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The Great Hall of Hogwarts was buzzing with a chaotic, jubilant energy that rivalled the best of the end-of-term feasts. Streamers of gold and scarlet (with a few unfortunate dashes of green and silver) drifted from the enchanted ceiling, and the air was thick with the scent of pumpkin pasties and overwhelming relief. N.E.W.T. results had just been released.
“An ‘Outstanding’ in Defence Against the Dark Arts!” Ron Weasley bellowed, sloshing butterbeer onto the front of his robes as he waved his results parchment in the air. “Mum’s going to faint! She’ll think there’s been a horrible clerical error!”
“I knew you could do it, Ron!” Hermione beamed, her own results—a list of ‘Outstandings’ so long it could have been a scroll for a new constitution—clutched proudly to her chest. “And Harry, ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in Potions! Professor Slughorn will be throwing a party in your honour.”
Harry Potter, his hair as hopelessly messy as ever and his grin threatening to split his face in two, laughed. “I think I owe that more to your notes, Hermione, than any actual skill on my part. I still can’t believe it’s all over.”
A comfortable, nostalgic silence fell over the trio for a moment, the noise of the hall fading into a pleasant hum.
“Remember first year?” Ron said, a dreamy look on his face. “When we thought Snape was trying to kill you during the Quidditch match?”
“Or second year,” Hermione added with a shudder. “When everyone thought you were Slytherin’s monster.”
“Third year, with the Dementors and Sirius,” Harry chimed in. “Fifth year, when Umbridge made me write with that bloody quill…”
“Sixth year, when I nearly died from poisoned mead…” Ron added cheerfully.
“Seventh year, when we were, you know, hunting Horcruxes and fighting a war,” Hermione finished, bringing their trip down memory lane to a rather abrupt and sobering halt.
They looked at each other, the shared weight of their history hanging between them. Then, as one, they burst out laughing. It was a slightly manic, relieved kind of laughter that drew a few odd looks.
“Merlin,” Harry sighed, wiping a tear from his eye. “It’s a miracle we passed anything at all, really.”
It was in this perfect, happy bubble of camaraderie that the universe, as it so often did where Harry was concerned, decided to introduce a spectacularly bizarre variable.
The sound was a razor-sharp slash through the festive noise.
“POTTER!”
The voice was unmistakable: haughty, panicked, and dripping with pure Malfoy-brand urgency. Harry had just enough time to turn his head before a pale, frantic blur descended upon him.
Draco Malfoy, his usually impeccably coiffed hair in a state of disarray that rivaled Harry’s, and his grey eyes wide with a stormy, wild intensity, grabbed a fistful of Harry’s robes. He yanked him forward, their faces inches apart. The entire Great Hall fell silent. You could have heard a pin drop, or perhaps a particularly timid first-year fainting.
“We are getting married,” Draco declared, his voice low and desperate, yet ringing in the absolute silence. “Now!”
Harry’s brain, which had been comfortably processing pleasant memories and the warm fuzziness of butterbeer, made a sound like a dying car engine. Whirr-clunk-thud. Marriage? To Malfoy? Now? Had someone spiked the pumpkin juice?
He blinked. Once. Twice. He looked around for help, for an explanation, for an adult—merlin, even for Snape’s ghost.
Hermione’s hands were clamped over her mouth, her eyes the size of Dinner Plates. Ron’s jaw had officially unhinged itself and was currently residing somewhere near his knees. The rest of the student body and faculty were staring, utterly captivated, as if the final episode of a particularly riveting Wizarding Wireless soap opera was playing out live before them.
“I—what?” was the only intelligent response Harry could muster.
Draco’s eyes narrowed. He looked deranged. And determined. And, Harry’s traitorous brain noted, rather enchantingly furious. “I said,” he hissed, his grip tightening, “we. Are getting. Married. Do you require a hearing charm, Potter? Is the saviour of the wizarding world hard of hearing as well as intellectually stunted?”
A nervous, high-pitched giggle escaped Harry’s lips. “Married? Malfoy, have you finally taken one too many Bludgers to the head?”
“This is not a request, it’s a statement of fact!” Draco insisted, his voice rising an octave. “Well? Don’t just stand there gaping like a landed trout!”
And Harry looked into those stormy grey eyes. How on earth were they so grey? They were like a turbulent sky before a thunderstorm, all silvery shadows and shocking intensity. He felt himself getting lost in them, his common sense packing its bags and Apparating to a small cottage in Dorset without him.
His mouth, which had a long and storied history of operating without any permission from his brain, decided to take the wheel.
“Yes! Sure!” Harry blurted out.
The silence in the hall was replaced by a collective, deafening gasp.
A look of triumphant, maniacal relief flashed across Draco’s face. Before Harry could say “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Draco surged forward and kissed him.
It was not a gentle, romantic kiss. It was a firm, decisive, slightly off-centre press of lips that tasted of mint and pure, unadulterated panic. It was over almost as soon as it began.
Draco pulled back, grabbed Harry’s wrist with a grip of iron, and began dragging him towards the large doors of the Great Hall.
“W-wait! Where are we going?” Harry stammered, his legs moving on autopilot, his brain still rebooting.
“Shut up and follow me,” Draco commanded, not even looking back.
From the Slytherin table, a horrified Blaise Zabini cried out, “Draco, for pity’s sake, think about this! You can’t just acquire a Potter like he’s a new racing broom!”
“The press will have a field day!” Pansy Parkinson wailed.
But Draco was a man possessed. He was a blonde, posse-sion torpedo of matrimonial intent, and Harry was the unfortunate vessel he had set his sights on. He dragged a shell-shocked Harry out of the hall, through the corridors, and to the nearest Floo point.
What followed was a blur of green flame, the dizzying spin of the Floo Network, and the stark, bureaucratic corridors of the Ministry of Magic. Harry felt like he was watching everything from the end of a very long, very fuzzy tunnel. He remembered a kind-looking witch in the Department of Magical Licences saying, “My word, Mr. Potter! And Mr. Malfoy! What a… surprise!”
He remembered signing his name on a piece of ornate parchment that glowed with a golden light. He remembered Draco signing with a furious, elegant flourish.
He remembered a ring—a simple, sleek band of polished silver—being magically sized and slipped onto his finger.
He remembered Draco kissing him again, this time a quick, hard peck. “I’ll see you tonight,” Draco had said, his voice a strange mix of command and something almost like… nerves? And then he was gone, disappearing back into the Floo flames with a whirl of expensive robes, leaving Harry standing alone in the middle of the Ministry atrium.
Harry stood there, swaying slightly. The world slowly began to focus again, the sounds of busy Ministry workers filtering back into his ears. He looked down at his hand. At the new, unfamiliar weight on his ring finger.
The polished silver gleamed under the magical light.
Merlin’s beard.
He was married.
And married to Draco Malfoy.
A slow, incredulous grin spread across Harry’s face. He started to chuckle, then laugh, a full-bodied, helpless laugh that drew more odd looks from passing witches and wizards.
“Well,” Harry Potter said to the empty air, holding his hand up to admire his new wedding band. “I suppose that’s one problem Voldemort never had to deal with.”
_____
Harry apparated back to 12 Grimmauld Place with the distinct sensation that his entire life had been upended, placed in a blender set to ‘ludicrous,’ and poured into a new, much weirder mould. He stood on the front step, staring at the newly gleaming knocker (courtesy of Hermione’s relentless cleaning crusades), and took a deep, steadying breath. He looked at the silver band on his finger. It winked at him mockingly in the afternoon sun.
“Right,” he muttered to himself. “So. I’m married. To Draco Malfoy. That’s… a thing that happened.”
He pushed the door open, half-expecting the house to have transformed into a den of Slytherin-themed decadence. Instead, he was met with the familiar, slightly dusty smell of old magic and the comforting sight of the Black family tapestry, now with several satisfyingly charred holes in it.
And then he heard it. The delicate, unmistakable clink of fine china.
Harry crept into the drawing-room. And there he was.
Draco Malfoy was lounging in Harry’s favourite armchair—the one that didn’t try to bite—one leg crossed over the other, holding a cup of tea with his pinky finger extended. He was examining a particularly hideous vase as if considering its auction value.
“Ah, Potter. You’re home,” Draco said, without looking up. “The elf—Kreacher, is it?—makes a passable Earl Grey, though the leaves are clearly second-flush. We’ll have to order some better blends.”
Harry’s brain, which had just begun to reformulate a semblance of coherence, promptly short-circuited again. “What are you doing here? How are you even in here?”
