Chapter Text
It wasn’t as pleasant a night as Harry would have imagined. He woke up periodically throughout the night, instinctively feeling the need to adjust his sleeping position, only to remember why his arm was uncomfortably pinned, his front sweating from excessive heat. His heartbeat would quicken, and as he shifted slightly, he roused Draco, who would stiffen with confusion, then exhale languidly as he too remembered he was sharing a bed.
That morning, when Harry woke up for a final time, Draco was gone, inciting a different sort of panic. But the bathroom door was closed, the shower running—so Draco hadn’t left.
Harry rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow where Draco’s head had been. He had no idea why it smelled so damn good, just that he didn’t want the electricity running through him to shut off. It was more intense than the last time they had shared a bed, the first time he realized how much he liked being enveloped by Draco.
He put on his glasses and laid back, trying to ignore his bladder. Eventually, he could wait no longer and knocked on the door. There was no reply, so he tried to turn the handle. Locked.
“You alright in there?”
“Yes,” came an oddly toned reply.
Harry paced a bit, annoyance growing. The soft, tinkling sound of the shower only worsened his impatience, so he returned to the bed and sat down, twirling his wand as he considered unlocking the door and barging in.
The faucet finally shut off, the toilet flushed, and after a prolonged rustling of clothing, Draco emerged from the loo, red-faced from the heat of the steam. “Ah, Potter, you’re up early.”
“Took you long enough. You couldn’t have let me use the loo while you were in there?” Harry finished his question from inside the bathroom, sighing with relief.
“Really, Potter, please wait until you’re finished before attempting conversation.”
Harry flushed, washed his hands and face, then opened the door. “You may as well answer the question.”
“It would have been improper.” Pretending as though Harry wouldn’t find this response ridiculous, Draco went to the mirror, dried his hair with a spell, and began to work product through his hair.
“Use a pea-sized drop, dear, your hair’s too thin for that much,” the mirror whispered loudly.
“I don’t recall asking your opinion,” replied Draco, glaring back at his reflection.
Harry snickered, blinking innocently when Draco caught his eyes in the mirror. “Why did you shower this morning, anyhow? You showered last night.”
“You may have forgotten this about me, Potter, but I value cleanliness.”
“You mean you didn’t want to smell like someone else?”
“You are hardly just ‘someone else,’ you’re . . .” Draco struggled to think of a word. “Well, regardless, it’s worth it to sleep with you. Er, share a bed. For safety. But I admit it will take some getting used to.”
Harry changed into his clothes from the day before, aware that Draco would either watch him or actively avoid watching him. Either way, he made a meal of it, taking his time to stretch. “I’m sorry for waking you up during the night, I had trouble sleeping.”
“It’s fine.” Draco blushed and cleared his throat when Harry caught him staring. “Will Black be civil with me?”
“He will, yeah, for my sake. But feel free to put in extra effort to make him like you.”
Draco studied himself in the mirror, angling himself slightly to the right, then the left. The mirror said, “You’re quite handsome, but I wish you’d take the time to moisturize.”
“And I wish you’d keep your disembodied mouth shut. Anyhow, I doubt Black will like me regardless of what I do. I suppose I mean—seeing as he is like us, you know—will he suspect that you and I . . . ?”
“I told him I fancied you. There wasn’t much else to say.”
“And did he think it was strange?” Draco finally detached himself from the mirror, which muttered something that was drowned out by their conversation. Not a hair on his head was out of place.
Unconsciously, Harry grazed a hand over his own hair while he replied, “I don’t think he has an opinion on it yet, exactly,” then went too the mirror to check himself.
“Dear, what texture!” the mirror exclaimed. “You must teach your friend a thing or two about styling.”
Draco pushed him out of the mirror’s view. “It’s not my fault my hair is thinner than a bowtruckle's d—”
“Hey, I want to hear what it has to say about my moisturizing.”
“And I want to hear what Sirius will think so I can prepare.”
“He’ll be cautious, I’m sure. The fact that I liked blokes was surprise enough, and after being dead for the past year and a half, he’s suspending his disbelief as much as he can, I’d think.”
“You’re rather optimistic about this. He hates my parents, why shouldn’t he hate me?”
“Because he knows I want him to like you. Besides, you two can relate to each other. He ran away from home because he didn’t want to follow his family and moved in with my dad.” Catching the beginnings of Draco’s question, Harry added, “They weren’t together.”
“Yes, well, there is little that can surprise me anymore.”
Draco’s comment was offhand, but as Harry watched him use a quick spell to make up the bed and fold his clothes as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world, he found he felt the same way.
An hour later, Sirius met them in a Muggle alley near the Leaky Cauldron. Upon seeing teary-eyed Harry, he beamed, and the two of them hugged. When they parted, he sized up his young cousin.
