Archive of Our Own ^beta

Corpses shouldn’t walk. That seems quite obvious, really. They shouldn’t walk, or talk, or breathe, or eat. 

Hari does, though. 

He wishes he wouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. He should lie still, empty and unfeeling, at peace. But he can’t. He moves. He doesn’t want to, but he must. He’s always moving. He’s not sure he even sleeps. 

Ron and Hermione say he does sleep. They say he’s asleep more often than awake. But Hari never remembers going to sleep. He doesn’t even remember lying down. Or getting tired. He doesn’t dream, either. 

But apparently he does sleep. 

Corpses aren’t supposed to sleep. 

Hari’s been dead for a few years now. He ought to be rotted away by now, but he’s not. He’s not anything a dead man should be. 

His friends try to tell him that this means he isn’t dead. 

He is, though. 

Hari feels a bit guilty for being dead. A bit might be a slight overstatement, actually. All of Hari’s emotions are distant, muffled. Like they’re separate from him, like they’re coming to him from somewhere else through a weak frequency, covered in static. 

But they’re still there. And guilt is one he feels more than most others. 

He can tell how sad it makes all his friends, you see. The way they look at him, so heartbroken and pitying. And they don’t even have the chance to grieve him properly, because unlike a proper dead person, Hari’s still here. Still in his body, which is far too good at acting alive. 

He stays at Ron and Hermione’s house, which is as good a tomb as any, he supposes. It’s quiet but still too loud, but then again, Hari has yet to earn a truly quiet resting place, seeing as he can’t stay quiet himself. 

Ron and Hermione hug him a lot. Hari’s not sure how they can stand it, hugging a corpse. 

Then again, they’re convinced he isn’t one. And he can’t act like a proper one, can’t be a proper one, no matter how hard he tries. 

“Hari, you awake?” Ron asks, popping his head into Hari’s bedroom, where Hari has been pacing for who-knows-how-long. “Oh, good. Hey, mate. Mions and I just finished making dinner. You hungry?” 

“No,” Hari answers, just like always. At least that’s one thing he’s doing right, he doesn’t get hungry. Corpses shouldn’t get hungry. 

“Will you eat anyway?” Ron pleads, just like always. 

And just like always, Hari nods. It’s gotten tiring, refusing, and he hates the way Ron and Mione react to it. The last time Hari stopped eating, he managed it for almost a week, filtering out Ron and Hermione’s crying and begging and trying to assuage them by accepting glasses of water. But then he refused food again on day five, and Hermione cried so hard she threw up. 

Hari eats every day, now. Just once. Come to think of it, Ron and Mione only ever offer him dinner. He doesn’t remember ever seeing them cook breakfast, though he has seen them do lunch a couple of times on the days they don’t have work. They must eat breakfast, though. 

Perhaps Hari really does sleep a lot. 

Ron and Mione made curry for dinner. The recipe from Hari’s dad’s cookbook, a gift he got from Sirius. Hari’s never used the cookbook himself. Corpses shouldn’t cook. 

He sits down at the table and stares at his bowl, trying for a moment to want to eat it. He does that sometimes, trying to be alive. Trying to believe what his friends say. 

He can’t, though. 

He just can’t. 

“What did you do today, Hari?” asks Hermione. 

“I cleaned the house,” Hari replies. He does that a lot. It’s not even something he decides to do, he just… does it. 

“I noticed,” Hermione says, “Thanks. Did you do anything else?” 

Hari thinks for a moment. “I went outside. I saw some birds.” 

“What kind of birds?” Ron prompts. He does that a lot, asking questions that don’t matter just to get Hari to talk more. 

“I don’t know,” Hari answers, “They were brown.” 

“Cool,” says Ron. 

They eat in silence for a while, the only noises that remain being the clinking of their silverware and the rain hitting the roof. Hari has a couple bites. It tastes good, he’s pretty sure. 

“I was thinking we could watch a movie tonight,” Hermione suggests. 

Hari likes watching movies with Ron and Mione. Despite knowing that he shouldn’t, Hari selfishly enjoys bonding with his friends about as much as he’s capable of enjoying anything. And movies are a good way to do that, because he doesn’t have to think about the fact that he’s dead, or the fact that he’s bad at being dead. All he has to do is watch, consider his thoughts on what he’s watching, listen to his friends’ commentary and occasionally chime in because it makes them smile. 

“Sounds nice,” he says. Ron and Mione both grin brightly, like he just said something incredible. They do that every time something remotely positive leaves Hari’s lips. 

“You’ve been awake more often lately, Haz,” Ron says. 

Hari just nods, because he doesn’t have a clue whether that’s true or not. He presumes it is, though. He can’t see why Ron would lie. 

“I think… maybe you might be getting a bit better,” Ron adds, “Healing a little, and stuff.” 

Ah. 

“I can’t heal,” Hari sighs, “You have to be alive to do that.” 

Hari doesn’t actually say the words “I’m dead,” in front of Ron and Hermione anymore. The last time he did, Ron locked himself in the bathroom and sobbed for an hour. 

“Hari,” Hermione says gently, grabbing his hand, “You are alive.” 

Hari stands abruptly without even meaning to and starts walking towards the front door. 

“Wait— Hari!” Hermione runs after him, grabbing onto his arm and yanking him towards her, “What are you doing?!” 

“Going outside,” Hari answers, trying to pull away from her. 

“It’s raining!” Hermione exclaims, her voice a bit choked as she starts to get teary, “And you can’t just go, we haven’t finished eating! We’re supposed to watch a movie, remember? Haz…” 

“I want to go outside,” Hari says plainly. 

“NO!” Hermione shouts, pulling harder. It almost hurts. “No, you can’t just—” 

“Mione, Mione,” Ron grabs his girlfriend and gently pries her off of Hari, pulling her into his arms, “Mione, breathe.” He looks at Hari, his blue eyes an ocean of concern. 

Hari looks back. 

“You’ll come back?” Ron asks, sounding more like he’s begging. 

“I will,” Hari promises. 

Ron nods, and Hari nods back. After a moment, Hermione takes a deep breath and nods, too. 

Hari leaves. 

He walks in the rain. 

Corpses shouldn’t walk. 

But he has to. 

Hari doesn’t enjoy anything about walking. The sounds of his feet hitting the ground, the feeling of his clothes rubbing against his skin, the sight of his body moving… All reminders that he’s a failure. 

But sometimes, he just can’t stop himself. Sometimes he just has to walk. And then after a while he doesn’t have to anymore. He’s not sure what he’s getting out of it, but… it helps.

Helps what? 

He’s not sure. 

“You are alive,” Hermione had said. It makes Hari’s skin crawl. It makes him feel disgusting. Because he wants it to be true, but it isn’t. 

He thinks he wouldn’t mind being dead if he were better at it. At least then he’d be something definitive, something real. 

Hari doesn’t feel real. 

And then he’s knocking on a door. 

He’s not sure how he got to this house. He’s not sure who’s house it is. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen it before. 

But he’s knocking. 

The door opens, flooding the doorstep with warm light, and Draco Malfoy stares at Hari, his eyebrows shooting up into his fluffy, silky white-blond hair. 

“Potter?” Malfoy utters, “Er… Hello?” His voice is different. Silkier, much like his hair, and more mature. But uncertain, like he’s afraid every word he says might be a mistake. 

Hari frowns, feeling a spark of annoyance in his chest at the sight. He hasn’t seen Malfoy since the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, and he hadn’t thought he ever would again. But here he is, standing in the doorway of this house Hari came to like he belongs there. 

“Malfoy,” Hari glowers, his anger more habit than anything else, “Why are you here?” 

Malfoy blinks, bemused. “Because this is my house,” he says slowly. 

Oh. 

Hari tries to think of a reason to be annoyed with Malfoy for being in his own house, but he draws a blank. 

“Why are you here?” Malfoy inquires. 

Hari shrugs. 

“Ooookay,” Malfoy says. His eyes shift around for a moment, and Hari almost doesn’t catch the fear in them before it disappears again. “Well,” Malfoy continues, “It’s pouring rain.” 

