Foundations

by Sara's Girl

When one door closes, another one opens... with a bit of a push. Life, love and complications. Sequel to Reparations. HPDM slash. COMPLETED.

11. Chapter 11

Foundations - chapter eleven - by Sara's Girl

Disclaimer: see chapter one. After seeing HBP on Wednesday, I am even more distressed than usual that I don't own Harry and Draco, and don't even get me started on Tom Felton. I'm going to go and see it again, just to admire his lovely eyes and his stalking about in that black outfit looking all angsty. *sigh*

AN - From the comments so far, I've managed to surmise that about half of you want some huge drama to unfold with the Harry/Narcissa/Clive situation, and the other half want incident-free fluffiness. In true 'me' fashion, the truth is somewhere in between.

This chapter contains angsting, poor communication, tension, hurt/comfort, people being idiots, yelling and all kinds of other stuff. It was a bitch to write. Please enjoy *smiles* and please let me know what you think, it'll do me good after this chapter very nearly did me in.

**~*~**

"Remind me why I ever thought this Psychodrama thing was a good idea?"

Draco slides into the chair next to Harry's and rests his elbows heavily on the table, dropping his head into his hands with a deep sigh. Shaken out of his brooding by Draco's appearance, Harry flicks his eyes briefly sideways but doesn't lift his chin from his folded arms. Draco looks shattered.

Harry shuts his eyes against the light streaming in from the huge bank of windows.

"Because Stonewell Hall were doing it? Because you thought an action method might be effective with patients who struggle to talk about their feelings?" Harry mumbles, not quite caring that the question was probably rhetorical. "Residents who struggle to talk about their feelings," he corrects himself before Draco does. "Because Marley has a certificate in it? Because... I'm out."

Draco snorts and says nothing for a long time. Harry opens his eyes and drags himself upright.

"He was rather impressive, actually," Draco offers at last, dropping his hands from his face and glancing at Harry with weary eyes. "Must give credit where it's due."

"That you must," Harry mutters, stupidly irked to hear of Marley's accomplishment but trying hard not to show it. He has no desire to revert back to hating the smug prat, but well... some days, it's a bit of a battle. That being said, it's easier to think disdainful thoughts about Marley than it is to consider the reality of Narcissa's offer, and especially when Draco looks so tired. "Was it OK, though?" he presses eventually.

"Yes. Intense."

The terse response is like a red flag to Harry, and without thinking, he covers Draco's hand on the table top for a brief moment—it's just a second or two, but the pale fingers twitch and reach for his, and he feels a little better. He's aware, from Draco's detailed explanations involving textbooks and office-supply props, that this kind of therapy can drag up all sorts of feelings and memories, and he's also aware that this goes for every person in the group, including Draco and Marley and anyone else taking part.

He knows a certain amount about Draco's past, and even some of his darker experiences, but he's not naive enough to believe that there isn't more that Draco doesn't talk about, and probably never will. Harry leans on his folded arms and gazes at the tiny line between Draco's eyebrows as he breathes slowly and stares out of the window.

The piece of parchment feels like it's burning a hole in his pocket, but he's now uncertain how to bring up Narcissa's Libere Ostendo, or even whether he should at all. He doesn't feel like having an argument about it, and there's something vaguely dangerous lurking behind the exhaustion in the grey eyes that makes him hesitate.

Suddenly, Draco sniffs the air and grimaces. Harry can't smell anything, but he doesn't know why he's surprised by that.

"They're making lunch," Draco says, still staring out of the window. "They're making that soup you taught them, a-fucking-gain. For the sake of my sanity, show them how to make something else. Please."

"I will, soon," Harry placates, tracing the grain of the table with anxious fingers. Unsettled, he searches for innocuous words with some difficulty. "What would you like—shepherd's pie? Lasagne? Filet mignon?"

Draco laughs shortly, and though there's little warmth to it, Harry is relieved. For a moment, he listens to the mingled voices just audible from the resident kitchen as what sounds like half the community plus the rest of the staff team rush to pull lunch together after their group. Where the rest are, he doesn't know, but the lounge is deserted and feels oddly still.

"Is she alright?" Draco says suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Your mother? Yeah, she's fine," Harry assures, surprised by the question. I think, he adds silently. It's not as though he's actually seen her since they returned, but Draco doesn't need to know that.

"Tell me."

Harry's pulse quickens. "Tell you what?" He glances at Draco, who is looking at him now.

"She did something, and I want to know what." Draco narrows his eyes. "Or you did something, I don't know—either way, out with it."

Harry sighs inwardly. Prickly, drained, bad-tempered or not, he's clearly not going to get away with hiding anything from Draco. There are, he realises, certain disadvantages to having a partner who is so skilled at reading people.

Deciding to avoid the circuitous and longwinded account of the events leading up to the conversation on the bench, Harry opts for directness. "She offered to take Clive."

Draco's sharp intake of breath forces him to reconsider his bluntness, and he adds, "After we'd seen the home. She... well, she said a lot of stuff, actually, but the upshot is that she wants to look after him, Libere Ostendo."

Draco lifts a hand to push through his hair, frowns lightly and looks away from Harry and out of the window once again. "Latin is a strange look on you," he says obliquely.

Bewildered, Harry stares at him. He doesn't know what he expected Draco to do, but he expected... a reaction. Something. For the first time, he wonders if Draco has known this was coming all along.

"Did you know she was going to do that?"

"No, but I can rarely predict what she's going to do," Draco says, almost smiling. Almost.

"You and me both." Harry rubs his eyes behind his glasses, feeling infected by Draco's lassitude. "What do you think? What the hell should I do?"

Draco turns his head once more and fixes Harry with darkened, intense eyes and a strange, sober expression. "You should do whatever you think is right."

"Great," Harry whispers. "Thanks."

Draco doesn't seem to hear him. He's probably still head-battered from the group, Harry reasons, leaning back in his chair and inhaling the all-too-familiar scent of vegetable soup that has now started pervading the living room in earnest.

It's not as though he can't make a few decisions alone, anyway, it just feels a bit odd to do so these days.

Whatever he thinks is right, though? Harry doesn't even know where to start with that one. Still feeling uneasy, heavy, uncertain, Harry stretches his arms out in front of him across the smooth shiny wood and gazes at his creased shirt-sleeves; the scattered dark hairs of his forearms with the twin pale interruptions of string and ancient magic; his sore, untidy, stress-bitten fingers; sharp knuckles and imperfect hands.

He should be accustomed to the concept of holding life in these hands, and yet never before has it felt quite so literal. So momentous. So very possible that he might bugger it up completely.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry isn't sure quite how long he sits there, but when the bell for lunch rings, he is immediately aware of two things. The fact that he's actually ravenous, and the fact that Draco is touching him—sliding a hand over his nearest sleeve and wrapping around his wrist, elegant fingers next to his ragged ones.

When he looks up, Draco's eyes are pained, though whether at his mother's behaviour or at the prospect of more vegetable soup, it's hard to tell. "Want to go out for lunch and talk about something else?"

Harry does. He really does.

"Somewhere that doesn't serve soup?" he suggests, pushing back his chair and pulling Draco with him toward the door before he can change his mind.

Allowing himself to be pulled, Draco smiles—a real smile this time, and something inside Harry twists with relief at the sight of it. "No soup. No reporters. No wizards if possible, in fact," Draco adds.

Harry returns the smile and keeps walking until they are both outside of the anti-Apparation wards.

"I think that can be arranged. I'll even have you back in time for afternoon group."

"Wonderful."

Confused and relieved and a little restless, Harry steps close to Draco and gratefully inhales the reassuring scent of his shirt-collar. He's warm and familiar where they touch, and Harry is almost able to stick a pin in the whole Narcissa Malfoy business, just for a little while. It's clear that Draco is avoiding the issue, and Harry is letting him, but... perhaps things will be clearer after lunch.

"With me?" Draco says softly, and it takes Harry a moment to realise why it sounds so familiar. At least this time, it's a question.

"Yes."

Draco nods, and they Disapparate.

**~*~**

After lunch at a strange Muggle noodle restaurant, during which Draco insists they sit at a table in the window and draws Harry into a game which essentially involves making fun of anyone passing by on the street, Harry collects Clive from Narcissa and Apparates home. He has the whole day off, and the following day, too, and has no excuse to leave the little boy with her, but he still feels strange as they leave the sun-room, like he doesn't quite know how to talk to her any more.

Which is nothing if not frustrating, because he'd only just started to figure it out in the first place. One step forward and two steps back.

Clive is in the mood to talk about his mother, it seems, and as he tells him that, "Mummy wasn't very good at cooking—well, Philip said she wasn't, I liked her breakfasts," Harry is flooded by simultaneous waves of nausea and inspiration.

"Well, I think you know best," he says—there's no way he's even getting into the conversation about Philip Harris that someone will have to have at some time or other—"But there are lots of people where Draco works who don't know how to cook. Would you help me make a list of things we can teach them to make?"

"Is Drake bad at cooking, too?"

Harry retrieves a pen and a bit of parchment and sits down at the table with Clive. "Yeah, he is. But he's good at lots of other things."

Clive spreads his fingers out on the table, thoughtful. "He can read," he offers brightly.

Amused, Harry chews on his pen. He suspects Clive is thinking of the previous night, when he had sat in rapt silence at the foot of the sofa while Draco had read several chapters of 'Dog Rose' and played with Harry's hair. He also wonders if this statement means that Clive thinks Harry can't read.

"He can, yeah. He's a man of many talents." He taps the parchment. "Irish stew?"

Clive makes a 'yucky' face and shakes his head.

Harry smirks. "Me neither."

By the time Draco makes it home, Clive is fast asleep in bed, having helped Harry to create a list of 'really important stuff' for the residents of Foundations to cook, under Harry's watchful eye.

Having no objections whatsoever to the suggested early night, Harry follows Draco upstairs and they disrobe and crawl into bed in a strange, not-entirely-restful silence. Draco sprawls flat on his back and stares at the ceiling, and from his position curled on one side, head pillowed on one arm, Harry can see the lines of tension that still pull his face tight. He wants to smooth them away but can't seem to find the words to even ask.

Besides, choked by his own discomfort and racing thoughts, he's not sure he'll be able to reach. Fearful at the sudden distance between them that he doesn't quite understand, in the almost-darkness, he presses his hand to Draco's chest and the rapid heartbeat hammers against his palm.

Say Anything only works when the words are there, bubbling just under the surface and demanding to be let out, he reflects.

"I don't know what to do," he says at last, because it's the truth.

Draco's heartbeat quickens under his fingers and he turns his head away toward the one-way transparent door, but after a moment, his hand comes up to cover Harry's over his heart.

"I know."

Harry closes his eyes.

**~*~**

When he wakes, it's not late but the house is unusually silent. Scrambling from the sheets, he finds a note on the bedside table, propped up against a cup of tea with a Warming Charm glowing around it.

I assume you still have an appointment today, so I've taken Clive with me to the Manor.

Don't forget to brush your teeth.

D.

Surprised, Harry sits amid the rumpled sheets and stares at the note. He picks up the tea and gulps at it, not caring when the scalding hot liquid burns his throat. It's nice of Draco to take Clive, of course it is, and Harry knows that just a couple of weeks ago, he would have been horrified at the idea of spending time alone with the child. But still, he can't help feeling like he's being avoided.

And avoidance, he thinks as he abandons cup and note to stretch distractedly, avoidance is one of Draco's special talents, when he chooses to use it.

Given that he's unable to think of anything he's done wrong, he can only surmise that Draco's unease is to do with his mother, and Harry doesn't know if he can help him out with that; his thoughts on the subject are tangled enough as it is. On the one hand, Narcissa Malfoy's offer is a wonderful thing, but on the other... he's just not certain at all.

Harry groans and gets to his feet, slouching toward the bathroom. Draco has assumed correctly, and he does indeed have an appointment today, with the other children's home on his list. He toys with the idea of calling to cancel, but it's only the briefest flicker.

Options, tells himself firmly. Other options, that's what Hermione had said. The trouble is, he can't remember which are the options and which are the other options any more.

"I'm sure that doesn't make any fucking sense," he mutters to himself, gazing at his reflection with dissatisfaction.

"Language," says the mirror.

Harry pulls a face, reaches for his toothbrush, and smiles at what he sees.

Unexpectedly lifted, he reaches for the little yellow note stuck to the bottom left corner of the mirror.

#25 – Your mastery over the toasting machine is unmatched. I'm certain I did everything right, but in the esteemed opinion of my breakfast companion: 'Harry's is better, sorry'. Will see you later, after I've had a little cry into my coffee.

A soft snort escapes Harry and he shakes his head. Feeling just a little more grounded, he sticks the note to his forearm while he brushes his teeth and contemplates this morning's information-gathering visit.

Narcissa's presence during yesterday's appointment had been helpful and actually quite soothing, and the selfish part of him wants to fire-call over and ask her along to this one, too, but he imagines that would be pretty insensitive of him considering her offer.

"Yeah, Mrs Malfoy," he says around his toothbrush to no one in particular, "I know you offered to raise my child, but how about just coming to have a look at another home with me, just in case? You know, got to keep my options open."

Yeah. That's not at all disrespectful. Harry sighs and spits.

In the end, he dresses, makes excellent toast, which he eats standing up at the counter, and Apparates to the North London home by himself.

This place isn't nearly as fancy or well-appointed as the one run by Julie Loud Voice, but Harry is immediately at ease; the manager here is everything that she was not, and even though Harry's still unable to put his finger on the exact qualities in question, he doesn't suppose it really matters.

David Holbrook—'Call me Dave'—has lines around his eyes, slightly crooked teeth and a strong Mancunian accent, and as they settle in his chaotic, paint-peeling office after the obligatory tour, Harry finds himself confiding in the man, sharing the information that he kept back from Julie.

"Well... can't say I've ever seen one of them up close," Dave admits after some time, examining Harry's Promise band with interest.

"I'm not surprised. Though I am surprised that everyone I show this to knows exactly what it is... I didn't have a clue," Harry admits, dropping his hand back into his lap with a rueful half-smile.

"Nah," says Dave, shaking his head, "pureblood thing, isn't it? Not that I care about any of that rubbish. Interesting stuff, though... they say the parent's instinct to protect their child is the strongest there is, and that—" He jabs a forefinger at Harry's wrist, "—is hard evidence of that fact. And yet..."

When the man trails off, Harry looks up into earnest dark eyes. "And yet what?"

"If you'd heard the stories I've heard, Harry." Dave leans back in his chair until it creaks, dark brows knitted. "The things parents do to their children. The things parents let happen to their children. These ones... these are the survivors," he says, gesturing beyond the closed door to the motley collection of children that Harry can just about hear going about their day, arguing and chattering and laughing. "And many of them are safer here than with their families, which is screwed up, but there it is."

Harry exhales slowly as the words strike him in several places uncomfortably close to home. He twists his fingers around each other in his lap to keep from chewing on his nails, but he realises his discomfort is obvious when the man behind the desk speaks again.

"Didn't mean to get so gloomy, sorry. Been doing this too long, I reckon." Dave flashes an uneven smile, worn features wry and apologetic.

"No, you're right. I..." he starts, and reconsiders. Takes a deep breath, stands and holds out his hand for the other man to shake. "I believe this is a safe place, Mr Holbrook. Dave. Thanks for your time."

"Pleasure's mine. Good luck with it," Dave says, shaking his hand firmly. "There's a place for him here if you want it."

The smell here is different again, Harry thinks as he makes his way to the exit. Like old furniture and proper fires, the kind made without magic. And mildew. Distractedly, he wonders who funds a home like this, and why the place is so run-down compared to the one run by Julie Loud Voice.

It's a cooler day today, and he pulls his light coat more tightly around himself as he walks away from the Disillusioned building and wanders into Muggle London. Unsurprisingly for a weekday morning, the streets are busy, but he weaves in and out of streams of people who pay no attention to him whatsoever, and thinks. Thinks and thinks and thinks until his head hurts and he doesn't really know where he is any more.