Draco finally deigned to look at him, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “The Fidelius Charm is remarkably adaptive. It seems binding magical matrimony grants one spousal access. A delightful loophole, don’t you think? I’ve already told Kreacher to have my things sent over. The east wing bedroom has acceptable light.”
“The east wing—you’re MOVING IN?!” Harry spluttered, his voice cracking spectacularly.
“Well, I hardly think a long-distance marriage would be suitable, Potter. People would talk,” Draco said, taking a sip of tea as if he hadn’t just upended every aspect of Harry’s existence twice in one day.
Before Harry could form a coherent counter-argument—which would likely have involved a lot of shouting and possibly a stray hex—a series of thunderous, imperious knocks echoed through the house.
Draco groaned, rolling his eyes so far into the back of his head he probably saw his own brain. “Ugh. Predictable.”
With a loud crack, Kreacher appeared, bowing so low his nose scraped the floorboards. “Master Draco’s… parents are at the door,” the elf muttered, with palpable distaste. “Shall Kreacher tell them the Master and his… new spouse are not receiving?”
“Don’t be absurd, Kreacher,” Draco sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Let them in. Let’s get this tiresome drama over with.”
The door swung open to reveal Lucius Malfoy, his face a thunderous mask of aristocratic fury, and Narcissa Malfoy, who looked as though she’d just been told her favourite peacocks had been turned into handbags.
Lucius stormed into the room, his silver cane clicking violently against the floor. “DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY! Explain yourself this instant! A Howler would have been more discreet than this… this tabloid spectacle!”
“Hello, Father. Mother. Lovely to see you. Would you care for some tea? It’s a bit common, but drinkable in a pinch,” Draco drawled, not even bothering to stand.
“Tea?!” Lucius roared, his composure shattering. “I will not have tea! I will have an explanation! One minute you are to be betrothed to the Greengrass girl—a respectable, pure-blood union—and the next I get an urgent owl from the Ministry congratulating me on my new son-in-law, The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Ruin-My-Bloodline!”
“Now, Lucius, darling, please,” Narcissa pleaded, her voice trembling as she dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “Perhaps the boys are in love! Draco, my dragon, is this true? A whirlwind romance?”
“It was more of a whirlwind abduction, really,” Harry mumbled under his breath.
The room erupted into a cacophony of Malfoy family drama. Lucius yelled about blood traitors and social ruin. Draco sneered and made sarcastic remarks about his father’s taste in waistcoats. Narcissa began to weep delicately into her handkerchief.
Harry felt a headache brewing behind his scar. This was worse than a hundred Dementors. He had to do something.
“Right! Okay! Everybody just… stop!” Harry yelled, stepping into the centre of the room with his hands raised. He pointed at Narcissa. “Mrs. Malfoy. You look like you could use a sit-down and a strong cup of tea. Kreacher!”
Crack. “Master Potter calls?”
“Please take Mrs. Malfoy to the morning room. Bring the good biscuits. The ones without… teeth.”
Narcissa looked at Harry with such profound gratitude that he felt a pang of guilt for being the (completely unwitting) cause of her distress. She allowed herself to be led away by the muttering house-elf.
Harry then turned to the two blonde men currently engaged in a glaring contest that could curdle milk. “And you two. Cut it out. Draco, go check on your mother. Now.”
To Harry’s utter astonishment, Draco blinked, looked from his apoplectic father to Harry, and actually stood up. “She does prefer the lavender biscuits,” he said, as if conceding a great point in a debate, and swept out of the room.
This left Harry alone with a seething Lucius Malfoy.
“You,” Lucius hissed, levelling his cane at Harry as if it were a venomous snake. “What is the meaning of this? What hold do you have over my son? Is this a ploy for the Malfoy fortune? A final revenge for my… past allegiances?”
Harry’s mind raced. He couldn’t very well say, ‘Well, you see, sir, he married me to spite you because you were making him marry someone else, and I was too stunned by his eyes to say no.’
So, his mouth, the eternal traitor, decided on a different tactic: Lie. Lie like the wind.
“We… we’ve been… fond of each other for a while now,” Harry said, trying to sound earnest and not like he was about to be sick. “It’s been a… a slow burn. Since eighth year. All those… intense… Potions seminars. Sparks flew. Over a cauldron.”
Lucius’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Preposterous. Draco would never.”
“He has a… a tender heart under all that… pointiness,” Harry insisted, feeling his soul leave his body. “He’s very… passionate. About things. And people. Me, specifically.”
Lucius stared at him, his expression one of utter incredulity. He began to pace. “The scandal will be immense. The Prophet will have a field day. The Malfoy name, allied with a… a…”
“War hero?” Harry supplied helpfully.
Lucius shot him a look of pure venom. “I was going to say ‘celebrity vagrant’.”
They stood in tense silence. Harry’s eyes wandered to a dusty cabinet that he knew contained some of the Black family’s oldest and most cursed wines. An idea, born of desperation and a hint of Slytherin cunning he’d apparently absorbed through matrimonial osmosis, popped into his head.
“You know,” Harry said casually, “Sirius’s father had a truly legendary wine cellar. I’m no expert, but I’m told the 1803 elf-made Pinot Noir is particularly… historic. A real shame it’s just sitting down there, unappreciated.”
Lucius stopped pacing. A flicker of something—not approval, never approval—but intense, avaricious interest flashed in his eyes. “The 1803… Arcturus Black’s private reserve?”
“I’d be happy to… gift you a bottle,” Harry said, laying it on thick. “As a… gesture of goodwill. From your new… son-in-law.”
The internal battle on Lucius Malfoy’s face was a sight to behold. Outrage warred with vintage-wine-induced avarice. Family honour duelled with the chance to own a liquid piece of wizarding history.
After a long, painful moment, Lucius sniffed, straightening his robes. “A case,” he said imperiously. “And it had better not be corked.”
“I’ll have Kreacher fetch it,” Harry said, feeling a wave of victory.
With the case of wine magically shrunk in his pocket, Lucius was almost civil. Harry escorted him and a red-eyed but biscuit-calmed Narcissa to the door.
Narcissa clutched Harry’s hand. “Please, Harry—may I call you Harry?—look after my Draco. He’s… spirited.”
“I… I will, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry promised, feeling like the world’s biggest fraud.
“He likes his socks folded a particular way,” she whispered conspiratorially before turning and sweeping out after her husband.
Harry closed the door, the heavy lock clicking into place with a finality that echoed through the silent hall. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood and groaned, a long, soul-deep sound of utter exhaustion.
From the drawing-room doorway, Draco’s voice cut through the silence. “So. ‘A tender heart under all that pointiness’?”
Harry didn’t move. “Shut up, Malfoy.”
“And ‘passionate’? Potter, I’m blushing.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” Draco said, and Harry could hear the infuriating smirk in his voice. “You’re passionately fond of me. We have a slow burn. Since the Potions room.”
Harry finally turned around to face his smug, ridiculous, legally-binding husband. Draco was leaning against the doorframe, looking for all the world like he’d just won the Quidditch World Cup.
“What,” Harry asked the universe at large, “have I gotten myself into?”
Draco’s smirk widened. “I believe it’s called marriage, darling. Now, about the east wing bedroom. I think it needs a fresh coat of paint. Slytherin green, perhaps?”
_____
The morning after the Great Malfoy Matrimonial Meltdown, 12 Grimmauld Place was eerily quiet. Harry, having spent a fitful night imagining his life as a bizarre rom-com directed by a madman, trudged downstairs hoping for a strong cup of tea and some peace.
He was met with an alien sound: sizzling. And a smell: something burning, but with an undercurrent of… expensive coffee.
He crept into the kitchen to find a scene of surreal domesticity. Draco Malfoy, clad in silk pyjamas and a defiant scowl, was standing at the stove, brandishing a spatula like a wand at a pan of violently spitting eggs. A sleek, silver coffee maker Harry had never seen before was gurgling ominously on the counter.
“Rule number three,” Harry announced, leaning against the doorframe. “All doable tasks shall be done by yourself. I see you’re… doing.”
Draco jumped, nearly sending the eggs flying. “Don’t sneak up on me, Potter! I’m conducting delicate culinary alchemy.”
“It looks like you’re assaulting a chicken’s legacy,” Harry observed, watching a particularly stubborn eggshell refuse to leave the pan.
