how attrative is the breakdown with a bow around your heart

Moving out west, things got lonely, trying my best, nobody showed me— which way to go, I didn’t know

It started with just them fucking— Harry wouldn’t even look him in the eyes, wouldn’t let him kiss him, would direct his attention away everytime Draco got a little too close. Take a hold of his jaw and moan when Draco would press his lips to Harry’s neck. At first when Draco fucked him, he thought impossibly that it was anyone else’s cock spreading him open— anyone fucking else, than Draco Malfoy. 

But eventually, in some sort of spiral as Harry took in his own reflection, staring at himself in Malfoy’s bathroom mirror, Draco asleep in the sheets they just fucked in, the bed that Harry ended up in more nights than not. It was then, looking at the bags under his eyes, eyes squinting at himself, almost too hazy to see in the yellow light; it was then that Harry realised how fucked he looked. His hair was a mess, but that was more of Dracos fault, really. His fingers were gripped in Harry’s hair to the point where his skull stung, moaning into the empty room while Harry sucked him down again. 

He supposes, quite possibly, he has not been doing well recently. 

That realisation came with Draco too, but it should have been like the bells of an oncoming train, Harry tied to the tracks bracing for impact. And perhaps while Harry did not have a voiceable reason for struggling to get out of bed most mornings after May 2nd, it was something that could be pushed away at first, ignored, as if casting protego around himself sent the spiral away. 

Harry spent the first week after May 2nd in Rons bed, Ron more or less in a state of constant insomnia paired with an immense exhaustion or completely passed out, as if he’d been in a coma for weeks. 

Ron sobbed over Fred for the first twelve hours they laid in his childhood bed, slept for sixteen and proceeded to sob for the next three days. On the fourth day, it was as if Ron was completely distant from the world, from Harry. Harry had to help him get up to piss, had to shower with him, help him to eat, which Harry refused to admit was the only time he managed to do any of those things for himself too. 

Hermione made it home on the sixth day, took one look at Ron, and at Harry, who were in the Burrows bathroom, Ron sitting on the tub and Harry between his legs, while Harry slowly shaved the growing stubble on Ron’s face. Harry watched Ron's face shift at the sound of the door, and Harry felt himself looking back, as if both of them were still guilty teenagers getting up to something against the rules. Harry very slowly, sat the razor down on the toilet, and Hermione as if she were paused, broke at the acton flinging herself at Harry with a sob, her arm smacking behind him, and he felt her pull Ron into his lower back, Ron’s arm coming up on his other side to wrap around Hermione’s wrist.

They all slept in Rons bed that night, too small for Ron and even smaller for the three of them, overlapping as if they were one giant monster instead of three robbed children. 

 Harry couldn’t explain why he did it, but he felt himself get up from Rons bed one night, shifting Ron's body away from his own with a press of his lips to Ron's temple, before sneaking off to the bathroom, stepping over the creaking stair, and casting Protego so many times on himself he felt as if he was in a giant bubble, something like bubble wrap that would take hundreds of times to be fully deflated. 

When he got back to bed, he saw Hermione's wide eyes peeking at him when the door creaked open, she looked deathly afraid, as if they were still on the run, sleeping in a tent every night, running on food that wouldn’t ever fully fill them. 

“Mione?” Harry whispered into the dark room, hoping he wouldn’t wake Ron, who had been awake for almost thirty hours, twenty-one of them, Harry was awake to sit with him for. 

She dared a small look at Ron before whispering,”Sorry— Sorry,” A tear split from her eye and she huffed, before apologising again,” Sorry.”

Harry climbed into bed, Ron groaning, shifting to some half awake mumble as he settled partly on Harry, both giving him more space in the bed and pressing most of his weight onto Harry’s chest. 

Hermiones’ shoulder pressed into Harry’s and he could feel the brush of her hair from the pieces that fell away from the messy bun she had tied it into, then it was her cheek, and he wrapped an arm around her while she quietly cried into his shoulder. 

“My parents,” She whispered at one point, the look on her face made Harry’s gut drop, she looked as if she was about to confess a crime, and well. She shook her head, her cheek rubbing against his bare shoulder, tears pressed and wiped into his skin,” Their so fucking mad at me.” 

“Mione, you were keeping them safe,” Harry said, and she shrugged silently. 

“Love right now feels more like anger than anything else.” She whispered eventually, she had been quiet and Harry could feel himself on the precipice of sleep, as if a switch was turned he was wide awake for the rest of the night, wrapped up in his best friends while they snored into Rons small room. 

After Fred's funeral it seemed as if Mrs Weasley had finally cracked, she had somehow kept herself going for that first week, but after it was as if the other shoe dropped, Fred's death,the reminder of the possible chance that most of her family could have died that night, she was inconsolable. 

Ron and Hermione seemed to be getting more lethargic as the days went on, and at first Harry tried to cook for them, he had spells to assist him and felt safe in the warm yellow glow that the Burrows kitchen reflected. And he could, for a while, but then it was as if lightning danced in his chest everytime he stepped into the kitchen, and his palms would start to sweat as he realised he wasn’t able to breathe. After that he could only manage to be in the kitchen long enough for a glass of water, a small snack. The three of them were living off of crackers, water, shity tea that Ron managed to make, while not managing to leave the comfort of Ron's room. 

Hermione seemed to settle a week later, and forced a temporary awareness on the two of them, and the three decided then that they’d search for an apartment to live in together. The three of them had been awarded an Order of Merlin individually, and more gallons than Ron said he could have ever conceived of, which made moving simple after that, they each paid an equal share, and two weeks later, they were moved into their apartment. 

The apartment was empty as fuck, and horribly depressing really. Ron tried to fill it with plants, which glowed in the June sun. Dark green leaves and bright orange flower petals, a large giant plant that was basically a tree in the corner that Ginny named Forfurt, a small cactus like plant that Nevile gifted them when he visited.  Hermione filled the walls with pictures, dozens and dozens of frames of their childhoods, their friends, The Weasley family, Harry's parents, Remus, and Sirius. There was one Teddy in Remus’s arms, Remus in the photograph slowly rocking back and forth. Harry cried when he saw it, this display of their lives, of Hermione on a pink bike when she was little, Ron with a practice wand that used to belong to Bill. Luna and Harry smoking weed together in sixth year, to which Ron said they’d have to hide when his mother visited, similarly the picture of a very drunk Harry, Ron, and Hermione dancing in the fields of Hogwarts, just a few months before sixth year ended and the world shifted completely to shit. It was a giant representation of their lives, and the love they had within it before the war, before Sirius died and Remus died, before Fred did, or before Bill got bit by a werewolf. 

They each had their own rooms, Ron and Hermione both agreeing they’d rather wait to date, and still wanted the availability of their own space— to learn who they were supposed to be now that the war was done, but more often than not they ended up in each others beds at night, a quiet knock on the door and Hermione would blink crystal like tears at Harry, the only light coming from the streetlights reflecting through his curtants. She’d curl up in his bed, far away at first, always— as if she didn’t want to admit to needing the closeness, the contact. But always, she’d inch closer, roll over onto her side, and then it’d be an arm until Harry would bring his hand to her hip, and allow her to shove her face into his neck. Ron was different— had no qualms about immediately taking up Harrys or Hermione's space. Ron wouldn’t knock, would just slip right into Harry’s room, as subtle as a shadow, he’d throw a leg over Harry’s and have a hand on his waist, and Harry, almost always would be suffocated between the two, and they learned, slowly, that even though the war was done, it still drummed through each of their veins, its remnants still lingering in them. 

Hermione was the only one of the three to decide to go back to Hogwarts, Harry had put most of the money he received from his Order of Merlin towards reconstruction efforts at Hogwarts, and to Saint Mungos, funnelling more money into their Magical Creatures Ward, into their Trauma Ward, among a few others, trying to force the weight out of his chest by giving as much as he could to fix the mess he started. The mess that He started. Voldemort— Harry, they're the same aren't they? A two sided act, a muggle coin with two tails. Harry couldn’t go back there, his throat tightened up when he thought about it, about being there, trapped. He didn’t trust protection spells that weren't from his own magic, and the wards at Hogwarts had been torn down before, right? He thought he was justified in his paranoia, and he still didn’t tell Ron or Hermione about his bad habit, placing protego on himself when it was realistically not needed, he could even place the spel non-verbally now, and didn't even need his wand. His only tell was the slight shift of his magic in the room, like a leaf blowing in the wind, lightly brushing against their faces, or like the smell of someone's perfume briefly sneaking by. It was like a natural, animalistic kind of instinct, at any panic, like a rabbit with fight or flight, ready to flee and protect himself,  his mind instantly casting the spell. 

There were small threads of Hermione's magic in their apartments wards, wicked, intelligent, and more importantly, annoying hexes in place for intruders, something much like her snitch hex from fifth year, Hermione somehow, even now, still so focused on the injustice of a situation, as if she always had to throw herself into a social, societal, or philosophical debate, as if not to break down about the other tragedies in her personal life. 

Ron, however, fought Mrs Weasley tooth and nail about not going back, screamed and begged, and told her to fuck off in an screaming arguement that had left the entirety of the Burrow— in the middle of dinner on Harry’s Birthday, frozen, Ron included, and as if Harry was watching everything in some sort of slowed, skewly framed vision, he saw Ron’s heart break on his face, absolutely crack in two, as stood up, hands placed flat on the dinner table, and stared at her in horror, breathing heavily. He couldn’t speak after that, Ron; he had started clutching at his throat, his breath coming out in wild, uneven puffs of air, raspy gasps leaving his mouth as he started to cry. 

“Oh Ron,” Molly had whispered softly, quickly rising from the table and reaching out towards him, but Ron had let out a muffled scream, gasping away from her as he blindly backed up, half tripping over his chair, before collapsing against the kitchen floor, back pressed to the wall, pulling his legs up to his chest which painfully reminded Harry of the way he’d curl up, in his cupboard, as a child, when Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon would lock him in there, refuse to give him dinner or breakfast, or both. 

Molly brought a hand to her mouth, tearing up as again, everyone in the room froze. Hermione pulled on Harry's sleeve, a hand over her mouth, and pulled on him again, until he rose to his feet. 

“Im sorry..I’m sorry,” Ron gasped out, over and over like a mantra, eyes squeezed shut but still pleading to his mother. Harry kneeled next to Ron on the floor, bringing a hand to the back of Ron's neck, leaning in close. Ron sobbed louder, but leaned in towards Harry, even with his eyes closed, as if knowing it was someone safe. He knew Ron still had nightmares, all three of them did, but he knew Ron specifically dreamt of the long months they were on the run, hunting Voldemort's horcruxes, fighting for their lives. Ron would wake up in a confused panic, clutching at his neck as if looking for the locket, looking around expecting to see the walls of their tent.  Harry would shift away from Hermione, and climb on top of Ron, pressing him down, giving some weight to remind him of where he is, as if to physically push him back into the present. Ron’s hands would find their way into Harry’s tangled hair, pulling sometimes— which would cause Harry to make the smallest of moans against Rons chest, cause Harry to melt a little deeper, and curl into him even more, until they’d fall asleep again, and find Hermione pressed to their sides in the morning, her face troubled, even when sleeping, hidden beneath her hair. 

It felt like all of them were trapped in different parts of their lives, Harry stuck so desperately in his childhood, his past memories falling into the present as if walking through a doorway, Ron however, walked through their months on the run, as if he never left the Forest of Dean, as if it was still his present , and Hermione, well. Mione was trapped in a fear of the future, fearing what the world was shifting into, believing it was up to them still, children really, to fix it.

“Ron,” Harry said,” Look at me, come on,” He brought a hand to Ron’s cheek, gently tilting his head towards Harry’s, lips close to his cheek,” Ronny, look at me.” 

Ron’s eyes opened as if pained, his pale face blotched with splotches of red, blue eyes glassy, staring directly into Harry’s as if that was the only thing that could ground him. Hermione kneeled on Rons other side, shifting Ron so that his back leaned against her chest. 

Hermione brought her lips to Ron's cheek, and he closed his eyes again at the impact, she kissed firmly along his cheek, trailing to the side of his head, and then to his ear before whispering, softly as if not to startle a wild deer,” Do you want to go home?” She brushed his hair out of his face, Ron’s eyes had opened again, and had fallen away from Harry’s eyes, but stared instead at a scar on Harry's cheek,” We have that VHS of Scream to watch, hm? Can get ice cream, have a bath,” Another kiss, to the skin behind Ron’s ear,” I’m sure we can convince Harry to bake something good.” She smiled at Harry, drawing Rons attention, but even Harry saw how pained it was, and he couldn’t bring himself to smile back. 

And that's what they had done, Ron not looking at anyone in the room, something on his face childlike and guilty as they helped him to his feet. Harry left Ron briefly to grab all of their wands, their jackets, and kissed Mrs Weasley’s cheek goodbye, who was sniffling tearfully into Bill, Arthur's hand on her knee. They apperated home, and Hermione brought Ron into their shower, Harry tried not to vomit while he mixed together ingredients in a large bowl, Ron liked brownies with extra chocolate chips inside, something Bill would make when babysitting them as kids, but Harry couldn’t tolerate food anymore, as if stuck forever in #4, Privet Drive despite it being a year to the day since he's lived there. He could feel the tears fill in his eyes as he burnt himself off a pan in the Dursleys kitchen, or the smell of the food Petunia would feed him, something with red meat and dark sauce that made Harry gag. Nothing ever filled him, he remembered with envy how he ate at Hogwarts, he shoved food down his throat like it was the last time he’d ever eat, and it always felt like it would be. His loss of appetite was startling and left him unaware at the same time, as if he was only truly aware of it right now— which is not necessarily true, hovering over the mixer trying not to throw up into the bowl of chocolate. 

He poured the mixture in a pan, and set it in their oven to bake, shuddering his way into their bathroom, despite the fact that Hermione and Ron were in there, in the shower— naked, and quite probably together. Harry fell onto his knees as he gagged into the toilet, the bile coming up his throat soon after, the smell of his aunt's food in his nose, the feeling of the spiders in his cupboard crawling over his back. Tears had welled in his eyes, unwanted and unusual, he hated crying, the way snot got trapped in his nose, his lungs struggling to breathe. But most of all, Harry hated crying in front of people, and can hear it in a haunting echo, the way Dudley would mock him for how sensitive he was, would laugh something cruel even at ten, and call him gay for it, bitter and only nine, Harry could feel it, as if he was still a child and it was happening all over again, he felt it in the now, as if he was experiencing Dudleys mirrored bigotry for the first time. 

“Harry?” Hermione questioned, and he heard the screech of the shower curtain as she peeked her head out,” Oh dear, Harry are you alright?” 

Harry tried to respond, and threw up in the toilet again instead. He heard them move, and tried to look, until he threw up again, black spots in his vision. Harry groaned as more tears fell, more puke coming, burning his throat with a sting. He felt water drip onto his shirt before a hand touched his back, and then a body, wet and clinging to him. Harry threw up three more times, and then with a shuddering noise, that sounded close to both a sob and a moan, curled into Ron, not even realising that Ron was still wet, and naked. 

Hermione was at his side next, flushing the toilet and sitting on its closed seat, wrapped in a towel, but had helped Harry between her legs, and leaned her head against Harrys, humming something soft, as if to lighten the air in the room. 

They helped him pull his soaked shirt off, but left Harry's ripped jeans, the ones with holes large enough for his entire knee to be out, they left those untouched, as Harry continued to shudder between their bodies, he hated himself at that moment. Ron was the one who was struggling, who needed help and all Harry could think about was the smell of Aunt Petunia's food, and the feeling of his cold, dark cupboard, or the way, at fourteen, he’d shamefully cry in his room, full of things that didn’t feel like they belonged to him, besides Hedwig. He’d sit there, and cry pathetically; thinking of the different ways Dudley had called him gay, or made fun of Harry’s nightmares over Cedric that he started to get after fourth year. It was in all of his senses, his nose, his hands, his ears, he needed pressure, and suddenly like divine intervention, he felt it. A sharp pressure— like a sting that throbbed harder and sharper each time spazamed against his temple, he realised, as Ron grabbed his wrist in a gentle but firm hold, that it was Harry's own hand smacking and punching at his head.   

