The Thunder
As the scarlet engine of Hogwarts Express rolls away, Harry has an out-of-body experience.
Ron is waving frantically at Hermione, shouting I’ll miss you, fruit loop, kick their arses, which garners them a few tsks from nearby parents. Harry smiles at them in apology and they scamper away hastily. On his other side, Draco is promising Luna that he’ll check in with Xenophilius regularly, make sure the Nargles don’t get to him and that he wouldn’t drown in loneliness.
Harry thinks it’s more for Draco’s benefit than Luna’s, but he keeps his mouth shut.
He has opted not to be under his Cloak, after all. He figured their friends deserved a proper, corporeal goodbye after everything they’ve been through together at this point – even Blaise, who’s dickedness not only annoys Harry but amuses Ginny who has never quite learned how to filter her own words, either. Both of them are going to be an utter menace, he just knows it.
Neville, on the other hand, sweet, kind, brave Neville was the only one who didn’t share meaningful glances between Harry and Draco. Either he was completely oblivious to Harry’s fumbled attempts over the last few days of going for it, or he was simply a sweet person who realised it was none of his business, something the others had definitely not received the memo for.
It began after their double date – not that Harry will ever admit to it, especially not to Draco – but on their way back to Grimmauld, Ron and Hermione had been blissfully content in their own little world, holding hands, sharing fond smiles, exasperated banter dripping with foreplay innuendoes … Harry shudders violently and Draco throws him a questioning glance, still promising Luna he would absolutely ensure Xenophilius would not ruin the Pimplies until she returns for Christmas holidays.
Harry shakes his head, eyes swivelling back to the carriage …
So Harry was stuck with Draco on their way back after dinner, not that he was complaining, armed with his newfound realisation that he just might be having feelings, a host of them apparently, for his former school nemesis and new best mate.
Because, really, who is he kidding? Slowly and surely, Draco has become Harry’s confidante, his go-to person, the one whom he screams for help while he struggles with handling his godbaby, the one he spends lazy evenings with either flying or watching clouds or fighting about some moral line or the other, and despite the suffering he is subjected to whenever Draco slides into his Raised To Despise Everything Non-Magical mode, Harry still sort of looks forward to it.
Maybe that should have been his first clue.
Nevertheless, now that he’s aware, it is as if he simply cannot be unaware. Draco’s presence has suddenly become a huge, looming gravitational pull that can’t be escaped. Not that Harry particularly wants to escape.
It’s … well, it’s thrilling and painful and confusing and it makes Harry so, so happy. This is like downing a bottle of Felix Felicis but more potent, because Felix might bring one complete confidence in their actions, might guide one towards a lucky path, but Harry has none of the confidence, none of the guidance, and yet somehow knows he wants to be around Draco, come hell or high water.
He wonders if it has anything to do with the war.
Despite what Ron had said, Harry is not taken by redeemed people. He admires them, yes, because it is admirable to want to redeem oneself, to want to be a better person, to change one’s destiny. So he admires Severus and Dudley and Draco because they deserve it, and Harry is not in the business of denying people what they deserve.
Hermione had once told Harry how remorse for one’s actions could sometimes be painful enough that their journey ends with the finality of death. It was when Harry had wanted to know whether it is possible to stitch the pieces of soul back together, whether the person can be saved.
There was a moment during the battle, when Harry had wanted to address Riddle, wanted to implore to his human side, wanted Tom to understand the damage he has done to himself, wanted to save him from his own choices. But there was no time, and as soon as Riddle had shot spells at Ron and Hermione with the intention to kill, it had driven away all else from Harry’s mind.
Draco is nowhere near Tom Riddle, of course. But he pulled his life around when it mattered the most, not for Harry’s sake, but for his own.
Draco saved himself from his own choices, escaped the hard-wired beliefs he was raised with, and if that isn’t one of the bravest things Harry had ever witnessed, he doesn’t know what is. Ironically, it were Draco’s impulsive, brain-damaged grand schemes with high probability of certain death that saved their arses multiple times, and maybe that’s what Hermione meant when she said the two of them were more alike than he realises, and Harry just feels – he feels –
He just feels.