Draco ignored him, focusing all his aristocratic will on flipping the eggs. They did not so much flip as they did fold, tragically, into a single, rubbery lump. He dumped the creation onto a plate, poured a cup of jet-black coffee from the fancy machine, and sat at the table with the air of a man who had just single-handedly prepared a Michelin-star feast.
Harry’s stomach growled. The eggs looked… well, they looked awful, but they were food.
“So,” Harry said, sliding into the chair opposite him. “Where’s mine?”
Draco took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. “Read your own rule, Potter. Rule number four: ‘Harry is not a house elf, so Draco shall get off his ass and do housework.’ It does not state, ‘Draco shall get off his ass and do housework for Harry.’ I am not a house elf either. Therefore, my labour is my own. This…” he gestured grandly to his dismal plate, “…is the fruit of my labour. Get your own.”
Harry’s jaw dropped. “You used my eggs! My pan! My stove!”
A slow, wicked smile spread across Draco’s face. It was the same smile he’d worn before cursing Harry in fourth year. “Ah, but Rule number five was ‘Kitchen is not a potion lab.’ It said nothing about asset sharing. And as you so cleverly explained to my father, we are married. What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is… well, it’s still mine, obviously. But the groceries? A shared asset. So I have every right to use them.”
He took a bite of his rubbery eggs, chewing with an infuriatingly thoughtful expression. “A tad over-seasoned. I’ll adjust the incantation next time.”
Harry was speechless. He had been out-Slytherined in his own kitchen. He could only watch, seething, as Draco ate every last crumb of the terrible eggs with an obnoxious air of satisfaction.
From the corner, a mournful sigh echoed. Kreacher was wiping down a already-spotless counter, shaking his head so hard his bat-like ears flapped. “Master Potter’s rules are being good rules,” he muttered to a dishrag. “But Master Draco’s loopholes are being better loopholes. Kreacher is remembering the good old days when Mistress Walburga would just scream for twelve hours. It was being less complicated.”
“Did you say something, Kreacher?” Draco asked sweetly.
“Kreacher is saying the Master Draco is a brilliant chef who does not need any help ever,” the elf squeaked before disapparating with a defeated crack.
This was only breakfast.
Lunch was a further descent into madness. Harry, determined to not be beaten, made himself a magnificent sandwich. Thick slices of bread, leftover roast chicken, lettuce, tomato, a generous slather of mayonnaise.
He took one glorious bite before Draco, who had been pretending to read The Prophet at the table, sniffed the air.
“Is that… mayonnaise?” Draco asked, his nose wrinkling as if smelling something foul. “Merlin, Potter, that’s practically barbaric. Aioli is the only acceptable emulsion for a poultry-based sandwich. Mayonnaise is for Muggles and heathens.”
“It’s called flavour, Malfoy. You should try it sometime,” Harry said with his mouth full.
“I’d rather swallow a Bubotuber pus,” Draco retorted, but his eyes followed the sandwich with a strange, hungry intensity.
Dinner promised to be an all-out war. Harry had claimed the kitchen first, determined to cook a simple spaghetti bolognese. Draco entered ten minutes later, holding a potions kit.
“What,” Harry said, pointing his wooden spoon at him like a weapon, “is that?”
“Dinner,” Draco stated, setting up a brass scale and a series of vials next to Harry’s frying mince.
“Rule number five! Kitchen is NOT a potion lab!” Harry yelled over the sizzle.
“I’m not brewing, I’m seasoning!” Draco argued, weighing out what looked like dried dragonfly wings. “This is a precise art! Your method of ‘shaking the jar until some stuff falls out’ is an affront to gastronomy!”
“It’s called cooking, you maniac! Not alchemy!”
“Culinary science is alchemy, you philistine!”
They bickered over the stove, a whirlwind of wooden spoons and measuring vials, nearly setting the curtains on fire twice. The final result was a bizarre hybrid: Harry’s hearty, messy bolognese, now with the faint, unsettling aftertaste of peppermint and something metallic.
They ate in a tense, silent truce. It was, objectively, the worst thing Harry had ever tasted.
Later, as they both washed up (Rule #3, enforced with grudging mutters from Draco about water wrinkling his perfect skin), Kreacher appeared between them.
“The Master and his husband is being… stubborn,” the elf said, his large eyes blinking sadly. “Kreacher is old. Kreacher has seen many Black family dramas. But this… this is being new. Kreacher is thinking… perhaps if the Master and Master Draco shared a room, like proper spouses, there would be less… shouting in the kitchen.”
Both men froze, a soapy plate suspended between them.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” they said in perfect, horrified unison.
“It was merely a business arrangement!” Draco snapped, looking flustered.
“A one-year contract!” Harry added quickly. “Separate rooms were part of the deal!”
Kreacher looked from one to the other, his expression the epitome of long-suffering servitude. He let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. “As the Master wishes,” he mumbled, before disappearing. His final, whispered words hung in the air: “Kreacher is going to find the sock Master Potter offered… This is being too much.”
The door clicked shut, leaving the two ‘husbands’ alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the wreckage of their disastrous meal and the looming spectre of 364 more days of this.
Harry looked at Draco. Draco looked at Harry.
“Tomorrow,” Harry said, his voice thick with dread. “We’re making a rota for the kitchen.”
Draco’s eyes gleamed with the thrill of a new challenge. “I’ll draft a contract. With clauses.”
Harry groaned, resting his head against a cupboard. This was going to be the longest year of his life.
_____
A week into his impromptu marriage, Harry felt he deserved a medal. Or a very strong drink. Preferably both. He’d arranged to meet Hermione and Ron at a sun-drenched café in Diagon Alley, a desperate bid for normalcy.
Normalcy, however, was a distant memory.
“...and then he tried to organise his sock drawer by ‘colour saturation and fibre content’!” Harry ranted, gesturing wildly with a chocolate croissant. Flakes of pastry showered the table. “He’s instituted a ‘no-mud-on-the-rug’ policy that involves a full decontamination ritual at the door! He refers to my Firebolt as ‘quaint’ and asked if it ‘came with a complementary safety harness’!”
Hermione, looking polished in her new Ministry robes, took a prim sip of tea. “It sounds like he’s settling in.”
“Settling in? Hermione, he’s terraforming! He’s trying to turn Grimmauld Place into Malfoy Manor North!” Harry moaned, dropping his head into his hands. “And the worst part is, I can’t say no to him! He’ll just look at me with those… those… stormy grey eyes and spout some nonsense about ‘shared assets’ or ‘aesthetic cohesion’ and I just… fold. It’s pathetic!”
Ron, his auror trainee uniform looking slightly too tight across the shoulders, snorted into his pumpkin juice. “Blimey, Harry. It’s not that you can’t say no. It’s that you don’t want to.”
Harry’s head shot up. “What? That’s ridiculous! He’s insufferable!”
“Oh, absolutely,” Ron agreed, a broad grin spreading across his freckled face. “But you’ve always had a thing for insufferable gits, haven’t you? Especially blonde, pointy, dramatic ones.”
A cold dread trickled down Harry’s spine. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Hermione set her cup down with a decisive click. “Harry, please. Fifth year. You were obsessed with him. You couldn’t go five minutes without mentioning ‘that ferret Malfoy.’ You tracked his movements on the Marauder’s Map more than you tracked Snape’s.”
“That was surveillance! Of a suspect!” Harry protested, his voice rising an octave.
“You called his hair ‘annoyingly shiny’ in your sleep,” Ron added cheerfully. “During a particularly rough camping trip. Woke me up. It was traumatizing.”
Harry felt a hot blush creeping up his neck. “I did not!”
“You did,” Hermione and Ron said in unison.
“The irony,” Hermione continued, her eyes twinkling, “is not lost on us. The man you’ve been secretly pining over for years drags you into a sham marriage, and you just… go along with it. It’s almost romantic. In a deeply, deeply chaotic way.”
Harry groaned, burying his burning face in his hands again. “It’s not pining. It’s… strategic capitulation. And it’s only for a year. Next summer, we sign the papers, and I’m free. No more Draco, no more dramatic pronouncements, no more attempted sock-drawer coups.”
Ron leaned forward, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. “Right. So, after the divorce… what then?”
Harry blinked. “What do you mean, ‘what then’?”
“I mean,” Ron said, gesturing with a half-eaten biscuit, “what are you and Malfoy after that? Back to being enemies? Awkward acquaintances who avoid each other at the Leaky? Or…” He wiggled his eyebrows. “…something else?”