He moaned softly, when Hermione pressed her cold hands against his bare back, settling on his sides, Hermione hummed again, pressing her mouth against his shoulder, not necessarily a kiss, but not not one,”Your running hot, Harry,” She said softly,” Why don’t you and Ron finish that shower, maybe it’ll cool you down. I’ll finish up what you’re making.” She sighed into his shoulder, another one of those not not kisses— still on his back but close enough to the crux of his neck that it had him leaning back towards them. 

It was an odd thing, their love for each other, the three of them had seen the worst aspects of each other during the war, had gotten used to the sight of each others bare bodies, used each other for warmth and had fought against and for each other so many times their organs have been beaten raw and bloodied. He wasn’t in love with Ron, or Hermione, but they were the closest people who got it. He could take comfort in them in a way he couldn’t in any other way, and they too, seeked him out, sobbed into his shoulder, sought comfort in his space. 

Ron’s hands sought out Harry’s sides, gripping him and easing him up onto his feet, Harry was more aware of it then, their surroundings, of sorts. Ron was still wet, water dripping down his skin like some sort of sin, and Harry thought briefly of licking the water off Ron’s body. Harry thought, they take comfort in so much that they could have this too. 

Ron’s hands slid down to Harry's hips, holding him up against him, he heard something fall as Hermione huffed. He felt Ron’s head shifting till his chin rested on top of Harry’s head, and he, no doubt, was watching Hermione, her towel now at Harry’s feet. He felt Hermione press against his back, and properly this time kiss his shoulder, before shifting up, as if onto her toes, while Harry buried his face into Rons neck. He heard the sound of Ron and Hermione kissing, the gentle sound of them colliding as Ron shifted, one hand away from Harry to brace against Hermione. Harry shifted, leaning against Ron so that he could look up and watch them, watch Ron’s tongue slip into Hermione's mouth with a quiet moan. 

Hermione pulled away, flushed cheeks on her dark skin, she looked down at herself and huffed an almost embarrassed laugh, before bending over, head close to Harry’s dick, and tied her curly hair up into a bun, before shifting her head to the side, and seeing proof of Harry’s, albeit, still mildly panicky— he still couldn’t breath quite right, his arousal, or a consequence of his panic attack he didn’t know.  

Still bent over, Harry couldn’t help but stare at the shape of her curves, the firm shape of her ass, and the round shape of her tits, just peeking over where her hand covered them. Hermione glanced up at him, smiling softly, and said quietly, a small tilt to her head, like a dog,” You’re gonna shower?” 

Harry nodded, a wheeze to his breath as Ron brought his lips just behind Harry’s ear, licking at the skin. Hermione kneeled on the tiles, hands over her tits, thighs pressed together, hiding her cunt. Hermione pressed her lips to the skin above Harry’s waistband, which fell just above his hips, she sucked and bit at the skin there, moaning softly as Harry’s dick throbbed. 

Hermione then said, voice a soft whisper,” You aren’t gonna shower with your jeans on,” A sly look up at him, as she pressed her cheek against his clothed dick, making him groan, pressing a hand to the back of her head,” Are ya, Harry?” 

He tried to answer, he felt so far away from how he felt in the kitchen, the two of them brought some sort of escape Harry could fall into, where he didn’t need to think. He just shook his head after opening his mouth a second time, pressing Hermione more firmly against him, moaning as she licked at his dick— over his jeans, the hottest fucking thing he’d ever seen in his eighteen years. 

Hermione brought her hands away from her chest and Ron moaned into Harry’s ear at the sight of her tits, Ron brought a firm hand to Harry’s hips, fingers brushing against the side of his ass, Harry tried to both lean into Rons embrace, while thrusting his hips towards Hermione's searching hands. Hermione's fingers brushed against his dick as she found the button of his jeans, then the zipper, fingers working slowly as if to work him up more— he wondered if she knew what this was for him, to lose himself in his own body, to have them press the parts of himself to bring him back, if thats why she dragged it out, to make it hurt harder— last longer. 

He could feel Rons bare cock, hardening against the crack of his ass, and as Hermione brought the zipper fully down, pulling the clothing away from his hips, her tits bouncing slightly as she moved, Harry grinded back into Ron's cock. 

Hermione helped Harry step out of his jeans, he felt, albeit— mildly inappropriately, that he was a child here, supported between two people trying to take care of him, give him what he needed. 

It was his boxers next, which Hermione pulled down a bit more impatiently, she made a quiet noise when she saw Harry’s cock, still getting harder, and leaking all over his boxers, a notable stain of how turned on he was. 

She stared up at Harry, glancing softly at Ron who was sucking at Harry’s neck now, greedy squeezes at Harry’s hips as he moved ever so slightly against Harry’s ass, a slight rock to his hips that Harry clenched against. Hermione pressed a hard kiss to the base of Harry’s dick, his eyes shut closed as he moaned, and she took him in her mouth, far and farther back till he didn’t know anything but her,. 

One of Ron's hands had a firm hold of Harry’s quivering thigh as Hermione sucked Harry’s cock greedily, he thought he was going to come, so fucking quick, the small tight heat of her mouth blinding him, he couldn’t keep his eyes open, his vision still spotty. All he wanted to do was look at Hermione, naked and on her knees for him, and he wanted to look at Ron’s tight grip on his thigh, wanted to lean further into the press of Ron’s hickeys, which no doubt were littering Harry’s throat, as if he’d been mauled. He felt wanted, under their hands, and mouths, he felt this restless energy, some malfunctioned grief settling inside him when they were holding onto him. 

He was ready to open his mouth, to beg Hermione, to tell her he was about to come, as she pulled off, spit connecting from his cock to her mouth. 

“Fuck,” Ron moaned against Harry’s neck,” You look like a slag.”

Hermione made a small noise, gasping against Harry’s thigh, he wondered how wet she was, her thighs squeezed tightly together. He wanted to see her cunt, wanted to see what she tasted like under his tongue more than he wanted anything to do with those brownies in the oven. 

“Mione,” Harry gasped,” Please— I, I need,” He couldn’t get it out, he thrusted his hips forward, towards her cheek, she wrapped a firm hand around the base of his cock. 

“I think you can save the fun till later?” She was doing it on purpose, these wide, big— almost doe like innocence to her eyes, as she kissed just under her fingers, come leaked out of Harrys cock onto her thighs,” You can do that for me, right boys?” 

Ron groaned,” How long is later, love,” He pressed a kiss to Harry’s shoulder,” He’s fucking begging for it.” 

She gave them a look,” Well it’s not fair for me to be left out,” She brought herself to stand,” While i’m not there.” 

“Fuck the brownies,” Ron panted, reaching out for her, pressing a kiss just under her eye,” Come with us, love.” 

She kissed his jaw, and said,” No, you and Harry help each other out,” She pulled away from them both, and Harry felt the loss of her warmth instantly, a small playful glare to her eyes as she said,” Just not too much fun, yeah?”

“We don't,” Harry panted, inhaling deeply, trying to force his brain to focus enough to get the words out,” We don’t— have clothes to wear.” 

Hermione smiled slightly,” I’ll bring some in,” She hummed,” what would you like?” 

Harry, more or less, blanked, and stared at her dumbly until she brought a hand out to his cheek, soft as if not to spook and said,” Do you want me to pick?” Her thumb brushed against his lip. 

He nodded silently, she whispered a soft okay, and pressed her lips to his temple, before pulling away completely. 

She left the bathroom, still naked, with a small sway to her ass that Harry watched. He felt odd, something like he was on camera, everything not quite real, something like this new movie they had gone to see, ‘The Truman Show’, he felt like at some moment reality would come crashing down, and he’d open that door in the sea— or was it the sky? And he’d realise, he still was laying, half-dead in the Forbidden Forest. 

As if sound came rushing in at her absence, the noise of the shower came crashing into Harry’s ears.

Ron started to shift Harry towards the shower,” Waters probably cooled down by now,” A firm hand to his hip, and the middle of his back, as Harry stepped over the tub's edge,” Should cool you down.” 

The water was cool enough to sting Harry’s skin, until he had the warmth of Ron's bare skin pressing him into the bathroom wall, Ron panted against his forehead, pressing a firm kiss to Harry’s temple.

“Fuck Harry,” Ron’s voice cracked on the sound of Harry’s name,” I’ve been so, fucking lost.” 

Harry found his hands winding up to Ron’s neck, a thumb brushing against his Adam's apple, Harry pressed a kiss to Ron’s jaw, Ron leaned down closer, panting against Harry’s cheek, another kiss.”I keep waking up,” Ron's voice was at a whisper,” and all i can think is that we are still on the run, that were still hungry, and sleeping in those tents. And i’m so terrified I cant breathe, can’t move— until you wake up,” a kiss to his neck,” and press yourself on me like fucking crookshanks or something, but you press down on me so deeply, and its like you press into me hard enough to make my lungs start breathing again, my heart start beating properly.” 

Ron’s cock brushed against Harry’s, and Harry groaned, head smashing back into the tile, Ron made a noise of sympathy and pressed a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“We are gonna try something,” Ron whispered,” But you gotta trust me, and you gotta be quiet, yeah mate?” 

Harry whined into the touch of Ron’s cock against his, a quiet ring, subtle like a dog whistle but nonetheless there. Ron smiled down at Harry and said,” I know Hermione said no fun, but when do you and I ever follow the rules? Certainly not at Hogwarts, goody two shoes should know better, don't you think?” Ron’s smile looked a little more like a smirk as he wrapped a hand around Harry’s dick, tight at the base,” You need it, yeah?” 

“Please,” Harry gasped out, licking into Ron’s mouth. Ron somehow got closer, their cocks in one hand, one of Harry’s ass cheeks in the other, he got them off with this hand while Harry quietly begged into his neck. Ron shifted his hand with a final squeeze to Harry’s ass, gripping the back of Harry’s thigh, and bringing it up, till his foot was to Ron's back, and his knee at Ron’s waist. 

Ron squeezed Harry’s thigh once more and murmured,” You keep your leg there, yeah? You can do that for me right, Harry?” 

Harry had only heard Ron talk like this a few times, a couple— Ron had been so angry as if his blood was so hot it boiled that his voice got this low edge to it, one other time, he had been in bed, one of the first times he hadn’t slept between them, when he woke up, and rolled away at the edge of the bed, something like five in the morning. He rolled over to see Hermione pressed on top of Ron, riding his dick. Ron's voice had been so deep, something like personified control that had twisted something in Harry’s stomach, and he couldn’t help but think about it now, how Ron has him here, in this case, completely supporting him. 

Harry moaned as Ron’s finger brushed against his ass, lightly swiping his finger along the crack. Ron licked into his mouth at the sound Harry made,” Now I’m not gonna fuck you just yet, that would be too much fun, and someone wouldn’t like that,” He gave Harry a knowing look, something that made a small laugh huff out of Harry,” But if one of my fingers somehow ends up in your ass?” He squeezed Harrys ass again,” and you happen to fuck back on it, well that’s not our fault is it? Hermione can't be mad,” He pressed a kiss to Harry's mouth.  

And that's what Ron did, whispered a soft spell against Harry’s moaning mouth, and pressed a harsh finger into Harry’s ass, giving something absolutely shattering and taking everything in his focus. Harry begged into Ron's mouth, asking for more, even though he still had Ron’s hand around their cocks, going at a fast, harsh pace, and Rons finger brushing against his prostate at almost every thrust. 

They weren't being quiet, and Hermione definitely knew, but Merlin it pressed whatever itch it was inside him— further and further outside of Harry’s skin. 

“Fuck, baby,” Ron gasped at a particular thrust, moaning into Harrys mouth. Harry desperately wanted to hear the nickname again but didn’t know how to ask, so he just cried out, in a small whisper,” Please,” against Ron’s tongue, and prayed he got the message.

Ron took a deep breath, stilling both his fingers and his hand, pressing Harry harder into the shower wall,” You like that? Harry— baby?” Harry moaned, seeking out for Ron’s finger, which just brushed his prostate,” Is that what you need right now? To be our baby?” 

“Ron—” Harry gasped, and Ron pulled his finger out of Harry’s ass, which was the last thing he wanted, Harry felt jumpy at the loss, a cold, emptiness inside him without Ron, then Ron’s hand fell away from his cock, and Harry actually cried, a sobbing noise that had Ron hushing him, hands pressing down to his thighs, fingers pressing into the crack of his ass, just lightly. 

“I have you, baby,” Ron said, kissing him, he squeezed Harry’s thighs more firmly,” Come on, up, I have you.” 

Ron picked Harry up, pressing his back straight against the wall, legs wrapped around Ron’s waist, Ron licked at Harry’s chest, sucking at his nipple, while Harry’s head leaned back against the wall, arms gripping at Ron’s shoulders, biting back against a sob. 

“Merlin’s tits— I know what I said baby but I gotta— fuck,” Rons cock nestled under Harry’s ass, the tip just brushing against the crack of his ass. Ron moaned,” Please baby— I know what I said but can I?” 

“Yes, yes— Ron, please,” Harry babbled, and Ron shifted him up, Harry’s cock brushing against Ron’s chest with a shocked moan, Rons fingers gripped Harry’s ass for a long second, sighing softly, before bringing one hand to support Harry’s thigh, and the other to Harry’s ass, two fingers pressing in with a sharp burn as Ron’ hummed,” You can take it baby— I know it, come on, fuck you’re so tight.” 

Hermione's voice echoed into the bathroom as she said,” I know you’re having fun without me,” Harry could hear the faux pout to her voice,” I left some clothes, made popcorn too,” She hummed, and then said,” Ron at least help him wash up after you’re done breaking my only rule.” 

She left with quiet footsteps after that, and just before the door closed, Ron thrusted harshly into Harry, his fingers curling against Harry’s prostate causing Harry to let out a loud moan, Hermione huffed a laugh before closing the door. 

“I gotta make it up to her, huh?” Ron’ grinned as he started a fast pace in and out of Harry’s ass,” But first I’m gonna make you feel good, yeah?” 

Harry doesn’t even know the last time he's had a shower, they only really left the apartment for the sunday dinners at the Burrow, or maybe someone's birthday. Harry had gotten so used to cleaning charms, to the point where his nose always felt sharp with the acidic hospital smell, that he forgotten the feeling of the water thundering down on you, so similar to the cold nights they’d spend in the forest of dean, rain falling down on them, he remembered once, drunk off some wine they stole, dancing drunk and naked in the rain, one night of reprieve after many hungry ones, they were pressed up against each other, bare skin and wine staining their lips. Hermione had given them some cheese with their dinner that night, and all three of them had collectively moaned in delight at having one good day, after so many bad ones. 

Ron fucked into Harry with three fingers till he was crying out loudly enough for Hermione to hear, begging to come at least, and Ron finally pressed his cock in with a greatful moan from Harry. He hadn’t ever gotten this far before— had had handjobs and a blowjob or two, but the blinding feeling of Ron’s large, hard cock inside him, was a feeling he never wanted to go without. Thoughts blinked away so freely like this, completely pressed up in Ron’s space, he felt like Ron could fuck him to the point it was spilling out of his throat, like a baptism, cleansing away Harry’s sin. 

Ron was more or less sucking on Harry’s tongue when he came, begging useless prayers for Ron to go faster, Merlin knowing how he would with the fast way he fucked into Harrys ass,” Fuck baby, look at you,” Ron moaned,”So good Harry, does that feel good.” 