And then there’s Dudley, who destroyed the loop of his parents’ making, seeing Harry’s magical ability as something to be respected rather than feared. Something that is an integral part of Harry and does not blame him for it.
So yes, Harry admires them. Who wouldn’t? But how Harry feels for Draco is more than that. It is for reasons more than that.
Harry and Draco had not said a word to each other as they strolled back from the restaurant. Harry had been content in simply observing the circles of yellow light on the pavement, having Ron and Hermione in view up ahead, giggling and whispering, Draco’s solid presence beside him, and that had been it.
When they were at the Granger Gallery, Hermione was seated at the dining table, going through all the unpaid utility bills. Apparently, since she never forced her parents to sell the house, they had been paying the bare minimum to keep the services alive. That is, until a month ago, when they stopped.
“Maybe they forgot,” Harry suggested, reading the electricity bills. “The company will contact them, won’t they?”
“Ideally, yes,” Hermione said.
“How long did you send them to Australia for?” Draco suddenly asked from across the table. He was holding onto a few church pamphlets.
Hermione chewed her bottom lip anxiously. “I didn’t specify. Just that it was their lifelong dream to move there.”
“That’s it then, isn’t it?” Ron frowned. “Maybe they invested in a new house and want to pay for it by selling this one? If I was thinking of moving, I think I wouldn’t want to continue maintaining two houses.”
“What have I done?” Hermione groaned, throwing her head back to stare at the ceiling. “This is beginning to become messier by the second.”
“Confund the service company,” Draco said mildly, thumbing through the brochure of Sunday morning masses. “Jesus Christ, that’s the Muggle Lord?” He shared a pointed look with Harry, murmuring, Jesus fucking Merlin?
“Son of the Lord,” Hermione corrected him automatically, turning back to snatch the electricity bill from Harry’s hands. She scanned through it miserably. “I can pay it myself, but …”
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Ron quickly cut in, who was more than aware of Hermione’s dwindling savings. “We can pool in. Right?”
Draco shrugged. A second later, he called for Minnie.
Minnie popped up with a resounding crack, bowing immediately. “Master Draco, Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, what an honour to be in–”
“Minnie,” Draco interrupted firmly. “Bring the ugly old vase Aunt Bella kept in her quarters. You know the one–”
“The one with phallic markings,” Minnie nodded, looking revolted, a shudder passing through her tiny body. She was dressed in a light green frock with blue flowers.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged a look when Minnie disappeared and reappeared almost instantly with said vase. It was pure, solid gold and every bit worthy of the compliment. Harry had seen better vases in the Dursleys’ house.
“This should suffice, I presume?” Draco waved it in the air like a trophy. “How much does gold cost in Muggle currency, anyway?”
“You’d be a billionaire,” Harry told him. “At least.”
“Huh,” Draco remarked, mulling it over. “Well, Granger, think of this as personal revenge, why don’t you? Aunt Bella would roll in her grave if her personal property provides sustenance to a Muggle-born witch.”
To everyone’s surprise, Hermione laughed, taking the vase gingerly. “I suppose there is some irony to it, yes.”
“Hermione,” Harry ventured carefully. “What if they are planning to sell the house?”
“Snape hasn’t responded yet?” Ron checked. Upon Harry’s headshake, he said bracingly, “it’s only a matter of time, innit? Maybe he’s far away that the owl has to travel for days.”
“Maybe,” Harry agreed.
He’d written a short, straightforward letter to Severus, explaining the predicament and all the research they’d done until now. No questions were asked after his well-being or his whereabouts, neither had Harry demanded why he left.
Hermione announced that they should play some music and got up promptly to do just that. When she was bent over the cassette player, Harry sidled up to her and requested to play the tape they had danced to on Draco’s birthday.
She giggled. “Sure, Harry,” she said mischievously. “Of course.”
Harry stared, ears flushing pink. “Ron said something to you?”
“He didn’t have to,” Hermione pinched his cheeks. “You were sleeping in his bed and came home wearing his clothes. I have eyes.”
