The Last Descendants
Nuri’s ear-splitting roars bleed together with the deafening thunder in the sky.
The Manor walls hold steady against the brilliant burst of dragonfire, the howling wind and icy rain creating a cacophony outside of the magical enchantment. Harry is frozen to the spot, and so is Draco, as they witness the dragon wage a war in the sky.
Flames glide past their small cocoon, towards the muddy ground, sizzling and crackling, hissing as it touches the gathered rainwater, steam rising up in waves and the world becomes foggier.
“What is she doing?” Harry breathes out.
Draco doesn’t respond. His grey eyes are stormy like a hurricane, dark clouds gathering, assembling, rallying against the Earth, the wind picking up speed, rising, growing, mounting, and then there’s thunder rumbling in the skies, bolts of lightning cracking the Heavens in half.
When Draco finally speaks, he sounds as if the realisation has just hit him, fresh and new. It comes out in a paradoxical whisper.
“Returning the debt.”
When Nuri redirects her fire at the enchantment behind which Harry and Draco are rooted in disbelief, the solid wall of air holds, and holds, and holds, until a tiny crack appears in the middle of it like a knife thawing at frozen ice.
The wind whistles past the fissure and into the Sunset Room, bringing along the freezing temperature of the storm as well as Nuri’s white-hot heat. The magic fractures in a screeching, unrelenting shriek, and Harry dives onto Draco, shielding him with his body, just as the sizzling flames enter the barrier, catching onto the rich fabrics, the solid gold furniture, the potted plants, knocking over the armchairs and then incinerating everything in the next second –
“MOVE BACK!” Harry yells, trying to shove Draco out of the room. “PROTEGO TOTALUM!”
He whirls blindly in the direction of the entrance and freezes. Where there should be an opening in the wall, there is an empty stretch of cold, grey stone as if the door never existed. Adrenaline pumping, heart racing with abandonment, Harry punches the smooth expanse, willing for it to return to its original state, wishfully thinking it could be another one of those spots wherein Draco sinks right through.
Nothing happens. The castle doesn’t open up the way it usually does, as if wanting to keep this chaos secluded to one corner. Harry wants to curse at it, feeling the sting of betrayal like an ugly vine twisting around his throat. The rage bubbles beneath his skin, rage on Draco’s behalf, that it would willingly throw his life away under threat of its own destruction.
They’re going to die.
“NURI!” Draco’s voice booms. He’s standing outside of the Protection Charm, in the middle of the smouldering ashes of what used to be the Sunset Room as Nuri takes a short break to catch her breath. “THAT’S ENOUGH!”
And then to Harry’s utter horror, Draco walks towards the edge that will no longer save him from toppling off, and Nuri is flapping her large leathery white wings, hovering in the air, yellow slits razor sharp, as the storm continues to howl around them.
Harry shoots across the room. “What are you doing?”
The thing is, is that Harry wants to trust Nuri. In fact, he does. If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t be alive. But Harry does not understand Nuri the way Draco clearly does. He does not have a soul bond, a near life debt that apparently wasn’t returned until now, because if this is what it meant to free Draco, to rescue him the way he did her, then attacking them hardly seems like the reasonable course of action.
Nuri settles down, quite literally. She lowers herself to the slick ground, sitting up on her hind legs, wings neatly tucked in, the epitome of domesticity, as if eagerly waiting for another one of Draco’s one-sided dumb charade rants. The top of her head reaches the ceiling of the Sunset Room.
Finally, finally, Harry thinks they might actually be safe. He tentatively joins Draco at the edge.
Turns out, Nuri has been escaping the Ministry by making herself invisible.
“Not invisible,” Draco corrects him as they watch Nuri turning in a slow circle in the Manor’s backyard, taking in her surroundings. It’s past midnight and Harry has no idea if dragons have night vision. “She’s encasing herself in reflective ice. Smart, isn’t she?”
Draco proceeds to adopt the face of a proud father.
“Right,” Harry stares. “Well, it’s good that you live in the middle of nowhere.”
The grounds surrounding the Malfoy Manor is vast, hundreds of acres of forest in all directions. Amidst it, the ancient stone castle rises in the sky, empty and haunted, like a graveyard for the outcastes. The albino peacocks prefer the freshly mowed grass, the prettiness of it, but the wilderness is where they go to feed. Once or twice, a Phoenix will soar in the darkness, a shooting star streaking across the Heavens. Owls hoot deep in the thicket, perched atop high trees, a constant melody that never quite reaches the stone’s occupants. And sure, a few Acromantulas never hurt anyone.
Draco goes over to pet Nuri’s large white head, grinning widely. He proceeds to check Nuri for injuries on her back, under her belly and wings, gliding his hands over the scales on her long tail without an ounce of fear.
“Seriously, though,” Harry calls out from under the awning. “What’s the plan here?”
“Plan for what?” Draco’s muffled voice is barely audible over the steady downpour.