Dave's candid but grim words echo in his head and before long, he's even more confused than he was to start with. His first thoughts are of the Dursleys, and Dumbledore's decision to leave him there all those years ago, and whether he'd have been better off in a safe-but-rundown place like the one he's just left.

And then, of course, there's Draco. Draco, who grew up in unimaginable luxury but under the shadow of an increasingly desperate Lucius Malfoy, who demanded compliance with unseen violence and hushed threats and addictive potions. For the first time, Harry wonders exactly what Narcissa Malfoy was up to while her husband was using any means necessary to keep Draco in line.

'These are the survivors,' Dave had said.

The wind lifts Harry's hair from his forehead and he shudders. Narrowly avoids bumping into a harassed-looking woman with three children in tow.

Were those the 'mistakes' she was referring to? he wonders, picking up his pace and shoving cold hands into his pockets. It's a good possibility that he's going to drive himself over the edge with this. He needs a sounding board. He needs... reason.

Harry flattens himself against the nearest shop window, out of the way of the crowds, and his eyes fall upon the selection of small, delicate cakes on display.

Perhaps, if he's prepared to brave the Ministry, he can buy himself some reason.

**~*~**

Draco was right, Harry thinks as he navigates the confusion of floors and corridors that make up the main Ministry building—this place has changed. He doesn't feel nearly as intimidated as he used to, though he does wonder if that's because he's changed and grown since he was last here.

Either way, he finds himself able to deflect the frequent inquiries and greetings of Ministry employees with good grace, and eventually reaches his destination. Shiny white box tucked securely under his arm, he knocks.

"Yes?" comes the muffled, harassed voice, and he pushes the door open and steps into the vast office.

"I know you're busy, 'Mione, but I brought cake," he says, holding out the box by way of greeting.

Startled, she looks up from her rifling through a magically-enhanced filing cabinet. "Harry... you're in my office," she observes somewhat redundantly.

"So it would seem." He smiles at her surprise and glances around the office. It's huge, pin-neat and modestly-appointed. It's... Hermione. "I thought maybe... if you had ten minutes or so... my head's a bit of a mess," he admits.

Hermione's eyes widen and she straightens up from her crouch to cross the floor and slip behind her desk. Harry's all too aware that she usually has to drag information out of him, and for him to offer it is almost unprecedented. Secretly, he's rather impressed with himself.

"Sit," she instructs, flicking her wand and sending a chair careering across the room. It skids to a stop in front of the desk, and Harry sits, pushing the box of delicate cakes toward her.

"I'm sitting."

"Are you trying to bribe me with cake?" she asks, looking into the box with ill-concealed interest. "Because I think you're in the wrong office—Auror HQ is the next building over."

"I wouldn't try to bribe Ron with pink cakes with strawberry icing," Harry points out. "And anyway, it's your advice that I want." He leans forward on the desk, supporting his head in his hands, fingers sliding into his wind-blown hair, and stares at Hermione until she picks up a cake and examines it. "It's about Clive. Sort of. And Narcissa Malfoy."

Hermione takes a delicate bite of cake and raises her eyebrows. Harry knows, he knows that of all his friends and colleagues, she is the most distrustful of Narcissa, even now, but he thinks that's what he needs. She's probably as close to impartial as he's going to get, anyway.

"Tell me," she says, carefully licking pink icing from her finger.

And he does. He tells her about their visit to the upmarket home and Julie Loud Voice and communication; he tells her about sitting on a park bench and Libere Ostendo; he tells her about Dave the Manc and his messy office and his opinions, and then, haltingly and leaving out the details, he twists his hair between his fingers and stares down at the reports on her desk and tells her about the thoughts that had plagued him as he wandered around central London.

She listens in attentive silence, and though he catches her once or twice opening her mouth to interrupt, she stops herself with little chunks of cake and icing and impressive self-control.

"Right," she says finally, when Harry stops talking and raises his eyes to hers. "And... are you seriously considering this offer of hers?"

Harry thinks about his not-really-a-list, and nods. "Yeah. I think so."

Hermione bites her lip and frowns. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I know you want her to like you."

Something in her tone—something a bit too careful—yanks irritation through Harry and he mumbles into his fingers, "Please tell me you're not suggesting I would hand Clive over to Mrs Malfoy to make her like me."

There's a soft, agonized sigh, and a rustle as Hermione folds her arms atop a pile of parchments.

"Sorry, Harry. Not really, no, I just had to say it, I suppose."

Harry snorts without humour. "I see. And anyway... I think she already likes me, actually. That's not the issue." And as he says the words, he realises that he actually believes them. He believes that she does like, and perhaps even respect, him.

"What is, then?" Hermione asks softly after a long, slightly stunned silence. "You think she won't protect him? From who? And seriously, Harry, I'm playing devil's advocate here. I don't know what the answer is."

"You sound like Draco."

Harry glances up, dropping his hands to the desk at last, just in time to see Hermione's odd little smile. "You may have said that before. I'm starting to get worried."

"Very funny. Seriously, though, I've never seen him so noncommittal over anything."

"She's his mum. What do you expect him to do?"

"I don't know. It's not like I can really ask him," Harry sighs, hating with a sudden passion the way that all of the main players in this stupid situation are connected to each other. The logical part of him is insisting that yep, that's just how families work, better deal with it, but he's not in the mood for listening to it.

"Was it really that bad?" Hermione almost whispers, touching his arm across the desk. "With his father, I mean. I always suspected, but..."

Her question prompts a hot spike of rage that takes Harry straight back to menthol-scented bathwater and shuttered grey eyes and a conversation he never wishes to repeat. He inhales sharply through his nose, fiddles with his string and nods, meeting her eyes. Though he has no desire or intention of sharing the details, he needs to make her understand, and her expression as she quite unexpectedly reaches for a second cake tells him he's done that quite effectively.

"Fuck," she says after a moment, and then he knows, because Hermione never says fuck unless she really means it.

"Yeah." Harry leans closer, anxiety rising. "Listen, you won't—"

"Of course not," she says, sounding mildly offended, even if ten seconds previously she looked as though she was on the verge of Apparating to Draco's side and hugging him by force.

"Good," Harry mutters, feeling guilt-ridden even though he knows he's done nothing more than confirm something she already suspected. Fuck, his head hurts. Like someone's squeezing it from the outside.

Just then, there's a soft knock at the door; it swings open and admits a tiny witch with coiffed blonde hair and a frankly frightening patterned robe.

"Five minutes, Miss Granger," she says, waits for Hermione's nod and then disappears again.

"Who was that?"

"My, erm... secretary," Hermione mumbles, embarrassed. "I have a meeting with... never mind that." She shakes herself and fixes Harry with a stern gaze, suddenly all business. "How's that list coming along?"

"But you—alright," Harry stumbles, cowed by the raised eyebrow. "It's... limited."

Hermione sighs. "Look. If you're honest, you didn't like the place yesterday. That leaves the one from today, the adoption lady, and whatever's on that list." At his expression of 'well, that's helpful' she rolls her eyes to the ceiling. "Did you really expect to come here and have me make a decision for you?"

"Yes," Harry mumbles into his hand as he rubs at his face, even though he didn't really. "Why is it... why is it that by making a really helpful, generous offer, Narcissa sodding Malfoy has somehow made everything feel ten times as complicated?"

Hermione shrugs and stands up behind her desk, gathering files and parchments into her arms. "Well, like you just said, she's Narcissa sodding Malfoy. What do you expect? She's a Malfoy."

"She was a Black first," Harry points out, leaning back and letting his arms dangle almost to the carpet.

Hermione releases an odd little dry sound from the back of her throat and shakes her hair back from her face as she rounds the desk to look down at Harry, arms full of papers and formal cloak draped over one shoulder. He has the distinct impression he's about to be kicked out of her office.

"I don't think that's much of a mitigating factor. Up," she prods, nudging him with her foot until he stands reluctantly. Dark eyes softening, she leans up to kiss him on the cheek and smiles briskly but warmly. "I want to help, but I can't decide for you."

"I know. Thanks, 'Mione."

"Alright, well if you—"

They both turn as the door flies open again. Fully expecting the little blonde woman and still astonished that Hermione has a secretary to go with her huge office, Harry's pleasantly baffled to see Ron. He strides into the office, rust-brown robes flapping, seemingly already mid-sentence:

"—time for lunch, 'Mione? Rodriguez said we should... oh." Ron pauses, eyes flicking between his girlfriend and best friend. "Harry, what are you doing here? Ooh, cake."

Hermione sighs and adjusts the items in her arms. "Ron, I have a meeting. Why did I bother linking my work diary to yours if you never look in it?"

Pained blue eyes meet Harry's and he shrugs one with shoulder, not wanting to attract attention to himself.

"Sorry, it's just that there's this place that does—"

"I'm late. Harry will have lunch with you, won't you, Harry?" Hermione smiles, kisses a puzzled Ron, too, and sweeps out of her office looking extremely busy and important, as she no doubt is.

Ron scratches the back of his head and stares after her for a moment. "Has she always been this bossy?" he asks the room in general.

"Always."

**~*~**

On the third and last of his days off work, Harry wakes early and lets in the post owl at the bedroom window while Draco is in the bathroom. They're fast approaching the end of the time-frame they've agreed with Rita, and as such are on what Draco calls 'High Alert Skeeter-Watch', combing each edition of the Prophet for slip-ups.

Of course, there's nothing stopping other reporters or indeed other Wizarding newspapers from publishing the offending articles, but Harry has to admit that they've been very thin on the ground indeed in recent weeks, and he half-wonders what kind of intimidation racket the obnoxious Animagus is operating.

"Still nothing," he calls from his position sprawled across the sheets, to a still-subdued Draco.

"Hm," comes the voice from the bathroom, muffled by the sound of running water.

Harry sighs, and then freezes. Buried right near the back, in a tiny little article of no consequence, is the official news of...

'...the conviction of Philip David Harris for the murder of Romilda Vane, 22, of Forest Gate. Harris, 33, is already serving a life term in Azkaban for the murder of Velecia Robbins, 19, in 2003. Auror K. Larkin, who secured the conviction this week, confirms that these were connected cases, and that, 'At last, we have justice for the families of these innocent women.' Vane leaves behind a four-year-old son, who is being cared for by friends of the deceased.'

Swallowing hard, Harry closes the newspaper quickly and resolves to hide it somewhere Clive can't get his hands on it. The child can't read all that well, but Harry would be surprised if he couldn't recognise his own mother's name, and that would open up a wholly unpleasant can of worms.

He sighs and flops back onto the bed, arms spread gracelessly at his sides. It's not as though this is news to him, but seeing it buried away somewhere between the personal ads and the Quidditch scores is unsettling to say the least.

The compulsion he's so far managed to suppress rises up once more, and as he stares up at a particularly impressive crack in the ceiling that he really should fix, it seems to swell and envelop him.

"Oh god, did you find one? What did she say?" Draco demands, picking up the newspaper and staring down at Harry from the foot of the bed.

Harry doesn't look at him, just shakes his head. "No. Just something about Harris." He closes his eyes, twists his fingers into the sheets and exhales long, slow and careful. But the words come out anyway. Say Anything. "I want to see him."

He feels the shift of the mattress as Draco sits next to his feet. "Harris?"

"Yeah."

The drag of Draco's breath warns Harry that he's struggling for control, and his eyes snap open to see narrowed grey ones staring back at him. "What... Harry, what the fuck would that achieve?"

"I don't know. Closure?"

"Closure." Draco repeats the word, incredulous, and rakes a hand through his just-styled hair, messing it beyond all belief. "No. You haven't been there, have you?"

"Have you?" Harry challenges hotly, propping himself up on his elbows, irritated but not sure why.

"No, but my father has. Had." Draco frowns, fingers gripping the folded newspaper hard. "Going there won't help you with this. It won't," he insists stiffly. "Don't."

"Don't... tell me what to do," Harry mutters, angry and yet knowing he sounds like a petulant child.

The pale eyes flare with some emotion or other, indiscernible but intense. "I'm not. I'm asking you."

Insides twisting, Harry looks away. "Why?"

"Do you think that looking into his eyes will suddenly make it alright that Clive doesn't have a mother?" Draco asks, answering a question with a question as he often does.

"Must you, Draco?"

"What?"

Harry groans and struggles into an upright position, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed so that he's sitting beside Draco. "Too many questions, shh."

Draco says nothing for a moment, seeming to consider his response, and then merely sighs softly and lifts a hand to turn Harry's face toward his.

"I'm sorry I can't do more," Draco murmurs, eyes softening, and kisses him.

It can't be all that long since they last kissed, but Harry feels as though he's been drowning, waiting for it and not knowing. The brush of lips is so light that his breath stutters painfully in his chest, and he reaches out, grasping a handful of sweater and pinning the hand that isn't touching his face to the bed with his own. He leans closer, urging Draco's mouth open with minimal effort and anchoring himself in each shaky breath taken together, each slip of warm tongues and the taste that is his, theirs, alone.

"I have to go," Draco says, pulling away with a regretful sigh. "Staff meeting."

"Aren't you the boss?"

Draco lifts an eyebrow and gets up, smoothing Harry's creases from his clothing. "Have to set an example, don't I? And I could do without an employee insurrection during the first month of opening."

Harry doesn't have any response to that, so he just stays on the edge of the bed and watches Draco retrieve Clive and his wax crayons, and Disapparate.

Once he is alone, Harry unfolds the newspaper and stares at the smudged article for a long time. It's a tiny piece, not even taking up a full column, and there are no pictures, but he stares anyway, hoping for answers.

When a sound in the street outside startles him, he blinks, eyes dry, and drops the paper to the sheets. When he casts a hurried Tempus, he realises that he's missed his planned appointment with the adoption lady from the Ministry. Troubled, he chews on his bottom lip and glances at the paper again—he essentially now has the day free, and the longer he thinks about it, the darker and stronger the compulsion becomes.

He could fire-call her office and apologise, he supposes, see if she has another slot for him, but even as he sits there and picks fitfully at his nails, he knows he's not going to do that.

Sorry, Draco, he says silently as he leaves the house some minutes later. Some things just have to be done.

**~*~**

When it comes to the Ministry, it seems that being Harry Potter is enough to secure almost any favour, and despite his relief at Auror Larkin's response to his terse, discreet enquiry, Harry tries not to think too hard about it. He doesn't think he'll ever relish using his name to get things done, but he suspects this is one of those 'ends justifying the means' type situations Draco is always talking about.

It's a mild spring day and the salty sea breeze is gentle on his face as he submits to the security checks and steps out of the heavily-warded new Apparation Point behind Larkin; as they follow the guard into the huge, dark fortress, though, the air seems to chill with every step, and while he's beyond grateful that the Dementors are long gone from this place, he can't help but feel that they've left something behind.

Something draining, something bleak. Something hopeless.

Their steps ring out across damp stone, and it strikes Harry hard, just how silent this place is. It's not as though he expected moans and wails, but this blank stillness is disturbing. Harry shivers and draws his hands up into his coat sleeves as far as they'll go, not wanting to shove them into his pockets in front of the expressionless guard and the imposing, hard-eyed Larkin, who has at least refrained from asking too many questions.

"He won't talk to you," the guard says flatly, leading them along a blank, windowless corridor in which great sections of the stone are painted or charmed a sickly pale blue shade. "Fifteen minutes," he adds, with a small, negligent tap of his wand that opens a hole in the wall of the nearest cell.

"He can't touch you," Larkin adds, gesturing at the square hole perhaps two feet square; it seems to be surrounded by some kind of protective force field that Harry can feel but cannot see. The Auror pauses and regards Harry with heavy dark eyes. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Harry says nothing. He watches Larkin and the grey-robed guard walk quickly out of view and then turns, stomach writhing, to gaze into the cell.