“It is,” Hari agrees. 

“You’re soaking wet.” 

“I suppose I am.” 

Malfoy sighs, opening the door further. “Come inside, Potter.” 

Hari does. 

Malfoy’s house is warm, Hari decides. Bordering on too warm, but still pleasant. And it’s filled with things. Neatly organized things, but a lot of things. Nice things. Not expensive-nice, but pleasant-nice. Books, and paintings, and trinkets, and plants, and photographs of people smiling, most of whom Hari recognises, like Zabini, Parkinson, Goyle, and Luna, and Teddy. 

Hari wasn’t expecting that. 

He’s not sure what he was expecting. 

“Do you want me to tell Hermione you’re here?” Malfoy asks as he flicks a quick spell at Hari to dry him off with a wand Hari doesn’t recognise and magic that’s still distinctly Draco Malfoy’s but somehow warmer, nicer. Like his house. 

“You talk to Hermione?” Hari blinks. 

“Sometimes,” Malfoy answers, “I’ve collaborated with her a few times on experiments. I’m an independent potioneer, but I do contract work with the Magical Advancement Institute on occasion.” 

The MAI, where Hermione works as a magical theory specialist and researcher. Hari’s only vaguely aware of it, like most things he learned about after his death. Anything he didn’t already know about or experience while he was alive just doesn’t feel real. 

Malfoy, Hari decides as he looks at him, at the smooth angles of his face and his glittering, cool grey eyes that keep turning manic for a fleeting moment every minute or so, is one of the most real things in the world. 

“You can tell Mione I’m here,” Hari decides. 

“Should I tell her to come get you?” Malfoy asks. 

Hari looks at him for a moment. “Do you want me to leave?” 

Malfoy looks away. “I… I don’t mind if you stay.” 

“Then no,” Hari says, “Don’t tell her to come get me. I’ll go home on my own, later.” 

Hari hasn’t talked this much in a while. It’s weird. But he can’t stop. He can’t not answer Malfoy, he can’t pretend to have a smaller answer than he really does, the way he does with other people. 

Hari’s always been weird about Malfoy. 

Malfoy’s always been weird about him, too. 

“I think we’re both weird,” Hari announces. 

Malfoy lets out a short, bewildered laugh. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Hari nods. 

“I think you might be right, Potter,” Malfoy says, sitting down on his sofa. He’s wearing a knitted purple jumper and black trousers, and a pair of bright rainbow-coloured socks. Hari’s not sure how he only noticed this now. It’s a bizarre but pleasant sight, Draco Malfoy in such clothes.

And then, even more bizarre than his clothes, Malfoy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone, then starts texting like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

“I let Hermione know that you’re here and you’re alright, and that you’ll be going home later,” he says casually, putting the phone back in his pocket, “I was about to order dinner. What do you want to eat?” 

“I’m not hungry,” Hari says. 

“Hermione said you didn’t eat dinner,” Malfoy tells him, frowning. 

Hari shrugs. “I had a couple bites.”

“Do you like pizza?” 

Hari thinks for a moment. He has a hard time deciding whether he likes things. Even things he used to love before he died. 

He eventually nods. 

“I’ll order a pizza,” Malfoy decides, pulling out his phone again. 

“You have a phone,” Hari states. 

Malfoy pauses. “I do,” he agrees. 

“Phones are muggle things,” Hari asserts. 

“Well, this is the magical version,” Malfoy says, “Muggle internet is so spotty in this area, there’s not any cell towers nearby. But yes, I suppose so.” 

“You don’t hate muggles anymore,” Hari states. A statement, because he’s decided it’s true. Because he wants it to be true. Because he wants to feel justified in the odd bit of comfort he’s getting from Malfoy’s presence. 

“That’s true,” Malfoy confirms. 

“You… don’t hate me anymore,” Hari says, less certain this time. 

“I never really did, I don’t think,” Malfoy replies. His eyes do the thing again. Hari almost asks what he’s looking for. But he doesn’t. 

Hari sits beside Malfoy on the sofa. “Who do you hate?” 

Malfoy is quiet for a second. “I try not to hate. I do, but I try not to. It’s so… exhausting. But yeah, I do hate. I can’t help it. I hate blood purists. Bigots in general. Death Eaters. Anybody who’s cruel to others on purpose. Hypocrites. Myself, because I used to be all those things. My father. Oh, and people who talk in movie theatres.” 

“Solid choices, for the most part,” Hari says, “Especially that last one.” Malfoy snorts. Hari feels a slight surge of pride, at that. Making Malfoy laugh feels like victory. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“The pizza’s here, Potter,” Malfoy says. Hari blinks and looks at him. He’s standing up, near the front door, holding a pizza box. 

“Huh?” 

“You fell asleep,” Malfoy tells him, “It was quite sudden. I was worried you were dead, for a moment.” 

“I am dead,” Hari asserts, “I died at the Battle of Hogwarts.” 

Malfoy blinks. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Hari braces himself. 

“I see,” Malfoy says simply, brows furrowed, “Well… I’m sorry. That you died.” His eyes do the thing again. Hari still doesn’t ask about it. 

“Thanks,” Hari murmurs. 

“So, er…” Malfoy asks, “Do you still want pizza?” 

Hari doesn’t want pizza. He hasn’t wanted food since he died. But he decides he wants to eat pizza with Malfoy. Less because of the pizza and more because of the Malfoy. 

Malfoy, who is so different from how he was but still him enough to feel real. Malfoy, who’s wearing a purple jumper and rainbow socks and has a phone and likes movies. Malfoy, who let Hari into his house without a second thought. Malfoy, who hasn’t tried to convince Hari he isn’t dead. 

He sits down with Malfoy at his small dining table and takes a bite of pizza. It’s good, he decides. Decides. He’s sure. 

“You’re not trying to convince me I’m alive,” Hari says, “People usually do.” 

Malfoy shrugs. “Well, to be quite honest, you seem alive to me,” he replies, “But I figure you’d know better than I would.” 

Hari studies Malfoy, watches him eating pizza with a knife and fork, evidence that despite how much he’s changed, his poshness remains. He studies the way the warm light of the kitchen falls on Malfoy’s soft blond hair, on his smooth, angular features, on his fluttering lashes, on his thin pink lips, on his pale cheeks that have a tint of colour where once there was a sallow pallor, and Hari makes another decision. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

Malfoy’s head snaps up, his cheeks dusting pink, which only makes Hari’s statement even more true. 

“Er,” Malfoy mutters, “I, erm… Do you like the pizza?” 

“Yes,” Hari answers. 

They keep eating. Hari hasn’t eaten this much in a while. 

“You shouldn’t hate yourself,” Hari says when he’s done, as he watches Malfoy clean their empty plates. 

“Hm?” Malfoy turns to him, confused. 

“When I asked who you hate, you said you hate yourself,” Hari explains, “Because you used to be a lot of other things you hate.” 

Malfoy nods. 

“Well, you shouldn’t,” Hari tells him, “It’s not fair. You used to be those things, but you aren’t now. You shouldn’t hate yourself for being things that you aren’t.” 

Malfoy sets down the plate he was cleaning and stares out the window for a long moment. 

“You’re quite insightful, for a dead man,” he finally says. 

Hari laughs a bit. He hasn’t done that in a long time. Malfoy turns to look at him, his eyes, now devoid of the frantic energy they’ve been host to all evening, full of soft affection. 

“I’d like to see you again,” Hari says. 

“I’d like that too,” Malfoy replies, “You can come back, sometime. I work from home, so I’ll likely be here whenever you decide to come. Or you could owl me or get my phone number from Hermione if you’re inclined to actually tell me you’ll be coming over next time.” 

“I’ll consider it,” Hari says, which makes Malfoy laugh again. Hari wants to bottle the sound, keep it close to his heart, which refuses to stop beating as it ought to. Maybe if he kept that laugh right there over his stubborn heart, the beat would feel more natural. 

“You should probably go home soon so your friends don’t worry,” Malfoy says, looking regretful. 