Harry experienced a full body blush outside of his control. “What? No! That wasn’t – ‘Mione, I was literally only sleeping. I needed to change my clothes and he lent me his–”
“Yes, sure, of course,” she said airily, plucking out the tape titled Queen and sliding it in. Once more, the cassette began with Love of my life, you’ve hurt me …
By then, Harry was too frazzled to do anything more than returning to the dining table and browse through the mail unseeingly. He heard the music in the background, heard Ron’s chair scraping back as he joined Hermione, and resolutely didn’t look up at Draco.
When he couldn’t take it anymore, he muttered that he was going to make some tea. Without waiting for any kind of response from Draco, he strode to the kitchen and came to a halt when the song changed and the peppy, lively music began blaring through the tinny speakers.
I want to break free
I want to break free from your lies
You’re so self satisfied, I don’t need you
And Harry nodded, the words resonating deep inside him. He didn’t need Draco. Not that Draco lied but Harry still didn’t need him. Harry was perfectly capable of cruising through life on his own. He defeated the Most Evil Dark Wizard, how hard could this be?
I’ve fallen in love
I’ve fallen in love for the first time
And this time I know it’s for real
...wait what? No, no. That’s not the point. In a sudden bout of frustration at the singer with the beautiful voice, Harry whirled around with every intention of jabbing at the Next button on the cassette player.
But when he was passing by the dining table, Draco is still seated, curious grey eyes following Harry’s movements in open amusement. Harry abruptly changed directions, instead marching up to Draco, and pointedly held his hand out.
Draco stared only for a moment and then he clasped Harry’s hand, letting Harry pull him to his feet. And the rest, as they say, is history.
If only.
When they were at the Manor, lazing upon the sprawling blades of grass on thin blankets, soaking up the last of summer rays, Harry was sipping at his chilled pumpkin juice contentedly.
Ginny and Luna were hovering above the flock of Flutterbies and Harry was happy to see Blue Wings playing with Yellow Wings, no longer chasing by bending over backwards for it. Blaise was practically shirtless, donned in light summer shorts, lying down directly on the grass, lazily flicking his wand to sprinkle water over himself from time to time. Neville had also arrived half an hour ago upon Harry and Luna’s insistence, but he got distracted by the shrubbery lining up the cobbled path.
Hermione was lying on her stomach, a book propped open in front of her, ankles hooked in the air. Ron had convinced her to read Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump, not that it took much effort.
When the heat finally got to him, Harry pulled off his own T-shirt. Ginny whistled loudly, winking.
“Your turn,” he called out cheekily.
She laughed brightly. “You wish!”
“Gross,” Ron complained around the blade of grass between his teeth. His head was resting on Hermione’s back, one ankle curved over the other knee.
“As if you wouldn’t want Hermione to do the same,” Ginny rolled her eyes. “You always drool like a troll whenever she wears shorts, Ron.”
“Everyone please keep their panties on,” Draco announced smoothly from beside Harry, eyes shut against the glare. “That’s the only rule.”
Harry laughed, poking him. Draco swatted his hand away blindly. The light stubble on his jaw fascinated Harry, the colour a shade darker than his hair to match his eyebrows. Draco preferred to clean-shave regularly, except that he’d decided upon experimenting a little recently. When he’d asked Harry how he maintained the length, Harry had shown him the razor Fleur’s father gifted him on his seventeenth birthday. Naturally, Draco had complained that Harry had not shared this one when they were camping but a regular one, and Harry had to remind him of his priorities.
So anyway, he’d taken to using Harry’s magical razor and Harry had refrained from pointing out that he could simply buy his own.
The sandwiches were held under an elf-special Stasis Charm. Harry grabbed one triangular piece, soft and fresh, and nudged another piece at Draco. Draco peered up at him through one silver eye, paused, and then snatched the offering. He sat up to chew without choking and Harry thought he was being scrutinised. He suddenly wanted to put his T-shirt back on.
“Ginevra,” Draco said randomly. “What was it you said about the Hungarian Horntail tattoo?”