“Hello, Draco.”
Draco nodded once, his suspicion of Sirius masked by his formality.
Sirius gestured for them to each take one of his arms. They did so, and a moment later, Disapparated.
They appeared in an alley. Sirius looked around, then led them out to Grimmauld Place.
“This is where you live? Among Muggles?”
Draco tried to sound neutral, but Sirius didn’t miss the edge of judgment. “Not quite. Live between, maybe. You should know it’s not that unusual; while some wizarding families prefer isolation in the country, others have adapted to Muggle cities.”
“I suppose you don’t have much of a choice, in Paris there are many more wizards, so the magic district is larger . . .” He trailed off, quickly glancing at Harry, who shrugged.
Sirius stared up at the imagined space between numbers eleven and thirteen, and after a beat, number twelve grew into existence.
Once they were inside, Harry realized how dark and depressing the house had been without Sirius in it; now it looked lived-in rather than oppressive.
“. . . With the temporary concealing spells I put up, we should have been unseen. If you spot anything unusual out the window, though, let me know. Oh, and if there is anything else either I or Kreacher can fetch for you—whatever you need.” They had reached the second floor. “Harry, I assumed you would take the room you have been staying in. There are more rooms down the hall if you would prefer to be separate.”
“Er . . .” Harry glanced at Draco, who replied, “Separate rooms are fine.”
No sooner did Harry sit down on the bed in his room than did Draco push the door open slightly, peering in. He looked at the bed, then back at Harry. “Yours is bigger, so we’ll sleep here.”
“What about staying in separate rooms?”
“That is simply to keep up appearances,” replied Draco, rolling his eyes. And with that, he retreated.
There was a knock on the door.
“What, you want the bigger room to yourself—”
It was Sirius. “Harry, can I speak with you for a minute?”
“Er, sure.”
Sirius led him into the living room and handed him a cup of tea. “How are you feeling?”
An ache tugged at Harry’s gut. “I’m happy you’re back. For however long you’re, er, here.” He sat down on the futon. “Do you feel different?”
“Not cold or hollow as one might expect, but I do feel like I was somewhere else. Almost like sleep, except my body was uncomfortable. Whatever the Death Eaters tried to do—whatever that Veil is—I seem to be perfectly fine. I fear I will soon start feeling the effects of whatever Dark Magic was used to bring me back and may not have very long to live.”
Catching the look in Sirius’ eye, Harry said, “In that case, we’ve got to make the best of it.”
“Precisely.” He was obviously working up to something. “I know I was not living that way before I died. I was careless at the end. You must have felt I no longer cared about you.”
“It’s okay.” Had he thought that? After all, it was Harry who charged into the Ministry on an assumption and got Sirius killed. “You don’t have to hole up in here anymore, at least.”
“That is true.” He seemed like he wanted to say more, but instead he took a sip of tea and changed the subject. “So! Remus will be coming here this evening. He is going to help tidy up the place, help me redecorate in time for Christmas. I am not certain what enchantments are protecting the wallpaper, but if something happens to me, I will not leave you with the place in this state.”
Harry tried to keep his face neutral. He still felt as though Sirius could die any day, and shopping for wallpaper could hardly be a priority. “Isn’t it weird to be around him, since you were in a relationship before you died?”
Sirius scoffed. “Weird is an understatement.”
“Difficult, then.”
“As much as I do not know what to expect, I expect it to be difficult, yes. It has rarely been easy between us.”
“Does Tonks know about you and Remus?”
“Yes.”
“And…what does she think?”
“I have no idea. She was obviously alright with him fancying men, if they are together. And with him being a werewolf.” For a moment, Sirius seemed to forget Harry was there. “And with him being an awful cook. Far too concerned with grammar . . .”
There was a knock on the door.
“I’ll be upstairs,” said Harry.
“Right.”
“Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
By the time Harry reached the upstairs landing, the door to the first room opened. Draco looked puzzled as Harry put a finger to his lips and craning over the banister to listen to the conversation below.
“Is that really how you want to eavesdrop?” Draco flicked his wand at Harry, then himself. “There.”
Harry wished Draco could see his expression. “How many times have you used a Disillusionment Charm to spy on me?”
“How many times did you use your invisibility cloak to spy on me?”
“Touché.” Harry crept back downstairs, avoiding spots known to creak, pausing once he could see the entry corridor. A young woman followed Remus inside, studying the room in an over-interested way that either meant she had either never seen it before or that she had not been in years.
“Sirius, this is Raven Faralyn. You remember her from school, I imagine? She’s the other person who was, er, brought back.”
Now he remembered she was the woman propped up by Tonks after the Battle of the Veil. Since her resurrection, she seemed to have recovered, her straight posture reminding him of the Malfoys, whose wealth sculpted their form, pulling their chins up by an invisible string. Between her affinity for all-black clothing and her thick black hair, she could have been related to the Blacks or the Lestranges; Harry remembered some darker skin tones represented on the family tree tapestry.