Harry just cried out, what else could he do? Moaning as Ron fucked into him, overstimulated and still begging for more. Ron fucked once, twice and a third time before coming, cock thrusting and pausing directly against Harrys prostate. Ron let out a sharp breath, lips falling to Harry’s shoulder as he sucked, rocking his hips like he couldn’t help it, slow shifts that had Harry clenching around him. It felt like Ron was coming forever, spilling into Harry, making him feel full in a way he's never felt before. 

Ron stayed still for a few minutes, before smiling at Harry, and pulling out with a small moan, easing Harry onto his wobbly feet, and saying,” Let's get you clean, yeah?” 

Ron, still holding Harry up with a firm hand to his hip, reached for the body wash, and a loofah, pouring a generous amount of soap before scrubbing the area around Harry's thighs with light, deep scrubs, Harry felt like crying into him. Ron started to scrub against Harry’s chest, his armpits, shoulder and back. He got to his arms, and his calves, and even pressed small kitten licks, on his knees, to Harry’s ankles while gently scrubbing Harry’s feet. 

Ron pressed a finger back into Harry’s stretched hole as if he couldn’t help it, Harry let out a girlish squeal that had him red in the face while Ron grinned. Ron’s head tilted, a suggestive smirk to his lips as he whispered,” What if one part of you stays dirty?” 

Harry could barely hear him over the roar of the shower, but found himself nodding anyway, desperate for whatever Ron would give him. Ron shifted them, and Harry watched as he moved the bar of soap out of he soap dish, Ron was the only one who ever used a regular bar of soap. Ron brought the soap dish in his hands, Harry watched before his eyes, more impressed than not, as the dish moulded under Ron’s hands, reshaping into a circular shaped figure, that had Harry’s gut warming with implication. Harry had forgotten how skilled Ron was in transfiguration, even wandless. 

Ron looked at Harry a little shyly,” Yeah?” a small whisper to Harry’s lips,” I casted protection charms before we fucked,” He nudged his sharp nose along Harry’s cheek,” So you don’t have to worry about that.” Harry hadn’t even heard him cast the spell. 

Harry nodded again, words lodged in his throat, and preened under Ron’s fingers as he thrusted in and out of Harry again, two fingers— and quickly three before he was slowly pressing the butt plug into Harry. Harry moaned as it filled him, just brushing against his prostate. 

Getting out of the shower was a quiet affair, Ron supporting Harry by his waist as he kissed his bare shoulder and dried him with a towel. Harry couldn’t help but groan and the gentle brushes of the towel against his ass, and Ron kissed him fully on the mouth at the sound, their tongues touching, lips slipping with the sudden heat. 

Ron helped dry his hair, and pull him into the pyjama pants Hermione left out, they were Ron’s and too long for Harry’s legs, Ron also helped Harry pull on a sweater that was no doubt knitted by Mrs Weasley, it was maroon, and completely clashed with the yellow coloured plaid pants he was wearing. Something warmed in Harry's face at the sight of the ‘R’ knitted into the sweater, it smelt like christmas, something like clementines— a joke Hermione made in fifth year, their first time getting high, giggling how clementines were the fruit of christmas, to which Ron admittedly disagreed, stating that cranberries had to be. Every time they saw one, or one of them was eating one, one of them would crack up and make the joke, and something about the weed probably, was what made them laugh so hard each time, their minds remembering the wonderful ache of being blissfully at peace about something, laughing for no reason aside from feeling good. 

He thought that this smell was Ron, mixed in with something like pine, and followed silently, and feeling a lot more pleased as Ron led them into the living room, where Hermione sat in one of Harry’s Quidditch Jerseys, and a pair of large boxers that just barely peeked out from the shirt, Harry eyed Ron— while Ron shamelessly eyed Hermione's bare thigh. 

Hermione pointed to the table,” I made popcorn, and set the VHS up,” Harry saw some chocolate residue on her lips, as she licked at her finger. Harry thought of her mouth around his cock, and shifted uncomfortably— almost letting out a small noise when Ron forced him to sit down. He almost forgot about the plug in his ass and felt his face warm. Suddenly, he realised that Hermione didn’t know, and shifted again, biting back a noise when Ron settled beside him— half on top of him, a hand on Harry’s thigh, like he knew. 

Hermione settled closer, and said,” God Harry— your brownies, delicious,” She smiled at him, and shifted up from the couch, Harry could see up her shirt, and shifted again, suddenly so warm,” I have one for you, let me go get it.” 

Harry eyed the tray of brownies on the table, confused why he couldn’t do— as Ron currently was, and just grabbed one from the coffee table. But Hermione left, humming and hips swaying as she did, and Harry groaned slightly, to a huff of Ron's amusement following, at how horrible his thoughts were, each tied to the slowly aching feeling in his cock. Ron waved a hand, and a large blanket floated out from under the couch, Ron snatched it from the air and pulled it over their laps, covering Harry. As Hermione came back, Harry noticed she had a small slice of the brownie, with one small, but bright candle lit on it. 

“We didn’t get to the cake,” She said, risking a glance at Ron, who was quietly eating his brownie,” But I transfigured some old thing into a candle, here love.” 

Hermione settled next to him, and handed him the brownie,” what are you gonna wish for,” Ron whispered to Harry ear. Harry swallowed, his thoughts still maining centred to the ache in his dick, and all he could think about was the plug in his ass, Hermione's bare skin, Ron’s cock inside him. 

Harry blew out the candle, Hermione leaning into him with the bowl of popcorn, pulling out the small candle for him before disappearing with a little wave. Hermione pressed play on the movie, and eventually, at one point, Ron got up and brought them all glasses of wine. They were giggling into each other, pressing their bodies into each other, further into the couch, when Hermione suddenly let out an excited gasp, almost spilling her just refilled glass of wine, and ran off to her bedroom with a little laugh. What she came out with made both Harry and Ron groan unexpectedly and laugh, as she pulled out a small lighter and a joint. They smoked it while watching the movie, room hazy as Hermione sat in Harry's lap, blowing smoke into Ron’s mouth. When the joint was gone, and Hermione charmed away the smell, all Harry could feel was the ache in his ass— how hard he was, and couldn’t stop shifting under their wandering hands. At one point, maybe just over half way during the film, Hermione had shifted over, her thighs pressed tightly against Harry, and her shoulder pressed to his, her head leaning against him, when suddenly the room grew tight as Ron reached his hand over, first to her thigh, and then further. 

Hermione didn’t react at first, as Ron slowly rubbed the outside of her cunt, from over her boxers, but Harry was transfixed by Rons wandering hands. It was a little bit longer, Ron just gently rubbing back and forth, before Hermione achingly raised her hips, thrusting slightly into Ron's hand, leaning further into Harry. 

Ron laughed,” Fuck, Mione.” He pressed down a little harder, and she let out a gasp. 

Ron leaned into Harry, still playing with Hermione, his lips brushed up from Harry’s nose, to his cheek, along his jaw, and to his neck, till Ron trailed a path with his lips up to Harry’s ear, licking at his lobe, Ron whispered,” You’re being so well behaved, baby.” Ron let out a small groan,” Do you wanna tell Hermione our little secret, or should I?” 

Harry moaned, well timed with Hermione as she panted out a slowed and hissed “Fuck,” while Ron rubbed at her pussy from outside her boxers. Hermione grinded into Ron's hand, while Harry started to feel something odd. It was small at first, subtle as if trying not to surprise him, but it quickly sped up and Harry realised there was a buzzing in his ass. 

The butt plug Ron put inside him. 

Harry moaned, while Ron laughed. 

 Harry watched someone die on the tv screen, screams ringing out, while he took a sip of wine, he shifted his hips, grinding down on the plug, forcing his ass down against the couch while Hermione moaned into his neck, with hot panting breaths. She was more or less humping Ron’s hand; Harry was waiting for her to jump him. 

Harry started begging near the end of the movie, there was a loud ringing in his ears and he couldn't hear but he was aching. So wet in his pyjamas, and couldn’t handle the way Hermione sounded before his ears cut out. 

He thought maybe Ron explained cause Hermione licked at his ear and panted,” He put something in your pussy, huh?” 

Maybe it was the wine, or the weed in his system— his blood level was surely illegal. Or perhaps it was them, making him feel so warm, and full. Distracting him from whatever hell his brain wanted to lay in waste to, and frying his circuits instead. 

“Mione,” Her name was a gasp from his mouth, he couldn’t help it, his hips arched up. Hermione moaned again, and shifted away from Ron's hand with a light slap of her hand, turning off the movie and switching it to muggle news, before absolutely jumping Harry’s bones, and grinding her cunt down against Harry’s thigh, Fingers digging in his ass to feel the vibrations of his plug. Ron moaned next to them, hands reaching out, to Hermione's chest, fingers flicking at her nipples, over her shirt. His lips against her bare shoulder, which fell from the shirt, which was too big for her. Reaching down to Harry's cock, adding pressure through his Pyjamas. Eventually though, Ron pulled down his pyjamas, grabbed at Hermione's hips, helping her out of the boxers. Ron had laughed, as Hermione eased onto his lap,” Fuck you’re so wet huh?” 

For a while the vibrations had calmed down, though while Ron was distracted, it seemed it heightened to a new setting, Harry cried out, forcing himself closer to Ron, curling his head into Rons neck as Ron fucked into Hermione. 

He and Hermione were a mess on Ron, Harry came against them both with a tired moan while the vibrations kept going even after his orgasm. Hermione moaned as she road Ron, and eventually came on Ron's cock, moaning as he continued to thrust inside her while saying,” Fuck, Mione, your so good— so wet, and tight, Merlin, I can’t.” 

“Fuck Mione I need to come, you feel so good.” 

“Fuck Harry— you should feel how tight she is, Merlin—” 

Ron eventually came and with a few murmured cleaning spells from Harry, Ron eventually lifted a falling asleep Harry up from the couch, leaving a sleeping Hermione. Ron had fixed Harry’s clothes at some point, but he was still cold in Rons arms. Ron brought him to his bed, and left Harry gently in the warm sheets— likely to get Hermione. Harry was confirmed right, blinking confusedly at them ass Ron brought her into his bedroom. Harry felt warm and loose and tight all at once, missing their contact, finally free of Ron's plug but still missing its weight nonetheless. 

Harry pressed himself into Rons side when he curled up behind him, rolling over and pressing his lips against Rons jaw, as if a quiet attempt at a thank you. Hermione snuggled into Harry back and Harry could hear her start to snore, as Ron blink blurrily down at him. Eventually Ron blinked off to sleep, while Harry couldn’t fall asleep until he whispered in his head, over and over, protego,, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego—

//

The boy with a thorn in his side, behind the hatred there lies, A plundering desire for love.

So Draco— 

Draco— godamn,  for fucking sakes, Merlins tits of a fucking dickhead, hot mother fucker— Malfoy. It started in the following September, which arrived like the pressing weight of a prophecy, impending and all too soon.

Hermione went back to Hogwarts, and Ron and Harry fell into a depressing quiet. Most nights were spent half picking at take out on the couch, something playing on the tv, old favourites of Hermiones, or movies Harry had heard of growing up but could never watch. 

Harry would lay, half asleep on Ron but trapped in a terrifying quiet where he could never actually sleep. He went through a blurry weekend of smoking so much weed and cigarettes, their apartment filled during Halloween weekend, with eighth years from Hogwarts, other friends that didn’t go back, everyone smoking and drinking and dancing in their small space, bodies pressed together. Harry was awake the entire weekend, smoking most of what Ron had bought off Dean. It was only on Halloween, a Sunday, when Hermione pressed him into her bed— Ron, Seamus and Dean cleaning up the mess of their apartment with drunken giggles and waves of magic flowing from them like taps, that Harry could almost sleep, still high and just on the edge of sleep.

Ron curled in bed with them later, a leg coming up over his and Hermiones calves. And Harry could finally relax, with a shuddering breath, until she went back to school, and it was a silent house again. 

Ron and Harry tried to fill the silence, the best they could, they invited Nevile over, who smoked the best weed, something he grew, and watched muggle cartoons with them. Sometimes Nevile would bring Luna, who chose not to go back for her seventh year, still not quite the same since the war, but none of them really were. Surprisingly, one time, with Luna came Pansy Parkison, who gave a tearful, half drunk apology to Harry, and then owled him the next morning,  hungover, embarrassed and apologetic. Harry thought the hangover was penance enough. 

Harry knew, and repeated it to himself over and over, that they were all struggling, some bitter, twisted comfort that he wasnt the only one. They all had weird coping mechanisms or went oddly frozen at weird times.

Dean and Seamus, who never really separated during school but you’d be damned if you see them apart now, always have at least a finger on each other, eat off the same plate of food, every task a two person job. Or sullen George, who could quickly switch and become depressingly angry, an aching loss inside him, something akin to another missing limb; without Fred. Fiery Ginny Weasley, who Harry once thought he could spend a life with, Hermione reports she sullen with her classes, picked at food instead of properly eating and more often than not could be found with a dazed, glassy look in her eye. Hermione said she sees Ginny most weekends passed out in their dorm with a bottle of fire whiskey in her lap. 

“I don't know what to do about Gin,” Ron had whispered the night after Hermione went back,” I mean I can’t very well go to mum— I'm not much better off, and Gin surely knows that.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say, he knew it was stupid, but it was still a quiet realisation that they were truly struggling, that sleeping and smoking through most the day was not living. And mid-november when Ron looked at Harry with a guilty look in his eye, thinner than Harry has ever seen him, he informed Harry he was going to visit Charlie for the next two weeks. Alone. 

Harry didn’t want to sound needy, didn’t know how to explain it, felt like he was walking around without an arm while Hermione was at Hogwarts, didn’t know how he could survive with Ron gone. But Ron left, fucking Harry before he went in something intimate but almost deja-vu like, a memory, like remembering how to use a broom. It had been a while, both of them smoking their energy away, their appetites raw and destroyed by cigarettes, and when Ron left, Harry still feeling the ache of how he fucked him, Harry was wired with a sudden need, now that Ron would be gone for so long. 

As if in the absence of availability, Harry felt the loss of the two of them harder than ever. The first two days he slept in Rons bed like a lost puppy, the third night he ended up in a bar. He was in that bar every night for the next week. And who did he find but Draco Malfoy. 

It seemed most points in Harry's life reflects back to him. 

The last time Harry saw Draco Malfoy, he looked terrible, stick thin and gaunt faced. Harry protested against Draco’s and his mothers sentences to Azkaban, arguing that they both saved his life. In the end, the trial went the saviour's way, Lucius, however would be surviving time for the next four years. Draco looked a little less thin now, in the bar, but he looked otherwise exhausted.

Harry doesn't remember how they started talking, just knows he got blasted. Drank back shots of tequila like they were water, and pulled Malfoy out for a smoke when suddenly they were pressed against the building and making out like teenagers. People in Diagon Alley walked by, but Harry paid no mind as Malfoy pressed his thigh against his dick. 

Harry ended up in Malfoys bed that night. Fucked over four times, stretched out and begging for it. Even with Ron and Hermione, Harry had never felt this weightless, free from anything but the feeling of Draco thrust in and out of him. 

He ended up in Dracos sheets every night that week, without agreement; meeting at the bar, getting sloshed and returning to Draco's bed, where Draco would edge Harry for hours or make him come as many times as he could. Sometimes its in the shower, or once on the floor. One time Draco fucked Harry on his balcony, and Harry swore the world bled violets and oranges, bright colours that striked across his vision as Draco made him come. 

Ron returned just before December, and Harry could feel it, whatever “it” was, that it was getting bad again. He felt as heavy as a weight in bed, didn’t bother to go outside to smoke, just charmed it away with practised hands, spending most of his time with Ron in bed. 

He refused to admit part of him missed Draco, and his bed, the feeling of him inside and how weightness and undisturbed Harry slept. But Harry didn’t want to give in, or get out of his warm sheets, so he ignored whatever disgusting part of him that ached for Draco Malfoy, and leaned further into Ron's warmth.

