The wind bites as he steps out of Shell Cottage, sliding chill fingers under the collar of the leather motorcycle jacket Hermione gave him for Christmas (because "For God sake, Harry, if you're going to ride that thing, at least be safe!"). It creaks as he pulls it tighter, but Harry doesn't bother zipping it up over the thick, moss green Weasley sweater he's got on underneath.
After the heat of the kitchen, the cool air is a shock against his flushed face, but refreshing. It blows away the lingering wisps of Fleur's light perfume that cling to his cheek where she kissed him goodbye and toys with the ends of the blue satin ribbon little Victoire has tucked into a pocket as "un cadeau pour vous, Oncle Harry, tho you won't be thad."
He touches his fingertips to the soft edge of the fabric, smiling at the thought of her earnest little face and her lisping mish-mash of French and English. Thanks to Hermione, with Bill filling in the gaps, he can usually understand her.
On the other side of the door, he can hear Fleur's voice cheerfully admonishing her husband for something, and Bill's deep laughter. Victoire giggles and squeals. The sound of the happy family makes his heart falter in his chest.
He loves visiting with them, but always gets this pang just as he steps out the door. Harry knows it's only partially due to his intended destination. Some of the thickness making his throat tight comes from longing.
To have what they have. To be what they are.
Not that Harry doesn't feel like family. But there's your family, and then there's your family.
Exhaling a slow breath, he ducks his chin and tucks his hands into his pockets — Victoire's ribbon twined around his fingers — as he takes his first heavy step onto the path to the garden.
It does no good to dwell on his own single status, but today his brain seeks distraction from the reality of what waits for him at the end of the scattered stone walkway. Happy to put off mourning for a few moments more, Harry lets his mind linger.
Since the total collapse of anything resembling a romantic relationship between him and Ginny, there has been no one.
Well.
Not no one.
Despite the crisp weather, Harry's cheeks sting with heat at the memory of slender hands on him, his desk cold against the backs of his thighs, the slick satin press of lips against his, the scent of crushed rosemary. He slides that away for another time, another place.
No matter how exciting, a few hasty late night encounters in the empty Ministry offices can't compare to the deep contentment he sees on Bill's face every time Fleur rests her palm against his scarred cheek.
And it's not just them, either.
It beams from Ron's broad grin every time Hermione shakes her head at him in fond exasperation. The faint upturning of Luna's lips when she proudly displays the latest… thing Rolf has found for her (last time it looked to Harry like a noose woven from the tops of carrots and was, according to her, a Mermaiden's circlet) speaks of it as well. The ridiculous eyebrow wriggle Seamus gives every time he cracks another of his seemingly endless jokes about the size of Dean's wand (and his prowess with it) fairly screams the pair's happiness with their lot.
Last week at the Leaky, he'd even witnessed Pansy bloody Parkinson reach out with one crimson-taloned hand and gently rub an errant smudge of ash off Daphne Greengrass' cheek with her knuckles.
It often seems like everyone else in the world is paired up.
Ginny's gone over the moon about Katie, Neville and Hannah barely leave their apartment, and every time George quips that he still can't believe Angelina took that whole marriage proposal thing seriously, she fires back that the joke's on him because she's only interested in his money.
Then there's Harry. And he's not sure which is worse, the pitying looks or the increasingly desperate attempts to set him up.
What would they do, he wonders, if he told them the truth about the one person who has been able to stir his interest lately?
He huffs a soft, strained laugh as he tries to picture Ron's face.
Above his head, the sky is the color of a pearl and iced with fat, dove grey clouds. The soles of his trainers squeak on the flagstones. He can hear the faint crash of the waves down at the beach, the rhythmic shushing noise echoed by the constant wind through the tall grass. His slogging steps slow further as the garden comes into view.
Most of the little garden is dormant at the moment, but the small patch of sandy soil he seeks is covered with a thick carpet of clover. The small white flowers are both out of season and out of place, but they bloom year round, no matter the weather. Their scent drifts to him now as the breeze briefly drops, green and sweet. He has always wondered who's Spelled them, because it doesn't seem like something Hermione, Fleur, or even Luna would think to grow. But he never remembers to ask until he's out here, and then he's alone.
