Chapter Text
“You cleaned up nice, Potter.” Draco drawled, eyeing him up and down with approval.
“You think so?” Harry studied himself dubiously in the floor length, wrought iron mirror in the manor house's guest room, then narrowed his eyes at Draco’s reflection. “Also I though we were past you calling me Potter.”
Draco smirked. “Sorry, old habits die hard.” He adjusted the tuck of Harry’s sweater, and stood back so he could admire the effect.
“I think this will look alright for the pictures.” Harry said, his voice lilting at the end like a question. Style had never been his strong suit, and he typically made it a point to avoid photographs whenever possible, particularly ones where he had to be stylized. But this was for the Malfoy’s yearly family photo, which they mailed out every year along with Christmas cards and gifts to extended family members across Europe. The last several years, the cards had only featured Draco and Narcissa, seeing as Lucius was still locked away in Azkaban, but this year, Narcissa had decided to allow a third member into their portrait.
This was the final proof to Harry that Narcissa had accepted his presence in her home, as well as his and Draco’s relationship. Lucius hadn’t been particularly keen on Harry being in the picture, but seeing as he couldn’t do very much from his jail cell, Narcissa got her way. She had, however, insisted that she be allowed to select the outfits as well as the locations of the photographs, and even passed out a timed agenda for the specific pictures and groupings she wanted to do. Harry had feared he would be stitched up into some awfully stiff, high-necked set of robes, like the ones he’d seen Lucius and Draco wearing on occasions, but when he awoke to Mipsy the house elf's knocking on his door that morning, he’d been given a thick sweater in a shade of bottle green, wool pants, loafers, a regular collared shirt, and a brown, buttoned wizarding jacket which was quietly expensive looking. After Harry changed into the clothes, he felt that they were really nothing more than a classier version of what he would have chosen to wear anyways for the portrait.
Harry adjusted his sweater one last time in the mirror, his eyes trailing down Draco’s long, lean form in the reflection. He was wearing slightly longer, more traditional robes, although he had on a navy sweater rather than a more formal vest, and a casual silver and green tie made of wool. In the morning light which streamed in through the window, his hair glowed almost white, and his eyes appeared the same shade of silver as his tie. “You look really good.” Harry grinned.
Draco smirked back. “Well, we should get downstairs, the schedule says we need to be at the bench in the rose garden in five minutes, and my mother might change her mind about you being in these pictures if we’re late.”
Harry nodded and led the way downstairs, shoving his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to run his fingers through his hair and mess it up, since Draco had spent at least half an hour trying to tame his waves so that they didn’t stick up wildly in the back.
It was cold outside, but the grassy ground was free of snow, and the sun was bright overhead, providing the smallest bit of extra warmth to the otherwise frigid early morning weather. They found Narcissa chatting politely with the photographer in the rose garden, wearing a long, navy blue gown beneath her matching robes, a soft brown stole around her shoulders. Her hair was quaffed into shining curls on the back of her head, and she wore slightly more makeup than usual.
“You look beautiful, Mrs. Malfoy.” Harry said easily, always up for earning extra bonus points with her whenever possible.
She smiled back, giving him and her son a once over. “You both look very handsome. Come, we will start with the group portraits first. Hans will tell us what to do.” She nodded towards the photographer, who tipped his hat at them in greeting and began giving speedy directives for their positions and hand placements.
They moved to four other locations around the property during the shoot, sometimes removing jackets, sometimes standing, sometimes smiling stiffly, and other times forcing “naturalness.” This was the hardest part for Harry, as he was a very bad actor, and pretending to enjoy himself for the camera wasn’t exactly in his nature. But at last, Draco drew a real laugh from him after loudly announcing Harry looked as if Umbridge had been giving him smile lessons, and the photographer proclaimed that they were finished.
Harry and Draco were finally allowed to go back into the warm house, and they enjoyed an early lunch by the fireplace, stripped down to their collared shirts and socks. They spent a long time jocularly abusing Rita Skeeter, who had recently published an article naming Harry, Draco, Ron, Hermione, Pansy, Ginny, and Blaise as the “Super Seven,” claiming they were the most influential young people in England, and spending the next paragraph describing how the three women were certainly icons for the new “IT” girl fashion styles. Most of the next few paragraphs described in detail Ginny’s blasé, uncaring fits (“Sporty Chic”), Pansy’s rather slutty, sparkly dresses (“Modern Avant Gard”), and Hermione’s Oxfords and sweaters (“Dark Academia”), and where one could shop to emulate such styles. The last half of the article name dropped places they were seen shopping or eating in, and overall, Harry and Draco felt absolutely nothing of merit had been published in the entirety of the nearly page long article.
