Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place was in much the same state as he’d left it—still empty, still overly furnished, still a pure-blood’s wet dream and a Muggleborn’s nightmare. Harry called out a greeting to Kreacher, who—from the smell of things—was just frying up breakfast in the kitchen downstairs, and went to start unpacking. And if Harry felt a little lonely, a little bit out of sorts, a little bit…well, he reminded himself he’d felt much the same way when he’d moved out of the dorms at Hogwarts, and this too would pass.

And it did pass—in large part because the DMLE seemed intent to make up for the month on holiday (though as far as their records showed, he’d been laid up with Spattergroit) by tossing Harry at every dull task that moved. It was back to tracking down lost Kneazles and offering tourists directions to Diagon Alley for Harry—and probably would be for the foreseeable future. Work was tedious, but when had it not been? Just another couple of months, and he’d be rotated out, and maybe then he’d get some assignments that actually involved Auror work, even if that work was re-Charming the Everfull Teapot and emptying the rubbish baskets.

He’d been back at work nearly two weeks, though, when he was interrupted in the middle of a very strange dream (involving Kreacher and Old Bern fusing into an ultra-house-elf that referred to him as ‘Masterful Oaf’ and somehow looked uglier than the sum of its parts) by Old Bern himself, slapping him lightly on the cheeks until he roused.

“Yes, thank you, Old Bern,” someone said—Harry was only half-awake and didn’t have his glasses on, so his focus was in tatters. “Wait in the hallway while I have a word with our errant Potter.”

Oh wait, he’d heard that snide tone before. “…The fuck’re you doin’ in my room at…what I’m sure is an absolutely ungodly hour?”

“Yes, always a delight to see you too, Dearest. Now sit up and get your head on straight, I’m in no mood to deal with your usual slow uptake.” Harry was distantly aware he ought to be offended but was still too tired to feel it.

But Draco’s tension and panic flowing into Harry via the Influx, magnified now they were in such close quarters, helped quickly clear the cobwebs from his mind, and he eased upright, a pillow across his midsection for modesty’s sake—Draco didn’t need to see the little animated Snidgets flitting across his crotch on the joke boxers he’d received last Christmas—and rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn. “Right. Right. ‘S there a reason whatever this is couldn’t wait ‘til morning? Or, like, the weekend maybe?”

Draco shoved his hand into Harry’s face—a big blur without his glasses, but he at least recognised it was the left hand and surmised this was probably his ring he was nearly braining Harry with. He groped on the nightstand for his glasses—which helpfully leapt into his hands thanks to a handy Charm Hermione had developed for him for his birthday the previous year.

“I can’t take it off!”

Harry’s brain was still running two minutes behind schedule. “Come again?”

“The fucking ring! I can’t take it off!”

Harry frowned, looking at the ring two inches from his nose—then to the murderous expression on Draco’s face—then back to the ring again. “…Tried greasing it? Maybe some dish soap? You didn’t accidentally Epoximise it, did you?” Harry didn’t know how one might accidentally cast a Permanent Sticking Charm, but stranger things had happened, surely.

Draco released a low growl of frustration, snatching his hand back. “I don’t mean I can’t take it off—I mean I did.”

“…And?” Harry didn’t know if it was his brain being befuddled by the lack of sleep or if Draco had had one too many of Old Bern’s toddys before retiring for the evening, but he wasn’t making a lick of sense.

“And I—” He dropped his voice, as if he thought someone might overhear. Perhaps he was worried about Walburga’s portrait four floors down. “And I turned back into a fucking peacock.”

And now Harry was fully awake, heart in his throat—he thought Draco might have felt the echo of the panic that speared through him, for his already white face seemed to blanch further. “Wh—but—but we did the ritual, and we finished the thirty days, and—” He frowned, taking in Draco now from his very frazzled hair, half out of its plait, down to his comfortable, sensible slippers. “…And you’re human now.” If this had been the curse taking effect, it would have done so on Draco’s birthday, right? And he wouldn’t have turned back into a human.

“Oh, so those glasses aren’t just for show! Well spotted! Of course I’m a human now!”

“All right, all right, keep your pants on—I’m just trying to settle things in my head, since you Apparated into my room in the middle of the night.”

“I didn’t Apparate here—Old Bern did. And on that note, adjust your wards to let me in next time; we’re married for the time being at least, so it only seems fair.”

Harry rubbed his face, in no mood to deal with Draco’s ridiculousness at this hour. “…Right, why exactly are you here, then? You—what, had another fit? And what was this about your ring?”

Draco sighed loudly, as if Harry were being purposefully obtuse, and sat down on the edge of his mattress—though at the very end, giving Harry and his semi-nudity a wide berth. Rich coming from a fellow who seemed to think appropriate bedclothes were ‘none’, even when he had guests in his home.

“…I thought, since the Consummation Clause had been satisfied and the appropriate paperwork filed, and of course since I was still myself, that I didn’t need to wear this stupid hunk of metal anymore, so I took it off—”

“Wh—I paid for that, you know!”

“No one said you had to make it so atrociously gaudy; maybe if you wanted me to keep it on, you would have invested in a simple silver band. I can’t believe you’re still wearing yours!”

Well, he wasn’t—that is, technically he was, but thanks to a neat bit of Charmwork, no one at the Ministry had noticed. No sense in riling up the masses, he’d figured, and better to keep it on in case it was tied to the ceremony. He’d meant to ask Hermione about it, just to be sure, but it kept slipping his mind.

“Right, excuse me for putting a bit of thought into it,” he muttered, knowing full well the designs had been entirely Hermione’s doing.

“Anyway, I slipped the thing off and went to place it in my jewellery box—”

“You have a jewellery box?”

“—when the moment it left my finger, I succumbed to a transformation, and fuck I’d forgotten how much those things hurt…” He shuddered, ignoring Harry entirely. “And—I panicked, because, well, this wasn’t supposed to be happening still, and I tried to get the ring back, but bird beaks have shit dexterity and I wound up swallowing the damn thing. And then apparently swallowing it equated to enough ‘contact’ to allow me to turn back into a human, which I’ll admit was a massive relief, except then the ring was still inside me and I had to wait until—”

He cut himself off, swallowing with a grimace, and Harry pressed him after a moment. “…Until?”

“Until,” Draco bit out very slowly, “I shat the ring out.” Oh. Oh gross—and he’d just waved it in Harry’s face! “At which point I of course promptly turned into a fucking peacock again, and then I had to—” He covered his mouth. “I had to dig through my own shit to find the ring and get it back onto a claw so I could finally transform back.” He sighed. “So that’s been my past few days! How have you been, Darling?”

Better than Draco, he figured, since none of his activities of late had involved his own faeces (and hopefully never would). “Y-you Scourgified that thing, right? Really got into all the little grooves and all?” Draco showed him a couple of fingers, which he supposed meant ‘obviously’. “So…so what does this mean? If you take the ring off—you transform into the peacock again? Immediately?”

“It would appear so. And this time I don’t change back, not unless I don the ring again.”

Well. That was a predicament, to be certain. “…All right, well—I mean, on the bright side, you did transform back, which means as long as you keep the ring on, you should be fine, right?”

“No, not fucking right!” Draco punched the bedsheets, fist clenched. “You understand this means I’m stuck like this now? That I have to wear this damn ring for the rest of my life?! There’s no divorce coming! No annulment! For you or me!” And oh, that…wasn’t something Harry had really considered until just this moment, but Draco was already drowning in self-pity, no time to fret about how this twist might affect his non-existent social life just now. “My parents never said it had to be permanent! They just told me if I complied with the terms in the poem, I’d be spared!”

“…Well, I guess they figured ‘complying with the terms’ would involve you getting married to someone you actually tolerated, where you wouldn’t mind wearing their ring forever…”

Draco was moaning in despair now, flopping down on Harry’s bed spread-eagle and looking terribly pathetic—but his dramatic display belied the real, authentic fear and panic that were threatening to subsume him, even now, and suddenly the tension and stress that had been dogging Harry for these past few days made a lot more sense. He’d initially brushed off the feelings as growing pains from being back at work after an extended holiday—plus, it made sense that he’d feel off, having the routine he’d only just gotten used to disrupted. Now, though, recognising this was only the Influx, working its nasty magic upon them even over a great distance, he saw that this was going to have to be dealt with.

He shifted closer to Draco, patting him gamely on the shoulder—even now, he was practically radiating waves of panic that Harry probably could have felt even without the aid of the Influx. This brush with his curse had truly rattled him, even if he had transformed back, and Harry supposed it made sense. They’d thought they’d had the curse managed, that they’d be able to go about their business as usual, only sticking with this marriage long enough for Hermione to do what she always did and find them a way out. There had been a comfortable little buffer, insulating them—insulating Draco—from the threat of the curse.

But now he’d just seen that all it would take was the ring being slipped from his finger, and he’d be stuck as a ‘fucking peacock, forever’. What happened, Harry wondered, if his ring were somehow destroyed? Could they commission a new one and slip it on his finger? Or was this thin band of metal all that stood between Draco and an eternity in a downy white coat? Harry didn’t doubt Draco himself was obsessing over these same what-ifs, which could only pan out poorly for the both of them.

“Come on,” he said, nudging Draco’s shoulder. “Sit up. You’re getting hair everywhere; Kreacher’ll be finding long white hairs around here ‘til Christmas.” Draco reluctantly allowed himself to be manhandled into a seated position and began nervously picking at the plait he’d bound his hair into (or what was left of it).

“…Where are we, even?”

“Number 12, Grimmauld Place,” Harry said. “Used to belong to the Black family but passed to me when the last heir died.”

“The last heir didn’t die,” Draco spat. “He’s sitting right here.” Harry frowned, not following, and Draco gestured around the room. “This is Great-Aunt Walburga’s place, isn’t it?”

“…Oh. This is yours?” Well, obviously it wasn’t his, not legally—but Harry had forgotten the twisted knots these pure-blood families tied their lines into. He now recalled that there was indeed a neatly embroidered rendition of a young Draco Malfoy on the family tapestry hanging in the sitting room. He hoped Draco wasn’t about to get any ideas about wresting ownership of the home from Harry now.

Draco only shrugged, though. “I suppose it was meant to be at some point.”

Harry didn’t quite know what to do with that. “…Do you, uh, want a tour or…?”

“What? Don’t be daft, it’s—some ungodly hour, as you said.” He eased off the mattress, brushing imagined lint from the robes he wore—this time not the thin shift he favoured in the Manor but something more appropriate for travelling. He cast about the room, and Harry sensed a strange emotion he hadn’t felt from Draco before: a curious amalgamation of confusion, shame, and curiosity. “…I’ve disturbed your sleep.”

“Oh—no, it’s fine—”

“It was an observation. Not an apology.”

Harry released a long, exasperated exhalation. “…Right. Was there anything else you needed that couldn’t wait until morning?” Draco’s eyes were still tracking around the room, and he even reached out to trace the moulding on Harry’s wardrobe; it had been Sirius’s once upon a time, and if Draco dared open it, he’d find some rather racy posters plastered up that Harry had not been able to take down. At least the ones on the wall Harry had been able to cover up—you just didn’t want strangers winking and staring at you when you were trying to sleep, was all, and trying to wank in front of them was right out. Draco’s jaw tensed, and Harry felt an answering flare of that same strange emotion. So he tried to parse it. “…Er, did you want to stay?”

It wasn’t an invitation—at least, Harry hadn’t meant it as such. It was supposed to be a straight question, trying to discern what exactly it was Draco had shown up for, in the middle of the night, with what Harry took to be a less-than-urgent problem. Certainly, it was one they needed to bring to Hermione, but as long as Draco kept the ring on his finger, he was in no obvious danger of turning into a peacock and having a family reunion in the Manor gardens.

Draco, though, took it entirely the wrong way of course. “What?” He whirled on Harry. “Of course not. You couldn’t pay me to stay here.” He gave an exaggerated shudder, and that told Harry he was both very close to the mark but had still shot rather wide of it.

“…Yeah,” he said. “It’s a fixer-upper, for sure. A bit too big for one person. I’ve been trying to get Andromeda and Teddy to move in—but they won’t be moved from the Tonks home. Probably too many memories to give it up just yet, so I can’t say I blame them.”

“Andromeda…” Draco repeated softly, half to himself. “Not—Andromeda Black?”

“Yeah—well, ‘Tonks’ after she got married.” Harry paused in thought. “So, wait, that’d make her your…”

“Aunt. So she’s still alive?”

Harry nodded. “And with a grandson—oh, you’d be related to him too, then, wouldn’t you? Some manner of cousin, I guess? His name’s Teddy—well, Edward, technically, but everyone calls him Teddy. Really sweet kid—I’m his godfather, actually.”

“You? A father?”

“Godfather, and yeah—why’s that so difficult to imagine? I like kids, and I’m a very good influence.” Draco quirked his brows as if to say I’m sure you think you are. “What, like you’d be so much better?”

“I might just. You’ve no idea how I behave with children. Perhaps I have a natural rapport with them.”

“If so, it’d only be because you act like one yourself.” And Draco gave him another look at those two fingers from earlier—and Harry couldn’t help the soft, gruff chuckle he released in response, which itself forced Draco’s lips into a thin line that in this dim light almost looked like a smile. Probably a trick of the light.

That odd emotion from earlier was beginning to fade, and even the fear and panic were starting to draw back, replaced by an odd calm that Harry was unsure was coming from him or from Draco. The excitement from only moments ago was waning, and exhaustion was threatening to draw Harry back down into his very comfortable bed. He couldn’t sit here chatting all night, but at the same time, he didn’t want to just tell Draco to fuck off, even if Draco would have (and had) done the same to him, had their situations been reversed.