Usually, anyway.
But today there's another figure already sitting on the carved stone bench where Harry always perches. Harry squints, taking in the pin-straight posture, which stiffens further at the sound of Harry's approach.
Harry pauses at the foot of the grave. The wind changes direction, buffeting his face, making his eyes water. The small white flowers seem to nod at him.
He resists the urge to pinch himself. Though it wouldn't be the first time he conjured this man in a dream, he normally does so in much different circumstances. Which is why it takes several seconds for his mind to process the reality of what he is seeing. Still, there's no mistaking that silver-blond hair.
Draco Malfoy is sitting beside Dobby's grave, face turned out toward the field of tall, waving grass.
He isn't supposed to he here. He is meant to stay firmly in the compartment marked 'Work Acquaintances.' That is the agreement they made. Not that the tall, slender blond has ever been that easy to dismiss.
Despite the solemness of the place, Harry can't deny he makes quite a picture there against the backdrop of flaxen-hued grass, grey-green sea, and ivory sky — long legs encased in ebony twill (a sharp contrast to Harry's worn blue jeans) crossed at the knee, polished Oxfords, one slender, white hand resting on his thigh, the other stretched along the back of the bench, idly tracing seemingly random patterns on the mica-sparkle of the stone.
It was Ron who suggested they put up a bench, Harry remembers suddenly and apropos of nothing, and wonders what he would think if he knew Draco Malfoy would someday be lounging on it like some sort of model for Harrod's, or Wizard's Quarterly.
He's bundled up better than Harry in a long, charcoal black overcoat with a Slytherin green scarf knotted at his throat. His head turns by bare degrees, his gaze sliding to the clover that grows round the simple stone marker. He doesn't look at Harry as he speaks.
"It grows rampant at the Manor. Mother always hated it. But he…" Draco's Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows hard. "He liked to eat them." Draco's words are slivers of glass that scrape from his throat, voice so rough it makes Harry wince.
Harry stares at his profile, the angled jaw, sharp chin. The tip of Draco's nose is red, and he suspects it's not from the chill. But the idea of Malfoy sitting here, weeping for a house elf, boggles the mind.
Then a twisting pang of remorse slides through Harry's gut.
He forgot, somehow, that Dobby belonged to the Malfoys for years before he met him. Had, perhaps, been around for Draco's entire early life. He's not sure the thought has ever occurred to him before, and that makes him flush with guilt.
"The flowers are sweet, you know," Draco says, absently. He bends forward and plucks one from the bright green bed, twirling the stem between elegant fingers like a tiny wine glass. "He showed me when I was little."
Harry stares as he places the white bud to his pink lips, tips back his head as if truly draining a glass, and sucks. He pictures Draco small, with plump cheeks and grass stains on his knees, sitting in his yard with Dobby and learning to drink clover, but it seems too surreal.
Draco tosses the flower into the air and lets the wind carry it away toward the water. When he finally turns to face Harry, his eyes are the same color as the stormy sky. His face is dry, but his irises glitter suspiciously.
Harry hunches his shoulders, searching for words as he studies Draco's composed features. The last time they were together, they agreed it couldn't happen again. The plan was to stay away from each other. And now here they are.
He shifts from foot to foot, his heart climbing into his throat.
"I didn't know you knew he was here."
It comes out sounding almost accusatory, which is not what Harry intended. It's just he doesn't know how to handle this Draco. A Draco who isn't aloof and more than faintly superior. Or kissing him senseless, shoving him angrily back onto his desk, and sucking his brains out through his cock.
This Draco is an unknown.
Draco rises, his lips pressed together, ignoring Harry's words as he steps carefully to the head of the small patch of clover. He slides into a graceful crouch, but the movement of his fingers is jerky as he brushes a few bits of debris from the marker. Facing him from the opposite end, Harry sees the tightness of his jaw, how it makes his high cheekbones cut against his porcelain wind lifts several locks of white blond hair and combs through them before letting them fall back into place.
