Chapter 15
Harry lay with his head in Draco’s lap, his fingers curled loosely over Draco’s knee, as if grounding himself. Draco’s fingers moved slowly through his hair, dragging against his scalp in a way that made Harry feel warm, untethered.
The fire flickered in the hearth, casting long, golden shadows over the room. The quiet between them stretched, thick with something neither of them dared name just yet.
It still felt surreal. This—whatever this was.
For years, Harry had thought love was something sharp, something that came crashing down all at once. He had thought it would be a grand, undeniable thing, sweeping him away before he even had time to understand it.
But this had crept up on him slowly, winding itself into his days until it was simply there. The way Draco was always there. The way he lingered at Harry’s side, the way his presence filled the spaces Harry didn’t even realise were empty.
Harry let out a breath, tilting his head just slightly so he could glance up at Draco. He wasn’t sure what he was searching for in that face—assurance, maybe. A sign that Draco felt as lost in this as he did. But Draco wasn’t looking at him. He was staring past the fire, his lips slightly parted, his fingers still absently tangled in Harry’s hair.
"Draco," Harry murmured.
Draco hummed in response, his fingers stilling for just a moment before continuing their slow path through Harry’s hair.
"What happens now?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Draco’s fingers stilled.
Harry felt the way his whole body went tense, the air between them growing thick. Draco had an answer for everything, always—some quick, clever remark, some teasing quip that made it impossible to take things too seriously.
But now, he was silent.
Draco exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair as he looked away, his jaw tightening. "I don’t know," he admitted at last.
The words sent something sharp through Harry’s chest. Because if Draco didn’t know, then how the hell was he supposed to?
"Do we tell people?" Harry pressed.
Draco let out a short laugh, dry and uncertain. "Do you want to tell people?"
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. He thought of Ron, of Hermione—of the way they would know the moment they saw him, the way they always did. He thought of the papers, the speculation, the Ministry…
"I don’t know," he said at last.
Draco nodded as if he understood. His hand, which had gone still, moved again, smoothing back Harry’s hair in slow, thoughtful motions.
"Are we—" Harry swallowed. "Are we boyfriends now?"
Draco let out a soft breath of laughter, but there was something unsure about it. "I suppose we are." Then, after another pause, quieter—"Do we get married someday?"
Harry blinked. He hadn’t even thought that far.
Draco let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Merlin, I don’t know."
Harry shifted, pushing himself up so that he was sitting now, properly facing Draco. "So what do we do?"
Draco was silent for a long moment, his gaze flickering away. He looked at the fire, at the worn edges of the furniture, at his own hands as if they might hold the answer.
Then, finally—
"We do what we’ve always done," Draco murmured. He met Harry’s gaze, hesitancy still lingering in his expression, but there was something sure in his voice. "We live. We love. And we figure it out as we go."
Harry breathed out. It wasn’t the answer he had been looking for, but it was the one he needed.
"Alright," he said.
And so they did.
—
Some days, love was loud.
It was Draco barging into Grimmauld Place uninvited, tossing his coat over a chair, and making himself at home like he owned the place. It was the way he stole Harry’s tea and sat on the kitchen counter, watching Harry cook with an expression far too amused.
It was their bickering—endless, relentless.
"You cannot just redraw the coastline of the Hebrides because you think it would look better, Potter," Draco scoffed, arms crossed, as he leaned over Harry’s magical maps.
"Well, you can’t just stage a bloody séance in the middle of a cursed ruin and expect the ghosts not to throw things at you!"
It was Draco’s laughter echoing through the halls, bright and sharp, the way his fingers found Harry’s without thinking, the way his voice softened when he said his name.
Some days, love was quiet.
It was Draco’s head resting against Harry’s shoulder as they sat on the sofa of Draco’s office. It was the way Draco absently traced patterns onto Harry’s wrist as he flipped through his latest photographs—portraits of ghosts, of forgotten places, of things no one else thought to see.
