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i.
Harry can’t sleep. Again.
Ron’s fitful snoring across the room isn’t helping the matter, either. With a long-suffering sigh Harry leans over the side of his bed and tugs out the Marauder's Map. It’s become his nighttime companion more often than he cares to admit, but there are only so many times you can trace out the secret passages of Hogwarts by wandlight or watch Peeves’ imaginary footsteps run circles around Filch until it all starts to get old. He’s about to toss it aside when a familiar name catches his eye.
Draco Malfoy is up past curfew.
Harry watches curiously as he weaves out of the castle, stops abruptly, and then continues in a loose figure-eight pattern.
It’s…not exactly the way one expects Draco Malfoy to move.
It’s all uncoordinated and fanciful and a great deal more interesting than Ron’s snoring so Harry doesn’t spare half a thought towards what he’s doing as he grabs his invisibility cloak and sneaks out of the room.
He has to duck behind a pillar once to avoid getting knocked over by a fuming Filch in pursuit of an unrepentant poltergeist and check the map two more times before he’s finally able to intercept Malfoy. The air is bitingly cold when he cracks open the front door, cloak or not, but the sight in front of him is enough to banish his freezing face to the back of his mind.
Malfoy is drunk.
An empty bottle of firewhiskey sits knocked over and neglected on a stone bench and Malfoy is stumbling around in a made-up pattern that changes every few seconds. He freezes for a moment and his head snaps towards the encroaching shadows like a deer who’s just caught wind of a hunter.
Harry drops his cloak and raises his wand in the same instant, wary of whatever managed to catch Malfoy’s attention. The grounds are quiet except for the distant twittering of insects and Malfoy points at something Harry can’t see.
“Fuck you, forest,” he warbles, and then he’s back to tiptoeing in figure-eight’s like nothing happened. He doesn’t even seem surprised that Harry has suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “Potter,” he hisses. Or, tries to. The menacing effect is kind of obliterated by the hiccup that follows.
Harry tucks his wand away. Not that Malfoy even seemed perturbed that Harry was holding it up in the first place. “Hullo, Malfoy. What are you doing out here?”
Now that he’s getting a better look at him, Malfoy is not dressed like someone who planned to go outside tonight. He’s still wearing his slacks and button-up but his tie is askew and his robe is nowhere to be seen. He’s got no scarf and no gloves and his nose and cheeks are more flushed than Harry’s ever seen them and Malfoy doesn’t seem to care in the least.
“If you must know,” he says. “M locked out.”
Harry blinks. “The Slytherins locked you out?” He’s almost too busy wondering what Malfoy could have done to make his own house so upset with him to catch Malfoy’s answering eye roll.
“It’s the gargoyle,” he corrects. “Stupid thing won’t let me in cause I- hic- forgot the stupid password.” Harry pretends to cough to cover up his laughter. Malfoy doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does he doesn’t care. “I hate the gargoyle,” he grumbles. “I hate the stupid creatures that watch us through the lake.” He kicks at a near-frozen patch of ground. “I hate the positions I’m forced into.” He snatches up the firewhiskey and tries to take a sip, pouting at the bottle when he discovers that it’s empty but placing it delicately back on the bench regardless. “And I hate my father,” he whines.
Harry can hardly believe that what he’s witnessing isn’t some sort of fever dream, and then Malfoy lets himself fall back onto the ground with a thud and says, “I’m going to sleep outside to spite Lucius.” Harry’s jaw drops. “And that damn gargoyle!” he adds, finger pointing accusingly in what may or may not be the direction of the Slytherin dorms. Harry isn’t sure.
He is sure that it’s fucking freezing, however, and before he can figure out what to do next he hears himself saying, “Wouldn’t sleeping in Gryffindor Tower spite them even better?”
Malfoy pops back up with what is unmistakably joy in his eyes. Harry’s not sure if he’s ever seen that expression on the face in front of him before and it shoots an odd bit of warmth through his core. “Of course it would,” Malfoy says. He grabs ahold of Harry’s wrist and holy shit Malfoy’s fingers are ice cold but Harry is too invested in finding out if drunk Malfoy really knows where to go to tear his arm away. “Come along, Potter. Don’t be a lazy bum.”