Ginny’s peals of laughter did nothing to hide Harry’s incredulity. The Flutterbies she’d been studying with Luna scattered away in fright.
“Ginny!” Luna exclaimed miserably. “You shouldn’t have done that. Flutterbies are very sensitive creatures. They might not return.”
“Sorry, Luna,” Ginny apologized, still beaming. To Draco, she said, “He might as well get one now, don’t you think?”
“Nuri hates me,” Harry argued over the collective uproarious laughter, except Draco who grumbled something incomprehensible under his breath. “I think she feels it’s my fault Draco was injured.”
“I’d heard that one,” Blaise said lazily, ignoring Harry. “Did you spread that rumor?”
“Yep,” Ginny said unapologetically.
“Who wants to play a game of Quidditch?” Ron announced.
Harry believed that he only wanted to change the subject of Harry’s lack of tattoos and nakedness, and he had never loved Ron more than in that moment.
“How about football?” Harry suggested instead.
Luna drifted away to search for Neville. While she was gone, Draco marked the ground with his wand, drawing white lines to create a playing field and Harry finally learned that Dean and Blaise sometimes invited a few Hogwarts students they had befriended during their stay in the Room, and Dean’s sister, Jamie, tagged along a couple of times.
Draco even had the goals stashed in one of the outdoor shacks, and erects them on either ends. They split apart in two teams: Harry, Hermione, Neville, Blaise versus Ron, Ginny, Draco, and Luna.
Hermione chose to be the goalie opposite of Ron. This gave rise to a healthy amount of teasing with Luna recalling the days from Dumbledore’s Army when the two would pair up to duel.
Turned out, playing football against Draco is as thrilling as playing Quidditch. Harry got into his element almost right away and since both of them were new to it, they both sucked, and the only challenge left was to see who sucked comparatively less.
Hermione was a good goalie, if not a little terrified of the speeding ball. Still, she held her ground and even did a spectacular save against one of Ginny’s rather powerful kicks. Neville was pretty terrible at it which matched Luna, who barely gave a shit about the game. Blaise wasn’t too bad, and he even seemed to have had learned a few tricks from Dean over time. He did the whole fake manoeuvring gag which helped their team plenty.
Halfway through, everyone was sweating profusely. Eventually, Draco, Ron, and Neville opted to remove their T-shirts, too, and then Ginny complained so much that Luna suggested she is free to do the same. Ginny did.
Harry couldn’t have appreciated the view even if he wanted to. He was stuck watching Draco’s scar for the rest of the game.
No one commented on it.
The game continued as if they weren’t all that affected by it, the way Harry was. But they were, even if they didn’t explicitly say it, and Harry noticed Hermione and Ron exchange a look across the field, Ginny subtly avoiding looking directly at Draco’s chest. Blaise and Luna must have seen it before, Harry realised, and Neville frowned down at the ball.
In the end, Draco’s team wins. Ginny is more capable than they had thought, and despite Blaise scoring most of the goals for Harry’s team, her coordination with Draco was surprisingly better than Harry had within his own team.
The house-elves showed the girls to a different room while Draco carted the boys to his. As soon as they were inside, Harry flopped down on the large bed, inhaling deeply. Blaise shoved him aside a moment later and then Ron and Neville were piling on top as if they owned the place.
That left Draco to take the first shower.
“You guys are killing me,” Harry complained from underneath the human pile. “Seriously, Blaise, how much do you weigh?”
“More than your scrawny arse, for sure,” Blaise rumbled.
“It’s Nev,” Ron informed him. “He’s still shooting up like a tree. Mate, I think you’d reach the ceiling in a few months’ time.”
“My dad is pretty tall,” Neville agreed. “Even my grandmother.”
“I’m very happy for you, Nev,” Harry choked out. “But get the fuck off of me.”
“Language,” Ron said in an imitation of Arthur’s voice.
“Sod off,” Harry grumbled.
The bathroom door opened.
“Hey, Draco,” Blaise greeted cheerfully. “Here, take my place.”
“What?”
“Draco!” Harry shouted into the mattress, wriggling for all he was worth. None of them budged. “Draco, help!”