“Are you going to keep her?”
Draco’s head pops out from the under the right wing and he glares at Harry. “How many times do I have to tell you that Nuri can’t be kept?”
Harry makes a frustrated noise, waving his hand impatiently. “You know what I mean!”
“It’s up to her, isn’t it?” Draco rolls his eyes. He comes to stand in front of Nuri, looking her in the face. “Stay for as long as you need, okay? Just don’t eat my house-elves.”
Nuri rumbles, yellow slits flicking to Harry for some reason. Harry stupidly waves back.
The house-elves are terrified of her.
Harry thinks that’s probably the reasonable, sane reaction that neither Draco nor Harry are in the business of accomplishing. Draco is over the moon by her return and spends the whole night sitting under her legs, hands gesturing wildly as though determined to let Nuri know every single detail of his life that she’s missed.
Harry doesn’t go home. He sits in the now-demolished Sunset Room on a lounge that Kirky slash Peppy was kind enough to bring. There’s an entire tumbler of coffee by his feet held under a Stasis Charm to help keep him awake as he watches Draco and Nuri, both of them gleaming white even under the light drizzle.
He’s only here in case things go south. Not that he believes they might, but Nuri did just attack a stationary stone castle thinking it has been holding Draco prisoner.
To be fair, she’s not entirely wrong.
Every time Harry wants to ask why Draco is choosing to stay here, the words crawl back down his throat and rot. So he doesn’t think too much on it if he can help it.
When the darkness begins to let up, Harry is almost nodding off. He can’t see the sunrise from the Sunset Room, which is why when the sky is a bright grey, Harry finally moves his limbs to bring back the blood circulation.
The sun is behind the cover of dispersing clouds. When Nuri flaps her gigantic, white leathery wings, and Draco rises to his feet reluctantly, Harry feels relieved. He had been worried that Nuri might not leave and he really doesn’t want the Ministry to get involved, if he can help it. He knows for a fact that Draco would hate it if she is captured to be put into one of the dragon reserves.
To Harry’s surprise, though, she disappears behind a line of trees in the distance.
Over breakfast, Draco informs him that she’s planning to stick around in the surrounding forest. There are enough wild animals for her to survive upon for a while.
Minnie looks decidedly cheerful at the prospect of not becoming a snack for her master’s pet dragon.
It starts pouring halfway back from the grocery store.
Kreacher has been doing some elf magic on the ingredients in the pantry the last time he had stocked. It had been decent, and no one had died of food poisoning, which was always a plus. However, in the morning, Harry decided to step out for a grocery run at a nearby Muggle shop; Kreacher was not entirely happy about this but Harry told him to take care of the plants for the day, which Kreacher took as a self-inflicted order and left Harry to his devices.
Draco witnessed the whole interaction, languidly sipping at his sugared coffee. Naturally, he was forced to accompany.
The sky had been clear when Harry dragged Draco out of Grimmauld. The shop was only twenty minutes at a brisk pace and yet by the time they reached, Harry wanted to hit him over the head. Expectedly, Draco was no help at the store whatsoever, choosing to hiss scornful comments about the utter lack of magic in Harry’s ear. The woman at the checkout counter seemed very motherly, offering warm smiles to a disgruntled Draco and annoyed Harry like free candies.
Harry feels slightly better and the urge to thump Draco reduces a bit.
And then it starts to pour.
Draco insists on performing the Umbrella Charm. Harry puts his foot down. Not only are they in an entirely Muggle community, the wet pavement is crowded either with pedestrians taking cover under awnings or dashing to their vehicles. Even the groceries are soaked through.
“Let’s just wait it out,” Harry says, spinning towards the nearby shelter. It’d be a squeeze but such is life.
Draco’s hand shoots out and he stops Harry before he’s taken more than a few steps. “Absolutely not. I’m not going anywhere near them.”
“You want to stand here and get wet?” Harry snaps, struggling to tug his elbow free from Draco’s clutches.
Draco only tightens his hold. He starts pulling Harry towards the direction of Grimmauld. “Let’s just go home. I want to be dry as soon as possible.”
Harry grudgingly trudges behind him. The shopping bags are becoming heavier by the moment and he switches his hands multiple times. Draco is carrying one and he’s shifted it to settle it on his hip instead.
Adam is watching the rain once more.
“Are you sure you work, ever?” Harry jokes, halting at the gate.
Adam laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “You caught me. Who’s your friend?”
Harry makes the perfunctory introductions and Adam remarks on the strangeness of Draco’s name. “Do you live on the street, too?”
Draco looks highly displeased. Harry isn’t sure if it’s due to having to stand in the rain to talk to a complete stranger or because said stranger is a Muggle.
“As if,” Draco denies, nose scrunching up in disgust. “I live in Wiltshire. Do you know the best part of Wiltshire?”
Adam’s eyebrows shoot up. “The greenery?”
“Sure,” Draco sniffs. “No, the best part is that I have no neighbours.”