So since Draco wasn’t going to ask it, not in a million years, Harry did, because the worst Draco could say would be Fuck no: “…My room…”

“What?” Draco said, distracted now by the footboard, where he had likely found the crudely carved SRS-N-JMS-BFFs-4EVA.

“The room I stayed in, at the Manor.”

“What of it?”

“…I thought, maybe if you hadn’t let it out…I might move back in. Just, you know, until Hermione looks into this and tells us we’re in the clear.”

Draco straightened immediately, and Harry could practically feel the line of tension drawing tight across his shoulders. “Wh—no? No, absolutely not, you’re delusional.” He scoffed and shook his head. “You’re exhausted—go back to sleep. This was a mistake.”

“Wai—” He slid from the bed, dragging the covers with him to wrap around his midsection, and hobbled after Draco, who was heading for the door presumably to find Old Bern. “Not for forever, obviously! But maybe if I’m around in physical proximity, the curse won’t reactivate, even if you take the ring off. And if something’s gone wrong and you start having fits again, then…well, I’ll be there.” He didn’t quite know what he’d be there for, only that…well, he kind of wanted to be there. It didn’t sit right, the thought of Draco having to work his way through these transformations all alone. Even if Harry couldn’t really do anything, at least Draco wouldn’t have to suffer by himself.

But of course, he knew full well that was exactly what Draco wanted—to not have anyone witness his lowest, meanest moments, so Harry shouldn’t have been surprised when Draco snapped back, “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want your fucking pity?”

“And how many times do I have to tell you that I’m not offering it out of pity?”

“Oh, yes, my mistake—you’re doing it for a much worse reason.” Draco leaned in close, grey eyes dark and stormy. “Because you need to be needed. And I’m just desperate enough to bite.”

And maybe Draco had a point, that Harry did have a bit of a “saving people thing”, as Hermione had put it once. But he didn’t quite think this was it, and maybe if he started being a little bit more honest with himself, Draco might feel all right doing the same. “…If that’s how you see it, then there isn’t much I can do about it. But I promise you it’s not that. I’ve already scratched that itch with the ceremony proper.”

“Well at least you recognise it,” Draco scoffed, pulling back, and Harry snapped a hand out grabbing him by the wrist. He frowned down at the grip Harry had on him. “…Want to lose that hand?”

“No. I want to go back to the Manor.”

Draco roughly shook him off. “And I said absolutely not—”

“And that I was delusional, I know, I was here when you said it thirty seconds ago. The thing is, you said that because you thought I pitied you, or that I only said so because I wanted to save you or something. Which isn’t why I want to go back.”

“Then enlighten me.”

Harry shrugged. “I miss you.”

Draco recoiled, taking several measured steps back. “Wh—that’s—you do not.”

“…Yeah, all right, maybe that’s not quite right. But I did kinda like it. Was nice, being around someone who wasn’t a house-elf, especially someone who provided as thrilling company as you.”

“And you want to throw yourself back into all that? Right, you are delusional. I don’t need to deal with this—Old Bern!” The elf instantly appeared at his feet with a sharp CRACK that would probably have gotten them noise complaints from the neighbours without the magical shielding. “Let’s be off.”

“Old Bern, no—not yet. Draco and I are having a conversation.”

“What? Ignore him, Old Bern—as your Master, I command you to return me to the Manor.”

“And as also your Master, I command you to—”

“You aren’t his Master!”

“I married you, didn’t I? You going to tell me your mum didn’t have as much say over the house-elves’ dispensation as your dad?” Draco sputtered incoherently, and Harry leaned forward, hands on his knees, to tell Old Bern, “Just give us a few minutes, yeah? I’m sure I can get this sorted.”

Old Bern glanced between them, his sour expression growing even more rotten, but he seemed genuinely unsure of what he was meant to do in a situation like this, so Harry took his chance, turning back to Draco. “…How are you ever gonna get to be someone’s favourite person if you never let anyone get close?”

Draco looked livid. “I don’t want to be your favourite person—so that’s none of your concern!”

Harry held his arms out. “Well I’m all you’ve got right now. And I might be all you’ve got for a while. So maybe we don’t have to be best chums, but I actually thought it was kind of nice when we were getting along there, right at the end. I’m not bored when you’re around—that’s not faint praise, I’m saying you keep me on my toes, even if I’m on my toes ‘cause I’ve got to stop you from taking stupid potshots at my bad hair day or a spot on my nose I had the misfortune to wake up with.” He shrugged. “I like it when my friends take the piss out of me.”

“Wh—we aren’t friends!” Draco sputtered, as if Harry had just called him the very worst slur.

“Yeah, we aren’t. Doesn’t that seem kind of silly, given we’re married? I know you said you didn’t want to be your spouse’s friend, but…I mean, it seems like a decent enough place to start, doesn’t it? If you can’t be their favourite person…you can at least be someone they like. I’m not saying contort your personality into knots, I’m not even saying be decent to me—just…be yourself, and maybe allow me to be myself in your general vicinity. Then we can see where things go.”

Draco was still shaking his head, though with depleting energy. “I don’t need—”

“No. You don’t need anything. You don’t need me, not anymore—and you know that—but you came here all the same, because you wanted me to do something about it, even though you know there’s fuck-all I can do except listen to you talk yourself hoarse. So maybe you don’t need anything, but you’re allowed to want stuff. You’re allowed to be a snotty little eleven-year-old who just wants someone to stand there and think he’s the most interesting person in the world. And I’m allowed to be that someone. So be the Lord of the damn Manor and let me come back, and then we’ll figure out how to handle this together.”

And he could almost physically see Draco trying to hold himself back, still clinging to his reins and trying desperately not to be dragged off—so Harry waited him out, looking to Old Bern to take his temperature on the matter. The old house-elf had his eyes closed and was snoring softly. Fat lot of help he was gonna be.

“Old Bern,” Harry said, poking him in the knee. “Take us back to the Manor.”

Draco looked very much like he wanted to protest, but nothing came out, and Harry quickly and quietly gathered his things. He hadn’t even entirely unpacked his suitcase from the last time he’d visited, so it was no trouble to toss half his wardrobe into its spacious magically expanded interior, snap it shut, and hold out his hand for Old Bern to take.

Old Bern cast one last glance to Draco for permission—or forbiddance—but as he found neither, he reluctantly reached for Draco’s hand as well, and as a unit, they disappeared with a CRACK.

It was only after he’d bid Draco and Old Bern a good night that was not returned and crawled under his freshly laundered bedsheets in his room at Malfoy Manor that Harry realised he hadn’t warned Kreacher he would be away.

With only a modicum of effort on his part—and less resistance than he’d honestly expected on Draco’s part—Harry picked up largely where he’d left off in their relationship upon his return to the Manor. It wasn’t quite the same as before—Harry could not lay about all day, exploring the nooks and crannies of the Manor and zapping any Imps that poked their heads up from the Nope Pit—but that was not entirely for the worse.

For one, when they resumed their evenings in the parlour, there was a tiny bit more give on Draco’s part and not quite as much take. Now that Harry had bullied his way back into Draco’s life, he seemed to accept Harry’s place on the very comfortable couch and did not go out of his way to be a total wanker (only perhaps half a wanker). In fact, on the odd evenings where Harry had had a perfectly horrible day at work, tasked with some ridiculous assignment or another, and returned to the Manor in a mood, Draco allowed him to vent without complaint—and even almost seemed to enjoy hearing about Harry’s misery. “Oh, it’s my very favourite programme,” he would say, all but tittering in delight, and though Harry knew he was just being an arse, classic Malfoy, Draco’s good humour still echoed across the bond they shared, the Influx improving Harry’s mood as well.

Hermione had not been half as surprised about the issue with Draco’s ring as either of them had expected, only reminding them that this was entirely unfamiliar magical territory and that they ought to do a few tests, to which they (reluctantly on Draco’s part) agreed. They tried a battery of experiments, like taking the ring off slowly and then putting it back on as quickly as possible (which seemed to stifle the transformation), holding hands while the ring was removed (alas, the transformation still occurred), having Harry take his ring off (no transformation, which Draco didn’t think was fair at all), and wearing the ring on a different finger (no transformation; the curse did not seem so finicky).

It seemed, after all their poking and prodding, that the curse was quite literal: as long as Draco wore his wedding ring, he was safe—but if he took it off…well, that meant it was turkey time again.

“But then—” Harry wondered, “what does that mean about an annulment, or divorce?”

Draco threw his hands up, flopping back onto the couch. “I brought that up to you the moment I realised what was happening, and you brushed me off!”

Harry vaguely recalled this—but in his defence, he had been riding on about three hours of sleep at the time. “Well, did any of your Malfoy ancestors ever get divorced? Or like, what happened if the Malfoy outlived their spouse? Were they still all right, as long as they kept the ring on?”

“Why are you asking me this, like I’m some font of knowledge on this damn thing?!”

“Because you’re the one who locked himself in his study supposedly doing research about ‘this damn thing’ for like the past three months.” Harry sighed. “Old Bern!” The house-elf immediately Apparated into view, bowing low before them both; Harry tried not to take too much gloating pride in the fact that Old Bern (nearly always) responded to his own orders as well as Draco’s these days. “Say, Old Bern, have you ever known a Malfoy affected by this curse to divorce their spouse and still remain human?”

Old Bern made a face, which was saying something, since he looked perpetually disgusted with the world. “Such things are not being done by those with a proud, ancient lineage such as—”

“Right, yeah, of course, what was I thinking?” Fucking knobs, this entire family. “What about if the spouse died, then? What happened to the Malfoy in that case?”

Old Bern scratched his chin. “Old Bern is never seeing such a thing himself—he has heard the Malfoy went into mourning. Perhaps they are remaining a human, perhaps this is being only a tale.”

Fat lot of help that was. Harry sighed and settled down on the couch next to Draco, who looked like he could use a stiff drink right about then. Harry sympathised. “Well, suppose that means we shouldn’t risk an annulment until Hermione’s done her due diligence. What do you think are the chances there’s an old Malfoy diary hidden around here somewhere? Or maybe one that’s been pawned over the years? Might be some useful information in a book like that, even if it’s not written by someone directly affected by the curse.” And Draco was looking at him like he was speaking Greek. “…What?”

“You…” He made a derisive little huff, which Harry didn’t think was warranted. “How can you be so calm about this? You might be stuck married to me now—assuming this wasn’t a long con to give me false hope I might be spared my horrific fate only to snatch it away at the last moment.” Draco being Draco, he probably thought this was a genuine possibility.

Harry mulled this over. “…I suppose you could just say it’s another example of my being a Gryffindor through and through—attacking a problem headfirst and not really giving due consideration to the consequences. You wouldn’t be entirely wrong, I’ll give you that. But also…” He shrugged. “The hard part’s done. Wearing your ring for a bit longer isn’t exactly all that troublesome. If it were to come to the point where my being legally married to you might adversely affect any future plans I had for myself…I’m the kind of guy who likes to cross a bridge once he comes to it. I’ve borrowed more than enough trouble in my life already, I’m not keen to start taking out any new loans until it becomes an issue that needs addressing. Until then…” He Summoned the ottoman from across the room and propped his feet up. “We’ve still got a portal to a demonic realm of horror and mayhem to close up.”

On realising that they were no longer confined to the Manor itself, Harry began to explore the grounds a bit as well and found that there was a regulation-sized Quidditch pitch just sitting out there, overgrown and wild but very much available for enterprising young broom-riders to take advantage of. Draco consented to a Seeker’s game only if Harry tidied up the pitch himself, and after three late evenings and one very long weekend, the brush had been beaten back, the wild weeds tamed, and the stands freshly repainted. Harry had even Conjured up reasonable recreations of the House banners and pennants, and they snapped and fluttered beautifully in the breeze.

Draco, being Draco, made a face at the bright colours and promptly Transfigured them all to show the Malfoy family coat of arms, a dull thing of monotone shades depicting a rearing white dragon upon a field of black. As Draco seemed very proud of the feat, Harry kept his mouth shut, because he’d read in that book on marrying pure-bloods that it was best to let the pure-blood spouse win arguments, as they were accustomed to getting their way and tended to throw tantrums when offended. Harry had seen nothing thus far to refute this notion, and at least Draco was out of the house. He was going to count this as a win.

He was also going to count several of their Seekers’ games as wins, too—mostly seeing as, well, he’d won them. Not all of them, mind—Draco wasn’t quite the terror on a broom he’d been back in Hogwarts, but neither was Harry, so they were still a decent match, even if Harry edged Draco out most of the time. The brooms they’d uncovered in the ‘storage shed’ (really it was its own little apartment, fully furnished and with a whole bathroom and steam room included) were actually quite nice if a bit outdated. “The Dark Lord’s servants tended to blow off steam by torturing their prisoners rather than taking a loop or two around the pitch,” Draco had reminded darkly.

Still, Harry did not need a brand-spanking-new Nimbus 2020 to kick Draco’s arse, just a sunny afternoon and a nice straightaway to scream down. It didn’t take much to goad Draco into actually putting in some effort, and in startlingly short order, they were winding down each day chasing the Snitch by the dying rays of sunlight. It was exhilarating, it was freeing—so relieving to have all his problems reduced to his gloved hand, a tiny glint of gold, and the space between those two points.

It happened on a Sunday afternoon as June was winding to a close.

It was finally feeling proper hot as they raced alongside each other under the baking sun, arms outstretched, only to overshoot as the Snitch took a wild right turn, and they had to loop back around and try again. Draco had won the first two games of their best-of-five, but Harry had taken the next two, and now it was the moment of truth.

There—it was hovering just below Draco’s kickstand, in his shadow so he couldn’t see it.

Harry made a beeline for Draco—this would either get him killed or win him the game. And he had a fantastic track record with not getting killed.