“Are you my friend?” asks Hari. 

Malfoy blinks, processing the question. “Would you like me to be?” 

Hari considers. He considers for a while. It’s selfish, he knows, to want Malfoy to be his friend. To ask Malfoy to care about him. To ask him to form a relationship with a dead man, with someone he’ll have to grieve even as they sit and chat together. But apparently, Hari is selfish. 

“Yes,” he says. 

Selfish. Corpses shouldn’t be selfish. And they certainly shouldn’t make friends. But Hari is. And Hari wants to. He doesn’t want a lot, since he died. But he wants Malfoy. His friendship, that is. 

Malfoy’s pretty lips quirk up for a moment, and Hari’s guilt flies away until the smile disappears again. “Alright. Then I suppose I am.” 

“Okay,” Hari murmurs. 

“Okay,” Malfoy echoes. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Hari says, standing up. 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Is tomorrow not good?” Hari frowns. Disappointed. He hasn’t had that one in a while. 

“No, it’s good,” Malfoy assures, “I was just surprised you want to see me again so soon. But yes, tomorrow is good. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“We can watch a movie,” Hari suggests, because Ron and Mione like watching movies with him. Because watching movies feels like it’s the only thing Ron and Mione actually like doing with him, now. 

“Sounds fun,” Malfoy agrees, “Any suggestions?” 

Hari looks back in his mind, back to when he was alive. Back to when he was a child, sneaking into the sitting room and hiding behind the sofa, listening along while Dudley watched movies with his friends. 

“How to Train Your Dragon,” he says, because he thinks the story was good, and the music made him feel like he was flying long before his hand ever touched a broom, and he’s always wondered if Toothless looks anything like what he pictures in his head. 

“I haven’t seen that one,” Malfoy remarks, “But I do like dragons, so I’m game. Okay. Movie night tomorrow.” 

“Movie night tomorrow,” Hari echoes, and the idea solidifies in his mind. The idea of a new connection. A new friendship. New, but somehow, by some miracle, still real. 

Ron and Hermione were awake when Hari got home last night, but he didn’t talk to them. He let them see him, let the relief settle in — though he’s not sure what they’ve got to be relieved about, it’s not as if he can get more dead than he already is — and then he went to his room and changed into pyjamas, because apparently he sleeps. 

And then he was sitting in his bed, staring at the sun outside his window. And then he was pacing, and the light of a setting sun was shining through his room, and Ron came to tell him it was time for dinner. 

So he definitely sleeps. 

“I’m having dinner with Malfoy tonight,” Hari tells him. 

Ron blinks. “You— Huh?” 

“We’re having a movie night,” Hari says, “We’re going to watch How to Train Your Dragon. Actually, if it’s dinner time, I should probably go over to his house now.” Hari walks out of his room. 

“Er—” 

Hari keeps going, even as Ron follows. 

“Hari?” Hermione frowns, setting down a bowl of pasta, “Where are you going?” 

“He’s going to watch a movie with Malfoy,” Ron answers, “Apparently.” 

“I see,” says Hermione, her eyes lighting up a bit the way they do when she’s thinking, “Well, that’s nice, Haz. But you should probably put on shoes before you leave, okay?” 

“Good point,” Hari admits. He puts on shoes. “Alright, I’m going to go now. Enjoy dinner.” 

Hermione rushes over to Hari and pulls him into a hug, and Hari stiffens, getting that feeling he always gets during hugs. The feeling that this time, finally, his corpse is going to fall apart under the pressure. 

But it doesn’t. It never does. 

Hari’s bad at being dead. 

“I’m happy you’ve made a new friend,” Hermione murmurs, “Have fun, Hari. And tell Draco I said hi.” 

“Okay,” Hari replies. 

“I love you, Haz,” Hermione says. 

Ron joins the hug. 

Hari’s body remains intact. 

“I love you too,” Ron adds, “A lot, mate.” 

“I love you both,” Hari mumbles, “Please let go now.” 

They do. 

Hari goes to Malfoy’s house. He knocks. Malfoy opens the door. His jumper is green today, with a pattern of black beetles. He’s still beautiful. 

“Hello, Potter,” Malfoy says, and his voice is beautiful too. He beckons Hari inside, to where pizza is already waiting for them on the coffee table by the sofa, the telly already on with the movie ready to play. “I didn’t know this was a pyjama party. I would’ve dressed appropriately.”

“Oh,” Hari says as the two men sit in sync, “I forgot I was wearing pyjamas. I put them on last night since I know I sleep now. I wasn’t sure if I did before. Ron and Mione say I do it a lot. Mione says hi, by the way.”  

“Do you never remember falling asleep?” Malfoy asks. 

“No,” Hari replies, “I only remember being awake.” 

“No dreams?” 

“Never.” 

Malfoy frowns, looking achingly sad in that caring way only somebody who wants the best for you can be. 

“You’re beautiful,” Hari tells him, again. 

Malfoy flushes, like he did last time, and it once again just makes him more beautiful. He looks away, his mouth pressing into a hard line. 

“Why do you keep saying that?” he asks. 

“I’ve only said it twice.” 

Malfoy huffs. “Answer the question.” 

Hari ponders for a moment, trying to decide what the answer is. “I think I like saying true things,” he muses, “Especially things I didn’t think were true when I was alive. It makes me feel more real.” 

“Do you feel like you’re not real?” Malfoy frowns. 

“Yes,” Hari says, “I’m dead, but I’m bad at being dead. Dead people shouldn’t be able to do the things I do. It’s like I’m fake.” 

Malfoy considers him for a moment, and Hari can almost see the gears turning in his pretty little head. 

“Well, I can tell you with certainty that you are real,” Malfoy says after a while, “Unless I’m even more mad than I thought I was.” 

“You think you’re mad?” Hari prompts, miffed by the thought. Miffed by the thought of anybody thinking such things of Malfoy. Beautiful Malfoy. 

“No,” Malfoy snaps, “I was joking, Potter. Merlin.” 

Silence.

Then Malfoy sighs. “I’m sorry, that was a lie,” he murmurs, “I don’t know why I said it. I… lie a lot.” 

“Why do you lie a lot?” 

Malfoy looks down at his pizza, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. “I’m just… used to it. I had to lie a lot as a child. Mostly to my father. The truth was often dangerous for me, especially truths about myself that Father wouldn’t like. So I learned how to lie really, really well. I got comfortable with it. And now it’s hard to stop, especially when I prefer a lie to the truth, which is more often than I’d like.” 

His eyes do that thing again. 

“Do you see things that aren’t there?” Hari asks. 

Malfoy flinches, then looks away, ashamed. “There’s… there’s something,” he admits, “In the corner of my eye. It’s been there since a few weeks after my trial, I think, since back when I was on house arrest at the manor. I’m not sure what it is, but it appeared one day and never left. It’s… dark, terrifying. But I can’t see it fully, it’s just in my peripheral vision. If I try to look at it, it moves again, always visible enough to haunt me but not visible enough for me to know what it is.” 

“I wish I could kill it for you,” Hari says. 

Malfoy laughs softly, fondly. “My hero,” he teases. 

Hari would like to be Malfoy’s hero, he decides. 

“You’re not mad,” he tells him. 

“How d’you reckon?” Malfoy inquires. 

“If you were mad, you’d think you were sane, I think.” 

Malfoy laughs again, more wryly this time. “I suppose so.” 

“Wanna watch the movie?” Hari suggests. 

They watch the movie. Toothless looks nothing like Hari pictured him, but he doesn’t care. He spends most of the experience watching Malfoy’s face anyway. He really is beautiful. 

Hari goes to Malfoy’s house a lot. It’s nice there. Malfoy’s nice. Eventually, Malfoy becomes Draco. 

And Hari is still dead, and Draco still searches for the thing in the corner of his eye, but things are a bit brighter when they’re next to each other, talking or watching a movie and eating pizza. It’s always pizza. Hari’s been considering telling Draco he’s also willing to eat other foods, but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet. He likes the way Draco eats his pizza with a knife and fork. It’s so very Draco. 