“There is no ‘something else’!” Harry insisted, his heart doing a funny little flip-flop at the thought. “It’s a business arrangement! A temporary insanity! We’ll get the divorce, he’ll go back to driving his parents mad, and I’ll… I’ll get my quiet life back.”
“Right,” Ron said, not sounding convinced at all. “Well. Good luck with that.”
Harry returned to Grimmauld Place feeling thoroughly dissected and deeply unsettled. A crush? On Malfoy? Preposterous. It was just… an appreciation of a well-structured insult. An admiration of his sheer, unadulterated audacity. It wasn’t… feelings.
Exhausted, he trudged up the stairs and collapsed face-first onto his bed, hoping the pillows would suffocate him and put him out of his misery.
The peace lasted approximately seven seconds.
The door to his bedroom burst open with a force that rattled the frame. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the hall light, his hair dishevelled and his eyes blazing with a manic intensity.
“POTTER!” he barked, storming into the room. “Where is it?”
Harry pushed himself up on his elbows, brain still foggy with sleep and croissant-related despair. “Where’s what? Your sense of decorum? It left the building about the same time you decided barging into people’s bedrooms was acceptable.”
“Don’t play dumb with me! It doesn’t suit you!” Draco advanced, his gaze sweeping over the room like a hawk searching for prey. “Give it to me. Now.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Harry said, sitting up fully now. “Give you what? My will to live? You already have that.”
In a move of shocking agility, Draco pounced. He launched himself onto the bed, knees landing on either side of Harry’s hips, and pinned Harry’s wrists to the mattress.
Harry’s brain short-circuited. Again. This was becoming a worrying habit around his husband.
Draco’s face was inches from his. His breath smelled of mint and expensive tea. His stormy grey eyes were wide, frantic, and utterly captivating. How on earth are they so grey?
“Stop pretending,” Draco hissed, his voice low and desperate. “I know you have it. Give. It. To. Me.”
Harry could only stare, his mouth agape. He was hyper-aware of the weight of Draco on his lap, the warmth of his hands around his wrists, the faint scent of his cologne. This was… not how he’d expected his evening to go.
“I… I really don’t…” Harry stammered, his brain offering exactly zero helpful suggestions.
Draco’s eyes scanned Harry’s face, down his neck, and then… they locked onto something. A simple, old-fashioned key hanging on a leather cord around Harry’s neck, resting against his t-shirt.
A look of triumphant revelation flashed across Draco’s face. “There!”
He released one of Harry’s wrists and snatched the key, the leather cord pulling tight against the back of Harry’s neck for a second before Draco yanked it free.
“Hey!” Harry yelped, finally snapping out of his daze. “That’s mine! Sirius gave me that!”
But Draco was already scrambling off the bed, clutching the key to his chest like a priceless treasure. He didn’t even look back.
“I need it. Black family business. Don’t wait up,” he threw over his shoulder, and then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall before the front door slammed shut.
Harry lay there, sprawled on his rumpled sheets, his heart hammering against his ribs. The ghost of Draco’s weight still pressed against him. The spot where the key had rested felt strangely cold.
Draco Malfoy-Black-Potter, his dazzlingly handsome, infuriating, and completely insane husband, had just tackled him on his bed, manhandled him, stolen a deeply sentimental item from around his neck, and vanished into the night without explanation.
How was he supposed to process that?
From the hallway, a soft, despairing sigh echoed. Kreacher stood there with a feather duster, shaking his head as he watched the front door.
“Master Draco is leaving with a big smile,” the elf muttered to the empty air. “He is tackling Master Potter on the bed and stealing. Just like great-great-grandfather Phineas Nigellus used to do when courting.” He let out another long-suffering sigh. “Kreacher is too old for this Black family romance. Merlin, please strike Kreacher down with lightning. It would be being less painful.”
He shuffled away, leaving Harry alone in the profound and bewildering silence, his skin still tingling from the ambush and his mind screaming one undeniable, horrifying truth:
Ron and Hermione might have been right.
______
The transformation of 12 Grimmauld Place was nothing short of miraculous. Over the span of a few months, the gloomy, oppressive mansion had begun to feel less like a monument to pure-blood mania and more like… a home. A very expensive, tastefully curated home, but a home nonetheless.
Drab, moth-eaten curtains were replaced with heavy, elegant velvet ones in deep emerald and sapphire. The sinister troll-leg umbrella stand had been vanished, replaced by a tasteful Chinese porcelain vase. The portrait of Walburga Black, while still present, had been Silenced, re-hung in a back hallway, and now sported a jaunty, slightly crooked party hat that Kreacher had apparently knitted for her. She looked furious, which made Harry like the hat immensely.
One evening, over a surprisingly edible coq au vin that Draco had prepared (Rule #1: Learn to Cook was being tackled with Slytherin determination), Harry finally broached the subject.
“This is… really good, Malfoy,” Harry admitted, spearing another piece of chicken. “But… where are you getting the money for all this?” He gestured with his fork at their surroundings. “The new furniture, the paint, the… is that a real Flemish tapestry?”
Draco took a slow, deliberate sip of wine. “The Black vault, obviously.”
Harry’s fork clattered onto his plate. “The what? You mean the key you… acquired…?”
“The key I rightfully claimed as the last remaining male heir of the House of Black’s most prestigious branch, by blood and by marriage, yes,” Draco said smoothly, as if discussing the weather and not grand larceny. “It’s not like Sirius was using it.”
A cold wave of anger washed over Harry. “That’s not your money to use, Malfoy! That was Sirius’s! That’s… that’s his! You can’t just redecorate my house with his inheritance!”
“Our house,” Draco corrected, his eyes narrowing. “And it’s our inheritance. The Black fortune belongs to the Black family. Which, need I remind you, we both are.”
“That’s a technicality and you know it!” Harry shot back, his voice rising. “This is just… it’s so typical of you! It’s selfish! It’s heartless! There are people who actually need that money! What about Andromeda? She’s raising Teddy all by herself! They’re struggling! But no, Draco Malfoy needs a new silk duvet and a fourteenth set of china! That’s so much more important!”
Draco’s face went very still. A strange, complex emotion flickered in his grey eyes—hurt, anger, and something else Harry couldn’t place. He opened his mouth, as if to say something cutting, then snapped it shut. His jaw tightened. He threw his napkin onto the table, stood up so abruptly his chair screeched backwards, and stormed out of the dining room without a word.
A moment later, he stormed back in, hurled the old, brass key at Harry’s chest, and disappeared again, his footsteps echoing like gunshots up the stairs.
The slam of his bedroom door was the period at the end of his furious sentence.
Harry sat there, the key cold against his palm, feeling like the world’s biggest git. But he was also right, wasn’t he? He had to be.
The next day, filled with a sense of righteous purpose, Harry flooed to Andromeda Tonks’s cozy, slightly chaotic cottage.
“Harry! What a lovely surprise!” Andromeda said, ushering him in. Teddy, his hair a cheerful canary yellow, giggled from a playpen.
“Andromeda, I… I have something for you,” Harry began, feeling awkward. He held out the key. “It’s from the Black family vault. Sirius left it to me, but it’s not right. It should go to you and Teddy. You’re his family. You could use it.”
Andromeda blinked, then let out a warm, surprised laugh. “Oh, Harry, you dear boy. That’s incredibly sweet, but it’s quite unnecessary.”
“What? No, it’s not, I insist—”
“Draco was already here, days ago,” she said, cutting him off gently.
Harry froze. “He… he was?”
“Oh, yes. Charming, in his own intense way. He set up a secured trust fund for Teddy’s entire education, from nappies to N.E.W.T.s. And he established a generous monthly allowance for me. Said it was ‘long-overdue reparations from the main branch of the Black family.’ I assumed Narcissa had put him up to it.” She smiled, a little sadly. “It seems I misjudged him. It was very kind.”
Harry’s world tilted on its axis. The floor seemed to drop out from under him. “He… he did what?”
“He did,” Andromeda confirmed. “So you see, we’re perfectly taken care of. You keep that money, Harry. Use it for your orphanage. Heaven knows you deserve it.” She patted his cheek. “And do thank Draco for me, won’t you? Tell him his Aunt Andromeda is very grateful.”
Harry mumbled something incoherent, his face burning with a mixture of shock and profound, soul-crushing shame. He had completely and utterly misunderstood. Draco hadn’t been selfish. He’d been… efficient. And secretly, infuriatingly thoughtful.
He was doomed.
He flooed home, his stomach churning. He had to fix this. He marched up the stairs to Draco’s bedroom door and knocked.
