A Flash of Green
The summer of 2003–their first one back in London in over five years—is passing for Draco in a lazy haze of grey, as though all the colors of the world around them have been dialed down or washed out.
Draco strolls through Camden market on a sunny afternoon in late August thinking fondly of the bustling souk just around the corner from their old flat in Marrakech.
Hassan, their flat mate, was a phenomenal cook and had a delightful habit of coming home with armfuls of fresh produce and strings of dried chili peppers so hot Draco’s eyes would water from their proximity alone. The tagine would be simmering away on the stove, and there was always khobz baking in the oven, filling the kitchen with the scent of warm yeast and flour.
They remember the souk in a vibrant riot of reds and oranges against a terracotta backdrop punctuated by rich, Moroccan blues. Camden is colorful in its own way, but the cold cement-greys and muddled stone-browns don’t have quite the same impact.
Draco’s gaze catches on a bright spot of light gleaming in the gloom between two large stalls and their heart skips a beat. As they walk closer they see shelves and shelves packed with intricately embossed brass lanterns each with a small, golden light glowing inside it.
As-salaam 'alykum they say to the small, elderly woman perched on a stool at the back of the alcove as they step into the halo of warm light. Her brown face is deeply lined and her hair is covered with a beautifully patterned scarf. As-salaam 'alykum she says back with a nod.
Draco strolls slowly around the tight space until they come face to face with a squat lantern almost identical to the one that had illuminated their small bedroom in Marrakech. The larger holes in its sides are filled with colorful pieces of glass and it casts their face in a soft, rainbow glow.
“Draco?”
They spin around, their long, pale braid whipping against their shoulder, to meet a pair of translucent green eyes like shards of emerald, gleaming and fiery in the concentrated light of a candle.
A lantern. A person. Harry.
“It is you! It’s been…gods, I don’t even know how long, but it’s you,” he breathes. Something like wonder washes over his face and he steps closer.
He’s almost unrecognizable, so different from the hungry, war-ragged boy Draco had left standing on the floor of a Wizengamot courtroom, before a bleary summer of house arrest at the Manor and an anxious eighth year of school at Beauxbatons.
But he’s so much the same, too. His dark hair, as wild as it ever was, wrangled into submission by a thin hair elastic. His eyes, those eyes, watching Draco from behind familiar round lenses. His crooked nose and crooked smile that somehow tilt his features into a beautiful asymmetry. His all-consuming focus that makes Draco feel, has always made Draco feel, like the center of the universe. For better or for worse.
“Five years, two months, and twenty-one days,” Draco whispers, their voice small in their throat.
“Right.” Harry’s eyes go wide and he steps back again, looking Draco over from the top of their head to the pointed toes of their red leather boots.
Draco can’t bear the open appraisal, so they train their eyes on Harry’s chest. They can feel a flush creeping up their neck, and they hug one arm tight around their middle. They breathe.
“It’s so good to see you, Draco,” Harry says finally.
Is it? Draco wants to sneer as an old, bitter anger rises up in their gut. They look toward the old lady at the back of the stall again and watch for a moment as her gnarled hands delicately mend a tear in a small jumper. They breathe.
“It’s good to see you, too…Harry,” they say instead, because it’s the truth.
Harry beams, then he laughs. Draco laughs, too, and they suddenly feel a little bit lighter.
“Are you hungry? Do you have time for lunch?” Harry asks.
They breathe.
“Yes, I do.”
Harry grins again.
They spend all afternoon together walking aimlessly, slowly, the conversation ebbing and flowing. The silence feels comfortable, as does—Draco is surprised to find—the talking.
Draco tells Harry about how much they enjoyed their potions apprenticeship in Morocco, about Hassan and the little flat and the market.
Harry tells Draco about how happy he is to be working with George at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and to be living in his own, small cottage.
The sun begins to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in watercolor streaks of candy pink and deep purple.
Draco recounts how hard it was to land an apprenticeship, how many rejections they received before the one acceptance. They admit how grueling the work was and how crushing their loneliness had become, living so far away from their family and friends.
Harry tells Draco about struggling through Auror training, only to wash out in his first week on the job. In a quiet voice, he mentions the panic attacks and the empty feeling.
They’re still walking when darkness settles and a few, scattered stars blink yellow through the city haze against the inky-black sky.
Draco admits to Harry that although they’re pleased to be back home with a job offer from a prestigious medical potions development firm, in their lowest moments they wish that they’d finally wake up from this dream in a cell in Azkaban. That they don’t believe they deserve even the meager happiness they’ve been allowed.
