the pedestrians' unfamiliar language overlapping to create a murmuring background hum, Draco continued more seriously, "Maybe we just take it day by day. Right now we want to be together. We recognise it's hard to do a new relationship long-distance, but it's not as if we're committing to doing it forever. We're committing to doing it for today and as long as we continue to want to."
That seemed manageable. That didn't bring up gargantuan worries about poisoning Harry's life, the deep fear that Harry would someday resent Draco for decisions he'd made when they were together. It wasn't All Of That, it was one day at a time. It was about what they wanted right now.
"Right," Harry said, tentatively. "And clearly we want to, because for the past couple months we said we weren't together. And, well, it didn't take." He looked at Draco questioningly. "So for now, this is what we're doing?"
Draco's torso was inflating, lighter than air; he was in danger of floating away. All those weeks of worrying about what they were doing, about if they were on the same page—and somehow they were. This was… good.
He rotated on the bench, bringing one leg up, knee splayed towards the back of the bench. "So we're together, then?"
Harry laughed, face turning red with it. "I'm sorry. It's not funny, I'm just. Yes. We're together. Boyfriends? Do we use that word?"
"It's a shit word," Draco said, "but it's the word. So, whatever. We're, wait, what was it? Hard friends? Tightened friends?"
Harry's laughter slowed into a dangerous grin. Draco had always been weak for Harry acting like a cheeky fucker. Harry leaned forward, bracing his far arm on the edge of the bench by Draco's thigh and using his shoulder to block their bodies from passers-by. His other hand reached for Draco's crotch. "Not hard yet, is it?"
It was, though, by the time Harry had finished saying that. Harry looked like the kneazle who caught the snidget.
"Come here, feste freund," Draco said, attempting an imperious voice, but Harry was smiling, and Draco was sure his voice sounded fond by the time their lips met.
...
...
could this, could this be your plan?
Instead of waking to his alarm, Draco wakes to his phone playing "Hemorrhage (In My Hands)," the song he'd years ago, in hopes of antagonising him, set as Harry's ringtone. He slaps his hand on the bedside table repeatedly until he finds the phone and manages to accept the call and put it on speaker. He growls, "Potter."
"Harry," Harry prods, sounding much too chipper.
"It's 'Potter' before 7am,” Draco says, like he always does. “What?"
"Shove it, I know you need to get up in like ten minutes anyway. I can't find my marking quill and I know I had it in here a couple days ago. Did you put it somewhere?"
Draco rolls onto his back and rubs a hand over his face. "Potter, where do you think I put your quill? I want you to stop for a moment and really think about this. Where would Draco put a quill?"
"...In my desk?"
"Ten points to Gryffindor. Did it really not occur to you to look there?"
"Draco, I've literally never once put that quill in my desk. I tote it around in my bag or leave it out where I'm using it!"
“Top drawer,” Draco says through a yawn. “Right side.”
“Aha! Thank you.” He can hear Harry moving around, closing drawers, probably running into furniture, knowing him. “What do you have today, clinic or research?”
“Clinic. And I’ve got a meeting this afternoon with the Therapeutic Spellwork team to prepare for Mel's final procedure on Wednesday."
"Wait!" Harry sounds excited, and it makes Draco smile despite the hour. "It's the last one? I didn't realise it was the last one!"
Draco isn't breaking patient-healer confidentiality. Mel is one of Harry's students and has given Draco permission to talk about it. It's nice that Harry has a name and face to put with Draco's work stories, for once.
"Last one. An entire working penis and all the associated reproductive bits. Not a female organ or hormone levels or anything will remain in his body. I can hardly believe it. It's so strange when these long-term patients finish up. He’s been my patient since he was ten years old, you know.”
"That’s incredible. But I know you’ll miss seeing him. We should start having parties every summer for former patients and former students. They're so close they're like family and then suddenly, bam, they disappear on us. Did you know I found out from the Prophet last week that Adelaide Quimby was accepted into the secret service?! From the Prophet!"
Draco wishes he could bury his head in Harry’s neck, feel the scratch of Harry’s morning stubble on his face, and breathe in the warm scent of him.
"That's a nice little feather in your cap," Draco says, rolling reluctantly out of his Harryless bed.
"Ew. I'm not Slughorn."
“I like that party idea.” Draco waves his wand to make the bed, then wanders towards the loo. A second wave of the wand and his mobile floats along behind him. “It would be a bit Slughorn-ish, though. Would you call it the Pott Club? The Pott Party? Potter’s Precious Protégés?”
“Okay, you know what? I take it back. No parties.”
Draco laughs. “Speaking of, I’m going to see Hector at the 'Magical Adolescence, Magical Puberty' brown bag tomorrow, did I tell you? He’s apparently giving a talk about Spell Damage of sex spells, of all things—“
“Shit, Draco. I just realised I'm late. I’m sorry, but I promised Minerva I’d supervise early breakfast today.”
Draco freezes, his untold story's momentum knocking him off kilter. “Of course, go. We'll talk later.”
“Alright, bye, I—" In his infinite grace, Harry manages to end the call before he’s done talking.
Draco sighs. The flat echoes with silence.
He supposes he’ll make some insipid instant porridge. He has no trouble mustering the energy to cook when he’s with Harry, but alone? He’s lucky to manage convenience food. But he's learned the hard way that he can’t go to work on an empty stomach.
He tries not to be jealous of Harry’s access to Hogwarts breakfast. He tries not to be jealous of Minerva McGonagall or the Great Hall itself.
He braces his hands on the counter and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks like shite.
His alarm goes off.
Right. Instant porridge it is.
...
...
I'm thinking of the places I've stood
three years and eleven months ago
An owl at the window startled Draco away from his textbook, Spellbinding Physiology. When he saw who it was, he sighed and opened the window.
"Hello, Claudius."
His parents' owl hooted pretentiously. Draco swore Lucius taught them that.
He offered the owl a treat (which it refused), and it flew away.
Dear Draco,
Your presence is expected for the holiday starting on the twenty-first, though you are, of course, welcome to come earlier. You are always welcome at the Manor, my darling.
Since our holiday celebrations have been in flux in recent years, I thought you might appreciate an accounting of this season's planned events. On Yule, we will attend the Ministry services in London followed by Midnight Vespers at a dark sky location. (You may remember that the coven chooses the location on the day-of, to ensure the best weather conditions at the site.) The Greengrasses have invited us for supper on the twenty-second, and the Fawleys have invited us for luncheon and gingerbread on the twenty-third. On Christmas Eve, we will have cocktails at five in the evening at the Manor with select friends. On the twenty-fifth, we will exchange gifts as a family after an intimate champagne brunch. On the thirty-first, we'll be hosting our annual New Year's Ball.
Do let me know if you have any questions about the festivities, or if you'd like to get new robes and want to make a shopping day of it—afternoon tea at The Thaumaturgical Bite (on Diagon) is divine. Please also let me know if you'll be bringing a date to any of the events, so I can respond or let our elves know, respectively.
Your,
Mother
Draco set the letter down and groaned. He picked it back up. Groaned again.
"Your presence is expected" (leave it to a parent to send an "invitation" with this wording—he was surprised she didn't write that a house-elf would retrieve him no matter where he tried to hide)
"Our holiday celebrations have been in flux" (read: we invited a genocidal dictator to live in our home and it shockingly put a damper on our seasonal revelry)
He could've kept picking the missive apart, but he decided he valued his mental health and stopped.
He didn't want to go to a single one of those events! Well, he supposed he wanted to see his parents over the holiday. Briefly. Once.
He certainly wouldn't be spending like, two weeks there! He'd rather poke his eyes out with the peafowls' beaks!
He flopped dramatically onto the sofa and threw his arm over his face. Draco had loved Christmas up until fifth year. In fifth year, it had started to suck, and it had never stopped sucking. It was funny to have had a war right in the middle of his teenage years. He suspected that many teenagers stopped enjoying family holidays, even without a war. But because the war came during his adolescence, it was impossible for Draco to imagine how he would've enjoyed (or not enjoyed) the holiday as he grew up, had there been no war.
He still enjoyed the holiday—theoretically, at least, if not in practice—which unfortunately meant he wasn't satisfied to simply give up on it. But if he was ever going to truly enjoy the Yule holidays as an adult, he knew he'd have to extract himself from (almost all of) his parents' celebrations.
And who was he kidding—he wanted to spend the holidays with Harry. Maybe that was the entire story, not just part of it. Harry was his person, the person he wanted to be with every day, but especially on days that were meant to be festive.
Last year at Christmastime, they'd only been officially dating for like, a month. Draco had still wanted to spend the time with Harry, even with their relationship being so new, but it was hard to say whether that was more about not wanting to spend time with his parents or actively wanting to spend the time with Harry.
Well, who was he kidding—it had been both.
Now, they've been a couple for a reasonably long amount of time. Over a year! (And wasn't that shocking? Draco had never before dated anyone for over a month, much less a year.)
The prospect of asking Harry to spend parts of the holiday together just felt so… presumptuous? Over-eager? Like Draco might reveal too much, might show that he was more committed to Harry than Harry was to him. Making plans for the holiday would mean admitting he believed they'd still be together at the holiday (which he did believe, but who was he to assume Harry would continue wanting to date him)?
Last year, he'd sat at the Manor, horrified by his parents' insipidly polite conversation, wondering what Harry was doing. Harry had been with the Weasleys at Christmas and the Longbottoms at Yule. He and Draco had at least managed to be together on New Year's Eve, but Draco didn't want a repeat of last year. Sitting around wondering what Harry was doing and wishing they were together was a surefire way to have a terrible time.