Harry doesn’t bother hiding his laughter this time. “Lead the way then.”
It takes far longer than normal and more than a few gentle corrections on Harry’s part before the right staircase comes into view. Harry is halfway through wondering what the hell he’s doing when Malfoy perks up in front of him.
“It’s this one, right?”
Under the dim torchlight in the hallway, Malfoy is practically glowing. His white-blond hair looks more like gold under the flames and his eyes are trusting and curious and excited. And almost silver. Harry has never noticed that before
“This is the one,” Harry confirms. “Now put this on before we go up.”
“Put what-"
Malfoy’s spluttering protest is drowned out by the heavy fabric being draped over his body. Harry gestures for him to be quiet and keeps a tight hold on Malfoy’s arm as they traipse up the stairs and past the portrait of the Fat Lady.
Malfoy pauses in the common room and Harry wishes that he could see whatever expression is painted there this time.
“It’s…warm,” Malfoy whispers. “Cozy.” There’s a quiet sigh and Harry barely hears him tack on the word “safe” before he raises his voice again and says, “Wish I had a place like this to go to.”
Harry doesn’t know what to say to this almost wistful-sounding Malfoy so he tugs him up the stairs to the boys dormitory, peeking his head in to make sure everyone is still asleep before opening the door all the way. Harry digs around in his trunk for some anti-hangover potion the twins had snuck him and intends to lead Malfoy to the unoccupied bed once he finds it but when he turns with the bottle held tight in his fist Malfoy isn’t in the doorway anymore. He’s in Harry’s bed.
Harry sets the potion on his nightstand and throws up a silencing charm, slowly folding up his cloak (for once in his life) to buy himself some time to think.
Somehow, drunk Malfoy sees past this brilliant ruse. “C’mon, Potter. I don’t bite,” he says, shifting to the edge of the bed to make his point and, cloak successfully stowed, Harry cautiously lies down beside him, making sure to pull the bed curtains shut as he does. “Now Pansy,” Malfoy continues, “She bites.”
Harry laughs and miraculously Draco’s weighted whispering helps him feel more at ease. Like he’s having the kind of sleepover he only ever saw on the telly when Dudley didn’t notice he was watching, too.
Harry rolls onto his side to better face Malfoy. “Does she now? Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.”
Malfoy gawks. “Merlin, no! She kissed me once when we were thirteen and I told her I didn’t like girls and she bit me in retaliation.” Malfoy rolls his eyes and Harry can’t help but find it a little bit amusing. Almost endearing. “Apparently her parents were dead set on seeing us wed and she wasn’t exactly opposed to the idea until I went and ruined all her plans.”
Harry smiles at the image of a younger Draco being unafraid to speak his mind.
“And do you still? Not like girls, that is.”
Malfoy gives Harry a calculating look. Probably the best one he can muster while still blinking like a frog. “I’ve always known what I like, Potter. It’s a secret,” he whispers. “A secret spite like all the rest. He can’t ever know.”
Harry is having a little difficulty following. “Lucius?” he guesses.
“Shh!” Malfoy brings a sluggish hand to Harry’s mouth in alarm and Harry automatically pets the hair at the nape of his neck to stop him from getting more worked up and waking everyone. “Don’t say his name! I swear he has spies everywhere, he can hear you.”
Harry laughs against Malfoy’s palm. “Okay, okay. I won’t say his name.” He tries to retract his hand now the the crazy in Malfoy’s eye has died down but the blond gently catches his wrist.
“Don’t stop,” he says.
So Harry doesn’t. He runs tentative fingers through soft locks until Malfoy’s breathing evens out and Harry has had enough time to realize that Malfoy looks much calmer in his sleep. Nicer. Though, not once since finding him wandering the grounds did Harry feel like throwing a hex or running for the hills.
He falls asleep with a smile on his face and his hand still in Malfoy's hair.
Harry wakes up to the sound of drowsy chatter and with a warm weight pressed into his side. More than a few wonder aloud why Harry’s curtains are pulled and he has never been more grateful to hear Ron say, “He hasn’t been sleeping much. Probably doesn’t want to be woken up yet.”