“We are trying to find her housing, but for now . . .”
“Not a problem, nice to see you again, Raven. Come in.”
“Thank you, Sirius. May I use your washroom?”
“It’s down the hall, to the right.”
With Faralyn out of earshot, Sirius immediately turned to Remus, who averted his eyes. “When were you going to tell me you were bringing her?”
“I only found out myself. It should not be a big deal, she needed somewhere to stay.”
“It is unsettling, is all.”
“You’re one to talk. Perhaps you can ask her about her experience.” Remus mustered the strength to look at Sirius, and the pair studied each other.
“Did she fall through the veil, too? Surely the Ministry would have known. And she should be our age, yet she’s what, twenty-one?”
“Jealous, are you? Wouldn’t it be nice to be that young again?”
Sirius’ frustration broke. “Twenty-one was a good age. Er, apart from the deaths. And me shutting you out, of course—”
“Sirius, we have no need to go through this again.” At Sirius’ hesitation, Remus reached out a hand as though to touch his face, then instead placed it on his arm. They just looked at each other for a moment, breath suspended, until Remus stepped back and said, “Every hurt we caused each other in the past matters even less since you died, and besides, you should not be looking back when the present may be fleeting.”
“You’re right, this is fleeting.”
Remus was about to respond when the a door down the hall opened. When Faralyn came into sight, she looked deep in thought. “Sirius, I owe you an explanation.”
“For what?”
“Your brother.”
Remus looked between the two of them. “I will put the kettle on while Sirius gets you settled, and then we can talk.”
Harry realized Sirius and Faralyn would be coming upstairs and hurried back into his room, pulling Draco along with him.
“Look at us,” said Draco, once the door was closed and they were left with their racing hearts. “Eavesdropping together instead of on each other.”
“How romantic,” said Harry, but despite his sarcasm they furiously made out for about a minute, coming to when the stairs creaked.
Sirius’ knock made them spring apart. “Harry, could you join us for a moment?”
Harry wiped his mouth and opened the door, with Draco an appropriate distance apart from him, and the pair stepped into the corridor.
“Harry,” said Sirius, gesturing to the woman standing next to him, who in heels was as tall as Remus, “this is Raven Faralyn.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand.
“You too.”
“Your parents and I were in the same year at Hogwarts.” She shook Harry’s hand, then Draco’s. “And you must be Lucius and Narcissa’s son. You look just like them.”
“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you. Your surname is familiar, were you in Slytherin?”
“I was. In my first year, your father was in his seventh year.” At the whine of the kettle, Sirius gestured for them to go downstairs. Faralyn continued as they walked. “And of course I had some classes with James Potter and Lily Evans, though we didn’t see eye to eye for much of school . . .”
“Naturally. You were on track to join You-Know-Who. So was everyone else in Slytherin.”
“But you did ultimately defect, did you not?” Remus asked, setting cups down at the table for each of them. “The Prophet had a piece about the home you facilitated during the war.”
“That brings me to what I wished to speak with Sirius about. I . . . saw Regulus before he was killed.”
Harry watched the annoyance in Sirius’ face turn to pain.
“Before he was tasked with hiding the locket, he visited the safe haven I had been maintaining for the Death Eaters’ targets.”
Harry remembered then that he had read the same piece Remus had about Faralyn in the paper when the Prophet ran a series on heroes from the war.
Sirius regarded her with fresh interest. “I only read yesterday that Regulus had changed sides. At that point, I hadn’t spoken to him in years . . .”
“To be perfectly honest, he didn’t say much about you when I last saw him, but not because he had any ill will toward you. It seemed he regretted the state of your relationship, though it was a bit muddled with how much regret he felt overall . . . He had not yet decided to openly betray the Dark Lord, though I had suspected that was his path, and that it would be the last time I saw him. And I was right.”
“Why didn’t you try to stop him, if you knew he would be killed?”
Faralyn blinked. “Of course I wanted him to survive. I was in no place to stop him, and there was the haven . . . in any case, I have not heard of a Death Eater who has been able to turn his back on Voldemort during the War and live, myself included. He didn’t have much of a choice.”
Sirius’ expression soured. “Snape managed to slither his way out.”
“Severus Snape? He changed sides, too?”
“Yeah, he did,” said Harry. “After he gave my parents away to Voldemort, he became a double agent for Dumbledore. Draco helped bring down Voldemort, too.” He shot a tight-lipped smile at Draco, who relaxed a bit at being acknowledged.
“Hm. I’m relieved. I hoped more would change sides, that our House could be redeemed. What I did not expect was for the Dark Lord to rise again. If anything, I expected Bellatrix would attempt to take his place.”