Draco saw him coming, mouthing something that Harry couldn’t hear over the sound of the wind screaming in his ears, and just before he barrelled through him, Harry yanked hard on the shaft of his broom, pulling into a sloth roll, and snatched up the Snitch in a single neat, clean manoeuvre.

Draco was already ranting as Harry gently floated back down to solid ground. “You almost killed me, you idiot! You shouldn’t be allowed to fly, after that!”

“Almost killing you means I didn’t, though. Which I’m glad for, considering what I’ve gone through to keep you alive.”

“Oh so now we’re back to keeping score, are we?”

Harry waved the Snitch in his face, shoving his broomstick at Draco to put away, as was the loser’s duty. “Never stopped.”

Draco waved his wand, directing the brooms to put themselves away, which Harry thought was cheating, but it wasn’t against their unspoken and non-existent rules, so he let it go. He could stand to be a bit magnanimous, as the winner, after all. “You’re going to break your neck trying stunts like that, and then we’re going to find out the hard way what happens when a Malfoy’s spouse dies prematurely.”

“Look on the bright side, you can peck out my eyes and shit on my corpse. Get one final hurrah in.”

“Maybe I’ll have Old Bern dump you into the portal. Perhaps a greater demon will accept you as an appropriate offering and finally agree to make a pact with me.”

“They’d better accept me—I’m Harry-fucking-Potter.”

“Potter-Malfoy.”

“Malfoy-Potter. Wait, no—fuck you.”

Draco’s brows quirked up as he set off back for the Manor with a little skip in his step he certainly hadn’t earned. “It’s really too easy with you sometimes, you realise,” he said, lips curling around the words.

“Yeah, I realise…” Harry grumbled, but his heart wasn’t in it. Draco so rarely smiled—and even more rarely did so genuinely. His good mood radiated into Harry over the Influx with the force of the baking sun hanging over their heads, warming Harry from his ears to his toes. He was sweaty, breathing hard, and high on adrenaline—he hadn’t felt this good in a long while.

He jogged forward, slapping Draco between his shoulder blades. “Race you!”

“Good gad, what are you, eleven?”

“Maybe!”

And maybe Draco was eleven too, for he tore off after Harry with just as much childish vigour.

Harry won, but only because he’d had a head start, as Draco loudly complained between heaving, panting breaths. When Harry told him he was just out of shape, Draco showed him two fingers and tromped up the stairs to Old Bern’s dismay, heading for his suite and likely the very fine bathroom within. Harry might have been jealous, but the guest bathroom was quite nice as well, so he apologised to Old Bern for tracking in dirt and made his own way to the facilities for what was bound to be a glorious scrub-down. It was almost like being back at Hogwarts, wrapping up a brutal practice session by hitting the showers—except this time there was no one trying to smack his bum with a twisted-up towel.

He peeled out of his clothes and stepped under the piping hot spray; it was so nice that the Manor pipes always kept the water the perfect temperature—unlike Grimmauld Place’s, which seemed perpetually on the fritz. Hermione had urged him to get a repairwizard out to check the Charms, but he always forgot until he was standing naked under the showerhead praying he didn’t freeze his bits off.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the steam, exhaling slowly and already contemplating the rest of his lazy Sunday afternoon. He was going to visit Andromeda and Teddy tomorrow—his first time since before the wedding ceremony, nearly two months ago now. Ought he to invite Draco along? He’d probably enjoy himself, but Harry wasn’t sure how Andromeda would react to seeing her nephew for the first time in…forever? Had they ever met? Perhaps he would send her a quick Owl once he finished freshening up, just to take her temperature on the matter. Draco would probably decline anyway, so the point might be moot, but he’d eventually wear the git down and get him to go visit his aunt and something-cousin-something-removed.

Harry luxuriated in the double-bubble soap suds the Malfoys kept on tap. They tingled where they touched his skin and smelled like fresh citrus, and he could feel his muscle aches and pains being sapped away. His hands slipped over his skin, palms splayed as he soaped himself up, and the warmth from the shower seeped under his skin, leaving him feeling heated and happy. God it’d been a good day today. A really good one, for the first time in a while.

Distantly, he was aware of an insidious, insistent twisting beginning to make itself known, just below his navel. A familiar tingle, entirely unrelated to the bubbles, and his hand slipped lower, over his belly, pressing just at the muscles where torso blended into hip. He hadn’t jerked off in ages—had been too distracted or stressed or everything—but today had been a good day. He’d won their best of five, he’d beaten Draco in their silly race back to the Manor, and now he was enjoying what felt like the best shower in recent memory. He deserved to have a lovely little wank to top it all off.

He leaned back against the cool tile wall of the shower, the chill of the tile against his heated skin causing his breath to catch in his throat, and let his fingers curl around his shaft, giving a testing little tug to see if his cock was as keen for a pull as he was. The answer seemed to be a resounding fuck yes, and Harry gently bit his lip, resting his forehead against the tile and situating himself so he wasn’t liable to slip and conk his head if he passed out on orgasm. Wouldn’t it be just perfect for Old Bern to find him like that?

But he wasn’t going to think about Old Bern right now—that would put him right off. He didn’t have anything in particular to think about at all, really—and that was all right. He could get himself off pure, just relish in the sensation, ‘cause he was actually feeling pretty keyed-up right about now, so it wasn’t going to take long for him to finish at all. Sometimes it was nice to just get yourself off for the fun of it—you didn’t need a reason, just an urge, and he was in a good mood, a really good mood for once, so he was gonna ride it.

God, when had the last time he’d jerked off like this been? Had he ever, really? Just touched himself because he was in a good mood and why not sweeten it? Usually it was because he was tired and stressed and wanted a quick bit of relief, or there’d been the one time he’d woken up in the middle of the night after a dream he couldn’t recall beyond the involvement of Oliver Wood and a very much alive Cedric Diggory, but he tried not to think too hard about that one.

Right now, though, he wasn’t stressed. He hadn’t had any odd dreams—well, none that were odder than usual. He was just young and alive and hard and happy, like everything was perfect just for this one blinding moment—

His hand stilled, and his eyes shot open.

These weren’t his emotions.

He’d had a good day today, yeah, but…he’d had plenty of good days. There was no real reason to feel practically high off of a single enjoyable afternoon—unless he was the type to typically ignore the silver lining and focus instead on the dark clouds set to ruin his day.

This was the Influx. This was the Influx working its magic on him. This was the Influx filling him with relief and joy and good humour—

—and arousal.

This was the Influx’s doing—which meant right this moment, at the opposite end of the Manor, Draco was hunched over beneath the beating spray of his own showerhead, tugging on his cock with a slick, tight grip and mounting insistence. Was he thinking about anything? Or was this really just one of those good-day wanks? Maybe the adrenaline from their competition had worked on him—it’d happened to Harry after a few practices, he could sympathise. You confused the excitement of the game with the excitement of arousal, and before you knew it, you were heading toward that beautiful precipice, hoping to launch yourself into oblivion.

Harry groaned, head jerking back as he gave himself a test squeeze to see if he was still interested—and the answer was very much yes. His prick definitely didn’t care this was all Draco’s doing, it was too invested in the idea of a grade-A orgasm to much care where it came from, and Harry kind of had to agree.

The Influx was like the world’s greatest feedback loop in moments like these, with everything magnified a hundredfold. Every touch, every tingle, every tremulous breath huffed out under the driving spray of the shower—he felt it once, and then he felt Draco feel it, and then he felt it again. God, why had he waited so long to wank like this? Probably because Draco might have noticed, just like Harry had now, but he was too far gone to care all that much.

His hand was flying over his shaft now, tweaking the tip on each pass, and his hips were starting to jerk insistently as he gave frenetic little thrusts. It wasn’t nearly enough, not nearly enough—

—but then it was too much, and he was coming, arsecheeks clenching as his whole body tensed and his orgasm ripped through him in a violent wave. He caught himself before he collapsed—preparation well served—and bent nearly in half at the waist as he struggled to catch his breath, the dregs of his release swirling down the drain.

His head cleared a bit with the completion of his wank session, and he quickly finished scrubbing up, donning just enough clothing to be half-decent and face-planting on the bed. A nap was very much in order right now—and maybe when Old Bern came to wake him for dinner, he would have forgotten that he’d just jerked off practically alongside Draco Malfoy. And he hadn’t hated it at all.

In fact, he kind of hoped it happened again.

And it did, in fact, happen again. A few more times in as many days, in fact—enough to confirm Harry’s suspicion that it was the Influx, and it was Draco’s doing. He wondered in the back of his mind if Draco realised what he was doing—what he was doing to Harry—and then decided he didn’t want to know, for half a dozen different reasons. A part of him recognised this was a tad bit unethical—especially if Draco didn’t realise what he was doing—and the polite thing to do would be to gently remind Draco that they had a magical bond that let one feel what the other was feeling, so there wasn’t much in the way of privacy between them…

…but then Draco might stop, and Harry also didn’t want that for another half a dozen reasons.

Just to see if anything might change (for better or worse), Harry did let Draco win once—but Draco saw through him, told him off for ‘taking it easy’ on him, and stormed up to his room, spending the rest of the evening in a snit and definitely not wanking.

But then that turned out to be the last of the wanking for a while, and Harry worried that he really had offended Draco, gravely—like maybe he thought Harry didn’t respect him enough, or didn’t think he was a challenge. But how did you explain to someone that you’d just wanted to see if it made your magically bonded mutual masturbation feel any better? You didn’t—you couldn’t—so Harry kept his mouth shut and went back to wanking the old-fashioned way, which he was distressed to realise didn’t hold nearly the allure anymore.

Shortly, though, he came to learn that it was not his efforts (or lack thereof) on the Quidditch pitch that had Draco once more down in the doldrums but the rapidly approaching end to Draco’s year of Ministry-imposed house arrest, as was announced one evening by official Owl.

“Wh—but that’s fantastic news!” Harry said, upon reading the letter dictating that his house arrest would end at midnight on the 7th of July, just days away. “You can finally go out and do stuff again.”

Draco made a face. “Ah yes, stuff. How I’ve missed it.”

“Come on, you know what I meant—now you’ve got no excuse to turn down visiting Teddy and Andromeda. She couldn’t have been clearer in her letter that she’d love to see you.”

“I really must teach you how to speak pure-blood so you learn to read between the lines. She wants nothing to do with me.” Harry was pretty sure Draco was talking out of his arse, his bad mood colouring everything in the worst light, so he let the matter lie. There would be plenty of weekends to come, and eventually he’d wear Draco down.

But Draco’s tension and poor spirits only worsened as the end of his confinement drew near, to the point it was nearly as bad as it had been on the eve of his birthday. Harry honestly didn’t get it—you’d think someone would be excited to almost be a more-or-less free man once more—but then again, there were a lot of things he didn’t get about Draco.

He did know, however, that Draco generally appreciated a distraction. So it was on the evening of the 7th of July, with midnight but a few hours away, that Harry leaned on Old Bern with all he had and was granted free rein to poke about the wine cellar. The bottle of Blishen’s was still about, but Harry was looking for something a bit smoother that might keep them in their right mind for at least a little while before they got completely blitzed, so Old Bern pressed into his hands a dusty bottle of what he simply called ‘the old Master’s favourite’ and sent him on his way with a pair of crystal goblets.

If it had been good enough for Lucius Malfoy, then surely it was too good for them, so he planted himself in front of Draco, who by now was very nearly done reading his dragon smut, and held out a goblet for him insistently. “Come on. It’s your last chance to make very bad decisions; this time tomorrow and you’ll need to start acting responsibly again. Might as well go out with a bang.”

Draco looked like he very much wanted to tell Harry to fuck off, but for whatever reason, he sighed softly, set the book aside, and snatched up the goblet, frowning at it. “Where did you get these?”

“Old Bern. Why?”

“…They were a gift from the Bulgarian Minister for Magic to my parents for their fifteenth anniversary.”

“Oh—god, do you think we should put them back? That sounds…expensive.”

Draco considered this a moment, then shook his head. “It’s not like they’re likely to ever use them, is it?” Which was a dark thought, but Harry suspected his commentary was not expected. Draco raised his goblet, waiting for it to be filled, and Harry did so, only now wondering if it was really the best idea to get Draco drunk enough he forgot he was nervous. Well, too late now.

Once he had poured the both of them measures, Harry sat on the couch beside Draco and cleared his throat. “Why don’t we make a toast t—” But Draco had already knocked his back—Harry didn’t even know if this stuff was meant to be knocked back—and was making a grab for the bottle to get a refill. “…All right, I suppose it’s to be that sort of night, then.”

He barely stopped Draco from attempting to drink directly from the bottle itself, refilling his glass for him and then setting the bottle off to the side. The object was to get drunk, sure, but this was supposed to be nice stuff; no sense wasting it chasing a quick buzz. Draco tolerated his borderline mothering and nursed his second drink with a bit more care as Harry asked, “So what’re your plans once your house arrest’s up?” Draco shrugged, like a petulant child. “Surely you’ve got plans, right? You’ve had a year or more to prepare…”

“Been a tiny bit preoccupied with the fact I might not see the end of my house arrest, haven’t I? Wasn’t exactly considering much beyond June the 2nd. And we’re decidedly beyond June the 2nd now.”

That they were. Clearly Draco hadn’t held out much hope, so Harry could see how fantasising about what he might get up to when let off his metaphorical leash again would have only hurt. “Well, June the 2nd’s come and gone, and you’re still here. So what’re you gonna do?” Another petulant shrug as Draco traced the rim of his goblet with a finger. “You know, if you don’t think up something, I’m going to assume you’re free and take you out to do something silly, like karaoke or dancing.”

“I’m a very good dancer, classically trained. You’d look silly; not me.”