The man inside, sitting straight-backed on the bed and reading a book, is utterly average-looking. Even though he's sitting, Harry can see that he's neither tall nor short. Silver-grey streaks the brown hair falling into an unremarkable face, and the fingers that turn the stained pages are pale and almost delicate.

Harry steps closer to the spelled window and drags in a ragged breath, grimacing at air that feels and tastes damp. Harris knows he's there, he's certain of it, but the man does not even look up; instead, he continues to calmly turn over pages as though Harry Potter isn't staring at him, as though he's not sitting in an Azkaban cell, and as though he isn't a convicted murderer with two deaths on his conscience.

Going there won't help you with this, Draco had said. Harry feels sick, and he still fucking hates it when Draco is right. But he's here now.

"Why did you do it?" he asks, rasps, because he can't think of anything else to say.

Harris turns another page, and shows no reaction whatsoever to the question. The guard did warn him, Harry supposes, but like some idiot he has clung to the hope that the callous bastard might... what? What, he asks himself, staring into the cell unseeing, that he might crumple to his knees and start helplessly emoting and explaining and begging for redemption?

Suddenly, he's imagining Romilda rolling her eyes at him, and someone's hissing 'Idealist,' as thought it's a grave insult, but he's not sure who that is.

Certain he's going mad, Harry rests his hands on the cold wall in front of him, relishing the drag of the rough stone against his fingers. One frayed end of the string pokes out as his coat sleeve rides up, and he tries to remember something comforting about Draco, but he can't. It's as though there's nothing there, as though all of those banked warm images and sense memories he clings to have been erased, and all he can think of are grey eyes narrowed in contempt or flashing with fury and pain. Every harsh word and angry silence and every time he's felt afraid that Draco doesn't love him.

Distressed, Harry gulps stale air into his lungs and closes his eyes for the briefest of seconds. Big mistake.

Something has him, something cold, and it's barely more than a second, but it's long enough for green light and red everywhere and laughter and falling, god, so much falling, and 'Sectumsempra!' and 'Kill the spare,' and 'Promise me. Now,' and thin sobbing that he's helpless to stop.

Harry's eyes fly open, stinging, and he blinks rapidly.

He doesn't think he makes a sound, but it hurts... hurts like actual physical pain in his chest, and when his vision clears, Harris is staring at him. He hasn't moved, and the book is still open on his lap, but he fixes Harry with unremarkable hazel eyes. Dead eyes.

The Dementors are gone, he knows that. And yet somehow, this is still a place without hope. Try as he might, Harry can't summon a single happy thought. Not one. Still, he remembers why he's here, and Harris is looking at him now.

"Harry Potter," he says at last, his accent low and refined. "Why on earth do you care? Have you come to save me?" Apparently amused by the thought, Harris' lips curve into a bloodless smile.

"No," Harry manages, pouring everything he has into sounding stronger than he feels. "I don't want to save you. I wanted to see the man who killed my friend."

"Romy? I'd no idea you were close," Harris says.

The familiarity rankles hard, and Harry's fingers curl against the rough stone until it hurts. Philip Harris glances down at his book again, as though weary of Harry's very presence.

"Aren't you sorry?" he demands, barely but just about keeping a lid on those dark feelings.

Harris sighs and doesn't look up.

Harry stares. He likes to think he's not as naive about good and evil as everyone imagines he is. He knows about shades of grey. He understands regret. He understands evil for the sake of evil, the wrong thing done for the right reason, and vice versa. He understands duress and coercion and no other option. He even understands how a person could enjoy doing something truly horrific, how a person could take a life because they took pleasure in it.

But he can't understand Philip Harris' calm. He can't get his head around the fact that this man, this Mr Average, just doesn't seem to give a fuck.

As he steps away from the wall, defeat washes heavily over him and mixes with the despair that's still rippling around him in little waves. He thinks he can hear the muffled footsteps of the returning guard, but that may well be wishful thinking.

Harris glances up from his book one last time, and Harry forces himself to turn away.

"No one leaves me," Harris offers.

Harry doesn't turn back to look at him, but the words cut a chill through him. With some effort, he walks away down the corridor; he shoves both hands in his pockets now, no longer caring.

"Did he talk to you?" the guard asks, not sounding in the least bit curious.

"No," Harry says, and wishes it were true.

"Told you. 'Orrible cold bugger, he is." The guard ushers Harry and Larkin out into the fresh, salt-tangy air and bids them a polite farewell before returning to his bleak duties.

Harry relishes the wind on his face, turning his head into it and letting the currents buffet his hair and skin. The feelings of dread loosen their hold as they walk to the Apparation Point, but do not dissolve.

"You felt it," Larkin says, glancing at him. "Not everyone does, but I should have known."

"Felt what?" Harry mutters, pretending ignorance.

"What the Dementors left behind. They tried, you know, after the war, but whatever it is, it's in the wards, in the walls, in the foundations of the place."

The Auror suppresses a shudder, almost effectively, and Harry relents. "Yeah. I felt it."

"Same old cure," Larkin says, all business. "Chocolate. Sleep, if possible. And anything else you can get."

Harry looks at him, but he's gazing out over the chopping waves, expression unreadable.

"Thanks," he offers instead, and this time when he tries, he can see grey eyes warm on his as he and Draco lie next to each other in tangled, damp sheets, and feel the smile against his mouth as he's pressed into the wall of Draco's office. The images are fainter than they should be, but the fact that they're there at all makes him light with relief.

"He did speak to you, didn't he?"

Harry turns, startled, to catch Larkin's clever dark eyes. Too surprised to lie again, he nods.

"Did it help?"

"Not even a little bit," he admits. "But thank you."

He lets Larkin Disapparate first.

**~*~**

Drained, he takes the jump in two stages—one back to the mainland and then a second into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. His instinct is to crash out on the sofa and close his eyes, but he knows Larkin is right, and, still feeling like a complete idiot, he ransacks the kitchen cupboards for chocolate biscuits and that bit of silver-wrapped dark stuff Draco likes that he remembers seeing somewhere around.

Draco, who likes the trashy cheap stuff as much as the next man, had waxed lyrical about cocoa percentages and specially-trained elves in Brazil until Harry had drifted off, but he suspects that quality can only help in this case.

He leans heavily against the counter and stuffs a large square of the stuff into his mouth without even taking his coat off. The strange, relieved exhaustion clouds his mind and he almost wants to hold onto it, knowing that the feelings evoked by Harris' cold, dead eyes are going to hit hard as soon as it's gone.

"Why do I never fucking listen?" he mumbles through the bitter chocolate.

Creak-flap, says the top cupboard.

"It was a rhetorical question."

The door swings open wildly, jarring its hinges with the suddenness of the movement.

Harry sighs, feeling the chocolate starting to work. The warmth creeps through his veins, giving him the strength to reach up and slam the door shut again.

"I'm not above reinstating the tinsel," he warns, and the cupboard falls silent.

He fumbles through the tea-making ritual on autopilot and then drags himself, his tea and his biscuits into the living room. Ignoring the warmth of the day, he lights a fire in the grate and sits on the hearth rug, partly because he's cold to the bone and partly because fires are good things to look at when one is brooding.

"No one leaves me," he says softly to the dancing flames, and shudders. Almost spills his tea.

He should never have gone to that horrible place; what has he found out, except that Harris is a cold bastard? He already knew that. Draco knew that, and he hadn't wanted Harry to go. His stupid arrogance and inability to resist his own impulses has cost him a day of figuring out this Clive situation, because there's no way he's thinking clearly now, and not only that, he can't seem to get the painful images of Draco out of his head, even now that he's safe.

Fucking Dementors.

He hopes Larkin doesn't tell Ron what he's done, because the last thing he needs is a well-intentioned lecture from his best friend on top of whatever Draco plans to give him when he gets home. It won't be anything good, Harry's certain of that.

Weary despite the tea and chocolate, Harry peels off his coat and leans against the arm of the sofa, kicking off his shoes, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He's not certain how long he stays there, or how long he's had his eyes closed, but when Draco steps out of the now-green flames, he's warm and a little disoriented.

A grim feeling lingers in the pit of his stomach, but he displaces it quickly when he looks around and realises that Draco is alone. He glances at the windows, and it's almost dark outside.

"Where—"

"I left Clive with my mother," Draco says, brushing himself off and sinking to the rug beside Harry in a neat kneeling position.

The rush of relief at seeing him just about outweighs Harry's sense of foreboding and he can't stop himself from reaching for Draco, who obligingly shuffles closer and allows Harry to grip his hand hard.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Draco continues, and his tone only sharpens Harry's anxiety. He's yet to really make eye contact, and Harry for once doesn't want him to. "I was thinking... if you really need to see Harris that badly, then I'll go with you. No one should have to go to that fucking place alone, and I know what you're like, and..." Draco trails off midsentence as he catches Harry's eyes at last. He searches Harry's face, and the grey eyes darken dangerously. "You've already been. You fucking went, didn't you?"

Harry stares back at him, knees still drawn up protectively. Draco's anger flashes around him like some ominous corona, and it's only pure stubbornness that makes Harry hold his gaze when he knows he's in the wrong.

"Yeah, I went."

Something else flickers in Draco's eyes, something that hurts, and then Draco pulls his hand away.

"Why? Why would you do that?"

Repentant but defiant, Harry folds his arms on top of his knees and scowls at Draco even though he doesn't really want to; he doesn't seem to be able to control his face or the words coming out of his mouth. "I told you, I needed to see him. If it makes you feel any better, it was horrible and I wish I'd never bloody gone, alright?"

"Of course, much better," Draco snaps. Pale fingers lift to flicker through his hair and then both hands drop heavily into his lap. He shakes his head and looks at the floor. "It's all about me being right, obviously. That's what's important to me, isn't it?"

He sounds hurt, and Harry's heart stutters, but he's stuck in defensive mode now, mired in it, and the more he struggles for freedom, the more he sinks. Down into those horrible images and that self-loathing that Draco has worked so hard to dissolve.

"Go on, say 'I told you so'," he offers. "You said it wouldn't help, and it didn't help. I'm an idiot, as you've always suspected."

Draco's exhalation is a long, ragged sound, and when Harry glances briefly at him, his eyes are closed. Harry looks away again and wishes he had more nail left to chew.

"You are an idiot," Draco says, getting to his feet. "Apparently it didn't enter your head that I said those things because I fucking care about you? Because I was worried about what would happen if you went there? And judging by the state of you, I was right. But hey..." He releases a soft huff of hollow laughter, "...I get to feel smug about it, so that's alright."

Harry turns his head to protest, the rawness of the words dragging him from his stupor, but Draco has already stalked from the room and a second later, he hears the door slam. It's an interior door, at least, so he's still in the house, but for some reason even that's not much of a comfort.

"Fuck," Harry mutters into his arm as he drops his chin to his knees again.

His hot, misplaced anger seems to have left the room with Draco, but his heart hammers all the same, speeded by regret and confusion. How had 'Sorry, Draco—you were right this morning' turned into... well, that?

Because I fucking care... because I was worried.

It's strange, but even offered in anger, those words are a comfort. Just to know, when there's so much they don't say, at least not out loud.

Letting out a deep, painful breath, Harry glances up to the ceiling as he hears creaking movements from the floor above. He decides to let Draco alone for a little while, and drags himself onto the sofa. He doesn't want to think and he doesn't want to sleep, so he hangs over the cushioned arm and scans the bookcase, waiting for something to leap out at him.

The fact that the book pretty much does, quite literally, leap out at him, he takes as a good sign.

He looks at the leather cover with a dull pang: 'Bridging the Gap—Muggle and Magical Intoxicants Through the Ages' by Dylan Gatsby. Harry traces the lettering and wishes there was some—legal—way to make this whole day go away. Stupid.

By the time he's three chapters into the book, he's almost calm. The familiar words are soothing, slowing his heart rate and reducing the maelstrom of guilt and self-reproach to an almost-manageable ripple. One more chapter, he thinks—the Chromia one—and then he'll go and find Draco. Grovel, if necessary.

"I should never have given you that book," Draco says, appearing behind the sofa, arms crossed.

Startled, Harry looks up from his sprawl amongst the cushions. Throat dry, he manages, "Why not?"

"Gave you ideas. My Grandfather always used to say that it was a dangerous thing to educate the proletariat." Draco lifts an eyebrow and continues, tone suspiciously soft. "And now look."

"Draco?"

"Yes?"

Harry stares up into his eyes, and what he finds there makes everything hurt, but in a wonderful way.

"Is that some fancy way of calling me an idiot again? Because... well, I have to check. Being an idiot, and all."

Draco's mouth twitches into a half smile that he looks as though he's trying to fight with every fibre of his being. "It might be."

"Thought so. You're probably right." Harry abandons the book and the sofa to approach Draco until he's close enough to touch, though he keeps his hands by his sides for now. "I know why you didn't want me to go," he whispers, and the grey eyes waver. "I know. I just... really convinced myself that seeing him would be the missing piece somehow... it'd help me understand. I thought it was one of those things I had to do, and it turns out I was just..."

"Being Harry Potter about it?" Draco supplies drily.

"Well, I was going to say, 'being a prat', but I suppose they're... erm, synonymous."

"All that reading," Draco whispers, and when his arms uncross, Harry is so relieved that he almost forgets to breathe.

"Yeah," Harry agrees and takes the last remaining step, wrapping his arms around the warm waist and pressing his lips to Draco's jaw. "I'm sorry."

Draco says nothing, but his hands sliding under Harry's shirt are a balm to his shredded nerves, and the silent capitulation of their soft, slow kiss is all the response he needs. It's ludicrous that this man can chase away darkness that seems ingrained, stuck fast, with such a simple touch, but he can and he does and Harry lets him.

"Do I really look that awful?" Harry asks, remembering Draco's words.

"Yes," he answers without hesitation, then pulls back and gazes appraisingly at Harry. "I think warm water is indicated here, you know. And there's a mirror in the bathroom, so you can see for yourself."

With that, Harry finds himself yanked into the first floor bathroom before he has time to respond.

"Do you have a thing about warm water? Or is it... oh, god."

Harry stares, horrified, at his reflection. The fact that Draco is standing right behind him, turning on the shower and smirking over his shoulder, looking immaculate, is not helping one bit, but still. His skin is deathly pale with ugly dark smudges under each bloodshot eye. Behind his glasses, those eyes are a dulled, haunted green. He looks fucking horrendous.

"Fucking Dementors," he says again, and Draco raises an eyebrow in the mirror.

"I thought they were gone."

"They are, but there's something of them hanging around in the place. In the walls and things, Larkin said. I could feel it, I couldn't..." Harry hesitates and meets concerned grey eyes in the glass. "...I couldn't remember any nice things about you... about us."

Draco frowns, inhales sharply, and for a moment Harry thinks he's still angry, but then his expression clears. "Remember this," he says, and starts unfastening his belt.

Harry watches as steam fills the small room and Draco removes the last of his clothes, stepping into the shower and turning to gaze expectantly at him, all pale skin and wet hair and almost-smile. He watches for a good half-minute or so, until his brain catches up with his eyes and demands to know why he's watching instead of participating.

Hurriedly, he sheds his crumpled clothes all over the floor and steps into the glass-walled shower behind Draco, pulling the curved door closed and sealing them in. The pounding hot water is delicious and he allows it to flatten his hair to his head, plastering it over both eyes and dribbling hot-sweet into his mouth.

Suddenly there are fingers in his hair and sliding bubbles and the scent of citrus.

"You smell like despair," Draco says.

Harry can't see him, but there's a rasp to his voice that makes him ache. Make it go away, then, he wants to say, but he doesn't. "Not for long," he manages instead.

"No, not for long."

The battering of the hot water against his back and the massage of Draco's fingers ensure that soon Harry's existence is reduced down to a warm, sensual haze, and he almost stops thinking altogether. He doesn't know how much later it is that he's pressed, chest and cheek against cool tiles, hot water still sluicing down his back, and he's pleading for something, anything.

