The first time Draco showed that he loved Harry (though neither of them would call it that until years later), he’d been drowning in an ocean of terror and the world had narrowed to emerald green eyes. Well, one eye at least. Aunt Bella had shoved the wizard to his knees and beckoned to Draco like the witch in Muggle fairy tales, but Draco had obeyed.
He did not love Harry Potter. Until that very moment, Draco would have sworn up and down that there was no one in the world that he hated more than the bloody Gryffindor Golden Boy. But Draco'd stared down into that one beautiful eye (and it was beautiful, he admitted that now because he’d never seen anything so pure or so fierce) and something had shifted. It wasn’t love and Draco had gotten over his crush years ago, even if Pansy still teased him sometimes…
Looking at Potter’s swollen, disfigured face surrounded by Death Eaters who would auction off his internal organs like prize meat for a feast, Draco realized something. He did not love Harry Potter, but he also could not imagine living in a world without him.
“I can’t be sure.”
He could—he was.
The second time, it was Harry who let something slip. He was exhausted and had attended at least fifty funerals just in the last two weeks, but he’d made a point of being here for this. He’d even hired a lawyer to help him build his argument, and he’d run it by Hermione once his anxiety about the situation had overridden his fear of her judgment. She’d been… displeased.
But that didn’t matter because today was important and Harry had spent so many hours preparing for this. He knew his testimony was rock solid. He knew that he was Harry bloody Potter and that if the Wizengamot was going to listen to anyone, it would be him. But he also remembered pale, terrified silver eyes. Today was important.
Draco Malfoy was led into the center of the courtroom and shackled to the chair, but he barely seemed to notice. The Ministry holding cells were overflowing as it was and anyone with the Mark had automatically been taken to Azkaban to await trial despite Harry’s vehement protests. Azkaban had not been kind to the blond.
Draco looked like death itself had attempted to inhabit a human body. Harry wanted to scream at the old, wrinkled faces who were staring down at them and demand to know what they would have done if they’d been children tossed onto a battlefield. He wanted to run to the blond and shatter his restraints with sheer magical force. But this was important—more important than his own emotions—so Harry took a deep breath and set down his notecards.
Then, he began to testify.
The third time, it was Harry again. Narcissa and Draco had both been released on house arrest and Harry had already dodged two invitations for tea because he was terrified that Draco would still look like death. When he finally caved and Apparated to the Manor, he was holding a long, slim box that still thrummed with his magic.
“Mr. Potter, what a pleasant surprise.”
He smiled and apologized for not owling ahead or arranging a time. It was important, though. Narcissa took the explanation easily and ushered him into a parlor, promising to retrieve Draco as quickly as possible. As soon as the blond stepped into the room, Harry held out the box.
“I think this belongs to you.”
The fourth time, it was Draco’s turn. Somehow, word must have spread through the Ministry about what had happened and, by the time Ron and Harry managed to Apparate back into the Auror department, everything was chaos. Hermione was there with red rimmed eyes and she hugged them both but she was clearly there for Ron. Harry tried not to be bitter.
Everyone wanted to talk to him and everyone had advice or condolences but none of it helped. After twenty minutes of trying to slip away, Harry finally snapped and Depulso’d his way through the startled crowd as if they were stray pillows rather than human beings. He flung open the door of his office and was fully prepared to destroy the room in a wave of uncontrolled magic, but he stopped.
Draco Malfoy was sitting behind his desk, his feet propped up on the wood.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
He was expecting more condolences or even an interrogation but he had not been ready for Draco to sneer and push out a chair for him with a wave of his hand. Wandless magic. Nonverbal wandless magic. Since when could he—?
“Your manners, as always, are atrocious, Potter. Drink.”
A mug levitated across the room towards him and Harry eyed it suspiciously, but Draco offered no commentary or explanation. Apparently, the blond was not interested in fighting for trust that he was never going to be given. Harry caved and took a sip.
“S’good.”
At that, Draco let out a small laugh that somehow managed to resonate through the fog slowly overtaking his mind. Harry liked that sound.
“Yes, and eloquent as ever I see. It is good. It’s my own design—a mix of Calming Draught, Pepperup Potion, whiskey, and really fucking strong coffee. It can perk up anyone. Even someone fresh out of Azkaban.”