If it had only been him whose enjoyment had been diminished, maybe he would've let it go. But he was pretty sure Harry had been missing him last year, too.
He sighed and picked up his phone. Before he even opened his messages, he saw he had a new one from Harry.
Draco put the phone down, trying not to obsess over what Harry was about to answer. Of course, he continued obsessing over it, despite not looking at the screen. It felt like a Thestral had wandered in, invisible, and stomped on his sternum.
Rather than answering, Draco clicked the call button.
"Hey," Harry answered.
"Hello."
"...You're all dramatically sprawled on the sofa, aren't you?"
Draco snorted. "Absolutely not." Then, "How can you tell from the word 'hello'?"
"Sounded kinda muffled and lounging."
"Well, you're maybe not wrong."
"'Maybe not wrong'. That's an admission that I'm right! Say it again!"
"My mother sent me a letter enumerating all of the holiday events at which she expects my presence. It's like an oddly festive torture itinerary."
"Oh nooo," Harry said, and he actually sounded sympathetic, not mocking. "Well, I haven't actually spoken with anyone, but I assume I'll be invited to the same gatherings as the past few years. My term ends on the seventeenth, and I need to be back in Berlin by the fifth of January."
Draco took a steadying breath. "Do you think we might spend the holiday together? At least parts of it?"
Harry exhaled in a way that crackled Draco's phone speaker. "I'd love that, yeah. I guess it's just a matter of figuring out which events to go to? Like, which are important to each of us? And then we can go to things together unless it's important to each of us to go to things that conflict?"
"I think the only thing I want to go to is Christmas morning brunch at the Manor. So how about I do that, and then I just tag along with you to whatever else you want to do? Assuming the hosts would be okay with that."
"Well, of course people will be fine with me bringing you," Harry said, as if this were obvious. It was not obvious. "Can I come along to the Manor on Christmas morning? I mean. If you want me to."
Draco sat up, horrified. "Why on earth would you subject yourself to that?"
"I'm not going to like, twist your arm. But you'll be there, and they're your parents. That's why I'd want to go."
A shocked laugh bubbled out of Draco. "Potter, even without you there, it will be like, the Passive Aggressive Olympics."
"Well," Harry said, and Draco couldn't read his tone, "I mean, isn't that a good reason to want me there? For support."
"I don't want to subject you to it," Draco explained.
"I don't want to subject you to it alone," Harry countered.
"But wouldn't you be missed at the Burrow?"
"Some people spend the night and are there from the morning, but some people don't show up until the afternoon. So no, I wouldn't be missing anything important if we went in the afternoon."
Draco sucked in a breath. He hadn't been sure that Harry's agreement to spend some of the holidays together would extend to Christmas Day at the Burrow, of all things. That seemed like sacred ground on which Draco could never tread. "And you'd actually, er, want me there? I wouldn't blame the Weasleys if some of them were uncomfortable around me. After everything that happened in the war."
"I'm not offering to bring your parents along," Harry said. "That would be a disaster. But none of them blame you. And they obviously know we're together; they'll want to include you because you're important to me."
You're important to me.
"Alright. If you want me there, of course I'm eager to go." Draco tried to push back a swell of elation, worried it might render him unable to continue conversing. "Honestly, I just want to spend the holidays with you, so wherever you are, I'll be happy to go."
"Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww," Harry cooed. "Aren't you just the most romantic little fucker?"
"Shut up."
"An absolutely precious little Romeo!"
"Potter."
Harry cackled. "I'm joking. I'm flattered, honestly. You know I want to be with you, too."
"I hate you."
"Awww, I hate you, too."
Draco had one more thing to say, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. It wasn't presumptuous. It was only an invitation. "I know you usually stay with Ron and Hermione, but you're welcome to stay with me for all or part of your time in England. If you like." He tensed for Harry's response, trying to protect himself from the feeling of rejection.
"Oh thank fuck," Harry said. "I was actually going to ask if I could stay with you, even before this conversation, because it really is a little awkward to stay with them for so long, feeling like I'm third-wheeling their entire holiday season, you know?"
Almost three weeks of sleeping in the same bed. Almost three weeks. No one could see him; Draco let himself smile, let the anticipation seep into his bones.
"Excellent," he said. "You're going to be insufferable, aren't you? I bet you play Christmas pop music non-stop."
"Oh, for sure. I hope you like Mariah Carey. And Nat King Cole."
"You're going to cover my kitchen with baking, aren't you? Mince pies and gingerbread?"
"And fruitcake."
"You're going to try to get me to sing carols."
"What's Christmas without a wassail?"
"You'll force me to watch countless Christmas films."
"Do you get the Hallmark channel?"
Draco grinned.
Dear Mother,
Thank you for including me in your holiday plans. This year I will be otherwise engaged for most of the dates you mention, but Harry and I will be at the Manor for Christmas morning. I wouldn't miss seeing you or eating the elves' eggs royale. Let me know what time you expect us.
If you need a gift idea for Harry, I happen to know that his wand holster is quite worn. His work requires one with top-of-the-line materials and enchantments, of course; I trust your taste.
Though I won't be accompanying you to the events you mention, I am happy to meet you for tea at the Thaumaturgical Bite. I've never been. I'll be in Berlin next weekend, but choose another weekend date, and I'll be there.
With love,
Draco
...
...
am I a castle or am I wood that you'll paint upon
When Draco gets to St Mungo's, he has a memo asking him to pop into his boss's office. Wonderful.
"Healer Bradshaw?" He knocks on the open door.
"Ah, Malfoy, come in."
Bradshaw, head of Spell Damage and Therapeutic Spellwork, is an elderly wizard. He's a bit ruthless, but in a mostly kind way.
Draco takes a seat. "How are you, sir?"
"I'm well," he says, waving his hand as if to waft away the small talk. "I'm putting together the schedule for the next six months. I can't help but notice that your listed availability is remarkably… inflexible."
Draco flinches. He's not taking weekend or holiday shifts. He's just fucking not. There's only so much he can handle. "Sir?"
"Weekends and holidays are the time everyone wants off, Healer Malfoy. I'm not sure why you should get priority over everyone else."
"Sir, I—" Draco cuts off. He isn't sure what he can say. Is it inappropriate to talk about your personal life at work? His personal life is the reason he can't take those shifts, but it feels wrong to mention it. "My partner is a Hogwarts professor. We live apart and already don't see each other most of the time. I can't work weekends and holidays, or I would never see him."
The man studies him. Draco tries not to shrivel.
"I hope it's not inappropriate to bring up my personal life," Draco continues, wishing this man would fucking say something.
"Every single one of my subordinates has a personal life," Bradshaw says, sighing. "It's not that it's inappropriate to bring up, it's that there's no way for me to weigh your personal demands against those of your colleagues. How could I?"
Draco's heart sinks. What the fuck is he going to do?
"That said," Bradshaw continues, "I can make this work if you agree to work nights one week every month."
Nights. Fuck. Well, nights are better than weekends. Draco thinks about it for all of two seconds before saying, "Of course, sir. That, I can do."
"It's done," Bradshaw says, using an alarming black quill (raven? some kind of vulture?) to mark a huge parchment. "Have a pleasant day, Healer Malfoy."
Draco walks out of the office feeling like he's just narrowly escaped enemy fire.
...
...
look at all the leaves I've stopped
two years and seven months ago
Draco winced at his reflection. He'd never worn the lime-green Healer robes before. He'd known they'd be awful with his complexion, but somehow he hadn't anticipated quite how awful they would be. Maybe he could cast a spell that would reflect a bluish or reddish light on his skin, somehow causing the light to bypass reflecting the green of the robes onto his poor, pale face?
The effect was downright consumptive.
And he was feeling… odd. Happy, sure. Proud, even. But strange. Lonely?
He hated that he felt lonely. He was supposed to have chosen loneliness, not to feel glum about it.
The embossed card in his hand read, "St Mungo's 2005 Healers Residency Placement Ceremony, at two o'clock in the afternoon in the Dilys Derwent Hall. Family and friends are invited to gather for a celebratory reception directly following the ceremony."
For a moment, he had a vision of another life in some parallel universe—Lucius and Narcissa waltzing into the reception, acting like they owned the place. His father would try to buy Draco the best placement. His mother would volunteer for the Board's Development Committee. They'd monopolise the time of the Chief Healer, ignoring everything Draco said to dissuade them.
He remembered a piano recital he’d had at age nine, how hard he’d worked to prepare so as not to embarrass the family. He remembered his father giving him a small nod after, then saying to Narcissa, “You need to find him a better teacher."
He remembered one of the few of his Quidditch matches his father had attended. Harry had, of course, caught the Snitch. He remembered the way his father had dispassionately smacked him across the face, after, as if that was a normal way to treat a child.
He remembered getting his O.W.L. results when his father was in Azkaban. He remembered telling his mother he’d earned three Os and three Es, and her putting a hand on his cheek and telling him not to worry, he’d do better next time.