Harry talks about his breakup with Ginny, and admits that some days he’s sure he’ll never feel truly loved again. That he isn’t sure he’s ever been truly loved before.
The apologies come hours later, in the quiet of Harry’s comfortingly cluttered flat, with their hands clasped tightly around glasses of firewhisky. Draco is shocked when Harry says it first.
“I’m sorry, so sorry, Draco. For hurting you. For not trying harder to help you. I could have helped you.”
“No. You saved my life, Harry. More than once. I’m the one who should be sorry for—” their voice breaks, “there’s so much I am sorry for that I don’t even know where to begin.”
“I forgive you,” Harry says firmly, his brow drawn down in such a serious expression it makes Draco laugh.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. Now, you.”
“Harry. I— oh, there’s nothing to forgive.”
“Draco, please,” he whispers.
“I forgive you.”
When Harry kisses them, the utter absurdity of it doesn’t register because it feels so right. The natural next act in a story that has been unfolding for decades and will surely continue to unfold for decades more.
Harry is gentle and kind, careful to follow Draco’s lead at first, but when Draco leans into his touch he surges forward, pulling Draco tight against him before pressing them down into the soft carpet. He never allows more than breathing room between them, keeping Draco as close as possible.
But Draco’s stomach twists with anxiety and acidic guilt and they think too good, too much, not me.
The expression on Harry’s face when Draco pulls away and says I can’t—because they’re not sorry, not about this, but they can’t—is unmitigated heartbreak.
Better now than later, Draco thinks.
*
Color bleeds back into Draco’s world little by little that autumn.
Draco finds that it’s almost impossible not to fall into a comfortable friendship with Harry. He’s always ready with a hot cup of tea or another pint and a series of questions about Draco’s day or their job or whatever. Draco finds themself drawn to Harry as soon as he enters a room, eager for the solid warmth of his company and the sincerity of his clever gaze.
Harry doesn’t try to kiss them again, doesn’t even let their knees brush when they’re sitting next to one another, and Draco is grateful because they know it would be agony to be given so little when they could never ask for more.
Everything is okay, it’s fine, until Christmas Eve. Draco hovers at the back of Pansy and Ginny’s crowded sitting room, nursing a glass of mulled wine.
“Hey, is everything alright?” Harry slides up beside them to lean with his back against the wall.
“Yes, fine, why do you ask?”
“You just seem…I don’t know. Just thought I’d check in case you want to talk about it.”
“Oh. No, everything’s…” Draco trails off with a wave of their hand. They can feel Harry’s intense gaze still on them, and they self-consciously tuck a stray lock of their long, wavy hair behind their ear.
“Okay. It’s okay if it isn’t.”
Draco sighs and looks at Harry again. His dear, sweet face is twisted with worry.
“I’ve had a letter from Azkaban.”
“Oh?”
“Fa-Lucius died…yesterday morning. Some sort of lingering infection. It’ll be all over the papers first thing tomorrow. I’m surprised they had the decency to let me know beforehand.”
“Draco, oh my god. I’m so sorry. Why are you here? Do you want to go somewhere?”
Draco shakes their head firmly, “I thought if I came out tonight I could distract myself. I wouldn’t have to feel…anything. I don’t think it’s working.”
“Of course it isn’t, you’ve just been told your father is dead. Let’s go for a walk, or back to mine-“
“No.” Harry’s eyebrows jolt upward at the severity of Draco’s tone. “No,” they repeat more gently. “If I think about it…Harry, what if I realize that I miss him? What if I realize that I don’t? What do I do with that?” Draco’s voice wavers and their lower lip begins to tremble.
Of course Harry would come along and barrel right through the emotional walls they’d spent the day carefully constructing. “I have to…I need…” they whisper, before turning and bolting out the front door and into the cold night.
“Draco, wait! Wait a minute, will you? You forgot your coat! It’s bloody freezing!” Harry chases after them, struggling into his own coat while clutching Draco’s in one hand.
Draco’s long legs carry them a block and a half before Harry catches up.
“Stop, Draco, please stop.”
“Things have been going so well, Harry,” they sob, “it’s been fucking fine! I go to my job, work my bloody arse off, see my friends every now and then and keep to myself! I just thought…” they wrap their arms tight around their chest and scuff their combat boots in the dirty snow.
“What?”