And he doesn't know how much later it is after that, that Draco is giving it to him, wet hands covering his against the tiles and filling him over and over, mouth pressed against Harry's ear and murmuring the strangest, sweetest words that he just wants to hold onto but all he can do is feel.

He thinks he whispers, "Yes, Draco," and he thinks he comes without being touched, just pushing back helplessly and losing himself in the lemon-steam and the water and the wonderful, gorgeous slide of wet skin and Draco.

He vaguely registers staggering into the bedroom and rubbing towels and crawling into bed still damp and not caring. Idly, he wonders if this is the 'anything else you can get' that Auror Larkin was talking about.

"I doubt he meant this specifically," Draco mumbles, sounding amused, and he's apparently said it out loud.

"Worked better than the chocolate," he mumbles back, pulling Draco against his chest and closing his eyes.

**~*~**

Harry rubs his eyes when Cecile pokes him in the ribs and attempts a stern look, but knows he's not quite made it when she merely arches an eyebrow and shakes her head. And pokes him again.

"Preferred the wet fish hex to that," Harry complains, shuffling away from her to a safer part of the nurses' station and trying once again to focus on the patient notes that he's almost falling asleep on. A faint warning bell issues in the depths of his mind and he adds, "Which is not an invitation to try that, instead."

"Spoilsport," Cecile mutters, putting her wand away and frowning. She leans beside Harry, skinny elbows resting on the shiny surface and chin in her hands. "I was just going to tell you that Tremellen's on his way back from his meeting, and I rather thought you'd want to be awake when he saw you. But this is all the thanks I get for trying to help you keep your job, I really don't know why I—"

"Alright, alright. Thank you," Harry cuts in hurriedly, and then: "How do you know he is?"

Cecile looses an amused snort. "Because Eloise saw him, and she came to warn us. She was right there—" Cecile points to a spot of floor about three feet in front of Harry, "—about a minute ago."

Horrified, Harry blinks repeatedly. His eyes feel sticky. "And I was...?"

"Practically drooling, yeah," she supplies, raking murky green eyes over him until he feels as though he's being undressed in that starkly clinical, cold-hands kind of way, and he shivers. "You don't look well, you know."

"I'm tired," he insists through gritted teeth. And that may be a bit of an understatement, because although the exhaustion caused by his ill-advised visit to Azkaban is several days behind him now, he doesn't think he's truly been able to relax since Narcissa Malfoy's offer a week ago. And, he suspects, for some time before that, too.

He knows that as a first-year Healer, the long hours and pressure and time-poverty are just part of the job—he accepts that, he really does. But somewhere along the line he's also fallen into escorting all of the patients from the old Stage One over to Foundations, which he has to creatively shuffle and fit into breaks and lunches in order to avoid enraging Tremellen, who these days always has a suspicious glare for Harry and an ominous glint in his eye, as though he's just waiting for the right moment to wreak his ill-placed revenge.

Harry is doing his utmost to ignore the petty bastard—for one, because he knows he's not worth it, and for another, because if he gets drawn into another argument where he has to defend Draco then he's probably going to end up losing his job. He really misses Healer Aquiline.

Also, as per his promise to Draco, he had spent almost his entire Tuesday evening in the kitchen at Foundations, observed by a much larger group this time. He had demonstrated and then supervised the creation of several of the 'very important' basic dishes on Clive's list, walking around the huge—at times smoke-filled—kitchen and looking into pots and dishes and trays, teaching useful little spells and the basics of Muggle food hygiene.

Draco, equally harassed by the prospect of an imminent Ministry inspection, had looked around the door at around eight pm, sniffed the slightly-burned-garlic scented air with interest and said nothing, but his brief, genuine grateful smile had washed away much of Harry's frustration.

It had come back with a vengeance, though, during his impromptu menu-planning session with the current resident Kitchen Manager, Lionel, who is one of the most argumentative individuals Harry has ever met, and who had wanted his opinion on two weeks' worth of balanced meals and food orders. Harry had agreed, of course, because he always bloody well says yes, but he had wondered at the time, and he wonders now, how exactly he seems to have acquired the role of Foundations catering co-ordinator. Ginny, if no-one else, at least knows her way around a kitchen, and she's actually on the pay-roll.

Harry scrubs at his face and wonders if cold water will help; it didn't last time, but these things are always worth trying more than once. Merlin knows coffee isn't doing much any more. He'd like to blame Clive for his lack of quality sleep recently—well, he wouldn't like to, but it would be an easier, neater excuse. The truth is, the little boy has slept through til morning for ten consecutive nights now, but Harry can't say the same.

Draco, worn-out but accomplished, drapes over him most nights in a warm, pliant tangle of limbs and soft breathing, and Harry strokes him carefully, relishing the heat and closeness and trying not to move, even though to do so rakes restless frustration under his skin that makes him want to scream.

Say Anything, Harry thinks, and sighs into Draco's hair as he sleeps.

"Help?" he had whispered into the stillness the previous night, and he'd been relieved when Draco didn't stir.

"...do you know?" Cecile is saying at his side, and he turns to her so quickly that he drops his pencil and something pounds unpleasantly inside his head.

"Do I know what?"

Cecile raises her eyes to the ceiling. "Do you know that Tremellen's in love with you?"

Harry grimaces. "Don't even joke about it."

"Well, he did just give you a rather intense look as he walked past," Cecile says with a smirk but relents at the expression of horror Harry can only imagine is on his face. Tremellen in love. Tremellen naked. Fuck, no. The fact that he has a son means the vile prick must have... oh, no. "But actually, I was just saying that our shift's over," Cecile finishes.

Disoriented, Harry casts Tempus, and it is indeed just after four.

He smiles. "The benefits of the early shift," he offers, and Cecile nods. "Walk out with me?"

She ducks under the nurses' station and retrieves a thin green cloak. "In a minute," she says, shaking out the creases. "I just want to find Terry and remind him that he has another four hours to work."

"Charming," Harry assesses, admiring her evil smirk. As he waits for her, he takes off the heavy green robes; a quick glance out of the nearest patient room window has him sweeping Narcissa's rain-proof cloak around his shoulders, too.

"He wasn't even bothered, miserable little bugger," Cecile complains as they walk together through shiny, lavender-scented corridors to the main entrance.

Her disappointment amuses Harry in spite of his tiredness, and he laughs. "I bet he's on a flapjack high still. He never gets to win, does he?"

"Some people just don't work hard enough at being pathetic. I mean, you win it all the time," she says brightly.

"You always know what to say to make a man feel good about himself, don't you?" Harry says, stepping around a large pool of something purple in the middle of the floor, which Cecile jumps over. "Anyway, I think Terry deserved to win, getting covered in dragon spit five minutes after getting to work is pretty impressive. If that's even possible."

Cecile snorts and glances at him as they step outside into a light drizzle. "Oh, it is. I know that patient he was talking about, and he's exactly the sort of person who would carry a bucket of dragon spit around with him. Believe me."

"Do I even want to know how you..." Harry pauses. Squints. "Oh... fuck, no."

"What?" Cecile follows his line of sight. Her pale eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"That." Harry points through the rain to where the shiny beetle is sitting on the railings and sheltering under a large leaf. He doesn't bother to pick her up—she's not going anywhere. She must be here for a reason, but his exhaustion-hazy brain is struggling to identify it.

"Oh! Is that Skeeter?" Cecile whispers, and Harry nearly smiles, because Cecile never whispers. "What does she want?" she whispers again, tiny droplets of rain clinging to the escaped blond strands that fan out around her face.

"I don't know," he whispers back, for no good reason that he can see. "Only one way to find out."

He folds his arms, ignores the rainwater running down his face and stares at the beetle until it jumps from the railings, transforming into the garishly-clad reporter before it hits the ground.

Skeeter casts an impressive Umbrella Charm to protect her hair and clothes, and glances between the two wet Healers as though aghast at their disregard for their appearances.

"Hello, Harry. Harry's friend."

"What do you want, Rita? We've almost a week to go, I think you'll find."

"I know that, Harry," she assures, smirking and digging into her huge, shiny handbag for a notepad and the dreaded Quick-Quotes Quill. "This isn't about you and Malfoy and your torrid romance."

"Torrid romance?" Cecile interrupts. She looks at Harry and then at Skeeter, and laughs.

Skeeter frowns, irritated, and Harry would hug Cecile if she wouldn't hex him for it. And if Rita Skeeter wouldn't use it as evidence that Harry was cheating on Draco and splash it all across the papers, exclusive or no exclusive.

"Miss Mackenzie, isn't it?" Rita says, changing tack abruptly and smiling at Cecile, quill hovering ominously.

Harry wonders if she knows just what she's dealing with here.

"Yeah... and if you quote me as 'a source closer to Harry Potter', I will make you live to regret it," Cecile says, smiling sweetly.

Harry suppresses a smile.

"There's no need to—"

"Leave Cecile alone," Harry interrupts, head pounding again. He's all too conscious that directly outside the main entrance to St Mungo's is not the best place to have this conversation, whatever conversation it is. Not that he wants to have it anywhere else either. "Spit it out, Rita, so I can go home, and you can go back to your pit of... defamation," he says wearily, stabbing at the first word he comes to and hoping it's the right one. Or, at least, one that makes sense.

"No need to be rude. I just wanted to ask you about your visit to Azkaban on Monday," she says, and Harry's insides turn cold.

"Muffliato," he whispers, not bothering to reach for his wand; there's no one around now, but still.

Beside him, he hears Cecile's sharp intake of breath. She hadn't known about Harry's unwise excursion, but he's not about to put her out in the cold at a moment like this. She stands very still and stares evenly at Skeeter.

"What are you talking about?"

"No use pretending, Harry. I know you were there, I have it on rather good authority. I also know that you visited a prisoner named..." Rita pauses and makes a show of glancing at her little notebook, though he doubts she needs to, "...Philip Harris."

Harry bites the inside of his mouth as he tries not to think about Harris, or about that horrible place, but about who could possibly have told Skeeter he was there. There are only two conceivable suspects—one is Larkin, and Harry knows that he's trustworthy; Ron wouldn't recommend someone who'd sell him out. The other is the dour-faced guard, and while Harry can all-too-well imagine why he would want some excitement in his life, he's still fucking furious.

"You know I'm not going to comment, Rita," he says eventually, managing to sound weary.

"We'll see. Because you know, the interesting thing is this... I did a little bit of digging about Mr Harris, and if it isn't the biggest coincidence that a victim of his was a patient of yours!" Rita purses her lips in mock-thought and looks at Harry, head on one side. "Very interesting, that."

Harry glances at Cecile and she glances back, eyes narrowed in thought. He wonders if Skeeter has a contact at the hospital—if she does, the possibilities are endless. And frightening. As he drops his eyes to the floor, not wanting to look at Skeeter's satisfied expression while he thinks, he freezes, horrified. With his arms crossed outside the cloak the way they are, his sleeve has slid back enough to easily reveal the pale white band around his wrist.

Fuck. Still pretending to look at the floor, Harry begins to surreptitiously draw his arms back inside his cloak. Apparently, he's not surreptitious enough, because the next thing he knows, she's stepping smartly forward, reaching out and grabbing his wrist with a cold hand.

"Well now, that makes things very interesting indeed," she murmurs, examining the band through her green spectacles.

Horrified, Harry yanks his arm from her grasp and glares down at her. "I'm not giving you a fucking thing, and you can quote me on that if you want," he spits. Romilda and Clive will not be dragged into this... this circus. No way.

Rita sighs, and the Quick-Quotes Quill behind her quivers but she holds up a hand and it pauses before writing a word. "What happened to co-operation, Harry?" She jabs a scarlet-painted finger at the hospital building. "That's your job. This is mine. I have a lot of information here, I just need a—"

"Obliviate," cries Cecile, and Skeeter falls silent.

Startled, Harry whips around to see Cecile standing beside him with a resigned expression on her face, wand drawn.

"Cecile!"

She looks at him and blinks. "Oops?"

"Oops? You can't just..." He regards Skeeter, who's frowning in confusion, having dropped her notebook onto the wet ground. Harry banishes it with a flick of his wand and glances back at Cecile. "Oops."

"That's the spirit," she says, smirking, and then—ever the consummate professional—steps forward to wave her wand over the baffled Skeeter and issue the standard questions asked of patients hit by Memory Charms. "What's your name? What's today's date? What's the last thing you remember doing?"

Harry reflects that he shouldn't be surprised by Cecile's lightness of touch with a Memory Spell; Skeeter apparently knows exactly who and when she is, but remembers only: "Sitting out here waiting for something, but I'm not sure why."

Cecile glances at him and he shakes himself. "We were supposed to be meeting about our interview, but it's next Thursday," he improvises, managing to inject a note of exasperation into his voice. "I'm a very busy man, Rita, I don't have time for this. I'll owl you."

She blinks, red lips twisted in puzzlement. After a moment, she tosses her hair and hoists up her shiny handbag on her shoulder. "Be sure that you do. We have a deal."

After she Disapparates, Harry sags. He exhales hard and rubs his wet face. "I hate the fucking press."

Cecile wrinkles her nose in distaste and puts her wand away. "Me too. Listen, I'm not going to ask about the other stuff, not right now, anyway, but... do you think it was Tremellen?"

At her words, the hammering behind Harry's eyes only increases. "Well, now I do."

Shrugging, she blows dripping hair from her face. "Just a thought. It's not as though he has the highest regard for ethics when it comes to you, is it? There's not a lot I'd put past him, especially after the... incident at your open day."

It's not beyond the realms of possibility, Harry knows that, but that doesn't mean he wants to think about it right now. He supposes he's also got an Azkaban guard to put out of a job, just as soon as he's got time. And Skeeter... fuck. The last thing in the world he needs to push this week further into the realms of a surreal nightmare is for the entire Wizarding world to know that he's got an orphaned child and a Deathbed Promise.

"We'll take him, Mr Potter, we'll take him!" He can see it now. All manner of unsavoury characters scuttling out of the woodwork, all over poor Clive and his just-about-settled life.

The rain dribbles down the back of Harry's neck and under his waterproof cloak. Suddenly unsteady, he wraps fingers around the railings and closes his eyes. When he opens them, not only has the world not gone away, but Cecile is examining him through narrowed eyes and looks about five seconds away from taking her wand out again.

"I can't believe you Obliviated Rita Skeeter," he says.

"Meh. It's hardly a permanent solution, anyway. I'm sure she has notes and things. It just didn't seem the right time for dealing with her... this way you can call her tomorrow and work out some kind of... 'You keep your nasty mouth shut, and I won't turn my Dark-Lord-Vanquishing skills on your arse' thing." Cecile waves a hand vaguely and meets his eyes. "When did you last eat?"

"My Dark Lord Vanquishing... what? I don't know... this m—last night, something? Why?"

Cecile sighs heavily, turning for a second when a gaggle of nurses step out of the main entrance behind them and then dash back inside, presumably opting to Floo instead. "Harry, I mean this with the greatest... whatever, you know, but just go the fuck home."

Catching her veiled concern, Harry ignores her dig at his health and nods. She's probably right.

"Thanks, Cecile. You going the fuck home, too?"

She snorts. Smiles. Drips. "Of course. Cup of tea, case notes, dressing gown. Wild times."

"I think I'm getting old," Harry offers just before he Disapparates to the Manor gates, "because that sounds really good."

**~*~**

The drizzle doesn't let up, and by the time he reaches the top of the drive, his hair and feet are soaked and his hands are freezing, but he's grateful for the cloak, which admirably protects the parts of him that it covers. It's not a heavy rain, but instead a fine, relentless almost-mist that dribbles around him and does nothing good for his mood.

Rita fucking Skeeter. And Tremellen... possibly. Clive and Narcissa and what feels like too many jobs for one person. He hasn't felt like this since he was supposed to be saving the world and getting top marks in his classes at the same time, and even then he could protest, at least to himself, that he was only seventeen, for fuck's sake. Not that it did any good. But now, he has this sneaking feeling that he's just supposed to handle it.