Since both his hands are busy, Harry aims a wet kick to Draco’s shin. Adam, on the other hand, bursts out in laughter. It’s warm and kind and good-natured. He doesn’t seem the least bothered by Draco’s rudeness.
“Come over for a beer someday,” Adam says, grinning. “Both of you. If it helps, I know none of the neighbours, either.”
“Thanks, Adam,” Harry dredges up a smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”
When they’ve crossed the next two houses on the street, Harry kicks Draco again.
“Stop that,” Draco jabs an elbow in his side. “He wasn’t offended.”
“What if he had been?” Harry snaps. “Don’t go around being rude to people who are nice to me. You might enjoy living alone in a mansion, but I like having people around.”
“You think I like living alone?” Draco glares viciously. “I miss my parents. I miss my friends. I miss attending parties and going to places. I miss playing Quidditch – actual Quidditch, not just flying on the broom–”
“Draco–”
“My life is nothing like it used to be,” Draco continues relentlessly. “I’m friends with my former enemies. I lost everyone I grew up with. I don’t even know where my parents’ dead bodies are. I have no idea what the fuck I’m going to do now because, you see, Harry, I had a plan. Sure, you would have hated it, but it was something.”
“You mean being a Death Eater and serving Riddle?” Harry states coldly. “And then what? Marry some pureblood witch to produce heirs? That was your grand plan?”
“Yes,” Draco sneers, fixing Harry with enraged eyes. “And where am I now? Helping the Saviour carry bloody groceries in the fucking rain where I can’t even use a goddamn Umbrella Charm.”
They’ve reached Grimmauld now. But Harry doesn’t make a move to open the gate and neither does Draco. Instead, they face each other challengingly.
“I’m sorry if your perfect life has been disrupted by the war,” Harry says sarcastically. “Breaking news, Draco, so has mine! While we’re at it, why not talk about how I never had a perfect life to begin with? Or how about the fact that my plan was to never survive beyond seventeen years? Or how about the fact that my best mates have their life figured out and I feel like I’m left behind because I can’t even begin to know what I like and dislike? Most of the people I love are dead, too! I’m literally staying in my dead godfather’s house, Draco! So don’t fucking give me crap about how your life isn’t perfect.”
“That’s not fair.” Draco steps closer, the grey matching the murky world. “You can’t compare our lives, Harry, because it isn’t comparable. You never knew your parents but I knew mine and I lost them. You still have your friends and mine are either dead or got stuck on the losing side. I’ve accommodated people in my lives I never would have looked at twice. I have fought alongside and protected people that my family was trying to murder!”
“That’s not fair, either,” Harry insists. He doesn’t feel as angry anymore but he also knows Draco is not one hundred percent right. “You were on the other side for us, too. Draco, we’ve hated each other for longer than we’ve been friends. Do you think none of us are adjusting to your ideals? You might not be a Death Eater anymore, but you’re still from a very different background. It’s hasn’t exactly been a vacation for me.”
“What are you trying to say?” Draco narrows his glare. “Would you prefer it if we weren’t friends?”
“What?” Harry’s eyes widen. “Of course, I’m not saying that! I’m happy we’re friends. It’s rather hard to imagine not talking to you anymore. I just – look. I understand we’re not always on the same page and we still have differences and we’re both bloody unhappy about our imperfect lives. I know that. But – it’s not too bad? We’ve still got things to be grateful about, right? Like the fact that we are not dead, for starters.”
“This is hardly a life,” Draco protests, finally taking a step back, no longer pissed at Harry but solely his situation.
“You can still do all of that,” Harry says in what he assumes is encouragement. “Attend parties and go to places. Find a pureblood witch to produce heirs. Although, I do have to maintain that Death Eater was the worst career choice ever.”
Draco rolls his eyes and Harry bites down a smile at the sight, feeling relived all of a sudden.
“I’m not interested in any pureblood witch.”
“Right,” Harry nods as casually as possible. “Er – any – um, wizards?”
Draco stares.
The rain has let down a bit. They’re both completely soaked and a sudden chill makes Harry shiver. He laughs nervously, avoiding Draco’s blank expression to tighten his grip on the grocery bags.
“No pureblood wizards, no,” Draco eventually answers in a neutral tone.
“Right,” Harry blinks. Is the phrasing deliberate? Is he meant to read more into it? Is he supposed to reiterate his question, ask him if Draco is interested in any bloke whatsoever?
They still don’t move. Harry is sort of entranced by the way Draco looks right about now. His white blonde hair is sticking to his head, the excess water drips over the bump of his eyebrow and catches into his eyelashes. His lips are a glistening pink. The column of his throat is so, so inviting and it makes Harry dizzy with sheer want, a hot spike of it shooting up his spine.
He really, really wants to kiss him.
At the very least.
“You?” Draco says, voice dropping a little.
It takes Harry a few embarrassing seconds to work out that it is a question and not a declaration.