There are general grumbles of agreement and Harry has to bite back a laugh when Seamus is denied his bet on whether or not Harry is hiding someone in his bed. He looks down to see Malfoy’s cheek smooshed into the mattress near Harry’s chest and he starts scratching a soothing pattern over his scalp.
Harry is unfairly dazzled by the softness of Malfoy’s hair and the way it always seems to fall back into place no matter how much Harry messes with it.
There is still some quiet shuffling in the room when Malfoy starts to slowly blink himself awake. Harry’s hand darts out for the potion and has it presented in front of the blond with a finger held to his own lips before the complaints about being hungover (or being hungover in Harry’s bed, or being near Harry in the first place) can start up. Malfoy seems to take the cue for what it is and downs the drink in one gulp. He hands it back to Harry without looking at him and Harry uses their temporarily connected fingers to drag Malfoy a little closer to whisper, “We’ll sneak you out once everyone’s left.”
Malfoy nods weakly and then groans, letting himself fall face-first against the pillow and rubbing pointlessly at his temples.
Harry is a little worried that there has been no shouting and no sneers but he chalks it up to the hangover and their accidental eavesdropper.
They listen to the Gryffindor pull various things out of their trunk while they pad around the room but it isn’t until the door slams shut behind them that Malfoy pushes himself up on his elbows and glares.
There’s the normalcy Harry was looking for. He reaches for his glasses on the bedside table to see it better.
“What the fuck happened.”
Malfoy phrases it like a statement but Harry mostly knows better than to play with fire, no matter what Hermione believes, so he says, “I found you outside and you couldn’t remember the Slytherin password so I let you crash here.”
Malfoy looks around blearily- still blinking the sleep and the firewhiskey from his eyes- and raises an eyebrow. “In your bed.”
Harry’s not sure but it feels like another question so he nods.
“With you in it,” Malfoy clarifies.
Harry lets his gaze shift nervously away from the boy beside him and up to the curtain hangings. “Mhmm. Better than sleeping outside, anyways.”
“Debatable,” Malfoy grumbles. “Go check if your common room is clear. I can’t be seen like this.”
Harry desperately wants to ask: Hungover? In Gryffindor tower? With Harry? With a boy in general?
Not that he was with Harry, necessarily. Not like that. But drunk Malfoy hadn’t really clarified what he meant about girls and secrets last night and he doubts sober Malfoy will either so instead, Harry lets himself chuckle at the right uncoordinated mess that is Draco Malfoy trying to get untangled from the sheets and says, “Yes sir,” before the blond can coordinate a truly scathing insult instead and ruin the moment.
He spares a second to appreciate how soft Malfoy looks surrounded by a sea of maroon and gold before ushering him safely out.
The room is quiet after Malfoy leaves.
In contrast, the dining hall is brimming with noise when Harry arrives, despite having only shown up for the tail-end of breakfast.
“Harry!” Hermione crows, “I was worried about you! Come on, we saved you a plate.”
Ron nudges her shoulder affectionately. “C’mon, Mione. Let the man sleep in every once in a while.”
Harry accepts the plate with a grateful nod.
“I know that, Ronald but it’s not good to skip meals.” She turns back towards Harry with a huff and smacks Ron with her hair in the process. Ron shrugs helplessly beside her, mouthing something that might have been ‘I tried’ or might just be him trying to get hair out of his mouth. “I’m glad you came down. Did you not sleep well last night?”
Ron snorts. Harry doesn’t know what for so he ignores it. “I slept okay 'Mione, it’s alright. Thank you for saving me food but are you done with the third degree?” he teases.
She rolls her eyes but relents anyway.
By the time Harry reaches for his second treacle tart, Hermione is already chomping at the bit to leave and grey eyes have been periodically flitting towards him with something like determination.
Harry takes a purposefully slow bite. “You guys can go. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Hermione wrinkles her nose. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Harry, and that’s nonsense. We can wait.”
Harry tries to think of another way to get them to leave that doesn’t look like ditching them so he doesn’t have to answer to Malfoy in front of them when Ron catches his eye. The ginger nods discreetly so Harry nods back, with no idea what exactly is transpiring between them.
“Come on,” Ron says, ushering Hermione further off the bench. “You know how Harry can down those tarts and I doubt he wants us breathing down his neck while he does it. Enjoy Harry, we’ll be in the library.”