There was a scuffling as Blaise retrieved himself, Harry felt his chest expand mercifully, and then Draco snapped an irate Blaise, what the fuck before he was shoved onto the bed. Ron laughed and Harry found himself in the middle of entangled limbs trying to fight each other, and Neville was shooting off from the bed.
Ron gave a final push, which ended up with Draco being unceremoniously dumped on Harry’s back. Harry dipped into the mattress as all the breath whooshed out of him, his heart thumping wildly, Draco’s wet hair on his neck, and his warm breath very close to Harry’s mouth. A few choice words later, Draco picked himself up on his elbows, and Harry fumbled, rolling around to get on his back, which was a wrong move since he knocked Draco’s hand right from under him and suddenly was nose-to-nose with the git, sunlight from the open windows catching in the grey pools.
Harry blinked.
“Hi,” he said stupidly.
“Hi?” Draco repeated uncertainly.
“They were trying to kill me.”
Draco grinned, cheeks bunching up. “What’s new?”
Harry huffed out a soft laugh. Up close, he could see the blue flecks that belonged to the ocean shore. Draco’s lips were freshly pink from his shower, skin flooded lightly, and Harry was positive he stopped breathing entirely.
When the bathroom door banged shut, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Draco successfully got off of him. When they joined back with the girls in the Star Room, Harry sat on the edge, legs folded, looking out at the sky. Luna joined him a few moments later.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” she said serenely. “I think it’s very nice how stars connect us all, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I’ll be back at school, I’ll be looking at the same sky as you. It’s comforting in a way, reminds me I’m never as alone as I think I am.”
Harry looked at her. “You’re never alone, Luna.”
She smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Harry. Neither are you.”
Harry just – he hugged her. Put his arms around her frame and poured everything into it. Luna giggled, patting his back, and let him.
Only yesterday, Molly and Arthur had insisted upon hosting Back To School dinner at The Burrow. Fred and George brought some testing merchandise that Hermione refused to take with her and Ginny sneaked it when she wasn’t looking. Bill and Fleur had opted out of it, saying they were too tired for the day, but everyone had the suspicion that they had not wanted to confront any Baby Talk if they could help it. Which left Percy to fill in the Older Brother Role, and he spent half of the night lamenting over his heartbreak. Penelope had dumped him earlier that day over lunch.
Hermione and Ron were too wrapped up in each other to notice. Ginny joined Fred and George in listing all the terrible traits Penelope apparently possessed, and it only made Percy a weird concoction of feelings as he tried to defend Penelope out of sheer loyalty but also pointed out other terrible traits out of sheer despair. Harry spent half his evening on the receiving end of How Relationships Suck, which amused Draco to no end, busy as he was being fussed over by Molly over his naturally pale complexion yet again.
When Arthur tried to talk to Percy, saying how high school relationships don’t always work, and he’d find a better match eventually, not to lose hope, Percy only pointedly reminded him that he married his high school sweetheart.
Suffice to say, it had not been the most pleasant of meals. As soon as he could escape Percy, Harry joined Draco and Hermione, who were in the middle of a whispered argument whether Gubraithian Fire would have trapped a You-Know-What in eternal agony. Harry only caught the tail end of the conversation because both of them snapped shut when Harry sidled closer.
“It’s fine,” Harry waved his hand. “I’m a little drunk to care.”
Which was true. He had adopted Ginny’s game of drinking whenever Percy cleared his throat importantly, except that he had been sipping at Firewhisky.
“Are you going to start talking about male pregnancy again?” Draco demanded, looking both amused and disturbed.
“What?” Hermione cried, fixing Harry with a stricken expression.
“I was joking,” Harry assured her, not knowing if it were true or not. “Obviously.”
“He really wasn’t,” Draco informed her.
“Shut up, Draco. If I remember correctly, you were the one who said all men are trash.”
Hermione giggled behind her hand and Draco shot her a glare.
“Besides,” Harry continued airily. “Kids are a menace. Teddy is more than a handful, wouldn’t you agree?”