“I thought, maybe I could just exist for a while. I guess I have. It was only a matter of time before it all fell apart.” They laugh around another sob. “After they run the story tomorrow, Harry…I can’t hide from it anymore. Everyone will be reminded, and—” They’re trembling.
“Hey. C’mere.” Harry throws Draco’s yellow coat around their shoulders and pulls them into his chest, opening his own coatto bundle them up. Draco tucks their face into Harry’s warm neck. They breathe.
“You aren’t hiding from anything, Draco. You’re just living. It’s got nothing to do with what anyone does or doesn’t deserve, even Lu-your dad. You get to just live.”
“I miss him, I do,” Draco sniffles. “So much it hurts, sometimes. N-not who he was at the end. I’ve missed him for most of my life, I think.”
“I know. Believe me, I understand. And that’s okay, Draco.” Draco shakes their head gently.
“It is. And, hey, it might not be as bad as you expect, after they announce his death.” Draco scoffs.
“Yeah. You’re probably right.” Harry’s face is sheepish and pink with cold when Draco pulls back. They want to kiss the snow flakes glimmering in his long lashes. They breathe.
Harry gazes intently over Draco’s shoulder and his eyes go wide and unfocused for a long moment. Draco recognizes the expression, it’s one they’ve seen on Harry’s face many times in their life.
“Harry, whatever you’re thinking…”
“You’re freezing. Let me walk you home.”
Draco cocks an eyebrow, their lips pressed into a tight, skeptical line. “Don’t do something stupid.”
“When have I ever,” Harry teases, his face splitting into a bright grin that sets off his dimples and crinkles his eyes.
“When have you ever listened to anyone trying to talk you out of your ludicrous, impulsive plans, you mean?”
“Something like that. You’ll be at the Weasley’s tomorrow for Christmas dinner, right?”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea—”
“Please, Draco. I-I’d really like it if you came. Everyone would.” Harry looks up at them with an expression so pleading that Draco can’t say anything but yes.
*
Stepping through the front door of the Burrow on Christmas afternoon is like walking into the middle of a firework. Draco feels like the epicenter of an explosion of color and light and sound so intense they can hardly catch their breath.
They’re pulled into hug after handshake, Molly stuffs several baked goods into their hands, and Fleur gushes in rapid French over their soft Christmas jumper while threading a crown of winter flowers into their hair.
Draco feels unbearably warm and welcomed, and it’s a struggle to hold back their emotions. They’d never had something like this growing up. They aren’t quite sure how to process it all.
They find Harry in the sitting room, ensconced in a big armchair next to the fire with several tiny blonde and red headed children crawling in his lap. He’s got an oversized Santa suit on, complete with red, floppy hat. Draco’s heart aches at the sight.
As soon as Harry sees them, he launches out of the chair, airplaning one of the babies in circles over his head before settling her back down against a cushion.
“There wasn’t a word about my father in The Prophet this morning,” Draco says with a small, knowing smile.
Harry’s eyes twinkle. “Happy Christmas, Draco.”
“Happy Christmas, Harry.”
“You would have been fine if there had been. You’re the strongest person I know.”
Draco breathes.
“I-I have something else for you, too. C’mere.”
Draco groans as Harry drags them by the hand down a back hallway and into a small bedroom. He roots around in a sack of gifts on the floor. “Close your eyes,” he says over his shoulder.
Draco obeys, but rolls them petulantly before they let them fall shut.
“Okay, open,” Harry breathes.
He’s cradling the squat little lantern that Draco had admired so many months ago, on the day they first reunited. He’d cast a small lumos inside it so the little pieces of colored glass glimmer attractively.
“Oh, Harry,” Draco says, tugging nervously at their sleeves.
“Is it okay? D’you like it? I just…noticed you looking at it that one time and you looked so pretty in all the colors, so I thought—”
Draco gazes at Harry, at the soft, expectant expression on his face and the way the beautiful colors dance across the lenses of his glasses. They breathe.
“Harry, it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me. But, I didn’t get you anything. I’m sorry. You’ve done so much, too much—first my father, and now this…”
“Could I make a request?”
“Yes, Anything.”
“Kiss me.”
“What? Harry, are you sure? I’m… And you’re…”
“Exactly. I was sure the first time and I’m no less sure now. Kiss me. Please, Draco. I-if you want.”
Draco breathes, then closes their eyes and leans forward, the colors from the lantern dancing behind their eyelids.