No answer.
“Malfoy? Draco? Look, I… I talked to Andromeda.”
Silence.
“I… I’m sorry. I was a complete idiot. A giant, troll-brained, fire-breathing idiot.”
More silence. It was a heavy, expensive, well-decorated silence.
Harry slumped against the door. “Please? Can we talk about this?”
Nothing.
Defeated, he trudged downstairs. Kreacher was polishing the new banister, muttering to it.
“Kreacher?” Harry asked, his voice small. “Is he… is he ever going to come out?”
Kreacher didn’t look up. “Master Draco is being very busy,” the elf said tonelessly.
“Busy with what?”
“Busy being right,” Kreacher sighed, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “And busy not talking to Master Potter. It is being a very time-consuming project. Kreacher is taking him tea and sandwiches. Master Draco is accepting them with dignified silence.”
A whole week passed. The Silent Treatment. It was a weapon of mass destruction Malfoy had honed to perfection. Meals were taken separately. If they passed in the hall, Draco would look through Harry as if he were a particularly uninteresting patch of wallpaper. He’d leave notes for Kreacher about household matters, but none for Harry.
Harry was losing his mind. He tried everything. He made Draco’s favourite treacle tart (it emerged from the oven looking like a geological specimen). He ‘accidentally’ left a new issue of Potions Monthly on the kitchen table. He even complimented the new curtains loudly to Kreacher, hoping to be overheard.
Nothing. Not a flicker.
The cozy, beautiful house felt like a gilded prison. Harry had faced down Voldemort with less fear than he now felt facing his husband’s cold shoulder. This was their first real fight, and Harry was terrified he’d already broken their fragile, bizarre, year-long marriage beyond repair.
_____
The Silent Treatment had entered its second week. Grimmauld Place, for all its new coziness, was colder than a Dementor’s handshake. Harry was a ghost in his own home, tiptoeing around the magnificent, brooding spectre of his husband.
Draco was a master of avoidance. Meals were taken in his room. Bathroom schedules were meticulously plotted to prevent any chance encounters. If they did accidentally cross paths, Draco would look through Harry with the chilling indifference of a stranger reviewing a particularly dull grocery list.
Harry felt like a colossal loser. He’d tried being civil. He’d tried apologizing through the door. He’d even left a peace offering of treacle tart outside Draco’s room, which Kreacher later reported had been “accidentally” vanished, plate and all.
Desperate times called for desperate floo calls.
“HE TACKLED YOU?” Ron’s roar of laughter echoed through the fireplace, his face contorted with glee. “HE SET UP A TRUST FUND FOR TEDDY AND YOU CALLED HIM SELFISH? BLIMEY, HARRY!”
On the other side of the connected Floo call, Hermione was trying and failing to stifle her giggles into a textbook. “Oh, Harry. It’s just… it’s so very you. Marry the man you’ve fancied for years, then immediately accuse him of financial tyranny. It’s a classic romance trope.”
“This is NOT helpful!” Harry wailed, kneeling on the hearth rug. “And I do NOT fancy him! I need advice! What do I do? He’s built a fortress of silence and I can’t get past the walls!”
Ron wiped a tear from his eye. “Mate, I dunno. Send him a Howler apologising?”
“That would only give him more reason to never speak to me again!”
“He’s a Malfoy,” Hermione said, finally composing herself. “He appreciates grand gestures. And he holds a grudge like a dragon hoards gold. You need expert advice.”
“Expert advice? From who? A marriage counsellor? ‘Hello, yes, my husband who I married in a fit of panic to spite his father isn’t talking to me because I was a git’?”
“No,” Hermione said, a sly grin spreading across her face. “From people who’ve known him since he was a vile little toe-rag. Ron, connect me to Blaise Zabini’s floo. I owe his mother a favour.”
An hour later, Harry found himself in a private room at a posh wizarding café, facing Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini. He’d just finished recounting the entire, humiliating saga.
The resulting laughter was not polite. It was seismic.
Pansy slammed her hand on the table, tears streaming down her perfectly made-up face. “You… you called him heartless? For spending Black money… on the Black house… after he’d already given a fortune to the disowned Black cousin? OH, THE IRONY! IT BURNS!”
Blaise Zabini, sleek and amused, dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Potter, let me get this straight. You’ve been legally bound to him for over three months, sharing a roof, and your first instinct during a marital spat is to seek counselling from us? Not, I don’t know, kissing it better? Merlin, no wonder he’s not talking to you. It’s embarrassing.”
Harry’s face was on fire. “This was a mistake. You’re all insufferable.”
“Oh, don’t pout, Potter, it’s unbecoming,” Pansy said, finally catching her breath. “Look, Draco is a complicated pastry. But his tells are simple. He’s petty, he’s proud, and he has a catastrophic sweet tooth for anything that could strip paint.”
Blaise nodded. “The man drinks lemon juice straight. It’s horrifying to watch.”
“So,” Pansy leaned forward conspiratorially. “Your path to redemption is paved with sour things. Sour apple candies. Lemon drops. Those horrifying sherbet lemons that make your eyes water. Bring him an offering. He’ll pretend he’s above it, but he’ll cave. The sourer, the better.”
“And for Salazar’s sake, man up a little,” Blaise added with a wicked smirk. “You’re his husband. Sometimes a strategic snog can short-circuit a dramatic episode. It’s basic conflict resolution.”
Defeated and feeling utterly ridiculous, Harry returned home with a bag full of the most violently sour sweets he could find. Kreacher took one look at the bag and let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand Black family dramas.
“Master is attempting the Sour Bribe,” the elf muttered, polishing a silver candlestick with grim determination. “Kreacher has seen this before. Young Master Regulus once tried to appease Mistress Walburga with a lemon after he scorched her favourite tapestry. He was grounded for a month. Kreacher wishes Master Potter better luck.”
Heart pounding like he was facing a Hungarian Horntail, Harry approached Draco’s door. He knocked softly.
A long pause. Then, the door opened a tiny, suspicious crack. One stormy grey eye peered out. “What?” The voice was hoarse, and noticeably stuffy.
“I, uh… brought you something?” Harry said, holding up the garish bag of sweets.
“I don’t want anything from you,” Draco sniffed, but his eyes lingered on the bag. He tried to push the door shut.
Harry, bolstered by desperation and Blaise’s advice, shoved his foot in the door. “Wait, just… please.”
What ensued was a brief, pathetic struggle—a grown wizard trying to force a door open against another grown wizard who was, confusingly, putting up less resistance than expected. Harry stumbled into the room as the door gave way.
And stopped dead.
Draco’s room was… not what he expected. It was warm and inviting, with deep blue walls and bookshelves, not Slytherin green. And Draco himself…
He looked awful. His usually pristine hair was a sweaty, tangled mess. His skin was pale and clammy. He was wrapped in a thick duvet, shivering despite the warmth of the room. He looked small and… vulnerable.
“Get out,” Draco croaked, but the command had no heat. He swayed on his feet.
“You’re sick,” Harry stated, his anger and embarrassment evaporating into pure concern.
“Astounding deduction, Potter,” Draco sneered, or tried to. It came out as a weak, phlegmy cough. “Ten points to Gryffindor. Now leave.”
He took a step forward to shove Harry out, but his legs buckled. With a small, undignified yelp, he pitched forward directly into Harry’s chest.
Harry caught him automatically, his arms wrapping around the shivering, duvet-clad form. Draco was burning up.
“How long have you been like this?” Harry asked, his voice soft with worry.
Draco didn’t answer. He just let out a pitiful little sigh, his eyes fluttering shut, and went completely boneless in Harry’s arms, his head lolling against Harry’s shoulder. The fight had gone entirely out of him.
Panic, sharp and immediate, replaced everything else. Harry scooped him up—Merlin, he was light—and carried him back to the bed.
“KREACHER!” Harry bellowed.
The elf appeared with a crack, took one look at the scene, and sighed. “Master Draco is having the man-flu. It is being very dramatic. Kreacher will fetch a wet cloth.”
While Kreacher saw to the cloth, Harry floo-called the only person he trusted in a medical crisis.
“He’s burning up, Molly! What do I do?”
Molly Weasley’s kindly face appeared in the flames. “Now, now, dear, don’t panic. Pepperup Potion is what you need. And a cool cloth for his forehead. Make sure he drinks plenty of water. He’ll be right as rain in no time.”
With Molly’s instructions and Kreacher’s help, they got a dose of Pepperup down Draco’s throat. Steam immediately began to pour from his ears, but his shivering subsided. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, gently dabbing Draco’s forehead with a cool cloth.