//

The Christmas kids were nothing but a gift, and love is a tower where all of us can live, you'll change your name or change your mind— and leave this fucked up place behind

It was during the Christmas break, when Hermione was home in their apartment. They were forcing themselves to spend the break spread across Hermione's parents and cousins, who missed her terribly, and Ron's family at the Burrow, plus weekend nights out with their friends. Still trying to find some kind of normal, all three of them were equally drained at the thought of it, but couldn’t help but feel the desperate ache of loss when without that time, which felt that so much more precious now, limited. 

Harry had gone from bad to worse. Nightmares were getting stronger, and Hermione thought he might’ve built up a tolerance for sleeping draughts. Harry hated sleeping now but couldn’t stand to be awake for long. Most nights he’d wake up to one of them whispering to him, telling him it’s okay, their hands on his back, in his hair. Lips on his cheek, neck, temple. 

This night, he could not be subdued. And strangely, Harry in some sort of horrified terror, did not want Ron, nor Hermione, but begged, and sobbed to see Draco fucking Malfoy. 

They weren't dating, Draco Malfoy wasn’t his boyfriend and Harry knew it. Harry fucking knew that, and begged for him anyway. 

He couldn’t be calmed down, and with desperate breaths, Harry sobbed and slapped away their hands when they tried to touch him, eventually Harry had locked himself in their bathroom, shivering with some manic look in his eye, pupils blown wide. 

Harry backed himself into a wall, knees curled up like how he would in his cupboard, ignoring Ron and Hermiones knocks on the door. Over and over Harry whispered under his breath various protection and locking wards against the bathroom, the only one opening this door would be Harry's own hands. Harry tucked his face into his knees and rocked back and forth on the cold tile, in nothing but shorts. He whispered,”protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego,protego,, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego—”

//

Is that where we went wrong? And something struck me, It struck me deep— it knocked me to my knees, Roddy, step on back from me.

“Harry it's me,” The noise was paired with a quiet knock on the door, Harry struggled to recognize who was speaking till a more inpatient huff came out and the voice said,” Come on Potter it's me, open the fucking door.” 

Harry very slowly stood, stumbling and bracing himself against the tub in a nauseous lurch. He very quietly walked to the door, unlocking it, and stumbling hard backwards, moving away too quickly, needing to go, that he collapsed back on the tiles. 

The door opened slowly, and only Draco came in. He closed the door with a soft click behind him, and locked it with a quick flick of the switch. 

“Oh Harry,” Draco whispered, and Harry doesn’t think he's ever heard his voice so soft. Draco walked forward very slowly, as if not to startle Harry, which made him let out a tearful laugh,” Harry, sweetheart, come here.” 

Harry melted into something pathetic at the nickname, burying his face in his knees, as he listened to Dracos steps get closer, and closer. 

Draco sat down next to Harry, close enough to touch. Draco’s hand wraps around Harry's ankle, and pulls, until Harrys foot is between his thighs, and Harry is half leaning, mainly collapsing into an embarrassing fit of sobs into Draco's chest and lap. 

“Harry, sweetheart, what happened?” Draco brushed a hand through Harry’s hair. His other hand on Harry's back.

Harry couldn't help it, it was like a running prayer on his mind, perhaps to the God Vernon worshipped. “protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego,protego,, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego, protego” 

Draco made a sympathetic noise, and shifted Harry so that he was curled closer to Draco. “Harry, you're safe here.” Draco pressed a kiss to Harrys forehead that broke his heart— it was never more than fucking between them till now, and the tender swell inside Harry, the way Draco held him, this felt like something more. 

“Shh, Harry,” Draco's hand rubbed up and down Harry's back,” I have you, you're safe. Don't worry.” Kiss after kiss was pressed to Harry's face, his cheek and jaw. Bruises sucked over what Ron left behind and perhaps some of Dracos own— old ones, Harry could feel himself comfortablely melting into Draco, that lightness that consumed him that got him, to what—- he at least thought, was a very subtle grind of his hips against Draco's chest. Perhaps the joint he had smoked earlier hadn't worn off yet. 

Draco kissed Harry— firmly licking into his mouth, grabbing his hips trying to slow down the pattern Harry built. Harry moaned into his mouth, something needy taking over him.

“Harry,” A kiss,” Harry— Harry, God Harry you're so hot,” A firm squeeze to his ass, a moan and then Draco gasped again,” Harry please— listen.”

Harry doubled down, kissing him deeper, and could feel the protesting noise Draco let out against his lips. Draco shifted them again in a blur Harry couldn’t follow, he had some sort of ache in his head, perhaps from his crying. Somehow, Draco stood, and lifted Harry up by his thighs, lifting him to sit on the bathroom counter, calves falling to hit a drawer. 

Dracos lips were pulled away, but not far, and Harry thought he could die there, with a sleepy eyed Draco Malfoy, in pyjamas with a hole in the bottom, his arms at Harry’s sides, hands flat to the counter on each side of Harry. 

Draco leaned down, breaths coming down on Harry’s lips, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, this headache he had, building almost behind his eyes. He felt like if he opened them they’d explode, perfectly onto Malfoy. 

Dracos hands were rubbing across his back, and then his sides, down to his thighs, trying to wipe away whatever hurt he could with the press of his fingers. Harry leaned his forehead against Draco's shoulder, and ignored any of Draco's efforts to get him to look up, and open his eyes. Harry swore he’d die if he did. 

It was a while later, he doesn’t know how long they’ve been in Harry’s bathroom, the only difference was the strengthening ache to Harry’s head, which was becoming more like a migraine. Draco pressed a hand to the nape of Harry’s neck, and pulled him up. Harry had actually cried out, hands going to his eyes to cover them, and Draco stood still for a moment, before he was hugging Harry, an uncomfortable angle, but hugging nonetheless, Harry thought briefly that Draco hugged like someone who really needed one, something Luna once said to Harry— that he hugged in the same way. 

“Harry,” Draco whispered at one point, a hand brushing through Harry’s curls,” Do you want to try going back to bed?” 

Harry shook his head almost violently, with the only pathetic thought on his mind, that going to bed in his bed meant going to bed without Draco.

He must have said something of the like to him as Draco said softly,” I won’t leave, I’ll stay as long as you want, Harry.” 

Harry sobbed again, hating how tightly he was gripping a hand onto Dracos shoulder, forcing him to be there while Harry fell apart, something gross and vile in his arms. 

“I’ll stay the whole night, Harry,” Draco whispered into the space between their skin,” Longer if you need.” 

Draco slowly, like if he was in charge of a wild animal, something that’d attack at any warning, led Harry out of the bathroom, Harry's spells whispered over and over under his breath,”protego, protego, protego, protego, protego.” 

Harry couldn’t see, their apartment was too bright, squeezed his eyes shut again, and let Draco lead them to where he wanted them to go. 

Harry found himself in his bed, as if he had fallen down onto it. Away from the sweaty sheets of Rons, and peeked his eyes open with a small groan, noting the dimmed lights in his room, everything glared in a soft orange. 

His head was on someone's lap— Dracos. And everyone was talking, more voices than he expected, all in quiet tones that still rang too loud in Harry's head. Harry couldn’t help the pathetic little sniffs he let out. Something else pressed against his back, soft skin like a thigh or the brush if s knee, lightly pressed against him. 

Draco hushed Harry again at some point, easing Harry’s head up, leaning against him, while with tired aching eyes, Harry blinked lowly at the rim of some sort of potion, and swallowed off instinct if nothing else. 

“Shh, you don’t need to cast that, Harry.” Draco whispered against his forehead,” Should I try? You know if I do it, the spell will work.” 

He thought Draco was maybe trying to make him laugh, or perhaps smile, but Harry had the energy for neither, but he did oddly believe, like the trust of a child, inherent and naive, believe that if Draco casted the protection spell over Harry, he might be able to breathe a little easier, might be able to fall asleep. 

Draco lifted his head away from Harry, and Harry could feel the murmurs of him talking, but not hear it. 

Draco hushed him one more time, before pressing a kiss to Harry's temple again, lips dragging to Harry's ear, as he whispered a soft, gentle,” Protego.” 

Harry hadn’t slept that well since Hogwarts. 

//

If I died in the middle of your paradise, would you change your mind, would you bring me back to life?

The last thing Draco Malfoy was expecting was Pansy, of all bloody people, waking him up in his flat, panicking about Harry Potter. Harry was a mess, that was noticeable since the first night he walked into the Bar in Diagon Alley, and had been apparent since Harry voted in favour to drop all charges against Draco’s mother and himself. Harry had had large bags under his eyes, deep purple, aching bruises that Draco wanted to brush away with his thumb. He had a crease to his mouth now too, bent in a frown, normally Draco could whisper a few sweet words, something that, as if the turn of a lock, would cause Harry to drop— melt completely. 

But here, in an unfamiliar bed— he had never been in Harry’s apartment before, surrounded by people he spent years fighting, Draco felt, more or less, worried and panicked in the same room as them, but he promised he wouldn’t leave Harry. 

And so he wouldn't.

Pansy leaned against Draco's back, while Draco sat in bed with Weasley of all people, and Harry asleep in his lap. Pansy brushed hair out of Draco's face, pulling the longer strains of his hair back, as if she were about to brush it. And all of them looked down, worried about Harry Potter. 

Hermione, who had been uncharacertistically silent, had finally sat on the edge of Harry’s bed, and asked,” Ron has he been like this since you got home?” 

Luna and Nevile were there too, standing closer to Draco and Pansy, as if both trying to make sure Harry was alright, breathing and such, while also giving the supposed “Golden Trio” their space.

Ron shrugged, looking down at Harry,” I mean he’s been sleeping loads— but he's been, I don't know— more energetic, in a way. Been talking about going out with everyone, Christmas shopping, you know…” 

It was guilt in Weasley’s voice, which Draco thought a little unfair. Just looking at any of them, in this room, all of them were dressed in their individual wounds of the war. Nevile, Draco had hung out with him and Pansy a few times, always looked high, Draco refused to believe the man slept, and Pansy was dressed in as many hickeys as deep as the bruises under her eyes, sleeping with someone in a different bed each night instead of facing the horrors her own. 

Luna looked, well, like fucking Lovegood. Draco thought it was inaccurate to say she looked unchanged, there was something inexplicably ghost like to her now, something that made the blank look on her face a little more lost, made the pressing touches Nevile pressed into her shoulder, her cheek, made a little more sense, as if trying to keep her there, with them. 

Weasley and Granger, well them plus Harry made a pair, the three of them were equal designs of exhaustion, seeking out each other's gaze, and Harry’s snoring face, as to insure to themselves that the three of them still remained. Draco wondered, not for the first time, what exactly happened to the three of them during their seventh year. 

“He asked me to stay,” Draco said, into the quiet room, Hermione and Ron shared a glance, something like what he, Blaise and Pansy might do, or even him and Greg as children, something only history could help understand. If Draco had his history of the golden trio right, it was something along the lines of worry and fear, but surprisingly not of Draco, but to leave Harry. 

“You don’t have to leave,” Draco grumbled, it was their apartment after all,” I’m just saying— that's what he asked. And I'm not leaving.” 

Hermione nodded in agreement, and Draco could see it in their eyes how both of them didn’t want to leave Harry, something in the way Wealsey stared down at Harry, something sad. 

Hermione, as if possessed by Dracos mum, threw herself into the role of hostess for a second, offering up their other spare beds to Nevile, Luna and Pansy, who agreed, and surprisingly took one bed to share, off in Hermione's room. Hermione left with them, and came back with four glasses of water floating after her, all of them gently placing themselves on the bedside tables.

Draco shifted, pulling Harry away from his lap, till he was laying under Harry, Harry's head pillowed on his chest, his hand gripping onto Draco's arm, as if insuring he couldn’t leave. Weasley laid next to them, his hand on Harry’s hip, and too close to Draco if he was in any other situation. Hermione was curled into Rons back, her curly hair spread around her pillow like a halo. 

Harry let out some sort of noise in his sleep, Draco hushed him again, wondering about Harry. The spells, protection spells murmuring under his breath in the bathroom, like something was going to hurt him— like Draco was going to again. Harry looked so small, curled into himself like a child, and it was clear how much weight Harry had lost. He used to be all lean muscle, built up from quidditch, but now— Harry was so gaunt it looked like he hadn’t seen food in months. So did Weasley, who had always been lean, but it was something notable now— as if Draco's eyes had been pried open to see the open wounds they all bled from. 

That would be the first goal, food. Get these three idiots to eat something, and look a little more like the rivals he missed them being, the normalcy they couldn’t get back, but fuck would Draco try. Just to maybe see Potter smile again, even if it was with his idiot friends. 

// 

Who made this mess? You try to clean it in your thousand dollar dress. But the stains are black, just like your soul, you try to cut them out, but you get left there all alone.

Harry shot up in bed at the speed of a bullet, like Avada Kedavra being casted, just as he was warm and dreaming in the grasp of sleep, he was aware of his cold sheets, and how alone he was in bed. 

The night before came back to him, and he realised that Draco had left him. Just as he could feel his chest lurch, his breath came out in unfair, little pathetic huffs, he heard a voice say,” Not so fast Potter.” 

Harry jumped to see a small armchair pulled up to the side of his bed, and saw Pansy sitting in it. 

“Dray went to make breakfast,” Pansy said, some sort of wool and knitting needle in her lap,” Then realised you have no fucking food, so he and Longbottom went food shopping.” 

Harry stared at her, breathing hard as she said,” He didn’t want you to be left alone. Granger and Weasley are showering.” 

Harry settled, breathing harshly in and out of his nose, he could hear the sound of the shower, and some sort of shuffling in his Kitchen, the sound of something sizzling. Draco must have gotten back already. 

Harry jumped out of his bed, leaving a humming Pansy behind, seeking out the sound of Draco in his apartment, having to know. He found instead, Luna, dancing to some soft tune from the radio, cutting something green, like spinach up on a chopping board he didn’t even know they owned. 

“Oh hullo, Harry!” Luna said brightly, in that distant sort of hum she had,” Draco is out on your balcony, if you’re looking for him.” She smiled, as if she hadn’t seen Harry meltdown last night, to which he didn’t actually know if she did, but presumed anyway.

Harry left his kitchen without another word, chest tightening at the sight of the space itself, and quickly found Draco— in one of Harry's sweaters, Red colours contrasted against his pale skin, smoking a cigarette on his balcony. 

Draco turned around when Harry opened the screen door, saying nothing as Harry forced himself into Draco's warmth, needy, like they were together. 

They weren't, Harry reminded himself. 

“I thought you left,” Harry whispered weakly into Draco's chest, smelling his own scent from the sweater. He heard Draco inhale, and could smell the smoke as it leaked into Harry's nose. 

“Just got hungry,” Draco murmured,” Crepes and eggs sound nice?” 

While Harry hasn’t considered food much in the recent months, can't put the effort into making it, can't even walk into the kitchen, has only truly eaten at the Burrow, even if it was just picking, and while all of that, Harry hadn’t ever been hungry. His stomach hadn’t grumbled, had been muted like a television, but here, at the sound of Dracos words, his body warmed at the idea of food. Draco made it sound so easy, to eat, and enjoy, as if he just had to walk in the room, and Harry supposes, that is all he has to do. 

 Harry smiled up, something soft at Draco, and found him smiling back. Harry stole a drag from Draco's cigarette, before nodding at Draco, and leaning in close to his mouth like it was a dark, deep confession spilling from his mouth, a secret nobody could hear. 

“I’m so hungry.” Harry closed his eyes at the confession, until Draco took one last drag, and inches Harry's chin up towards him. Harry opened his eyes to Dracos smile, as confessed softly,” Good. Me too.”

//

Under the shadows of doubt, he had the whisper of lust, he said no touching tonight, she closed her eyes in his trust. She said tuck me in, he knew his judgement was sound, still he pulled back the sheets, and said— you better lie down because the angels are watching. 