Hari is awake at lunchtime today. He knows because it’s Sunday, and neither Ron nor Mione have work, and he can hear them making lunch together in the kitchen from his room. Plus, the sunlight coming through his window is brighter than usual. 

Hari’s not pacing right now. He’s sitting on his bed, on his phone. He doesn’t use his phone a lot, because he gets texts, and he doesn’t like answering them. He prefers seeing his friends in person, the few times he actually sees anybody other than Ron and Mione. And Draco, now. 

Hari is on his phone looking at a list of horror movies. Draco likes horror movies. Hari isn’t sure he’s ever seen one, except that one time he snuck in on Dudley and his friends and caught the tail end of some gory scene that gave Dudley nightmares for weeks after. Despite all his movie nights with Ron and Mione, they’ve never watched a horror movie together. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” Hermione says brightly, standing in the doorway. She’s beaming. “I was just gonna check in on you. …Do you want lunch?” 

“No,” Hari replies, “I’m going to eat tonight at Draco’s place.” 

“You know, you could eat twice in one day,” Hermione points out. 

“Why?” 

“Because people are supposed to eat three meals a day, Hari,” Mione sighs. 

“Not dead people,” Hari counters. 

“You’re not—” Hermione cuts herself off, taking a deep breath. “Okay, well… is there any reason why you shouldn’t eat more than once per day? If you’re already doing it once, why not twice?” 

Hari looks at her. At the crease in her brow, at the wobble of her lip, at the way she tugs at her coily brown hair like she’s trying to pull it out. 

“Okay.” 

He eats a sandwich. It’s good, he decides. He’s been getting better at liking things lately. 

“How come we never watch horror movies?” Hari asks as they eat. 

Ron frowns. “Why do you ask?” 

“Draco and I are watching one tonight,” Hari replies, “Draco likes them. He says there’s something cathartic about them.” 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Hari?” Hermione asks in that weird, gentle tone she does when she thinks she’s helping but she’s honestly really not. 

“Yes,” Hari insists, taking another bite of his sandwich without even thinking about doing so, “Draco has good taste in movies.” 

Hermione and Ron both stare at the movement, seeming to notice its significance even as Hari doesn’t. They glance at each other hopefully. 

“Alright, mate,” Ron says, “Well, I hope you have fun. If you like it, I wouldn’t mind if the three of us watched a horror movie together sometime.” 

“Same here,” Hermione agrees, “And, you know, you could always invite Draco over to watch a movie with all of us.” 

Hari stiffens at that, something stubborn and possessive rumbling in his chest. “No,” he grumbles. 

“No?” Hermione frowns, “Why not? I’m sure we’d all get along, and—” 

“You can’t have Draco,” Hari snaps without meaning to, “He’s mine.” 

Ron and Mione raise their eyebrows, glancing at each other again, this time in shared confusion. 

“What do you mean?” Hermione asks. 

“I mean—” Hari huffs, “I mean, he— He’s— Our movie nights are special. He’s special. You can’t just— just take him.” 

“Nobody’s trying to take him,” Ron soothes, “But can’t you share?” 

“No,” Hari glowers, standing up. 

He feels incredibly selfish. He’s being incredibly selfish. Him, a corpse, trying to keep a beautiful boy, a living boy, all to himself. 

But Hari is selfish. And Draco is his. 

“I’m going to Draco’s,” he announces. 

“Hari—” 

“I’ll see you guys later.” 

He walks out the door. 

He could apparate to Draco’s house, but he doesn’t. He needs to walk, even though he shouldn’t. 

He knocks on Draco’s door.

Draco doesn’t answer. 

That’s never happened before. 

Hari frowns, knocking again. Still nothing. “Draco?” 

He looks around, and his blood runs cold as he sees the curtains in one of the windows are torn down. He peeks inside, and nearly cries out in panic. Draco’s lovely, neat, safe haven of a sitting room is in utter disarray, all his lovely trinkets and plants and pictures broken and strewn about. For once, Hari’s emotions come into focus, and he feels pure, unadulterated fear. 

He forgoes an alohamora and dives through the window pane, glass shattering and cutting him up. Not that that matters, he’s already dead. But Draco matters. Draco matters, and matters, and matters. 

Hari opens his mouth to call out for Draco, but before he can, he hears a familiar voice. 

“Show yourself!” Draco shouts somewhere in the house, his voice shaking. Hari hears the sound of something shattering. “Stop hiding, you fucking coward!” He’s near sobbing now. Hari follows his voice slowly, not wanting to worsen whatever’s happening somehow. 

“What are you?!” Draco wails, “Leave me alone!” 

Oh. Oh. 

Hari follows the trail of destruction through Draco’s once peaceful, perfect home, finding Draco completely alone and backed into a corner in his torn-up bedroom, waving his wand around with a shaking hand. Draco’s eyes, more manic than Hari’s ever seen them, dart around the room frantically and without any visible cause. 

“Stop!” Draco sobs, “Just leave! I’m sorry, okay?! I’m sorry for everything! I’m different now! I’m trying to be different! You’ve punished me enough!” 

“Draco,” Hari utters. 

Draco’s eyes snap to him, seeing him but not really. “No,” he whispers, his voice breaking, “No, no, no! No! Hari, run!” 

Hari steps closer, reaching out a hand. “Draco…” 

“No!” Draco sobs, rushing over to Hari and standing in front of him as if to shield him from the threat only he can see. “Leave Hari alone! You— You can do whatever you want with me, just don’t touch him! Not Hari, okay? Not my Hari… Please…” 

“Draco—” 

“Please!” Draco wails, collapsing, “Just don’t hurt Hari! He’s been through so much… He’s hurting so much! Please… I’ll do anything! Please! Please—” 

Hari’s hugging Draco before he can stop himself. Squeezing him with all his might, with strength he shouldn’t have. His body still doesn’t break, but this time he’s so, so glad it doesn’t, because Draco needs him. Draco goes limp, sobbing, his wand dropping from his hand. 

“It’s okay,” Hari soothes, “It’s all okay… You’re safe… I’m here… Breathe, Draco… It’s okay… Nothing’s going to hurt you, alright? Or me…” 

“I just want it to stop…” Draco whispers brokenly, “It never goes away… Even when I close my eyes I know it’s there, watching me… But it’s fucking not! It’s not there! It’s not… but it is…” 

Hari holds Draco close, petting his hair, his heart breaking. 

“It’s always, always watching me,” Draco cries, “Always. Every second of every day, it’s there. It’s there. It’s watching. And I— I know that that isn’t really true, but it’s true to me! It’s true to me, Hari! And nobody understands! Nobody fucking understands…” 

The words pierce something inside Hari, open a door inside him that’s been locked for a long time. Or, crack it, at least. I know it isn’t true, but it’s true to me. Those words are important. That’s all he lets himself accept right now. It’s almost too much. 

“I understand,” he murmurs. 

Draco takes a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he replies, “I suppose you would.” 

They’re quiet for a while. It’s Hari who speaks again, surprisingly enough. 

“Has this happened before?” he asks. 

“Me going mental and breaking everything in my house?” Draco laughs wryly, “Yeah, actually. I’ve had to keep a magical lock on the door to my basement — that’s where my lab is — so I can’t accidentally cause some kind of explosion when I go psycho.” 

“You’re not psycho,” Hari says fiercely, protectively. Because nobody gets to talk about his Draco like that. His beautiful Draco. 

“What am I, then?” 

“You’re beautiful,” Hari answers instantly, definitively. 

Draco laughs again, something pained in it. “Shut up, Potter…” 

“I thought I was Hari now.” 

“You’re Potter when you annoy me,” Draco quips. 

He’s still in Hari’s arms. Hari wishes he could freeze this moment. 

But corpses shouldn’t get to hold beautiful boys. 

And Draco is so, devastatingly beautiful.

So Hari pulls away.

And Draco looks disappointed.

Guilt. It follows Hari everywhere. 

With a wave of his hand, Hari repairs every broken thing in the room. This eases the guilt a bit. Draco’s eyes widen comically in shock, which replaces the guilt with amusement. 