As the potion did its work, Draco’s tense expression softened into something peaceful. The haughty, sharp lines of his face relaxed. His long, pale eyelashes fanned out over his cheeks. Without the constant scowl or smirk, he looked… beautiful. Ethereal. And strangely young.
Harry found he couldn’t look away. The anger, the silence, the fight over the money—it all melted away, leaving behind a simple, startling truth: he was worried about him. And he really, really didn’t like it when Draco wasn’t talking to him, even if that talking was mostly insults.
He was so screwed.
Kreacher reappeared with a fresh cloth. He looked at Harry, who was staring intently at his sleeping husband, and shook his head.
“Master Potter is being in deep trouble,” the elf muttered to himself, disappearing with another soft crack. “Very deep trouble indeed.”
_____
The Pepperup Potion had done its job, mostly. The steam had stopped pouring from Draco’s ears, but the fever was stubborn, leaving him flushed and shivering under a mountain of blankets. He was a miserable, silken-wrapped burrito of illness and resentment.
“Go away, Potter,” he croaked, his voice raspy. He’d pulled the duvet over his head, transforming into a sulking, blonde lump. “Your heroic bedside manner is… suffocating.”
“You’re burning up again,” Harry insisted, trying to pull the covers down. A hand shot out from the burrito and swatted weakly at him.
“I prefer to combust in peace! Leave me to my fiery demise!”
Harry sighed. This was getting nowhere. Kreacher had been useless, just muttering about “man-flu dramatics” and “Black family stubbornness.” There was only one person left to call.
He flooed Malfoy Manor. Narcissa Malfoy’s face appeared, calm and composed.
“Mrs. Malfoy? It’s Harry. Draco’s really sick. High fever, he won’t eat, he’s just… burritoing himself.”
To his surprise, Narcissa didn’t look alarmed. A faint, almost nostalgic smile touched her lips. “Ah. It’s that time of year. Draco always runs a spectacular fever with even the slightest chill. He becomes… dreadfully dramatic. Just ensure he takes another dose of Pepperup in four hours. And he needs sustenance. Chicken soup. Lightly seasoned.”
“Soup? I… I can try.”
“You are his husband, Mr. Potter,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “See to it.”
Right. Husband. Soup.
Harry spent the next hour in the kitchen, orchestrating a culinary operation more complex than any potion he’d ever brewed. He chopped, he simmered, he seasoned with the precision of a bomb disposal expert. The result was a surprisingly golden, fragrant broth. He ladled it into a bowl and carried it upstairs like a sacred offering.
The burrito had not moved.
“Draco? I made soup. Your mother’s orders.”
The burrito tightened. “I’d rather drink Gregory’s Unctuous Unction.”
“Come on, just a few spoonfuls.”
“No.”
Harry tried bribery. He held up a violently sour lemon drop. “Look! Sour candy! Pansy said you’d like it!”
A grey eye peeked out from the duvet, glared at the sweet with palpable desire, then disappeared again. “I am not a child to be placated with confectionery! The betrayal still stings, Potter! My own husband, accusing me of avarice! The indignity!”
Harry’s patience, worn thin by worry and sleep deprivation, finally snapped. But it wasn’t an angry snap. It was a calm, terrifyingly clear snap.
Blaise Zabini’s voice echoed in his head: “Just kiss him, be a man.”
Well. He’d tried talking. He’d tried soup. He’d tried candy. All that was left was… being a man.
He set the soup bowl down on the nightstand with a decisive click.
“Alright,” Harry said, his voice unnervingly calm. “Last chance. Are you going to eat the soup?”
“I would rather kiss a Grindylow,” came the muffled, stubborn reply from the blanket fort.
“Wrong answer.”
In one smooth motion, Harry planted his hands on either side of the burrito, leaned down, and located the general area of Draco’s head through the layers of fabric. He couldn’t actually see him, but he could feel him. And then he kissed him.
Or, more accurately, he kissed the duvet. It was like kissing a very angry, very warm pillow.
There was a muffled sound of outrage from within. The blankets writhed. Harry persisted, kissing the duvet with a determination usually reserved for chasing Snitches.
Suddenly, the duvet was yanked down. Draco’s face emerged, flushed scarlet with fever and fury. “POTTER, WHAT IN THE NAME OF SALAZAR SLYTHERIN DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DO— mmph!”
Harry didn’t let him finish. He captured Draco’s lips with his own.
It was nothing like their first, panicked kiss in the Great Hall. This was deliberate. This was a statement.
And for a terrifying second, Draco was stiff with shock. Then, something miraculous happened. He melted. The tension drained from his body, and he kissed Harry back. It was clumsy, fever-warm, and tasted faintly of Pepperup Potion and indignation. And it was absolutely electric. Harry felt a jolt of pure, undiluted aliveness shoot through him. For days, this infuriating man hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t spoken to him, and Merlin, he’d missed him.
They broke apart, both gasping for air. Draco’s eyes were wide, his chest heaving. He looked utterly scandalized.
“What… what the hell is wrong with you?” he sputtered, his voice a breathless wreck.
Harry grinned, a little breathless himself. “I’m your husband. We’ve been married for months. Kissing is definitely in the package. Probably somewhere between ‘shared assets’ and ‘aesthetic cohesion’.”
Draco just stared, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.
Harry pressed his advantage. He held up his left hand, his wedding band gleaming. “Now. You have two choices. Option one: you let me feed you this soup like a civilized person. Option two…” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I consider this marriage consummated. Right now.”
Draco’s eyes went impossibly wider. The flush on his cheeks deepened from fever-red to a spectacular, tomato-like crimson. He looked from Harry’s determined face to the soup bowl and back again. The internal battle was epic.
With a sound of utter defeat, he slumped back against the pillows. “Fine,” he grumbled. “But if you spill it on my sheets, I’m divorcing you a year early for grievous culinary assault.”
Harry spent the next ten minutes spoon-feeding chicken soup to his scowling, bright-red husband. Every time Draco tried to protest, Harry would just raise an eyebrow and glance meaningfully at the bed. Draco would snap his mouth shut and accept the spoon with a huff.
When the bowl was empty, Harry leaned forward and kissed him again. It was softer this time, a brief, firm press of lips.
“What was that for?” Draco demanded, though the protest was weaker now.
“For finishing your soup.” Harry popped a sour lemon drop into Draco’s open mouth.
Draco’s face screwed up at the intense tartness, but he didn’t spit it out. He just grumbled around the candy, “You’re insufferable.”
“You married me,” Harry reminded him cheerfully, brushing a stray strand of damp hair from Draco’s forehead.
Draco didn’t have a retort for that. He just sank back into the pillows, sucking on the sour candy, a thoughtful, slightly dazed look in his stormy grey eyes. The anger seemed to have finally broken, replaced by a bewildered, feverish acceptance.
Maybe… just maybe… this mad, impulsive marriage wasn’t going to be as dreadful as he’d thought.
From the doorway, a long, suffering sigh echoed. Kreacher stood there with a fresh pot of tea.
“Stupid young lover couples,” the elf muttered to the empty hall. “All the yelling, then all the kissing. Kreacher is too old for this ping-pong romance. Kreacher’s heart cannot take it.” He shook his head and disappeared, leaving the two husbands in a silence that was, for the first time in weeks, not cold, but warm, charged, and full of unspoken, confusing, and potentially wonderful possibilities.
______
Draco was on the mend, but his mood was still decidedly… Malfoy-ish. He was propped up on a mountain of pillows, sipping a cup of tea Harry had brought him with the air of a monarch tolerating a slightly inadequate peasant.
“You don’t have to lurk, Potter,” Draco said, not looking up from his tea. “I’m sure the world’s orphans are desperately awaiting your heroic foundation planning. Go. Shoo. Save the children from the horror of not having a Potter-shaped benefactor.”
Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. They were back to this. “Draco, we’ve been over this. I’m sorry. I was a giant, troll-brained, fire-breathing idiot. I misjudged you. I’ve apologized approximately one hundred and seven times. What more do you want? A written affidavit? A public announcement in the Daily Prophet?”
“A time-turner so I can go back and stop myself from ever laying eyes on you would be a start,” Draco sniffed, taking a delicate sip. “But since those are all tragically destroyed, your continued absence will suffice.”
“I’m not leaving,” Harry said, crossing his arms. “You’re still sick.”