Hermione didn’t go back to Hogwarts after Christmas break, had decided to write her NEWT’s in June, but study from home. She had walked into the apartment one night, before collapsing on the living room floor, with her otherwise small bag, and pulled out stacks upon stacks of books— Harry thought maybe 25 or more books , while Harry— well, Harry started to see a lot more of Draco. They hadn’t fucked since Novemeber, and Harry hated how desperately he missed being under Draco like that, he refused to bring it up. 

Draco spent more nights in their apartment than not, never fucking Harry, but sleeping in their bed, some nights just the two of them, other nights rolled off to the side while Harry curled up against Ron. As the months fell from January to February and then suddenly fast, as if flying, hand stretched out for the snitch, suddenly zooming towards April, and Harry realised he’d seen Draco everyday in the past month, save the day Draco spent with his mum in France. 

Draco would sleep in his bed some nights, never mentioning his, Ron and Hermiones fucked up coping mechanism, never complaining that he had to share a bed with the three kids he spent his teenage years hating. 

Draco went out with them to clubs, and hung out with Ginny, Luna, and Nevile with them while they watched shitty movies. They spent most of the night drinking straight from bottles of wine and explaining the muggle world to Ron, Draco and Pansy. Ginny and Luna, thank god, had a little more context than they did— so Hermione and Harry were not left alone to struggle. Nevile was asleep through most of it, smoked half of a joint, before blindly handing it off to Harry, red eyed with a smile, and promptly passed out ten minutes into Scream 2. 

It was a good day, the realisation of which hit Harry harshly, as he hadn’t fully been aware before, of how long he had been hitting bad day after bad day. Draco, it seemed, would always try to drag him outside. Let's go for dinner, or a walk. Draco would make dinner, in the stupid kitchen Harry couldn’t walk in, and ask if he wanted to go to the park, just over a five minute walk away, trying to get Harry to eat outside. 

Most of the time, Harry would decline, and eat in bed, until eventually once and while he’d agree, shiver as they walked until Draco casted a warming charm— Harry was always too focused on the quiet  “protego, protego, protego, protego—” on repeat in his mind, not out loud, he was too scared, and also something obsessively desperate to beg Draco, wanted him desperately to cast it on him again, to feel some sort of warmth at the hit of Dracos magic, focusing all over him. 

One night, after a few repeated good days, Harry was pleasantly drunk, stumbling home and had Draco guiding him with desperate hands, feeling Harry up— in public, against their front door, until Harry finally unlocked it, and Draco pushed him in desperately, before tonguing Harry to the point— given how drunk he was, to see spots in his vision, nothing dark like when you were about to black out, but the kind he felt on Dracos balcony, colour blurring into his eyes while Draco gripped his ass. 

At one point Draco stumbled, laughed, his face scrunched up in a way he’d normally hide while sober. Draco steaded them, and lifted out his wand, his original wand, Harry returned it during the trial. Music was playing from the radio, it sounded like queen, something Sirius would play during fifth year. Suddenly Dracos hands were on Harry's hips, and Harry was at the same time, disappointed— because he thought he was going to get fucked tonight, but delighted, because suddently they were dancing, something slower than the song, but all the same. Draco spun Harry with a laugh, and stumbled through his own, they were moving all around the hallway, till suddenly backing up. Harry wasn’t quite paying attention, was instead thinking about the shape of Dracos lips till he realised they were in the kitchen. 

Harry froze, causing Draco to trip slightly. Draco braced himself on Harry, looking at him, as if suddenly sober, glancing down with a tilted head, like a dog. 

“I thought we’d have tea?” Draco hummed, something confused and sad at the same time,” No?” 

Harry didn’t want to feel like an inconvenience, and tea— quite honestly food too, sounded very nice. But Harry was suddenly hot, and not in the sexy way, while his throat closed up. He tested, trying to take a deep breath; repeat. But his voice was a rasp, and he pulled away from Draco with blurry eyes. He couldn’t see. 

Something like bile came up Harry’s throat, and he smacked away Dracos gentle hands as— on pure instinct, threw up into the kitchen sick, gasping for air. He felt— simultaneously reminded of Dumbledore in that horrible cave, choking for water, while Harry felt like the world was crashing down around him. He felt like he was falling, as if the walls were breaking down and falling on top of him. While this was all true, all Harry could smell, could feel under his hands, was the Dursleys stupid little kitchen, the feeling of the pan burning his arm, but instead of a little mark; the pain flared all up his arm, as if his whole arm was on fire. 

Harry blinked and he was on the floor, throwing up on his socks, while someone talked too loud, and someone else came thumping into the room. He was still too fucking drunk, and  everything in the room spun. Harry gasped for air, desperately needed a high, like a cock, or a cigarette at least— wine. But someone gripped his thigh, and leaned in too close, and Harry was so hot that he could have cried, did in fact actually do that. Stupid fucking tears, falling like the sea of tears in Alice in Wonderland, he was too drunk for this, to feel like this, he wanted it all to stop, like how a cigarette made you less hungry, or how Draco fucking him made his brain turn off. 

It was that, fuck, he had been turning Harry on all night, if he had Draco, right now, it’d be fine. He thought, miserably— at first, that Draco thought now, that Harry was too damaged to fuck, some muggle bullshit like sin, but Harry felt it, like a ache in his chest when he couldn’t sleep— couldn’t stop thinking. Now Harry thought that Draco thought Harry needed a break, needed something gentle, but Ron and Hermione at least, knew when Harry needed a little pressure. Harry wants Draco to give him that pressure. Harry reached out, panicked, for the person he knew was Draco. It was Ron in the doorway, Hermione was talking to someone— herself? In the living room. 

Draco braced Harry’s arm, guiding Harry, whose eyes were squeezed shut, and as Harry moved, one hand braced on the counters cabinet doors, Draco guided Harry into his lap. Draco's arm came up around Harry’s back like a shield, and Harry cried harder, when Draco brought his lips to Harry’s ear, and whispered softly,”Protego,” Harry's cheeks both heated and paled at the same time, he could feel the embrace of Dracos magic, and sobbed even harder, but something grateful about it, when Draco brought them into the bathroom, sitting Harry on the toilet, and leaving a hand on Harry’s thigh as he shifted to turn on the bath tap. Water poured into the tub as Draco shifted back, pulling away Harry’s shirt. 

“I’m too drunk,” Harry muttered, fingers rubbing, and then scratching, at his eye,” and hot.” 

Draco hummed, and suddenly another thread of magic thrummed from him, as wind blew softly towards Harry, smelling like Draco. Draco helped Harry stand, pinning him against the counter, and undoing the button on his jeans, then the zipper. Harry’s jeans fell to the bathroom floor, while Draco started pulling at his own clothes. 

Harry got distracted by the sight of Dracos neck, one large mole stark against his pale skin that Harry licked his tongue over, a hickey close to Dracos ear. Draco pulled off his pants and underwear in one go, before gently pulling Harry away from his neck, and pulling away Harry's own underwear, leaving him shivering in Dracos magic, and bare in the bathroom. Draco pulled Harry into the bath, before easing himself behind Harry. The water was warm, and Dracos hands were on his stomach and thigh, simple owning touches that left Harry collapsed in his arms, a deadweight leaning into him. Draco had a loofah in his hand and was scrubbing Harry's legs, his arms, and chest. Spent a long time scrubbing Harry’s back, and Harry hid his face in his hands, while Draco scrubbed his armpit, his hair, in deep scratches that made him groan. It wasn’t until Draco coaxed Harry to turn around, and straddle him, that Harry hid his face in Dracos neck, deep with his eyes shut tight, that Draco scrubbed his ass, and the back of his thighs. Draco pressed kisses to Harry’s shoulder as he did so, while Harry mewled and moaned into the darkness of Dracos neck. 

Harry almost fell asleep like that, curled on top of, and into Draco, Dracos hands strayed to Harry's back after gently using Aguamenti to wash the soap out of his hair, off of his skin. Harry could feel the water getting colder, but felt so warm in Draco's arms, and as he fell on the edge of sleep, he knew he’d let himself stay here, even as his eyes shifted to the point where he felt like he was falling. He didn’t have the energy to speak, let alone move. Eventually though, when Harry was letting out those little snores you have when you're still awake enough to be aware, Draco lifted him up, saying nothing. He wrapped Harry in a towel, before wrapping one around his own waist. Draco took to drying Harry’s hair then, gently brushing Harry's hair, which Harry has never had done before. Harry was sitting down on the toilet, shivering while leaning into Draco's chest. Draco helped him brush his teeth, wiping away the toothpaste from Harry’s cheek. Harry spat into the sink, and breathed, the world still blurry and his only point of gravity was the hand Draco kept on his waist. 

Draco went to open the door, subtly guiding Harry’s body towards the door when Harry paused, shoving his feet into the ground and something panicked shrieking its way from his voice, hissed,” No, no.” 

Draco paused, hand around the door handle, before letting go, and turning Harry in his arms, pulling him in close when Draco murmured,” You don’t wanna go out there?” 

Harry shook his head, before pressing his face back into Draco's chest, Draco paused before asking,” Where do you want to go?” 

They ended up in Dracos apartment, Draco left him in the bathroom, while Harry listened to Draco quietly murmur to Ron and Hermione, he couldn’t quite pick up on what they were saying. Harry sat there and picked at his nails till most of them were bleeding and hurting. Draco came back, gently grabbed Harry's hand, and they apperated away. 

Which brings us back to Dracos bathroom, soft in a yellow glow, which both made Harry have to squint, but eased them nonetheless. Draco had pulled Harry towards his bed, and Harry had just— climbed the shit out of Draco and humped him? To be fair he was still so far from sober, and Draco smelt good, and oddly, for the first time in months, Draco let Harry take them further, let Harry press him down and rut on top of him, and when it got too much, Draco flipped them, fucked into Harry with his fingers, and then his cock, and let Harry beg for it, till they both finally came with a crashing crescendo that left them both tired and aching. 

But here Harry was, in Dracos bathroom, staring at himself. Was this dating— was this love? He spent almost all of his time with Draco, like he did with Ron and Hermione, but there was something else there, another beat in the room, something with a feelable edge like magic, that exposed up his nose, in and out of all of his senses. 

He has not been doing well recently. 

And he knows he should have seen this coming, should have felt it in every breath, and in a sense he did, in a sense he's confessed it, but something about the edge in his eye scared him, something about being so young, never properly dating someone for longer than a few months, never anything serious, never an ache that wasn’t war torn. Now, Harry supposed his own brain was the war, but Draco had them go for walks, and picnics, and every once and a while he’d beg, sort of quietly, for Harry to come to dinner with him and his mother. Harry would refuse each time, something simmering and hot in him bubbling to the surface that didn’t make sense to him. But Harry, every once and a while considered saying yes, and maybe, he thought, next time he would, if just to see the look on Draco's face. 

He liked that Draco didn’t stop asking— and not in a pushy way, which Harry would have hated. But it was every few weeks, as if a check in, a where are you in the world right now? What do you feel capable of taking in, are we sleeping for a week or should we have an adventure?

Harry liked a lot of things about Draco. His pushiness, which was a bother in school but now seemed to only come when Harry was being a real dickhead and needed a shove. This little smile he gave Harry, normally at night when he was half awake. His laugh, it made Harry laugh as if on instinct at the sound. It sounded what happiness felt like to Harry. His food, his mum apparently cooked a lot, would let the house elves have weekends off, and liked to help prepare the food on holidays. Draco says some of his youngest memories are in their kitchen, in Malfoy Manor, in between his mothers legs and the counter, on a little purple stool, helping her mix batter for pancakes, or some other thing. Lucious would come in the room and smile, making coffee, and Draco a cup of tea. He’d come over to them then, while the water was boiling, and kiss Narsissa, on the cheek, in the same way, each time. And then kiss Draco on the temple, before asking him what they were making, and letting Draco walk him through the steps of how to make it. 

Harry thought it was sweet, something that swelled up in him, that some of Draco's best memories, and first memories, were in the kitchen, happy and helping out. When all Harry could think about in the kitchen was his aunt or uncles yelling, or the punishment, or the bland way the food would turn to ash in his mouth, which had been happening again, in a scary way he didn’t know how to explain. Food had only really started to taste good when he got to Hogwarts, and perhaps the Burrow too, as he always loved Mrs Weasley's cooking. And he loved Dracos too, but some days, more often recently, every time he’d eat he felt like he was swallowing pounds of cigarettes, and would gag his way through the food, trying to act as if he was normal. 

He didn’t want them to think he was doing bad again. 

Not that tonight doesn’t showcase something. A relapse. But Harry thinks it's been coming on for a lot longer than that.

Harry sighed, and found his eyes in the mirror again, they were not as vibrant as normal, not as vibrant as Lilys. He couldn’t help but find them dull, a pale green, and overshadowed by his bags completely, and even more by the scar, his lightning bolt scar, which had always been a show stopper, would pause someone in their tracks, but recently Harry found it was spreading, getting longer. Harrys been letting his fringe grow out instead. 

His eyes shifted to the open doorway, to where Draco slept in his white sheets, he had kicked most of them away, showing off his bare skin, save for one which curled all around his legs. Draco snored slightly, one arm above his face, hand falling over his eye, the other spread out on the bed, as if searching for Harry. 

Harry slowly padded back to bed, curled up under Draco's side, and Draco in his sleep, rolled over to curl into him, Harry stared at Dracos sleeping face and instead whispered out loud, quietly into the empty and asleep room,” Yes, I will go for dinner with your mother. Yes, I want to go for dinner with you and your mum. Yes I want….” 

Harry didn’t whisper protego to himself that night. 

// 

We’re too young to fall asleep, too cynical to speak— we are losing it, can’t you tell?

Ron didn’t know how to start this conversation with Malfoy— he and Hermione had talked about it, quietly in her bed some nights while Harry and Malfoy slept in his. He thought, by now, after months when they were slowly creeping up on the anniversary of May the 2nd, that he needed to somehow say it to Malfoy, to talk about Harry. 

He thought Malfoy got it— got Harry. But not in the way he thought Harry might need. Harry, Ron thought, was like a pile of bombs sometimes, all meticulously placed in his head to go off when it got a little too much, pressure could be a bad thing, but also a good one, for Harry. 

Sex, it seemed, paired with smoking weed— was Harry's favourite, easiest to turn to methods of getting both a little too much, but getting the bad out of his head at the same time. 

He couldn’t tell if Harry and Malfoy were dating, he thought he saw that look in their eyes, but Harry never had hickeys, and Ron would have seen, the fuckers arent shy, and hes with them when theyre together more often than not during the day. 

Ron however, as the months creeped to where he knew it would hurt the worst, tried to do things to make himself feel better. It was slow going and utterly exhausting at first, but he decided to apply to a hybrid study program, where he spent three days at a facility, doing in person work and study on magical creatures, and spent the other four days of the week studying by books at home. He and Hermione had study dates, Harry questioned him on topics he struggled to remember, Draco and Pansy even made notes on his bloody assignments. The goal was, eventually, international veterinary work with magical creatures— Ron wanted to work as a healer, at first, but the idea of bodies. Ill, sick, human bodies, disgusted him, brought back flashes of the war, the Hospital Wing and St Mungos that he didn’t want to think about, but animals, poor innocent creatures, other such creatures like Goblins and Werewolves whose rights were slipping after the war, Ron wanted to make a difference, if he could. 

He wanted to encourage Harry to do more, to try to find something to have a heart in, Hermione surprise surprise, was into political social work, activism, and courtroom cases that both made Ron’s heart ache with a kind of pride, and brought him back to Hogwarts and SPEW in a way that made his eyes roll. They were both trying to do something, to fill the void, to make some sort of part of them swell with happiness, and Ron wanted the same for Harry. 

He thought Draco was, however, doing a good job for his part, getting Harry outside, going on little dates at shops or beaches, parks or museums, Harry would recount the stuff they saw, or little history things Draco taught him with a kind of energy Ron barely saw in Harry, before passing out with a little smile on his face. 