"Bill told me. He thought I'd want to know."
There's a trace of the old Draco — the one he's used to — in those acerbic words. Harry bites his lip, rocking back on his heels. Their last frantic encounter (in a seventh floor storeroom, up against shelves filled with parchment, quills, and ink) was months ago and they've barely spoken since. Speaking has never been something they excel at, anyway. Not to each other.
Especially not in times of distress.
Harry tries not to think about the memory of Draco lying in bloody water on a bathroom floor. He scans the almost empty horizon, tracking the wheeling path of a lone bird. Anything not to look at Draco as he tends to Dobby's grave.
The silence hangs between them, sharp and delicate. A glass soap bubble. A single breath could shatter it. Harry can't think of a word to say.
Finished running his fingers over the sloppily carved words — HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF — Draco pats the stone, murmurs something under his breath, and pushes to his feet. He brushes a stray hair from his cheek, his gaze hovering around Harry's chest instead of meeting his eyes.
"I'll leave you to it, then."
Harry sighs, regret joining sorrow to perch on his shoulders. He slumps. "I didn't mean to chase you away."
Draco scrapes his teeth over his lower lip. When his lids rise, his irises are the color of wet slate.
"I was a horrid child." The words are soft, clipped, matter-of-fact. They stop Harry's apology. They practically stop his heart. He's not sure what look he has on his face, because it feels numb with shock, but Draco laughs. The sound is lonely as the cry of a gull. "I didn't know I was, of course, because my parents doted on me."
In the normal course of things, Harry would offer a snort and a snide remark. But this is not the place for that. He keeps his voice neutral as he replies.
"I'm sure they did."
Draco's mouth tugs sideways in a grimace, as if he suspects the unkind thoughts in Harry's mind. But he presses on.
"Most of the house elves avoided me when they could." He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, biting until Harry is sure he will bring blood. But he doesn't. He smooths the tip of his tongue over the groove. "I didn't mean to mistreat them. I didn't think of it like that."
He turns toward the ocean, his shoulders bowing slightly as he leans into the wind.
"I didn't know better. That was just how you… Everyone did it." His voice breaks on the words.
Harry sighs, because while it's not an excuse he'd normally accept from an adult, Draco had been a child. He can't begin to imagine what it was like to grow up the pampered only child of a Pureblood wizarding family. One that had the money to insure their lives were exactly as they wished them to be (at least as much as one could insure such things). Surrounded only by people who reinforced their own world view.
It occurs to him to wonder, suddenly, if Draco had ever met anyone outside the circle of his Pureblood friends before that afternoon in Madam Malkin's. Was that first bit of snotty prattle about brooms and Hufflepuff and Hagrid actually intended as a genuine overture of friendship from Draco?
He tries to picture himself as he looked then, shabby in Dudley's hand-me-downs and goggle-eyed with awe at the abrupt reversal of his fortunes and his first trip to Diagon.
Harry can't imagine the Draco he thought he knew attempting to be nice to someone who looked like him. But what if he had been, in his own way? And because he'd reminded Harry of Dudley, Harry dismissed him entirely from the category of possible friend on a moment's acquaintance.
Granted, eleven year old Draco had been a total prat to Ron. And had spent several years doing his level best to make Harry's life miserable. But, in hindsight, their antagonistic relationship might not be entirely down to Draco.
It shames him a little that he's never considered this before. Not even at Draco's trial, when he testified in his defense. That had been more out of a sense of duty to Severus Snape than any strong belief in Malfoy's goodness or lack of culpability.
He opens his mouth to speak, not quite sure what to say to ease the other man's guilt and grief, but Draco continues. He crosses his hands behind his back, the white fingers of his right wrapped tightly around his left wrist.