“What about me?”
“You know – your plan. I know you said you don’t wish to return to Ginevra, and I must say I agree even though it’s not my place to do so. I can see that she’s alright not being with you.”
“She is.”
“So you’re free to … find another witch.” He pauses, huffing and rolling his eyes. “Woman. Whatever.”
“I am,” Harry agrees coolly. His heart is a hummingbird inside his ribcage, buzzing around in the cavity rather enthusiastically. “But who knows? I’m not a pureblood who has to produce a biological heir. I’m free to pick a bloke, too. And like I said before, kids are a bloody menace. Teddy is more than enough for me, once I get my shit together.”
Draco’s eyebrows has hitched up to join his hairline. “A bloke? You?”
“Why not?” Harry says a little defensively. “I’m sure blokes will find me attractive, too. Ron says I’m objectively handsome and ‘Mione agrees. Apparently, I’ve got a vibe.”
“Right,” Draco says faintly. He looks like he’s having a life crisis all over again. “I wasn’t aware you’re into blokes.”
“Neither was I,” Harry admits sheepishly.
They still don’t move but the challenging air is replaced with slight awkwardness and maybe a little embarrassment, at least on Harry’s side. He had never thought he’d be coming out to Draco in this manner. His night-time imaginations typically include kissing Draco unprompted, the way he had kissed Ginny, overwhelmed by giddiness and pulling him in.
But now, it’s out there and the metaphorical gates have been thrown wide and open. Harry and Ron’s friendship has always been comfortable. Ron had been the thing he’d miss the most in the world, a place usually reserved for a romantic partner. But Ron is straight and Harry had never felt anything other than brotherly love towards him. Which is why, they worked so well. Every argument and fight and hug and apology and I’ll die with you moments have been one hundred percent platonic. Same with Hermione.
Draco … well, Harry has no idea how friendships work between two best mates who confirm that they’re both objectively into blokes, as well. Especially when one of them can’t stop thinking about kissing the other all day long and pictures hot and steamy apologies in the darkness of his bedroom before falling asleep.
This is either the best situation for Harry or the absolute worst. He doesn’t think there’s any middle ground anymore.
If Harry thought their heated argument would cause a rift between them, he is sorely wrong.
Not only do they both apparently have the same idea, they are also overly conscious of their own behaviour.
With a verbal confirmation that Draco is not wholly happy with his current living situation or his life in general, Harry attempts to make it as better for Draco as is possible. He buys a variety of cookbooks of non-English cuisine and messes up the kitchen under Kreacher’s watchful glare.
“Taste this.”
Ron dutifully licks the spatula, turning the flavour on his tongue. “Add more pepper. What is that tangy aftertaste?”
“Oranges.”
Harry drops the spatula back in the pot and manually crushes more pepper. He sprinkles it into the concoction, lowers the flame, and continues to stir.
Later that day, Draco compliments the Bulgarian dish heartily, saying how Harry could add Chef to his Career List. Harry laughs, embarrassed, shushing him even as it lifts his heart outside of his body, and Ron watches the exchange in open amusement, asking Draco if he’s into chefs.
“I’m into food, Ronald,” Draco says prissily as Harry chokes in the background. “As a matter of fact, it’s your only redeeming quality in my book.”
Ron grins deviously, blue eyes glinting. “Really? The only? Are you sure you don’t need my blessing for something else? If I were you, mate, I would walk on thin eggshells around me.”
Harry is red. “Ron!”
Draco narrows his stare into grey slits. “Leave the riddles to Granger, why don’t you?”
“I don’t think I will,” Ron pipes cheerfully.
“You know,” Harry cuts in desperately. “I was thinking. Since Ron has the whole day off, we could do something fun.”
“Perfect,” Ron agrees energetically. “I know exactly what to do.”
Harry and Draco pile in the backseat of a beat-up Honda.
Keith, the driving instructor, is a man in his forties with salt and pepper hair, round blue eyes, and looks as if he’d rather happily die in a sinking marsh than teach three young boys how to drive a car. Especially when one of them fumbles with grasping the names of basic parts such as the trunk, the steering wheel, the rearview mirror, the clutch and the gearbox and the air conditioner settings –
Ron is the first to go. With his prior experience in driving a stolen flying car at the tender age of twelve, he sets up the benchmark for both Harry and Draco. Keith loses his stricken expression bit by bit as Ron switches lanes perfectly, carefully maneuvering in the traffic, easing up on the brakes …
Only for it to return when Draco goes second.
Harry hits his head against the window multiple times despite the seatbelt holding him down. Draco keeps honking over and over and over, terrified of the moving world, jumping violently as another car brushes close by, gripping the wheel in a white-knuckled hold. Keith tries his best, Harry will give him that, but after a point he throws Draco out of the driving seat out of sheer concern for others’ lives.