He hoped Draco saw the good thing he was doing with Harry, for Harry. Ron didn’t know how to tell him that Harry had been doing so much better, even during his worst weeks, with Draco just simply around. It was a funny thought but Ron didn’t question it, that Draco Malfoy of all people might be the best sort of person for Harry, but a big part of him hoped it was true, and that Draco saw it, and maybe in some way, Harry helped him too. Ron didn’t deny the claws that the war still held in himself, and that he could, and maybe all of them, could see those same claws in each other, perhaps it was just clear as day, or the ability to recognize a similar sort of wound, a weakness they shared. He thought Draco looked a little lighter some days, and hoped he too, would find something to fill that space in, that despite how much Ron despised him as a kid, hated him— loathed the shit out of him, Ron thought he deserved something  in life to define him, to give him a purpose, beside the bloodied ink on his arm. 

Before they went out drinking that night, Ron pulled Draco onto their Balcony, offered him a smoke and said,” I have to talk to you about something,” Ron glanced inside, through the window, Harry, Luna, Pansy, Nevile and Hermione were dancing, muggle christmas music playing loudly,” It's about Harry.” 

//

Cause we’ve all tried hungry, and we’ve tried full— and nothing seems enough, so tonight, tonight, the boys are gonna go for more.

Harry hadn’t talked to any of them, neither Ron, Hermione or Draco. The only person he did was Pansy, begging her to not tell them, and asking her to get him weed off of Nevile. May was harder than he expected, he felt like Voldmort lived in his head again. Harry had started to sleep in Grimmauld Place, Kreacher would feed him once a day, and bring him blankets, light the fireplace in his room, and snap away the smell of weed. Harry was always cold, always high and full of some scary sort of emptiness, that had been scaring him more and more. He had blocked his friends from the wards, and didn’t even know if they realised he was here, or if they thought he finally fucked off and died. Like he was supposed to do in the forest, as a baby, in Godric's Hollow. 

One night, late into May, Harry was drunk, like drunk. D.R.U.N.K kind of fucking gone, and had thought it’d be a good idea to owl Draco Malfoy. 

Draco, 

I know i’ve kind of fucked off and died, but i’m sloshed as hell right now, and was thinking about you asking me to have dinner with you and your mother. And just— if you’d still like me to come, and don’t hate me, I think I would like to. I’m staying at Sirius’s house right now. If you’re angry I understand, but I’m here.

Harry. 

Harry thought he was absolutely not prepared for this, but there was a thrill in doing it anyway. Of the trying, and the pain of failing, the yearn of succeeding. He asked Kreacher to deliver it, and bring him more firewhiskey, before Harry crawled into Sirius’s bed, and turned on a tv that he had somehow managed to get set up in there. Harry put on some sort of Disney movie and smoked weed, fell asleep, and when he woke there was food and a small glass of wine at his table. 

//

I'm always going to be right here, no ones going anywhere.

Draco didn’t know if he was mad at Harry or just shitting himself worried. There was no note that came with Harry’s absence, just waking up one morning and realising he wasn’t there, then staying in Ron fucking Weasleys bed for three more nights till they realised he wasn’t coming back. 

When the Kreature showed up to his apartment, he asked the elf to take him to Harry, and found Harry sloshed and asleep, the room wreaking of weed. He asked Kreature to make Harry some real food, and annoyedly didn’t disagree when the elf also brought Harry more alcohol, before helping the elf to tidy the first floor up. The house was a mess, horribly dusty and most rooms made Draco sneeze. Kreature said it's been like this since his Mistress died, and Draco wondered how the hell they could have lived here during the summer before fifth year, Weasley said they had. 

Draco didn’t stay, he was starting to realise as his concern took the back burner, that he was in fact angry, but he did go into Harry's room, walk to his side and press a kiss to Harry's temple that he leaned into. 

“Protego, Harry.” Draco sighed, before kissing him again and whispering,” Goodnight Harry.” 

He and Harry didn’t speak for a few weeks, but Draco felt his absence like a chronic ache. He was sitting with Pansy in his living room one afternoon, drinking tea that Pansy spiked with something, when his mothers owl, Flora, flew through his window. 

He almost shit himself when he read the letter, Pansy grabbed it from his hands as Draco made the slow paced realisation that his father was released from Azkaban, on Parole, with no wand, and a limit on his magic, but nonetheless, free. 

His relationship with his parents was complicated, even more so now, but some part of him, a younger Draco of the age of six or seven, was so unbelievably happy he could cry. 

And who was it thanks to. Fucking Harry Potter. 

Goddamit Draco was going to have to invite the man to dinner. 

//

You’ve got everything now, and what a terrible mess i’ve made of my life— oh what a mess i’ve made of my life; no i’ve never had a job, because i’ve never wanted one

Harry didn’t think ‘Dinner with the Malfoy’s’ was going well. He felt sort of ghost-like, and had no idea how to tell Draco. The smell of the food, which was drifting from the kitchen into the dining room, was making him nauseous. He stared, for a while, at Mr Malfoy, at Lucius Malfoy— who smiled at Narcissa like she was the fucking son, who kissed Draco on the cheek when he came in, something shiny in his eyes, and took Harry by the hand, in a way that made Harry swallow back vomit, while looking Harry directly in the eyes and apologising, for his second year, for his fourth, for the war, and for the fact that he was a child who had to go through it all. 

One of the things that Hermione had been avocading the most, is implementing therapy into the Azkaban system— Kingsley Shakebolt took that idea and ran with it, and apparently, its been serving Lucius well. 

Harry couldn’t look at Lucious, who sat, not at the head of the table, but across from Draco and Harry on the side, sitting next to Narcissa, and holding her hand. 

“Three days a week right now,” Lucius said, patting his wife's hand,” But my therapist said it might move down to two by the new years.” 

Draco nodded, the movement hard, but something in his eyes softening. 

All Harry could see when he looked at Lucius Malfoy, was Vern Dursley. It was nauseating, being in this house, but he didn’t know how to say that— couldn’t say that. Harry stayed silent while they waited for dinner to be ready, listened to the Malfoys catched up, and warmed when Draco answered basic questions for him, like how he was doing, what they did day to day, if he’d ever get his NEWTS. Harry was going to vomit. 

Harry drank tea, watching, feeling like crying while Draco mixed the milk, and sugar into his tea for him, handing him the cup with a little smile. Just before dinner, Harry stood up, and leaned in close to Dracos cheek, just breaths away from a kiss. He saw in the corner of his eye that Narcissa and Lucius purposely looked away, small smiles on their faces. 

“I’m going to go out for a puff,” Harry tried to give his best ‘puppy eyes’ and I'm okay vibes, even though he felt like he really was not,” Is that okay, I won’t be late for dinner.” 

Draco grabbed his chin, glancing slightly at his parents, and bit back a smile. Dracos fingers brushed against Harry’s lips, before giving him, not a stern look, but something that scorned through Harry’s entire insides. 

“Go ahead, love.” Draco pulled him down and kissed him lightly,” Just don’t take too long, your slow as fuck.” 

Harry shifted away smiling while Narcissa chided,” Language, Draco.” She was smiling too. 

Draco groaned,’ I’m almost nineteen, mother. I’m an adult, with a home. I can say fuck.”

“Fuck that,” Naricssa said simply, and that was that.

Harry stumbled outside, it was still cold, even in late May, rain coming down. He lit up a cigarette and preened at the head rush, and stood there, in the rain, outside of Malfoy fucking Manor, thinking about the Dursleys, and throwing up in Dracos mothers rose bushes. They were pretty, and well cared for, you could tell. 

Harry smoked almost half of the cigarette before he started throwing up in her rose bushes, smoked the rest and threw up twice more. Harry vanished away the vomit— feeling bad that the flowers looked a little worse for wear, like Rons did during the winter. He placed two cleaning charms, one for his sweat and the other for his mouth, before sighing, looking up at the Malfoys skyline. Tall trees in the setting sun, and he turned around and went back inside the Dursleys house— 

The Malfoys house. 

Harry almost grimaced in expectation when he saw Lucius, staring at his blonde, long hair, pulled up into a bun with falling strands, to remind himself it wasn’t Vernon. He sat next to Draco again, and leaned into Draco as Draco brought his hand to Harry’s thigh, his chest partly to Harry’s back, head and lips to the side of Harry’s head. 

“I put some of your favourites on.” Draco said, pointing to Harry's plate, and Harry’s mouth almost watered and soured at the same time, in some gross tang. There was dark fatty pork, with mashed potatoes, creamy and filled with butter— much like Mrs Weasleys when they could afford the butter, there were dark green steamed broccoli pieces, and corn, with small bites of carrots as well. Harry stared at his plate, there wasn’t a lot of food, but was more than Harry thought he could manage. It’d be embarrassing if he didn’t finish it, for not only himself, but Dracos parents would definitely take it as an insult— he though this, thinking of Mrs Weasley's small, sad smile, when Harry ate less and less every sunday night, if he even managed to make it there recently. It was awkward, around this time; May. Harry couldn’t help but let his eyes drift to the clock, Fred’s name constantly lost in danger. 

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, he didn’t want to make Aunt Petunia too mad with his voice. He shuddered, she wasn’t here. Draco frowned at Harry slightly before asking,” Cold?” Harry didn’t think a warming charm would fix this, but Draco casted one, and Harry was filled with the smell of Draco, pine trees and mint, something earthy that smelt like the world before it rained. Lucius stood up, leaving his full plate and grabbed a match— doing it the muggle way, to light a fire. 

“Magic is all about intentions,” He said suddenly, it was bitter. He was frowning as he continued,” It was something the Dark Lord would say,” Harry glanced at Draco as if to confirm, Lucius continued, and Draco said nothing,” I could have used my wand for that,” he said pointing at the fireplace, which was now booming and admitting heat.

“But I thought I should get practice doing the muggle thing.” Lucius sighed,” If I wanted to use my magic— the fire, to harm someone, well the contract i’m in would either stop me, or inform the ministry to imprison me again.” 

He shrugged, sitting down again, picking up his fork, kissing Narcissa briefly on the cheek,” Practice is good though. Good for me.” He was nodding along to his own words,"Practice is good for me.” 

Draco swallowed the mouthful of food he had, before nodding, eyes closing briefly and saying,” That's good— Dad. That's good.” 

Lucious smiled slightly,” Thank you, Draco.” He shifted his head, a tilt,” For trying— anyhow, let's eat! Honey made a wonderful meal I'm sure.” 

The house elf smiled from where she placed drinks, Honey hopped off with a little perk in her step as she finally brought out what Harry assumed, as what Draco had said he heard his mother call, “The Big Surprise”, which, funnily was a small tray of his mothers treacle tarts, a favourite of Harrys from Hogwarts, and something he missed desperately, never wanting to make it for himself. 

Harry smiled, something not very bright but trying, and tried to take a bite of his food. He scooped the corn into his potatoes— god he hated corn, and tried to swallow as quickly as he could. He breathed, and brought more food to his fork. He could do this, he could eat one fucking meal. 

Maybe he wasn’t ready for this— Draco squeezed his thigh, smiling but Harry could see concern in his eyes, and fuck, he didn’t want to worry Draco. Harry took another bite and a few more. More of a dent on his plate than he would have made at the Weasleys, and the Malfoys were making small talk, eventually not even including Harry or Draco, gossip really, which he was starting to learn was a fan favourite of the Malfoys. Catching each other up on drama they’ve collected while apart. 

If Harry didn’t feel like dropping dead he’d laugh. 

The food tasted like burnt mush in his mouth, which made him want to cry. Draco's hand was nice, where it was, he found he quite liked it there. He ate more bites, and felt like he was about to become so fat, which in reality he didn’t care, and was untrue, but the thought was there. 

He could hear, sort of like a whistle— or like his mothers crying with the dementors, his aunt and uncle arguing, about him, at the dinner table while Dudley yapped about something that went on at school. Harry tried to make himself look as small as he could in the dining chair, and ate another bite. He was going to throw up. He was fine, he wasn't going to throw up. He loves me, he loves me not. Harry was shredding the pedals of the flower faster than he could handle, questioning the room around him while Dudleys chair squeaked too loudly, and the tv was still turned on at just too loud of a volume, Petunia huffed and Vernon glared at Harry, poor little Harry. 

The last petal fell. Harry looked at Draco, eyes shifting back to his plate. He breathed, he ate half of it, probably the most food he ate in a while. He's going to get so fat— he breathed, let the thought leave him, something like the wind that blew from Draco, in Harry’s bathroom. He breathed in and out, felt the squeeze of Draco's hand, and ate another bite, then a second, as well as a third and fourth, it was horrible, but he hoped that was just him, and not the elves cooking. 

When there was around a quarter of his plate left, Draco whispered to him,” Do you want a treacle tart? They're good, I promise you. Maybe not Hogwarts good,” And Harry smiled, but watched Draco reach out, and notable debate, as if he was trying to pick the best one, till he found a plump one, and placed it gently on Harry's plate, away from any of the food, so it wouldn’t mix.” There you go, love.” 

Harry warmed at the nickname, and laughed softly, fighting back the bile. Harry bit into the treacle tart, and made a warm sound, it tasted good, like genuinely good. Harry took another bite, and after it was gone he realised he wanted more. Harry had never eaten food that fast, not since his first years at Hogwarts, or after a quidditch game, when he had burnt what felt like millions of calories. Draco silently placed another slice on his plate, and he ignored Narcisa’s happy smile as he ate that one too. Just as sweet, and something citrusy that made him think of Draco. 

After they were done with dessert, Honey cleaned up their plates and they drank more tea in the sitting room, Draco was curled into Harry, while his parents sat in chairs parallel to each other, their hands connected. Harry could feel it building again, as the nicotine wore off maybe, or no longer focusing on pleasing the Malfoys by eating enough dinner, he stared blankly at the carpet, a dark emerald green, like what his eyes used to be. He didn’t hear a word of what they said, but leaned into Draco as much as he could. 

He didn’t notice when he stopped breathing properly, when his breaths started to come out as wheezes. Lucius gave his wife a concerned look, it felt like something fatherly and it made Harry want to spit and snap, and Draco looked at him, frowning while Harry drank tea like there was nothing wrong, body oddly still,” Harry? Are you alright, you’re pale.” 

Harry tried to smile, and thought he did, as he said,”Yeah, I’m fine, love. No need to worry, just too much food perhaps.” He moved to turn away but Draco grabbed his chin, pulling away Harry's glasses to look at his eyes. Harry didn’t like how his eyes squinted, and then glanced away at his parents like a child, seeking out an answer from someone who's supposed to know it all. He fixed Harry's glasses, and kissed the bridge of his nose, before pulling Harry in close, Harry huffed, but was comfortable, he was starting to feel almost high, a quick switch from barrelling towards hell to floating in the sky. His smile was genuine at Draco, but he hated the churn in his stomach at the look on Draco's face. Was there something wrong that he wasn’t seeing? Could his brain have made him think he was fine, when he wasn’t?

Harry pulled on Dracos shirt, stealing his attention back,” Is there something wrong?” Harry whispered lowly. 

Draco sighed, and suffered a sad smile before brushing hair away from Harry’s face— it was getting long now, Mrs Weasley thought too long, but Bill told her to shut it, and said it looked good on Harry, healthy and that's all that mattered.  His hand fell to cup Harry's cheek, while kissing his temple and murmuring,” No love, there's not, I swear. Should we go home soon, isn’t that show you want to watch on?” 

Harry nodded silently, and didn’t listen while Draco went through goodbyes with his parents, who both gave Harry desperately comforting looks that made him stare at the carpet. He thought of Narcissa saving him in the forest, he thought of Vernon locking him in his cupboard, screaming. 

