Warnings: None this chapter, but the last one has mature content of a sexual nature. I just didn't want to interrupt the flow by putting a note at the top of that chapter, as it's a direct continuation of this one.
A/N: Last two chapters. I'm going to be sad to let go of this story. But it's all in your hands now, dear readers.
XXVIII
A brief interview for the WWN with Lee Jordan—who typically covered magical sports and games, but made an exception for a friend—was all it took to keep the press out of Harry's personal life. He had decided Kingsley was right; by being open, he might help at least one younger person struggling to make sense of their own identity. Due to Lee's matter-of-fact questions and Harry's lack of defensiveness, the whole thing went as smoothly as possible.
When Lee handed him a copy of the morning edition of the Prophet, he said, "They printed my transcript of your interview." He grinned. "You should've seen Skeeter's face when her boss told her that her 'exclusive' story wasn't so exclusive and he wouldn't be printing it, as I'd already covered everything."
Afterward, Harry only received perhaps half a dozen Howlers, mostly from disappointed fan witches. The rest of his mail had been a mixed bag of anger, disappointment, and support. His favorite letters had been the two from Hogwarts students thanking him for making it possible for them to come out.
Despite his honesty with the public, which had earned him extra hugs from Hermione and celebratory drinks with Ron and George, he still kept his relationship with Draco entirely private. Some things—such as being involved with a former Death Eater—might be a bit much for his own friends, let alone the entire Wizarding world.
When September rolled around again, Harry's life finally seemed to be on a better trajectory. After a year with Donita Mulligan, the majority of Harry's inadvertent magical symptoms had all but disappeared. She had turned out to be a perfect fit for him—the right combination of gracious wit and warm compassion. He now had a handful of useful tools for coping with the various stressors in his life and an open invitation to schedule sessions as he needed. He was able to complete his second year of training easily under the direction of Featherstone, and she remained his supervisor for his final year.
Harry tried not to be too upset over spending Christmas without Draco; he wasn't able to come home so close to the end of his studies due to exams. It was only a few extra weeks beyond that until he would be home for good—if the Ministry saw fit to offer him work, that was. Harry kept his fingers crossed.
On a Monday morning in mid-January, the first thing Harry saw when he reached the training room was the regal horned owl perching on the edge of one of the tables. He recognised Cygnus immediately and knew that the haughty bird was waiting for him. Cygnus hooted reproachfully, holding out his leg in a stately fashion.
"Good morning to you, too," Harry said fondly. He untied the letter and reached into his robes to produce an owl treat. Cygnus eyed the treat with disdain but accepted it anyway before he flew away. Like master, like owl.
The letter was short this time. It read, They offered me a job. I'll be home Saturday.
Harry's heart sped up. Home. He wasn't sure he would be able to wait that long—not that he had a choice in the matter. The previous two-plus years had been almost unbearable. Weekly owls and occasional visits had not been nearly enough to assuage the aching loneliness he had felt without Draco. Now he only had five more days to wait. The very thought that it was so close brought a ridiculous smile to his lips.
Still grinning like a fool, he took a seat at the table to wait for the rest of the trainees to arrive.
Harry spent the better part of Saturday morning pacing. Draco hadn't said when he was coming back, only that it would be that day. The time alone without the distractions of training gave him the opportunity to consider what he was going to say.
He knew he needed to be truthful. Without really meaning to do so, he had fallen in love. He had taken the open-ended relationship seriously and done his share of dating, but there had never been anyone who caused even a fraction of the same feelings Draco did. The question now was whether Draco felt the same way or whether he would think Harry was a sentimental idiot who had fallen for the first person to share his bed. He decided that knowing Draco, it could go either way.
They had exchanged letters for the better part of the twenty-eight months they had been apart—not that Harry had been counting. At first, they were mostly the naughty postcards and Harry's vague notes in response. As time went on, the letters became more frequent as well as increasingly personal. Over the months, they began to make peace with their history. Like the secrets they had whispered under the cover of darkness in the Room of Requirement, these memories were easier to write than to speak. They gave name to the pain they had endured, and Harry had been left surprised by the unflinching honesty of the scars they shared. He cherished every letter and had saved them in a small box which he kept locked in Sirius' old room. Not that he would ever tell Draco that, of course. He was certain Draco would be an arse about it and tease him mercilessly.
He shook his head to clear it. He still had no idea what he was going to tell Draco, but dwelling on it had his stomach tied in knots, and he'd had to cast a hasty Reparo on a vase in the hallway. Twice, Harry was sure he heard someone at the door and had nearly jumped out of his skin, but there had been no one there. He finally settled on making a cup of tea to calm his nerves when there was a genuine knock on the door. His heart in his throat, Harry raced into the entryway and flung the door wide.
There, looking as elegant as ever, stood Draco.