Draco shuddered. It would, definitively, be worse to have his parents there. He was glad he didn't need to deal with any of that. Even if it made him feel rootless to go to the ceremony alone, his father not the same since Azkaban and his mother oblivious, as always, to the duties of motherhood. Even if he'd told his mother about the ceremony only to have her respond, "It sounds like you will have a lovely reception." He could handle it. It wasn't ideal, but it was perfectly doable. He could watch his colleagues with their happy families. He could be happy for them, even. Norah's entire extended family had flown in yesterday on broomstick from Wales. Keefe's Muggle dad was taking an eleven-hour flight to London from Los Angeles. Laurent's great-grandmother, who had recently turned one hundred twenty-four, was planning to present him with a wand that had belonged to one of his Healer ancestors.
Maybe if Draco got lucky, one of them might take pity on him for not having a family and invite him to tag along for a celebratory dinner somewhere nice.
He snapped a photo of himself, trying to make it as ugly as possible (the harsh bathroom Lumos certainly helped), and sent it to Harry.
Draco: I look like a sickly tomatillo.
Harry: !!!!!!!!! YOURE WEARING THE ROBES!
Harry: YOU LOOK LIKE A REAL HEALER
Harry: HELLO HEALER MALFOY 😏🫦
Draco: You're missing the point! Look at my skin!!! Look at how it makes me look like I haven't slept in weeks!
Harry: Yeah, it's a bit like—Have you ever seen what muggle pool chemicals do to blond hair if someone blond swims a lot? You kinda look like that, in person form
Draco: Wow. Wow, Harry. You're supposed to reassure me that I look perfectly fine.
Harry: I would never lie to you, lover. You look fine in terms of like, looking acceptable and professional. But I know exactly how fit you are, normally, and it's really fit. And this is…detracting from that baseline. When's the ceremony, tonight?
Draco: 2pm. Cross your fingers for Spell Damage and Therapeutic Spellwork!
Harry: I'm not crossing my fingers, because it's in the bag. Text me right after, okay?
Harry wouldn't finish his Defence Programme for another six months, the timing of which was annoying because it meant that they couldn't try to coordinate their plans or their jobs. Draco would almost certainly be working in London, no matter what Residency he placed in, because St Mungo's was the only comprehensive hospital and medical research centre in magical Britain. If Draco wanted to be working with the best people and the best facilities, he would be working at St Mungo's. So he was left to simply hope Harry would find a job in London in six months.
Less than a year. And they'd see each other in only two weeks—Harry had a week off to revise for exams.
Harry: I don't care! Text me anyway. Ich vermisse dich
Draco: Ich liebe dich, Narbe Kopf
Harry: Go get your placement, Frettchen Gesicht
...
...
There were ten Trainee Healers becoming Resident Healers this year, and Draco allowed their excited chatter and reminiscences to distract him from his strange feelings about the ceremony. When they finally walked into the hall, Draco arm in arm with Norah, he saw the elderly witch who must have been Laurent's great-great-grandmother. She was a tiny woman, but there were at least ten people fussing over her, and she seemed to tower over them all. He smiled at the scene, wondering how many cushions they'd put on her chair.
Norah sucked in a breath. "Draco."
"Hmm?" he asked, turning towards her.
Instead of answering, she pointed. His gaze followed her finger, and he abruptly stopped walking.
Harry.
Harry fucking Potter.
Harry fucking Potter, sat in the front fucking row, wearing a truly enormous, proud smile and holding a fucking camera and a giant bouquet of flowers.
Draco stared, completely frozen, until Norah giggled breathlessly and tugged him towards their seats at the front of the room. His eyes never left Harry's as he took his seat.
"I thought he couldn't come!" she hissed urgently.
"He… he couldn't! He's supposed to be in Berlin!"
"He's even cuter in person," she whispered. "Merlin, but he's grown up a bit of alright, hasn't he?" She had been in Ravenclaw one year ahead of them.
"Stop objectifying my boyfriend," Draco whispered back, but Norah rolled her eyes. She knew Draco was delighted by it.
Draco mouthed, "What are you doing here?!" to Harry across the crowded room, but he just smiled wider as the Chief Healer started the proceedings.
Draco placed in Spell Damage and Therapeutic Spellwork. Harry whistled and clapped louder than anyone, earning a reproachful look from the elderly matriarch.
When the ceremony finished, Draco was still stunned. He ended up letting all his colleagues vacate their seats before he stood and walked over to Harry, who had been snapping photos like his life depended on it.
"You utter wanker," Draco said with a big smile. He playfully shoved Harry's shoulder. "What the fuck are you doing here?! Why didn't you tell me?"
Harry grabbed Draco's wrist and tugged him into a hug, squeezing tight. "I wasn't sure I'd be able to make it until a couple days ago. I had to convince the International Portkey Office to run a private Portkey for me, because there weren't any scheduled."
Draco didn't want to let go, but he moved his head back far enough to kiss him full on the lips. Harry hummed happily, and Draco kissed him again. "Merlin, I love you.”
“I love you too, you big fancy swot.”
Draco looked at him, trying to read some explanation for this in his face. “You didn't have to, you know. I'm a grown-up. I don't need fanfare for stuff like this. And I don't even want to know how much that Portkey cost you. Why on earth?!"
Harry looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world, then shrugged. "I'm your family. We're our family."
Draco closed his eyes. His throat was cutting off his air supply. "You arsehole. How dare you go around saying shit like that to me? I am not a crier, but it's like you're trying to make one of me. You're trying to make me all red-eyed in addition to greenwashed!"
Arms came around him again, squeezing almost too tight. "I'm so proud of you. Fuck, you worked so hard for this and look how it turned out. Healer Malfoy."
Before Draco could process any of this, Harry had pulled away and was asking one of Norah's cousins to take a photo of them. He turned back, handed Draco the flowers, and unfastened the terrible green robes so they hung open, showing his clothes. "You'll be happier with the photo if your jumper is next to your face. You look so good in blue." Then his arm was around Draco's waist and there was nothing to do but grin at the camera, bubbling over with joy.
...
...
"Sweet Salazar," Harry said outside later, and Draco would never get over Harry using Slytherin interjections like that (and Harry loved using them, especially around Gryffindors), "it is such a relief not to have to attempt speaking German. I swear to you that somehow, the more German I learn, the less I know."
"Oh mein Gott!" Draco enthused. "Lutsch meinen Schwanz." He really hadn't learned very many German phrases, even two and a half years into Harry's time in Berlin. That one was his runaway favourite; there was something very evocative about the sounds of it. He could also pretty reliably order beer and find his way out of the Portkey terminal.
Harry groaned. "Ask me in English. I'll do anything as long as you ask in English."
"Oh reeeeally? Anything?" It was a challenge to keep his preening to a minimum, after a brilliant day like this. He felt sure he was attracting sour looks from passersby. He probably looked like a rich arsehole, but if the shoe fit…
But then, like always happened when he was with Harry, Draco found himself overcome by a wave of dread, a visceral pendulum swing away from the joy of a second ago. He had to know. He grabbed Harry's hand. "When do you have to go back? Do I even want to know?"
The wince on Harry's face was answer enough. "Return Portkey's at 4am. I think the witch who booked it was trying to punish me for my last-minute plans. She was not impressed with me."
Less than twenty-four hours. Harry was here; Draco was touching him right now. He'd come all the way for the ceremony. But how were they supposed to enjoy the next few hours knowing he had to leave so soon?
"Should we get dinner?" Harry asked, looking nervous, like he was afraid of Draco's reaction to his imminent departure.
"Forget dinner," Draco said, reaching his arm that wasn't holding the flowers around Harry and tugging him close, their hip bones knocking together. "Forget sleep. We can eat and sleep tomorrow. We had those canapes at the thing. Come home with me, Harry Potter." He glanced at his watch. "We have ten hours and I plan to spend all ten of them naked in bed with you."
If Draco was lucky, they'd manage sex that wasn't sad and desperate. It was a happy day, the happiest. He was a Healer, he got the Residency he'd most wanted, and Harry—his family—came to the ceremony. Draco wasn't lonely. He was going to fuck his boyfriend. And press fingers into his skin, feel the humanness, the realness, the squishy physicality of him. They would talk without a phone between them. He would rest his ear on Harry's chest and hear his heart pumping, the miracle of it, the miracle of Harry, alive and here. It was a happy day.
...
...
am I a line am I a spot
Everything at work makes Draco feel worse, which isn't normal for him at all.
Draco loves his work. When he'd applied to Healer training, he hadn't been sure he'd love it. He'd done it because it seemed like a good thing to do, and one that would suit his skills. But he did end up loving it. He loves the little challenges and puzzles it gives him every day. He loves that he can combine research and clinical practice. He loves the entire field of Spell Damage and Therapeutic Spellwork. He loves helping patients. He loves St Mungo's itself, the bustle of it, the feeling of being in the centre of it all. He loves the absolutely batty things he sees every single workday.
He doesn't love the lime-green robes, but no job is perfect.
Today, though. First he has a patient who had cast a Boiling Charm that somehow rebounded on himself. The wizard's wife is there, fretting, and saying over and over how lucky they are that she was there to immediately bring him in, and how important she thinks it is for this very reason for people's health to live with loved ones! And on and on. Draco wouldn't have thought anything of it if she hadn't been prattling on, but her words make him imagine Harry, alone, Boiling himself without Draco there to intervene. This worry makes very little sense. Harry would never Boil himself because Harry is an excellent wizard. Moreover, Draco knows Harry uses an electric kettle, because Harry is delightfully stubborn about certain Muggle ways of doing things.