“Speaking of,” Remus began, “there is no easy way to ask about what happened to you—”
“No, but go ahead.”
“To start, were the Death Eaters who killed you acting on You-Know-Who’s orders?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you remember anything from that day?”
“I don’t remember dying, but I know the last memory I have of being alive. The Ministry is now aware, so this is not a secret. It was 1981, sometime in November in Hogsmeade, at night, and I was following a lead about a Death Eater who planned to make a trade in the Hog’s Head. I followed him into an alley, and suddenly there was a group of them, Bellatrix included. They hit me with multiple Stunning Spells at once and must have killed me after.”
“You don’t think that’s unusual?” asked Draco.
Harry looked at him, appalled, but Faralyn said, “Yes, unusual that they stunned me instead of torturing me or killing me outright. They must have needed to take me somewhere discreetly, and alive. At a time when they were avoiding arrest, it was quite a risk.”
“And why you? No offense.”
“They went after anyone who had betrayed them. I want to find out why they took me rather than kill me, though. Ferret out the remaining Death Eaters. Part of me—there is a part of me that thinks it’s absurd that I would waste however long I have left on figuring it all out.”
Sirius looked at her. “Is it absurd if I help you?”
Setting his teacup down a little clumsily, Remus said, “Can we make it through Christmas without you two risking your lives?” He looked at Sirius. “I just got you back.”
“For all we know, Remus,” said Faralyn, “we could drop dead tomorrow. If the Dark Lord has returned, we are all at risk.” She noticed the change in Remus and Sirius’ demeanor, and added, “Am I missing something?”
“Nothing,” said Sirius, too quickly. “Ultimately each of us has to decide how we want to spend the rest of our time, do we not?” He held Remus’ gaze until the other man looked away.
“We can spend some time strategizing this week,” said Remus, standing to clear the table. “The Order will need to be called. Surely you two can hole up until after the holidays.”
Faralyn nodded. “What about the boys?”
“The boys,” said Harry, “are the reason Voldemort is—was—dead.”
“Perhaps my parents know something about the veil,” said Draco. “Something they haven’t told the Ministry.”
“Dumbledore could’ve known something, too. I could have Ginny visit his portrait.”
“Why Ginny?”
“We’re friends.”
“You have other friends.”
“She was in the DA!”
“So was Luna.”
“What is this about?”
“Anyhow,” interjected Remus, “please keep us involved regardless of your plans. Harry, you especially should not do this on your own, not again.”
They decided to reassemble the Order after Christmas—again covertly, as they couldn’t risk involving the Ministry. Remus left to go back to his flat with Tonks, and Faralyn left to see what remained of her safe haven, leaving Harry and Draco to help Sirius plan the holidays. It was somewhat anticlimactic to discuss what after-dinner drinks would best complement treacle fudge after discussing how the Death Eaters had attempted to resurrect their genocidal leader, but it certainly eased the dread swirling in Harry’s chest. Draco was thankfully quite practiced at having opinions about inconsequential things, and Sirius seemed amused by this.
That night, once the others had gone to bed, Harry waited for Draco to sneak into his room (even after reminding him the pretense wasn’t necessary). He raised his arm and sniffed, pleased with the faint soapy smell from his shower. Things he hadn’t worried about over the past several months suddenly flooded his awareness. Was the stubble on his face too scratchy? Did Draco want him to be charming, or aloof, or sincere?
There was a knock at the door. “It’s me,” came Draco’s muffled whisper.
“Come in, then.” Harry straightened in bed.
Draco slipped in and closed the door behind him quietly. When he looked at Harry, his expression flickered, before becoming composed again. “If I intend to make up for lost sleep, I don’t want to share the bed.”
“M’kay.”
“I can kiss you goodnight, though.” Draco leaned down as Harry abruptly sat up, nose colliding with Harry’s forehead. He recoiled, rubbing his nose as he glowered at Harry. “For Merlin’s sake, let’s try that again . . .” Draco took Harry’s head in both hands and held him in place before bringing their lips gently together. Drawing back only an inch, Draco whispered, “How was that?”
“Less painful. You should try again, though.”
“Hm.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Draco kissed Harry again, drawing it out, then moved, placing his knees on either side of Harry’s hips. “And this?” He lowered his head to kiss Harry again, then stopped. “Potter.”
“Yeah?” Harry looked blearily up at Draco.
“You’re falling asleep.”
“Ah, I’m sorry.”
“Not at all.” Draco smoothed the wild locks of Harry’s black hair out of his eyes to kiss his forehead.
Laden with exhaustion, Harry’s arms felt like they were moving through water as he reached up to wrap them around Draco. “Stay with me, and you can leave if you have trouble sleeping.”