Just grit your teeth and get on with, Harry, this is called life, insists the voice in his head that sounds a little bit like Hermione and a little bit like—bizarrely enough—Molly Weasley. He needs to pay her a visit, too.

He steps onto the edge of the portico and looks over the rain-hazed grounds, thinking of Cecile's plans for the rest of the day with some envy. Well, perhaps not the case-notes part, but the general idea sounds wonderfully relaxing. He wonders if he can persuade Draco out of his office early—groups should be over for the day by now, but he often hangs around for hours afterwards, writing reports and assessments and dealing with all of the stuff that he's too much of a control-freak to delegate.

Communication—never their strength at the best of times—has hit an all-time low this week, and Harry suspects that it's as much his fault for not wanting to push, not wanting to ask for help or answers, as it is Draco's for just... being Draco. What Draco does offer, however, is his presence. His warmth, his touch, his concern and his little notes on the mirror that Harry keeps in his bedside drawer next to Romilda's list.

Warmed at the thought, he turns to walk up the steps, and has about half a second to look into little black eyes before a sharp beak darts forward to nip firmly just below his knee, tearing a hole in the thin fabric of his cloak and probably his skin, too.

"I'd forgotten about you," he hisses, upset and enraged, despite his fatigue.

Evil Peacock, in an unprecedented move, doesn't run away immediately, but stares up at him.

Harry stares back, ignoring the stinging of his knee. The little bugger is almost perfectly dry, and he realises that the bird must have been waiting, lurking, right here in the portico. Hoping he would come.

"You are the absolute limit," Harry says, scowling. He takes one step toward the peacock, unsure what he'll do next, and it scarpers, streaking across the grass and disappearing under a bush. "I'm talking to a peacock," he says to the nearest stone pillar, and then, thoroughly fed up and for no other reason that he can see, sits down heavily on the steps and drops his face into his hands.

The stone is cold and wet underneath him and he doesn't care. He sneezes violently, once, twice, three times in a row, and pretends that he doesn't. Because he's not sick.

In a minute, he'll pull himself together, go inside, and drag Draco home... into a nice hot shower and then... well, they can't go to bed, they have Clive. But they can light a fire and Harry can sprawl across some cushions on the sofa and wrap his arms around Draco and they can finish Narcissa's bloody book before she asks for it back.

"That's a rather nice cloak," offers the voice from the door.

Harry huffs sharply into his hands. Though aware that he has manners and should definitely be using them, he can't bring himself to even turn around to face her. "Someone thought I needed help with my fashion sense," he offers.

"Perhaps," Narcissa concedes. "Perhaps they just wanted to keep you dry. You don't look well, Mr Potter."

Harry really wishes everyone would stop saying that. "I'm fine." He sighs. "Mrs Malfoy," he adds.

"I doubt that," she says, and still he doesn't turn to look at her, but neither does she move from the doorway, or comment on his total lack of etiquette.

"Where's Clive?" Harry wonders; he rarely sees her without the child or the Crup, and yet he can hear neither of them now, only the patter of the rain and Narcissa's cut-glass tones.

"He is helping Ms Reynard to... I'm not entirely sure, actually. It involves a lot of sparkles, whatever it is, and I'm certain that both he and Zeus are covered in them by now."

Interestingly, although she sounds as though she's aiming for disdain, her tone is one of gentle amusement, and Harry can't stop himself turning to see her face. As he thought, one pale eyebrow is raised, but her eyes are not cold. As he shifts on the step, her eyes drop to the new rip in his cloak and her mouth twists.

"Did you fall?" she asks.

Harry shakes his head and then stops, because it hurts. "No. Peacock."

Her mouth twitches, and she looks out over the grounds. There are no peacocks or any other creatures to be seen; Harry suspects that anything with an ounce of sense is hiding somewhere dry. Unlike him, but then he never claimed to have an ounce of sense.

"Peacock," she repeats faintly. "May I?"

Harry nods, and as she points her wand at him and mutters something unintelligible to repair the little hole, he reflects that he actually trusts this woman more than he could ever have predicted. He also reflects, as he examines the flawless repair, that he had expected Mrs Malfoy to be the sort of person who just threw out damaged clothes, and not the sort of person who knew how to repair them so beautifully. Sometimes he doesn't know what to think of her at all.

"Thank you," he mumbles.

She sheaths her wand and rests an elegant hand on the doorknob. Nods. Appears to hesitate.

"Are you avoiding me, Mr Potter?"

Startled, Harry meets her eyes. Finding the genuine openness there too much, he turns away again and wraps his hands around the edge of the wet step underneath him. "No, of course not," he lies.

"Forgive me, but I find I don't believe you." She pauses and her heels click as she steps out, still under the cover of the portico, to stand some feet behind Harry. "I sense that my offer has made you uncomfortable, and that was never my intention. Please believe that."

Choked by her honesty, Harry has no words. Which is exactly why he's been avoiding her. Still, he has to find some, because she's bloody here now, even if the last thing he needs right now is to have this fucking conversation.

"You haven't made me uncomfortable. I... it's a very generous offer, Mrs Malfoy, and... well, please know that I've been considering it. And seriously." Harry wipes his wet face with his sleeve and tries to shake rain from his hair as he thinks. "But you have to understand... no, I mean that I'd like you to understand that I'm in a difficult position with all of this."

"But of course," she says, seemingly unperturbed at conducting a conversation of this magnitude with the back of his head. "Did you visit the second home?"

"Yes."

"You are uncertain."

Harry nods, wishing he didn't hate Flooing so much. He probably could have been home by now, and not having this discussion at all. "It wasn't as nice as the other place, but I liked it better."

In the resulting silence, he folds his arms on his knees and drags in deep breaths; the air smells like warm wet earth, and idly he wonders if it's the same smell Draco used to describe him when he asked.

"Niceness is often overrated," Narcissa says after a moment, and Harry couldn't agree more. "And that woman didn't know the first thing about communication, contrary to all her posturing."

Harry smiles. "I agree."

"Something holds you back from your decision, and I can't help but feel that I am responsible," she presses on, sounding uncharacteristically strident. "Won't you let me help?"

"Help," he mumbles, too softly for her to hear. "You want to help me." He takes a deep breath and stares hard at the slanting rain, speaking audibly this time: "You said... you said you were aware of the mistakes that you'd made... with Draco. What mistakes were those?"

Narcissa exhales heavily as though she has been expecting the question. Her heels click once more on the stone, though Harry can't discern whether she has stepped closer or further away.

"I indulged him, but I often failed to protect him. I'm sure he has spoken to you about his father."

"Yes."

"It was not always like that, you know."

Harry opens his mouth to respond, and sneezes. Frustrated, he tries again. "I know. But what was your—"

"—Excuse?" she cuts in as he sneezes again. He hadn't planned to word it quite like that, but he lets it go, long enough for her to answer her own question. "Other than fear? None, Mr Potter."

Harry stares at his hands. Wet skin, wet string. "Fear isn't an excuse, but it is a reason."

"Nicely put, Mr Potter." She moves again, and definitely closer this time. "I love my son, but he doesn't need me any more—he has you. Times change, people... I'm not certain that people change, but they learn, and they grow. Yourself and Draco are evidence of that."

Harry twists around on the step and forces himself to meet her eyes. An imposing woman at any time, from his seated position he feels utterly intimidated and pushes off the wet step to scramble to his feet. Now that he has two or three inches on her, he feels a little better, though his heart is still racing like mad as he considers her words.

She holds his gaze calmly, pale blue eyes steady and neither asking for nor offering anything.

"This is not a frivolous offer, Mr Potter. I care a great deal about Clive," she says, and as she looks at him, something else flickers in her expression. She sighs softly. "It is not a day to be outside. Flimby will fetch you some Pepper-Up."

With that, Narcissa turns and stalks back into the house, blue robes swishing behind her. She leaves the door open, and after a moment, Harry follows her.

As he walks into the main lounge, every step feels like a massive effort and he's starting to think he should have gone for that Pepper-Up after all. Even though he's not sick. Draco is standing next to the far wall with one hand resting on his hip and the other carefully tracing one of the resident rotas. Harry smiles with relief to see him, even if it's evident just from Draco's posture that he's scowling.

The lounge is empty at this time of day except for Ginny and Marley, who are sitting right across the room on the wonky sofas, apparently mid-argument. Harry slopes over to stand behind Draco and drops his forehead to the warm shoulder. He's mostly dry, having removed the damp cloak, but his wet hair brushes Draco's neck and he shivers. Still, he drops the hand from his hip to reach back for Harry's, and Harry smiles.

"Must you press yourself all over me when you're wet?"

"Mmhm. What're you doing?"

"These rotas are a joke," Draco says, pointing. "The resident that's making them is making sure they never get any of the horrible jobs, and no one has even noticed."

Harry snorts against his dry, clean-smelling hair. "Sneaky."

"That's what they think," Draco says with more than a little satisfaction. "We're going to have a little shake-up tomorrow, I think." Finally, he turns and runs concerned eyes over Harry. "You look—"

"I know." Harry grimaces. "If I could just get through an hour without another person telling me how awful I look, that'd be really nice," he sighs, and then sneezes again.

"Why don't you go home?" Draco pauses and looks at the floor. "Because I don't want you infecting my entire community with whatever you've got," he adds, in an attempt to appear unconcerned that Harry sees straight through.

"I was hoping you'd come with me, actually." Harry smiles hopefully.

Draco frowns and pushes his hair out of his face with a sigh. "I've got loads to do, you wouldn't believe the stuff these inspectors want, honestly I'm..." He glances in the direction of the office and then meets Harry's eyes. "Give me half an hour, alright?"

"OK." Harry grins, relieved, and even that fucking hurts.

Draco glances over his shoulder at Marley and Ginny, and, seemingly satisfied, steps closer and presses a soft kiss to Harry's lips that melts his tired insides. He pulls back, grey eyes warm, and quirks a brief half-smile before heading for his office.

Harry watches him go. And sneezes.

For a minute of two, he examines the rotas in question, until the words and lines blur messily before his eyes and he steps away. Ginny's loud, "She bloody promised me, though!" attracts his attention and he finds himself drawn in, flopping onto the nearest section of the vast sofa.

They turn to greet him briefly before returning to their heated discussion. He listens, and tries not to silently take Ginny's side just on principle. It's difficult because although he doesn't hate Marley any more, he's still too close to Draco and he's still too... Marley.

From what he can surmise, it has come to light that two of the residents are in a relationship. He knows it's against the rules, and that interventions will have been put in place, but Ginny seems to be particularly affronted by the whole thing. She has been keyworking Gretchen, and from what Harry can see, is taking her behaviour as a personal betrayal.

"I can't even think about how many times she must have lied to me," she's saying, staring hotly into a cup of vile green tea. "'No, Ginny. I'm not getting too close to Sam. No, Ginny, you worry too much'. Argh."

"It's not personal," Marley is saying, and for once, Harry agrees with him. Which is all wrong. "It's easily done. Sometimes, in a fucked-up situation, a person just needs comfort, and sex is just that. I've done it."

Ginny lifts her head and gives him a look which is both doubtful and 'Yes, I'm sure you have'.

Harry frowns, scrubs through wet hair and tries to remember where he's heard those words before in a very similar context.

In a fucked-up situation...

'I think sex is generally a good call in most fucked-up situations... wars. Deaths. Rehab. Sudden... acquisition of children.'

Draco... Draco had indirectly admitted to having sex whilst in rehab, hadn't he? And Marley. What was it that Lupe had implied... that Marley was jealous of Harry? Harry's head spins, and hurts, and his self-control is shot to hell.

"You and Draco had sex in rehab!" he blurts, glaring at Marley.

Both he and Ginny fall silent and twist around to look at him. Ginny's face is horrified but Marley looks baffled, dark eyebrows drawn down in confusion. Harry feels sick.

"Well, yes," he says slowly after a moment. "But as I was trying to explain, it's quite a natural thing, even if ill-advised... there's no need to sound so judgemental about it..."

Fuming, Harry doesn't even hang around long enough for him to finish his sentence. He leaps up from the sofa, adrenaline speeding his movements and propelling him out of the lounge and down the corridor without looking back; he certainly doesn't want to see Marley's smug, stupid, handsome face. The wanker didn't even have the good grace to look embarrassed.

Harry knew. He knew there was something off about that man, and fucking...god, Draco has just kept it to himself all this time. A tiny, tiny rational part of him that's struggling to be heard wants to know if it really matters who Draco did or didn't sleep with before they even stopped hating each other, but he silences it. Because it does. It does when that person is here, working with him every day and being all Marley around the place, and Harry didn't even know about it.

He reaches the office in record time and doesn't bother to knock. When he enters and Draco looks up from his desk and their eyes meet, Harry's stomach lurches and he feels suddenly like his head and heart might explode.

"What on earth's the matter?" Draco sets down his quill and frowns.

"Why did you never tell me you'd slept with Marley?" Harry demands, breathless, and Draco opens his mouth to respond but Harry doesn't let him; the words just pour out, faster and faster as he stands there with his arms folded. "I can't believe I had to find out like this, in front of Ginny of all people. You wouldn't fucking believe the day I've had, either—work's a nightmare, and Rita Skeeter turns up at the hospital wanting to talk about Harris, and then your mother wants to have some deep philosophical debate with me in the rain, and then I walk in here and... god, Draco! I know it was a long time ago, but how could you not tell me?"

There's an odd look on Draco's face as he starts to push his chair back, and it's almost like confusion, but Harry can barely see straight as it is. Pain speeds the blood in his veins and he cuts off Draco's, "Harry, can you—" with another stream of bile.

"And the thing is, I knew there was something about him, Draco. I knew! I tried to get on with him because it'd make you happy, and I knew he didn't like me." Harry looses a hollow laugh that hurts his chest. "Of course he didn't, because he's your ex-boyfriend or rehab shag-buddy or whatever, and he's probably laughing inside because stupid Harry didn't even know," he finishes, and though he's barely raised his voice, Draco's expression tells him he's hammered his point across nonetheless.

When Harry falls silent, Draco pulls his chair back to the desk and crosses his arms on top. Something hardens in his eyes that would scare Harry, were he not already so angry.

"I see," he says calmly. "That's what you want me to admit, is it? That I slept with Marley? Fine. I did. Are you satisfied now?"

Harry's stomach tips and he doesn't know if it's the words or the cool delivery, but fuck, it hurts. "Is that all you're going to say?"

Draco shrugs, and his eyes really are cold. "What if I did, Harry? I left rehab five years ago. That time of my life is over."

"But you just let me think... I've never liked how he behaved with you, but you said that's just how he was, and now I can't get it out of my head," Harry says, grimacing at the thought. "You just can't be friends with exes, it doesn't work!"

"You utter fucking hypocrite," Draco accuses.

Head full and heart sore, Harry is confused. "What?"

"What's Ginevra, then, scotch mist?"

Flushing, Harry looks at the floor, out of the window, anywhere but at Draco. "That's different."

Draco snorts. "Of course it is. Because it's you."

Insulted, Harry turns back to him immediately. "No! Look, alright... that wasn't a very good point. But at least you knew about Ginny. You've always known about Ginny."

"Harry, what's your point?"

Draco, he notices, isn't yelling either. He knows that the cool front can be deceptive, but even so. His pulse hammers out of control as he meets shuttered grey eyes and all of a sudden, he quite pathetically wants to cry.

"My point is that... you never fucking tell me anything, that's my point. And clearly, I'm an idiot." Harry rubs his sore eyes behind his glasses. "I feel like there are so many people around me who are trying to trip me up when my back's turned. I need to be able to trust you, and I..." Harry sighs and shakes his head. "Fuck it."

Draco doesn't even move from behind his desk when Harry yanks the door open, steps into the corridor and lets it slam behind him.