Then Laurent hands Draco a card, the envelope of which reads, "Draco and Harry," and turns out to be an invitation to a naming ceremony for his new baby. It's for a Sunday in a few weeks' time, and it's a weekend Draco is meant to be at Hogwarts, which means that he needs to say no to Laurent, skip seeing Harry, or ask Harry to come to London instead. He can't remember if there's a reason he's going to Scotland that specific weekend.
Draco:What do you have the weekend of the 7th?
After lunch, he heads to the conference room where he's leading a preparatory meeting for everyone involved in Mel's final procedure. When he gets there, one of his favourite mediwizards, a man named Gregor who is about twenty-two but looks maybe fifteen at best, is in the middle of a very detailed, very lovesick explanation about how he's moved in with his boyfriend. Draco remembers when Gregor met this boyfriend, because the man has absolutely no filter about discussing personal things at work (which Draco generally enjoys), and Draco swears it was no more than three fucking weeks ago.
Harry:Quidditch match Saturday, why?
Claws vs Slyth
Draco manages not to throw his phone at the wall. He does not manage to keep himself from being testy and, at times, downright rude during the meeting.
...
...
all the things I could be in your life
two years and four months ago
Draco sighed when he saw another notice from his landlord in his owl post. His lease was almost up and they'd been trying to get him to renew for over two months. Draco kept putting them off (even though it meant forgoing all kinds of perks the landlord was dreaming up as incentive) because, though the flat was nice and conveniently located to walk or Floo to St Mungo's, it wasn't really big enough for him and Harry. And he was hoping against hope that Harry would be getting a job in London as soon as he moved back to England. Which would be in sixty-two days, give or take a day or two. Not that Draco was counting.
He put the post on the kitchen table and rummaged in the cupboard. He'd skipped lunch, which wasn't smart, but he hadn't had much of a choice. He opened a box of Jaffa Cakes and ate three in quick succession, then downed a glass of water. His phone dinged and he dug it out of his robe pocket.
Harry:Are you home?
Draco:Just got in
Harry:Think you can manage apparating to Brussels in one jump?
Draco frowned.
The ICW permitted International Apparition to "neighbouring" countries (which, for Britain, included France, Belgium, and the Netherlands in addition to Ireland). Draco took stock of himself. He was physically exhausted, and magically he was… tired. Not quite exhausted. Apparating to Brussels in one jump was probably pushing it, but doable.
Draco:Depends if there's something good waiting for me there
Harry:Do I count? 😃 I was hoping to get dinner with you
Draco studied the message like it might reveal something more. It was an odd request, not that he didn't like the idea. Apparating so far—after a full day of work, when they had to work the next day—risked magical depletion. There was no way they could manage four jumps (two there, two back) on a weeknight, but they could probably just manage two (one there, one back).
He really should've eaten lunch.
Draco:Yeah, ok. Are you alright?
Harry:Yes! See you in 30?
Harry sent a link to an Apparition Point.
Exhaustion falling away with anticipation, Draco eyed the Jaffa Cakes, decided they didn't have enough chocolate for this, and pulled out a bar of Swiss dark chocolate his mother had given him for his birthday. He bolted the chocolate, then looked down at himself. He was still wearing his ugly green robes. And he smelled like Boomslang skin.
Fuck. He ran for the shower, shedding clothes behind him, hopping on one foot when he came to his trousers.
...
...
Draco blinked around like a tourist after stepping out of the Apparition Point. The gorgeous architecture of the Grand Place was striking, even if he'd been here a couple times before. (It was about halfway between London and Berlin, after all.)
Before he could get his bearings, a strong hand grabbed his wrist. He jumped despite realising almost immediately it was Harry.
It was Harry, pushing him up against the building, grabbing his hips and yanking him tight. Harry, bracketing his elbows on either side of Draco's face and kissing him hot and sloppy.
Draco laughed, trying to catch up, trying not to go weak in the knees like a fairy tale heroine at Harry's onslaught. An hour ago, he'd thought he wouldn't see Harry for a few weeks yet, and now he was sporting the beginnings of an erection on the pavement in Belgium and Harry was sucking on his neck like he needed Draco's skin to breathe.
"Harry," Draco gasped, "what—" but he broke off in a groan.
Finally, Harry pulled away and Draco could see his face. He looked… vital. Full of life. Cautiously happy. "Sorry," he said with a lopsided smile. "I really wanted to talk to you in person."
Draco pushed Harry's hair off his face. "Your hair is atrocious today." He discreetly pulled his wand and waved it to remove the smudges from Harry’s glasses. "And you never clean your glasses properly. You wanted to talk to me in person, or you wanted to maul my neck?"
Unrepentant, Harry shrugged. "I always want to maul your neck. I always want to talk to you in person. But it's about the job search. I want to talk to you about an offer I got."
"You got an offer?" Draco couldn't help but puff up a little at this news. Not that he had doubted Harry would get millions of offers.
"Let's find a restaurant," Harry said, taking Draco's hand and pulling him out of the side street.
Not wanting to waste time, they chose one of the first places they saw. As always when in French-speaking countries, Draco ordered.
When they were settled with sparkling water, Draco kicked him under the table. "Stop dragging this out. Tell me! What's the offer?"
Harry had been looking at working in the ICW's London office, at the MI6 Liaison office, at some programme at RAMag.
Harry grinned, then seemed to deflate a bit. He exhaled, buzzing his lips. "Hogwarts."
Hogwarts.
Scotland.
"Hogwarts?" Draco asked stupidly. He hadn't even known Harry was looking at the possibility of teaching at Hogwarts.
"I didn't even—Minerva wrote to me this morning. I don't know what to think, Draco. I haven't given her an answer yet. I need to know what you think."
He thought about it. About Harry, at the front of a classroom, helping a gaggle of teenagers learn Protegos and Patronuses. Not dealing with political nonsense or the fawning of sycophantic adults. His heart fell; it was perfect. Harry was perfect for it.
Draco reached for his water, desperate for the few moments a sip would give him. He tried to smile like he was unreservedly happy. "I think you're perfect for the job. I think you're the obvious choice, and you love Hogwarts. I think you'll like dealing with teenagers a lot better than you'd like dealing with politicians or bureaucrats. I—" He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. "I didn't think a job would open up there any time soon, so I'm a bit surprised, is all." He looked down at his lap, busied himself with his napkin.
He felt Harry's fingers on his arm. "It's not London, though. We wanted to be in London."
Draco looked up and searched Harry's eyes. He could see it written there plainly: Harry would turn the job down, if Draco asked. Harry would turn it down for him.
He couldn't let that happen. Draco absolutely refused to be the reason Harry didn't have his dream job.
He puffed his cheeks and blew out a dramatic breath. "Well, Potter, I can't pretend you won't be freezing your bits off in Scotland. Some of us have better sense than signing up for that."
Harry smiled, but it looked sad. "Draco, you... If you want. You can come with me. Minerva noted in the offer that the faculty quarters have room for a partner. You could Floo to St Mungo's!"
Draco snorted. "I mean, sure. But. Do you really think that's wise?"
"Why the hell not?"
"You're a brand new professor, you've never taught before. You're only twenty-five, and you're a celebrity. Don't look at me like that, it's just the truth. And you want to move into faculty quarters at Hogwarts with your gay Death Eater? And we're not married! As far as I know, no one has even had a spouse at Hogwarts in decades, and I'm a fair bit more problematic than a spouse."
Harry looked angry now. "How is that problematic?"
"Harry, I don't like to bring up things we typically go out of our way to ignore. But you're in magazines. People wank to photos of you. There's Harry Potter porn. There's porn of people acting as the two of us together. This is already a whole Thing for you to deal with, teaching teenagers. Not that it isn't manageable! But how much worse would it be if I was there, living in your rooms?! The Board would have a fucking aneurysm. Do you remember the photo of us the Prophet published? After our beach trip? Remember the prudes at Purity for Families demanding that they censor it because apparently you and me sharing a closed mouth kiss isn't acceptable for underage eyes? The religious people and the traditionalists would come for us with pitchforks. The public tolerates that you're gay, it's like a nice diversity win for them, but me? The two of us together? The two of us together around 'impressionable youth'? I know exactly what my father would've said if any of the faculty had tried it, back when he was a Governor. It would make me feel like I was doing a walk of shame any time I left your quarters! And I'm not moving into your faculty housing and hiding there, never showing my face! I'm not going to be like, the dirty secret in your attic!"
For the first half of this rant, Draco was sure Harry was going to argue, his eyes fiery with it. But by the end, Harry hung his head. "You might be right. I don't know. Maybe we can ease them into it? I want to be with you! I'm so tired of this long-distance bullshit!"
"I want to be with you, too," Draco said, jumping when the waiter came with their dinners. Somehow, he didn't feel very hungry, despite his skipped lunch.
Harry asked, "Maybe Minerva would let me live in London and Floo in on workdays?" Harry's tone made it clear that he knew that wouldn't work. Faculty had supervisory responsibility outside of class hours. It was a bloody boarding school.
"Did she ask you to be Head of Gryffindor?"
Harry nodded. "Maybe I could turn down just that part?" Heads of House had to live at the castle so as to be on call 24/7. Sometimes other faculty lived in Hogsmeade. Rarely, and when they had seniority.
Draco was overcome with a wave of guilt. This should be an unqualified happy day for Harry, and because of Draco, it was qualified. Majorly qualified. He couldn't let Harry look sad today.
He reached out and flicked Harry's hand, then twined their fingers together and squeezed. "Listen, if you want the job, which I think we both know you do, take it. We'll figure it out."