"He was the only one who wasn't afraid or obsequious, even though I did my level best to emulate my father. He brought me tea and biscuits if I woke in the middle of the night, and listened to me go on and on about…"
Harry tilts his head as Draco trails off and cuts him a look from the corner of his eye, as if just remembering he's there.
"About all the injustices I perceived were happening to me," Draco finishes, and Harry realizes the pause is about him. Draco complained about him to Dobby. The thought makes his heart turn over oddly behind his ribs.
"I never realized."
Draco hunches forward as if the words are physical blows Harry has aimed at him. He folds his arms over his chest, hugging his elbows. His words are sharp and hard.
"He was kind to me, and I treated him terribly, and now I can never say I'm sorry."
The well of sorrow that Harry always feels in his belly when he comes to visit Dobby deepens, fills with ice at the desolation in Draco's words. He feels hollow and heavy at the same time. His fingers feel cold and numb, and he realizes he's clenching them into fists at his sides. He has crushed Victoire's little ribbon.
He smooths it out, searching futilely for some way to comfort the other man. But he's no good at this kind of thing. Especially not with Draco. His swallows past the block of useless words crowding his throat.
"You planted the clover."
Draco tips his head back, looking up into the soft grey bowl of the sky. He blinks his eyes rapidly and coughs a cawing laugh.
"Yes," he agrees. "I planted the clover. I keep it in bloom. And I come here and talk as if he is still listening."
Harry tucks the refolded ribbon into his jeans' pocket carefully. "Do you think he is?"
Surely the universe has taken some sort of odd turn through a wormhole or something for him to be standing in the garden at Shell Cottage discussing the afterlife with Draco Malfoy. Draco snorts, and Harry isn't sure if it's response to his question, or if he's thinking along the same lines in regards to the oddity of their situation.
Long fingers, tinged delicately green at the cuticle, tap against Draco's sharp elbows in an uneven rhythm. Though the rest of his tall, lean form is painfully still, Harry easily reads the agitation in the angle of Draco's chin and the tap-tap-tap of his fingers.
Usually, when he comes to visit Dobby's grave, he does just what Draco was doing when he arrived. He sits, and sometimes he talks, telling the absent elf about his life. But Draco clearly doesn't want to sit and Harry can't bring himself to leave him alone when he seems so… fragile.
"Would you, er, want to… We could go for a walk? Down on the beach?" He blurts the words, face heating as Draco spins to face him, sharp blond brows lifting, lips parting.
Harry bites the corner of his upper lip and tips his head to indicate the narrow, sandy path the leads down to the strip of beach.
The wind sighs through the tall grass, blowing Harry's fringe into his face. He bats it away, attempts to press it down. Despite the kick of the breeze, Draco looks unruffled except for two faint pink spots high on his pale cheeks.
Without a word, or a care for his perfectly polished shoes, Draco strides past Harry and picks his way down the steep, winding track.
He is surprised by the other man's wordless assent and stares after him. It takes a moment to think past the pounding of his heart, which is louder than the wind and sea in his ears.
This is such a bizarre situation. He is off kilter, awkward in a way he hasn't felt in years. Harry is used to either polite but strained civility or sarcastic banter when they are forced to interact in front of others, and heated confrontations that lead to shockingly satisfying but frenzied sexual skirmishes when in private.
They don't converse. They don't… connect in a more than physical way. Everything that has happened since he interrupted Draco in his mourning fills Harry's belly with bubbling, electric anxiety. It's an uncomfortable feeling and he's not really sure he wants to pursue it further.
His gaze strays from the hem of Draco's coat rippling in the wind, to the cottage, over to Dobby's grave.
It is the sight of the dozens of little white flowers bobbing their heads in the breeze that decides him.
Harry hurries after Draco, hopping down the uneven path, kicking heavy, wet sand. He is puffing slightly by the time he reaches Draco's side. His glasses slip down his nose in his haste, and he pushes them back up roughly.
Draco casts him an oblique look, lips pressed together, and shortens his stride to match Harry's.