Draco paled slightly at the memory. “That kid puts my Great Aunt to shame. It’s no wonder he’s a Black.”
“Exactly,” Harry nodded. “Even you shriek like a banshee sometimes.”
It appeared that Hermione couldn’t hold her laughter anymore. She ignored both of their glares, announcing that she was going to tell Ron and left immediately.
“I do not shriek like a banshee,” Draco hissed at Harry.
To prove his point, Harry jabbed him in the sensitive spot below his ribcage and yes, Draco shrieked like a banshee. Granted he had to turn tail and run, but it was worth it, especially when he darted outside in the cooling sunset, Draco chasing him all around The Burrow.
When Harry finally stopped under the tree, bracing one hand against the trunk, panting like a dying man, Draco dropped down to the ground, not even bothering to exact revenge. Harry joined him, sprawling on his back. In a surprising gesture, Draco shifted and rested his head on Harry’s thigh, looking up at the blazing canopy.
“I’m going to Gringotts soon,” Harry told him. “I’ll offer to pay for the repairs.”
Draco blinked up at him. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I need access, Draco,” Harry sighed.
“Pay from Aunt Bella’s vault,” Draco suggested, quirking up an eyebrow. “It’ll shut up my solicitor, if nothing else.”
“Are you sure?” Harry asked uncertainly. “It’s your money, though.”
“It was her vault we were trying to get to,” Draco pointed out. “Not to mention, I’m still a little pissed at my Aunt. Consider this as my personal revenge. In fact, while we’re at it, I might actually take up on Granger’s demands and donate the rest of it to the Muggle Liaison Office.”
Harry laughed.
“Isn’t it perfect?” Draco grinned deviously and oh-so-pleased with himself.
And that was that. They stayed under the tree for a bit longer and only went back inside when the mosquitoes came out. As soon as they entered through the doors, Draco aimed straight towards another glass of Firewhisky and Fred made kissing faces at Harry behind his back. George raised an eyebrow; Harry hastily snatched the glass Draco was raising to his lips and took a hearty swig.
“Hey!” Draco protested immediately. “Get your own!”
Harry returned it, grinning blissfully. Draco rolled his eyes, finishing the rest in a deep gulp.
At nine-and-three-quarters, Ron is sighing as they watch the train disappear around the corner. “This is it, then. Just us three.”
“That’s worrisome,” Harry says, ignoring the gaping crowd as much as humanly possible.
“I’d say so,” Draco nods.
Naturally, visiting Gringotts becomes a whole, messy affair.
Since Draco has visited Diagon Alley prior for his frustrating meetings with the bank-appointed solicitor, he strides right past Tom the bartender at the Leaky Cauldron, amidst various greetings, clapping, offers of free drinks and – to Harry’s bemusement – dates.
Harry shuffles along under his Cloak and when a group of young witches and wizards wouldn’t let Draco leave without exacting a promise of “fun night out”, he knocks over a large tumbler of ale. The distraction works and Draco escapes the crowd without further unasked assistance from Harry.
Once he’s in the back, he hisses, “Harry?”
Harry tugs the Cloak down a little so that only his eyes and nose are visible. “I’m here. You could have just been under the Cloak with me.”
“For the hundredth time,” Draco rolls his eyes, “I’m not as allergic to people fawning over me as you are.”
“Oh, of course, you would just love it if someone kisses the ground you walk on,” Harry bites, huffing in irritation.
Draco raises his eyebrows. “Yes. That would be rather pleasant to watch. Care to volunteer?”
Harry does not justify it with an answer. With one last glare, he disappears inside the safety of his Cloak, mentally cursing Draco to next Sunday.
As they stroll along the main street of Diagon Alley, many shop owners try to entice Draco with free items, their current sale prices, and in one case, a stuffed white dragon that breathes blue-white fire. Draco halts, staring at it for a few seconds, before shaking his head and continuing towards the bank. Harry quietly follows.
At the entrance, Harry has no choice but to reveal himself. The security guards from during the war are still present and they almost lose their shit at the sight of two former bank robbers. Harry and Draco are both poked and prodded endlessly before being allowed to enter wherein a group of nearly ten goblins promptly descends upon them.