"But—"
"It's better than Germany," Draco interrupted. "We can Apparate or Floo, even if it would be a few jumps. We'll be free from the expense and inconvenience of the bloody International Portkeys."
"Still not the same country," Harry grumbled. "Haven't you been hearing about the Scottish push for devolution? The Scots in the Wizengamot seem like they might be ready to join with their Muggle counterparts to screw the Ministry. And the Highlands are nearly as far from London as Berlin."
"You're distracting from the point. On the same landmass within the same, well, kingdom. With the possibility of Flooing and Apparating." He couldn't believe he was trying to talk Harry into this.
Harry nodded, and it looked like he was pulling himself together. Steeling himself. He picked up his fork and started eating. After a minute of silence, he said, "I thought, when I was a teenager, that my life, my choices wouldn't be so fucking constrained once Voldemort was dead."
Draco didn't really have anything to say to that, so he took another bite.
"But there's no such thing as an unconstrained choice, is there?"
"Not really," Draco said. He wasn't even sure what he was eating. "No matter what the libertarian wix think. Even as a child, choices are constrained by family and society. Even if you're rebelling against them, they still shape your choices."
This was one of the very reasons that Harry and Draco understood each other so well.
"I'll turn it down," Harry said, and Draco looked up to meet his eye. "For you. It's—we are important to me."
Draco wanted to scream. He wanted to overturn the table. He kinda wanted to cry.
"If it was another job… " Draco said, his voice too quiet, too sincere. "If it was working for the ICW, I would tell you to turn it down so we could be together. Harry, I would fucking insist. But it's Hogwarts."
Harry swallowed, then nodded. "Do you want to find a hotel room and Apparate back before work tomorrow?"
Draco nodded.
"So, tell me about your day," Harry said in an attempt at normalcy. "What did Healer Little do now?"
...
...
fills me with regret and it makes no sense
After the meeting, Draco heads to the cafeteria in an attempt to calm his nerves. He orders a slice of cake and a tea and sits by himself in the corner, hoping his general demeanour will deter anyone who might try to sit with him.
Why is he so thrown about coming back home to London, about saying goodbye to Harry? He's done it dozens of times. There's nothing different about this time. There's no reason it should feel so hard today.
When people have asked him how they do it—how he and Harry make it work long distance—Draco never knows how to answer, because it seems so obvious. They do it because they want to be together. They want to be together, so they do it. There's no mystical secret. It works because it has to work. Because it's so much better than any alternative.
Most of the time, he and Harry don't spend very much time talking about it, even. They talk about it when there's some action they can take or some decision to be made, but not at other times. Why dwell on it? They talk about it when they're accepting jobs, signing leases, or making plans for holidays. And when they do, there's always this sort of feeling of: it's working, for now; if at some point it isn't working, we'll reassess.
And surely this isn't that moment—that moment when one of them declares it's no longer working and they need to figure out an alternative arrangement. Or, Merlin forbid, break up. Surely Draco's not saying that. Draco's not saying that. Nothing has happened. And Draco can definitely keep doing this. He will keep doing this forever, if it means he can keep being with Harry.
Plus, as he's told himself many times, it won't be forever. They're still young, only twenty-seven! They have decades and decades in which to put their personal lives first, above other concerns like careers. Once they've established themselves professionally, they can make more demands of their employers. They can change jobs, if need be.
Really, the whole thing is the fault of the insular magical world! Only having one school and one hospital! It's preposterous!
And like he always does when he finds himself blaming the system, Draco starts trying to think of a solution. What can they do?
Harry can't change jobs. Hogwarts is too perfect for him, there's really no alternative, and Draco would never be able to live with himself if he was the reason Harry gave it up.
Harry can't move, either. He has to be at Hogwarts—that's the job.
Draco could change jobs. He buries his head in his hands—he really doesn't want to. Healers who work independently generally spend all day handing out Pepper-Up and Hard-as-a-Rock potions. It would be boring as fuck! Years ago, Harry had raised the possibility of him working at Hogwarts, but Draco had snapped at him that he didn't fancy treating acne and Quidditch injuries for the rest of his life, either. He was at the forefront of Spell Damage and Therapeutic Spellwork!
Draco could move in with Harry and Floo to St Mungo's for work. He's spent more than two years telling himself that this isn't a reasonable option because he doesn't want to be the cause of gossip and parent complaints at Hogwarts. He really doesn't want to be seen as the Saviour's boy toy, living in sin amidst all of Magical Britain's impressionable youth. If he does that, he may as well buy some robes with a giant red "A" on.
Maybe it's reached the point where that's the best option, though. At the moment, Draco feels like he'd give a kidney to be able to sleep in the same bed as Harry most nights. To cook for each other and to stop buying those depressing convenience foods marketed to single wix. Surely loss of a kidney is more-or-less equivalent to wearing the scarlet letter.
Maybe it wouldn't be a big deal to keep it secret from the students at Hogwarts; maybe it wouldn't be a big deal to never step outside the door of Harry's quarters. Maybe he can pretend that Harry's quarters aren't even in Hogwarts Castle.
Then he remembers Harry's students stopping by for tea, his weekly Gryffindor open-door hours, his N.E.W.T. students coming for supper every other Wednesday, the Quidditch strategy sessions. There's no way they could hide the fact that Draco was living there from the student body. Not unless Draco takes to wearing Harry's Invisibility Cloak around the clock—and Draco still has some standards. Just barely.
"Draco?"
He almost pretends not to hear. He still has his head in his hands; surely whomever it is will go away at some point if he doesn't answer? But they hadn't said "Healer Malfoy," they'd said "Draco," which suggests it's one of only a handful of possible people, so he drags his head out of his hands.
He hadn't expected Ron Weasley. "Ron." This day just gets better and better. Now he gets to see Harry's best friend, but not Harry. "What are you doing here? I hope you're not ill?"
"No, no, nothing like that." Weasley pulls out a chair and folds his long limbs into the seat. "I have a new nibling. It's fucking chaos on the Witches' Ward. I needed a breather."
Draco holds up his fork with a bite of cake as if toasting. "Congrats."
"You're in a remarkably sour mood," Ron says cheerfully. "Give us a bite."
Draco pushes the plate across the table. He's not enjoying the cake, anyway, and if he's learned anything from being friends with Gryffindors, it's that you have to share your food.
Once Ron's got a large bite in his mouth, Draco decides, fuck it, heaves a giant sigh and says, "Weasley, do you think Harry and I are being stupid, living apart? Do you think I should just move into Hogwarts, and say 'fuck off' to the Board of Governors, prudish Hogwarts parents, and Prophet gossip columnists? I've completely lost my ability to think about this logically. I'm so desperate for an outside opinion that, apparently, I'll ask even you."
Weasley swallows, his eyes wide as he studies Draco. "Blimey. Go ahead and lay it on me, then."
"Sorry." Draco groans. What is he doing? Asking Weasley for life advice? "Sorry. Forget I said anything."
"No, no, just give me a moment to calibrate." Ron sets the fork down and clasps his hands on the table. "What do you want?"
Draco snorts derisively, nearly aspirating a mouthful of tea. "It's never been about what I want, or what Harry and I want, really. I've wanted to live with Harry since the moment we got together in uni."
Weasley waggles the fork at Draco. "That's bullshit. You've wanted to live with Harry since like, third year."
Draco rolls his eyes. "You can fuck right off."
Ron laughs delightedly. "Sorry, you know I can't help myself. But you are full of bullshit. In what world isn't it about what you want? Obviously it's about what you want. Well, what you and Harry want."
"Because it's about doing the right thing. Being mature. Making sure Harry doesn't resent me or our relationship someday."
"I mean, sure." At this point, Weasley commandeers Draco's tea in addition to the cake, though he leaves the saucer in the middle of the table so Draco can share. Merlin, Draco can't fathom growing up with siblings. "But that's not really relevant anymore, is it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I can see how you were worried about that back when you two were still getting your degrees. I can see how you would've felt that way when Harry was in Germany, like you wouldn't want him not to enjoy his time there because of you or something. I can definitely see how you would've felt that way when he was deciding what job to accept. But now? I can't think of a single reason why he would resent you for living together now." Ron takes another bite of cake, then proceeds to keep talking before he's even swallowed. "Mind you, I don't think Harry actually would've resented you in any of those scenarios, but I can see why you would've worried about it, is all."
"Right." Draco shakes his head. "You're right. I'm not really worried about that now. That's like, leftover from before. That's an explanation of why we didn't move in together sooner. But do you think I'm wrong that people will freak out if I move in with him at Hogwarts?"
"Well, who's 'people'?" Ron sips Draco's tea. "Minnie? No way. She basically issued you an engraved invitation back when she offered Haz the job. Some of the students' parents? Maybe, I dunno. But you've even positioned yourself professionally—that's got to help. And I do think it's probably less of a thing now, a few years later. He's settled there now, you know? Everyone's used to him being there, and everyone's long been used to the idea that he's with you, may Merlin take pity on us all."
Draco snorted.
"I'm serious, Malfoy! When was the last time Rita speculated on whether you were Imperiusing him? It's got to have been a year and a half!"
"As if I could," Draco spits. It's always been one of the rumours he finds most annoying. Don't these people know that Harry could throw off Imperius when he was fourteen? If they're going to write invasive stories about Harry, the least they could do is know the most basic facts about him. Honestly.