It doesn’t take much more pestering for Hermione to agree and, once again, Harry has no idea how Ron knew to take one for the team but he is indescribably grateful. Especially when Malfoy plops down beside him not two minutes later.
“You have an invisibility cloak,” he accuses. His eyes are brighter and much more alert than they had been this morning and his robe has made a successful reappearance.
Harry smirks. “And a magic map.”
Malfoy frowns at the cryptic reply, obviously debating whether or not to follow the new thread or keep on the invisibility cloak topic. Harry idly wonders if the hat ever considered Malfoy for Ravenclaw.
“All maps are magic, Potter. What are you on about?”
Harry hums and spears a bit of the tart with his fork. “Nothing, then. What are you on about?”
The spark returns to Malfoy’s face in full force. “It was you! The invisible ghost by the shrieking shack in third year!” Harry tries and fails to hold back his laughter by shoveling food into his mouth. “You twat!”
“Hey!” Harry coughs and downs a glass of water before continuing. “You were awful that year and it was funny!”
Somehow, despite the discovery, some of the lightness from their late-night conversation has bled into the day.
“And last night?” That is, until Malfoy shatters it with three bitter words. “Was I some grand amusement for the great Harry Potter?”
Harry frowns and sets down his fork, shifting in his seat so that he’s facing Malfoy head on.
“No. I couldn’t sleep and I found you and I didn’t want to leave you out in the cold.”
It’s the best explanation Harry has managed to give himself, too.
Malfoy crosses his arms and Harry briefly wonders if he’s reached his quota on sneering or if he’s just trying out different tactics. “So you just ferried me away to your bedroom?”
Harry blanches. “That’s not what happened!”
“Right.” Malfoy narrows his eyes. “I’ll be off then.”
Harry wishes he was more shocked by the acquiescence, but he’s mostly just relieved.
“Bye Malfoy.”
Malfoy hesitates, gracing Harry with a much more effective calculating look.
“...Bye Potter.”
ii.
Malfoy is up to something.
Harry knows this and he can’t leave it alone so when he opens the map to find Malfoy’s inkblot footsteps alone, wandering the castle past curfew, he can’t resist. He is up and out the door, cloak pulled fast against him while the warmth of a similar night tugs at his memory and the wariness of a much more recent day (one where Malfoy snuck around corridors and then disappeared into the Room of Requirement) sticks in his mind.
He finds Malfoy wandering near the East Wing. His eyes are bloodshot and his hands are shaking, fingers wringing and twisting around each other in what is probably a futile attempt to settle his nerves.
Still, when Harry drops his cloak a few paces away Malfoy holds his head high.
It’s a stance that used to exude something like pride but now it feels like acceptance.
Submission.
A ghost of what is supposed to be strength.
It’s not the expression Harry wants to see. There is far too much guilt living in the shades of grey that stare back at him.
Malfoy doesn’t waver as Harry steps closer, just allows him to proceed. Hell, Malfoy doesn’t even draw his wand. Without an audience, it’s like he can’t be bothered to keep up the charade and something in Harry’s chest cracks at the realization that the Malfoy standing before him is more real and more done with everything than the one that exists in the daylight.
Harry knows how that feels.
He walks forward until their noses are inches apart and he brings a hand to the nape of Malfoy’s neck, pushing it gently down onto Harry’s shoulder.
The crack grows bigger when Malfoy closes his eyes and goes willingly.
Harry starts to stroke his hair- it’s as soft as ever- and he leans his own face into the crook of Malfoy’s neck. Like if he’s somewhere he’s not expected to be he can hide, just a little longer, from the dangers that demand his attention. Maybe Malfoy finds comfort in that idea, too. Maybe he’s been thinking about the light scratch of Harry’s fingertips against his scalp as much as Harry has.
“Something’s wrong,” Harry murmurs. It’s not a question but it is an opening. Malfoy carefully brings his hands up to clutch at Harry’s waist.
“But you’re going to fix it, right?” Malfoy whispers. His voice is muffled, aimed at the floor, but the weight of his words carry them straight to the pit of Harry’s sinking stomach. “You’re going to win. Like always.”