“Hm.” Draco kissed Harry beside his lips and crawled in next to him. “Either you’re using the Imperius Curse, or you’re irresistible.”
Harry turned away. “You shouldn’t joke about things like that.”
“C’mon, lighten up, Potter.”
“You don’t think that, do you? That I’ve forced you to be with me?” Without his glasses or much light, Harry couldn’t read Draco’s expression. “If it weren’t for the time loop—”
“You’re denser than I thought, Potter. You should know how difficult it is to make me do something I don’t want to do.”
“You wouldn’t have come back if it weren’t for the Veil, though.” Now that Harry was on a roll, he couldn’t stop. “You’re staying with me for now because you’ve been forced to. Once you have a choice again, you’ll leave.”
“I’m staying this time because I have a choice. You happened to initiate things, but that doesn’t mean you’ve coerced me. Is that what you’ve been thinking this entire time?”
Harry winced, wishing they weren’t so close to each other at that moment. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Well, it’s too late for that. You ought to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours, because if we’re to understand each other at all . . .”
“I still don’t trust you. Deep down.” Despite Draco’s reassurance, Harry knew he’d regret bringing this all up in the morning.
“Is there anything I can do to help with that?”
Harry shivered as Draco, shifting ever closer, ran his hand across his stomach.
“If you try to get along with everyone over Christmas.”
Draco’s hand hesitated. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you. And if you have any hopes of catching up on sleep, you should start now.”
“Fine.” Draco withdrew his arm. “If I wake up early, though, can I come stay with you?”
“Sure. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight. See you in the morning.”
When Harry woke the next day, Draco was curled up next to him, hand grazing his chest.
He opened his eyes when Harry touched his cheek, yawning and stretching like a cat. “Morning.”
“Morning. You slept alright?”
“I slept enough. Can we agree not to argue right before bed?”
“Fine by me.” He leaned in to kiss Draco but was stopped by a finger pressed to his lips.
“Not before I’ve brushed my teeth.” Draco rolled out of bed.
“Can I argue right after bed?” Harry called after him.
“Pick your battles, Potter.”
Downstairs, a freshly shaven Sirius had set the table for three; there were sausages, toast, oatmeal, rolls, cheeses, and cold cuts—Harry felt a pang for Hogwarts feasts.
“Is Draco still asleep?”
“No, he’s washing up. I told him he doesn’t have to worry about his appearance this early, but he ignored me.”
“And it helps delay talking to me.”
“Actually, I think he likes you. He can just tell you’re suspicious of him.”
“Reasonably so.” He glanced at Harry, then busied himself with depositing eggs onto his plate. “Last night I spent a great deal of time thinking over everything. There is a lot that has changed—there are things I will have to deal with.”
Before Harry could bring up Remus, Sirius said, “Remus is coming later for lunch.”
“Okay.”
“With Tonks.”
“Mhm.”
Sirius sawed at the egg on his plate, unbothered by the scraping sound. “Raven is meeting up with some people she knew before she died. I don’t know when she will come back.”
“Well, Draco and I can help with things around the house.”
“Thank you.” He finally released his grip on his knife and flexed his hand.
“After the Veil—when did you become conscious?” asked Harry, thinking back to Sirius’ body, how lifeless he looked when he was levitated through the group of highly shaken people.
“I was rather weak at first. I felt Remus—and hear everyone—but couldn’t react. Until I came to, and saw how real Remus was, how scared—I assumed I had finally reached some sort of afterlife.”
A chill shuddered down Harry’s spine as he thought of the foggy King’s Cross he was sent to after the destruction of his Horcrux. “I hope this isn’t the afterlife.”
Sirius smiled. “There are a few important people missing, if it were. And there is no way James Potter would end up in a different place than us.” His gaze searched years beyond Harry. “You two make an interesting pair. You and Draco Malfoy.”
“Thanks? We aren’t together, I suppose, we’re . . . it’s hard to say yet.”
Before Sirius could respond, a door shut upstairs, and Draco came down into the kitchen.
“My ears were burning,” said Draco, sitting down next to Harry, a waft of clean breaking through the smell of breakfast.
Harry smiled at him, heat rising in his face. All thoughts had exited his brain in favor of so pretty, god he’s gorgeous and the like.
“You made all of this, or did the house-elf?” Draco cast a dubious glance at Kreacher, who met his look with wide, awe-struck eyes.
“I did, but Kreacher fetched the groceries. I have been absolutely ravenous since coming back. Help yourself to whatever you like.” As Draco added food to his plate, Sirius caught Kreacher’s expression. “Stop staring at him like that, will you? Sorry,” he added to Draco. “He is so broken up about my coming back to life that he’s desperate for relatives who managed to avoid breaking their mother’s heart.”