He turns around and smacks straight into a wide-eyed Marley, who seems to have been standing outside the door listening to their argument, if the expression on his face is anything to go by. The snarl that rips from his throat is entirely involuntary, and as he turns to Disapparate, he doesn't register the hand that shoots out to grab his wrist until it's too late.

Seconds later, he finds himself in a rain-slicked back alley in Muggle London, practically nose to nose with the last person on earth that he wants to see right now.

"Are you fucking insane?" he demands, stepping back and glancing down at himself to check that everything is still where it should be after the unexpected Side-Along. "You could have splinched us—no, you could have splinched me, that's the issue. You can splinch yourself with my pleasure."

Marley's dark eyes are inscrutable. He also looks down at himself and then looks back at Harry, confused. He opens his hand, the one that had been wrapped around Harry's wrist, and reveals a snapped, knotted bit of string. "Sorry. I think this is yours," he says, offering it to Harry.

Instinctively, Harry looks at his wrist, now empty but for the Promise band, which seems to mock him with its resilience. Marley has snapped his string, Draco's string, and Harry does not miss the symbolism that's practically beating him over the head. He swallows his silly distress and snatches the string from Marley.

"Marley, go home! This has... well, this has everything to do with you, but I still don't want to fucking look at you."

"I just want to talk to you before you do something... daft," Marley appeals, accent thickening.

Harry snorts. "Well, I don't want to talk to you. I'm going into this Muggle pub now, and if you follow me in dressed like that, people will look and I will have to hex you. A lot. Go. Home."

"Fine." Marley holds his hands up and Disapparates.

Harry stares at the empty spot of concrete he's vacated for a minute or two, just in case he plans to return. Then, realising he's getting even wetter, he stomps out of the alley and into the pub.

He doesn't know what he's doing really, beyond the fact that everything hurts and that thinking straight is like wading through treacle and that he doesn't want to go home or indeed see anyone that he knows. A Muggle pub had seemed like a good idea in that split second after walking out of Draco's office.

Unfortunately, the only Muggle pub he could think of quickly enough was the one that he and Draco had come to following the result of their Chem Dep appeal all those months ago, and Harry's unimpressed but not surprised when Laurie the red-haired barmaid looks up from her magazine and grins at him.

"Alright, mate," she calls, getting to her feet and slipping behind the bar. "Long time no see."

He forces a smile. It's not her fault that he's having a bloody awful day. And it's definitely not her fault that Mephisto Marley has seen Draco naked, and... Harry cuts off that thought before it becomes entirely destructive and sits down heavily on one of the tall, brocade stools at the bar.

He orders vodka and tonic and barely resists making it a double. He suspects anything he drinks is going to make his head hurt even more, but he doesn't much care.

"Two fifty-five," Laurie says, and Harry realises with a twinge of horror that he has no Muggle money with him at all. Apparently, that's what you get for being impulsive.

"Erm... any chance of... paying at the end?" he asks hopefully.

"You want a tab?"

He nods.

"Sure. Planning a proper session, are you?" Laurie leans on the bar on her elbows and gazes at him.

"I don't know. Maybe." Harry grimaces and gulps at his drink. He twists the broken string between his fingers.

"Need me to get rid of that for you?" she asks, holding out a hand.

"No," he says a little too quickly, withdrawing his hand and shoving the string into his pocket. "I mean, no thanks. That's alright."

When he looks back at her, the pale eyes are curious and the red eyebrows are up under her fringe.

"OK then... hey, where's your blond friend? Draco Malloy?"

"Malfoy," Harry mutters, and his chest aches. "Can we not talk about him?"

Laurie winces and straightens up. "I see. Tequila?"

Harry snorts, almost amused. "Is that your answer to everything?"

The barmaid shrugs and retrieves the bottle anyway. She picks at the peeling label. "Well, not as much as you and he-who-we-won't-be-talking-about put away last time. Just one's usually enough for most crappy situations."

"I concur," Harry says, taking off his glasses and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes against the dull throbbing. "That was a bad morning after."

Laurie laughs, and when Harry looks again, she's poured him a shot. He doesn't want lemons and salt this time, that's for sure. Too... Draco.

"Cheers," he manages, and is just reaching for the little glass when the door swings open, admitting a gust of wind and light spray into the warm, smoky atmosphere.

He hesitates, and something makes him look up at Laurie. Her mouth has dropped slightly open, and her eyes are wide, and Harry suddenly has a fair idea of who has just walked into the pub. And as he turns on his stool to look at Marley in his poorly-Transfigured attempt at Muggle clothes, he's never wanted to break the Statute of Secrecy more. Just a little hex, any hex will do... Harry sighs and turns around again.

"Hello, Wonder Boy."

"You two know each other?" Laurie puts in, amused. And then: "Oh, right. I see." She scuttles to the end of the bar before Harry can relieve her of that particular misconception.

"Bugger off," Harry says, and sneezes again.

Marley leans on the bar beside Harry, and in spite of himself, Harry rakes his eyes up and down his body, taking in the bizarre outfit. The Irishman appears to have spelled his expensive midnight-blue robes into a pair of tight velvet trousers, a blue silk shirt and a ridiculous waistcoat. He's also wearing pointed plum-coloured boots, which Harry suspects he was wearing before. He looks like he's been at the dressing-up box, and not in a good way.

"He lied to you, you know," he offers.

Harry snorts dryly and downs his shot of tequila with a shudder. "I know that, Marley, that's why I'm drinking tequila at five o'clock in the afternoon on a Thursday."

"No... he lied to you just now. Draco and I never slept together."

Harry looks up fast enough to make his head spin, fingers gripping the sticky edge of the bar. "What?" He knows Marley's a wanker, but messing with him now seems beyond the pale, even for him.

Marley's dark eyes bore down into his, and for once, the handsome face is utterly serious. "Draco and I never had sex in rehab. Well..." Marley pauses and frowns. "We did both have sex in rehab, but not with each other. I think you misunderstood. Or I did."

"What?" Harry repeats, stomach churning once more as he tries to recall their conversation.

"Gin said it was my fault, so I went after you, but apparently I wasn't quick enough."

Irritated and confused, Harry rests his head in his hands, elbows up on the bar, and sighs heavily. "Marley, you're talking out of your arse. Even if that were true, which I doubt, Draco actually said himself that you'd... been together."

"I know," Marley says. "I heard him. But that doesn't make it true."

"Why would he say that if it wasn't?" Harry mutters, staring into his glass. Something, a weird mixture of hope and confusion and fury is twisting inside him and he doesn't know what to make of it.

"Buggered if I know, Wonder Boy. I expect he was angry with you." Marley sits down carefully on a bar stool as though it's going to bite him.

"Can I get your friend a drink? Dinner? Breakfast?" ventures Laurie, who has returned and is now leaning over the bar to display her cleavage to best advantage. Harry hasn't the heart to tell her that she's completely wasting her time, and Marley looks horrified, so he decides that Laurie can lean over as much as she likes.

Marley looks bewildered at the array of optics behind Laurie and Harry rolls his eyes. It's possible that he's never met anyone so stubbornly fucking pureblooded in his entire life. He suspects that even Narcissa Malfoy could manage to order a drink in a Muggle pub if she really had to.

"Do you have Ogden's Special?" Marley asks, flashing Laurie a winning smile, and Harry is weirdly irritated because that's his favourite drink, and he doesn't want to have anything in common with the idiot. Especially Draco. Although that one seems to be somewhat up in the air. He frowns.

Laurie frowns, too. "What?"

"He'll have a Jack Daniels and soda," Harry puts in, shooting Marley a dark look. "And he'll like it."

Wide-eyed, Laurie fills the glass and hands it over.

Harry sniffs and folds his arms. "Now, what the fuck do you want? Why is it that I can't even be angry in peace?"

"Looks more like self pity than anger from where I'm sitting," Marley opines.

"Then fuck off and sit somewhere else."

"Were it that easy to get rid of me, Wonder Boy. Marleys have staying power."

Harry exhales messily. "I don't care, Flo."

"Oh, nice move." Marley holds up his hands in mock offence, and Harry still really, really wants to hex him. Or hit him. Either would be fine. "Alright. What I don't get is what you have to feel sorry for yourself about."

Infuriated, Harry turns to him, eyes hot. It's not as though he ever planned to spill his guts to Mephisto sodding Marley, but then again, he never planned for any of this and it's academic anyway, because the words are coming whether he wants them or not.

"Well, you wouldn't, you insufferable prick. I'm tired, alright? I'm exhausted. There's a limit to my tolerance, believe it or not. I can deal with working twelve-hour shifts for a boss who hates me. I can deal with dragging my arse to the Manor every free minute I get because actually, I want to help Draco make a go of this thing—it's important to him and it's important to me. What I can't deal with is between Tremellen at work and you at home and Rita Skeeter everywhere else..." Harry gulps air repeatedly and hopes that the stinging behind his eyelids is going to stop very soon. He scans the area for Laurie, but she's nowhere to be seen.

"I can't deal with the fact that I have to find a home for a four-year-old child because his desperate mother chose me to extract a fucking Deathbed Promise from... and I can't deal with that fact that Draco won't even help me with it, or that I'm confused completely about whether he has or hasn't shagged you, and to top it all off, I'm sitting here with you at five o'clock in the afternoon while the widow of a Death Eater who talks in riddles looks after that child, and honestly, if I cry now, I think I might just go and finish myself off in the gents."

Harry presses his forehead to the bar that smells of stale beer and varnish, and Marley looses an odd little snort.

"And not in the good way, you fucking insensitive pervert," Harry mumbles. "Now do me a favour and leave me alone."

All ranted out, Harry breathes slowly and unsticks his forehead from the bar. He rests his chin in one hand and gazes at his reflection in the tiny bit of mirrored wall underneath the optics. Everyone's right—he does look like shit. And he's certain he never ranted like that before he started seeing Draco. Then again, there are a lot of things he never did before Draco, and his gut twists abruptly at the thought of them.

Marley is silent for a long time, and Harry's just wondering if he's still there when he hears him order more drinks from a startled Laurie.

"I think you know what you're going to do about Clive," he says so softly that Harry looks up. "And it isn't that Draco doesn't want to help you, he just doesn't want to influence your decision—it's not as though he's a neutral party in all this, is it?"

"How would you know that?"

Marley levels a cool, pitying stare at Harry, and he bristles. "Because I asked him, Wonder Boy. Did you?"

Harry shakes his head. He's been so busy collecting opinions from everyone else that he never once asked Draco to explain his sudden reserve.

"You're an idiot," Marley assesses.

"So are you."

Marley drains his glass with a flick of the wrist and then flashes one of those sparkling smiles. For a brief moment, Harry feels more like hiding from him than hurting him. It's unsettling.

"So you're the Draco expert, are you?" he says, prodding viciously to hide his sudden insecurity.

"We've been friends for a long time. We shared an—"

"If you say 'an intense experience' I may have to push you off your stool."

Marley snorts and brushes fastidiously at a speck on his velvet waistcoat. "Draco and I were never like that... and thank Merlin we weren't."

"Because?"

"Because Draco... Draco's the only friend I have who has a real job and a real life, and who doesn't need shit in his veins or his head to get by."

"That doesn't mean that you don't feel..." Harry shrugs wordlessly, recalling Lupe's suggestion:

'I think he shows off because he's jealous.'

"Look. I'm going to say this just once more. Draco and I have never been involved that way. I don't remember the guy's name, but I do know that they never saw each other after treatment. Before you came over earlier I was telling Gin that rehab relationships hardly ever work out. And... I just don't feel that way about Draco." Marley pulls an almost disgusted face and Harry bristles. "Oh... don't say a word, have you any idea how defensive you are, really? I'd have you in a group, do you know that?"

"Shame you'll never get the chance, isn't it," Harry mutters, but despite his indignation, he feels a little bit better. There's something in Marley's stupid, smug face that makes Harry believe he's telling the truth. He's still an idiot, though. Harry stands by that.

"He's just not my type, that's all. I always preferred... well." Marley stares very hard into his glass and sighs. "Something darker, and messier, and more... impulsive. I..." He shrugs, and suddenly Harry understands. He understands with a clarity that slaps him in the face and tingles all over his skin.

But he doesn't believe it. "No."

Marley fiddles with his empty glass and doesn't look at him. The shiny dark hair spills across his cheek, obscuring his expression from Harry.

"Me?!"

Marley shakes his hair back and almost smiles. He holds his glass up to get Laurie's attention and she jumps up from where she's sitting at the end of the bar, pretending not to be listening to their conversation, eyes wide.

Blindsided, Harry scratches at his hair and flicks through his inventory of irritating little moments starring Marley. It's a repetitive show; Marley showing off, Marley winding Harry up, Marley showing off and winding Harry up at the same time. And then, there are those odd little moments of concern. Then more showing off and winding up, and... fuck. Suddenly, he wants to find Lupe and finish that conversation, because even though he's had it upside down all this time, he suspects that she is a lot smarter than he is.

"I'm not madly in love with you or anything, don't worry," Marley says suddenly, dark eyes anxious. "It's just... the Irish media loved you, did you know that? Harry Potter could do no wrong. I had your posters on my walls growing up."

Harry just stares at him, devoid of all words. At least, of words that might actually make sense. "Is that why you act like such a prat? Because you... like me?" he manages at last.

Marley just rolls his eyes and looks away. "If anyone's acting like a prat, it's you, Wonder Boy. And Draco doesn't know any of this, so for fuck's sake, don't tell him."

There's a note of pleading in Marley's upper-class voice, but Harry barely hears it. Draco, he thinks, momentarily distracted from this whole can't-possibly-get-more-surreal Marley business. Harry slips a hand into his pocket almost without thinking and twists the broken string around his fingers, aching and confused. He doesn't even know if he's still angry at Draco or not, but he knows that he wants to see him.

"I need to speak to Draco," he says at last.

Alarmed, Marley sets his glass down and swallows hard. "About this?"

Harry tips the rest of his drink into his mouth, licking the taste of bitter tonic from his lips and realising that he hasn't even consumed enough alcohol to feel unsteady when he climbs down from his stool. He rolls his eyes as much at himself as at Marley.

"No, not about this. Contrary to popular belief, everything isn't about you." Harry presses palms against his still-pounding temples and gazes in mild disgust at the paltry collection of empty glasses lining the bar. "Look at me. I can't even get drunk properly. And the worrying thing is, I think that on some level it's because I'm trying to be responsible. When did I become so old?"

"Draco's older than you," Marley points out helpfully.

"You know when my birthday is?"

"Of course I do." Marley pretends interest in a triangular beer mat, turning it this way and that as though he's never seen such a thing. That being said, perhaps he hasn't. "Pull yourself together, Wonder Boy. We're a team!"

"Stop calling me Wonder Boy," Harry demands from between gritted teeth, placing his heavy stool awkwardly back against the bar.

"Absolutely not."

Harry grimaces, almost sneezes but doesn't quite, shakes his head experimentally until he decides that yep, it still hurts, and stares at Marley, who's still sitting on his stool in his ridiculous velvet ensemble. And grinning. And... fancying Harry, apparently.

"Laurie?" She looks up from where she's eating a sandwich at the end of the bar. "My friend here is going to sort out our tab. Aren't you, Marley?"

"Er," says Marley, turning his winning smile on Laurie and kicking it up several notches.

"Thanks, Marley," Harry says, almost under his breath, but he hears it and looks over his shoulder.

"So it's 'thanks, Marley, for saving my relationship, and by the way, can you pick up our bar tab?', is it?" he enquires, lifting a dark eyebrow.

"Pretty much."

Without waiting for an answer, Harry turns, walks out into the rain, ducks into the alley and Apparates back to the Manor gates as fast as he can.

**~*~**

He doesn't have his cloak with him this time, and is dripping wet by the time he steps into the entrance hall but he doesn't care. He's met by a fretful Flimby who advises him that:

"Master Clive and Mistress Narcissa is being on the third floor, and Master Draco is being in his angry room."