The sharp salt smell of the sea is stronger now, though they're walking well out of the foaming surf. The wind dies down, but the air is still chill and briny. Harry fiddles with the zipper on his jacket, watching Draco from the corner of his eye.
His silver gaze is locked on the black rocks of the jetty in the distance, his chin up. The redness has faded from his nose, leaving his complexion once again porcelain pale. Their arms brush with each step.
Unable to stand the fraught silence, Harry clears his throat.
"Was… Did you know Dobby your whole life?"
Draco slides his hands into his pockets, his shoulders tensing. For a moment, Harry thinks he's not going to answer, that prickly, arrogant Draco has returned. They will soon be picking at each other, and given the circumstances, the only possible outcome is one of them stalking off in a huff.
Harry is surprised to feel a tingle of regret shiver through him. He rubs his palms together, pretending it's the chill.
"As long as I can remember," Draco says softly, and it has been such a heavy few seconds that it takes Harry a moment to recall what he asked. He scuffs his toe against an exposed shell, turning it upside down. The inside is a shimmering pink, the same color that tinged Draco's cheeks earlier.
He bends, his fingers closing around the small bit of smooth, cool exoskeleton. He rubs his thumb against it, like a genie lamp that might grant him a wish. Straightening, he slips the shell into his pocket beside the ribbon.
"Tell me about him?"
And this is apparently so unexpected a request that Draco stops and half turns toward him, mouth opening. His tongue twitches behind his teeth and Harry can read the intent to sharpen it on him in the flash of silver irises.
But instead, Draco snaps his mouth closed.
He starts walking again, his pace slower now, and blows out a long breath. Harry watches his eyes momentarily close. His tongue sneaks out, softer now, and nervously wets his lower lip.
"Father used to travel a lot, when I was small." Draco tosses the words out like a gauntlet he expects Harry to pick up and slap him with. Harry, wisely he thinks, remains silent. Beside them, the surf continues rolling in and out.
To Harry, it sounds like a mother comforting her child, rocking it, whispering. Shush. Shush. Shush. He lets it lull him as they walk, their tracks filling with water as they pass.
A moment later, his patience is rewarded.
"Once, I couldn't have been more than four, he brought me a toy dragon. From Bulgaria, I think. No bigger than an apple, carved of smooth wood and hand-painted. It flapped its wings and blinked and would nibble on my fingers. I loved that thing."
Draco chuckles softly, the affection clear in his voice. Harry doesn't know if it's for the toy dragon or his father, or both. The thought of Lucius as a father is as strange to him as the thought of Draco mourning Dobby. He is not sure where to put it.
The pleasure of the memory fades from Draco's face as he continues. "I had a tantrum, of course. I don't remember what about now. No lemon cakes at tea. Wanting more biscuits. Something that seemed terribly, terribly important to a four year old."
He turns his head to Harry, as if surprised to find him listening. Harry holds his gaze, tips his head. The corner of his mouth curls up just a little in a hint of encouragement.
"I threw it. Slung the thing as hard as I could at him — Dobby, I mean. I didn't mean to. It was just the closest thing to hand. And when it hit the wall, one of the wooden wings snapped off."
Harry winces, imagining little Draco's outrage. And what would Lucius have said about breaking no doubt expensive toys? He shivers a little at the thought. But Draco's words surprise him.
"When I realized what I'd done, I burst into tears, thinking I had killed my friend. I yelled some very nasty things about it being all Dobby's fault and telling my father." Draco's lips twist. "And then I heard a little pop like a match lighting. The dragon gave its little trumpet, and Dobby placed it in my hand, wing good as new. He patted my shoulder and wiped my face with his towel and said, 'Next time, Master Draco, just ask me to fix it.'"
Harry is startled into a laugh, imagining Dobby gently chiding a red-eyed, sniffling little Draco. This time, the picture seems more real, and it makes his own eyes sting. The back of Draco's hand brushes his as they walk and he reaches out instinctively. Draco's head swings toward him, eyes widening, as Harry twines their fingers together.
"What is it you think you're doing, Potter?"