“He made me follow you, Malfoy, sir,” said Kreacher, glaring at Harry. “Kreacher did not want to, how displeased my old mistress would have been, and yet the boy insisted . . .”
“What?”
Harry flushed again, too embarrassed to be angry at the house-elf. “Er, earlier in our sixth year, I asked him to follow you around, report back to me. I knew you were helping Voldemort, so . . .”
“See anything interesting?” Draco asked Kreacher, chin tilted a bit up with indignation.
“Only the nobility and grace of my mistress’ greatnephew—”
“That’s quite enough, leave us be, will you?” Harry watched as Kreacher slinked back into the shadows. Draco simply continued eating. Suddenly angry, Harry said, “You ought to free him, Sirius. After the holidays. Hermione’s wanted to since we started living here, but with you gone—it didn’t feel right.”
“Oh. I am sure he was none too pleased when you inherited him.”
“No. And you never seemed pleased to have him.”
Sirius’ gaze was distant. “If I free him, there is a good chance he will want to stay.”
“You’ll be having plenty of people round that he wouldn’t approve of,” said Harry. “I doubt he’d want that. But if he stays, he may as well be paid.”
“And my mother will be turning over in her grave. Although I suppose she has been spinning for a while.” Sirius shook his head and pressed his lips into a thin smile. “I thought I might see her in the afterlife. No such luck.”
“You weren’t watching from above, then?” asked Draco. “Or below, for that matter?”
“Ha. If I was, I can’t remember.”
“How do you know you’re really you, then? What if you’re just a copy, while the real you is somewhere else, having your late mother over for tea?”
Sirius glanced at Harry, who realized he was glaring at Draco. “All I want is to know if I am human or something else. I have no illusions that we will solve the mystery of life after death. Honestly, I would rather not have the answers.”
After breakfast, Harry wrote a letter to Hermione and Ron to tell them they could come to Grimmauld Place anytime but that they should be prepared to see Draco again. It took him two hours to actually get it out the window, as he couldn’t get a feeling of Ron’s disgust out of his chest.
“Hello.” Draco appeared in the doorway and closed the door behind him.
“I just sent the letter.”
Draco said nothing, just sat down on the bed beside Harry.
“What’s wrong?”
“I thought you should know what it was like,” said Draco, rummaging through his satchel.
“How did you get that?”
“I asked Kreacher for help.”
“Ah. Wait, what do you mean, what it was like?”
“After Hogwarts. Without you.” He handed Harry a journal.“I . . .” Draco hesitated. “I used a charm to conceal the parts I didn’t want you to read.”
“But why do this and not just talk to me?”
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again to say, “All of this—what I wrote—no longer feels like me. Especially now that you’re . . . here. But it is me, and frankly it’s a part of myself I’d rather forget. You will understand what I mean once you have read some of it.” He would no longer make eye contact with Harry. “While you’re doing that, I’ll join the others downstairs.”
“Oh,” said Harry, watching him go. “Sure.”
He flipped through the pages of the journal, then lay back on the bed, propping the slim volume on his chest. At first glance, it seemed like most of the entries and fragments in the journal covered Draco’s day-to-day life working with his father, his occasional trips to Diagon Alley, and spending time with his mother as she painted.
Harry was glad to be reading the entries without Draco’s stare adding pressure to his reactions.
28/6/97
Dear H.P.,
Harry grinned at the fact Draco used his initials rather than his first name.
It has been three weeks since I last saw you. I thought cutting you off before we grew any closer would make it easier to move on, but I have to wonder whether I was wrong, and it would have been easier to become close before ending things between us. That way you could have had time to grow annoyed with me and I with you and we could have both chosen to break up. You at least can explain to yourself what would not have worked because you know me differently—I only know what happened after you ended the loop.
Not knowing may eat me alive. The ache in my chest is so strong that I cringe at how I reacted to pain before. At least recently I’ve managed to get out of bed again.
Mother and Father want to know why you helped me. I had brushed off their questions after the trial and told them to trust me. I believe they wanted an excuse to not be indebted to you, but I assured them that we owe you our lives. Although I worry about it, they do not suspect we were ever involved. As I put it to them: you told me you were close to defeating the Dark Lord, I knew we had no chance and told you about the cup (they are unsure how I knew about it and yet they believe me), then you included me in your plans so we could be exonerated. How could I tell them why? There is a saying that lying as close to the truth as possible is the best strategy. In any case, I told them you learned about my plans and thought you could save me and Dumbledore at the same time.
I can’t bear the thought of them learning about us. At least with what you have done for them, they are no longer in a position to hate you.
8/7/97
I can’t believe after all these years you’re still dominating my thoughts in the summer. Although I regret loathing you, it was certainly easier to picture punching your dumb face than to picture snogging your dumb face.
16/7/97
The article that featured me came out in the Prophet today.