Harry had to leave. The goodbyes went on longer as Draco hugged and kissed both his parents goodbye. Narcissa got up and hugged Harry, in a painfully gentle way that made Harry look at Draco panicked, he thought Lucius must have seen, as he pulled his wife away after she kissed Harry’s cheek, and smiled warmly as she said,” It was very nice to have you, Harry.” 

Draco led Harry outside, and didn't apperate them away just yet, just led him further down a path. Harry tried to breathe, and struggled to follow Draco in the dark light until Draco grabbed his hand. Even in May the nights were crisp and cold here, and Harry shivered, but oddly in a good way, while they continued walking, silently. 

Eventually, at the speed of a bullet, Harry paused, and puked, just missing his shoes, Draco paused, and turned around, letting go of Harry's hand just to start moving his hair out of his face. The wind blew, Harry puked again, they kept walking, and Harry finally whispered, quietly, and something a little numb, that he wanted to go home. 

They did, too Dracos apartment, and Harry felt, maybe a little trapped. So he went outside to smoke— Draco didn’t like the smell inside and Harry needed to escape. He leaned against the balcony railing, until the idea of falling off got a little too tempting, to the point where it was as easy as a habit, as quick to fix as an addiction. Harry backed up, pressing himself against the wall, and sitting on the ground. He smoked three more cigarettes, and a little weed he had on him with a pipe— Sirius’s old pipe apparently, until Draco found him, brought him inside and pressed him into the shower to get rid of the smell. 

Harry didn’t shower very often anymore, it was probably a good thing. But the thing is— something in Harry was ticking, like a bomb that needed to get out, a scratch that had to bleed. He wanted fire, wanted fuel, wanted to light something on fire. Harry watched Draco wash him, as if out of his body, and considered all the ways he could ruin his life right now. Draco helped him out, and dressed him, and suddenly they were sitting in bed, legs crisscrossing and bodies facing each other when Draco asked,”What happened tonight?” 

And the gasoline was lit. 

Harry felt his face sour, and watched Dracos apprehensive one— he was worried to bring this up. Harry’s eyes narrowed, and he kicked away from Draco, shifting up the bed, staring at the white sheets, his mouth was in a sneer as he hissed,” You’re not my fucking boyfriend.” 

Draco looked deflated all of a sudden, absolutely knackered and exhausted. Draco slumped, his whole body falling forward, before rubbing his eyes with his palms, and giving Harry this sideways, half blank look,” Then what are we doing here love? You came to dinner with my parents— I see you almost everyday, miss you when I do,” He laughed, but it was wet and sad,” I don’t care that you have bad days Harry, we all do. You need to fight, then we can fight, but don’t you dare tell me I haven’t been reading any of these signs correctly. Ron told me I should ask you to come to the Burrow dinners, but I thought I’d give you your space on that, and let you choose to ask, ask about my own parents instead.”

Draco looked away, his knee curled up to his chest,” I mean Harry it's been since November, and it's almost June.”
Harry stayed silent, trying to desperately hold onto his anger, so he wouldn’t break. Draco made that hard too. Sad eyes looking everywhere but Harry. Harry could feel his body melt, felt like he looked like Crookshanks after this one really rainy set of days, he felt like water was just poured over every ounce of fire he had in him. 

Harry got out of the bed, slowly, as if without his own awareness. Draco sat up.

“Harry.” 

Harry shook his head and walked towards the door, Draco stood up from the bed, grabbing at his elbow. Harry paused… he was in the cupboard again. 

He breathed, harshly through his nose, and said nothing. 

“Harry.”

He shook his head again, he was in Dumbledore's office, Dumbledore was dead. He always liked how Draco said his name, even with the sneer, the sneer could have been hot, he could have had this sooner, and then just— he didn’t know, died. When he had the choice. 

He missed the choice. He baulked, hands suddenly shrugging off Draco and bracing for the door. Draco said his name again, and Harry blurted out, while basically running through Dracos apartment was that,” I have to go,” He pulled at his own hair, scratched at his own face hard enough to indent,” I can’t be here, I have to leave. I'm sorry.” 

The sorry was added on and sounded fake, his voice felt dead and rotted, it wasn’t— fake. Harry meant it, he didn’t want to keep ruining Dracos nights, but Harry seemed to cause a lot of damage around him that he didn’t always recognise. 

Harry was out the door after that, and at the echo of a small familiar spell, Harry apperated away. 

Protego. Draco had casted Protego on him. The beautiful fucking bastard. 

//

If I could go back to the beginning; then for sure I would be another way.

Hermione had been trying really hard recently. She forced herself to think only of the future, save for tiny small moments, like unlocking a very small box, when she’d let herself think of her childhood, her teenage years at Hogwarts— her parents, the war. For five minutes, when the itch got too annoying, she’d sit down, and unlock that box and feel. Before throwing herself, like a body shoved against a wall back into her work on either improving the wolfsbane potion, trying to make accessibility improvements in Hogwarts [which with the spell research, really shouldn’t be as difficult as they whine about], she wanted to further advance the Azkaban therapy organisation with Minister Kingsley Shakebolt, she wanted to do so many things to stop the ache in her heart, and improve this crumbling world they fought for. 

She hated thinking about the war, about Malfoy Manor and the destruction of Hogwarts. Staring down at the scar on her arm, thinking about what she did to her parents, Ron leaving, Dobby dying, everyone fucking dying. Sometimes she thought that she died, and just continued on as a very persistent ghost, she hoped Ron or Harry would’ve said something by now if that was true. 

Hermione couldn’t help but think, when looking back at it, how so many things could have been so different, with just the smallest actions, the smallest change in outcomes, and they could have been completely different people. She gives herself seven minutes to ponder through that box, it was a bit more complex— seven seemed like an appropriate number. 

She paused early on this one, it was getting her worked up. She had her own little office in the ministry, it was small, but she liked it, or she told Ron that she did, he worried. She had soft carpets and shelves and drawers full of  books and files, which she loved. Ron gifted her plants, and Harry gifted her this small little figurine, she had a few of them now, some of them danced and moved. 

She kicked her desk drawer, as if to physically shut this mental one closed, and tried to turn back to the letter she was writing. She tried to focus, and couldn’t. Something instinctively felt off. And her gut feeling was proved right when Ginny Weasley’s knock interrupted her entire being, and attempted to give her a heart attack, while she barged into her office. 

Ginny was looking a little more healthy lately, hair grown long, but shaved on the underside, some new piercings and tattoos, a bit more weight on her. She was going to visit Charlie soon, she was excited about the dragons, to which Molly fretted about, to most of her brother's amusement. 

“Somethings,” A pant, as if she ran all the way through the ministry— given the fact that it was Ginny Weasley, safe to say she did,” Wrong— with, fuck me, with Harry.” 

Hermione frowned and stood up, already packing her purse and following Ginny out of her office. Hermione glanced down at her watch and realised it was already eleven at night, she grimaced. Ron would be mad. 

“What happened?” Hermione asked as they got into an elevator. 

Ginny shrugged,” Dunno’, I think he finally cracked.”
Hermione shoved her, scoffing,” Your being a dick.” 

“Is he going to be alright?” Ginny asked, suddenly quiet. Sometimes Ginny felt so old, so mature, older than they were— and other times Hermione felt she was still looking at that ten year old girl she met in first year. 

Hermione stayed silent till they weren't in the ministry, outside and ready to apparate. 

“I hope so.”

//

The beat goes round and round, I never really got there, I just pretended that I had. Words are blunt instruments, words are sawed off shotguns, come on and let it out— before you run away from me, before you’re lost between the notes.

Harry doesn’t remember the last three days, and apparently— has been spending the past two, asleep, in the psych health ward in St Mungos. They have been feeding and giving him water through tubes. Harry wanted to go home. 

He stayed there for a week, Ron, Hermione, Pansy— Nevile, Luna, even fucking Blase Zabani, who he’d hung out with a few times, visited. The Weasley Family— and even one awkward visit from Draco's mother, awkward on Harry's part, she was actually quite sweet. Draco came once too, late at night, just before the cut off of visiting hours, and sat there silently with Harry, until he was asked to leave by the nurse. Draco pressed one chaste kiss to Harry's mouth and said to his lips,” When you’re out of here, we are going to go on a trip. I got a car.” 

And the thought alone of Draco Malfoy in a car— driving. Made Harry want out of there so fucking bad, that he did everything his nurses said, listened to Ron and Hermione— the only thing he saved for himself, was avoid thinking about that night that got him here at all costs. 

Draco Malfoy in a car, Mrs Weasley's relieved smile, his nurses kind tone, the muffins Ron made, which were not actually that bad, he focused on those things, and breathed while whispering, “Protego, protego, protego, protego—” 

Harry spent the next three nights rocking himself to sleep, music playing from a muggle cd, something familiar, lulling Harry into a false peace. 

“You do it to yourself, you do, and that's what really hurts” 

“Is that you do it to yourself, just you— and no one else.” 

“You do it to yourself, you do it to yourself, aw!” 

Harry dreamt of Draco's arms wrapped around him, his leg thrown over Harry’s calf, and this invisible weight allowed Harry to actually sleep— to only sleep really, he’d wake when the nurses spoke to him, or the mind healer, answering questions, but aside from them— and sometimes visitors, though he thought his friends might be trying to avoid him like a bludger, harry slept any other time, in fake Draco's arms. 

He missed the real one. 

The last four days he didn’t sleep, as if he had coffee in his iv, he stayed awake humming and listening to music at all hours, the songs shifted to something sweeter, less bitter—still quite sad; 

“They say it's me, that makes you do things, you might not have done.”

 “If I was away, and that its me, that likes to talk to you” 

“And watches you as you walk away, don’t say its useless, don;t say forget it” 

“Don't bring me wishes—” 

“Of silly dreams, just say it's all, from too much freedom, too many fingers.” 

“And too many things.” 

Harry got to leave on his fifth day of being awake, surprisingly. He somehow apperated himself home, without splinching, and curled into the arms of Draco Malfoy at first sight. 

Draco said nothing, only curled his fingers into Harry's hair, and breathed, as if for the first time, a deep long inhale that stayed inside him for a long moment, before blowing away. 

Draco, it seemed, was being honest about the trip, and they left fairly late into the night, in a small little green car, lighter than mint, that Harry liked very much. Draco had packed for him, and Harry kissed his friends, even Blase and Pansy, who it seemed were staying at his flat to make sure he was alright. He kissed them hello and goodbye, and laughed somewhat tearfully at the mess they all were. Once Harry got into Draco's car, he grinned as Draco fed him some leftover pub food, and let Harry fiddle with the music. Harry fell asleep fairly quickly into the ride, and trusted Draco enough not to ask where they were going. 

//

You’re gone but your not forgot; you got the cash, but your credits no good. You flipped the switch, you flipped the script, and you shot the plot— and I remember, I remember when the neon used to burn so bright and pink.

They drove late into the night, and around three in the morning, arrived in a small cottage in Painswick, which the Black family owned, apparently, and was both of their property. Draco guided Harry into the cottage, their luggage floating behind them, and mindlessly let Draco press him into the cottages bed, pull out his cock and suck him like their lives depended on it. 

They woke up the next morning lazily and surprisingly early, beating the summer sun. Draco woke up with a smile, and they showered, and ate eggs with ham in it that Harry actually liked. 

They went out shopping, looked through the small bookstores, and thrift clothes. Harry found a few shirts he liked— sweaters as well. Draco got a small pile of old muggle books. 

“Oscar Wilde was a wizard though?” Draco questioned, biting at his cheek.

“He was published in muggle stores,” Harry said, when they turned towards a park,” When he ran away, weird queer and blood priority laws in the muggle world and wizarding world in Ireland, they all thought he died.” 

“The issue for Wilde was the fact that “The Picture of Dorian Gray’, was actually to do with some blood purity bullshit, and then was “sanitised”,” Harry said that in air quotes,” For muggles by making it gay, which just got the guy in more trouble I think.” 

“So was he queer?” Draco asked, glancing at his new copy,” I thought he was.” 

“Oh yeah no, bent as a ruler,” Harry laughed. 

“Huh,” Draco said, and then hit Harry's hip with his own, a smile pulling at his lips,” Nerd.” 

Harry rolled his eyes,” I smoke too often with Hermione and Nevile, they are a dictionary of weird shit.” 

They went flying later in the afternoon, chasing after a small golden snitch— which pulled Harry's heart, painfully reminding him of his easier days, when Qudiditch was one of his only stresses in the world. That and Draco Malfoy, which remained the same. 

Harry was nervous after dinner, before bed when Draco was reading, already under the sheets. He thought, maybe, the first night was like a hello, like a how are you after being gone for a while, and was horrified any comfort he sought out would be rejected. 

He didn’t have to worry long, standing nervously at the edge of the bed, picking at a loose thread, Draco looked up, tilting his head, and placing his book to the side, on the bedside table. Harry slowly climbed into bed, and let Draco tuck him into his arms with a sigh— like coming home. 

Harry had a few bad nights, some where he couldn’t sleep, others where he’d wake from sweating nightmares where Draco would have to shower with him, cooling off the sweat. But mainly Harry had really good days, with Draco, and with his friends, and something inside of him really started considering life. Which he thought might be a good thing, Harold agreed too, that after just over a year after the war ended, and years of life within a war before it, months of not considering life, Harry finally being able to do it— was definitely a step in the right direction. 

Harold was his new therapist, assigned as a recommendation from St Mungos, he specialised with war cases apparently, and as Hermione found out, childhood PTSD, which Draco thought, might be a good way to learn how to talk about the hard childhood stuff, which to Harry's panic, said he didn’t really know about, but thought, or guessed rather, that something was there— that something had happened to him. 

The talking bit was hard, Harold thought talking to Ron or Hermione, or maybe Draco, might be a good way to start, to ease himself into talking to Harold and finding familiarity in something hard, with a source that already brought Harry comfort, like them. The goal was eventually Harold being able to get Harry to open up, especially about the Dursleys, so that he could then try to find Harry some resources to work through and ah— cope or something.

It felt like school again, which Harry kind of hated. But he was trying— the life thing. 

Draco, one morning, a few days before August hit, had pulled Harry to his side, smiling down in bed; Harry had been a little weird lately, leading up to his Birthday, which Harold said happens, and said they could increase appointments, if Harry wanted. He liked that Harold gave him so many options, while also not leaving Harry stranded in them . 

Draco leaned down and kissed him, his breath something minty, something Harry wanted to lick from his gums. Draco deepened the kiss, slowly Harry down, before murmuring,” Two things.” 

Harry hummed against his lips,” Yeah?” 

“One, we are going to the club on your birthday, with the whole group,” Draco waved his hand with an eye roll,” we’re going to get sloshed, and fuck at the end of the night, and have a good day,” He kissed Harrys forehead,” and two, after we recover from the hangover, we’re going to have a little picnic, i’ll cook, theres many pretty fields, with cows, its quite nice.” 

Harry smiled, picking at something on Draco's sweater absentmindedly, Harry found himself nodding, and laughing, and some part of him maybe crying. Draco kissed him, chaste movements that fell into something longer than he thought Draco intended. 

Harry wondered if they were boyfriends yet, if maybe, he should ask?

//

“Listen to the countdown; they're playing our song again” “

I can't get jumping jack, I want to hold get back”

“Moonlight muzak, Nick nack paddy wack”

It was Harry’s birthday, and he was impossibly nineteen, and absolutely sloshed. Harry was pressed between Draco and Blaise, Dracos thigh between Harry’s, and Blaises hands on Harry's hips in a way that heated him. He never thought he’d want anything else, especially not that night, aside from Draco in their sheets, hadn’t slept with anyone aside from one awkward time with Ginny. Ron and Hermione, and Draco of course. But the way Draco was looking down at him, like he owned the world. And the way he saw Draco give Blaise heated looks. 

Harry climbed more or less, up Draco, pressing himself as close as they could be with clothes on, Blaise pushed even closer. The music was loud and thumping within Harry’s ears, and at one point, Harry almost preened, he could feel Blaises cock against his ass. Draco leaned down, licking at Harry's ear before whispering,” You want that?” 