It sounds like a childish mantra that has been repeated so many times it’s worn out its truthfulness. Harry twists a lock of hair between his fingers- it’s longer than before- then he lets it go with a sigh and starts over again. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, least of all to me.”
Malfoy squeezes him tighter. “You have to,” he cries. “You have to. It’s the only way I can-”
Harry brings his other arm around Malfoy’s back and pushes his face further into the crook of his neck. He doesn’t want to know, knowing makes it real. Inevitable. And yet…and yet…
“Only way you can…?”
Then Malfoy is crying for real. Harry can feel it soak through the fabric at his shoulder and he can feel it in the way Malfoy’s chest starts to heave uncontrollably and he can feel it in the careful cracking of his own, aching heart.
They are far too young for this thing that sits on their shoulders.
“I don’t want to do it,” Malfoy chokes out. “But they’ll kill me. Kill my mother. They’re always in my house.”
Harry holds him tighter, pressing his nose into white-blond hair because he doesn’t know how to comfort someone from inescapable reality. If he did, maybe Harry would be more well-adjusted by now.
“They want me to let them into the school. I know how, they just need the signal and I-” Malfoy’s voice breaks and returns as a hoarse whisper, “I thought I was safe here.”
“Malfoy,” Harry sighs, and it’s not an accusation. It’s not a condemnation. It’s the cry of the second person in line for the gallows grasping desperately at the first as their hour draws near. “We can- we can..”
“What the hell can we do, Potter?” Malfoy snaps. “There’s nothing! There’s-” his voice tapers off into soft sobs. “We- we’re done for.”
“Let me- um. I can…” Harry takes a deep breath. Then another. Then he closes his eyes in resignation and lets his temple fall against Draco Malfoy’s. “If they have to come, then send me a message before you do it so I can warn Dumbledore. McGonagall. Anybody. I can pretend I had a vision and we can at least get the younger students away.”
“A vision?” Malfoy sniffles.
“Yeah.” Harry rubs soothing circles along his back. “I sometimes see snippets of what Voldy does. Especially when his emotions are high while I’m asleep.”
Malfoy drags his hands up to Harry’s shoulders and pushes off of them until they’re face-to-face. He looks caught- somewhere between devastation and mania. “Voldy?” His voice is high and breathy, but unfaltering. “You gave the Dark Lord..a nickname?”
Harry smiles cheekily. “Yeah. Why? You jealous?”
Malfoy scoffs and it sounds so dangerously close to a laugh that Harry can’t stop his face from twisting in wonderment. It’s another one of those Malfoy-expressions he’s never seen but craves with all the intensity of an addict after their first fix.
“No, Potter. I’m not jealous of your arch-nemesis.”
Harry pretends to pout.
“But I thought you were my arch-nemesis.”
Malfoy lightly swats Harry’s face away until they’re both grinning again. “Not likely. Not after all this sappiness. I-” Malfoy bites his lip and looks away for a second. “Thank you. For finding me and for not..I just…my mother means the world to me.”
Harry reaches up and runs a hand through Malfoy’s hair, ruffling it up just to watch it fall back into place. “I know. I don’t want you to die either, Malfoy, especially since it’s not your fault your father’s a slimy git who expects the same of you.”
Malfoy’s eyes grow wide. Harry just stares into them, wondering if he’s gone too far.
“He is a slimy git,” he finally whispers and Harry barks out a surprised laugh. “And, Potter, for whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry for acting so horribly for so long trying to earn his approval. Especially at school when he wasn’t even around to see.”
Harry smiles. “It’s worth a lot.” He dramatically pretends to check if the coast is clear before adding, “Plus, you told me I can’t even say his name out loud because he has spies everywhere.”
Malfoy purses his lips, his cheeks the same shade of pink they had been when Harry found him out in the cold. “Whatever, Potter. Now if you don’t mind-”
“Harry,” he corrects.
“Harry,” Malfoy repeats, testing out the syllables on his tongue. “Well then I suppose you can call me Draco.”
Harry rolls his eyes and he doesn’t bite back the smile pulling at his lips. “I’m honored.”
“You should be.”
“Well, Draco.” Harry digs into his pocket and offers him a coin. “This is one of the charmed galleons we used for Dumbledore’s Army last year. I’ve got another in my pocket so just write out a message on it the night before disaster and I’ll get it and try to, uh, limit the disaster.”