Harry is … not bad. He fumbles more than Ron but not as bad as Draco. He’s sat in more cars than Ron and Draco combined and is well aware of traffic rules, the proper settings, and even feels proud and giddy enough to recall Uncle Vernon’s various hate rants, explaining how he possesses his car-driving knowledge despite never opening the instruction manual in his life.
By the time they bid goodbye to Keith, Harry feels better about himself.
At night, he adds Driver to his Career List and Draco tries very hard not to glare.
The golden leaves catch a stray Niffler. Harry writes to Hagrid for advice, already having forgotten the content of half his school education. Hagrid replies on the same day.
Dear Harry,
I’d be happy to take it off your hands. Just pack it in a cloth bag along with a few leaves and send it over with the owl.
– Hagrid
P.S.: We all miss you at the school. Visit anytime.
Draco kindly offers to help Harry pack the Niffler, and even calls one of the owls from the Manor that Harry never knew existed. The Niffler goes quietly, busy as it is entranced by the shimmering leaves. Once that’s done, Harry politely asks if Draco would want to hang around Grimmauld for a bit. Draco agrees and they settle in the Sitting Room with a game of wizarding chess.
The Cornish coastline is essentially a large never-ending cliff.
By the time Harry and Draco touch upon the dry grass, it is dawn and the sky looks absolutely breathtaking. Harry is no longer even mildly irritated that Draco had insisted on wasting time to grab a bunch of clothes and food from the kitchens.
Harry toes off his shoes, burying his feet in the cool soil and walks over to the nearest outcrop, wanting to take a closer look at the bottom.
Draco makes a noise.
“What?”
“Don’t get too close to the cliff.”
Curiously, Harry studies his face. “What’s wrong?”
Draco fixes his gaze on the sunrise behind Harry. “Nothing’s wrong. Just – you might fall, you know.”
“Okay.” After a pause, he adds uncertainly. “I won’t fall. I just want to see the bottom, that’s it.”
“Right. I’ll just – sit here.”
Harry watches with a sense of growing confusion as Draco conjures up a thin blanket to lay it on the dry grass. He avoids returning Harry’s gaze entirely, instead busying himself with manually uprooting clusters of wildflowers that tickle his skin.
“I thought you wanted to see the ocean, too.”
Draco shrugs, throat bobbing. “I can see it from here just fine.”
“Didn’t you want to come here? You were pretty excited.”
“I am,” Draco says sounding as excited as one could be in the task of unplugging Mandrakes.
“Oh…kay… I’ll just – be right back.”
“Alright.”
Harry leaves him be. Maybe Draco wanted to come here for reasons Harry is not aware of. Maybe he was excited to leave the Manor and nothing more. Whatever the case is, Harry strides to the precipice, Draco-induced confusion giving way to genuine thrill, and he is practically holding his breath as the ocean looms closer and closer, but before he is close enough to peer over the edge, a large, powerful head knocks him twenty feet over the edge.
“HARRY! NURI – NO! CATCH HIM!”
Nuri lets out a thunderous roar before diving under Harry’s plummeting body, and Harry’s breath is knocked out of his lungs for the second time as he scrambles for purchase on the soaring white dragon.
“She was trying to be funny,” Draco explains patiently as Nuri noses the wildflowers behind him. “She didn’t realise throwing a puny human off the cliff is considered ill humour.”
Harry raises his eyebrows. His heartrate is still taking time to slow down to normal. “Puny?”
Nuri rumbles in the background and Draco waves a hand over Harry’s form dramatically. “Well, you are.”
Huffing, Harry drops to the thin blanket, resolutely turning his back to both Draco and Nuri. The sun is steadily crawling up the sky, colours fading bit by bit to make way for clear blue. The air is humid but not much, the morning chill sweeping over his cooling skin. The distant cries of albatrosses is nearly gone now after Nuri’s predatory roars. Harry doesn’t particularly care.
Draco joins him soon quietly. He pulls out the sandwiches and the coffee, placing it between them. Harry smiles at the sun.
Nuri paws at the ground, restlessly flying in circles above their heads. When Draco tells her to go crazy, she dives over the cliff and Harry hears a loud, distinct PLONK.
It makes Draco laugh, carefree and pleased. His clothes are fluttering in the gaining wind, white blonde hair ruffling with abandonment, and he looks so young. When he catches Harry staring at him, Harry doesn’t look away.
“What?” he asks, grinning. “You should be glad she didn’t do that with you on her back.”
Harry ignores it. Instead, he says honestly, “You look … nice. Happy.”
Draco’s smile widens impossibly further. “So do you.”
“I do feel happy,” Harry confirms.
Draco seems to be studying him so Harry lets him. He takes the chance to appreciate his personal view, fascinated at the way Draco’s mere presence makes him feel. Inevitable, his mind says. It was inevitable that he’d fall for this man. How couldn’t he? Draco is – well, Draco.
“We could go anywhere, you know,” Harry says, watching delighted recognition light up the pools of molten steel.