Harry had moaned, and he felt Blaise grip him tighter, even with the music bleeding the sound. Harry had had so many drinks that night, cupcakes made by Luna with his face on it, but not like the boy who lived posters or pins, which made Harry laugh thinking of Dracos pins, but something that actually looked like Harry the real one. Harry had danced with all of them, pressed closer than he had been to most of the people there, and didn’t feel the sweat that slid down his back. 

So when Draco asked if he wanted it, what else could Harry do but nod, and pull Dracos ear to his mouth and say,” Yes.” 

They had driven, drunk, one of the stupider things they’d ever done. Blaise was pressed against him in the backseat, Pansy was there too but Harry didn’t know when she got there, she was sitting in the front seat, a hand on Dracos thigh while he drove. Draco kept glancing back at Harry through the mirror.  Harry understood the necessity of contact, and feeling Blaises lips against his neck, he felt no room for jealousy about Pansys wandering hands, Harry thought that the night couldn’t get any better. 

Draco was driving way too fast, Harry drunk enough to vomit because of it, but didn’t because it’d land right into Blaises mouth. The music from the radio burned Harry’s ears, and he felt so good tangled up in Blaise he didn’t even realise they were home. 

The rest of the night was a pleasure filled, nauseating blur, he remembered being pressed, naked, between Blaise and Draco, pretty much humping Dracos thigh, Blaise against his bare back. Pansy, was there too, naked in a way that had Harry staring to the point of her smirking. She played with herself mostly, talking in a dirty, foul way that made Harry blush, and he could feel Blaise get harder at the words. Draco would laugh, and lean down whispering,” You like that love? Does this feel good?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” He couldn't stop agreeing, couldn’t stop moving, trying to give back as good as he was getting. Harry was so fucking hard, and hot pressed between the two, that when Blaise actually pressed into him it came at such a shock that he came. 

“Keep going, Keep going,” Harry gasped,” Please— keep going.” 

So Blaise did, and Pansy moaned as Harry cried out, on top of Draco, his spent cock still thrusting against Draco's chest. He watched, lulled as Blaise thrusted faster and faster, kissing Draco over his shoulder, he watched Pansy while she fucked herself, hips chasing her own high. Harry moaned at a well aimed thrust, which Pansy mirrored as she came over her hand. 

Blaise came inside him eventually, he doesn’t know when, he only felt Dracos hands guiding him to lay down, in suddenly clean sheets, and he felt other legs in the bed, knowing they were not alone. Which he felt, strangely relaxed about, someone, he thought it was Draco, was kissing his neck, softly, not seeking anything, and Harry fell quickly to sleep, relaxed in a room full with their snores, and Draco's soft touches. 

//

The infrastructure will collapse— from voltage spikes, throw your keys in the bowl, kiss your husband goodnight.

Harry could feel it when Blaise and Pansy woke up, when they kissed Dracos cheek till he woke up, and said goodbye, he felt a hug to his shoulder which he groaned into, but sleep still greeted him when he closed his eyes. 

When he properly woke up, he kissed Draco awake, and they showered relatively peacefully, and less hungover than he expected. 

He felt something like apprehension inside him while he sat in the sitting room, rolling a joint while Draco made the food for their lunch. He wanted to ask Draco to look him in the eyes, something confident like and just throw it out there, asking if they were dating. He needed to know, have this selfish desire filled or ripped out of him, he was tired of living with it inside him unfed or alive. 

He thought Draco had other reasons for asking him on this little date, and that worried him too. He had told Harold about it a few days ago, Harold suggested trying to go with the flow, reminding Harry that Draco did not have any bad intentions at heart, which Harry agreed was ‘fucking obvious’. Draco, Harry thought, was shitty enough being a bad guy, if he wanted to kill Harry or something, he should’ve done it by now. Harry thought that once the suspense was gone, and they left he would feel better. Harold also suggested talking about it, to Draco, when Harry got overwhelmed like this, but he wanted to wait, as it was still a small thing, and Harry thought desperately, just a bit, that he could do the small moments on his own, didn’t need a hand to hold through every waking moment. 

Draco drove them there, at a much more appropriate speed, which made Draco blush when Harry pointed it out, and made Harry laugh, which quickly broke the smile out of Draco. 

They arrived quickly, fields and fields of green, which edged towards a beach, and Harry could already see cows. Draco and Harry set up the large blanket, and Harry more or less collapsed his head into Draco's lap after they sat down. Draco had laughed, and hummed quietly while threading his fingers through Harry's hair, Harry felt like a dog. 

They ate sandwiches and small desserts. Chocolate covered strawberries that Harry moaned at the taste, ice cold water, likely charmed, which poured down his throat as smoothly as glass. Harry was back in Draco's lap, directly this time, when they were done, he was trying to lead up to his question, sort of shy, when Draco asked, and he felt it hit him like the speed and pressure of a bullet, when Draco said,” Can you tell me what it was like? Before Hogwarts for you?” 

Harry was quiet, kissed Dracos shoulder, and hummed. He wasn’t, not trying to answer, but think about it maybe, and Draco waited.

Harry sighed as the august breeze hit them, the sun was starting to set, Harry didn’t know it was that late. He heard Harold's voice in his head, telling him to be honest, so he was. 

He told Draco about the night his parents died, how he could hear it sometimes, especially when he was younger, how Dumbledore left him on his aunt and uncle's doorstep, and that they have loathed him since then. He told Draco about his cupboard, and the little trinkets he’d collected, he told him about Dudleys bullying, and how sometimes he wouldn’t get meals, or be able to go to the bathroom. He told Draco about cleaning, and cooking, without magic, to the point where he had little cuts and burns, calluses from scrubbing, and he could remember, some days, being left home alone, sobbing while he mopped the floors. 

He told him about Hogwarts, and Ron and Hermione. How well the Weasleys treated him, and how kind Hagrid was to him. He told him about Voldemort, and that huge pressure to do right by the wizarding world, even when he thought they all kind of sucked, and could go fuck himself. He told him about Cedric, and his death, and how it scrubbed something raw inside Harry, his cousin calling him gay for it, being alone with his thoughts that whole summer, which Harold thought might akin to why Harry was so, for the lack of a better word ( Harry couldn’t remember what Harold said) clingy. He told Draco about the war, and after the cold nights with only Ron and Hermione to cling to, how Sirius, Dumblefore, and Remus’s deaths rocked him, how all the people they lost followed him around with a shuddering weight. 

And he told Draco about the night he left his apartment, which he hadn’t even told Harold. He told him how after their fight, how he fought with Ron too, Ginny had left somewhere with a worried look. Harry had smoked some more, then had gotten something else, he didn’t know what, it was Neviles and a small little pill. He remembered being on the Balcony, sobbing, and then falling, light as he could have ever been, too quick for Ron to catch. He talked and talked until the words bled his mouth dry, scraping and empty, and when he finished, Draco told Harry about growing up in the manor, with two, kind, loving, and expecting parents. Expectations governed Draco's life, and Draco said, in retrospect, there were likely a few unresolved mental health issues that he still needed to get checked out. His fathers views, and the Black family mottos ran their beliefs, but Draco earnestly loved Greg, Pansy, and Vin growing up, Theo and Blaise coming later, and by the time they had reached fourth and fifth year, Draco admitted he was so in over his head, so fully trusting in how he was raised, that he ignored all warning signs of what else he could do and then his father got imprisoned. And by then Draco felt trapped in it, the hate had left him quickly in sixth year, just a desperate need to impress, and then Dumbledore died, his father was home, and him and his mother got pulled in so deeply, Draco couldn’t find a way to back out. 

He thought he should probably search for his own therapist, work through some stuff that went undiagnosed from his childhood, and well—  Harry thought this would be different. He thought it would be hard, and it was, hard. But Harry thought it’d be harder, tear filled but he found at least at first, the words flowing naturally from his mouth. And in turn he liked hearing about Draco's childhood, and felt something peaceful settle when they lapsed into silence. 

Harry didn’t want to ruin it, but now, as they were quiet, he could finally ask, so he did, looking up at Draco, still sitting on him and saying,” Love?” 

Draco hummed, nudging Harry with his forehead,” Yeah, Harry?” 

“I know,” Harry sighed, breathing through his nose,” That we fought about it before, or rather—- that I did. But,” Harry stopped again, kissed Dracos cheek, then asked,” Are we boyfriends? Or are we going to, I don’t know, become that?” 

Draco laughed, laughed. But not in a mean way, no he sounded happy, he squeezed Harry and hummed, and Harry could hear the joke in his voice as he said,” I don’t know,” A hum,’ What are you gonna give me?” 

Harry laughed, eyes crinkling, delighted,” I mean, I don’t know about you but I’m hot as fuck,” Harry gestured to himself,” and if I can ever get into a kitchen again, I bake some good ass desserts, banana bread, brownies, pavlova, just ask Ron.” 

Draco smiled, gripping Harry's back, like a horny, happy hug before kissing him softly,” How could I refuse that?”

Boyfriends— they were boyfriends now. Harry could do that, and he found— freeingly almost, that he wanted to. 

//

Before you go to sleep, Say a little prayer; every day in the way, it's getting better and better, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy. 

They were moving the last of the boxes, in the following July, two weeks before Harry’s twentieth Birthday. Harry, Ron, Hermione and Draco were staring at the wall in their living room, and Harry felt something a little sad. He was better off than Hermione, who cried. The wall of memories built over the two years they lived there, included more photos of Neville, Dean, Luna, and Seamus. As well as Pansy, Blaise, Theo and surprisingly Greg too, Of course, Draco was there too, photos of him laughing with Ron, a hand on Pansy waist, or dancing with Harry on his birthday, one of them with Blaise too, which Harry blushed at, he didn’t know who took it. 

There was one of Ron with Teddy, a small flower in his hands, staring up at Ron with awe, or Hermione and Greg, the day of their opening, they had opened a  werewolf crisis centre hidden in plain sight in London, a safe place for werewolves to get healthy access to wolfsbane, and a safe space to sleep the night off, full moons or not, and heal afterwards. Draco has started to work there too, developing new healing potions, more potent and specific for werewolves needs, as well as hack into wolfsbane for Hermione, taking her up on an offer to improve it, which she had been working on for months. 

Harry liked the photos of them all as a group the most, a lot of them moving too much to track, laughing, and dancing or just talking, but he liked to see tangible proof of them all together. 

He was gonna miss Ron and Hermione, he said that to them, tearfully, even though they said they’d spend the first night at the cottage with them, which, despite sleeping there most nights for a few months straight, and about every weekend when they weren't working, it felt different now, real. Ron called it a christening, Hermione called him an idiot. 

Hermione also said she’d make copies of all the photos on their photo wall, which Harry couldn’t wait for, to have, Draco seemed to like it too, he stared at the ones of himself with an odd look. 

Harry now, was working with a bit of travel, exploring cities and himself a bit, got to do it with Ron sometimes who was finally licensed and working— both for himself and at Hermione and Greg's centre sometimes. Harry travelled and wrote for Quidditch games only at first, but then distanced to social and political issues, internationally wrote about the world while posing as travelling for Quidditch, he had a book planned out, and sent it to an editor. He wants to publish by the new year if possible. He wrote holiday fluff pieces, and childhood stories that Luna and Ginny helped do the art for, as well as Dean, who had a real talent, mixing together Harrys words and Lunas and Ginnys too different styles, making it flow, hes published maybe twenty pieces, has been thinking about getting them bound and published as well. Harry also loved to write an issue every month supporting and promoting the actions of one person who's done some good recently, across the wizarding world, the muggle world. He used it as a while to gloat about his friends, but it quickly turned to something more. 

He had been making small steps too, with the kitchen thing, he and Draco danced in the kitchen again, buzzing off of a joint and something that sounded like love. Draco guided Harry by the hips in a slow glide, into the kitchen in a few tight sways and swirls, before gliding him back out. He repeated around three times, and by the third, Harry thought, impossibly, that he could breath, that he was behaving a little more normal, even if he gripped Draco's hand.

He went to Dinner with Draco's parents once a week, on Tuesdays, normally after therapy, and he found he actually enjoyed talking to them, and could breathe a little more easier in the Manor, which he learned they’d be selling soon, moving into a small villa in France by September. Draco came now to the Burrow, who all, after two years of hearing about them from Ron, Ginny, Luna and Hermione, were really glad to have them, Harry finally stopped avoiding their questions about Draco too, and laughed as George integrated Draco, or Ginny and Charlie asked him bordering ridiculous questions that left the entire table laughing. 

Harry has been kind of loving life, and wasn't that something?

It felt desperately good, to wake up everyday in the same bed as someone who loved you, to shower and eat in a safe space with them, to have friends upon friends who all loved and supported each other, and some days kind of sucked still, which Harold helped Harry prepare himself for, it was a good thing that his job was a freelance sort of thing, as Harry never would’ve been able to move on with his childhood dream of aurror, the rules and strict scheduling would end him. 

Draco had started seeing someone, a witch who was named Dulcie, Harry had thought it funny as he had brought home a small black lab a few months ago, he had found her, one day while driving in Dracos car, and she remedined him so desperately of Sirius, that when he found out she didn’t have a owner, he took her home without thinking, and shyly brought her into the cottage, where Draco looked at Harry with raised eyebrows. They named her Dulcie, and a few weeks later Draco found Dulcie Spades, his therapist, Harry thought it was a good sign. 

Harry still couldn’t remember some days, that he was in a house that he loved, with people that he loved, but he was going to get there, he thought, and it wouldn't be an everyday thing, but it would be a known thing, to which he thought, kind of like riding a broom or a bike, could become a habit, something that would be easily relearned, somewhere he could learn to bring himself back to. 

//

There is a boy I know. We are friends, we are more than— cause everytime he looks at me I get electric shocks, in my brain and in my heart.

the epilogue; 

Draco had walked into the shelter with a yawn, Harry had kept him up most the night, spreading Draco open on his cock, in a way that left Draco still warm and aching for it four hours later. That was a first for them, and one Harry was desperately sincere in, always asking Draco if it felt good, and checked in. Draco grinned, almost fifthly as it all got too much for Harry, his hips shaking. Draco flipped them, and rode Harry's cock until they were both moaning and coming onto each other. 

Hermione was sitting at her desk in her office when Draco walked by, Pansy was standing in there talking to her, they were laughing about something as Draco popped his head in to say hello. 

“Hey lovebug,” Pansy eyed him, smirking,” Nice hickeys.” 

Draco flipped her off, scoffing, as if he couldn’t see a few fading ones of her own, her low cut top showing off light bruises. 

Hermione rolled her eyes,” Harry came by before he went to that game, left coffee on your desk, I believe.” 

“Oh that man is an angel” Draco hummed, and Hermione laughed in agreement. 

Draco smiled, warming up at the mention of Harry, he didn’t know how he’d have the energy to write today, let alone pay attention to Qudditch, but Draco liked that Harry was happy doing something, and had found his groove somewhere. 

Draco made his way to his office, saying hello to a few of the regulars he knew, before signing into his lab with his thumb print, this magic ward Harry had made a few months ago, he didn’t want to publish the work, at least not yet, worried that it getting out, would mean people getting around it. 

They were still working on the paranoia, for them both really. 

Draco took off his robes, and slung his bag on his chair, before taking a grateful sip of the coffee Harry left, before looking at the little, paper brown bag left next to the coffee, he peeked inside it and saw a muffin as well as some sort of bread, banana or carrot maybe? And a brownie, with extra chips. 

There was a note, in Harry's messy scrawl, that read, I told you I can bake, Ron insists on extra chips but we do what we must. Let me know what you think about the banana bread, it's a new recipe. Love you with everything in me,

H, 

Draco smiled and took a bite of the banana bread, and then swore, fuck—  Harry really could bake.