“I mean really, two weeks ago Pansy and I just opened up our first shelter with ‘Hope for the Disenfranchised’ for unhoused werewolves, and all she can write about is Ginny’s favorite smoothie place to frequent before her Quidditch matches.”
Harry snorted. “Seriously! Hermione, Ron and I have helped pass through, like, three new Ministry laws to improve house elves’ rights this year, why can’t she write about that? I have to listen to Hermione go on about S.P.E.W. every other breath whenever we’re together, I think that the public should have to suffer the same way Ron and I do.”
Draco guffawed. “Seriously, we need to sit down with Hermione and help her workshop a rebrand. ’S.P.E.W.’ really is a terrible acronym.”
“Yeah, well, you tell her that. She tried to bite me and Ron’s faces off the last time I said anything.”
“Oh well, I suppose it's alright, then.” Draco said quickly, taking another bite of his sandwich and staring off into the low burning fire. They listened to it crack and pop merrily for a few moments, content in each other’s presence, until Draco interrupted the silence again. “I forgot to ask you, how did your exam go yesterday?”
“Huh? Oh, fine. Definitely easier than my Arithmancy exam last week.” Harry chewed thoughtfully on his last bite of sandwich. He really hadn’t had too much difficulty going back to school, especially since he was only taking two classes a couple evenings a week. He didn’t much enjoy the late nights and weekends spent studying and completing assignments outside of the work he already had to do at Hogwarts. It didn’t help that he stubbornly refused to give up refereeing Quidditch matches, or to cut back on his Defense Club meetings. He intended to take two more classes in the spring semester, and then a couple more courses while he was off from work over summer break. It had been a bit strange pursuing further education, especially as he’d never particularly loved school. But in his adulthood, he found it more enjoyable to learn and study, perhaps because he had a better understanding of magical foundations and had already spent a few years working and honing in on his craft, or perhaps because he was simply excited to have a tangible goal to work for.
After all, even Minerva was beginning to drop hints about Harry’s potential as a Headmaster, with his ever strengthening ties to the Wizengamot and to the Ministry in general, and with his increasing years of experience working as a professor. He knew he wouldn’t be selected as the next Headmaster when she finally decided to retire, which was something she had been hinting about doing recently. Draco had even overheard her in the teacher’s lounge encouraging Slughorn to give it a go for a few years when he'd stopped in for a visit, an idea which apparently had piqued his interest far more than being the Potions professor had, since it would give him even more access to budding geniuses, socialites, and contacts at the Ministry.
But for now, Harry was content to build up his skills and resume, until the time finally came for him to push his own name forward for the position. He glanced over at Draco, who had resumed staring into the fire, his blonde brows drawn together in concentration. Harry couldn’t believe how comfortable he felt sitting here in the Malfoy’s home, a place which once held so much terror and trauma for him and his friends. Now, the space felt transformed, given a new life over the years as Narcissa and Draco had slowly and steadily removed the dark artifacts lining cabinets and dressers, replacing the other objects which reminded them of that horrible time in their lives when Voldemort had held them hostage in their own home.
The parlor, which was once so dark and heavy, was now lit by chandeliers and candles, its floor covered in comfortable, light-colored furniture and soft, inviting rugs. And alongside the removal of the old, traditional furniture and colors, Harry felt as if Draco and his mother had also excised their backwards beliefs and haughty attitudes. They were both much softer now, and determined to grow and to accept other people and magical beings in a way Harry would have thought impossible five years ago. Even if Lucius wasn’t demonstrating the same level of progress, it was enough that two of the three Malfoys had determined to improve themselves, and to make more positive choices moving forward.
Harry knew he himself had grown as well over the years. He was slower to anger, more likely to listen first before taking action than he used to be. He had more compassion for people like the Malfoys, and more interest in enacting political change than he ever thought he could following his year hiding from the law, when he so thoroughly hated the Ministry for its collusion with Voldemort and his supporters. Harry was now less likely to break rules as well, although he still bent them from time to time, and he had better learned when to hold his tongue. He still wasn’t eloquent, and lacked the social finesse that Draco and his mother possessed, but in this moment, reflecting on the past few years, and seated next to a person he thought he would never stop despising, he felt he was really doing pretty alright for himself.