“I know,” Draco agrees, beaming.
Nuri swoops up the cliff, landing on the edge. She shakes her whole body, splattering them with cold water.
The first weekend that Hermione visits them, Harry is in the shower.
“HARRY!” she bangs on the door. “WE’VE GOT TO GO! COME ON!”
Harry nearly slips on the slick floor, the soap bar fumbling between his hands. “GO WHERE?”
“IT’S A SURPRISE.” Her voice is already retreating from the bathroom. “I’M GOING TO CALL DRACO WHILE YOU FINISH.”
Harry has no idea when Malfoy became Draco for Hermione, but he decides not to be too nosy and focuses on finishing his bath. A few minutes later, he wraps the fresh towel around his hips and steps outside to the empty hallway.
Out of sheer respect for Hermione – when she was staying over, full time – Harry had decided not to live in Sirius’ bedroom, surrounded by the ludicrous bikini-clad posters on the walls. Instead, he had moved into the bedroom on the second floor, the one he and Ron had occupied in the past. The bedroom does not have an attached bathroom but that had not been an issue since he was literally the only one on the whole floor.
Now, though, it appears that not only Hermione has managed to drag Draco from the Manor but they’re both lounging on his bed, snacking on salted groundnuts as Hermione tells him about all her classes.
“Hey, Harry,” Harry mutters sarcastically, stomping over to his wardrobe. He pulls it open forcefully. “It’s so nice to see you. How have you been?”
When he slams the door shut and whirls around, clutching his well-fitting clothes in hands, Draco and Hermione are smirking cheekily.
“Hey, Harry,” Hermione greets dutifully. “How have you been? Draco says you’ve been sulking a little.”
“I have not,” Harry throws Draco a betrayed, angry glare.
“Sure,” Draco says airily.
“Any which way,” Hermione perks up. “I’ve planned the day for us.”
“Okay?” Harry says incredulously. “Where? We can’t go without Ron!”
Both Hermione and Draco roll their eyes.
“No, we’re not leaving my boyfriend behind,” Hermione says dryly and Harry chuckles, abashed. “He’s making up some excuse to get out of work and will be here soon. By the way, Gin asked me to remind you that you’re yet to give your inputs for the Quidditch team.”
“I’ll do that tonight,” Harry promises. “Although, I don’t understand why she’d need it.”
“Of course,” Draco says sarcastically. “Why would a current team Captain seek guidance from former Captain is beyond illogical.”
“Shut it.” Harry instinctively throws his T-shirt at him. It hits Draco in the face. “And get out. Both of you. Unless you want to get an eyeful under my towel.”
Hermione laughs brightly, sliding over the edge of his bed. She stops at the threshold and raises an eyebrow at Draco who is still seated.
“Don’t mind me,” Draco smirks. He clasps his hands behind his head, sinking further in the cushions. “I believe I’ve still not seen the infamous Hungarian Horntail tattoo.”
That’s – he’s flirting, holy fuck.
Hermione’s mouth has fallen open in disbelief and shock. Harry avoids looking at her anymore than he already has, and glares challengingly at the man on his bed.
“After you.”
“NO!” Hermione cries, striding over to Draco and forcefully tugging on his elbow to get him to move. “Absolutely not. You two can get naked in your own time when I’m not here.”
Draco turns pliant under her hold, winking at Harry as the two finally leave him alone to get dressed.
Harry takes in a deep breath, blood pooling.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Ron says incredulously, leaning forward on the couch. “When?”
Hermione is practically buzzing with excitement. She pulls out a thick envelop from her bag, thrusting it into Draco’s hand who is nearest to her. Draco opens the scroll, eyes flicking rapidly over words.
“Yesterday morning,” Hermione answers. “There’s a bit of a process. We’ve got to set up a Portkey first since it’d be a huge jump with Apparition. But that’s the easier part. He has a few books in his house that will help us – he’s given the address–”
“Spinner’s End,” Harry says without thinking.
Hermione sobers instantly. She continues in a careful voice and it only makes Harry feel worse. “Yes. He’s detailed out the important points but I have to figure out the rest.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?” Ron asks, fingers interlaced.
“A month or two?” Hermione shrugs. “Honestly, I’m more worried about implementing it.”
“You’ll do great,” Ron says encouragingly. “You’re the best in our generation, ‘Mione. Even Snape knows that. He probably wouldn’t have helped us if he believed you wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”
Hermione shines with the compliment, immediately launching herself in Ron’s arms.
Harry – well, Harry is trying not to be too mad. He had written to Severus and Severus had not responded to him, but to Hermione. What has Harry done now? He’d been perfectly civil in the letter, formal and to the point.
Draco passes the parchments over to him and Harry reads through it without registering a word. He does understand that it’s meant to be the magical theory behind the Obliviation Charm, Memory Modification Charm, as well as Legilimency. And sure enough, there’s a list of books at the bottom that they’re supposed to dig out from the library at his house on Spinner’s End.