The words aren't as imperious as Draco no doubt intends them to be though. They're hushed, hesitant, as if they caught in his throat on their way out. Harry lifts his own brows and smiles a little, squeezing Draco's hand.
"Listening. Tell me more?"
Draco stares at their linked hands for a moment, Adam's apple bobbing. Harry feels the fine tremor of his fingers and squeezes a little tighter. The tip of Draco's tongue moves restlessly back and forth along the seam of his lips.
As another pink flush crawls up Draco's throat, Harry is sure he's going to pull away. He feels answering heat in his own face. They've touched before, much more thoroughly than merely palm to palm, but this is still unknown territory. Electricity crackles in his lungs. Has he crossed a line? Is this when the fighting will start?
Draco doesn't disengage their hands. In fact, his thumb strokes across Harry's knuckles. He clears his throat, and begins to talk.
Harry listens as words spill from Draco's lips like water from a broken dam. As if he's been waiting to tell someone and now that he's got the chance, he's unable to stop. He tells story after story about Dobby. Most of them revolve around Draco being a terrible little shit and the generous elf taking care of him, often with his own odd brand of humor.
Mostly, Harry remains quiet and lets Draco talk, but when he realizes Draco doesn't mind questions, he proceeds to tease out details of the life Dobby lived before they met.
It's more than they've ever said to each other in the entirety of their acquaintance.
They sky turns a soft, watermelon pink as the sun begins to set. They've almost reached the jetty, a tumble of black rocks stretching out into the sea, when Draco's voice trails off, apparently out of stories for the moment. Or perhaps merely preparing the next one.
Harry's gaze drifts for the first time from Draco's face and the nuances of emotions playing across it, to the sea beyond him.
The tide has gone out, and the water is calmer than it was. He has been to this beach dozens of times, usually holding either Victoire or Teddy's hand as they scampered along and tried to catch the little crabs that scuttle over the sand.
He can't remember ever noticing how beautiful it was before, the curving crescent of the shore with the jetty like an outstretched arm and the way the ocean surges up toward the dunes and then slides slowly back. The land and the sea meet here like eager lovers rushing into each other's embrace.
The whimsical musing is unlike him and curves his lips in a smile.
Beside him, Draco sniffs and Harry thinks it must be the cold and the wind finally getting to him, until the first hot drop splashes onto the back of his hand.
Another tear quickly follows, then another, until they're dripping from Draco's chin in a constant stream.
Harry's heart both twists and leaps at the sorrow carving deep lines around Draco's eyes and mouth. The sight of Draco's lips, pressed so tightly together they've gone white, seems to scoop out his belly. Draco's nostrils flare, dragging in salt-scented air in quick, harsh inhales that make his chest hitch. His entire body shudders, his shoulders curving as he folds forward.
The hand not squeezing Harry's painfully hard slips, shaking, between the lapels of his coat to press against his sternum.
He is trying so hard not to cry, Harry realizes, to press his grief back down inside himself. But the first sob bursts from him anyway, refusing to be swallowed. The sound of it, ragged and bloody, like something ripped from deep inside Draco's gut, makes Harry's heart hurt.
"Come on," he says, his own voice hoarse with empathy for the wounded cries coming from Draco's throat. "Let's sit."
Harry leads Draco the last few feet to the stones of the jetty by the hand, squeezing hard, his stinging eyes intent on Draco's flushed, tear-streaked face.
Draco is pliant as Harry sits on a roughly rectangular chunk of cold, damp rock and pulls him down as well. He has to pry Draco's fingers from his to shift their position, but once he's got Draco tucked against his side he gives him back his hand and wraps his other arm around Draco's back.
Harry chews his lip as Draco bends to press his face against his knees, their clasped hands trapped against his mouth. He can feel the softness of Draco's lips against his knuckles, the hard line of his teeth, the tickling waft of his stuttering breath as he tries to stifle his cries.
"Go on, then," Harry murmurs, rubbing broad circles on Draco's back with his left hand.