“Merlin, Hari,” Draco exclaims, “That’s… Holy shit.” 

“My magic’s been… different, since I died,” Hari explains, “Like I have too much of it, or the same amount but now it’s outside my body, in the air around me ready to be used however I want. Sometimes I can’t control it, but usually I can.” 

“That’s very interesting,” Draco says, his silver eyes sparking with curiosity. 

Draco’s a very curious person, Hari’s discovered. It’s one of the things Hari likes most about him. He’s always itching to know, to figure out, to understand. He loves knowing things, and he can be a bit (endearingly) smug about how much he knows sometimes, but he also gets so excited when he discovers something interesting that he doesn’t know, even if he sometimes has a hard time admitting it. He loves the puzzle and he loves the process of solving it, even if it infuriates him sometimes, and he loves to prove he can get it done. That’s clear when he talks about his work. And it’s beautiful, just like him. 

He’s beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. 

Hari helps Draco to his feet, noticing for the first time exactly how tall Draco really is as they stand pressed together, and guides him to his bed. “Lie down,” he murmurs gently, stroking that silky blond hair with reverence, “Take deep breaths. I’ll fix up the rest of the house. And play some music on your phone, so the quiet doesn’t get to you.” 

“Okay,” Draco breathes, looking at Hari with this deep ache in his eyes, the ache of someone who longs for something they can’t have. It reminds Hari a bit of the way Ron and Mione look at him, like they miss him so desperately even though he’s right there. 

Because they’re grieving him. 

And now Draco has to grieve him too. 

Fuck, Hari is so selfish. 

He helps Draco into bed, almost kisses his temple before remembering that corpses don’t get to kiss beautiful boys, and then he fixes up the house. 

Hari feels less selfish when he’s doing things for people. 

He glances at the clock in Draco’s kitchen. It’s got intricate carvings of flowers and creatures Hari’s never seen before, and he somehow knows with certainty that it was a gift from Luna. 

It’s one o’clock. Hari wonders if Draco’s had lunch. 

He goes back to Draco’s room quietly, not wanting to disturb him. Draco’s listening to some punk song Hari doesn’t know. Hari’s heart squeezes, watching the way Draco nods his head along to the music, eyes closed. 

Beautiful. 

Draco might be made of porcelain, Hari thinks. Cold at first, sharp when broken, but gorgeous, shining, and delicate. So, so delicate and precious. Must be protected. Must. 

Draco might be made of porcelain. And Hari might be in love with him. 

Dead people shouldn’t fall in love. 

But, as previously established, Hari is bad at being dead. 

“Have you had lunch?” Hari asks breathlessly. 

Draco’s silver eyes flutter open, landing on Hari. For a moment, Hari isn’t dead. He’s not alive either, though. He’s something else, something floating, staring into the eyes of an angel. 

“No,” Draco replies, “No, I haven’t. I don’t usually eat lunch.” 

Hari doesn’t like that last sentence, he decides. He falls back down again, once again a corpse standing flat on the ground. Still in love, though, so… that’s nice. 

“I’ll make lunch for you,” he says without thinking about it. 

“You— You don’t have to,” Draco protests. 

Yes Hari does. Of course he has to. Of course he has to take care of his beautiful, precious porcelain boy. 

“I’ll make lunch for you.” 

Hari goes to Draco’s kitchen, examines its contents, frowns and heads right back to the bedroom. 

“You haven’t got any food,” he says. 

“I have so,” Draco huffs. 

“Nothing I can cook, just snacks and microwave dinners and some produce.” 

“I’m awful at cooking,” Draco sighs, “I’ve given up trying at this point. Blaise says I turn into a walking fire hazard the moment I enter a kitchen. I just do microwave stuff and things that don’t need to be cooked, or I order in. I have stuff for sandwiches.” 

Hari doesn’t want to make Draco a bloody sandwich. A sandwich doesn’t require the effort Hari needs to put in for Draco in order to try to justify to himself why he deserves to be in love with him. 

“What’s your favourite meal? I’ll go to the store and buy ingredients.” 

“Hari, you don’t have to—” 

“Yes I do,” Hari blurts, “I have to.” 

“Why?” Draco asks. 

“You’re beautiful,” Hari replies, like that explains anything. It does, to him. 

Draco flushes, like he always does, and looks away, like he always does. “So you keep telling me,” he sighs. 

“What’s your favourite meal?” Hari asks again. 

Draco huffs. “I don’t know if I have a favourite, but… I like coq au vin.” 

Hari goes to the grocery store, something he hasn’t done since he died. He buys the ingredients to make coq au vin, only once he takes a moment to look up what coq au vin is. 

He goes back to Draco’s house and finds it pristine. Safe haven. 

Draco’s alright. 

Hari cooks lunch for his porcelain boy. 

Corpses shouldn’t cook. But Hari does. 

He finds he likes cooking. He likes cooking for Draco, at least. 

Hari thinks he’d like doing anything if he was doing it for Draco. 

“Lunch is ready,” Hari announces, coming back into Draco’s room. He finds Draco asleep. His heart bursts. 

Hari steps closer, slow and careful, reaching out a hand but not sure what he’s going to do with it. 

He brushes some hair out of Draco’s face. 

In his mind’s eye, Draco begins to rot at his touch. 

But then he blinks again, and Draco is perfect. Porcelain. Angel. 

Beautiful. 

“Draco,” Hari chokes out, finding himself utterly breathless, but not the way he should be, “Draco, wake up.” 

Draco’s eyes flutter open. Hari wants to shrink him down and keep him tucked in his pocket forever. “Hm?” Draco hums. 

“Lunch,” Hari utters, “Lunch is ready.” 

“Oh,” Draco murmurs, sitting up. Hari instinctively goes to help him to his feet. “Thank you, Hazza.” 

Hazza. Huh. 

Hari’d do anything for Draco to call him that every day. 

He guides Draco to the dining room and helps him into his chair. Draco doesn’t seem to need that, but he lets Hari do it anyway. Hari’s grateful. 

“This is delicious,” Draco says as he eats, “You should have some.” 

“I had lunch earlier,” Hari says, “A sandwich. Most of one, I mean. With Ron and Mione.” 

Draco smiles. If only Hari could put Draco’s smile into a jar, open it up whenever he needs it. Then again, he always needs it. 

“I’m glad you ate, Hari,” Draco says, “But really, this is too good for you to not try. Have a bite.” He slices up a piece and holds out his fork to Hari, who stares at it for a moment before sitting in the chair beside Draco’s and accepting the food. 

Draco’s right, it is delicious. 

Pride. Hari’s proud of himself. That’s new. 

Draco smiles at him again, small and soft and perfect. 

“You’re beautiful,” Hari tells him. 

“You say that a lot,” Draco observes. 

“It’s true every time.” 

Draco’s eyes flit to the left, full of panic, and Hari reaches out his hand, holding it to the left of Draco’s face. 

“What are you doing?” Draco raises an eyebrow, quizzical. 

“Trying to block out your little stalker,” Hari replies, “Is it working?” 

Draco laughs. Bright, and loud, and dazzling. 

“That’s not how it works, Hazza,” he giggles, “You can’t block out my— What did you call it? My little stalker? Merlin…” 

Hari stares at him. He can’t help it. Hari wishes he was this house, then he could stare at Draco every day forever, hold Draco close and encircle him within his walls, keep him safe. 

“What?” Draco asks, tilting his head to the side, “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“What would you do if I kissed you?” is Hari’s reply. The words seem to tumble out of his mouth of their own accord. 

Draco blinks, then flushes, his eyes fixed on Hari, a bit above his eyes. 

The silence seems to stretch forever, and in an odd way Hari revels in it. He’s supposed to be silent, he’s supposed to be surrounded by silence. 

“I’d kiss you back,” Draco finally answers. 

Hari’s lips are on Draco’s before he even knows what’s happening, an experience slightly reminiscent of when the world cuts from moment to moment and Hari realises he must have slept. 