Harry couldn’t help noting to himself how endearing it was that to italicize “Prophet,” Draco had tilted his usually straight, neat letters forward.
Just when I thought mother and father could not be more proud, I’m given a feature in the paper. Unsurprisingly, they would have preferred me labeled a hero rather than a rebel, but I’ll take what I can get.
I wonder what you thought when you read the article. They took a flattering picture of me, after all. I hope I visit you in your dreams, Potter.
20/7/97
Mother’s worried about me. It was only a matter of time before she voiced her concerns. She was painting, and I was too tired to read to her, and she began saying how the past year has been difficult (that’s an understatement), skirting around what she meant, saying how I’ve changed and asking what happened to my friends? I’ll invite Pansy and Blaise over eventually, but it will never be the same between us. Between me and anyone, perhaps.
The Greengrass sisters were over for tea last week with their mother and father, and at least they were pleasant enough. Astoria, Daphne’s younger sister, is quite charming. She was showing me how her glasses work, which I found fascinating—they surveyed her surroundings and formed rudimentary images and thoughts in her mind. As an example, I led her to mother’s studio and had her look at a recent painting of a Parisian street. She said the glasses showed her “an amateurish interpretation of old buildings.” Fair enough.
Daphne grew jealous of how much time I was spending with her sister. Perhaps if I didn’t like the attention so much, I’d have been a bit more standoffish so as not to give either of them false hope. Were I forced to choose between Pansy, Daphne, and Astoria, I would most like to marry Astoria, as she seemed to like the same version of myself that I liked.
Is this why Draco thought Harry had moved on for a girl, because he was considering doing the same? He should have guessed.
The next section of the journal was whited out. More than any other part of the journal, Harry wanted to know what Draco had written about. Jealousy coursed through him, hot enough that he couldn’t pretend it was anything else.
31/7/97
It’s his birthday. And I feel I’ve been sighing nonstop. One minute, it’s enough that he’s safe and with his friends, the next, I wonder if he misses me. I’m such an idiot. The biggest threat to my family is gone and yet I still feel so hollow.
Merlin, I don’t know if I can manage a year apart, let alone three.
12/8/97
When was the last time I felt something? The days blur together, the walls of the manor are equally cavernous and oppressive. Everything is too quiet.
The rest of the page was whited out, and on the next page, Draco continued:
Father says I have a real future in this craft. I think it would make me happy if it weren’t the only thing in my life at the moment. Never in my childhood did I compare myself to my father this way, think of him as lonely and old and irrelevant; now it’s all I can see. I never thought of him as clingy, either, but he has no friends apart from me and my mother. As much as I hate blaming him for how I am, I want to save myself from such a fate.
I’ve fucked all that up, haven’t I?
8/9/97
Thank Merlin for these projects. They were all I needed to keep my mind occupied. Sure, part of me misses studying at Hogwarts, but it wouldn’t have been the same. Reading textbooks and writing essays all day sounds rather dull now; I’d rather be testing the effects of Dark magic on fruit and the odd frog.
15/9/97
Paris is lovely, but that’s to be expected. Mother has complained that I’ve become too much of a homebody, lazing around the house in my spare time when I could be out seeing friends, exploring the marketplaces, flying up the Eiffel Tower, visiting the French government buildings, etc., etc. I’ve spent so many summers just with my parents, but I’ve never been this annoyed at them.
It was easy to not care about other people before. And then I almost lost my father. And I lost Harry. Arghhh why can’t I tear out my heart? My stomach? Something?? I’m being sabotaged from the inside when I think about bleeding Potter.
Although I know Mother and Father wouldn’t approve, I spent the day in Muggle Paris without charming myself. Of course, I’ve seen the Louvre and other landmarks, but I’ve never been to a Muggle restaurant or shopping mall or any other such place, and certainly not while visible. It was fascinating at first—the ridiculous fashion, the streets packed with cars and cyclists & those rather toxic sticks Muggles smoke—until all I wanted was someone with whom to share my witty observations. I say someone, but it’s obvious who I mean. Do I really want his name plastered all over this bloody journal, though? My thoughts were so intense that I even started to miss Crabbe and Goyle—Crabbe and Goyle! And Pansy, who hasn’t even written me.
Worse than all of that, I couldn’t help staring. Too many jawlines. And lips. Surely, most men did not notice, and some were likely pretending not to. There were a few who reminded me of Potter, so much so that I think I was hallucinating a bit. And then I start obsessing over whether people look at me and assume I’m homosexual. My foreign dress likely throws Muggles off the scent.
I find myself torn between wanting to put care into my appearance while loathing the idea that people would read into my attention. After all, Potter and Mikhail watched me and with enough time figured it out. What is stopping anyone else?