Apprehensive, Harry nods and walks away, ignoring the elf's tortured protests that, "If Flimby was being Mr Harry Potter Sir, Flimby would not go into that room!"

Harry finds that, while he is not blaming Flimby, he is having no choice but to go into that room.

Heart racing at a ridiculous rate, he locates the right corridor on the third attempt and tries the door. It's unlocked and he pushes it open slowly; he thinks he knows what he's going to see here—he only hopes that none of the vases have his face on them.

The vast room smells of sweat and the build-up of magic and something dangerous, feral. His eyes fall immediately on Draco in the centre of the room, and something inside him falls apart. Tension straightens every line of his body, and the hand at his side is curled into a tight fist, while his wand arm extends, holds and flicks violently, over and over again, sending glass, crystal and china shattering into a thousand sparkling pieces against the wall and all over the floor.

Harry can't be sure how long he's been here, but his pale grey sweater is sticking to his lower back with perspiration and his wand arm is a little shaky as he levitates a particularly heavy crystal vase. The certain knowledge that—unlike the last time he was here—he's the one responsible for Draco's distress is painful.

"I know you didn't sleep with Marley," Harry says at last, taking a couple of steps closer.

Startled, Draco whips around and stares at him, grey eyes wild and hair flopping over his forehead. His lip curls in a way that Harry hasn't seen in a long time, and that immediately takes him back almost ten years.

"I did," he insists. "I bloody did." He turns away and raises another vase; this time when he goes to cast it against the wall, he throws his whole body behind the action, weight pitched forward on one foot, wand arm extended fully. Harry watches the fluid lines and smooth angles shifting under his clothes and can't help but admire his grace, however angry he is.

The vase shatters with a huge crack, and Harry is shaken out of his momentary daze. "I know you didn't, Draco. Marley told me."

Draco stills, straightening up and letting his arms fall to his sides, but he doesn't turn around. "When?"

"Not that long ago. He followed me when I left here... we had an interesting conversation," Harry rasps, swallowing against his dry throat. The tension radiating from Draco's body makes it difficult to breathe, and they aren't even looking at each other. "Why the fuck did you say that to me? Why would you do that? I misunderstood something, and you let me believe it? Why?"

Draco turns now, eyes flashing and wand gripped tight. "Because I was fucking mad at you, that's why."

The fury in his voice is catching, and Harry scowls, too. "You lied about Marley to punish me?"

"Now who's being dramatic? I was all ready to put you right, you know—I know what Marley's like, he just opens his mouth, words come out, and he worries about them later, if at all." Draco snorts suddenly and smashes another vase into a scatter of blue porcelain. "Remind you of anyone?"

"Is this when you tell me how alike we are again?" Harry snaps, heat curling his hands into fists.

"No, this is where I tell you that what really fucking burned was how easily you believed that I'd just not bother to tell you something like that. That you knew it. You always knew it," Draco spits, breathless after obliterating three glass vases in rapid succession. "And while it's true that my past is just that—mine—the fact that you think I'd keep something like that from you... am I supposed to not care that you don't trust me?"

Harry stands very still and a good ten feet behind him, but the little catch in Draco's voice rips at him.

"I do trust you."

"No, you don't! You didn't trust me about not going to Azkaban and you didn't trust me not to sleep with Marley," Draco argues, tone rough and posture tight. Swish. Flick. Crunch.

Harry stares at the back of the dishevelled blond head until his eyes are sore, and he rubs them, trying to push away those dark feelings of hopelessness that crowd in around him even at the mention of that day. His heart is still leaping into his throat and the hot curl of ire remains somewhere low down, but he thinks he knows he's wrong, and Draco's wrong too, but god, all of that stuff outside of this room is still there and he needs Draco, and he needs to fix this. Somehow.

"I do trust you, Draco. But when you stop communicating with me completely, my mind starts playing games with me... and then I start doing stupid stuff," Harry offers, scrubbing at his wet hair and feeling hopelessly inarticulate. "Draco, I... you help me not to do the stupid stuff! I need—"

"That's what you need me for?" Draco interrupts, and looses a hollow bark of laughter that echoes in the cavernous room. "Oh, well. That's good to know. As long as I'm useful, and I'm around to stop you going around making messes everywhere and being you, then that's OK for me." He shakes his head and flings his wand arm so violently to scatter the floor with crystal that Harry thinks it must have hurt him.

"Shut up, Draco. That's not what I meant. You always twist my words."

"Consider it an additional service. You know, for once I've finished sorting out your mistakes for the day."

Harry takes an ill-advised step closer; he needs so much to close this distance, and to close it properly. Not just to smooth over the surface and hold everything together for a little while longer, but to throw everything open and make it stick.

"Draco."

"What?" Another heavy glass vase rises into the air and hovers there as Draco seems to wait.

"That's not... I do need you for that. But mostly I need you because..."

Draco's wand arm trembles and the fingers at his side clench tighter. Harry takes another step closer, weighing his expectation, tasting it, and knowing.

"Because what?" Draco demands roughly, still not turning around. "You know, I've got stuff to do, and—"

"Because I love you, you idiot!" Harry interrupts, a little too loudly.

An odd rough sound rips itself from Draco's throat and he spins around, vase still hovering beside him. Harry doesn't breathe.

"I know," Draco almost yells back, eyes silver-bright and shiny. "I love you as well! You fucking prat," he adds in a rough whisper.

Harry stares at him, at his parted lips and ruffled hair and flushed skin. Draco's words echo over in his head until a violent, aching warmth seizes him, slamming his heart and spreading outwards in waves, tugging his lips into a smile he can't control and stinging his eyes, blurring his vision. He blinks painfully and it's only when the room continues to swim that he realises he's about to cry.

"Sorry," he mutters, flushing and lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. He's shaking and he doesn't know why, but he's sure Draco can see it and he's never felt more exposed.

Draco inhales sharply and steps toward him; as he does, he flicks his wand distractedly to banish the vase, but his lack of attention instead sends the heavy piece of glass smacking into Harry's ribs and Harry stumbles, winded. The impact fails to shatter the glass but it hurts, and he struggles for breath as he blurrily watches the vase drop to the floor, where it cracks into several pieces.

A split-second later, Draco drops his wand and closes the distance between them; he grabs Harry's shoulders, eyes frantic.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "Oh, fuck... sorry."

Though he senses he's not hurt and knows Draco didn't... wouldn't... hurt him on purpose, Harry is fighting down panic as he holds the eye contact and wraps his hands around Draco's hips. Before he knows what's happening, Draco is pulling at his shirt and pressing unsteady hands to his skin and whispering rapidly. When the pain eases, he drags in a gasping breath. Looks down at the pale hands splayed across his chest and back up into anxious grey eyes.

So close now that his breath warms Harry's lips, Draco speaks. "Are you alright?"

"I thought you could only do little cuts and things," Harry says faintly.

"I can... nothing's broken," Draco murmurs, trailing fingers over the exposed skin and up into Harry's hair. "Could've really hurt you."

The touch makes Harry shiver and he pulls Draco tighter against him, needing the relief of the contact and the warmth of him even through his clothes. "It takes more than an ugly vase to hurt me," he offers, trying to ignore the catch in his voice.

"Didn't really mean the vase," Draco says and brushes his lips over Harry's so lightly that suddenly his eyes are stinging all over again and threatening to spill over.

"You never say what you mean."

"I know." Draco offers him a half-smile that he feels against his lips. "Well, sometimes I do," he concedes, voice soft.

Something sharply beautiful leaps inside Harry and the last of the lingering dull pain dissolves. He snorts messily, notes the shimmer threatening in Draco's eyes and kisses him hard, reaching up to tangle fingers in his hair and keep him in place, as though he might escape at any moment. As he groans softly and kisses back with chaotic, hungry intensity, though, Harry knows he's going nowhere and at the first stroke of tongues, the last of that horrible distance melts away.

He's still sore and tired and a little bit confused, but Draco loves him and he finds it hard to care about anything else. Saying the words aloud is liberating, strange, and he wants to say them again, just to test out how they feel on his tongue.

Pulling back from the kiss, he opens his eyes and takes in the huge empty room, the scattered sparkling fragments and the darkened grey eyes fastened upon his. "I love you."

"Yes," Draco whispers, and his smile makes Harry want to dance. "Always yes. And you taste like tequila."

Harry laughs, shakes his head and buries his face in damp blond hair that smells like lemons and sweat and makes his heart pound with relief. "It didn't help much," he mumbles. "And... I'm sorry about what I said about Marley. Though I still think he's a bit of a wanker."

Draco shakes against him, releasing a rough laugh/sob into his shoulder. "I know he is."

Harry tightens his grip, demanding as much contact as possible and twisting his fingers into the warm fabric of Draco's sweater, anchoring himself in the arm wrapped around his waist and the hand stroking and flattening at his hair. As they stand in the silent room, clinging to each other and pressing frantic, searching mouths to any skin they can reach, Harry is caught up in a floodtide of desire so urgent that his exhaustion has no chance against it.

He doesn't care where or how, he just knows that he needs this now, needs to touch and possess and renew. He needs to see Draco's eyes as he loses control. He needs to be closer, much closer than this—as close as it's possible to get, he thinks, and shifts his hips against Draco's. Finding an answering heat and hardness that draws a breathless groan from Draco, Harry smiles against his neck.

"I want you," Draco admits in a harsh whisper.

Before he gets a chance to respond, he's seized by the Disapparation that he should've seen coming. Blinking sore eyes, he looks around at what used to be Draco's bedroom. Well, he supposes it still is Draco's bedroom, but it's stripped almost bare of anything that made it his. It's with a little rush of pleasure that he realises that everything Draco owns—everything that's his and not some Malfoy heirloom—is back at Grimmauld Place. At their house.

This room doesn't even really smell of Draco any more; it smells unused and... blank.

"Why do you always get that strange look on your face when you come in this room?" Draco wants to know, reaching for Harry's hands and nudging him back toward the bed.

"I was just thinking that none of your stuff is here any more," Harry admits as the bed hits the backs of his knees and a twinge of pain reminds him of being bitten just hours earlier, and the conversation with Narcissa, which doesn't belong in this room with them. Not when he just wants Draco. Needs him.

Draco pauses, mouth an inch from Harry's, eyes flickering. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No," Harry assures, needing the kiss and taking it. "Your stuff is exactly where it's supposed to be."

Draco drops his eyes to the floor but his mouth curves into a small, surprised smile and that's enough. After a moment, he kisses Harry again. Slowly, but with such a drawn-out desperation that Harry can't decide if he wants it to stop because it hurts or never stop because it hurts wonderfully.

He barely registers the thumbs sliding over his wrists, so familiar is the caress, but when Draco stops kissing him, yanks his sleeve back and stares down at the empty wrist, Harry realises with an unpleasant jolt just what he's looking for and why it's not there.

Eyebrows drawn down, Draco continues to stare at the place where the string should be, where it has been for the past five months. He trails his fingers over the pale Promise band and Harry's pulse jumps involuntarily.

"What happened? Did you..." Draco glances up briefly, grey eyes pained. "Were you that angry with me?"

Horrified at the implication, Harry shakes his head and searches frantically for the right words. Somehow, they have never exchanged a single word about that string, but one look at Draco's distressed expression tells him that it hadn't been significant to him alone. Sore, and not quite trusting his voice, he pulls his hand away gently and withdraws the snapped string from his pocket.

"Marley and I," he starts, and coughs, hating the roughness of his tone. "Marley and I had an... Apparation incident. It was an accident, though. I..." Harry hesitates and slips it back into his pocket. "It wasn't just string," he adds awkwardly.

"I know it wasn't."

Harry watches the emotions flick across Draco's eyes. He wants, needs, loves this man and he's not about to spend another moment of this day acting like the idiot he apparently is most of the time. He grips Draco's hips and falls back onto the bed, flopping gratefully onto his back and allowing the soft sheets and firm mattress to caress and take the weight of his aching body.

With Draco half-sprawled and half kneeling over him, he runs his palms over the black-clad thighs, seeking out and finding the hard, eager flesh that jumps under Harry's fingers. When he presses his palm more firmly against it, Draco hisses and pushes into the touch, turning eyes to Harry's that are almost entirely black with need, ringed by mere slivers of pale grey.

"You want me," Harry says, unable to stop his smile or the blood rushing to his cock and making it ache for attention.

"I believe I already said that," Draco whispers, trying to sound cross.

He leans down to kiss Harry, swallowing his rough gasp as the deliberate shift of their positions creates a delicious friction between them. Harry snaps his hips up into it without a thought, returning the kiss, matching it, every stroke of tongues and shared shallow breath reducing him into an incoherent tangle of longing, spread out underneath Draco and holding on tight.

He's wide open, and it's terrifying. He feels that perhaps he should be saying something profound, something meaningful, but all his frazzled, blood-starved brain can provide is:

'I love you. I'm sorry. I love you. You look really good smashing vases. Let's fuck me now. Or you. Whatever. I love you.'

So he says nothing until Draco's soft whisper against his mouth and the sudden feeling of cool air against his rain-damp skin makes his eyes fly open. And he's naked. Scrambling up on his elbows, Harry stares down between them at his bare flesh and his cock, hard and leaking against his stomach. For no good reason that he can see—Draco's seen him naked more times than he can count—he flushes and glares up at Draco, who is still fully clothed and trying to sneak a wand—Harry's wand, no less—onto the bedside table.

"Did you just vanish my clothes? With my wand?"

Draco smirks. "I didn't feel like waiting. And I think I left mine downstairs."

"Well, that's alright then..." Harry begins, but finds his breath stolen when Draco shifts back far enough to be able to lean down and lick a long, hot stripe along his cock. "Oh, god." Draco repeats the action, slower this time and Harry groans, heat pooling rapidly in his belly. He knows he doesn't have long, and he wants... Draco smiles and does it again, flicking his tongue over the head and Harry grips at the bed sheets. "Oh, god... don't."

"Don't?"

Harry looks down into surprised silver-black eyes. "I don't feel like waiting either," he rasps, and Draco smiles. It's a dangerous smile, but those eyes are still suspiciously glossy and Harry wants to hurt all over, inside and out, with this feeling.

Draco goes for the wand again but Harry reaches out and grabs his wrist. "Don't," he repeats, rubbing his thumb over Draco's palm. "I like watching you get undressed."

"Finding out all sorts today, aren't I?" Draco murmurs, lifting an eyebrow and sliding to his feet, the slight unsteadiness immensely gratifying.

Though he doesn't linger over it, Harry can tell that Draco adds a certain finesse to his movements for his benefit and it's both warming and painfully erotic. He watches, one hand wrapped lazily around his hard cock, as Draco pulls his sweater over his head and attempts to shake his hair back into place. As he bends to remove shoes and socks with impressive grace and then unfastens and removes trousers and boxers with hands that tremble a little, and though Harry isn't sure why, it's beautiful all the same, all of it is.

Draco doesn't stop looking at him the entire time, and though Harry's eyes drop to flick over each new bit of exposed pale skin, the harsh black lines on his forearm and the flush to his cock, he's drawn back to those eyes every time. That heat, trust, openness, he knows that's only for him, and he can't believe he was stupid enough to think anything different.

"Yes," he murmurs, "you're beautiful... come here."

Draco nods mutely and slides back onto the bed, following Harry as he shifts position to sprawl full-length on his back with his head on the pillows. Their kiss is desperate and sloppy as they connect again; blond strands graze Harry's face as he closes his eyes and draws Draco down to him until he's supported on his forearms and lying warm and heavy between Harry's parted drawn-up knees, hard cock pushing insistently against Harry's stomach.

"What do you want?" is whispered hotly against his mouth.

He sighs, smiles, heart tight. "Everything."

"Sounds good."

There's a momentary loss of contact and some muttering and clattering, and then Draco's back, kissing him again with one hand cupping his face and the other sliding somewhere that makes Harry arch his back and gasp his approval into the kiss. The urgent stroking and sliding of skilled fingers inside him just deepens his desperation, and he knows that no amount of waiting is going to happen.