It’s perfect. Draco’s lips are soft and insistent. He kisses like he’s telling you something, and Hari wants to know exactly what he’s saying. He wants to decode this kiss, to decode every piece of Draco he can get his hands on. He wants to drink in Draco’s warmth and his cold, his love and his hate, his pretty and his ugly, his everything. 

In his mind’s eye, Draco begins to rot at his touch. 

Hari pulls away, panicked, scrambling out of his chair so fast it falls to the ground. “N— No!” he stammers, “No, I can’t— We can’t—” 

“Hari?” Draco stands, stepping closer, eyes full of hurt and concern. 

He’s not rotting. He’s perfect. So perfect. And beautiful. 

Corpses don’t get to kiss beautiful boys. 

“I’m dead,” Hari chokes out, “I’m dead, Draco. I’m rotted inside, I’m a corpse. I can’t— I can’t touch you, can’t have you. I’ll taint you.” 

Draco’s expression softens. He’s aching, Hari can see it. He feels the ache too, deep in his bones. In his soul, if he even still has one. 

“Do I look tainted to you?” Draco asks softly. 

“No,” Hari breathes, “No, never. You’re perfect.” 

Draco steps closer, reaching out his hand. 

Hari takes it. 

Because he is so, so selfish. 

“I’m afraid you’ll rot,” he whispers. 

“I will someday, I suppose,” Draco replies, “But the same way we all do. Not because of you.” 

“You’re beautiful,” Hari murmurs. 

“You’re beautiful too,” Draco says easily, like it’s breathing. 

Corpses aren’t beautiful. 

But for a moment, Hari believes he might be. 

Corpses shouldn’t kiss beautiful boys. 

But Hari does. He does it a lot. 

Ever since the first time, every meetup he has with Draco turns affectionate rather quickly. It’s usually initiated by Hari — he just can’t stop himself, especially after Draco starts greeting him with a “Hello, dearest,” or something similar whenever he comes over — but Draco is always happy to kiss Hari, or cuddle him, or let Hari play with his hair, or play with Hari’s hair, or anything of that nature. 

It’s wonderful. 

It doesn’t quite feel real. 

Hari thinks about it a lot, when he and Draco aren’t together. He thinks about the way Draco’s lips feel against his, the way Draco’s precious porcelain body feels in his arms, the way his voice sounds when he murmurs sweet things. 

He thinks about how he shouldn’t have it. 

He thinks about how he could never possibly give it up. 

He’s thinking about it right now, as he sits at the kitchen table cutting vegetables for the soup Ron’s making for dinner. 

Hari’s been spending less time alone in his room lately, even outside of his meetups with Draco. It seems to make Ron and Mione really happy. Hari likes it too, he thinks.

“Mions should be getting back from work soon,” Ron says as he adds spices to the broth, “It’s about that time.” 

As if on cue, Hermione comes through the door. 

“Hey, gorgeous!” Ron smiles as she comes into the kitchen, “How was your—” He frowns, noticing Hermione’s angry expression and teary eyes at the same time Hari does. “Mione? What’s wrong?” 

“Draco came in as a consultant at work today,” Hermione says, her fiery gaze trained on Hari. 

“Yeah,” Hari utters, confused, “You and him both mentioned it to me. Did something go wrong?” 

“Oh, no, our experiment was perfect,” Hermione huffs, “But we had a very interesting conversation.” 

“About what?” Ron asks, walking over to Hermione and rubbing her arm soothingly, “Babe, are you okay?” 

“No!” Hermione snaps, “I’m not okay! Our best friend elected not to tell us he’s had a boyfriend for the past three weeks!” 

“What?!” Ron exclaims. 

“What?” echoes Hari, almost inaudible. 

“Yeah, I was surprised too, Ron,” Hermione huffs, “I can imagine Draco assumed I would’ve known about it, seeing as I’m Hari’s best friend, but I have to say I was quite stunned when he casually mentioned his most recent date with our Hari, and called him his boyfriend!”  

“Hari, what the hell?” Ron frowns, turning to Hari, “You got a boyfriend and didn’t tell us?” 

“I— I didn’t know,” Hari chokes out, heart racing. 

Ron and Mione raise their eyebrows, stunned into silence. 

“What do you mean, you didn’t know?” Hermione says after a while. 

“We—” Hari stammers, his vision starting to get fuzzy at the edges, “We kiss, and cuddle, and stuff like that, but— He never said— I didn’t— I didn’t know he considered me his boyfriend.” 

“Oh, damn,” says Ron. 

Yeah. 

Oh, damn. 

Hari can’t be Draco’s boyfriend. He wants to, by god he wants to, but he can’t. He’s dead. 

“Well, Hari, if you thought it was some kind of friends-with-benefits thing and he thinks you’re dating, that’s a serious miscommunication,” Hermione says carefully, “You should really talk to him about that.” 

“N–No, it’s not like—” Hari says, “It’s not like that, I— I love him. I love him. But I didn’t think he wanted— I can’t— I don’t— I’m dead! I can’t be Draco’s boyfriend! He should be with a living person!” 

“Hari,” Ron sighs, “You—” 

“I have to—” Hari utters, the words seeming to leave deep cuts behind as they crawl out of his throat, “I have to break up with him. I love him, and I have to break his heart.” 

“No, Hari,” Mione tries to soothe him, “You don’t have to—” 

“I’m going to Draco’s,” Hari blurts, rushing out before his friends can protest further. 

He apparates this time. If he walked, he’s not sure he’d make it to Draco’s house. He thinks if he walked, he’d end up turning around and going right back home, then showing up to his next meetup — date — with Draco as if nothing happened, as if he can be his boyfriend. 

He can’t be Draco’s boyfriend. 

“Hey, Hazza,” Draco says with a sweet smile when he comes to the door, “I wasn’t expecting you. Want me to order a pizza?” 

Okay, maybe Hari can be Draco’s boyfriend for just a bit longer. An hour or so, so he can savour it before it ends. 

“You haven’t spoken much tonight,” Draco observes after dinner as they lie cuddling in his bed, music playing softly in the background. 

Hari only hums in response, stroking Draco’s silky hair and trying his very best to commit this moment to memory as perfectly as possible. 

“Really, mon choux,” Draco frowns, sitting up and brushing his fingers through Hari’s curls, “Is everything alright?” 

Hari takes a shaky breath and sits up too, staring at Draco’s perfect face. 

His perfect, porcelain face. 

Draco is made of porcelain, and he’s surely going to crack when Hari says what he knows he needs to say. 

But it’s better to let him crack now, when it’ll be small and fixable, than let him slowly break down completely by allowing him to stay tied to the literal dead weight that is Hari. 

“We have to break up,” Hari murmurs. 

The way Draco’s face falls, like his whole heart has just shattered completely, almost breaks Hari’s resolve. 

And then Draco utters a soft, cracked, “What?” 

And that does Hari in. 

“Hari, I—” Draco chokes out, blinking back tears, “I—” 

“I was joking!” Hari blurts, “I— I’m sorry, I was just kidding.” He pulls Draco into his arms, holding onto him protectively, realising he can never, never again break his porcelain boy like that. 

His beautiful porcelain boy. 

His. 

Beautiful. 

So, so beautiful. 

“That’s not a funny joke, Hazza,” Draco scolds weakly, sniffling. 

“I know,” Hari breathes, hardly able to speak, “I know. I’m sorry, baby.” 

“It’s alright, just— Just don’t do that again, okay?” 

“I won’t,” Hari swears. 

Never again. 

Corpses shouldn’t have boyfriends. 

But Draco should have a boyfriend. And he’s picked Hari. 

So, Hari will just have to do everything he can to overcome the insurmountable shortcoming of being dead and be the best boyfriend he can possibly be. He’ll be loving, doting, protective, supportive. He’ll be everything a boyfriend should be, except alive. He’ll give Draco everything, he’ll do everything, all the things a boyfriend ought to do, and more. 

And he’ll hope, hope, and hope that’s enough. 