Back to Paris. These thoughts were running through my head then, so it is difficult to focus on what I actually did . . . despite my best attempts at enjoying myself, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s impossible. I thought by leaving Hogwarts I could find myself, when in actuality, I’m losing myself. I don’t know who I am anymore.
13/10/97
I know, it’s been too long since I have last written anything substantial. I hate the cold. I hate having no sun. I hate most bloody things. Every beautiful thing I own feels cold. If my mother didn’t force me to go to Diagon Alley with her every week, I’m not sure I would leave the estate. At least I have the sense to not write half the whinging that goes on in my head.
Everything on the page from November 2nd was concealed except for one line:
What wouldn’t I give to see him again?
23/11/97
Maybe something’s wrong with me. When I think about the choice I made, even after how much pain I’ve felt, I don’t see what else I should have done.
The most recent entry was from December:
16/12/97
Whether he figured it out or not, I can’t tell.
I paid a fortune for a Polyjuice Potion of a Dutch woman—she expects I will not be recognized in public, or at least no one would admit to recognizing her.
Once I saw myself transformed, I nearly gave up on the whole plan altogether. It was too much fun to look like a woman, as much as I fear even memorializing that thought on paper. Perhaps one of these days I’ll find myself at a Parisian drag show, dripping in finery as a parody of an English aristocrat. Something tells me Potter would pay good money to see that.
Right he was.
If Potter ever wants to see me again, I will know he is too forgiving for his own good. And mine. Yet I can’t deny that I feel more deserving of his affection than before.
Harry closed the journal. Draco’s words swirled within him like snowflakes, chilling him from countless directions. He sat still for a few minutes, then went to see if Draco was in his room.
Draco looked up as soon as Harry entered. He tucked his hands in his pockets, though not before Harry noticed a bit of red where the skin around his fingernails had been chewed.
“So?”
Harry took Draco’s face in his hands and ran a thumb over his cheek. “Thanks for letting me read it.”
“Mhm.”
“You didn’t have to. I understand how personal it is.”
“Well, it is a journal.”
“You can call it a diary, you know. I wouldn’t make fun of you.”
“Sod off.” Draco let some of the tension in his shoulders go.
“Why are some pages partly whited out?”
“What’s the point in whiting it out if I tell you?” At Harry’s exasperated expression, he continued, “Things I’d rather you didn’t learn by reading it like this. Things I wrote but didn’t mean. Things about my family. As I wrote it, I didn’t intend for you to read it, and I’d be betraying my past self if I did. A simple spell concealed what I felt most strongly about you not reading.”
“I understand. You know, now that you’re here, I want you to be able to tell me how you feel.”
Draco sighed. “You’d only feel sorry for me. You’ve pitied me enough already.” He studied his picked fingertips. “I only wanted you to know that you weren’t the only one hurting these several months.”
“A lot of what you said, I felt too. So you don’t regret how you left things?”
“How I did it, yeah. But leaving Hogwarts, and you . . . Had I not left, I never would have—it would have been difficult to be with you.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to fancy you and I didn’t trust either of us and I would’ve wanted to run away the whole time.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
They were silent, chewing on what more they wanted to say. Finally, Harry nudged Draco with his foot. “So . . . tell me about Astoria.”
“Oh. Her. Yes, she’s lovely. When I spent time with her, I felt at ease. And simultaneously I had a strong desire to impress her. Not in a romantic way, just a desire to gain her approval.” He hesitated. “There was a brief period in which I thought I might—I thought I could be attracted to her, even if other women didn’t have that affect. I hoped that I was bisexual, like you. And I know now, more than ever…I’m not.”
Harry wrestled with the small voice in him that wanted to say, “Do you not want to impress me?” but assumed Draco would not take that well. Instead he said, “I’m glad you’ve had some closure, then.”
“I dunno, I thought I could go on thinking it was possible, and now . . .”
“Now you can live how you want.”
The doubt hadn’t left Draco’s face before he closed the distance between them with a kiss. The scent of his hair made Harry light-headed, each kiss long and relaxed, marked by the small sounds Draco made as he wrapped his arms more tightly around Harry’s waist.
“Hang on,” said Harry, finally breaking away, “You were the woman who came up to us at the Leaky Cauldron.”
Draco sighed and pushed his face into the side of Harry’s head.“Ah—yes, I was, though surely people approach you all the time.”
“Working for the Ministry and going out in Diagon Alley, I’ve passed by the majority of the British wix, so at this point it’s rare—mostly tourists or ambassadors who go out of their way to say something. Also, she was fit and reminded me of you, I would’ve figured it out eventually.”
“So you think I’m—”
“Of course you’re fit, you’re gorgeous.”
Draco blushed and straightened a bit. “I’m glad we agree about something.”
At that, Harry kissed him and pushed him into the bed, putting aside the journal and the sad, confused boy of its pages.