It was early mornings in strange places—half-crumbled castles in the Scottish Highlands, hidden caves off the coast of Cornwall. It was Harry sketching maps by candlelight while Draco adjusted his camera, the air between them thick with quiet understanding.
It was knowing. Knowing that when Harry reached out in the dark, Draco would be there.
some days, love was tense.
It was standing too close in a too-small tent on some trip, the air between them thick with something unsaid.
It was Draco watching Harry sketch a coastline, his gaze lingering, unreadable. It was Harry pretending not to notice.
It was kissing like he was drowning.
And Harry realised Loving was easy.
Loving Draco was easy.
—
2010
Harry leaned against the wrought-iron railing, fingers wrapped around a half-finished glass of wine, watching the city stretch out beneath him. Paris at night was something else entirely—golden lights reflecting off the Seine, the distant hum of life continuing on without him.
Behind him, Draco sat on the edge of their hotel bed, holding a book but not really reading it.
"You’re quiet," Draco murmured.
Harry hummed in response, turning back to the city. He wasn’t quiet, not really. His mind was just full.
Five years.
It had been five years since he told Ron and Hermione.
Five years since they had sat in the Burrow’s kitchen, Harry shifting uncomfortably in his chair, hands gripping his tea as if it might anchor him. Hermione had looked at him like she was trying to decipher an ancient riddle, and Ron—Ron had just stared.
"Malfoy?" Ron had repeated, like he had misheard. "You mean—Draco Malfoy?"
Harry had nodded.
Silence.
Not disapproval, not exactly. Not anger. Just... pure, unfiltered confusion.
Ron had rubbed a hand over his face, muttering something about “Are you mad?” while Hermione had opened and closed her mouth like she wanted to form the right words but couldn’t.
And even now—five years later—Harry was fairly certain they still didn’t fully understand it. They somehow accepted it, in their own way. Ron made jokes, and Hermione asked careful questions, and sometimes they both squinted at him like he was a living puzzle they had yet to solve.
But they didn’t need to understand.
Because Harry understood.
And so did Draco.
That was enough.
He swirled the wine in his glass, thinking of the day they had finally, properly told the world.
Not through whispers.
No, they had told the world the way they wanted to—by putting it in their paper, on the front page of The Arcane Observer.
A full spread, complete with one of Draco’s own photographs—Harry laughing, head tilted back, Draco’s hand caught mid-motion in his hair. The words beneath it had been simple.
"In case it wasn’t obvious: we’re in love."
The world had lost its mind.
The Prophet had gone into overdrive, Rita Skeeter had practically combusted, and for weeks, the letters had poured in—outrage, fascination, confusion, admiration.
Harry and Draco had barely acknowledged it. They had gone to work, made coffee, gone on assignments, kissed over stacks of parchment, and lived their lives as they always had.
Because the thing was—
The moment they had put it in their paper, in their words—none of the noise had mattered.
It still didn’t.
Harry exhaled, setting his glass down.
Draco had moved to stand beside him now, arms folded over the railing, book abandoned. His silver-blond hair caught the soft glow of the city lights, his profile sharp and familiar, and Merlin, Harry loved him.
"Tell me what’s in your head," Draco said, glancing at him.
Harry turned, resting his forehead against Draco’s shoulder, breathing him in.
"That I love you," he murmured.
Draco huffed a quiet laugh, but his fingers curled into Harry’s shirt.
"And that I want to love you," Harry continued, voice softer now, "for as long as I’m allowed to."
Draco didn’t say anything for a moment. Then—"Well, that’s convenient."
Harry pulled back slightly, brow raised. "Convenient?"
Draco smirked, but there was something soft in his eyes as he reached out, brushing a slow, deliberate hand down Harry’s jaw. "Because I happen to want the same thing."
Harry kissed him then—slow, sure, tasting wine and warmth and everything he had ever wanted.
They would leave tomorrow. There would be maps to chart, ghosts to chase, more work, more chaos.
But for now, it was just them, on a balcony in Paris, loving each other like it was the easiest thing in the world.
And it was.
The end