“Not if I took you polker dancing.” Draco recoiled, nearly spilling his drink. “Right, so if you don’t wanna go out polker dancing with me tomorrow night, you’d better think of something quick.”

Draco took a long, pensive sip, then said, very quiet, “…I want to see my mother.”

Harry sat up a bit straighter. “…You haven’t seen her, all this time?”

Draco shook his head, almost imperceptibly, and stared into his drink, handling the goblet with a sort of reverence. “There was nothing left for her here—it hurt too much, so she left. I didn’t blame her. I would have gone, too, if I could have. Father won’t be allowed visitors for five years, and by then…who knows what living on that rock will have done to him.” Harry could not summon a single mote of sympathy for Lucius Malfoy, so he didn’t say anything. “…And I’m not allowed to receive international Floo calls, so that’s been that.”

“But—she hasn’t Owled you, at least?”

Draco shifted and looked a bit uncomfortable. “…I told her not to. I didn’t…” He took another long draw. “…I didn’t want her writing me…and then to suddenly stop receiving responses. She’d know what had happened—and it would break her. This way…this way she can just pretend.”

“Could pretend,” Harry reminded. “Because it’s over now, yeah? Maybe you ought to write her tomorrow, if nothing else. Or should I send her a Floo call myself? I can do it from Grimmauld Place easily enough, if your fireplace is blocked off from international connections.”

“Oh—good gad, no, definitely not.” Draco waved him away, and drops of his drink went sloshing. “It’s bad enough she’ll know I’m married—I’ll turn into a peacock before I let her know who I’m married to.”

Well, that could be arranged, Harry grumbled mentally, and he finished off his drink and began to give himself a refill. “So you’re gonna go visit your mum in person, then?”

“Said I wanted to—didn’t say I would. And before you go off lecturing me about being a pissing coward, it’s ‘cause I’m still not allowed to travel internationally for another six months after my house arrest’s lifted.”

Oh. Well that was stupid. “…What do they think you’ll do? Fuck off somewhere else and never be a problem for the British Ministry ever again? Wouldn’t that be horrible.”

“Oh, they want me gone—they’ve just got to get their last few kicks in. Once I’m out of the picture, they can lay claim to the Manor and estate.”

“Wh—surely they can’t do that.” Harry had absolutely no grounds upon which to base this, but it seemed like the polite thing to say.

“They can—and they intend to, of that I’m quite sure. Fucked themselves, actually, by making me serve house arrest here for a year—or else I’m sure they’d have already ransacked the place.”

“Maybe you can leave the Nope Pit open for them, then. A little parting gift.”

Draco gave him a shrewd look. “You’ve been banging on about that thing for going on three months now, and suddenly you’re keen for it to be someone else’s problem?”

“I’m going to be a Ministry employee; I have to get used to pawning off my duties onto others one of these days, I say.” Harry then had a thought. “Hey, if I’m married to you, wouldn’t that technically make this my property?”

“Not on your life—trust me, I made sure Granger settled that.”

“I only meant that if you fucked off to France or whatever, I might still have claim to the Manor, so I could, I dunno, hold on to it for you? Until you came back.” Harry swirled his drink, watching the liquid slosh around and throw amber-hued light against the wall. “Or if you came back, I guess.”

“Of course I’d come back,” Draco sniffed, and Harry looked at him—but he wouldn’t look at Harry, only swishing his drink around his mouth before swallowing with a loud smack. “If I leave forever, they win.”

“They do?” Harry didn’t know who ‘they’ were, if this was still the Ministry or some more ambiguous collective they.

“They do. And I’m not in the business of bending over and taking it.” He poured himself a new glass and then added, “That I do for pleasure.”

By this point, Harry was getting a little too tipsy to entirely understand what that meant, so instead he said, “Well if you can’t go and visit your mum tomorrow, I guess that means you’re free to come polker dancing with me.”

And Draco gave a genuine snort of amusement, which sent ripples through Harry as well, a not entirely unpleasant sensation by any means, especially with the buzz of alcohol behind it. “Can you even dance the polka?”

Harry tapped his temple. “I think the fact that I called it polker should tell you everything you need to know.”

Draco took a long, deep breath, sliding down against the back of the couch. Harry’s legs brushed against his, so he kicked Harry’s ankle very hard, managing not to spill his drink even when Harry attempted to elbow him in retaliation. How was he so good at that sort of thing? “…I just feel a bit lost, is all.”

Harry scooted out of kicking distance, reaching for the bottle and noting with no small amount of dismay it felt empty. Wanker hadn’t even left him a drop. “Well, you’re twenty now. Not getting any younger.”

“It’s just—I’ve been worrying about this stupid curse for so long, I don’t know what to do with my life. Honestly, I just assumed I’d—well, go be a fucking peacock, forever.” He made a face at himself. “…Marriage wasn’t really in the cards.”

“Uh, weren’t you the one banging on about wanting to have a real marriage and a spouse that cared for you and all that bullshit? I feel like we argued about it for, like, three straight hours.” He slapped the cushions. “On this very couch!”

“First off, you’ve really got to stop remembering things I’ve said. It’s terribly inconvenient. And second off, if you’re going to remember things, remember them accurately—wanting a marriage and one not being likely to happen are two very different things.”

Harry still didn’t understand what that meant, but he chalked it up to the alcohol. “…Hey, what if you took off your ring and then I smuggled you into France as my Emotional Support Peacock?” he suggested, apropos of nothing, and Draco rolled his eyes so hard Harry worried they might pop out of his head. “Oh! Maybe we can go on a proper honeymoon now!”

“I’m probably going to regret this, but I’m terribly curious as to what your idea of a ‘proper honeymoon’ might be.”

“Mmm…” Harry said, to show he was thinking very hard. “Ron’s family went to Egypt. He said it was really nice.”

“Ugh, rejected. Too much sand.”

“Maybe somewhere tropical then, with those drinks with the little umbrellas in them. Like Fiji.”

“Absolutely not; I didn’t survive this curse just to succumb to some insect-borne illness they’ve never even heard of at St. Mungo’s.”

“You’re rejecting all my ideas. I feel like that’s not fair. You suggest something so I can reject it.”

Draco knocked back the last of his drink, Banishing his empty goblet back to wherever Old Bern had found it. “Wizarding Davos, in Switzerland. There’s a hot springs resort that’s been owned and operated by a Fire Elemental for over seven hundred years, and they have actual Yeti you can hire to guide you on Alpine treks, if you’re a fan of that sort of thing.” Draco definitely did not look like a ‘fan of that sort of thing’.

“…Well, wait a minute, that sounds kind of fun. I can’t reject that one—dammit.”

Draco waved him off. “You’re in luck, then, because I’m rejecting my own idea—there’s every chance we’d run into branch members of the Malfoy-Black family, and I don’t want my honeymoon ruined by having to explain to them how I wound up married to you.”

“Hey now, that’s not very nice. First you don’t want your mother to know we’re married—and now you don’t want the rest of your family to know either? Do I get to meet any of my in-laws, or—” He gave a mocking gasp. “Were you just using me? Is our marriage a sham?”

“No, no, you make a very good point. I shan’t hide our relationship any longer.” He hopped to his feet—swaying only a little—and held his hand out for Harry to take. “Come.” He snapped his fingers in a way that demanded immediate compliance.

“Uh, where to?” Harry asked, only a hint of hesitation in his voice, because they were both on the wrong side of drunk by now, and bad decisions were definitely in the cards.

“Well, Mother’s out of the country, and Father’s in prison, but I can still introduce you to my family.”

The family members Harry was privileged to meet on this evening were, it turned out, the peacocks.

Draco made a grand show of naming off each and every one, pointing out their identifying marks and why (as he understood it) they succumbed to the curse. “And this is Sardinius—I’ve mentioned him before—”

“Like six times, yeah.”

“Sometimes I think he’s still a little bit human under there. I used to pull out his tail feathers as a child, and he’s shat on my head several times in retaliation.”

Or maybe he was just a peacock who just didn’t like his feathers being yanked on. Harry didn’t mention this out loud, though; Draco was probably still trying to cling to the hope he wouldn’t be reduced to a base animal should the curse eventually claim him, so if he wanted to think his whatever-uncle held a personal grudge against him that exceeded the mental capacities of a bird, then let him.

“Now good ol’ Sardinius here…his folly was that he insisted on only marrying for love. He claimed that being locked into a loveless marriage would be a death all its own and refused all offers. So, when his twentieth birthday arrived, marriage was taken entirely off the table, and he became as you see him now: quite the ugliest peacock you could ever hope to see.”

Sardinius cocked his head in their direction, as if he could understand Draco, and fixed him with a beady-eyed stare—and Harry wondered if Draco wasn’t a little bit right, and maybe there was a shred of humanity left in there somewhere.

“…You know, it’s really rich of you to berate your poor old ancestor here for something you yourself also championed—to the extent that you nearly wound up strutting about your terribly dilapidated family gardens alongside him.”

“What did I just tell you about remembering things I’ve said at inopportune moments?” Draco brushed him off. “And I only said those things because I was being very stubborn and short-sighted, two of my very few flaws. Also, you’ll recall that I eventually came to my senses—even if I did so under the assumption this would only be a temporary arrangement.” He wrinkled his nose, snapping a twig off a dying rose bush. “Still, I have since come to accept that I would rather be married to you than a fucking peacock, forever.”

“I…guess that’s good.” Harry didn’t know if he’d just been insulted or not; too much drink was making it difficult to tell just how mean Draco was being. Maybe that was for the best.

“I did learn one very important thing from Sardinius, though.” He dropped into a squat, gently stroking Sardinius’s crest, as if in apology for all the terror he’d caused him as a child. The peacock’s eyes fluttered shut, and Draco moved to scratch it under its chin. “And that is: falling in love with someone is a death sentence when you cannot have them.”

Well. That was a rather dark take on the concept of love—but Harry supposed that was what happened when you had a bloodline curse complicating matters.

At length, they made their way back to the Manor, though their tromp through the overgrown gardens had caused all sorts of detritus to get caught up in Draco’s very long hair, worn this evening with only a ribbon loosely holding it all together. He spent five minutes trying to pick all the dead leaves and twigs that had tangled themselves in his atrociously long locks after he’d squatted down to give Sardinius pets, and then Harry opened his big mouth and wondered aloud if any insects had worked their way in.

“Well I wasn’t worried about that before, but I sure as fuck am now!” Draco wailed, sending the peacocks scattering with panicked squawks, and Harry had to stand there with him, helping check for any uninvited hitch-hikers.

“Can’t you just cut it?” Harry asked as he peeled back layer after layer. It was so soft, flowing through his fingers like water—what sort of care regimen did Draco use to keep it this way? No wonder he’d always made fun of the bird-nest on top of Harry’s head. “It seems terribly inconvenient, honestly.”

“Of course it’s inconvenient; I’d wager that’s half the reason.” Harry gave him a funny look, and he muttered. “…It’s the curse. It just started growing—and I couldn’t get it to stop. It becomes the damned thing’s tail, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Oh. Harry had noticed that, now that he thought about it—he just hadn’t put two and two together. “But—wait a minute, your dad had the curse too, right?” Draco nodded. “And his wasn’t this bad.”

Draco’s eyes lit up, and he gasped, leaning into Harry with a wobbly sort of excitement. “Fuck! You’re right! Maybe I can finally cut it and it’ll stay cut!” He whipped his wand out—where had he even been hiding it?—and held out a hunk of hair at arm’s length. “Diffindo!” he cried, wand movements a little too clunky, such that he seemed in real danger of chopping his own arm off.

He managed to aim true, though, and in one clean swipe, a fist-sized chunk of Draco’s hair came free, strands fluttering to the ground. He whirled around to face Harry. “Well? Is it growing back? Is it?” He gestured to the bit of hair he’d just sliced off, as if Harry might need reminding.

Harry squinted. “Uh—no… Is it supposed to grow back immediately?”

Draco gave an excited little yip, dancing around like an idiot as he pumped a fist in the air. “Thank fuck! Gads, summer was going to be horrific—I was honestly prepared to wind it into a turban and wear it like that until October, really I was.” He grabbed Harry’s shoulders and gave him a rough, enthusiastic shake. “You, sir, are not quite as stupid as I thought you were.”

Draco meant it as a compliment, Harry understood—and honestly, with the Influx working its magic on overdrive right now, Draco’s excitement bubbling over into Harry, he was going to take it in the spirit it was meant and not the half-slight it sounded like. “I’m going to remind you that you said that once you’re sober.”

“Go on, then!” Draco dared him. “Do your worst! Full disclosure, though: I will vehemently deny it. Because, if you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a dick when I’m sober. Another one of my very few flaws.”

“That’s, like, three flaws now—can you still call them ‘very few’?”

“Okay well, that was uncalled for. Now I’m learning you’re kind of a dick when you’re drunk.”

Harry just shrugged. “Makes us perfect for each other, don’t you think? Opposites attract and all that.”

Draco made a gagging gesture—but then he almost actually made himself vomit and quickly covered his mouth. “Fuck—shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, not your finest moment.”

“Bah, you’ve seen me absolutely humiliated enough times by now, I’m almost starting to get used to it.” Which Harry was kind of touched by—assuming Draco was telling the truth, which was never a good assumption to make. “Oh, you can’t imagine how much of a relief it’ll be chopping this fucking train off.” He grabbed the rest of his hair in one fist and gave it a shake in Harry’s direction. “It’s been misery keeping my ends from splitting! Sometimes I think that’s the actual curse! It’s all going—all of it!”