Harry's eyes burned and his pulse raced. Without waiting for a greeting, he yanked Draco inside and nearly slammed the door behind him. In an instant, he had his arms wrapped around Draco and his face buried in his shoulder.
"You're home," he kept saying, incapable of stopping. He knew he sounded needy, but he didn't care. He was too busy absorbing the crisp cool of Draco's cloak against his cheek and the clean scent of his skin. He was convinced that no matter how long they stood there, he would not be able to get enough.
By that point, Draco had folded his arms around Harry and was whispering into his hair, "Shh," his breath soft against Harry's head. They remained in the entryway for minutes or hours or days; Harry was never clear on how long it had been. He felt Draco stiffen slightly, though his arms remained firm.
"Potter," he muttered, his voice full of something Harry couldn't identify.
"Hm?"
"Are you sniffing me?"
They finally pulled apart, and Harry felt the heat rising in his cheeks at Draco's half-annoyed, half-amused expression. He shrugged. "I might have been, yes."
Draco chuckled, and Harry started to laugh weakly as well, but mid-way, he felt his throat close and had to swallow against the lump forming there. He closed his eyes and spent several moments trying unsuccessfully to collect himself.
Harry felt a warm, soft hand on his cheek and leaned into it. "What is it?" he heard Draco ask. Harry opened his eyes to meet Draco's, red-rimmed and full of concern; it startled Harry. Until that moment, Harry hadn't even realised that he had begun crying in earnest. Embarrassed and frustrated as always by his emotions, he drew a long, shaky breath while Draco used his thumbs to brush away lingering tears.
"What's wrong?" Draco repeated.
"I don't—I don't know," Harry answered truthfully. "I think—I've been trying to think of what I was going to tell you all morning."
Draco frowned. "Tell me about what?" He dropped his hands to his sides and backed up. The loss of contact left Harry shivering.
Harry closed his eyes again. This would have been easier if he could have written it in a letter or whispered it into Draco's shoulder as they lay in bed together. He decided that keeping his eyes shut might give him the same sanctuary. "Tell you that I'm in love with you," he said at last.
When there was no response from Draco, Harry dared to open his eyes. Draco had not moved from the place where he stood. He was staring at Harry, his mouth set firmly; he said nothing.
"I mean," Harry continued, "I just…I know that you probably don't feel the same way, and I'm sorry. If you tell me you're leaving, that you don't love me back, I can handle that. But please don't tell me you want to keep going this way. It's just not enough." He was breathing hard, his shoulders slightly hunched forward and his hands out. "Please."
"I—"
Oh god, Harry thought. I've made such a mess. He stepped back so that he was against the wall.
Draco closed the gap between them and laid a hand on Harry's neck just below his jaw. He drew him in for a kiss that left both of them more than a little breathless. He slid his lips across Harry's cheek and upwards so that they hovered against his hear. He whispered, "I love you, too."
Harry dropped his head to rest on Draco's shoulder. Relief washed over him in long, warm waves. "I missed you so much," he confessed into the fabric of Draco's expensive cloak.
Draco chuckled a little. "You missed me."
Harry stepped away and raised his head to meet Draco's gaze. Draco was wearing The Smirk, and Harry couldn't help laughing, though it was shaky. "Of course I missed you, you great prat."
The tenderness of Draco's homecoming gave way to the joy of a shared joke. Draco reached for Harry to swat at him, but Harry's Auror training gave him the ability to be out of reach before Draco's hand was even close. He danced away, laughing. They chased each other through the house and up the stairs until Harry let Draco catch him and pull him in for another snog in the upstairs hallway, despite the sneering glares of the portraits on the wall. They succumbed to the heat of their desire, kissing and pressing against each other until they were both aching with need. Harry made a feeble attempt to migrate them both into the bedroom, but Draco seemed to want nothing to do with it.
"God, Harry, just…I want you so much. It's been too long since we…" He didn't finish that statement; instead, he had much more pressing opportunities to occupy his mouth. His hands were frantically fumbling with the buttons on Harry's trousers.
Something occurred to Harry, and he opened his eyes. "Since we? You mean you haven't—"
Panting, Draco looked straight into his eyes. "No. Not since the last time I was home. Now can we please…"
Harry stared at him in wonder, his hand on Draco's chest to still him. He understood what that meant. No more dancing around each other, pretending that what was between them was casual. Their words in the entryway had meant exactly what they were supposed to mean. Draco had waited for him for the last six months, the same way he'd waited for Draco. Harry sucked in his breath. "Not here," he said. "I want to do this right. And definitely without the audience." He gestured to the portraits behind him then used the last of his resolve to haul Draco into the bedroom and close the door before eagerly yanking at the layers of clothing that were all that stood between them and giving in to their need.