“I’m convalescing. There’s a difference. It requires peace and quiet, not the grating presence of my… my…”
“Husband?” Harry supplied, his own temper beginning to fray.
“My accidental spouse!” Draco shot back, finally glaring at him. “This is all your fault, you know! If you hadn’t been so… so… you in the Great Hall, with your ridiculously green eyes and your ‘sure, why not’ attitude, I wouldn’t be trapped in this… this farce!”
“My fault?” Harry’s voice rose. “You dragged me to the Ministry! You practically shoved a quill in my hand! I was supposed to have a normal life! Date… people! Pursue my… my orphan thing! Not be stuck playing nursemaid to the most stubborn, infuriating, dramatic man on the planet!”
“Oh, a normal life?” Draco sneered, his eyes flashing. “How droll for you. Well, I didn’t want this either! I had no choice! My father was going to sell me off to the highest bidder like a prized poodle! So you can take your ‘normal life’ and your ‘orphan thing’ and stop pretending to care! Just leave me alone!”
The words hung in the air, sharp and painful. Harry stared at him, his chest tight.
“I can’t,” Harry said, his voice dropping, low and serious.
“Why not?” Draco challenged, his own anger deflating slightly at Harry’s sudden intensity.
“Because I’m your husband,” Harry said, stepping closer to the bed. “Like it or not, we made vows. Through sick and thin. And right now, you’re being sick and thin-skinned. And I can’t not care about you. It’s literally in the job description.”
“Well, I don’t care!” Draco insisted, though it sounded weaker now. He pointed a trembling finger at the door. “I want you out! Get out of my room!”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. A dangerous, reckless idea sparked in his mind. He leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of Draco, caging him in.
“First of all,” Harry said, his voice a low growl. “This is my house. So technically, this is my room. And second…” He leaned in even closer, until their noses were almost touching. “…you married me. So technically, you belong to me.“ He let the words hang for a beat, watching Draco’s eyes widen. ”And if my husband is going to insist on acting like a petulant child instead of the grown man he is, then I’ll have to treat him like one.“
Draco’s mouth fell open in outrage. ”What in the seven circles of hell are you on about, Pot— mmph!“
Harry didn’t let him finish. He crushed his lips against Draco’s, pouring all his frustration, his worry, his days of being ignored, and that stupid, undeniable attraction into the kiss. It wasn’t gentle or questioning. It was all-consuming, passionate, and dominant.
And for the second time, Draco melted.
He made a weak sound of protest that was immediately swallowed by the kiss, and then his hands were tangling in Harry’s hair, pulling him closer. The argument, the anger, the hurt—it all went up in a sudden, spectacular blaze of pure, undiluted need.
One minute they were fighting, the next, Harry was climbing onto the bed, pushing Draco back against the pillows without breaking the kiss. Spoons of soup and sour candy were forgotten. The world narrowed to the feel of Draco’s surprisingly soft hair between his fingers, the taste of tea and Pepperup on his lips, the way Draco’s body arched against his.
One thing very, very rapidly led to another.
Clothes were discarded with a lack of ceremony that would have horrified both of them an hour earlier. The carefully made bed became a battlefield of a different sort. And somewhere between the frantic kisses and the tangled sheets, they finally, properly, consummated their marriage.
Later, in the hazy, post-coital glow, Harry lay on his back, one arm wrapped around a boneless, pleasantly stunned Draco, who had his head pillowed on Harry’s chest.
“You’re… insufferable,” Draco mumbled into his skin, though it lacked any real heat. “That was… utterly unreasonable. We were fighting.”
“Mhm,” Harry agreed, tracing idle patterns on Draco’s bare back. “Very productive fighting.”
“This was supposed to be a one-year contract,” Draco grumbled, but he snuggled closer. “A business arrangement. Now you’ve… complicated the terms of service.”
Harry smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of Draco’s head. “I didn’t get a proper choice the first time. It was a ‘yes or no’ with a time limit. This…” He tightened his arm around Draco. “…this, I’m choosing. So, as your husband for the long-term, and not just the contractual term, you don’t get to complain.”
Draco groaned, but it was a sound of contentment. “I’ve married a tyrannical, insufferable Gryffindor.”
“Who you secretly love,” Harry teased.
“I secret nothing,” Draco sniffed, but he didn’t deny it. He just buried his face deeper against Harry’s chest, a small, secret smile playing on his lips that Harry could feel but not see. It was, he had to admit, even to himself, vastly superior to sulking.
From somewhere downstairs, they heard the distinct sound of Kreacher muttering to a portrait, “...and now the Master is staying in Master Draco’s room. Kreacher supposes the yelling and kissing is over. Perhaps now Kreacher can finally polish the silver in peace. Stupid, stubborn, happy young lovers…”
______
A strange and wonderful calm had settled over 12 Grimmauld Place. The air no longer crackled with the tension of impending arguments or the chill of the Silent Treatment. Instead, it smelled of fresh paint, lemon polish, and, more often than not, the surprisingly pleasant aroma of Draco’s latest culinary experiments (Rule #1 was being mastered with near-fervent dedication).
Draco, it turned out, was far less dramatic when he was well-rested, well-fed, and… well, thoroughly kissed. He still had his moments of snobbery—Harry had found him having a heated debate with Kreacher about the thread count of the new bedsheets—but it was a fond, familiar snobbery, not a weapon.
The biggest test came when Harry suggested visiting Andromeda and Teddy.
Draco had frozen, a silver teaspoon hovering over his teacup. “You want me to… what? Engage in… domestic frivolity with an infant?”
“He’s your cousin,” Harry said gently. “And he’s brilliant. His hair turns blue when he laughs.”
Draco had sniffed. “A parlor trick.” But he’d gone. And something miraculous had happened.
Teddy Lupin, upon seeing the new, shiny, blonde person, had gurgled with immense delight. His hair had immediately shifted to a perfect platinum blonde. He’d then spent the entire visit attempting to launch himself from Andromeda’s arms into Draco’s, tiny hands grasping at his perfectly tailored robes.
Draco, after a moment of sheer panic, had cautiously taken him. And then… he’d melted. He’d held Teddy with an awkward but genuine tenderness, making silly faces that had the baby giggling uncontrollably, his hair cycling through a rainbow of colours.
“He has excellent taste,” Draco had murmured, looking down at the cooing baby with a softness Harry had never seen on his face before. “Recognizes quality.”
Harry’s heart had done something complicated and warm in his chest. This softer, domestic Draco was a side he never knew existed, and he was utterly, completely besotted.
Back home, Draco and Kreacher had become a terrifyingly efficient redesign duo. Harry would come home to find them debating swatches of fabric or the merits of various historical wallpaper patterns. The house was becoming a true blend of them: warm and inviting, but with an undercurrent of sleek, pure-blood elegance. It was home.
This newfound peace, however, was about to be shattered.
At their usual café meet-up, the gang was all there: Hermione, Ron, and now, by extension, Pansy and Blaise. The conversation was lively, covering Ron’s latest auror training mishap and Hermione’s attempts to reform the Ministry’s elf-rights policies.
But Harry was quiet. He wasn’t complaining. He wasn’t ranting. He was just… smiling. Serenely. He stirred his coffee, a faint, dopey grin on his face as he gazed out the window.
Pansy Parkinson, whose senses were finely tuned to drama and gossip, narrowed her eyes. She leaned across the table, her voice a sharp, pointed whisper.
“Potter. You’re being unnervingly quiet. What’s wrong? Has he finally murdered you and replaced you with a disturbingly calm doppelgänger?”
Harry blinked, pulled from his reverie. “Hmm? What? No. Everything’s… fine.”
“Fine?” Blaise Zabini drawled, swirling his espresso. “Potter, the last time we saw you, you were on the verge of a nervous breakdown because he’d alphabetized your socks by fibre content. ‘Fine’ is not in your vocabulary where Draco Malfoy is concerned.”
Ron grinned, catching on. “Yeah, mate. You haven’t moaned about him once. It’s weird. It’s like watching a Bludger float gently to the ground.”
Hermione tried to hide her smile behind her menu. “Leave him alone, you lot.”
“I will not leave him alone,” Pansy declared. “This is suspicious. Out with it, Potter. How is marital life with the Slytherin Prince? Has he driven you to a monastery yet?”
Harry felt a hot blush creep up his neck. “It’s… it’s good. It’s… calm.”
“Calm?” Pansy shrieked, causing several witches at nearby tables to jump. “Draco Malfoy is many things—fabulous, dramatic, impeccably dressed—but he is NOT calm. What did you do? Did you finally use the strategic snogging technique?”