And Draco genuinely seemed delighted at the prospect of all but scalping himself—so much so that Harry worried he meant to do it right this moment. A pang of loss struck him as Harry realised that he was going to kind of miss this Draco. The one that appeared in his place would look an awful lot like the little shit he’d pulled from the Fiendfyre and who’d stamped on his face and called Hermione slurs. Of course Harry would know he wasn’t the same—Draco was by no means ‘reformed’, but he was generally quite a bit more decent these days—but this was the person he’d grown friendly with, so he would kind of miss him, was all.

He reached up, fingers moving quite without his permission, and twisted a few strands between them. “…Well, leave a little bit, won’t you?”

Draco had frozen up the moment Harry had reached out, and he regarded the rogue fingers with no small amount of trepidation. A fair reaction, as Harry didn’t entirely know what he was doing either. “…Why?” he asked, very slowly.

Harry mulled this over, and then said, “It suits you,” because it was the first thing that came to mind, and because it was true.

“It suits me?” Draco parroted, nose wrinkling, and he seemed less worried now and more confused. “You suddenly care what does and doesn’t suit me?”

He had to mull this one over too, but he came to the same conclusion: “…Yeah, I guess I do. It’s just a thought.” And then his traitorous fingers tucked the errant strands behind Draco’s ear, and he decided that looked very nice, actually. The wan moonlight was hitting those silvery locks at just the right angle, lighting him up with moonglow, and Harry was so transfixed, he could almost ignore the way Draco was staring at him with a sort of gobsmacked horror, like he’d just slapped him.

“…What are you doing?” Draco asked, almost fearful, but Harry could feel through the Influx that he was not in the least bit scared. At least not in the conventional way. Harry knew fear—and he also knew that stomach-churning nameless emotion that came upon you when something was just on the cusp of happening, and you didn’t know if you wanted it to or not. A fraught expectation that left you feeling queasy, parched the throat, and made the hands clammy.

What was he doing? He didn’t quite know—he was kind of operating on blind instinct right now. It was just, doing what felt right. Probably the alcohol was lubricating things along, but he didn’t feel all that opposed to…whatever was going on. “Not sure…” he said, soft and honest. He still had his hand cupping the side of Draco’s head, and he brushed a thumb over the exposed ear. Draco flinched—and that strange emotion came through stronger. “…Should I stop?”

“…What am I supposed to say to that?” Draco muttered, miserable. Harry had thought it was a straight yes-or-no question, but evidently it wasn’t. You learned something new every day. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Harry didn’t know exactly what this referred to—touching him, as he was? Marrying him to stall a curse? Consorting with him at all, given their fraught history? Luckily, there was a single response to cover all meanings: “Because I want to.”

He felt Draco’s heart skip a beat as it echoed over the Influx and made Harry’s do the same. He could feel a heat rising between them, familiar, welcome. Bad decisions had been made—and more were yet to come. Harry decided to hurry them along.

He stepped in close, to a distance entirely too intimate for comfort, and waited for Draco to retreat—but he didn’t, still frozen in fear and that nameless emotion that was rapidly being consumed by radiant arousal. Harry’s fingers trailed down, resting at the pulse, which fluttered frantically beneath them, and he laid his palm flat against Draco’s nape, the cool bite of metal from his ring all but sizzling when it touched Draco’s heated skin.

Draco gave a soft gasp, hands scrabbling up to grab Harry by the shoulders—like he wanted to shove him away, but also wanted to grab him close and never let go. So many conflicting emotions were swirling around inside of him, seeping through to Harry and leaving him unsure of where he was meant to go from here—or where he wanted to go, even. He’d gotten them this far, though—it was Draco’s turn to offer some input. This was meant to be a two-person job, after all, he was pretty sure.

He leaned in closer, until their foreheads nearly brushed, and said in a voice rough with arousal of his own by now, “…The Influx is a hell of a thing…”

Draco swallowed, throat bobbing. “…You can feel that?”

Harry nodded. “It’s better than the booze, honestly.”

And Draco grimaced, cheeks heating now with shame as he tried to pull away. “That—I didn’t reali—”

“Hey.” His free hand went around Draco’s waist, holding him in place now at the neck and hip, and Draco froze again, panic threatening to entirely subsume whatever flames Harry was desperately trying to fan for reasons quite beyond him at the moment. “It works both ways. Feel me.” He grabbed Draco’s wrist, physically placing his palm over Harry’s heart. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. Can’t you tell?”

He concentrated on pumping his own good vibes over the bond, the relaxation, the warmth, the heady buzz of arousal. Sober, he might have felt embarrassed right about now—hell, sober he probably wouldn’t have been here at all—but he was just tipsy enough to ignore the nagging voice that said this was entirely inappropriate and what if the peacocks were watching?

Well let ‘em watch. Maybe if they’d done this sort of thing while they were human, they wouldn’t be peacocks.

“Ah fuck…” Draco said, leaning in so that their foreheads kissed. His eyelids fluttered shut, and his mouth hung open just a hair as he released a few long, panting breaths. “That feels…good…”

“Right? It always feels good…” He cocked his head to the side, whispering, “Haven’t you felt it before?”

“Before…” Draco repeated, a frown in his voice. “Before…?”

“Before,” Harry said, shifting so that he could just brush his hips against Draco’s, riding the thigh that had worked its way between his legs seemingly without Draco even noticing. He could feel himself getting hard—and now Draco could feel it too.

Draco jolted in his arms, jerking back, and digging his fingers almost talon-like into Harry’s shoulders. He locked eyes with Harry, gaze dark and searching—for what, Harry couldn’t be sure. “What…what are you…” His expression twisted again. “Why are you doing this to me?” he asked for a second time.

Harry could only offer the same answer as before: “…Because I want to.”

“Fuck—” was the last thing Harry heard before Draco grabbed his jaw and slotted their lips together, leaning into Harry with all his weight and nearly bringing them both tumbling to the ground. Harry quickly shifted his stance so he had his balance back and brought both hands up to hold Draco in place, fingers curling into the thin shift he still insisted on wearing, even though he hadn’t had a transformation fit in weeks.

Draco was pressing the whole long line of his body against Harry, and everywhere burned, from the tongue he had stroking feverishly against Harry’s to the hands splayed now against the back of Harry’s head, drawing him even closer, to god—yes—that was definitely his cock there, or else he had another wand secreted away.

He could feel Draco—inside and out—and every inch of him was hard and hot and aching. So all of Harry was too.

He kissed back—and though it had been a while since he’d had a good snog, he thought he was probably doing an okay enough job of it. Draco at least wasn’t complaining, and Draco always complained. Right now, though, the only noises he was making were little grunts of pleasure and barking gasps when Harry ground their hips together again, insistent, because this little diversion was rapidly approaching a conclusion and he was very keen to get on with it.

But then Draco drew back—and pressed their foreheads together, pinning Harry in place with his gaze. His glasses were fogged from their mingled breaths, but he thought he saw Draco wink. Before he could question it, though, everything drew down to a single, infinite point of nothingness—and then instantly ballooned back into everythingness as they stumbled apart, ears ringing from the CRACK of Apparition.

Harry whirled around—they were on the balcony, standing before the open French doors leading to Draco’s bedroom. “Wh—what the fuck—”

“What?” Draco said, a touch of challenge in his voice as his long fingers hooked through the loops of Harry’s jeans and gave a sharp tug. They came together once more with a shuddering gasp. “Did you want to keep rutting in front of my ancestors?”

“Well—generally it’s not polite to Apparate someone without their say-so.”

“It’s also not polite to grind up on them like a two-Knut trollop, but there you were.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Can you hear me now?” And now it was Draco’s turn to rub himself against Harry, who was rapidly becoming acquainted with the precise girth and weight of Draco Potter-Malfoy-slash-Malfoy-Potter’s cock through nigh-sheer fabric. “Can you feel me, as you seemed so insistent on?”

And fuck he could feel him, in every sense of the word—the arousal feedback loop was boiling his brain in his skull, and his own pants were getting painfully tight as he angled himself so that they might rub against each other, which it turned out felt fucking amazing. It was pleasure from both ends, overwhelming ecstasy that Harry wasn’t entirely sure he could handle without combusting.

“Good gad, you’ve got a short fuse, don’t you?” Draco teased, hands sliding down Harry’s back to grope his arse and hold him in place, but Harry felt nothing in the way of irritation through the Influx—only a curious sort of pride and elation, just shy of boasting and heady as anything. Draco slipped a leg between Harry’s again, rubbing his thigh against Harry’s groin in a deliciously suggestive motion. “Shall we see what it takes to make you ‘go off’?”

Harry groaned. “I don’t—think it’ll be much surprise.”

“Yes, you are rather predictable…” He slid his hands around the back of Harry’s head again, drawing him close. “But let’s just see, for fun.” And then they were kissing again, and Harry was more than all right with that, especially since Draco seemed to be openly inviting him to continue his frenetic grinding against Draco’s bare thigh. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions, and Harry kind of wished he weren’t wearing quite as many articles of clothing, but he was too close to the edge to stop now and strip, and that would probably send the wrong signal anyway. This bad decision had almost run its course, so he was going to ride it while he could, and then they could sort through the shambles this relationship had become after their heads had cleared.

Harry’s jerking and jostling grew even more urgent as he felt his orgasm build quickly just at the base of his spine. With Draco crooning in his ear all sorts of filthy-nothings, he was going to spill shamefully quickly, but the warm, insistent buzz of pride still seeping over the Influx told him Draco didn’t really mind it at all. The knob probably felt flattered—which, Harry supposed, was better than any number of other emotions he could be feeling right now, so he’d give him something to be proud of.

Harry wrapped his arms, tight, around Draco’s lanky form, holding him close and delivering a final deep, bruising kiss as his climax swept through him, cock pulsing with sharp twitches where he had it tucked into the divot where Draco’s thigh met his hip. He held there for a long moment until the shudders died down, clinging to Draco and resting most of his weight against him. He was distantly aware that he’d shoved Draco against the balcony railing, which was probably digging uncomfortably into Draco’s back—but he wasn’t complaining, so Harry wasn’t too fussed about it either, a pleasant sort of muzziness blanketing his brain in a lovely, absentminded fog.

“…Oh, fuck, that’s nice…” Draco mumbled from what sounded like very far away. He pressed his forehead into Harry’s shoulder, groaning softly. “…That…is that what it feels like when…?”

“Mmhmm…” Harry said, bereft of words for the moment. He wanted to hold on to this feeling for as long as possible—because there was a very real chance he wasn’t going to feel it again ever. “‘S good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah…” And then he shifted his body, and Harry felt it—still hard, still hot, still there.

Harry jerked back, suddenly feeling much more clear-headed and annoyed for it. “Wh—you didn’t get off?”

Draco had himself draped over Harry now, supported half by Harry’s embrace and half by the balcony railing. “No.”

Harry searched for an emotion—any emotion—to tell him what that No really meant, but Draco was keeping his cards irritatingly close to his chest in this moment where it would have been really useful to be able to see them. “Well—why not?” He could hear the irritation in his own voice and hoped Draco felt it too. He’d thought this had been a nice little moment, the both of them letting go, so that they might worry about consequences and ‘meaning’ to it all later—and now he was realising it’d just been him, pathetically rutting against the nearest warm body that allowed it, with no reciprocation.

“Good gad, is there no way to turn all that off?” Draco muttered, pulling back and rubbing his temples. “Honestly, you’re an absolute chore—calm down.”

“…I am calm,” Harry said, as calmly as he could manage right now, which was not calmly at all.

“Well, don’t calm all the way down.” Draco leaned in, rubbing their cheeks together to whisper in Harry’s ear. “…I’m after something a bit more…involved.”

And now it was Harry’s turn to jerk back, searching Draco’s face, because that sounded like he was suggesting…

Harry swallowed, throat suddenly parched, and when he spoke, it came out almost a squeak. “Like…like, um, s-sex…?”

“No, not like sex,” Draco said, with a bit of a huff. “Sex, precisely.” He leaned back, resting his elbows on the balcony and giving Harry the berth he seemed to be searching for. “…Are you keen to help, or have you come to your senses?”

Harry felt the spear of irritation before he heard it in Draco’s words, and what was that about? Like he wasn’t allowed to be a little thrown when a bit of drunken fumbling suddenly turned into a hell of a lot more. “Right, tossing out the part where neither of us has any senses left to come to—thank you very much—don’t look at me like I’ve just told you to fuck off.” He swallowed again, that lump still lodged irritatingly in his throat. “What…what are you asking?”

And that strange emotion was back now—a little bit of hope, a little bit of fear, a hint of panic that things might swing one way or the other and not knowing which way you wanted them to fall. It was impossible to tell who was responsible for it—maybe it was both of them.

Draco’s hands slid down to splay palms-out against Harry’s chest, and he dropped his head, voice rough and wanting. “…For something I shouldn’t.”

Harry swallowed one more time—and the lump dissipated. “…Well I’m definitely not gonna say ‘yes’ unless you ask for it. So you have to decide how much you want it. And how much you actually give a fuck about should and shouldn’t.”

Draco’s fingers tightened, clenching in the fabric of Harry’s tatty old t-shirt. “…Why are you doing this to me?” he asked for what felt like the fiftieth time.

And this time, Harry said, “Because you let me. If you want something to change—you’ve got to do something about it yourself. I can’t read your mind—and I don’t think you’d want me to.”

“…Some things would be so much easier.”

“…But it wouldn’t be half as fun finding out then, would it?” He tapped Draco’s knee, still slipped between Harry’s legs, with his own. “So stop being a brooding little shit and have out with it. What are you asking?”