Which means he’s definitely no longer in England, at the very least.
The street is lined with rows upon rows of identical, dilapidated brick apartments. A sense of neglect and scarcity hangs in the air as Harry, Hermione, Draco, and Ron carefully meander through the littered paths.
Harry has already noticed the tall chimney in the distance, closer now than it had been in Severus’ memories. Petunia had not been lying. The area reeks of poverty.
There are not many people that Harry can see. The blinds are all shut, doors firmly locked. They pass by a group of small children, the oldest not older than twelve years, all wearing dirty, tattered clothes and playing with a bicycle wheel. An old man is standing under a window, languidly smoking pipe. His papery face follow them, unblinking.
“Fancy a drag?” he offers Draco, eyes raking over his body appreciatively.
Harry whispers Langlock and the man chokes on his tongue. Ron does a gesture that vaguely translates to if you shall and Draco, about to open his mouth to respond to the old man, snaps it shut. Harry winks at him.
“Harry,” Hermione whispers furiously, immediately glaring at him over her shoulder.
“What?” Harry says innocently. “I’m not about to barter Draco away for a joint. He’s definitely more worth than that.”
“Undo it,” she scolds.
Harry waves his hand dismissively. “On our way back. Come on, don’t you want to find your books?”
Ron throws his arm around her shoulder, steering her ahead. He grins at Harry before turning around himself. Draco can’t stop smiling so Harry doesn’t feel all that guilty.
When they find the correct house, Hermione draws out her wand. Harry, Ron, and Draco surround her to hide her from view as she does the motions as per Severus’ instructions in the letter. Eventually, Draco throws a Notice Me Not Charm and Harry immediately feels strange alienation draping across his shoulders.
Unlike the sparse furniture, the flooring is covered with dust. When Harry experimentally throws a handful of dirt on the armchair. It bounces off mid-air so he drops down into it. Hermione wanders towards the bookshelf, consulting her list periodically. Ron has bounded upstairs, curious to see the rest of the small house. Draco has found a stash of Potions in the kitchen cabinets.
When the restlessness peaks, Harry declares he’s going outside to take a walk.
“Where?” Hermione asks suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you’re planning something else for that man –”
“No,” Harry interrupts. “There’s a small park nearby. I’ll be there.”
“Alright,” she says uncertainly. “If you’re sure.”
“I’ll undo the spell,” he promises because she really does look worried.
Entering the park is like diving into the Pensieve.
There’s the bush kid Severus had been hiding behind, spying. There’s the set of swings Lily and Petunia used to play on, years of rust accumulated across the old metal. The chains rattle dangerously when Harry takes a few experimental swings. Lily had sat on it.
It’s a small park, all things considered, which is why he eventually finds himself under the canopy of a large tree, the leaves fluttering in the light afternoon breeze lazily. The small stream glistens between the thickets of trees. Harry stretches down on his back.
“They’re not arguing anymore?”
“Oh, yes, they’re arguing. But it won’t be that long and I’ll be gone.”
Harry closes his eyes against the filtered sunshine.
“Severus?”
A little smile twisted his mouth when she said his name.
“Yeah?”
“Tell me about the Dementors again.”
Harry lies there, skin warming. He loses track of time, tracing mindless patterns on the soil with the tip of his fingers. This is a place of love, he thinks, eyes burning behind heated lids. Love in its purest form, childlike and innocent.
“Does it make a difference, being a Muggle-born?”
“No,” Harry replies, making no attempt to wipe at the rogue tear tracking down his temple, disappearing inside his dark hair. “It doesn’t make any difference.”
“Good,” said Lily, relaxing.
The thing is, is that Harry met his mother. Or, the ghost of his mother, hungrily taking in his appearance. He had met her with the knowledge of Severus’ undying devotion, could not ask her if she ever missed their friendship. He was about to join her, after all. He had plenty of time. He would receive the opportunity soon.
Hermione’s questions had stung him deeply. Why had no one ever mentioned the fact that Severus and Lily had been childhood friends? Sirius and Remus knew. Were they so blinded by James’ loss that they could not share his mother’s stories?
No, Harry learned about Lily through Severus’ memories. The fact that Petunia had referenced to him and not James as that boy …
And Harry finds it impossible to ignore this shared similarity between the two. Both Severus and Lily loved deeply as though they simply didn’t know any other way to love. Loved so well that it saved his life and then protected him. Harry can never be more grateful that they’d met, that they’d found each other, that Severus had kept her alive, always, always, always.
It’s humbling to be in this place.
Draco is the one who finds him.
Harry is at the edge of the stream, pants rolled up, feet dipped in, throwing in small pebbles. The chirping of birds is soothing. Draco mirrors his position, his pale legs nudging Harry lightly.
“Ready to leave?” he asks quietly, folding his hands in his lap.
“In a minute.”
They sit in comfortable silence. Harry continues to shoot small stones in the water, watching them sink one after the other.