Even now, Draco still flinched as he said the name. Harry wondered if the blond knew he did it, or if it was a subconscious reaction. He took another sip and sank into the offered chair.
“You heard what happened?”
Of course he had. Draco Malfoy had his ear to every fucking door and wall in the entire Ministry. There was rarely anything that he didn’t know about and, given that the entire Auror department seemed to have heard, Draco undoubtedly had as well.
“I did,” Draco paused, sipping his own mug before shrugging. “It’s about time.”
Harry spluttered.
“Excuse me?! It’s about time for what? It’s about time that an entire group of Auror trainees get tortured under my command?!”
Draco was standing then, hands empty and reaching. He caught Harry’s mug before it could shatter and slowly set it somewhere safe before turning back to the Auror. Harry could feel magic bubbling and boiling under his skin, just itching for an excuse to explode. He wondered if he could make the blond’s head swell up like Aunt Marge’s had.
“No, and do lower your voice before the entire department comes running. I meant that it’s about time that they saw the consequences of their actions—don’t get your panties in a twist, Potter, I didn’t mean your trainees. They didn’t deserve to be tortured.”
Draco caught his wrist, then caught the other and held them firmly between them.
“They didn’t deserve to be tortured,” he repeated. “And you didn’t deserve the pressure that led up to that or the blame that resulted from it. You have been an Auror for less than two years. Frankly, Potter, you are not qualified to be leading a team of trainees anywhere let alone into a potential drug den and Robards should have known better. Shacklebolt should have known better. But you, Potter? You’re not even twenty. This isn’t on you.”
At that, Harry lost any remaining grip he had on his emotions and the tears started. It was too much. He didn’t know how to say no and they kept giving him more and more responsibilities like it was some kind of reward, but Draco was right. He wasn’t qualified to lead a team, much less a team of trainees. Why had they thought he could do this?
To his credit, Draco held steady through the entire breakdown. He never loosened his grip, he never glanced towards the door, and he never once looked away from Harry’s face. It was… settling. This was different from the responses he usually got and it was refreshing. Ron and the other Aurors usually gave him some variation of the ‘it’s shit but that’s the job’ speech. Hermione (and Molly, the one time she’d walked in on him panicking) had both given him the ‘you couldn’t have known’ talk.
But Draco was sitting here, holding his wrists, telling him that he shouldn’t have had to know.
The fifth time was during Narcissa’s funeral. She’d died much sooner than she should have and Harry had gone to her funeral out of respect for the woman who had saved his life, but also because he knew this had to be killing Draco. The blond had never looked so fucking alone. A sea of reporters stood at the ready, snapping pictures and taunting him with questions about Voldemort and the war. Harry couldn’t take it.
He stepped up to stand beside the blond and immediately every camera turned to him. The pictures would capture both of them, but the questions and the microphones turned on him as well and Harry stepped into his PR persona. He told them to fuck off as politely and as Hermione-like as possible. When the event had been cleared of anyone not actually attending the funeral, he let the fake expressions melt away and jolted when he felt a hand on his arm.
It was small—barely there, resting just inside the crook of his elbow where no one would even be able to see it in the fold of his jacket sleeve—but it was monumental. He covered it with his own just for a second and squeezed. Draco’s face twisted, but he squeezed back.
It was their six month anniversary the first time either of them said it. They’d been sleeping together and going out for food (which was not a date, Draco insisted, unless one was formally asked—which didn’t happen because Harry usually just showed up and tugged until Draco agreed to be Sidealonged to their destination) for six months. It seemed impossible.
Infatuation lasts four months. That was what Harry had said at the beginning and Draco had bit his tongue, just barely catching himself before he argued that he’d been infatuated with the git since they were fifteen. He kept his mouth shut, though, and just waited.
Draco said it first. They were on their second bottle of wine and cry-laughing at stories of their classmates back in Hogwarts. He’d been halfway through a heartfelt rendition of what he called ‘Hangry Harry and the poor Slytherin first year’ when the Gryffindor had cut him off.
“I think you’ve always known me in a way that no one else ever wanted to.”
Draco stopped. Paused. Considered the weight of those words and how utterly true they felt in both directions.
“I love you, Harry.”
Green eyes shot up and met his. Those same emerald rings that had been so fucking pure and so full of defiance even at Bellatrix’s feet. Now they were bright and slightly shiny. Not cursed or jinxed, but emotional.
“I love you too, Draco.”