"That OK?" Draco whispers as though he can't breathe properly.

"No. Yes. More," Harry mutters, feet sliding on silk as he pushes back and demands it, harder, right there or anywhere. "Please."

He doesn't open his eyes, but when Draco releases a soft huff of amusement, he knows exactly what his face will look like, and he smiles. Twists and whimpers when those sliding fingers are withdrawn and holds his breath.

"I love it when you... ask nicely," Draco attempts, voice wavering as he pulls Harry's legs around his waist and slides inside in one long, firm stroke. "Oh, fuck. Harry," he whispers, and Harry's eyes snap open.

As the initial dull ache of the stretch fades away, the relief of being filled, connected, so close, washes over him and he wraps his legs more securely around Draco's back and stares up at him. Harry's breathing is already rapid and shallow, but it quickens as he meets the darkened grey eyes and realises just how close to the edge Draco already is. Mouth slightly open, hair falling into his face, skin flushed and eyes just burning into Harry's, he's yet to move and is holding on by his fingertips. And god, if that isn't the hottest thing Harry has ever seen.

Licking his bottom lip with a pointed tongue, Draco leans down and fastens his mouth around a nipple, grazing his teeth over the hardened flesh; a shock of pleasure zigzags straight to Harry's cock, making it twitch against his belly and it's a massive effort not to touch himself. Instead, he grips Draco's arse and holds him in place, watches the beautiful mouth closing around his nipple and quietly goes mad.

"What happened to not waiting?"

Draco lifts his head, expression tormented. "If I move, I'll come," he whispers urgently.

Harry deliberately tenses and tightens himself around his cock, Draco whimpers and closes his eyes, and Harry is lost. The need to see Draco's release is somehow greater than the need to find his own, and he has to have it. "Good. That's what I want... do it."

He drops one hand to the sheets to reach for Draco's, pressing palms slippery-tight together and linking fingers; Draco swallows dryly and moves, drawing back with agonizing slowness and then driving hard into Harry with enough force to make them both cry out. Pausing for a second, Draco smiles breathlessly and leans down closer, shifting the angle and turning the arm next to Harry's head. Slowly. Intentionally.

Harry turns his head and gazes at the exposed black lines. His pulse races as he twists to draw his tongue over the sweat-sheened marked skin and realises anew that Draco's utter, unquestioning indulgence of his weird little kink speaks volumes, and has done for some time now.

"Deviant," Draco whispers and moves again, relentless this time, setting a hard, fast rhythm that has Harry gripping his hand tightly among the sheets, holding on and giving himself up to the sensation of being fucked with dedication, urgency, abandon. And wanting exactly that.

"Would you change me?" he manages, looking up at Draco and savouring the salty-warm flavour on his tongue.

Draco releases a tortured laugh and strokes inside him erratically. "I couldn't," he pants, and Harry knows he's close. He's not far behind, and he hasn't even been touched, but Draco only needs a push and he wants to see it. Right now.

"Draco," he whispers, and the cloudy grey eyes snap to his. "Yes."

Mouth twitching, Draco stiffens and bites his bottom lip and stares down at Harry as, with one last hard thrust, he lets go. Harry watches him come, feels him come, listens to his harsh breaths and the soft little whimpers he always tries to hide, and loves him. Breathless, imperfect, infuriating and beautiful. And knowing, beyond all doubt, that even though they both have the words, it will always be yes, because it's theirs.

Draco pulls away and sits back on his heels between Harry's legs. He rakes through his messy hair and gazes at Harry's neglected cock, so hard now that it almost hurts, and for a moment looks as though he's going to take it into his mouth. Harry watches him and chews on his lip, tight with anticipation, but Draco appears to change his mind. There's an odd little smile on his face as he looks up at last to meet Harry's eyes.

"Everything, you said."

"Mm...?"

The implication is lost on Harry for all of three seconds, until Draco reaches for the glass bottle hidden somewhere amongst the sheets, and then his whole body heats with approval. Longing.

He sniffs the air and realises for the first time that this oil smells sweet, like—

"Almonds? Did you steal that from my kitchen?"

"Our kitchen," Draco corrects gently but with a smug smile, and then Harry no longer cares where it came from because Draco is crawling closer and reaching behind himself, and those clever, oil-slicked fingers are disappearing somewhere that Harry can't see but, fuck, he really wishes he could.

As he picks up the bottle and very, very carefully strokes the sweet oil over his cock and tries to watch Draco's fingers and his face at the same time, he idly wonders if Draco is doing all the work here because he's so worn out—but not sick—or because he just feels like it. Not that it matters.

Not when Draco is resting a sticky hand on his chest and sitting astride him and gripping his cock with firm fingers, and not when he's looking right into Harry's eyes as he lowers himself down, enveloping Harry's aching cock in grasping heat, and not when he's making that broken sound and reaching for Harry's hand again.

Harry grips his fingers hard and catches his breath. Draco flashes a split-second breathless smile and he returns it, caught and consumed and burning all over; his headache is back with a vengeance but he doesn't care. Draco moves, gripping and sliding and possessing him and it's going to be over far too soon, but it's always too soon.

"What're you waiting for?" Draco whispers, sinking down slowly and arching his back. He's still half-hard and his skin feels hot and satiny under Harry's fingers as he reaches out to touch everywhere he can reach: thighs, hips, belly. "Come for me."

"Draco," Harry gasps, twitching his hips upwards helplessly, holding on for just a second or two more before it's too much and the heat rips through him, shaking his whole body and dragging his orgasm from him with sudden force. "Oh," he whispers, closing his eyes tight against the smarting of his sinuses, "oh, fuck."

Draco says nothing but stills, sitting back on Harry's thighs and rubbing his thumb over a sensitized nipple. He hums contentedly until Harry opens his eyes and then falls silent and looks down at him with interest.

Harry stares back, fighting his stupid smile, until he shivers and realises that he needs to get warm pretty quickly. As though registering that thought, his traitorous body underlines it with a violent sneeze, the force of which makes Draco's hand slide on his chest and prompts a raised eyebrow that Harry fully expects.

"You are not well," Draco accuses, leaning forward to touch his face.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Harry says stubbornly.

"That's debatable."

Draco smirks and rises up onto his knees, stretching languidly toward the ceiling with both arms extended above his head. Harry performs a half-arsed Cleaning Spell and scrambles under the sheets. He curls on one side and waits with expectantly-raised eyebrows until Draco joins him.

They settle, legs tangled together, facing one another and sharing the biggest pillow; Harry curls his fingers around Draco's left forearm and gazes at him, warm and sated and yet full of the knowledge that there are things yet to resolve.

"Do you think the rule applies in this bedroom, too?" Harry asks.

Draco pauses in his hair-flattening. "Definitely."

Harry nods and presses his cheek against the quality fabric of Draco's pillows. "I know... someone said... that you've been avoiding offering an opinion about my decision... about Clive, because you don't want to influence me, but... I don't care. I don't care about the rules. I need your help."

Draco withdraws his hand and picks at the sheets. "You don't care about the rules? That truly is startling new information."

"Draco."

"Sorry," he sighs, and Harry thinks the world may stop turning completely should he get any more apologies out of Draco before the day is over. "I stand by what I said before—you need to do what you think is right. But... she's a good mother, you know. She might not always show it in the most conventional way, but she cares... she'll love him, in her way."

Draco falls silent and looks down at his hands. Moved by his honesty and yet another recognition of just how alike mother and son actually are, Harry exhales hard against the pillow and considers those words. Something tells him that Draco is right, but uncertainty continues to niggle at him.

What was it that Marley had said? That he already knew what he was going to do? He hadn't pushed the subject at the time, having had bigger fish to fry, but now he almost wishes he had.

"No parent is perfect," Draco continues, eyes narrowed in thought, "and yet... because you've been put in the position of choosing a parent, you're telling yourself that you have to find perfection. That nothing else will be good enough. And you'll never find it."

The harsh truth of those words strikes him fiercely in the gut and he closes his eyes. "Because it doesn't exist," he offers.

"Exactly."

"No one's ever going to be good enough. No place. No person. But I know I'm not, either."

Draco sighs softly and he opens his eyes. The room is almost completely dark now but the pale skin, hair and eyes seem to luminesce gently.

"Good enough is possible. It's just perfection that isn't."

Harry's mouth is dry. "I don't want to send him away."

"I know."

They stare at each other for long seconds and then something decisive sets in Draco's eyes. He grabs Harry's wrist, the one with the Promise band and a serious lack of string, sighs and presses a soft kiss to the pulse point.

"Come on," he says, getting up and hunting around the floor for his clothes. "Now that I'm apparently done attempting impartiality, I want to show you something."

"What?"

"Well, if you get up, I'll show you." Draco rolls his eyes and dresses quickly as Harry watches from the edge of the bed.

"You vanished my clothes. What exactly am I supposed to wear?"

Draco's lips flicker into a half-smile. "I forgot about that. Something of mine, I suppose," he suggests, waving a negligent arm at the vast closet taking up one entire wall.

Harry eyes it with unconcealed suspicion. It's not that he doesn't like Draco's clothes, but... he likes them on Draco. That said, it's not as though he has much of a choice, so he opens the closet and notes with warm satisfaction that it's almost empty. Reluctantly, he pulls on a fine-knit dark grey sweater and a pair of trousers and finds a pair of shoes that look remarkably similar to several other pairs that are currently sitting at the bottom of the wardrobe at home.

As he'd expected, everything is slightly tight and he shifts uncomfortably, but the little flare of pleasure in Draco's eyes as he looks him up and down almost makes it all OK.

"Well, isn't that interesting?" he murmurs, holding out a hand to Harry.

It's in that moment that Harry's anxious, fogged-up brain registers the fact that they're practically wearing matching outfits, and he groans softly. "Come on, take me wherever we're going before I change my mind."

Draco leads him along the first-floor corridor and, to his surprise, down a carpeted staircase and into a part of the Manor Harry has never seen before.

"What else did Marley say?" Draco asks suddenly, eyes flicking to Harry, as though the question has just occurred to him.

Surprised, Harry stalls for a moment, and then offers: "He said that he didn't like you that way."

Draco lifts an eyebrow and continues walking. "Of course he doesn't. He's always had terrible taste in men."

Harry snorts and turns away briefly to hide his smile. He definitely doesn't have a response to that, at least not one that he's going to vocalise. He knows that he's going to keep Marley's little secret, and it feels weirdly good.

"My mother lives down here," Draco says, gesturing at the wide corridor they're currently walking down. Harry stares at him, wondering just what he's up to. Draco stops in front of a carved door and opens it. "This is Clive's room."

Taking a deep breath, Harry follows Draco into the room. He can't say he's ever thought about the room Narcissa has put aside for Clive during his frequent stays, but if he had, he'd never have expected it to be so... comfortable. It's full of bizarre Wizarding toys that Harry doesn't recognise, books, sheets and sheets of coloured paper and a bed that's actually the right size for a child.

The thing that really strikes Harry is the brightness of the room; in contrast to everything else in the entire house, this room is done up in rich reds and bright greens and blues and plenty of other colours besides. Next to him, Draco is squinting slightly and trying to pretend that he isn't. Harry laces their fingers together and squeezes.

He has a room at Grimmauld Place, of course, and he has things... Harry has bought him everything he's asked for, which hasn't been a lot, and he has pictures stuck up on the walls and a quilt-cover with jumping dogs on it, but still. There's always been a temporary, just-for-now sort of feeling about it, despite Harry's better efforts, that just doesn't exist here.

"Look at all this stuff," he says, starting to understand.

"Some of them are my old things," Draco offers, "and some of them, she just ordered. I think she just wanted him to feel at home. It's been like this for ages, not only since she made the offer last week."

Harry aches, but it's not an altogether bad feeling. "Where are they, do you think?"

Draco shrugs and clicks his fingers; when Flimby appears, he conducts a brief conversation with the house-elf that Harry barely hears, and when Draco makes to leave the room, Harry follows him.

He's been looking for the right 'fit' all this time, and trying so hard to ignore the fact that it clearly already exists. On paper, of course, it looks ridiculous, and he suspects that Hermione's going to panic and stare and demand explanations, but she doesn't know what he does. She only sees the tiny little boy without a mummy and the crisp, refined lady without a heart, but she's mistaken, and besides... some things just are, aren't they?

Their footsteps throw a sharp sound into the silence of the entrance hall, and Harry shivers. It could be the cold air sweeping in through the open doors, but perhaps not. He exhales hard.

Alright, Romilda, he says silently, here we go.

"You're going to do something, aren't you?" Draco says, and it's not a question.

"Why is it when you say that, I actually hear: 'you're going to do something ridiculous and impulsive'?" Harry mutters as they near the open front door.

"That's your conscience," Draco advises. "But it's a good call. And..." He pauses, grabs Harry's arm and captures his mouth in a fast, fierce kiss just before they reach the door. "... do it anyway."

Harry nods and they step out onto the portico together. The night is pitch black and surprisingly clear, though the rain still falls. Astonishingly, Narcissa is standing right out on the steps, mere inches from being drenched. Clive is bundled in a small green cloak and cradled against her hip, socked feet dangling and one hand clutching at her robes. His hair is tousled and he looks, to Harry's distress, like he's been crying again, but the blue eyes are dry now as he points into the sky.

"There, see? There's my mummy." Clive sighs tremulously. "I miss her."

"I know you do, sweetheart. But she sees you, did you know that? She watches you all the time."

Harry rubs his eyes as everything starts to hurt again, all at once. Fuck, it's cold. But then there's a warm body pressed against his back and a chin on his shoulder and he breathes and he can do it.

"Why can't I stay here with you?" Clive says, his voice barely lifting above a whisper.

Narcissa sighs and stares at the sky, as though she's all-too-familiar with this question. "I'd like that," she says at last. "But it's... complicated."

Grown-ups do always say that, Harry thinks distractedly, as he tries frantically to remember exactly what he's supposed to say. In the book, Rex says 'Libere Ostendo' and Susanna—eventually—merely says 'I accept'. Not that this is the same, and he really wishes he was better at planning these things. In fact, he wishes he planned things... at all. Oh, fuck it.

"I accept," he says suddenly, and Narcissa turns, startled.

Two pairs of wide blue eyes fasten him to the spot and he's ridiculously grateful that Draco stays exactly where he is and doesn't even let go of his hand as he stands there and completely forgets to breathe. Somewhere in the back of his head is the awkward conversation he's going to have with the adoption lady from the Ministry, but whatever she says, they both know that the magic of the Promise outranks any form of bureaucracy she can throw at him.

"Audio, vigilo, affirmo," Draco whispers, and Harry shivers.

Narcissa stares first at her son and then at Harry over the top of a silent Clive's head. She says nothing but her eyes shimmer and she wraps her arms more tightly around the child.

Thank you, she mouths, and Harry nods just once before his attention is drawn to his wrist. The pale band shifts and dissolves right before his eyes as the ancient magic of the Promise rises and wraps around him one last time before disappearing into nothing, as though it had never been there.

Hot tears prick his eyes as he stares at his completely empty wrist, and he blinks them back.

"It is bedtime for some of us, I think," Narcissa says, clearing her throat delicately and slipping past Harry and Draco to re-enter the house. She turns at the door, shakes back a curtain of glossy hair and smiles. He knows there is much still to discuss, but now is not the time. "You look very strange in those clothes, Mr Potter," she adds, and he has never heard her voice so raw.

"I know. Goodnight, Mrs Malfoy," he says softly. "Clive."

"'Night," the little boy mumbles, sounding tired and confused.

When the door closes behind them with a sharp click, Harry and Draco are left alone on the portico. Harry gulps at the cold air and hangs onto the hand in his for dear life.

"That was a brave thing to do," Draco says, right next to his ear.

"Was it?"

"Yes."

--

[Draco says: 'I hear, I see, I confirm.' Yet more archaic pureblood cr...]