“I—well—that is—” Harry stammered, his face now the colour of a Weasley sweater.
Ron howled with laughter. “HE DID! LOOK AT HIS FACE! BLAISE, YOU’RE A GENIUS!”
“It’s basic conflict resolution,” Blaise said smugly, toasting Harry with his tiny cup.
“So it’s true!” Pansy clapped her hands in delight. “The Boy Who Lived has been thoroughly tamed by the Dragon! You’re actually happy! You’re in domestic bliss! You’re probably planning matching jumpers!”
“We are not planning matching jumpers!” Harry protested, but it was too late. The teasing was in full force.
“I bet he makes you breakfast in bed,” Ron snorted.
“I bet he critiques your breakfast in bed,” Blaise corrected.
“I bet they have couple’s spa days,” Pansy added, wiping a mock tear from her eye. “Oh, the horror. The sheer, mundane, adorable horror of it all.”
Harry buried his face in his hands, but he was laughing. They were insufferable. All of them. His friends and his husband’s friends had merged into one monstrous, teasing entity.
But as their laughter washed over him, he realized something. He didn’t mind. Because swirling beneath the embarrassment was a warm, solid joy. They were right. He was happy. Stupidly, unexpectedly, married-to-Draco-Malfoy happy.
Who knew? The Boy Who Lived was now permanently, happily stuck with the Infamous Slytherin Prince.
He couldn’t wait to get home. He was going to walk through the door, ignore whatever new curtain fabric Draco was undoubtedly obsessing over, pull him into a deep, thorough kiss, and tell him all about how utterly insufferable their friends were.
And then, maybe, he’d let Draco tell him why the new curtains were objectively superior for exactly thirty minutes before he kissed him again to shut him up. It was, he thought with a grin, a pretty perfect life.
_____
Life, Harry Potter decided, was absurdly, wonderfully perfect.
He woke not to the sound of Kreacher muttering or the ghoul in the attic, but to the soft, even breathing of his husband. Sunlight streamed into their—theirs—bedroom, illuminating Draco’s sleeping form. His usually sharp features were softened in sleep, his blonde hair a mess on the pillow. Harry leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Go ‘way,” Draco mumbled, swatting weakly at the air without opening his eyes. “It’s blasphemy to be awake before nine.”
“It’s eight-thirty,” Harry whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth.
“Heresy,” Draco grumbled, but he turned his head, capturing Harry’s lips in a slow, sleepy kiss that tasted of mint and dreams. “Your morning breath is offensive, Potter.”
“You love it,” Harry teased, pulling away to get ready for the day.
The rhythm of their life was a comfortable, cozy dance. Harry, fueled by the coffee Draco now made with terrifying precision (a sleek Italian machine had appeared one day, and Draco had declared the old kettle “a tragedy”), would head out to his orphanage foundation office. The project was thriving, thanks to his hard work and, though he’d never admit it aloud, Draco’s shrewd advice on wrangling snooty pure-blood donors (“Appeal to their legacy, Potter, not their nonexistent hearts.”).
Leaving was the best part. He’d find Draco, often already dressed in impossibly soft-looking cashmere sweaters, and pull him into a deep, thorough kiss that left them both slightly breathless.
“Must you?” Draco would complain, smoothing his hair down after Harry mussed it. “You’re worse than a vampire. Sucking the life out of me before noon.”
“Just charging my batteries,” Harry would grin, and Disapparate to the sound of Draco’s fond scoffing.
Coming home was even better. Pushing open the door to the warm, beautifully decorated house, he’d be greeted by the incredible smells of dinner. Sometimes he’d find Draco in the kitchen, wearing a ridiculously frilly apron over his designer trousers, frowning in concentration at a simmering pot like it was a complex potion. Other times, he’d find him asleep on the sofa, a book on wizarding architecture splayed on his chest, his reading glasses slightly askew. Waking him with a kiss was Harry’s favorite evening ritual.
There was just one lingering cloud on his perfect horizon: Lucius Malfoy.
The relationship between father and son was a frozen wasteland. Draco had forgiven his mother—Narcissa was now a frequent visitor who adored the “charming, cozy little nest” the boys had made—but Lucius remained persona non grata.
So, Harry devised a plan. A Christmas plan.
“Absolutely not,” Draco said, the moment Harry suggested a family dinner. He was arranging a centrepiece of charmed silver bells that tinkled carols. “I’d rather gargle with Knarl urine.”
“He’s your father, Draco.”
“A fact I lament daily. The answer is no.”
Harry tried reason. He tried sweet-talking. He even tried reminding Draco of the trust fund for Teddy, a gesture that had come from a place of family duty.
Draco remained unmoved, his expression colder than a Dementor’s kiss.
Finally, Harry played his trump card. He crossed his arms. “Fine. If you’re not civil to your father for one dinner, I’ll have Kreacher box up all your potion kits and lock them in the attic. For a month.”
Draco’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with horror. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“That’s blackmail! That’s—that’s barbaric! My Wolfsbane reduction is at a critical stage!”
“One dinner, Draco. Civil words. That’s all I ask.”
Draco looked from Harry’s determined face to his precious potion kits. He pouted, a truly spectacular sight on a grown man. “I hate you,” he muttered.
“You love me,” Harry corrected, kissing his pout. “And you’ll be nice.”
Christmas dinner at Grimmauld Place was… awkward.
Narcissa was radiant, delighted to be there. Lucius was stiff and formal, his eyes constantly critiquing the décor. Draco hugged and kissed his mother with genuine warmth, then pointedly ignored his father, focusing all his attention on telling Narcissa about the history of the wallpaper.
Harry took over, steering Lucius towards the drinks cabinet. “Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it? So… cold. Very Christmassy.”
Lucius raised a single, platinum eyebrow. “Indeed.”
Somehow, through a heroic effort of small talk involving the price of imported mistletoe and the Ministry’s latest idiocies, Harry kept the conversation afloat. He saw Lucius’s eyes occasionally flicker to Draco, a complex mix of pride and regret in their depths.
Finally, as dessert was served, Lucius cleared his throat. “The… foundation… seems to be progressing well, Draco. Potter tells me you’ve been… advising.”
Draco froze, a spoonful of pudding halfway to his mouth. He looked at Harry, who gave him a subtle ‘be-nice-or-the-potions-go’ glare.
“Yes,” Draco said, his voice clipped. “It turns out convincing old wizards to part with their gold requires a certain… finesse you unfortunately never taught me.”
It wasn’t warm, but it was a sentence. Directed at his father. Harry counted it as a win.
As they were leaving, Harry presented Lucius with his gift: a bottle of the 1803 elf-made Pinot Noir.
Lucius took the bottle, his fingers tracing the dusty label with something akin to reverence. He looked from the wine to Harry, and for a brief second, his icy mask slipped. “This is… unexpectedly thoughtful, Potter.” He almost smiled. “Thank you.”
After they’d gone, Harry pulled a still-tense Draco out for a walk through the magically snow-dusted Diagon Alley.
“See? That wasn’t so bad,” Harry said, squeezing Draco’s gloved hand.
“It was excruciating,” Draco shuddered. “I felt my soul wither. I require extensive cuddling to recover.”
They walked in comfortable silence, looking at the festive displays. They reminisced about Christmases past—the awe of the Great Hall feasts, the ridiculous presents, their childish, vicious rivalry.
“You know,” Harry said, stopping under a magically floating sprig of mistletoe. “I think I started liking you around fifth year. When you were being especially insufferable.”
Draco snorted. “Charming. I, unfortunately, have no such nostalgic fondness for your appalling hair and hero complex.”
“Liar,” Harry smiled, pulling him closer. “You totally fancied me.”
“I fantasized about pushing you off the astronomy tower,” Draco retorted, but he was leaning in.
“Same thing,” Harry whispered, and kissed him.
It was sweet and gentle, tasting of chocolate pudding and cold winter air. When they broke apart, Draco’s cheeks were flushed, and he was trying very hard to maintain his scowl.
“This is by far the most bizarre Christmas I’ve ever had,” Draco muttered.
“The best one I’ve ever had,” Harry corrected, beaming.
Draco looked at him, at his bright green eyes and his ridiculously happy smile, and the scowl finally melted away. A small, genuine smile touched his own lips. “Perhaps… it has its moments.”
As they walked home, hand-in-hand, Harry knew with absolute certainty that this was just the first of many, many perfect Christmases to come.
The End