He can remember when Sirius died, how it felt like the screams were being yanked out of him like a rope with someone at the other end. They just had to come out. And though it had hurt more than he'd thought he could bear at the time, afterward — eventually — he felt better.
Draco had been holding onto his end of the rope for a very long time.
Harry strokes Draco's hair and rubs the back of his neck, which is hot beneath the scarf. He works his fingers underneath the soft fabric and loosens it, letting the cool air bathe Draco's nape. He holds his hand and rubs his shoulders and down along his spine, hoping to ease some of the tension that he can feel quivering in the muscles beneath the black wool coat.
Tears and saliva, and probably mucus as well, wet the back of his hand and his wrist, but Harry doesn't care. The longer Draco's sobs go on, the more calm seems to seep into his bones. Though usually other people's grief is too overwhelming for him, this is somehow… not.
As he smooths his thumb repeatedly over the warm, tender hollow at the base of Draco's skull, he wonders if it's because he has already done the worst of his mourning for Dobby years ago, or if it's just Draco.
He is the exception to so many of Harry's rules for himself, after all. This is only one more.
"Shhhhhhhhhhh," he hums, echoing the sound of the sea. "Shhhhhhhh."
It seems like they sit there like that for a long time, but the sky is still pale pink and orange when Draco's cries dwindle and finally taper off completely. He stays as he is for several more minutes, sniffling and shivering beneath Harry's firm caresses.
Harry combs his fingers through Draco's hair, trying not to think about how it feels, sliding cool and silky against his palm.
When Draco straightens, Harry lets his hand fall away. Despite the intense storm of emotion they just weathered together, he isn't surprised when Draco keeps his face turned away, toward the ocean.
He exhales a long, slow, shuddering breath.
Their still twined hands rest on Draco's knee, the wind cool against Harry's damp skin. Without looking at Harry, Draco uses the end of his scarf to scrub away the evidence of his tears and then unclenches his fingers.
Harry leaves his hand where it is for a moment, the nerves tingling after the tight clasp, before drawing it back into his own lap. He swallows a small smile as Draco coughs, withdraws a monogrammed hanky from his coat pocket, presses it to his nose, and blows out with just the slightest buzz of sound.
Only Draco Malfoy could manage to even blow his nose elegantly, Harry thinks, his lips twitching.
They both stare out into the waves for a moment, watching them crash and foam against the rocks of the jetty. Chill salt spray speckles Harry's cheeks and the wind brushes against his forehead. It teases Draco's hair as well, lifting and dropping the silken blond strands like a playful child.
Unable to resist, Harry reaches up and smooths it back again, tracing his fingers over the curve of Draco's ear.
Draco turns to him slowly, silver irises shining.
After sobbing his guts out, Harry would look a mess, splotchy and snotty and generally water-logged. But Draco… Draco looks… Stunning, is the word that comes to Harry's mind. His lashes are spiky, his eyes are ringed with a tinge of pink, and his cheeks and lips are red and still faintly damp, but that only seems to add a lovely contrast to his pale countenance.
And the look in his eyes…
Warmth swells under Harry's ribs. He takes Draco's face between his palms, Draco's skin hot against his, and sweeps his thumbs over the last of the moisture on Draco's cheeks.
It only takes gentle pressure from his hands to bring Draco's mouth to his.
Harry tilts his head, covering more of those satin smooth lips, and slips his tongue out to lick at them. The first taste is salt and sorrow, tears and the brine of the ocean, but when Draco opens and Harry feels the soft touch of his tongue, sweetness fills his mouth.
The tip of Draco's nose glides against Harry's cheek as they press even closer.
Draco's long, cool fingers curl around his wrists, stroking over his pulse. He must be able to feel the slow, heavy thud of Harry's heart.
The kiss is deep, long, unhurried. It has none of the furious heat of their usual lip locks, but all of the passion. And something else as well. Harry can feel it in the way Draco's tongue slides shyly over his, exploring; his mouth brushes Harry's like a butterfly wing and then returns to sip at his lips the way he did the clover flower earlier, over and over again.