Mornings with Draco are perfect. Hari adores them. Ever since the first time he spent the night at Draco’s, he’s become addicted to the mornings they share. He may not remember the falling asleep and waking up of it all, but those quiet moments beside Draco in bed, the morning sun filtering in through the windows, bare bodies slotted together like puzzle pieces that were always meant to fit, are perfect. 

Hari almost feels alive.

But he’s not alive. He’s dead. He stares at the back of Draco’s head, his heart clenching. 

“I don’t care,” Draco always tells him, “I don’t care. I choose you.” 

Hari thinks about something he read once in a book he got at the library, back when he lived with the Dursleys. He’d sometimes go to the library on the way home from school if Dudley got picked up to play with a friend, and he’d pick a random book and read, and pretend the book was the only thing that existed, that he didn’t exist. 

The particular book he’s thinking of is an ancient history book. He starts to cry. He hasn’t done that since he died. 

“Hari?” Draco flips around, pulling him closer. “Hazza, love, what is it?” 

Hari just keeps crying. He cries and cries for what feels like an eternity, and then he stops. 

“Tell me what’s going through that head of yours, dearest,” Draco murmurs, his deft, slender fingers carding through Hari’s curls. 

“I’m thinking about a history book I read when I was a kid,” Hari whispers, “About some ancient civilization, I don’t remember which. But I remember that the book said that when the leader died, it was tradition for their spouse to be killed and buried with them.” 

“I see,” Draco utters softly, “What brought up that memory?”

“I feel like that’s what I’m doing to you,” Hari confesses, his voice breaking, “Making you sit in my tomb with me.”

Draco scoffs, indignant. “Well, first of all, Potter, you’re not making me. Nobody can make me do anything anymore. Second, this isn’t a tomb, it’s my house. If you look at this place and think tomb, I might need to rethink my decor.” 

Hari manages a small laugh at that. Draco is good at making him laugh. Draco is good. And beautiful. 

“I’m in love with you,” Hari states. Simple, clear, true. Hari likes saying true things. 

“I’m in love with you too, you ridiculous boy,” Draco replies softly, kissing Hari’s temple. 

“My beautiful porcelain boy…” Hari murmurs against Draco’s lips as he pulls him into a proper kiss. 

“Porcelain, am I?” Draco inquires. 

“Mhm,” Hari hums, “Gorgeous, priceless, must be cherished and protected.” 

“You are an insufferable sap, Potter,” Draco huffs, flushing. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Draco confirms, grinning slightly, “I have to admit it’s a good look on you. I like seeing you happy, Hazza.” 

Happy. 

Hari’s happy, right now. 

Corpses shouldn’t—

Hari’s happy. 

And he loves his porcelain boy. 

“You’re beautiful,” Hari says. 

Draco laughs. “I dare you to call me literally anything else.” 

Hari kisses his nose. “You’re stunning.” 

“You’re a dork,” Draco replies, his tone dripping with affection. 

Hari pulls Draco into a fierce, hungry kiss, holding onto him desperately. 

“I’d do anything for you,” Hari murmurs against Draco’s lips. 

“In that case, I have a request,” Draco says. 

“Yeah?” 

Draco runs a hand through Hari’s hair, looking deeply into his eyes. “Can you be kinder to yourself?” 

Hari stares at him. 

“For me, Hazza.” 

“I can try,” Hari utters. 

Draco smiles. Beautiful. 

Hari’s hand feels weird. He stares down at it, flexing his fingers over and over, trying to come up with a way to describe the weird feeling. 

It started yesterday. He was over at Draco’s, watching their third movie of the night, and Dray fell asleep with his head in Hari’s lap. Hari ran his hand through Draco’s perfect hair until the movie ended, and when he pulled his hand away and carried Draco to bed, it was like a piece of Draco’s spirit had attached itself to the tips of Hari’s fingers, and started spreading. 

“The weather’s finally starting to get warmer,” Ron remarks as he comes through the door from work. 

Warmer. That’s it. 

“My hand is warmer,” Hari says. 

“Yeah?” Ron prompts, setting his things down and coming over to the worn, orange armchair Hari’s sitting in. He touches Hari’s hand. “It doesn’t feel warm to me,” he says. 

“It’s warmer,” Hari insists. 

“Kay,” Ron replies, pursing his lips, “Well… is it uncomfortable?” 

“No.” 

“Good,” Ron nods, “Hey, er… We have some time to kill before Mione gets home. Wanna play chess?” 

Hari is quiet for a second, turning the question over in his mind as he tries to make sense of it. He hasn’t played chess since he died. 

“I’m rotten at it,” he says, “You’ll kick my arse, like you always do.” 

Ron chuckles. “Yeah, probably. Wanna play anyway?” 

“Alright.” 

They play chess. The warmth spreads to Hari’s wrist. 

Mione makes it home as they’re playing their second round. 

“Ooh,” she says, leaning over the board and pointing, “Haz, move your knight there.” 

“No cheating!” Ron complains. 

“Ronald, we all know you’re going to beat him,” Hermione tuts, “May as well give the poor boy a fighting chance.” 

“Oi,” Hari huffs. 

Hermione laughs, grabs Hari’s shoulders and kisses his temple. “You know I’m right, Haz,” she says fondly. The warmth spreads a bit more. 

“I know, but can’t we just pretend?” Hari whines. 

“Well, consider yourself lucky, Hari, because I am getting too hungry to keep playing,” says Ron, standing up, “What do you two want for dinner?” 

“I don’t know,” Hermione says, turning to Hari expectantly, “What do you think, Hari?” 

“You guys have whatever you want,” Hari says, “I’m going to Draco’s tonight.” 

Ron’s expression darkens slightly. “Of course you are,” he mutters. 

“What?” Hari frowns. 

“Nothing, it’s just,” Ron huffs, “You’re always over there.” 

“Ron, don’t,” Hermione warns in a half-whisper. 

Like she knows what he’s on about. 

Like they’ve talked about this before. 

Hari’s chest gets tight. “Draco’s my boyfriend,” he defends, “Of course I see him a lot. I love him.” 

“Do you love us?!” Ron snaps, “Because it feels like you don’t!” 

“Ronald!” Hermione scolds. 

Hari’s eyes sting, his chest getting tighter, along with his throat. “Of course I love you,” he chokes out, “You’re my best friends… I love you so much…” 

“Three years,” Ron murmurs, “You’ve been dealing with this— This— Whatever the hell is wrong with you for three years. And Mione and I have been with you every step of the way, and it feels like nothing we’ve done has made a difference. But then all of the sudden Draco Malfoy comes along, and you start actually leaving the fucking house, which we’ve been begging you to do for years, by the way, but only to see him! You start talking more, you start eating more, you start smiling again, and I’m happy about that! I’m so happy, and I feel so bad for this but fuck, mate, it hurts that it’s because of him! Mione and I have been here the whole time, through everything, doing everything we can for you! Why weren’t we enough?!” 

“It’s not like that,” Hari says, standing up, “It’s not— Ron, you— You’re great! You and Mione are so great! And you have done your best for me, but— But you keep trying to fix what can’t be fixed!” 

“Malfoy’s fixing you!” Ron exclaims. 

“Ron, let’s just—” 

“No, he’s not!” Hari shouts, “Yeah, I— I guess I’ve been in a better mood and stuff, but he’s not fixing me. Nobody can fix me, Ron, I’m dead!” 

“You’re not dead, Hari!” 

“I know!” Hari sobs, the words pouring out as that door inside him finally opens, “I know, Ron! I’ve always known! Fuck, I fucking know! But I— It’s— I still feel it. I know it’s not true, but it’s true to me! And Draco’s the only person who hasn’t made me feel crazy for it! And maybe I am crazy! I’m walking around, breathing, talking, living, but convinced I’m dead! I feel myself rotting inside, Ron! And it doesn’t matter whether I really am or not because I fucking feel it!” 

Hermione rushes to him, pulling him into a crushing hug that Ron soon joins. Hari keeps sobbing, his knees buckling as Ron and Mione hold him up. 

That’s what Ron and Mione do, they hold him up. Always have. 

They bring him over to the sofa and sit him down, staying on either side of him as he breaks down. 