Convincing the goblins is not easy, but they permit continued access under strict conditions. First and foremost, Harry and Draco have to submit their wands at the counter. Secondly, they will be escorted by one of the security trolls along with three goblins. Lastly, they must ride through the Thief’s Downfall during every visit.
The other patrons at the bank have obviously recognized them by now, and Harry is thankful when the goblins whisk them away to the underground. One of the wizards looked like he had every intention of requesting for a photograph, at the very least.
Dripping and shivering like a leaf, Harry steps out of the bank, his pockets filled with both gold and pounds alike, a folded sheet of parchment inside his jacket detailing out the contents of his overall inherited fortune, only to be confronted with the blinding flashes of the cameras. There’s no time to even use a quick Drying Charm as the reporters fire question after question in a jumbled mess.
Harry Potter, when can we expect you to join the Auror Department, too?
Draco Malfoy, wouldn’t it be revolutionary to have a Death Eater join Ministry ranks?
Is Expelliarmus really that powerful? Has no one tried Disarming He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before?
Draco Malfoy, were you specifically recruited by Harry Potter to break into Gringotts?
Harry Potter, we have reason to believe that you were searching for Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Is that how you acquired information on how to defeat You-Know-Who?
Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley have refused to elaborate on any details of the war. Should we be expecting an autobiography soon?
Have you signed any contracts yet?
Harry tugs on Draco’s hand, barrelling through with determined steps. The horde of cameras follow them all the way back to the Leaky Cauldron and only stop when Harry spills out onto Charing Cross Road and into the Muggle world.
“That was entertaining,” Draco remarks coolly, fingers slipping out from Harry’s hold. “I keep forgetting they don’t know about the Elder Wand. It really adds the whole element of mystery, doesn’t it?”
“No wonder Blaise was pissed I was in hiding,” Harry says, peering at their surroundings. It’s a lazy September afternoon, the sky rumbling and dark clouds beginning to gather in warning.
“Signing a book contract is not a bad idea,” Draco says. “Or you could write one.”
Harry decides on a random direction, laughing incredulously. “I’d rather eat sand flavoured Bertie beans than pick up a quill again.”
“There you go,” Draco says silkily, falling into step beside him. “First item on your Not Career List.”
Once they’re back at Grimmauld, Kreacher offers to make them tea. Harry leads Draco to the back porch, settling against the railing, watching the downpour in comfortable silence.
Draco leans beside him with his own cup, their elbows brushing whenever they take a sip at the same time. It’s soothing, the sound of rain lashing on the patchy ground, the rich smell of wet soil filling Harry’s senses. Gentle sprays of droplets splatter across his skin and clothes.
Harry takes a deep breath in.
Draco radiates heat, the way he always does. When Harry chances a glance at him out of the corner of his eyes, quick and fleeting, watching Draco’s alabaster skin glistening lightly with humidity, white blonde hair sticking out of place, grey eyes crinkled at the world, he feels – he feels –
And then when Draco comes through the Floo in the morning, donned in black pants and a simple blue T-shirt that has gold lettering on the front, I’m a Portkey to Paradise, Harry silently passes him the stack of toast, sugared coffee, a piece of leftover cranberry pie from last night, and watches Draco not sitting quite ramrod straight like a prissy pureblood, or not bothering with the right type of cutlery for applying marmalade, or snapping his jaw shut enough to sip at coffee, white blonde hair wild and unkempt, Harry feels – fuck –
And then when Harry goes through the whole hassle of writing a letter to Neville, asking him which plants he should be buying for the dead conservatory with specific instructions to care for them, and then he visits Diagon Alley, tolerates another bout of cameras and reporters and shop owners attempting to shove free supplies in his hands, finally returning home, calling Kreacher for help, and Draco finds him a couple of hours later, elbow deep in mud and manure and otherworldly blue flowers that glow during the day, turn yellow at night, and a tub of wriggling golden leaves that Neville assured him would not bite him but catch Nifflers, and even an array of roses that are not as beautiful as the ones from the Manor gardens but Harry loves them all the same, and Draco quirks up an eyebrow, conjures a small settee from Regulus’ bedroom, settles in with a cuppa, utterly serene and watching Harry’s progress without offering help, and Harry prickles under the attention, doesn’t fumble much, but then when the sun is setting, the blue flowers are fading and shining at the same time, and Draco kneels beside Harry curiously until the cool blue turns a burning yellow, the night has set, Kreacher has left long ago to prepare dinner, and Harry turns to Draco, and Draco has this look of tranquillity on his face as he continues to stare at the potted plant, and Harry feels – godfuckdammit –
Harry takes walks in his neighbourhood.