Malfoy handles the coin like it’s something precious. “Eloquent as always,” he murmurs. “I’ll do it, Harry. I’ll give you as much warning as I can.”
Harry runs his hand through Draco’s hair once more, thumbing around the shell of his ear and stopping just shy of his jaw. “Thank you.”
Draco nods and turns on his heel.
Not before Harry catches the rising blush on his cheeks, though.
iii.
Hermione throws down the Daily Prophet with disgust. “The Dementor’s Kiss,” she spits. “It’s so barbaric.” Harry doesn’t need to twist his head to understand that it’s the sentence that’s been chosen for Lucius Malfoy.
Harry, quite frankly, does not care about the man’s demise in the slightest but he knows that not everyone’s feelings on the matter will be so cut and dry.
He lets his gaze drift to the end of the eighth year table and seeks out a shock of white-blond hair, the occupant’s face otherwise hidden behind a copy of the same newspaper.
He looks between Draco and the paper two more times before abandoning his plate in favor of walking over to sit beside him.
Not many have chosen to eat at this end of the table today.
Harry reaches for Malfoy’s head and coaxes it onto his shoulder, starting up what he hopes are calming ministrations in his hair.
“What are you doing, Harry?”
Harry reaches for the paper with his other hand and, under Draco’s watchful eye, takes away the pages with Lucius’ name and face and tosses them down the table.
“What are you letting me do?” he counters. Draco slowly lifts his head and reaches for his gutted paper, hiding his face from curious onlookers with the sports section. “Why don’t you come flying today?” Harry asks.
Draco glances at him from the corner of his eye. “I’m not sure if your entourage would take kindly to my being there.”
Harry shakes his head and it’s enough to attract Draco’s own curious gaze. “We’ll warm you up to them. Today it’s just us. You and me.”
Draco turns back to the paper. Probably to hide his small smile.
“I’d like that.”
Harry sees it anyway.
He sees it again when they walk onto the pitch, the scent of freshly cut grass almost overpowering until they launch into clear skies. They tumble past low hanging clouds and spend the afternoon chasing each other back and forth, sometimes showing off tricky maneuvers and other times drifting lazily, and Draco’s unencumbered joy throughout it all is the most gorgeous thing Harry’s ever seen.
When they land, his cheeks are windburnt and stinging and sore from smiling so much and he feels like maybe this is what life is supposed to be.
Happiness in the air and butterflies in his stomach. Friends waiting near a warm hearth.
Harry whoops one final time and leans over to tousle Draco’s hair while he’s at it. Draco bats him away with faux annoyance. “Stop messing up my hair! Do you have any idea how long this took to style?”
Harry laughs and Draco joins in not long afterward. His veins are practically buzzing with contentment and it’s moments like these when he’s really glad he’s alive. Glad he decided to come back.
Harry dives on Draco, snickering as he stumbles and struggles to right them both while Harry snakes a hand around his waist and brings the other to bury in the hair at his nape. “I’m really glad you’re here with me, Draco.”
Draco hugs him back, pressing their cheeks together. “I’m pretty sure that’s my line you twat.”
Harry laughs and sneaks a chaste kiss to Draco’s neck. The blond squirms and makes some muttered comment about being ticklish there but he pulls Harry even closer, nuzzling their faces together just a bit.
Enough for Harry to feel it and enough for Draco to deny having done it at all if Harry decides to tease him about it.
Harry kisses him again, closer to the juncture of his neck and shoulder this time, and Draco sighs in contentment.
“You know,” Harry murmurs, “if you held out your hand again, I would shake it this time.”
Draco leans back until he can smash their foreheads together, giving Harry a front row view to another new expression. Maybe his favorite so far.
Adoration.
Draco smiles. Freely, unfiltered, and says, “How about you hold it instead.”
Harry knows he looks utterly besotted when Draco weaves their fingers together but he doesn’t really care because when Harry uses his other hand to brush away the stray locks falling into Draco’s eyes, he looks just as gone.
iv.
They all end up in the Gryffindor common room a few months later. Harry, Draco, Ron, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, and the Weasley twins (after hand-delivering some chaos on the last day of term before break).