He dragged his chair closer to Draco’s, dropping his palm on his thigh. Draco leant over and planted a kiss on Harry’s jaw, and Harry dragged his mouth up to meet his own. He still hadn’t gotten tired of the explosion of contentment and rightness that he experienced whenever they kissed. It was if they had been circling each other for most of their lives, since that day they first met in Madame Malkin’s shop, when Harry had decided Draco was an insufferable twat. They’d been too unalike in some ways, and too alike in other ways, but they hadn’t been able to break free of or ignore one another, eternally drawn back into each other’s orbits whether or not it was what they wanted.
A memory from a night earlier that semester, not long after Draco had started out as the new potions professor, suddenly flashed across Harry’s mind. They’d been lying in bed together at Hogwarts, and Draco had been reading a soppy book that Harry had jokingly referred to as “word dribble.” He’d stolen the book from Draco and run across the room, putting on his most boorish voice to read, “As we sat in the slightly damp grass behind the back fence, staring up in wonder at how very bright the Milky Way shone down upon us while the new moon floated dark and mysterious to its south, I heard myself telling my husband that he was like the North Star to me, a way for me to always find my way back home. He smiled up at the galaxies and the grey wisps of clouds overhead, and told me that if he was the North Star, than I was the sun. Hot and consuming, the only thing able to burn away the darkness from his life.”
At this point, Draco had managed to snatch the book back and had smacked Harry hard on the top of his head with it, grumbling about how Harry was too uncouth to enjoy anything even remotely close to a great work of literary fiction.
Harry grinned at the memory, then frowned thoughtfully. He wasn’t entirely sure why this memory had replayed in his mind, or why he was feeling so philosophical at the moment, posted up in the Malfoy’s parlor with a plate of sandwiches on his knee and a dying fire near his socked feet, but the passage from Draco’s book finally seemed to make sense. In a way, Draco had become like a North Star to him. Harry hadn’t necessarily felt lost beforehand, but he’d felt stuck, unsure what to do next with himself, and just floating through life. Draco not only had become a partner he could rely on, but had directed him towards new goals, new purposes, both inside the Ministry and with Hogwarts. It had taken a long time for them to be able to resolve their differences and to grow into the men they were today — no longer two opposing forces, but equals, perfect complements to each other, now revolving in the same orbit and reliant on one another for their existence.
“What on earth is that face, Harry?” Draco interrupted, sitting up straight and staring at him with delight. “Merlin, it looks like you’re actually thinking for the first time!”
Harry swiped at him, grinning sheepishly. “I mean, I was thinking about some stuff.”
“Knut for your thoughts?”
“I was just thinking about how far we’ve both come, and how weird it is that we’re, you know,” he flicked a finger between their bodies, as if this would be enough to finish his thoughts.
“What, wearing woolen socks? Extremely fit?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh come off it, you know what I mean. It’s weird that we are dating now. If someone had told me this would happen a decade ago, I would have thought they were raving mad.”
“Well, you also didn’t even know you liked blokes then, so yeah, that would have made it rather a bit more confusing. I, on the other hand, probably would have been secretly thrilled to know this was going to happen.”
Harry’s grin faltered, and this time he was the one to stare determinedly at the fireplace. “Probably not.”
“I don’t know, I think I was probably at least a little aware that my rage towards you might have had a bit more of an underlying reason.”
“Maybe.” Harry shrugged, now eyeing the door to the parlor nervously in case someone were to walk in and hear their conversation. “So, how long do we need to wait around here? Think we could leave soon?”
“Yeah, what did you have in mind?”
“Maybe Grimmauld Place?”
Draco stood up, pulling his sweater back over his head and retying his shoes. Harry imitated his actions, and after saying their goodbyes to Narcissa, and thanking Mipsy again for the sandwiches, Harry and Draco left the Manor. They intended to spend the rest of the afternoon at Harry’s place so Harry could study for his final exams, and Draco could send off some fundraising letters for his new charity. But after a couple of hours, they put their work aside and fell together on the couch, their limbs tangled up, and reading from the same book in what was certainly a rare, quiet moment out of their otherwise busy lives. So often they went full days without hardly saying a word to each other, even though they both worked together at Hogwarts. After all, they had so many external responsibilities, traveling often to and from London, and having to juggle patrol duties at night around the castle and their other volunteer positions. This secluded evening together at Grimmauld Place was exactly what they both needed, and they ended the night early in Harry’s bedroom on the third floor, Draco’s head tucked against Harry’s chest and their arms wrapped around each other beneath the covers, chatting softly and making tentative plans for their futures.
Next Chapter: "The Future, From Draco"
five years later...