And Draco fisted his hands in the shirt properly, jerking Harry forward until their foreheads met, nose digging into the frames of Harry’s glasses. “…I’m not asking. I’m telling you: I’m going to put you on your back in that bed and suck you to within an inch of your life—finish what the Dark Lord started, you know. And then instead of giving you that sweet release you’ll be begging me for, I’m going to ride you until my legs give way or until I’ve drained you of every drop of essence you’ve got like one of those fucking Imps, whichever comes first.” He shoved Harry away, sending him pinwheeling backwards. “That direct enough for you? Or shall I send it by registered Owl? I’m not fucking brooding—it’s called being careful what you wish for.”

Harry only just caught himself before tumbling onto his arse, blinking gobsmacked at Draco and trying to process his words. Be careful what you wish for evidently went both ways. The wetness in his pants was getting quite uncomfortable now, but it seemed poor timing to suggest he run back to his room to change before they ‘chatted’ any further. “…I can’t tell if that was a threat or a come-on.”

“Who’s saying it wasn’t a bit of both?” And then Draco started marching toward him in a way that itself was also both a threat and a come-on. “You’ve seen what I’m after—so what are you after?”

“I…” Harry began shuffling backwards as Draco herded him into the bedroom. “…Was just going with what felt right in the moment.”

“How tragically Gryffindor.”

“Hey, it’s served me well enough so far.”

“Well your luck may be about to run out.” Draco placed a hand on Harry’s chest and gave a shove—and Harry toppled backwards onto a plush, quilted duvet, the mattress of Draco’s massive bed sinking beneath his weight. “Unless you have any objections.”

“Well—not objections per se, but—”

Draco scoffed, reaching for the buttons to Harry’s jeans and attending to them with deft fingers. “Just lie back and try to enjoy this.” He flicked a glance up to Harry’s face, then back to the buttons. “Close your eyes, if it helps.”

“If it helps…?” Harry repeated dumbly—then placed a hand over Draco’s. “Oi, would you wait?”

Draco looked up, jaw tight and expression sculpted into a fierce challenge. “I thought you didn’t have any objections?”

Harry pursed his lips into a thin line—then carefully removed his glasses, folding the legs and setting them off to the side. “I thought you wanted to know what I was after?” When Draco didn’t say anything, he shifted upright and began peeling off his shirt, deliberate and slow. “I’ll be honest: I don’t know. You seem a lot more certain of yourself than me right now, though, so I’m inclined to go along with whatever it is you’re looking for…and if it gets to be too much for me, I think you know me well enough to recognise I’ll let you know in classic Harry Potter fashion.”

“Potter-Malfoy,” Draco mumbled, almost too soft to catch.

“You’re damn right, Potter-Malfoy. I’m not gonna fall for that again.” Draco bit his tongue and looked away, and Harry nudged his shoulder with a knee. “You have a distressingly small amount of faith in me.”

“I have a distressingly small amount of faith in everyone; you aren’t special.”

“Well now you’ve hurt my feelings. I don’t know if I want to let you suck me to within an inch of my life or ride me until—what was it again? Something about Imps? Please don’t tell me you want to bring Imps into this; I can be pretty flexible, but I do have my limits.”

“If you’re going to be silly about this—”

“I’m definitely going to be silly about it—because honestly, it feels silly.” He reached for Draco’s hand, bringing it up to splay over his chest. “…But that’s not a terrible thing. Can’t you feel?” He squeezed Draco’s hand gently, praying he could sense through the Influx all of the emotions bubbling up inside of him right about now: curiosity, fear, arousal, excitement, and even a bit of affection. Every odd little thing he felt for Draco whirling about in a violent maelstrom, but tucked away safe behind his ribcage where no one could see. Not usually, at least. “…And if it bothers you so very much, feel free to shut me up.”

“…You’re going to live to regret that,” Draco said, attacking Harry’s fly once more with renewed vigour.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Harry said, entirely too excited about this business now it felt like they were on the same page. He scrambled further back onto the bed, and Draco followed him, climbing atop him and yanking his jeans and pants down in one go. “Oh—fuck.”

“Mm, shortly. But first we’ll need to get you in a fit state again.”

Harry had never had the pleasure of receiving oral favours. Really, he hadn’t had the pleasure of receiving any favours, outside of a furtive tug that Ginny had started one evening on the porch swing at The Burrow before Mrs. Weasley had interrupted to remind them that dinner was nearly ready. To this day, Harry couldn’t quite look the poor woman in the eye, certain she knew what they’d been up to.

The odd date he’d had since Ginny had ended well before they’d gotten anywhere past chaste good-night pecks on the lips, and Harry wasn’t really in the business of going around letting total strangers feel him up. His disguise spells just weren’t that good, and Harry Potter, Back-room Trotter: Hide Your Daughters! was not a headline he needed to see in the Prophet, thank you very much.

So he made do with his right hand and the odd gag gift George Weasley slipped his way (“It’ll be totally anonymous, promise! Just send an Owl once you’ve given it a go and let us know how you liked it!”) and was satisfied. Content. Honest, he was.

He did long for the emotional connection you got, though, being that intimate with someone. Feeling safe enough with them to be that vulnerable. He dared say sitting there with Draco as the clock ticked down those final moments until his birthday, being leaned on and needed and wanted, had been one of the most fulfilling moments of his life. Which was a cruel thing, given how horrific the experience had been for Draco, but well, facts were facts.

Draco had accused him once of needing to be needed—and Harry didn’t think that was right at all. But god. God, did he want to be wanted. And just right now, Draco wanted him. Wanted him in ways no one had ever wanted him before—and in ways he’d certainly never expected of Draco Malfoy.

So when Draco slinked over him, settling between his legs and exhaling soft, hot, wet breath over Harry’s cock, looking to him one last time for permission, Harry did as suggested and laid back and tried to enjoy himself (though he dared not close his eyes).

It was not a difficult thing at all.

He had assumed, as one might, that any amount of wet suction on one’s prick would feel mighty fine. It turned out, however, that when someone was giving you enthusiastic attentions, with the intent of absolutely undoing you, it felt quite a bit more than mighty fine.

Whether he had done this before or not (Harry did not ask, nor did he particularly want to know), Draco was very good at cocksucking and most definitely wanted Harry to know it. He seemed to lack a gag reflex entirely—which could not be the case, as he’d nearly made himself sick up in the garden not twenty minutes earlier—for he had no problem taking Harry wholly into his mouth, down to the base of his shaft, and working him with his throat in a way that had Harry fisting the bedsheets and executing little frenetic thrusts in a futile attempt to push himself further into Draco’s warm, wet mouth.

That tongue, usually so sharp and lashing, loved his cock with the utmost gentility, swirling about the crown and stabbing at the slit with teasing temptation, and lest they feel left out of the excitement, Draco’s fingers gracefully fondled the swollen bollocks hanging pendulously below until they tightened and drew up with threatening promise of another spectacular orgasm.

The night air was filled with Harry’s panting pleas and huffing threats of approaching climax against the background thrum of buzzing nightlife, the distant calls of peacocks, and the wet smack of Draco doing as he’d promised and sucking Harry to within an inch of his life.

That inch arrived far more quickly, though, than Harry would have liked—his pride would have wanted at least another five minutes—and too soon, Draco was drawing back, wiping his lips, and sitting up on his knees. Backlit by the moon, he was terrifyingly imposing, with a sort of brutal beauty that stole any breath Harry might still have had in his lungs, between the darkly flushed cheeks and exposed scars on his heaving chest and waterfall of hair pooling around them. Harry felt exposed in every respect, but he lacked the stamina just now to do much more than lie here and play the captive audience.

Draco shrugged off the robe—then reached for his wand, again stashed somewhere Harry had not seen, and Vanished his bottoms. Harry hoped they were not irretrievably lost, as he recalled Draco mentioning at some point that he didn’t have much left in the way of fine clothes. He would be quite cross, once he sobered up, to realise that drunk-him had been a little too excited and magicked half an outfit into nonexistence.

Shortly, though, he was left without sense enough to care for the state of Draco’s unmentionables, as Draco pointed his wand behind him and whispered an incantation that Harry had never heard before—and then another one he had, courtesy of George.

“Wh—what’s that do…?” he asked, nearly swallowing his words as he watched a series of delicious expressions flit across Draco’s features in rapid succession.

“Gets your cock slick…” Draco huffed, shuffling on his knees until he’d situated himself right over Harry’s midsection. Draco’s own cock was bobbing along with the movement, rigid and proud and leaking profusely. Harry wondered how on earth he’d managed to avoid popping through one-and-a-half of Harry’s own orgasms. The man had to have an iron constitution.

“Yeah, I know that one—I meant the other…”

“Let’s call it a time-saver.” He leaned forward onto all fours. “I don’t have the confidence I could have held it together, getting prepped the old-fashioned way. And I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of someone who can’t seem to last five minutes himself…”

“Hey, it’s…it’s been a while…is all…”

Draco frowned down at him. “…Have you ever been with a man before?”

“Uuh…” was Harry’s brilliant reply.

“…Have you ever been with anyone before?”

Harry wondered if this was a deal-breaker. “…Listen, I’ve had a rough…all of my life, so—”

“Fantastic,” Draco said, and turned on as Harry was, it was difficult to tell if this was sarcasm or genuine. “At least that explains a few things.”

“Wait—what things?”

“Do you want to have a conversation? Or do you want to get fucked? Because I can tell you right now, you will not be capable of doing both.”

“Oh, um, latter’s good then.” Harry squirmed underneath him. “Though I can’t promise I’ll wow you with my stamina this time either.”

“As long as it’s a good ride, it doesn’t matter if it’s a long one,” Draco said, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and with a flick of his wrist, his wand disappeared again—Harry was going to need to be taught that neat trick. “Now steady on—I will be very cross if you pop before I’m even seated.”

Harry nodded, because he didn’t trust his voice not to betray how little faith he had in himself to not pop, now that the threat had been issued, but all the same he braced himself and tried to think decidedly unsexy thoughts.

No fantasy he could conjure involving Umbridge or Madame Maxime or Walburga Black, though, was nearly enough to distract from the sight of Draco reaching beneath him to take Harry’s throbbing cock in hand and gently guide it into the divot between his arse cheeks as he slowly, god so slowly sank down on it. His thighs quivered, his hair hung around him in a silvery curtain (minus one obvious chunk), and he panted open-mouthed while Harry watched his cock disappear into the tightest, warmest, slickest orifice he’d yet had the pleasure of encountering.

It was a good thing Draco had threatened him to keep a leash on that orgasm—because it was rightly champing at the bit, and Harry wanted so, so badly to just let it go. Letting Draco suck on him for so long had been a mistake of the highest order. He needed about three orgasms under his belt before he could reasonably be expected to last more than thirty seconds with this.

“Fuck—” Draco said, and, “Yeah, finally,” Harry answered.

When Draco did not continue the usual trading of quips, though, only grimacing with the effort as beads of sweat gathered at his temples, Harry grew worried. “…Oi, you all right there?”

“Just—shut up. I’m trying…to concentrate…” He gave a grunting wince—sliding down almost the entire rest of the way. “…Gods, I’d quite forgotten that sometimes spells aren’t quite as effective as doing things by hand.”

Harry’s concern was mounting. “Y—you aren’t hurting, are you? Maybe we should—”

“Maybe you should shut up and lie back, like I told you to.” Draco drew himself upright, running his fingers through his hair to resettle it as he rocked his hips and took Harry down to the hilt. “I don’t need you coddling me.”

“Wasn’t coddling you before, and I’m not coddling you now—but if something hurts that much, I’m wondering if it’s really worth it.”

And Draco laughed—not cruelly, but not with real amusement either—and his lip curled as he stared down at Harry. “Oh, it’s most definitely worth it.” He cocked his head. “Would you like to try?”

“…Let’s just get through this round for now, yeah?” Harry honestly didn’t see the allure—and the strain of taking a whole damn dick up his arse seemed to have Draco’s own erection flagging a bit, so he wasn’t really buying that it was ‘worth it’. But then again, Draco didn’t strike him as the sort to do something—especially something that hurt—if he wasn’t getting his money’s worth out of it, so maybe there was something to this buggery business after all. “Maybe if I watch a pro do it, I’ll feel compelled to up my own game.”

“You haven’t got any game to speak of—but I like a challenge.” He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “Right, enough stalling. Let’s get you fucked.”

And then Draco began rocking his hips, and Harry saw stars. It was like being sucked—but so much worse, in the best way. Draco tensed his arse cheeks when he lifted up, like he meant to rip Harry’s cock right off, and then just before he popped out, it was back down again into that tight, hot channel. He wanted to thrust up into it each time Draco pulled away, but Draco leaned forward and placed both hands at his shoulders in silent order to stay put, so Harry had to just sit there and take it.

He squirmed, he whined, he panted his pleasure, but Draco rode him with an easy, rocking gate that seemed designed for pure tantricity, to bring Harry to the bleeding edge but never quite push him over, not without Draco’s say-so. The bed creaked and groaned, not likely having been put to this much strain in a couple of centuries, but Draco seemed entirely unbothered.

At least, to the eye.

Harry, though, could feel Draco’s banked arousal, the bubbling warmth that hadn’t quite begun to boil—he was holding back, or else being held back, and it was beginning to irritate Draco, so it was also beginning to irritate Harry. Draco sat there atop him, straight and proud and so superior as he worked Harry’s cock so expertly, like he could do this all night. Unruffled. Unhurried.

Maybe Harry wasn’t the only one who needed to get fucked.

With the same speed and quick manoeuvring he’d executed in their Seeker’s games, he lifted a thigh, tilted his hips, and grabbed Draco by the shoulders, dragging him down and rolling him smoothly onto his back, until their positions were reversed—with Harry still buried securely within.

“What—the fuck are you doing?!” Draco gasped, giving a sharp jolt when Harry shifted his stance, getting comfortable between Draco’s legs.

“I told you,” Harry said, bracing his arms on either side of Draco’s body to give himself some stability and locking his legs against Draco’s. “The Influx is a hell of a thing.”