“Mate,” Ron says, for what is probably the millionth time, “I’ve known you were into blokes since sixth year and I’m positive when I mentioned it to mum she was only upset that she had to stop trying to set you up with Gin. You know she loves you like family, she just wanted it to be official. She’s fine with it.”
“And Draco too?”
“Yes, Harry,” Ginny groans. “We’re all-”
“Wait,” Harry interrupts, looking back at Ron. “Why since sixth year?”
The ginger in question looks a lot like he just found the last bit of a dessert he thought was finished. “Oh yeah, it was the year of your secret rendezvous.” It is not missed on the room that he glances Hermione’s direction on the last word and preens under her pleased expression. “I’ve been dying to know who it was.”
“Who what was?” Harry asks.
Ron rolls his eyes. “C’mon. You had your bed curtains pulled shut and you were whispering about waiting until everyone was out of the room to sneak a distinctly male-sounding voice out.”
Draco pauses his conversation with Luna to hear Harry’s response.
“Oh! That was Draco,” he says simply. He realizes his mistake when all eyes (sans Draco’s) go wide. Judging by his boyfriend’s amused smirk, Draco predicted Harry’s idiocy and is patiently awaiting the results.
“You were with him for that long?” Hermione, possibly the bravest of them all, asks.
“No!” Harry corrects. “No, we just slept together.” Ginny chokes on her drink and the twins look ready to pounce. “Not like that!” Harry squeaks. “Draco was drunk and cold and we, well…” He sends a pleading look to his boyfriend.
Draco snickers. “Go on Harry, keep digging yourself into that hole.”
Ginny is the quickest to get over her shock and she moves on to patting Ron on the back while he holds his face in his hands, muttering, “Right under my nose.”
“Not hardly,” Draco retorts. “Just a little tension here and there. Not to mention the whole ‘becoming a blood traitor’ for him in a hallway in the dead of night.
“Please tell me that’s not actually some weird euphemism you guys use,” Ron begs.
“Uh, no,” Draco assures. “Your delicate sensibilities are safe, Weasley.” He aims a wicked-looking smile at Harry, though he’s still speaking to Ron. Or maybe just the crowd at large. Draco tends to have a bit of a dramatic streak now that he’s out of his father’s shadow. “That was, however, when Harry discovered he’s obsessed with petting my hair.”
“You’re obsessed with getting your hair pet,” Harry shoots back.
“Touche.”
“That ferret-”
“My ferret,” Harry corrects, leaning over the back of Draco’s shoulders and planting a chaste kiss on his cheek. Draco sighs with the acceptance of someone who’s long been subjugated to the nickname.
“Your ferret is going to be the death of me.”
Hermione rolls her eyes in the corner. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic Ronald.”
Luna takes the opportunity to wink (very badly and very obviously) at Harry, so he takes his cue to drag Draco to the side while Hermione and Ron’s squabbling devolves into flirting.
Him and Luna have been working on a project for a while now and he’s still not sure how Draco’s going to take it.
Harry really hopes he likes it, and not just because it would be hell to fight at the Burrow over Christmas under Molly’s all-knowing eye.
“Hullo Draco. Hullo Harry.”
Harry nods, distracted by the tentative issue of the upcoming Quibbler spread out on the back table.
“Hullo Luna. Mind telling me why my boyfriend’s so jumpy all of a sudden?”
Luna smiles, wide and bright and a little off-kilter. “Gladly.”
Together they run through the explanation. They reason that since the Malfoy family’s misdeeds have been all over the paper since the war, it’s only fair that the good ones be shared too, though it’s mostly Luna talking because Harry starts to feel like he’s swallowed a pound of sawdust.
Luna’s part of the article details the little kindnesses that Narcissa and Draco showed the prisoners at the Manor and Harry’s goes into the several times a Malfoy saved his life, including an abridged version of how Draco was actually the Death Eater warning system for Hogwarts, not Harry.
Draco listens attentively and nods in all the right places but Harry has no idea how he’s actually taking it. He should have paid more attention when Ron was joking about the long and varied list of pureblood customs and taboos. Not that Draco really follows those anymore but his non-reaction is leaving Harry grasping at straws.
“If you like it and give my father and I permission,” Luna finishes, “we can run it in the next issue of the Quibbler.”