The rain has begun in earnest, sloppy and wild, and Harry steps out anyway with an old, large umbrella, well-fitting clothes and a heavy jacket, sturdy boots kicking up sprays of water.
He even makes an acquaintance, the man who had been talking on the mobile phone at his metal fence. It’s very random when Harry notices him under the awning of his front porch, and he notices Harry walking past, seems to recognize him, and waves, beaming widely.
“Enjoying the rain?” he calls out.
“Very much,” Harry replies. “You coming?”
“Nah,” he slices one hand through the air. “I hate getting wet.”
“Suit yourself,” Harry shrugs.
“I’m Adam.”
Harry, about to continue on his walk, pauses. “I’m Harry.”
“New to the neighbourhood?”
“Something like that,” Harry says. “My godfather used to live on this street. I recently moved in.”
And that was that. Every time Harry passed by Adam’s house and Adam was in view, they’d exchange a few words, comment on the weather or Adam’s occupation as a salesman in a boring new start-up, and Harry tells him he’s between jobs, that mostly he’s just trying to settle in.
It’s different with Draco.
Harry simply watches him for the sake of watching him, with no ulterior motive whatsoever, but just because he enjoys it. It’s like watching a game of Quidditch but better, the excitement, the unpredictability, the constant threat of losing, the sheer joy of possibly winning …
The first time Harry thinks of wanting to kiss Draco feels like an exhale, the kind one would give after a long, tiring day. There’s nothing abrupt about it, nothing surprising in it. The urge simply builds and builds and builds throughout the day and there it is, the breath escaping out in a long whoosh, calmness draping across his shoulders, spine stretching succinctly.
They’re in the Sunset Room, watching the heavy purple chasing soft pink and flaming orange and brilliant yellow, but the stars are blanketed behind dark clouds, thunder rumbling in the distance, promising another heavy downpour in the coming week.
Harry sits in the armchair sideways, legs dangling over the armrest, hands folded in his lap. He alternates between sneaking glances at Draco and beyond the edge, because Draco looks particularly nice this evening, white blonde hair flopping over his forehead, eyes reflecting the sky, collarbones peeking out from the wide round neck of the thin jumper, and Harry thinks, I want to kiss him.
The thought feels like coming home, as if this is what he had been looking forward to this whole time, ever since he met Draco at Madam Malkin’s, that this is how their story was always headed towards, every argument and every duel and every punch, every single insult, each page unfolding like the Marauders’ Map, beginning with I swear I’m up to no good to Mischief Managed.
Harry lets the thought thrum through his veins, because Riddle may have gone and died and left Harry to deal with all these feelings, but this particular one is one of Harry’s absolute favourites and he would gladly defeat Riddle hundreds of times over if this is where it was leading him to be.
“Is that – Harry! Fuck!”
Draco jumps to his feet, dashing to the edge of the Sunset Room, pressing his nose to the transparent enchantment, palms pressed against solid air.
“What?”
Heart hammering, Harry joins him, peering out through the light drizzle that has already begun. The world is a soft grey and just a little bit foggy but Harry soon realises what Draco means. Up above, with a resounding crack, the air splits apart, shards of clear ice raining down, and Nuri’s massive form bursts through an invisible cocoon, thunder booms in the sky, her jaw widens, and blue-white flames gleam in darkness, clashing with the Manor walls as the castle comes alive with ancient wisdom.