"As if anyone could," Ron agrees. "I love Harry with all my heart—don't look at me like that, Malfoy, there are different kinds of love, calm your knickers—but the man is as stubborn as they come. I don't think anyone has ever convinced him to do something he doesn't want to do. Ever. Since birth."
Momentarily jolted out of his despondence by the prospect of being a little shit, Draco grins. "I'm delighted that you see the truth: that what Harry wants to do is me."
Weasley clamps his hands over his ears and sings loudly and badly, "La la la!"
Draco laughs, but the doldrums creep back almost immediately. "I just fucking miss him so fucking much. I saw him yesterday."
"Mate," Weasley says, then leans forward in sympathy. "Mate."
"Oh, stop. Stop right now. The last thing I want is your pity!" Draco throws a hand into the air. "You're making me feel worse!"
Ron ignores him and takes another bite. "You know, we've been wondering when you'll break."
What? Draco's mouth drops open. "Excuse me?"
"'Mione and I."
That elaboration does nothing to assuage Draco's horror.
When Draco says nothing, just stares at him, Ron continues, "Seemed likely you'd break at some point this year. You know, now that he's settled in at Hogwarts, like I said. Honestly, good on you. This is sooner than I'd been betting. I've gotta respect a man who knows what he wants." He lifts Draco's teacup into the air in a salute.
"Do I know what I want? Do I fucking know what I want, Weasley?!"
Weasley's eyes widen. "Er, yes. Yes, I would say you do, Malfoy." He pushes the plate back to Draco with one bite of cake remaining. "I've got to get back. Tell Harry I say hey."
"Who's spawned this time?" Draco phrases this rudely, by design, but Ron currently has three expectant siblings (or two, now, he supposes), so it's a reasonable question.
Weasley winces. "Percy. Godric help us."
"Sweet Merlin," Draco says, then recovers himself. "Well. May Hecate bestow a magical infancy. Uncle Harry and I look forward to meeting them."
"I almost bought the baby a tiny stick. For Perce to put up its bum, you know. But Hermione doubts Percy would think it was funny. For some reason." He stands. "Thanks for the cake. And Draco—don't overthink it. You know what to do."
It's strange, Draco thinks as he watches Weasley walk out of the cafeteria. It's not like he particularly values Ron's opinion. They're friendly enough, sure—how could they not be, after all this time?—but it's not like Draco thinks the man is an arbiter of people or of rightness. But somehow, Ron's belief that Draco knows what to do is almost convincing.
He glances at the clock and jumps up. "Shit." He has a three-hour afternoon clinic starting two minutes ago.
...
...
down to the gate, the latch
yesterday
Draco woke to a cold hand under his t-shirt, a nose pressing into his neck. He mumbled sleepily, pushing himself closer to the warmth. "Why're'oo waking us?"
Harry scratched his nails up Draco's back. "Can't help myself. You're too tempting. I love being in bed with you."
"Let's never get up, then." Draco smiled; he could feel Harry's erection pressing into the back of his thigh. Every time Harry inhaled, his belly kissed Draco's back.
He hadn't much liked sleeping in Harry's quarters back when Harry had first moved in. Draco worried that a tiny Gryffindor would knock on the door at any moment, or that one of their old professors would sweep into the room, see them sharing a bed, and dock House points. None of this was rational. If a student needed Harry, they would knock, and Harry would get up. It wasn't like a student would appear in the bedroom gaping at their tangled, half-naked bodies.
More than two years later, he'd got over it, at least when they were in Harry's quarters. Draco still didn't like wandering out into the rest of Hogwarts. He didn't really like eating in the Great Hall, at the head table where he felt on display; he would generally only agree to eat there at lunch or, rarely, at dinner. He didn't like the optics of showing up at breakfast, suggesting to the students that he'd been fucking their professor overnight. Because the students, and every person who had seen a Prophet in the last five years, knew they were fucking.
But it was fine. Kreacher or one of the other house-elves would bring them breakfast or ingredients if asked, and Harry had a nice little kitchen.
Harry's office was down by the DADA classroom, so most of his student interactions happened there or in the Gryffindor common room, though he did invite them into his home—way more than Snape ever had, that was for sure.
They'd created an office space in one of Harry's rooms, though, including a desk for Draco. One of Harry's N.E.W.T. students was even doing a research project on defensive Healing (a novel idea, really), and had asked (with Harry's encouragement) Healer Malfoy to act as an outside advisor. So Draco even had regular meetings with one of the students when he spent weekends at Hogwarts.
It wasn't anything that Draco would've imagined for himself, but he couldn't pretend he didn't like it. Would he rather they lived together all the time in a home that wasn't in a boarding school? Yes, of course. But it was fine. They made it work.
"I don't understand how you still smell like Mungos," Harry mumbled into Draco's hair. "I know you've taken at least two showers since you've been here."
"It's the curse of being a Healer." Draco stuck his arse out, pressing it towards Harry. "I think the tea tree is to blame."
"At this point, I like it. I think it's Pavlovian. Next time I land myself in St Mungo's, I'm going to be getting hard constantly because of the smell of the place."
"That's a disturbing image."
Harry yawned. "You'll just have to stay with me constantly, so other people think I'm getting hard because of you."
As if Draco would consider leaving Harry's side, if he were in St Mungo's. "Fine," he sighed. "I'll force myself to suffer your presence."
Harry snorted, wrapping a hand around Draco's side and trailing down his torso towards his cock.
He had to leave today. Draco squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to think about that. He wanted to be fully present now, because Harry was reaching into his pyjama bottoms, but he couldn't make the background anxiety recede. He didn't want to have to say goodbye later. He didn't want to go home to his lonely London flat and start counting the days until the next time he could see Harry. He didn't want to feel like they needed to have as many orgasms as possible, as if it were possible to stock up on orgasms, to stock up on Harry, until next time. (That really wasn't how orgasms worked. It wasn't how relationships worked. No matter how much you gorged, it wouldn't tide you over.)
Harry succeeded in taking Draco apart. Draco failed at forgetting that today he'd have to leave.
...
...
don't make me wait, the latch is undone
Draco shucks off his robes, Levitating them to a hook behind his office door, and drops an armful of patient records on his desk. He doesn't need to deal with those; at midnight, all records are magically returned to their proper places. He hadn't brought much to work today—he doesn't even have his work bag. He has his wand and his phone.
Fuck it.
"Incendio." He watches as his office fireplace fills with flames, then grabs a handful of Floo powder and throws it in. "Harry Potter at Hogwarts." He steps in, trying not to scrape his elbows as he whirls away from the hospital and is spit out into Harry's quarters.
"Harry?"
It's quiet. Draco brushes off his trousers. There's a quiet hooting, so Draco wanders over to the owl cage to give Harry's owl, the Bearded, a scratch and a treat.
Monday—he thinks Harry might be at Quidditch practice, though dinner is about to start. Knowing Harry, he'll go straight to the Great Hall. Normally, Draco would wait here, but. "Fuck it," he says aloud. "Fuck it."
The Bearded hoots at him in agreement.
He checks his appearance in the mirror, wanting to make sure he doesn't have anything gross on him from the hospital, then walks out of Harry's quarters and into the corridors of Gryffindor tower.
He'd never set foot here during his time in school. It's only in the last couple years that he's even seen this part of the castle. There are students around, walking down to dinner, and they give him a few sidelong glances (especially one older boy who has Draco's gaydar pinging like crazy, even from a distance, the poor little noob), but he holds his head high and follows them downstairs. He won't be cowed by spotty teenagers.
In the Great Hall, he walks calmly to the head table. Harry isn't there yet, so he says hello to Neville and Flitwick. He's about to pull out the chair next to Neville when McGonagall calls, "Mr Malfoy! Come sit with me and Poppy."
Oh, Merlin. He doesn't really want to chat with McGonagall and Pomfrey, but what choice does he have? He smiles and takes the chair next to Pomfrey.
"I'm bringing Mel over Wednesday after breakfast," Pomfrey says, all business. "Anything I need to know?"
"No, I don't think so." Draco smooths the napkin over his lap. "I imagine you're an expert at this, by now."
She nods, easily accepting his assessment of her expertise. Draco didn't give her nearly enough credit when he was a student. "I have a favour to ask. Your immediate reaction is going to be to say no, but I want you to intercept your knee-jerk reaction and consider it."
"That's a… concerning opener," Draco says, raising an eyebrow. His eyes flit to the doors, looking for Harry. Where the hell is he?
"I'd like you to give a presentation on puberty to the third-year boys."
Draco turns fully in his seat to level a stare at her. "You'd like me to what?"
"They respond better if it comes from a man, and better yet if it's a young man," she says, as if that explains fucking anything. "And you're an expert, after all."
"I am not!" The very idea!
She pauses buttering a roll and shoots him a disapproving glance. "I think you'll find you are, Healer Malfoy."
Draco never meant to become an expert in magical fucking puberty and adolescence! His interest is therapeutic spellwork! And queer people! He only started working with adolescents because of his interest in gender-affirming healing. His interest is gender-affirming healing, not horny little adolescents! He's only incidentally an expert in adolescence!
He remembers something Weasley said earlier that he'd ignored at the time—"You've even positioned yourself professionally." Good grief. Draco hasn't been doing that!
…Has he?
"I'd also like you to give a presentation on safe sex and responsible ejaculation to the fifth-year boys, but I figure if I make too many requests right now, you'll refuse me point blank. So we can talk about that later."
Draco could've gone his entire life without hearing Poppy Pomfrey utter the word "ejaculation."