Draco’s flushed cheeks darkened even further, and he whipped his head to the side, bringing one arm up to hide his face in shame. “And I told you, I won’t be coddled—”

“Oh, I’ve no intention of coddling you. Unless that’s some fancy pure-blood doublespeak.” He gave a testing little thrust, and Draco arched his back, scrabbling for purchase on the duvet. “Oh—that’s new.”

“F—fuck…”

“Fuck…?”

Draco eased up onto his elbows, hair in disarray and eyes dark and stormy. “Fuck…me.”

Harry felt the bubbling warmth between them begin to boil over, and he licked his lips. “Let’s see what we can do. Now lie back and try to enjoy this.”

And Draco did just that, and he was not shy at all about letting Harry know it. A positive litany of swears and curses (several of which were new to Harry’s ears) filled the room amidst the rocking of the bedframe, their combined heaving and panting, and the gently rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh.

When Harry cupped his hands under Draco’s bum to adjust the angle a bit in an effort to drive deeper, Draco released a bright, sharp Fuck! and demanded Harry keep going yes there fuck fuck right there harder you absolute clod I said harder!

And Harry did, harder, faster, deeper, as much for Draco’s sake as his own, because now that he was once more in charge of his own orgasm, he had no intention of being coy. Draco’s fervent proclamations of his pleasure fired Harry’s arousal into overdrive, and he felt himself barrelling toward a dropoff, unsure of what lay at the bottom but really not caring.

He hooked his arms under Draco’s legs, bending him nearly entirely in half as he leaned his whole body forward, searching for Draco’s lips. They met with clumsy, desperate fumbling, until Draco brought his arms up around Harry’s neck, holding him fast while Harry pounded into him, muscles aching and chest heaving. He could barely breathe through it all—but still he kissed Draco, losing himself in the ecstasy of the moment.

This terrible, cruel, beautiful person wanted him, was begging for him, had his legs locked around Harry and was panting into his mouth more more gods more fuck yes. He needed Harry, in every sense of the word, and maybe in a way Harry did need to be needed—because it felt like he might lose himself entirely without this. And that was probably the searing arousal talking, yeah, but just now it felt like the only real truth he needed to hear.

His balls drew up flush against his body, and he felt everything coil tight, tight, tight—

And then he was coming, orgasm washing through him and over the Influx and into Draco, and then he was coming in great, bucking spurts between them, and it washed back to Harry again who wanted to just climb inside Draco, empty everything that he had into that tight, twitching, hungry channel. He continued to thrust through his climax with punishing force, and Draco just held him tighter, crying into their kisses with each successive impact. Harry kept going until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and his muscles, at last spent, gave out. With a final aching groan, he collapsed—only retaining just enough sense not to plop on top of Draco directly, as he rolled to the side, cock popping free.

“Fuck…” Draco hissed again, evidently his vocabulary having been reduced down to this one word, and Harry laughed.

“Okay, but maybe after a break. Gimme, like, twenty minutes.” He turned his head to the side, glasses askew, and could barely make out Draco watching him with half-lidded eyes. “…Oh, I think I liked that.”

“You’d better have…” Draco grunted; clearly his afterglow was short-lived. “Good gad, were you trying to put me into the ground?”

“I didn’t hear you complaining…”

“Well you’ll hear it now.” He reached down, tracing his fingers through the thick, white spunk caking his abdomen, and grimaced. “…That’s the last time I cast while aroused.”

“Aw, c’mon. It’s an easy wipe-down job. Want me to fetch you a hot towel or something?”

“I’m less concerned about the mess on me than the one in me. I knew I was forgetting a spell…” And Harry coloured at this, realising what he’d done—and quite without asking. Draco scoffed at his reaction, though, knocking his knee against Harry’s. “Untwist. It’s only uncomfortable—and I don’t trust myself to Vanish it out right now without whisking away my colon while I’m at it. I’ll sort myself out soon enough.”

Harry frowned down at his cock, as if this were all its fault—which it kind of was. “…I mean, well, that’s good to hear, but…I still feel a bit like a cad. Lost myself there at the end…”

Draco poked his shoulder, and when Harry looked at him this time, he was wearing another of those barely-there smiles, and Harry felt a pit open up just behind his ribcage as his heart danced on the edge of something unfamiliar, at very real risk of falling in. “I know. I liked it. Seeing you like that.” And this time it didn’t sound at all teasing or cruel, a genuine warm moment, shared without reservation.

Harry scooted a little bit closer, until their shoulders were brushing. “…Why’d you want to do that? With me, I mean.”

Draco’s eyes darted about the room. “Did you see anyone else around? I’m not desperate enough to have a go at Old Bern, so pickings were slim.”

“Oh gross.”

“Well don’t ask obvious questions.” He jerked his chin in Harry’s direction. “And what about you? Been pining for me since First Year, is that it?”

Harry rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, and smiled to himself. “…Honestly, part of it was probably because I was just really turned on, which I’m going to blame half on you, with the Influx and all.”

“Never could take responsibility for your own actions,” Draco said without a hint of bite, and Harry snorted softly, not bothering to rise to the bait. “…And the other part?”

Harry took a long, deep breath—then exhaled slowly. “…Maybe I was.”

“What?”

“Pining.”

“What?”

And Harry laughed a bit more openly now—which was starting to hurt as his muscles began to lock up from the exertion. “After a fashion, I mean.” He shrugged to himself. “Maybe this was adult-me’s version of finally being able to have a conversation with that fascinating boy from Madam Malkin’s Robes For All Occasions.” He turned to look at Draco again, lips stretching into what he knew had to be the goofiest smile, but he was a bit beyond caring at the moment. “It was very enlightening. I’m glad we got to chat.”

But Draco wasn’t scoffing, wasn’t snorting derisively, wasn’t rolling his eyes and calling Harry a silly twat. He was just staring, expression slack, and when Harry searched for the reason behind it through their bond, all he received back was a faint, distant hint of longing—before the connection was abruptly cut. “…Draco? Are you all—”

“I’m exhausted,” Draco said, shuffling around to draw back the duvet and wriggle under it. “Sleep here if you like—or fuck off back to the East Wing, I don’t really care.” And he genuinely sounded like he didn’t care, which was absolutely baffling just now.

“Wh—hey, what’s wrong? What did I say?”

Draco had already turned onto his side, though, placing his back to Harry, and try as he might to prise another word from Draco’s lips, he could not—so he lay there, staring up at the ceiling in silent contemplation and wondering what he’d said to sour the mood, until sleep at last took him.

When he woke again, it was still dark—and the bed was empty. Harry’s bladder had made its needs known, rousing Harry from a fitful slumber, but he ignored it for the moment as he cast about the room, searching the darkness for Draco’s form. He fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand, silently grateful when they leapt into his hands, and squinted to try and make out shapes in the dark.

The curtains bracketing the balcony flapped in the night breeze, and then Harry saw him: Draco was leaning against the railing, staring down at the flock of peacocks just returning to their roost from an evening of doing whatever it was peacocks did on wild Friday nights. He was fidgeting with his ring, watching the birds in silence, wearing only his robe; the bottoms were evidently still missing in action.

Harry recalled Draco’s strange mood when they’d turned in for the evening and decided he ought to step carefully; perhaps he’d said something off without realising it and could easily make up for it if he did so promptly and maybe sweetened it with a sexual favour, since that seemed to be a thing they were doing now. At least, he hoped they were still doing it.

Quietly, he crept from the bed—pausing only for a moment to consider if he ought to put on his pants. They were still stained with spunk from the earlier incident on the balcony, and it wasn’t as if Draco wasn’t intimately familiar with his bits by now, so he decided against it, especially since Draco hadn’t taken similar measures himself.

The balcony doors were still thrown open, and Draco didn’t turn or so much as flinch when Harry stepped out. “…Getting a bit of fresh air?” Harry asked, sidling up beside Draco and leaning onto the railing himself. From here, he could see the sky over the distant treeline had a faint pink tint to it, heralding the approaching dawn. “Oh, look at that. Your house arrest is up. Congrats.”

Draco maintained his stony silence, twisting the ring on his finger and still staring down at the peacocks. The Influx was no help, the bond between them transmitting nothing but a dark, cold, quiet resignation. Ominous almost—but without a source.

Harry swallowed, frantically groping for a topic, any topic—anything to say to fix whatever this was. “…Did you want to come back to bed? It’s a little breezy out here, standing around in our altogether.”

“I’m fine.”

It was curt, it was cold—and it was a lie. “…No, you’re clearly not fine. What’s going on? I said something off, didn’t I? You ought to know by now I haven’t the sense god gave a gnat—if I said something that rubbed you wrong, tell me. Influx or no, I can’t read your mind—”

“Then don’t,” Draco snapped, turning on him. He waved back to the bed. “Just—go. And—no, no go back to your room. I…I can’t be around you right now.”

Harry felt panic well up in his chest but could not honestly tell if the emotion was his own or Draco’s. Probably a bit of both, once again. “Don’t be daft—I’ve clearly done something to hurt you or—or offend you, and I genuinely have no clue—”

“Of course you don’t,” Draco snorted softly. He sniffed, licking his lips. “…I was so close. So fucking close and—you had to fuck it all up.” He shook his head, staring out at the distant horizon and the sun slowly creeping into view. “…We shouldn’t have done that.”

Oh bollocks, he was having regrets. Of course he was. This was Malfoy—it was always one step forward and two steps back with this one. Could never just let himself enjoy the moment. Harry sighed. “And why not? Maybe we were both a bit tipsy, sure—maybe shouldn’t have tumbled right into bed, but I’ve sobered up a bit now and don’t see what the harm was. Besides—” He gently elbowed Draco. “We’re married. If it’s the judging eyes of your ancestors down there you’re concerned about, then surely even your great-great-great whoever couldn’t have frowned upon what happens in the confines of a marital bed?”

“…This whole thing has been a fucking joke to you, hasn’t it?”

“…What?”

“You’ve either blithely tolerated or outright enjoyed every step of this farce.”

“I…” Where had this come from? “I’m…trying to make the best of your bad situation, if that’s what you mean. Excuse me for helping you not be absolutely miserable in what I’m appreciating is a pretty stressful time of your life.”

“Ah. Yes. Swooping in to save me once again—”

“Oh come off it, you know I didn’t mean it like that. Why is it every time I try to do something nice with you, you slap my hand away and spit in my face? Why can’t we just have fun? Why can’t you let yourself? Because me? I had a pretty fantastic time—granted, I don’t think there’s any way I could’ve had a not fantastic time. But I…” He sighed. “I liked it. I liked doing that with you. I…” He liked Draco. Just a little bit. But enough that he could see it, recognise it. Enough that he didn’t want to lose it, if there was anything he could do to help it.

They got along in a really weird way that Harry didn’t hate. It was a lot of work—Draco had the nerve to call him a chore!—but…the pay-off was worth it. Had been worth it, even before the bedroom business.

He wanted to have more chats—and maybe more ‘chats’ too.

“Why won’t you let me get close to you? Why are you doing this to me?” He heard Draco asking him that same question and prayed the response this time was not Because I can.

Draco drew himself up straight, shrugging out of the robe—and a shameless part of Harry perked up at that, wondering if it meant more amorous activities were indeed in the cards. He ordered it to stand down; now was not the time. “…For the same reason I fucked you in the first place.”

Harry frowned, searching his memory. “…Because I was the only one around?”

And Draco laughed—but it was one of those cruel, jeering laughs. The kind Harry hadn’t heard from him in several years now—the kind he hadn’t missed. He turned and leaned back against the railing. “You stupid, stupid man. I lied. Obviously.”

Harry felt his stomach twist—then bottom out. When he spoke, there was a fearful quaver in his voice that he could not—and did not try to—disguise. “…Then why did you do it?”

Draco reached for the ring on his finger, giving it a twist. “…Because I’m in love with you.” And in a single flourish, he pulled the ring off, dropped it off the balcony, and shrank down into the mean, meagre form of a glorious white peacock, perched on the railing. Before Harry could register the movement, he’d already leapt off, wings beating furiously as he carried himself out, away from the Manor, away from Harry, and into the breaking dawn.

It took them three weeks to find the peacock.

Three whole weeks—it was more than a little embarrassing that it took three grown wizards that long to track down a bleach-white bird that spanned six feet from stem to stern, especially seeing as it couldn’t really fly properly for long distances. Still, Draco appeared to have retained enough sense in his bird brain to know he didn’t want to be found, so three weeks it had been before the combined forces of Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Old Bern had managed to comb the Manor holdings and neighbouring lands and find Draco roosting in a massive old beehive that had since rotted away.

They cornered him, captured him, and wrestled him back to the Manor, where upon locking all the doors and windows to Draco’s bedroom and begging his friends for a bit of privacy, Harry finally slipped the ring (which had also been a bear to find) back onto one of the peacock’s claws…and waited.

The transformation blessedly happened in an instant—but as had always been the case before, Draco seemed sapped by the endeavour and laid there, unconscious and unmoving, for several long hours while Harry sat at his bedside, collecting his thoughts.

When Draco did at last rouse, there was a brief moment—a heartbeat, really—where he was just himself, bleary-eyed and clearly cross from being woken from what he must have experienced as a deep and dreamless slumber. His brows knit, his lips twisted into an unhappy moue, and he seemed on the verge of summoning Old Bern to ask what the fuck Harry was doing in his room—

—and then it evidently all came rushing back to him in one crashing flood of memory. His grey eyes widened in panic as he locked onto Harry, and then he was scrambling back on the bed. He caught the ring on his hand, and a look of fury came over him as he reached for it, clearly intent on taking it off again.