Draco turns to him. “I could ask him.”
“Nah,” Harry shakes his head minutely. “He’ll return when he’s ready.”
Draco hums. “You were right, you know.”
Harry’s lips quirk up on one side even though he has no idea what Draco is referring. “Yeah?”
“How we should be grateful for what we have,” Draco murmurs.
Harry stays quiet. It doesn’t seem like Draco is particularly looking for a response, either. They sit in another bout of silence. The gentle sound of the water and the chirping of the birds continues.
“Harry,” Draco breaks it again.
He’s twisted his upper body to face Harry and Harry obligingly does the same. Draco’s grey eyes are crinkled against the sunlight, skin slightly sweaty. He must have hurried over.
“What?”
“Your eyes aren’t the only thing you inherited from your mother.”
Harry’s mouth parts on its own accord.
Draco continues, voice soft and lulling. “If anyone knows how to care for someone … it’d be you. I don’t know how you do it, either. You care about people you don’t even know, and even when they don’t know you. It’s as if you can’t help yourself. I never learned how to do that. I only cared about the ones who cared for me. For a long time, I thought that’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Harry swallows, his heart hammering, pounding, expanding. “You helped me.”
Draco stays silent. The mark is hidden underneath the sleeve, yet it gives the impression of looming over their heads.
“You put your faith in me when you didn’t follow the same ideals, Draco. That takes courage.”
Draco shakes his head slightly. “It was self-serving.”
“Not after I died.”
Harry’s bluntness makes Draco flinch violently. But Harry needs to say these words, needs Draco to see himself in the same light that Harry does, and Harry has a sense of déjà vu, believes that if Harry could just convince him of this one thing, then maybe – maybe –
“Even after the Vow broke, you stuck with us. You’re helping Hermione bring her parents back–”
“Well, three-fourth of War Heroes are orphans. That hardly sounds pleasant–”
“You’re brave, Draco,” Harry insists firmly. “You’re brave and reckless and stubborn and – and – you love so much. You made the wrong choices, yes, but you did them because you loved your parents. You loved your friends even when they tried to kill you.”
“Let’s not forget the abandonment,” Draco says bitterly. “I ran, Harry. I ran to save my own skin. In the end, I truly was a Death Eater.”
“Don’t say that,” Harry exclaims, horrified. He grabs Draco’s elbow, nails digging in the rolled up sleeve of his shirt. “You ran because that was the right thing to do! If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t be here. You saved everyone. You saved me.”
Draco takes a few moments to process. He stares at Harry, and keep staring.
“You saved me even when you hated me,” Harry says gently, pouring all of his gratitude and admiration and sheer affection for this man into his words.
And then Draco finally smiles, small and sweet, returning the words. “You saved me even when you hated me.”
“I’m glad I did,” Harry says sincerely.
“I’m glad I did,” Draco echoes.
It’s only when they’re shaking loose their rolled up pants under the canopy that Harry grabs Draco’s elbow to stop him.
This is a place of love, Harry thinks, and steps closer.
Love in its purest form, he reflects, and steps closer.
Childlike and innocent. Of pure awe and unwavering devotion. Unconditional, irrevocable. Suspended in time, always.
Draco is frozen to the spot, eyes wide in shock. Harry takes another step and he’s well and truly in Draco’s personal space. He lets go of Draco’s elbow, trailing his fingers down the length of his forearm, taking hold of his limp fingers, interlacing them loosely.
Draco gulps, doesn’t move. Harry lifts his chin closer, hesitant and tentative and questioning. If Draco doesn’t want it, this is the moment. If he doesn’t, Harry will respect it. If he doesn’t, Harry will still feel the same.
Because Draco is Draco. And his reciprocation has never been a requirement for Harry’s feelings. Harry just feels and it’s enough.
His heart is thundering. Strangely, he’s at peace at the same time. Content, resigned to the way he feels for Draco. He’s never really thought of fighting it, never saw any reason to do it. The experience has been like falling dominoes and Harry simply let it happen, helpless and utterly fascinated. It only took him a while to be actively aware of it, to see it as the latest fact of his life.
He has also realised that he fell for Draco not once, but twice. First, under the open skies beside the lake, dotted with stars. And now, throughout his Good Days and his Bad Days. If given the opportunity, he thinks he might fall for him for a third time, and again after that, and again after that …
Always, always, always.
Harry takes in a deep breath.
Draco does not smell like soot and smoke, of bonfires under clear skies anymore. He smells of roses and wildflowers, of infinite oceans and French pastries, of expensive shampoo and cologne, of neatly pressed crisp shirts and high-quality woollen sweaters. He smells a little bit like the Burrow gardens, too, and Harry’s chest tightens.
He presses closer.
Slowly, Draco tilts his head, inching forward, closing the gap. Their lips brush, timid and soft, and Harry’s eyes flutter shut.
When Harry kisses Draco, it feels like flying.