McGonagall looks extremely amused. Draco has to stop himself from snapping at her to stop revelling in his pain.
"Oh, don't look at me like that, Draco," Pomfrey chides. "You're a professional. And I'm not even asking you to teach the girls menstrual magic, for goodness sake."
Some part of Draco thinks he, a cis wizard, might prefer teaching the third-year girls menstrual magic than teaching the fifth-year boys about "responsible ejaculation."
"Who taught this material in years past?" he finally asks, hoping to determine whom to throw under the Knight Bus.
McGonagall answers, "It's historically been a duty of the Heads of House, but we've determined that the faculty are not the best suited for this job, and that students in each house have been getting very different information."
Oh, for fuck's sake. Draco sighs. Snape certainly never said a fucking word to them about any of it. The man could lie to Voldemort; Draco can't imagine he had any difficulty telling Dumbledore, "Yes, sir, I definitely taught the Slytherins all there is to know about puberty."
There's a hubbub across the hall and Draco looks up, then straightens. Harry is walking in with some of his Quidditch players. He hasn't seen Draco yet. For the sake of his dignity, Draco pretends he can't feel the besotted smile stealing over his face.
"Let's make Harry do it," Draco muses, his adolescent desire to annoy Potter strong even after all these years. "The students love him."
"I don't think that's wise," McGonagall says, though he can tell she's amused. "Many of our scholars fancy Professor Potter a bit. I'm sure you understand, Healer Malfoy."
Draco turns to her (he ignores her quip; he still finds himself surprised at how funny she is). "And you think the logical solution is that I should do it? Presumably, unless they've never laid eyes on the Prophet, they know Harry and I are together."
"Oh, poppycock," McGonagall says. "You are a Healer. And they won't be overt about it. It simply wouldn't be fair to the students to be taught that particular material by one of their braw heartthrobs."
Just then, Harry looks up at the head table and freezes, meeting Draco's eye. After a moment, he breaks into a wide smile and, preposterously, jogs towards them across the hall.
"What are you doing here?!" Harry asks, out of breath. His hair is wind swept and there's a grass stain on the bicep of his top.
Draco wants to jump up and wrap him in a tight hug. He wants to let Harry's embrace erase all the strange feelings he's been having today. But there are hundreds of eyes on them, so Draco stays seated and smiles. "Surprise. I wanted to see you."
Harry drops into the chair next to Draco and scrutinises him. "Is anything wrong?"
"No," Draco says, and when that doesn't put Harry at ease, he puts a hand on his leg. "No, really." With a storytelling tone, he changes the subject: "I was just having a harrowing discussion with Poppy."
Pomfrey rolls her eyes, looking past Draco at Harry. "Don't listen to him, Harry. All I've done is ask him to teach the third-year boys about puberty. Your man seems to forget that he is, in fact, a Healer, and an expert in magical adolescence, at that."
Your man. Draco tries not to preen at that.
Harry grins at Pomfrey, then his eyes slide to Draco. "Oh, you should definitely do that. You're perfect for the job! The students will love you! The ones who are your patients already do." Draco can't tell if he's being a shit-stirrer or serious. Knowing Harry, probably both.
Draco lets the conversation go on around him after that, pretending not to notice the way Harry keeps stealing curious glances at him, clearly wondering why Draco is here unannounced on a Monday evening—something he has never before done.
They eat quickly and excuse themselves, and when Harry walks past Neville, he pauses and leans down. "Nev, can you cover me at Duelling Club tonight?"
Neville taps his forehead. "I already told Carmela I'd be covering for you tonight. When I saw Draco, I figured you'd forget about it entirely."
Harry laughs, pulling Neville into a side hug. "I owe you one, mate."
And then Harry is taking Draco's hand and walking them out the back entrance of the Great Hall, up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, and into his quarters. They don't say anything on the walk, as there are students everywhere. Once inside, Harry turns, hands on hips, and says, "What—"
Draco cuts him off by hugging him, squeezing so hard he feels a bit short of breath from the lung constriction.
Harry returns the squeeze. "Not that I don't appreciate the hug," he prods softly, "but it isn't doing much to convince me that nothing's wrong."
"I don't know," Draco says, shaking his head against Harry's neck. "I don't fucking know. I just—I've been missing you like a phantom limb since I left yesterday. I don't know why. There's no reason, I just—"
Harry squeezes tighter. "I've been missing you, too. Sometimes I think it gets harder every time. You'd think we'd be used to it."
Draco straightens, pulling out of the hug enough to look at Harry's face. He intends to take the piss at how wet they both sound, but he's drawn forward to press his lips to Harry's. Without planning, he pushes Harry until his back collides with the door. Harry snogs like he does everything—with his whole body and soul. Draco feels himself thrumming with magic and blood, arousal zinging through him, and, oops. He hadn't meant to start that. Not yet. He pulls away, his hands still on Harry's face, but their hips no longer pressing together.
"Pause," Draco whispers. "Pause. I want to talk first. Otherwise I'm going to be distracted."
"Talk first," Harry repeats. Draco's gratified at how off-kilter Harry looks. "About what?"
"I don't think I can keep doing this," Draco says. "Living apart."
Before Draco can finish his thought, Harry's shoulders tense and a blank, careful look appears on his face.
"No!" Draco reassures, leaning forward to kiss him. "No, no, no, darling. Not us. The part I can't keep doing is living apart. It's too hard. For me, anyway. I—" He takes a breath, trying to find the right words. "Are you still open to me moving in with you? Here?"
Harry's eyes flit back and forth, focusing on Draco's left and right eyes in quick succession, as if he'll find some explanation if he looks hard enough. "I—yes. Yes, of course, but what about—" He winces. "All your concerns."
Draco rubs a hand over his face. "I'm still concerned about my concerns. It's just that, I don't know, they're not as important as being able to actually be with you. Not 'with you' like a couple, 'with you' like with you. And like Ron said, you've been here a few years now. You're settled, everyone accepts you here, everyone knows you do a great job. So the things I was concerned about, about moving in with you, are probably no longer quite as… concerning."
Harry's still looking at him like he's a puzzle. "Wait, 'like Ron said'?"
"Not important. But, really, do you want me here?"
"I, I mean, obviously! But only if you want to be here! I don't want you to, like, force yourself to live somewhere you don't want to live. I realise Hogwarts is not a reasonable place to ask someone to move for their boyfriend. Like, living with all these teenagers in the middle of the Highlands. I mean, you can Floo most places you need to get, but it's pretty far for Apparition and it's in the middle of nowhere except for Hogsmeade and you probably want to live in like, a proper house, you know? Not a suite of rooms next to the Gryffindor Common Room where I'm on call 24/7. I don't want you here if you're going to be miserable because of all that. And—oomph."
Draco stops Harry's words with a kiss, letting his thigh press between Harry's legs. "I'm going to say this again, and then you'll please do me the courtesy of trusting that I'm telling the truth. I want to be here because I want to be with you. I can't do this long-distance thing anymore, Harry. Well, no. I could do it, if I absolutely had to. But I don't fucking want to! I'm done with it. Being at Hogwarts is not a terrible thing, even if it's not ideal. And whatever the downsides are—at this point, being near you more than makes up for them."
Without responding to any of this, Harry blurts, "I've been thinking about it, too, Draco. I was thinking of asking Minerva if Neville can take over as Head of House next year. Now that he's here, we have another Gryffindor who could do the job. He wants to be near his plants, anyway—it's not like he wants to live elsewhere. And I thought maybe, if that works out, we could get a place in Hogsmeade." He looks nervous, which makes no sense, because Draco has already shown up unannounced and literally asked to move in. Harry knows Draco wants to be here with him, and he still looks nervous about it.
"Yes," Draco says without hesitation. "That sounds perfect. But… whenever. We can live in the castle for a few years first, if need be. I'm fine with that. If people get angry about me, I have lots of practice ignoring that sort of thing."
Harry frowns. "You hate that sort of thing."
"Of course I do. Doesn't mean I can't ignore it."
"You really want to move in." Harry's smiling now, cautiously, like he doesn't want to risk any disappointment by jumping to happiness conclusions.
"I really, really do." Draco presses a kiss to Harry's lips. "Do you know, you've ruined me so completely that I can no longer concentrate on work if the house is too quiet?"
Harry laughs delightedly, then pushes off the door where he's been leaning and walks towards the bedroom, tugging off his Quidditch top. (Instead of falling to the floor, it Levitates itself to the washing basket. That had been a pain in Draco's arse, Charming all of Harry's clothes to do that, but Harry is never going to remember to put his clothes where they belong, and Draco is nothing if not a problem solver.)
Draco follows, a smile tugging at his lips when Harry unfastens his trousers.
Harry pauses, looking around. "Where's your stuff?"
Draco finishes unbuttoning his shirt and tugs it off. "I walked through the Floo from Mungo's with nothing but my wand and phone."
Harry looks at him in amused disbelief. "You came without a change of clothes. Without your toiletries. Without your laptop?"
Smirking, Draco reaches for him. He finds Harry's arms and squeezes, then runs his hands down the length of them, squeezing again when he finds Harry's hands. "What can I say, Harry Potter. I was desperate to see you."
Something in Harry's eyes suggests that Harry doesn't believe him. That he doesn't think Draco is actually, truly desperate for him. That he thinks it's just a thing to say, an exaggeration—hyperbole!