“Don’t!” Harry shouted, hands outstretched and pleading for calm. “Please—please don’t. Not yet?” Draco regarded him with a raw animal wariness, and Harry wondered if there was a bit of the peacock still in there, a vulnerable prey animal cornered and frightened for it. Harry slowly settled back down into the handsome bergère in the corner, careful not to spook Draco into anything rash. He knew the transformation was both excruciating and exhausting, and if they had to go through this again, it might be another six-or-more hours before Draco roused once more. “Just…just hear me out first, won’t you? At least…let me say my piece, before you fuck off again. And then…and then if you still want to go…I’ll leave you be.”

He meant it to be the truth—though he couldn’t honestly say it wasn’t a lie. He would want to leave Draco to suffer the consequences of choices he made in sound mind and body, but also…that was fucked, and he couldn’t possibly conscience that.

Draco regarded him for a long moment, legs drawn up to his chest, curled into as small a form as he could make himself—and then wrapped his arms around his knees, tracking Harry with one sharp, wary eye. “…Why did you bring me back?” he rasped, voice soft and scratchy from disuse.

“…Well, we were in the middle of a conversation. I didn’t get my last word in.”

Draco looked away. “The conversation was over as far as I was concerned.”

“Well it wasn’t over for me, and since I can’t properly explain myself to a peacock, you’ll have to bear your human form for a little bit longer. Then…” Harry shrugged. “You can go and be a fucking peacock, forever. Grimmauld Place’s front garden is in dire need of a good trimming now I’ve spent three whole weeks combing the countryside looking for your feathery arse.”

Draco mouthed three weeks… to himself, evidently baffled. Harry supposed he could understand—the passage of time was probably meaningless to a bird beyond ‘Is it light or dark out?’

Harry swallowed and straightened up, steeling himself. He’d tried to practise this interaction a few times. It hadn’t really done much good. “…You said you were in love with me.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, still not looking at Harry. “I’m aware. I was there.”

“And…did you mean it?”

“Think I’d say something like that just to fuck with you?”

“…I think you’d say a lot of things just to fuck with me, but…no, not that.”

“Then seems like you’ve answered your own question. Can I go now?”

“No,” Harry said, and Draco’s jaw tightened further. He wasn’t going to have much in the way of teeth left after this conversation; maybe being a peacock was preferable in that respect. “Why did you say it? If you meant it, like you said you did—”

“You say I did.”

“—then why tell me then? Why in that moment, if you were just going to go and be a fucking peacock, forever? Was it so I couldn’t say anything back—or so you didn’t have to hear me? Or both, I suppose, is also possible.”

“If you’re going to answer all your own questions, I really don’t see the point of my being here.”

“Then let’s make it a proper conversation. Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me why you think you’re in love with me.”

And Draco finally faced him proper, unfolding himself and staring down Harry with imperious fury. “Why I think I’m in love with you? You really believe I’d tell you that, in that moment, and then give myself over to this damned curse, because I thought I was in love with you?” He slapped his chest. “I know I am, because it’s fucking torture, that’s how. You were killing me—so I did the only thing I could think of and ran. I’ll always save my own skin, you ought to know that by now.”

Harry shook his head, baffled. “Wh—you ran away, because…because, what, you thought I’d tell you I didn’t feel the same way? Or I’d laugh at you, or—god, did you think I’d do something horrible? Just because another bloke said he fancied me?” Sure, he’d been more than a little intimidated by the suggestion he try taking it up the bum—but he hadn’t been nasty about it, had he?

“Of course not, you great tit,” Draco spat. “I ran away because you might have said yes.”

It had a finality to it, like this was supposed to put an end to the conversation—but it only left Harry more confused. “You…you ran away because I might have liked you back? Because—god forbid—I might have fancied you too? Heavens! You narrowly escaped potentially entering a relationship between two parties sharing mutual affection for one another! That was a close one!”

“Fuck you,” Draco snarled. “Always distilling my problems down into their most basic components so you can pick away at them little by little, as if the whole isn’t greater than the sum of its parts.”

“Then what is the whole that I’m missing here? Because if you weren’t afraid of being embarrassed or rejected, if you were just worried I might actually be a little bit fond of you—the person I agreed to marry, let’s be clear—then I’m really lost! Because it kind of sounds like that would’ve been a great outcome for you.”

“That.” He pointed at Harry. “That right there. It ‘sounds to you’—except that’s just your narrow-minded interpretation, when the reality is…” He shifted around, crawling forward and settling onto his knees, just at the edge of the bed, hands clasped in pleading prayer. “I cannot let you…feel that way. For me. I cannot. It would ruin you—and it would ruin me. We would only tear each other down. Friendship—or anything else.”

Harry blinked, taken aback. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I am trying to tell you, using simple words so that your pea brain can grasp it, that I am not that fantastically fascinating boy you saw in Diagon Alley. I never was. I was a small, selfish child who grew into a small, selfish man who lusted after things he shouldn’t and longed for things he hadn’t earned. I cannot give you what you want, and you cannot give me what I want, so when it became clear that there would be no dissuading you from overeager associations any longer…I took measures for the both of us.”

Harry shook his head. “Why…why would you think you couldn’t give me what I want—you don’t have a clue what the fuck I want.”

“We had a rather illuminating conversation in the parlour one evening that says otherwise.”

“What, you think because you chatted with me for twenty minutes, suddenly you know me so well? We’d barely traded ten words in as many years before that moment.” He stood, pacing between the bergère and the bed. “I told you who I thought my ideal partner might be—who I thought my ideal partner might be. And if I recall correctly, those standards were things like ‘someone I can have fun with’ and ‘someone I can fight with’. So I’m still not seeing why you think you can’t be all that because if you haven’t noticed, you already are! Look—we’re doing the fighting bit right now, even!”

“Then more the fool you! How can you have spent any amount of time with me these past three months and not have seen my fucking off as every bit a blessing? You did your good deed, you tried to save me, got your rocks off in the doing—and then I set you free. Maybe we had fun, maybe we fought, maybe you thought oh I could get used to this—but you shouldn’t have. Because there are things you want from me that I cannot give you. And that would be what broke you, in the end. That you tried and tried and tried, and still I disappointed you, because—” He pointed at the floor with a violent stabbing gesture. “You don’t understand, I cannot not fuck it up. It. Is. Impossible.” He shook his head. “I cannot be—vulnerable. I cannot be intimate. I cannot be open. Every moment I spend in your presence, I wish I were anywhere else. With anyone else.” He buried his face in his hands, then slicked his long, matted hair back, head hung and staring at the floor. “You make me feel…so undeserving.”

Harry’s heart clenched. Eleven-year-old him might have given all the gold in his Gringotts vault to make Draco Malfoy feel like utter rubbish next to him—but adult him, standing here watching Draco collapse in on himself like a dying star, was at an utter loss. He sank to one knee at the edge of the bed, so Draco could not look away. “…And how can you have spent any amount of time with me these past three months and not have seen that I’m a stubborn little shit who doesn’t like being told I can’t have my way? And definitely doesn’t like people putting me up on some imagined pedestal simply because they think I’m perfect when they’ve spent like half their life trying to convince everyone I’m not perfect? I make you feel undeserving? What the hell does that even mean?” He stood up again, staring down at Draco’s bent head. “That you aren’t worthy of me? That I’m—a prize you have to earn? Am I not allowed to spend time with you just because I fucking like you simply because our accounts don’t balance? It’s not a transaction! It’s a friendship! It’s a—whatever we decide it to be!” He started pacing again. “How are you supposed to become my favourite person if you won’t let me at least try?”

“I told you, you aren’t meant to be my fav—”

“Not meant to be your favourite person, right, right, we’ve had this discussion before. The thing is, I don’t give a shit about what’s meant to be. I lived seventeen whole years bound by some stupid prophecy, so I’m done with all that. If I say I like you, then there’s fuck-all you can do about it. All you can do is not like me back—and it sounds like that’s not an option. I don’t care if you’re open or intimate or vulnerable—that’s not why I like you. I like you because you’re none of that—because I have to work at you, because you’re a chore, because it feels so fucking good to finally get you to laugh at something or touch me or tell me some silly bit of Malfoy history that I’m positive you make up half of.” He turned on Draco, shaking a finger in his face. “I will not be broken by you.”

Draco looked up, expression fierce. “But maybe I’ll be broken by you.”

“No you won’t. Because you’re Draco-fucking Malfoy-Potter—”

“Potter-Malfoy. Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck. And you’re just as stubborn at me. So maybe you’ll turn into a peacock and fly off into the wild blue yonder, but you won’t be broken.” He drew back, taking several deep, bracing breaths to calm himself. “You want a spouse you can be in love with, right? To be their favourite person? The two of you, against the world?”

“I want a spouse who I can—not hurt.”

“I don’t think those exist. Even your parents.” And Draco flinched, but it was a truth that needed to be told. “Would you settle for a spouse who’ll love you back at least? Even if you hurt them?”

Draco gave a sharp, derisive scoff. “Sure, why not? You’ll be that for me? One romp in my bed, and you’re all in? God, my arse must feel divine. I ought to charge.”

Harry reminded himself for about the fiftieth time that these were just the things Draco said to try and unsettle, throw Harry off course by sprinkling in crude metaphors. “I’m not saying right away. I’m not even saying ever. I’m saying…I’d like the chance to figure it out. I’d like you to accept that I like you at least—and give me the chance to see if maybe I love you.” Draco had that look of wild panic in his eyes again, so Harry chose his next words carefully. “Make one more bad decision with me, before you grow a conscience.”

Draco swallowed thickly. “I don’t…I don’t know what you want from me.”

“…If we’re discussing terms, then…how about a month?”

Draco’s brows beetled in confusion. “Wh—a month…for what?”

“Well, that’s around how long it took you to fall in love with me, right?” He searched Draco’s face for confirmation but only received a cagey shunting of the gaze off to the side and an ambiguous shrug, which he supposed was as close to Yeah as he was going to get right now. “Right. So I figure that should be plenty of time for me to suss out how I feel about you. Plus—not that it’s a race—but I’ve always enjoyed beating you to the goal, so I’ll have all the more motivation to settle my feelings promptly, in that case.” He reached over and tapped Draco’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “All I want is for you to be you—not whatever you think I want you to be. We’re clearly shit at reading one another—the Influx notwithstanding—so we should just give up on it. Be who we are, and if that’s not good enough for each other, well at least we tried.”

Draco jerked his chin away, releasing a long exhalation—then slid off the bed and began to slowly make his way over to the armoire. “And what if, after you settle those feelings and realise you’re madly in love with me, I’ve come to my senses and no longer wish to be associated with you?” He opened one door to the armoire and began piecing through the robes hanging therein; did the man not own any shirts these days?

“Well…” Harry said, leaning back against one of the bedposts, arms crossed over his chest as he tried not to openly admire Draco’s bare bum. He hadn’t seen it in three whole weeks; it was just as lovely as he remembered. “Then you get to break my heart. I’m really not seeing the downside from your perspective.”

Draco shrugged into a silken thing of shiny black fabric with gold embroidery at the vest pocket reading DLM. Clearly not everything he owned was a hand-me-down from Sardinius. “You do drive a hard bargain,” he said as he tied a knot into the robe’s belt with a sharp tug.

Harry slowly sidled over. “I believe I mentioned a moment ago something about being a stubborn little shit.” He rested his head against the closed door of the armoire. “…I fucking missed you.”

“…I didn’t miss you.”

“Well, you were a peacock. I forgive you.”

Draco brought a hand up and laid it along Harry’s jaw, searching his face. “…Why are you doing this to me?”

Harry brought his own hand up to cover it, turning to press his face into Draco’s palm and breathing in, soft and deep. “Because you’re doing it to me. Turnabout only seemed fair play.”

Draco arched a brow. “I’m seducing you?”

And Harry arched one of his own. “I’m seducing you?”

“Fuck off,” Draco said, with only minimal bite, and braced his hands against Harry’s chest to shove him away—

—but Harry grabbed his wrists, executing a quick about-face to press Draco back against the armoire, moving in close, the long lines of their bodies pressed together. “You aren’t ‘fascinating’,” he said.

Draco frowned. “Excuse me?”

“You said you weren’t that ‘fantastically fascinating boy’ I saw in Diagon Alley. And I never called you fascinating. I said you were interesting. And you were. To me, you were. However little you might think of yourself, I thought the world of you in that one, brief moment. And I just spent three weeks combing the English countryside looking for you, just to tell you so.” He gave a little head bob. “And also, because we need to close that damn portal.” Draco rolled his eyes and began to try and escape his embrace. “You cannot disappoint me, Draco.”

“…I take that as a challenge.”

“Well what fun would it be if you didn’t? Shall we say best three years out of five?”

“I thought we agreed to one month.”

Harry raised a finger. “Actually, we didn’t agree at all. But I’m glad to hear you’re game.”

Draco’s head dropped. “…What if we hurt each other?”

“I wholly expect us to. We’re practically professionals.” And Draco snorted at this, a burble of amusement flickering across the Influx. God he hadn’t felt anything from the Influx in weeks now—he hadn’t realised how lonely it felt, just him and his feelings stewing about in his mind now. “I expect us to fight and to irritate the shit out of each other. I expect you to make fun of my friends and me to make fun of yours. I expect to try and drag you to social engagements and be turned down every time. I expect nothing about this to be easy. Except falling for you.” Draco looked up, expression perplexed, and through the Influx he felt once more that strange emotion he was probably going to associate with Draco forevermore: a little bit of hope, a little bit of fear, and just a hint of panic. The Malfoy Deluxe. “That I’m gonna be really fuckin’ good at, I think.”

And then he kissed Draco—and Draco kissed him back. And Ron and Hermione and Old Bern did not hear from them for quite some time.

It was Harry’s best birthday yet.

fin