“I’m sorry…” Hari whispers, “I’m sorry for being like this…” 

“You don’t have to apologise, mate,” Ron soothes, “It’s not your fault.” 

“You’re my best friends,” Hari utters, “I— I’m sorry, for pulling away. I’m sorry for making you feel like you’re not enough. You’ve done so much for me… I wouldn’t be here right now if you two hadn’t been putting up with me all this time, if you hadn’t supported me and taken care of me…” 

“We’re always going to be here for you, Hari,” Hermione assures, “And we’re not putting up with you. You’re our best friend, okay? We love you.” 

“I’m afraid you don’t actually love me,” Hari admits. 

“Why?” Ron asks, his voice breaking. 

Hari takes a shaky breath. “Because I’m not the person I was before I died. I’m afraid you love a version of me that doesn’t exist, and you just keep me around hoping I’ll turn back into him. I think that’s part of why it felt so easy to be around Draco when we first started talking, in a way it wasn’t with you. We were never close before I died, so I knew he liked me as I am now. It was… a relief, I guess.”

“Oh, Hari,” Hermione sighs, “Of course we love you as you are now. It hurts, seeing how much pain you’re in, but that doesn’t make us love you less. You’re still Hari, okay? Our Hari.” 

“Mione’s right,” Ron agrees, “We love you so much, mate. Always will.” 

“And— And I’ll always love you guys too,” Hari says, “I love you so much. I’m sorry I made you feel otherwise, I’m just a little obsessed with my boyfriend, I guess.” 

Ron and Mione laugh. 

The warmth spreads further. 

“We’re sorry for making you feel crazy, Haz,” Hermione murmurs gently, “We never meant to, we just… we wanted you to get better, and we thought if we could just convince you you were alive, it would help, but… We— I should’ve realised, Hari. I should’ve realised you needed to feel heard.” 

“No, it isn’t your fault,” Hari sighs, “I’m so fucked up, there’s no way you could’ve predicted what I needed. I didn’t even know what I needed.” 

Hari’s fucked up. He’s not dead, just fucked up. 

He still feels dead, though. 

But… less, somehow. Like the warmth spreading up his arm is healing the rot inside him. 

“How did Malfoy know?” asks Ron. 

“I don’t think he knew,” Hari says, “I don’t think he’s even sure now. But he knows what it feels like to have your reality denied, so he knew not to do it to me. And he’s just… he’s just him. Fuck, I love him.” 

“I’m happy you’ve found someone, Hari,” Ron says, “Even if it’s Draco bloody Malfoy, of all people.” 

Hari laughs a bit at that. “Yeah… He’s a damn miracle, that boy. You guys are too. Fuck, I’m so ridiculously lucky to have you all.” 

“We’re lucky to have you too,” Ron smiles, patting Hari’s shoulder, “And… I’m sorry for blowing up on you, Hari. I guess I’ve just been feeling inadequate.” 

“You’re not inadequate,” Hari assures, “Not at all. I’m just a disaster.” 

“You need therapy, Hari,” Hermione says carefully. 

Ah. Therapy. 

Hermione’s suggested seeing a mind healer plenty of times, back when all of this started, and Hari shot it down each time. 

After all, what use is therapy to a dead man? 

But Hari’s… he’s not. He’s not—

He’s not ready to even think the full sentence twice in one bloody day. But he’s aware of it. 

He always has been, behind that previously-locked door inside him. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. 

“My therapist says I have Cotard’s Syndrome,” Hari says as he and Draco snuggle on the sofa. 

It took five sessions for the therapist to bring it up, and Hari’s honestly glad, because he’s pretty sure he was spending the first four of those five sessions being mentally prepared to hear it. He’s not better, not fully, but when Andrea told him he had Cotard’s and explained what it was, his first instinct wasn’t to deny it and insist he really is dead. 

He still feels dead, but he… he knows he’s not. And the warmth is still there, it’s been growing more and more.

Progress. Hooray. 

“I know,” Draco replies, kissing Hari’s temple. 

“You… know?” 

“That you have Cotard’s,” Draco says, “After you described what you were feeling to me in the beginning I did some digging online. I tried the magical web first and found nothing, but once I tried switching to muggle sites I found some articles about Cotard’s.” 

“You knew?” Hari utters, “The whole time?” 

“Yes, I did,” Draco admits. 

“Why… Why didn’t you tell me?” Hari asks. 

Draco pauses for a moment, then says in that gentle, soothing way he does, “Because I knew it wasn’t what you needed to hear from me.” 

Hari stares at Draco, at the love of his life, in utter wonder. “You’re incredible, did you know that?” he breathes. 

Draco blushes and looks away, mumbling “Shut up…” 

Hari can’t help but laugh, and he pulls Draco closer, wrapping him up in his arms and wishing they could melt into one being so he could be as close to Draco as possible forever. “I love you so much, angel… My sweet, beautiful, porcelain boy…” 

“I love you too, mon choux,” Draco replies, kissing Hari’s neck. Hari grins and peppers Draco’s neck with more kisses. 

“I love it when you talk in French,” Hari murmurs against Draco’s skin. 

“You’re such a dork,” Draco snorts. 

Hari pulls back to look at Draco’s perfect face, beaming at him. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he says softly, pressing his nose against his boyfriend’s, “I want you to come over to mine sometime soon to watch a movie with me and Ron and Mione.” 

Draco’s eyes light up. “Really?” he smiles, teasing lightly, “You’re ready to share me?” 

“Not share you,” Hari huffs with a smug grin, “You belong to me. But I… I want us to have moments with others too, not just moments by ourselves. I want to show you off. And I want you to be a part of the other parts of my life too.” 

Draco’s smile softens and he kisses Hari. “I’d like that a lot.” 

“Brilliant!” Hari exclaims, “Brilliant. That’s… That’s perfect. You’re perfect. I love you.” 

“I love you too, dear,” Draco says, “Now, when do you want to do that movie night?” 

They do movie night three days later. 

Draco shows up right on time, as Hari, Ron and Mione are finishing up dinner. Hari zips to the door to let him in, pulling him into his arms. 

“Dray! Hey, baby!” 

“Hi, Hazza,” Draco smiles, “I’m happy to see you too. Now get off me.” 

“Hi, Draco!” Hermione greets, joining them in the front room, “It’s good to see you. How are you doing?” 

“I’m doing good,” Draco replies, “And you?” 

“Just great,” Hermione says warmly, looking between Hari and Draco with pride and love in her eyes. 

“Hey, Malfoy!” Ron calls as he joins them, “Just finished making dinner, you’re right on schedule!” 

“Hello, Weasley,” Draco nods, smiling a little awkwardly. His eyes flit to the side, glancing in panic at his little stalker. 

“Alright?” asks Ron. 

Draco takes a breath, closes his eyes for a moment, and nods. “Yeah,” he says, “Yeah, I’m alright.” 

Dinner is perfect. Draco and Hermione chat about work things, and then Draco and Ron chat about quidditch, and then all three of them laugh as Ron and Hermione recount funny childhood stories about Hari, and Hari gets to watch his three favourite people bonding. Perfect. 

The warmth in Hari gets stronger, blooming like flowers across his skin. 

They watch a movie together, one Hermione loved as a kid and insisted they should all see. The Princess Bride. It’s lovely, and Hari feels himself getting sucked into the story and into the feeling of being on the sofa with Draco in his arms and Ron and Mione right beside them. 

Hari can’t help but chuckle a little as he sees bits of himself in Wesley, only to then have Wesley declared mostly dead. 

And then Wesley gets up. With the help of those he loves, he recovers and he gets up. He fights for the people who fought for him. He’s alive. 

And then he rides off into the sunset with his two best friends and his witty, headstrong, beautiful blond lover. 

And Hari laughs. He laughs brightly, loudly, without a care in the world, pulling Draco into a fierce kiss as the credits roll. 

“Darling,” Draco chuckles, “What’s up with you?” 

“I’m alive,” Hari says breathlessly, pressing his nose to Draco’s. 

Draco blinks, then beams. “Damn right you are.”