Harry’s not sure when she flourished the potential layout in front of them but Draco is cautiously running his finger over his mother’s name.
The word ‘Malfoy’ hasn’t appeared in print in ages without an insult or derogatory remark attached.
“Do you like it?” Harry whispers.
“It’s..” Draco’s voice hitches so he clears his throat and starts over, eyes never leaving the article. “We’ve made a lot of mistakes. I’m not sure if anything could really mend our name.”
Harry relaxes. He knows a nervously happy Draco when he sees one. “Good thing you’ll be taking mine, then.”
Draco and Luna both turn to him with wide eyes but Harry is too busy looking over the photos in the article to notice. When the silence prompts his gaze upwards, Draco looks equal parts shocked and unamused. “..Tell me that was not your idea of a proposal.”
Harry frowns, trying to think back through whatever he just said and- oh!
Oh.
“That was not a proposal,” Harry echoes carefully.
“Harry.”
“That was...me putting the idea in your head?” he flounders.
“It better be,” Draco insists, “Because you’d be a very lucky man if I took your last name with a proposal like that.”
“Wow Harry,” Luna sighs dreamily. Harry jumps. In his haste to take his foot out of his mouth he had mostly forgotten she was there. “I’ve always known you were lucky.”
Draco turns his scowl on her. “Why do you assume I would’ve said yes?”
“Well that’s easy,” she laughs. “Your Nargles are gone.”
George pops up behind Harry and leans over his right shoulder. “Hm, are you sure Draco dearest isn’t the one who's easy?”
Draco splutters in indignation while Harry does his best not to laugh.
Fred leans over Harry’s left. “I certainly would say so, even though he blushes like a maiden.” Draco buries his burning face in his hands. “C’mon then,” Fred continues. “Mum’s expecting us all at the Burrow soon and the pair of ya have got a lot more teasing to come. Hop to, mini Malfoy!”
“Don’t get used to the names, though,” George finishes. “We’ve got plenty more to try out before we decide on a favorite.”
“Tell me when they’re gone,” Draco moans, voice still muffled by his hands.
The twins shoot Harry a wink as they depart and Harry dutifully waits until they’re out of earshot to pry Draco’s hands away.
“They’re gone, love.”
Draco huffs. Harry thinks it’s adorable but he knows better than to say so in front of so many people. “I want to wear your scarf when we leave,” Draco demands. “And..I want Luna to run the article.”
Harry darts in to kiss his cheek. “That’s fantastic! I’m so glad you don’t hate me.”
Draco’s brows furrow. “That’s..quite a leap in logic.” Harry uses his thumb to smooth out the lines in his forehead.
“Mm, maybe.” Harry leans forward, gesturing for Draco’s ear. “You want another leap in logic?” Draco attempts to remain staunchly still but it takes a record-breaking four seconds for the curiosity to eat him alive. Harry really thinks he would’ve done well in Ravenclaw, the clever git. “I think you want my scarf to hide your blush better,” Harry whispers.
“Ugh.” Draco leans back with a roll of his eyes. “I want your scarf, Potter, because I like carrying a piece of you with me into unfamiliar territory. You always come out the victor so..transitive property.”
Harry’s eyes soften. “You’re nervous about meeting everyone.”
“Of bloody course I’m nervous!” Draco whisper-shouts. “Don’t be a twat about it.”
Harry tugs him closer by the waist. “Well, you’ll have the real me the whole time so you won’t need the scarf, but I suppose you can have it anyways.”
“So gracious,” Draco snorts. A smile teasing the edge of his lips.
“I’m nervous about meeting Narcissa over winter hols, too.”
“What do you have to be nervous about? You’re the poncy savior of the world.”
“And she’s your mother,” Harry argues. “You love her very much and her opinion matters to me. We’re in this together, Draco. Same side.”
Draco’s smile finally breaks free. “Same side.” He repeats the words reverently, like Harry just gave him the whole world in the palm of his hands.
Harry doesn’t expect to ever get his scarf back because Draco is a bloody thief, but so is Harry so it’s okay.
After all, green and silver look rather good on him. Especially when his hands are buried in blond locks and Harry’s whole world can be found reflected back at him in beautiful, beautiful greys.