When they draw apart, they both pant softly, and something between them has shifted. Something big. Something important.
Draco's pupils are blown, irises a thin silver ring against deep black. Harry is sure his are the same.
They gaze into each other's faces for several quiet seconds, reading the change in what has become familiar territory at some point over the last half year. Draco releases Harry's wrists and skims his hands up Harry's arms to loop loosely around his neck. His fingers delve into Harry's too long hair.
Harry smiles, mouth still tingling from the kiss.
He caresses Draco's now dry cheeks and jaw before letting his own hold drop to Draco's waist.
"Shoulda done that the first time," he says, his chin dipping in a firm nod. Draco cocks his head, one pale brow arching.
"The first time?"
Harry nods again, for emphasis. "In Myrtle's bathroom?"
Draco's mouth falls open briefly. Then, with a roll of his eyes, he snorts.
"Oh, that would have gone extremely well." He pulls back, shoving gently at Harry's shoulders. "Prat."
Harry laughs, his chest full of bubbles of delight like a glass of champagne. He reaches for Draco's hand again, runs the tips of his fingers over Draco's palm. His gaze flicks between Draco's face and the invisible lines he traces on Draco's skin.
"Would you like to have a cup of tea with me, Malfoy? Now, I mean. Not here, obviously but… There's a nice little place near the Ministry that does lovely cakes. I bet they've got lemon. Or, we could go to the one in Mayfair, if you'd like."
He bites his lip to keep from rambling further. Draco's own mouth twitches. The shifting wind blows sea spray into Harry's face, saltwater beading on his glasses. With a soft tut, Draco plucks them off, slides his wand from his sleeve, and taps it against the lenses.
His fingers linger behind Harry's ears when he slips them back on, stroking the sensitive skin there. Though a teasing smile curls his plush mouth, his voice is solemn when he speaks.
"The place near the Ministry sounds perfect. Harry."
Harry's heart races at the sound of his first name on Draco's tongue. He gulps, blinks through the clean, dry lenses of his glasses. "Well. That's good then."
Draco chuckles, the sound easy and deep and not a little wicked. It heats Harry from the inside out. He watches as Draco stands and takes a few steps forward, breath catching in his throat at the sight of Draco turning back to him.
He is tall and strong and lean against a sky edging toward evening, the wind at his back tousling his hair and his curving mouth a delicious promise.
Harry's knees wobble a little as he pushes to his feet on the soft sand, and Draco steadies him, curling his fingers into the crook of Harry's elbow. Something inside Harry that has just begun to unfurl stretches languorously against his ribs as they walk side by side back up the beach.
Draco doesn't release his hold the entire time.
They could just Apparate from the jetty, but it seems they both want to preserve this moment a while longer.
When they reach the top of the path, Draco glances toward the garden and Dobby's grave. Harry's gaze follows his. In the gloaming, the white flowers seem to wave in unison. For some reason, it reminds him of Dobby in his tower of Hermione's knitted hats. Whatever memory the sight conjures in Draco seems to be equally happy, given the smile tugging his lips up.
"I think maybe he is," he says, finally answering Harry's question from earlier. "Out there, somewhere. Don't you?"
Harry thinks back over the last hour, over everything that has transpired since he stumbled upon Draco in the garden. He remembers the faces he saw when he turned the Resurrection Stone, and covers Draco's hand where it curls around his bicep with his own.
"I do."
Draco shivers. "Let's go have some tea. I'm freezing."
Harry laughs and reaches up to reknot the scarf at Draco's throat. "Alright then. I'll Side-along you, shall I?" Draco nods and tightens his grip on Harry's arm in preparation for the journey. Harry laces their fingers together again. Just before they pop away, he casts one last glance at the blue door of Shell Cottage.
This time, he feels none of the wistfulness that usually spears him. Just the pressure of Draco's cool fingers against his, and the tickle of breath against his cheek, scented with sweet clover.