Draco can't have that. He stalks forward, backing Harry up, then pushes him onto the bed (which is made only because Draco Charmed the duvet) and tugs off Harry's trousers. He leaves the boxers on for now, shucking off his own trousers and socks, then climbs on top of him, rolling his hips before he's even got his body in place properly.
"Merlin," Harry breathes, his hands finding the curve of Draco's arse and tugging him closer. "I know you don't want to move in just for the sex, but at the moment it feels like maybe it is just the sex, and maybe that's fine. Reasonable, even."
Draco huffs a laugh into Harry's neck, then licks him, because he can. Then sucks, because he wants to. Because Harry's moaning.
"Keep doing that," Harry whispers. "But don't forget to Heal my neck later, because my students would never—never—let me live it down."
"Healer Malfoy at your service."
Harry moans again even while slapping at Draco's back as if he isn't attracted by it.
They make out in bed for so long—luxuriously long, ridiculously long—mouths exploring lazily, hands teasing at each other's bodies but making no move to remove their pants. At one point, while Draco's mouth is on Harry's nipple, Harry says, "Can you believe it? There's no rush."
"Hmm?" Draco asks while sucking Harry's nipple into his mouth.
Harry's fingers thread into his hair and tingles erupt down Draco's spine. "Usually when we're together, I have this feeling like… like we need to have sex as many times as humanly possible. Like we should do it quickly so we can recover and do it again."
Draco lets Harry's nipple go, watching as his saliva dries in the air. "It will be a luxury to not have sex."
Harry laughs, pretending to push Draco off him. "Oh? You don't want to? Don't let me twist your arm."
Draco rigidly keeps his body where it is, unwilling to let Harry dislodge him even for a joke. "Not now, git. I mean, some days. We could just… skip it. Knowing that we'll have the chance to do it tomorrow, or the next day. That it's not something we have to try to stockpile."
"Imagine that," Harry says, pushing his hips off the bed and against Draco's body. "Sex as a renewable resource."
Draco pushes onto his forearms to get a good look at Harry's face. "You realise this means our sex life might become… well. Not 'boring'. What's the word I want? Taken for granted. We'll start to take it for granted. We've been together for over five years and we've never taken it for granted. It's never stopped feeling intense. That's not supposed to happen, you know? It's only because we've been apart most of the time, so when we're together it's a frenzy, like we're new lovers, not five-year-old hat."
Harry tucks Draco's hair behind his ear. "Does that bother you?"
"No. I'm asking if it bothers you."
"Honestly," Harry whispers, pressing his cheek to Draco's, "that sounds kinda luxuriant, doesn't it? It sounds like, abundant. It sounds hot. Like, my mind and body start to trust that we can fuck whenever we want, so I don't have to worry about sex anymore, I can just assume it? I can believe, subconsciously, that sex will be there when I want it? That you will be there when I want you?" He presses his groin into Draco's. "Isn't that hot?"
"Fuck," Draco hisses, and now he wants their pants off. For a split second, he considers Vanishing them before he remembers that he's wearing one of his new pairs. He pushes to his knees, then stands and shimmies out of them. "Pants off, Potter."
Harry pushes his pants past his bum, then kicks his leg repeatedly until they fly free, falling towards the floor until Draco's Charms nullify gravity and they waft instead to the washing basket.
"You simply overflow with grace and elegance," Draco observes, trying not to laugh. Laughing naked with a hard dick doesn't seem like it would be very seductive.
"You simply overflow with stodgy refinement," Harry parries.
"Oh!" Draco remembers, climbing onto the bed next to Harry and reaching for his erection, "Percy and Audrey had the baby. Did you hear?"
"Can you stop wanking me if we're going to talk about Percy?" When Draco pauses his stroking without moving his hand, Harry smiles. "Yes. I had an owl earlier. Did you meet her?"
Draco shakes his head. "No, I didn't even know it was a girl. I saw Ron in the cafeteria. He ate my cake."
Harry laughs, running a hand over Draco's back. "They named her Molly. Everyone's good. Grandma Molly is over the moon."
"Excellent. Alright, back to regularly scheduled sex."
It's strange, to feel so little urgency. Of course, there's always some feeling of urgency when the process of arousal is initiated—urgency is part of what it means to be aroused. But mentally, there's no urgency. There's no anxiety about an impending separation. It feels like his entire body has unclenched, and only now that he's unclenched can he properly enjoy the gut-twisting, clenching pleasure being evoked by Harry's hand. With the rest of him relaxed, it's like he can feel everything with a newfound clarity.
Draco moans into Harry's ear. "You're good at that. But I don't want to finish this with mutual handjobs."
Harry snorts. "I mean, we're in a boarding school. When in Rome."
Draco laughs, but he's so turned on that it comes out like a hot puff of air. "What do you want?"
Draco likes it all, which makes it harder to choose, sometimes. The hot, wet press of Harry's mouth. Fucking into Harry's tight arse from behind (his back) or from the front (his eyes). Harry fucking him—the stretch, the intensity of Harry pressing against his prostate, the way Harry looks at him. Their slick erections in one of their hands, sloppy strokes and the wet slide of it. On their sides, Harry behind him, fucking into his slick thighs, pressing against Draco's hole and balls and Harry's hand stroking his penis. "Fuuuck, Harry."
"How am I supposed to pick?" Harry gasps, apparently struggling with the decision just like Draco. But then, just as quickly, "You fuck me."
Draco scrambles for his wand, casting spells in quick succession, too eager at this point to be patient with manual prep. Plus, he realises, he fucked Harry just yesterday. It seems a lot longer ago.
"Yeah, good, do it," Harry urges, rolling onto his back and spreading his legs, knees bent and feet braced.
Draco doesn't hesitate; he sinks into Harry and all he can think is, I don't have to leave. I don't have to leave.
And then he's not thinking at all, because Harry knows exactly how to move to make him incoherent, and they move together, Harry's fingers pressing into Draco's back, his shoulders, his arse. Draco's reaching for Harry's face, kissing him deeply, then he's reaching down to stroke Harry's erection.
When Draco tops, his goal is to get Harry off first. He feels like that's the job description, even if it's not a big deal if he ends up coming first. When he tops, there's a temptation at the back of his mind, calling for him to forget everything else and succumb to his pleasure alone, but he tunes into Harry's pleasure instead. He chases Harry's moans, he searches the feeling of Harry's erection for signs that he's close, he kisses in all the ways he knows drive Harry mad.
It's not long before Harry's legs clamp down on his hips, before he stops the searching motion of his hips, before he lets out a blissful, "Ohhh."
Draco closes his eyes, letting his focus return to his own pleasure, and the moment he tunes in, he follows Harry over the edge, collapsing heavily on top of him.
Their breathing slows for long, still moments until Draco grabs his wand, then pulls out, casting a spell to vanish his semen before it drips out and makes a mess of Harry and the bed.
"Can you believe," Draco says softly, lying back next to Harry, "that Pomfrey asked if I'll teach the fifth-year boys about, and I quote, 'responsible ejaculation'?"
Harry, the wanker, laughs. Loudly. "I mean, to be fair, I do think you're good at ejaculating responsibly. Never once has your ejaculation caused any problems for me."
"That can't be true," Draco muses, resting hi head on Harry's sweat-shiny chest. "My ejaculation must've at least made you late a few times."
Harry hums, amused. "I'd argue that wasn't the ejaculation, per se."
Draco laughs, and a moment passes in which he's overcome with something like awe. "You're really going to let me stay?"
"Let you?" Harry asks, laughing. "Draco, I had to force myself not to beg you to move in two years ago. Because I respect your decisions, of course, and your concerns were… well, they were valid, I suppose, even if I wanted to pretend they weren't. But what I mean is—living apart wasn't something I wanted."
The aftermath of the orgasm and Harry's words have him feeling floaty, like he took too many Cheering Potions. "We'll have to talk to McGonagall."
"Yeah," Harry agrees. "But it won't be a problem."
"And if the Board or prude parents or the Prophet get upset about you living in sin with a Death Eater in their childrens' boarding school?"
Harry shrugs. "Fuck 'em. I don't think that will happen, though. They all want to suck up to me too much, and they know going after you will get them on my bad side."
"You've got such an ego on you, Potter," Draco drawls, laughing when Harry gently kicks his shin. "Alright. We'll figure it out." Not wanting to borrow trouble, Draco brings them back to the present. "So Neville is doing the Duelling Club tonight. Anything else on your agenda this evening, Professor?"
"Nope," Harry says, nudging Draco off his chest so they lie facing each other. "I'm thinking it'll be nice to lie here and talk, maybe ask Kreacher to bring us some pudding. Procrastinate marking and writing articles about salves, respectively. Fall asleep with your hair in my mouth."
"Boring, Potter," Draco teases. "And in the morning, I'll wake up and we can have breakfast and I'll Floo to work. At some point I'll have to get my stuff over here, since I can't really take it through the Floo."
"Kreacher will help," Harry says. "He loves it when you're here."
Draco nods in agreement. Kreacher loves having the "real" Black heir around. "You'll have to get used to my normal working hours. I won't be able to take off early like I did every time you were visiting London. Twelve-hour shifts, Potter."
"How will I manage being apart from you for twelve hours?!" Harry sighs. "Despite the fact that I also work similar hours."
"So I'll Floo to Mungo's, and then I'll work, and then I'll come back at the end of the day."
Harry smiles, his hand trailing over Draco's hip. "And then you'll come home."
Draco buries his grin against Harry's arm. "Then I'll come home."